by James Samuel
Plemenac inclined his head. So, Ratko didn't know who he was before he became Vojo Plemenac. Perhaps the foreigners hadn't worked as closely with Ratko and the White Rose as he initially expected. Nonetheless, organisations like this presented a threat.
"If you're here to kill me, just do it. I won't do anything to help the likes of you."
"In good time. I find it remarkable that you are so uninformed about the situation or why I’m here. Understand this, I was the man who murdered Sadik Kadrić."
Ratko's head snapped up. "You?"
"Yes. Me. He was a threat to the future of this country. I have no need to run interest groups in the manner of the mafia. A man with a reputation like Kadrić’s is a threat to every Bosnian-Serb in the country, and the stability of the very thing we fight for."
Ratko's stunned expression amused him. "No, this is all wrong. You're lying."
"Tell me, how did Kadrić aim to achieve his goals?"
"That's obvious. He was going to create unrest. Those murders over the last few months were done to create a wedge between Bosnians and Bosnian-Serbs. He was trying to start a war knowing full well it would probably lead to Srpska gaining its independence."
"Yes. An open secret to anyone involved on either side. That is exactly why Kadrić had to be removed. Do you understand?"
"And you're trying to tell me that you're opposed to Kadrić?" Ratko pursed his lips. "You're unbelievable."
Plemenac shrugged. "To leverage both the Bosnian and Croatian entities within this country is a slow process. Over time, these two entities have appeased Srpska to avoid sparking a conflict. It is true that violence will accelerate the process, but, as you know, Srpska would always be seen as the aggressor. Serbia would never get involved. History would determine where intervention came from, not the present."
"So, if violence isn't the answer for you, what is?"
"Violence is still the answer, but a different kind of violence." Plemenac crossed one leg over the other. "A type of violence men like Kadrić could never understand. Srpska must be seen as the victim. For that, casualties must be inflicted upon Bosnian-Serbs. The Federation must be seen to be committing acts of oppression."
"But we're not. We wouldn't do that because we want peace."
Plemenac smirked. "Are you sure about that? Look to your father. Watch any football match where the game is a metaphor for a new war. No, war is desired on both sides, but it must be controlled, it must have purpose."
Plemenac picked up and toyed with his gun in the ensuing silence. He fingered the safety lever, considering his next move. The White Rose were a threat, but the real threat was Ratko himself. His connections to known Bosnian nationalists made him a potential tool to be used in the future.
"The 21st century is a difficult time for war," he mused. "War has become the new debating stage. The side that wins international opinion wins the war. The plan is quite simple. The heavy weapons I have will be used against Srpska. Ordinary people. Men, women, and children. The soldiers will be wearing the uniforms of Bosnians and Croatians."
"A false flag operation?" Ratko looked horrified.
"Precisely. I will reap fire and death upon Bosnian-Serb villages and towns. The fire will be such a great one that the great powers of the world will not be able to ignore it. Denials from the government in Sarajevo will be treated with contempt. Ordinary citizens across the world will universally stand behind Srpska and its desire for freedom."
Ratko's mouth dropped open. "You're crazy."
"I'm practical. In a few days, the leaders of the European Union will come to Sarajevo. A mass killing with military grade weapons outside of their office windows could not be ignored. The eyes of the world's media will be on us."
Ratko dove forwards at Plemenac. The carving knife swished through the air with murderous intent.
Plemenac deftly dodged the blade, the knife cutting the air. He smashed the butt of his weapon down on Ratko's head. The blow made a sickening crunch. Ratko fell like a sack of potatoes, his eyes glazing over.
"Excuse me." Plemenac picked the carving knife out of Ratko's grip. "Good men treat their guests with respect. I hoped your father had the decency to teach you such."
Ratko groaned, barely managing to lift his head from the ground. "People like you are why this country is already dead."
A thin smile came to Plemenac's face. That wasn't the first time he'd heard that line from a defeated enemy.
"Why don't you just kill me instead of torturing me like this? You let me go and I'll tell everyone. I'll tell James. I'll tell Sinclair. They'll stop you. Your plan is never going to work, I'll make sure of it."
He guffawed. "I'm sure you will, but you will never get the chance. I only told you because... well, killing must have some level of fun about it. Like sex, there is foreplay involved."
Ratko used the coffee table to get to his knees. He dashed for Plemenac, wrapping his arms around his legs, trying to take him off his feet.
"Oh, please."
Plemenac threw out a knee, smashing it into Ratko's jaw. The leader of the White Rose fell back into his previous spot again, blood flowing from his nose and lips. He observed the carving knife in one hand and the gun in the other, weighing up the different options available.
"I think that's enough foreplay for now, Ratko. Let's get started."
Chapter Fifty-Five
Mrkopalj, Gorski Kotar, Croatia
The fetid air made Nazifa nauseous. After being taken, the two foreigners had dragged her out of the car and bound her ankles and wrists together. She touched her fingers to the bruise spreading across her cheek. Smiling with satisfaction, she had refused to go quietly.
Many hours had passed since they'd abducted her. They’d released her bounds. She’d fought for her life, fought for her freedom. A hard blow had dazed her, and they hadn’t opened the trunk since.
