by James Samuel
"Thank you, my friend. Thank you, my friend." Addy almost cried his profuse gratitude. He flexed his legs but remained on the ground. “Plemenac, that son of a whore, put me here. I called him, like you said. I asked questions, and he made me meet him here last night. Then he…”
"Left you here like this," said James, ignoring the peals of laughter coming from Kemal.
Addy pouted. "That is for you. Look over there."
James followed Addy’s finger. Next to the concrete stone, a white envelope held down by a chunk of stone threatened to blow away in the wind. He hoped the money he’d spent on Addy hadn’t gone completely to waste.
"Find me some clothes,” Addy called. “You owe me for this. I want more money. This was not supposed to happen."
James ignored him and picked up the envelope. He pulled it open. The piece of paper read:
Winchester,
I warned you. Take my advice and return home. Whatever you do now will not bring a halt to my plans. This is just a taste of what will happen if you continue to defy me.
Before you return home, I recommend you pay a visit to Ratko Avdić.
The letter had no signature, but James didn't need Sinclair to reveal the sender. It was a warning, a final warning for him to turn back. James ran his tongue around his mouth. He wouldn't be deterred by Plemenac's warnings. If anything, he saw it as a challenge, and he wouldn't turn down a professional challenge like this. But why would Plemenac want him to visit Ratko?
"Kemal, look at this." James showed him the letter. "What do you think?"
"My son?" Kemal screwed his face up. "Why?"
"I suspect he's enjoying this. Maybe he gave Ratko some information to lead us on."
"Do we go?"
"You go," said James. "If there was anything useful, you can call and tell me. I'm still trying to find a way to get to Plemenac. I know he’s trying to delay me. Also, have you heard anything from Nazifa?"
Kemal shrugged. "Nothing. She is fine. Don't worry. She likes you."
James gritted his teeth. "Maybe."
"No maybe." He patted him on the shoulder. "I see it in her eyes. She likes you. You work with her and you get what you want," he let out a little chuckle. "She is good, eh?"
James cleared his throat and motioned to the car, eager to change the subject. "Let's go. We don't want to waste any time. The more breathing space we give him the more he's in control of the situation."
"Hey, what about me?" Addy hugged himself as he shivered.
Everyone averted their gazes from the below-average manhood flopping around, like the remains from a butcher's chopping board.
"You walk. Is not so far," said Kemal.
"What?"
"No naked men in my car. Is not possible, eh?"
James and Kemal got back into the car trying not to erupt into debilitating belly laughs. As they watched the naked man paw at the car and then fade into the distance, the city came into view again. Somewhere, Plemenac still moved. There had to be a chink in his armour somewhere.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Sinclair observed a map on the wall of the corridor inside the Hotel Old Town. It showed part of the Balkan region, from Croatia in the west to Serbia in the east, as well as all the major cities, towns, and roads in between. Something bothered him. A lot bothered him. Miran bothered him most of all. That blind man had a role to play in all this. There was nothing he could prove, not even a shred of evidence against him, but he sensed there was something. Something didn't feel right about him.
He picked up his phone and made one of his usual calls to Gallagher. They were at the end of a cul-de-sac and needed help. Sinclair had no choice in the matter.
"Are you still in Bosnia?" asked Gallagher with a sharp edge to his tone.
"Yes," Sinclair answered. "But I'll be leaving soon. I had some matters to discuss with you."
"I hope you are not intending to join Winchester on his foolhardy mission."
"I didn't call you to talk about him, sir. Your business is nothing to do with me. I'd rather not get involved."
"Good man. Well, what can I do for you?"
"Nazifa Aleksi. Did our agents take her? The last thing I want is for James to be wasting everyone's time on a pointless search around Sarajevo."
"Our agents Maugham and Minamo did take her. Two nights ago, with relatively little difficulty."
"Do they still have her?"
"No. She was handed over to an affiliate group in Croatia. In spite of that, they continue to report to me. She is still alive, for now. I have yet to decide her fate. It largely depends on how well she cooperates and whether she is likely to cause problems for us if we let her go."
"Croatia?" Sinclair said in surprise. "Why move her all the way to Croatia? Seems a tad over the top, would you not agree, sir?"
"Where Winchester is concerned, nothing is too extreme, understand? Did you reveal her true allegiances to him?"
"Should I have, sir?"
"I think it is an excellent card to play when you have the chance. The sooner we tie up these loose ends, the sooner this madness can come to an end. Her location is Mrkopalj, in the heartland of Croatia. That should resolve the mystery, if he asks."
Sinclair scanned the map in front of him. He soon pinpointed the location Gallagher had mentioned. During his youth, Sinclair had spent a little time travelling through Croatia. Like most, he stuck to the capital Zagreb and the more beautiful coastal regions of the country. Mrkopalj truly seemed like it was in the middle of nowhere. It surprised him that Gallagher had volunteered the information at all.
"Thank you for telling me, sir. I will raise the matter with James when the time is right. I did have one more question, about Miran Heranda."
"Mr. Heranda? What would you want to know about him?"
Sinclair took a deep breath. "Does he have any connection with Plemenac?"