Every couple of hours the rumbling car pulled off the road. Each time it came to a stop, she screamed for help. Nobody had come. It could only mean she'd been taken far from civilisation, far from anywhere where someone might hear her.
It gave her a lot of time to think about what had led her here. She liked James, but she didn't love him. That kiss had been a drunken mistake. One which made her stomach sink at the thought of it. Her girlfriend, Jasmina, would have ditched her on the spot if she ever found out. Was toying with a man to use him as a tool for the nationalist cause justifiable? She didn't know, but she would do it anyway. That man was worth an army all by himself.
Her head jerked up as the car hit a bump. The sound of wheels on tarmac disappeared, replaced by the rough sound of rubber on gravel and dirt. They must have turned away from the main roads and into the rural areas. She gulped. Was this the end for her? Her breath caught in her throat just thinking about it.
The next time the car stopped, she heard two doors open and muffled footsteps made their way around the side of the car.
The trunk flew open, and she looked up not at her captors but at two unfamiliar beings. They weren't foreign looking at all. Her captors must have delivered her to someone else during the night.
"Nazifa Aleki?" a heavy-set man said in her own language.
"You know who I am. Who are you?"
"I'm going to untie your ankles now. We're leaving the car."
"You untie me and I'm going to hurt you."
The man shrugged and untied the ersatz bonds around her ankles. She bit her lip. The fabric had cut into the skin, leaving angry red marks. Nazifa didn't immediately move. She squinted against the blinding morning light. The men gave her space to get out of the trunk by herself. She didn't know what to make of the situation.
Little by little, Nazifa worked up the courage to swing her legs forward and into the open air. She felt parched and her stomach rumbled from the night of driving without food. Nazifa tried to pull apart her wrists again, but they'd secured them with a pair of handcuffs.
Like a new-born colt on ice, she wobbled for a fe
w moments on the solid ground. The two strangers observed her, their expressions betraying nothing.
"Who are you?" Nazifa asked again.
"This is Zvonko and I'm Branimir."
Nazifa took a moment to size up her captors. Branimir had a helmet of greasy hair and a scraggly goatee standing out against bronzed skin. She already knew from their names and accents they were Croatian. This one must have come from near Pula, the closest part of Croatia to Italy. Zvonko had an oddly shaped head with a dusting of what passed for hair and narrowed eyes. His hands and part of his neck bore red, scaly patches of skin.
"Croatians?"
"You are in Croatia," said Branimir. "Here you will stay with us until the time comes."
Nazifa forced down an angry retort and gazed around her. They appeared to be in a clearing surrounded by coniferous trees. Icicles hung like daggers from the edges of the branches. She shivered, wondering why they had brought her here and not just killed her in the first place.
None of it made sense. She presumed the Serbians had hired the foreigners to take her as revenge for helping James, but Croatians were their natural allies. And why had they gone to the trouble of dragging her across the border to Croatia?
"Are you ready?" asked Branimir. "It's time to go."
"Go where?"
Zvonko stepped forwards and gripped her by the shoulder. "Go." He shoved her forwards along the dirt path.
Nazifa decided she didn't like Zvonko. Nevertheless, she put one foot in front of the other. She moved neither too quickly nor too slow. It was the only act of defiance she could think of right now. In her mind, if she delayed them by even a couple of minutes, she had made her point.
"Are you going to kill me?" she asked at last without turning around.
"Maybe," said Branimir. "It's not our problem."
Nazifa's pulse quickened. The ambiguity scared her more than the straight answer. Her fate had yet to be decided. That meant anything could change. Now, more than ever, she wondered whether she should have welcomed James' advances. A night in his bed meant his protection. Maybe if she'd have grinned and let him in, she wouldn't be here now.
Kemal had been right to rebuke her for not sleeping with him immediately.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Artificial blue light bathed Sinclair's room. His phone buzzed for a moment, the screen illuminating the far corner of his bed. Sinclair grunted and scraped the chair over the floorboards. He picked up the phone. A message from Ratko.
He squinted at the green chat bubble. Pressing his finger to it, a disjointed message filled his smartphone screen. It read:
Plemenac is going to start a war. The day the leaders of the European Union come to Sarajevo. The war will start in Srpska. Heavy weapons. False flag. Bosnian-Serbs will die. Media attention. Sympathy and international opinion in support of Srpska. Independence.
Sinclair's heart caught in his throat. Somehow Ratko had managed to discover Plemenac's plan. This was gold. Now they knew for sure Plemenac's angle. If his focus were on the meeting of the European Union in Sarajevo that must mean as an ambassador, he would be called to join various official figures in the days running up to it.
He re-read the message to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. Most people would have found this plan appalling. Sinclair found it appalling for an entirely different reason; it was the type of plan that had a shot at succeeding.
"James!" Sinclair called into the corridor. "Are you awake?"
James, in bare feet and holding a drink, came in from the balcony, letting in frigid air to the living room. Yet it didn't seem to bother James, who took his usual seat and lit a cigarette.
"Read this." Sinclair pressed the phone into his hand. "It's from Ratko."
James put his drink down on the coffee table. "Ratko? I thought he didn't want anything to do with us anymore. Not peaceful enough for him."
Sinclair didn't laugh.
James read the message through. "That's strange. How would he have found out something like that?"
Sinclair shrugged. "Just because he didn't want anything to do with us doesn't mean he isn't at all interested in the subject. Maybe he thought it prudent to pass it on to us."
"Maybe." James picked up his drink.
"Is that it?"
"Is what it?"
"That's the only reaction I'm going to get? Are you drunk?"
"No, but it does nothing to bring me closer to Plemenac. I still don't know how I'm going to get close enough to make his death look like an accident. Part of me wants to get an assault rifle and break down the doors of his office."
"You know –"
"Yes, yes, I know that isn't an option."
Sinclair relaxed slightly. "Look, it could mean that he is meeting with some high-ranking officials. We can watch the embassies and we will soon find out where he is and who he's meeting. That could give you an opening."
"Stealth was really never my strong point, Sinclair," James said to the night beyond the balcony.
Sinclair sensed he wasn’t getting through to James. "It's her, isn't it?"
James didn't respond.
"Let her go, James. You are allowing yourself to become consumed by her. She is just one of many women we've met all over the world. Focus on the task at hand because if what Ratko said is true, Bosnia is done if you fail to liquidate Plemenac in the next few days."
"I know," he sighed. "But I thought her kiss meant something, you know? All that time I spent with her, she kisses me, and then disappears off the face of the earth. It doesn't make any sense. I want to know why."
Sinclair shifted uncomfortably. He knew who Nazifa really was and why she had disappeared, but he didn't have it in him to disclose it to James. That discovery would reveal his collusion with Gallagher, his stealth in keeping tabs on James. Sinclair acted for James' own good, and his own, but he'd worked with James long enough to know he wouldn't understand his motives.
"Focus on Plemenac, James. You stayed here to avert a war when we could have walked away. I'll dig up what I can on events at the embassies and see if I can find you an opening."
James merely grunted in response as Sinclair walked away with the knowledge that could damn them all.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
James and Kemal drove into the valley surrounding Sarajevo. The old Winter Olympics luge ramp from 1984 sat undisturbed. Every inch of its concrete had been painted over in all the colours of the rainbow. Blocks of art melded with each other as graffiti artists competed for attention.
"Why do you think Addy wanted us to come here?" asked James. "It's early. Too early."
"He just called me. I told you, he is trash."
James pulled out his pistol, ejecting the cartridge to check his ammunition before popping it back in with a click. In his experience, unexpected requests for meetings in isolated areas meant an ambush. Despite the money he'd given him, he wouldn't put it past a man like Addy to have taken the money and shopped James and Kemal to Plemenac's men.
"It should be soon. It's very quiet here,” said Kemal.
"Quiet? It's dead. We haven't even seen a house for the last ten minutes."
Kemal grunted in acknowledgement.
“What do you think of that message your son sent me last night?”
“He is smart. Very smart, but a coward. I tell you that many times, my friend. Maybe it’s true, but it’s no good for me. I fight wars man to man.”
James had mulled over Ratko’s message. Sinclair had eventually called him to ask some questions, but the phone kept going to voicemail. It didn’t matter much now. That was the only information they had to go on, and it still didn’t give him an opening to slay Plemenac.
“After this, I want you to ask him about it. He made it quite clear he didn’t want to talk to me the last time we met. Could you do that for me, Kemal?”
“Of course, my friend. Anything, eh?”
Potholes littered th
e road. Every thirty seconds the car would rumble into a hole hidden by rainwater and throw them into the air. Kemal swore each time he smacked his head on the roof. Red marks had already started to colour the crown of his skull.
James switched off the pistol’s safety. They arrived at a long hill. A couple of stray dogs started to bark at the car. He didn't pay them any mind. If Addy planned an ambush, it would come in the next couple of minutes.
"You armed?" asked James.
"Yes. Addy is a coward. He wouldn't attack us."
"He might be a coward, but he's not a friend. I wouldn't put your trust in that man."
Kemal’s face fell; James had wounded him. "I don't, I don't. He is a bad man, but he would never betray us. Never."
He rolled his eyes as they came to the end of the road. Ahead of him, he saw the figure of a man lying on the freezing ground. He looked up at the approaching car and raised a desperate hand. James couldn't quite believe his eyes. It was Addy.
Kemal brought the car to a halt. James didn't even glance at Addy as he carefully exited the car and scanned the trees and the beginnings of the luge track for any movements. All was quiet. The trees overlooked a desolate area with nothing more than crumbling concrete and overgrown foliage.
Kemal joined him and when he saw Addy up close, he let off a long cackle.
James glanced back at Addy. The man was as naked as the day he was born. Whomever he'd encountered had left him his phone and nothing more, then tied his ankles to a rusted metal loop protruding from a lump of concrete. He couldn't help but snicker.
Addy gave them a pitiful glance. "Help me, my friends. Help me."
James and Kemal couldn't contain their laughter. In the sub-zero temperatures, Addy couldn't have been here long. He shivered, but he had no tell-tale signs of frostbite. James took out his pocketknife and cut the ropes free.