"Client confidentiality, Wood. Even if I knew, I would not be able to share that information with you as it does not pertain to the contract at hand. Speaking of which, I expect the both of you back in London within the next week, understand? I feel I have been extremely generous in extending your time."
"You have, sir, thank you."
Sinclair ended the call. He began to perspire in the warm surroundings of the hotel. Gallagher had refused to tell him anything about Miran, but there also wasn't a denial. Knowing Gallagher, that could only mean one thing: Miran must have a connection to Plemenac.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Mrkopalj, Gorski Kotar, Croatia
Nazifa sat with her back to the wall of the wood cabin. Branimir and Zvonko were seemingly her only guards. She hadn't heard them speaking on the phone or talking of any reinforcements. Despite their low, conspiratorial voices, she understood everything they said.
Her prison was little more than a bare room. A single wrought iron bed with a sagging mattress rested in one corner. A wood burning stove took up the other side, with a simple wooden table in the middle. At best it seemed like a getaway cabin, but she couldn’t see enough to say for sure.
"What are you doing?" asked Nazifa.
Branimir balanced himself on top of one of the wooden chairs, tying a rope around a beam. He ignored her as he worked to tie a thick knot.
"Zvonko, what is he doing?"
Zvonko only glanced back at her with a hint of irritation. With Branimir's back to her, she couldn't see what he wanted to hang.
The two men had offered her little comfort since their arrival. She'd been forced to sleep on the floor and received nothing but weak tea and whatever meaty scraps they would spare from their own meals. She figured they had a separate store of food in the car because neither of them ever left, except to go to the outdoor toilet. They provided a looser set of handcuffs, but, despite her pleas, they wouldn't entertain the idea of removing them.
Still, what would be the point in trying to escape? She had no idea where she was. The fact the two foreigners had handed her over to two Croatians likel
y meant they knew the area well. Trying to escape in the middle of winter, even if it were possible, would likely lead to her freezing to death in the woods.
Branimir jumped down from the chair and landed with a bang.
Nazifa's eyes widened. "What the fuck?"
The piece of rope now hanging to the beam seemed innocent enough, but at the end was a perfect hangman's noose.
Nazifa scrambled to her feet, ready to fight to the death.
"No, no," said Branimir. "It's nothing. Not for you."
She raged at them like a cornered animal. "Then why is it hanging in here?"
"Protection. You stay calm, you live. You try to run, you die."
Nazifa felt the blood pounding through her head. A sharp pain pulsed around her skull. She'd just looked death in the eye, and they wanted her to stay calm. She sized the two men up. They were both bigger, stronger, and likely faster t. The room had two windows, one behind her and one next to the door. She didn't have a chance, and their relaxed demeanours said they both knew it.
"It's okay," said Zvonko. "Sit down."
Nazifa gritted her teeth. It reminded her of being commanded by thick-headed men in the military. She'd scratched and clawed to gain even a modicum of respect. It had led to a man trying to rape her and a discharge for defending herself.
"If we wanted to kill you, we wouldn't have wasted our time bringing you here. We both have guns already." Branimir flashed his pistol. "Now, sit."
Nazifa saw the logic, but she glared with pure hatred in her eyes. As she lowered herself back to the dirty floor of the cabin, she vowed to herself that all three of them would not walk out of this cabin alive. If they made her walk to the swinging noose, she wouldn't go meekly.
Chapter Sixty
Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
James had a long walk home through Sarajevo’s old town district. He passed the ornate gazebo style fountain built by the Ottomans in the very heart of the old town. The Sebilj Brunnen was always a magnet for tourists. James shuddered at the crowds. After everything that had happened, he didn’t feel safe walking the streets alone, even in broad daylight.
An elderly man with a scruffy white beard threw some grains at the assembled pigeons. The birds swarmed the grains in a wall of grey and white wings. Camera shutters clicked as the tourists tried to catch the perfect angle for their computer hard drives. James skirted around them as an unruly child rushed the pigeons, sending them scattering, to the disconsolation of those who hadn’t been quick enough with their shutter buttons. The pigeon feeder acted like nothing had happened.
James’ phone buzzed in his pocket. He sighed. “What now?”
“Come quick. Gorczany Street,” said the text message from Kemal.
His heart sank. Not again. He jogged around the corner onto the main street and broke into a run. There were no cars in the old town area. He rushed to find a taxi. James threw the tourists aside with reckless abandon. He heard the curses flying his way, but most were smart enough to dodge to the side.
James reached the Sacred Heart Cathedral and raised his hand to catch a taxi. Gorczany Street was within walking distance, but the bluntness of the request bothered him. Something terrible had happened, he just knew it. He could only hope Ratko was alive when he got there.
He threw himself into the front seat of the first taxi he saw. “Gorczany Street. Double if you ignore the red lights.”
The driver didn’t balk at the request from what must have seemed like a foreigner on copious amounts of drugs. He sped through the streets, almost ploughing into a bus on the way, but luckily for James urgent errand, they came across no cruising police cars.
“Thanks,” James said, throwing him a sum of money without worrying if it was too much.
He caught the dumbfounded expression of the taxi driver as he flew out of the car and across the street. The headquarters of the White Rose looked much the same as it always did. Yet his sixth sense smelt death.
James hammered on the door. “Kemal, it’s me.”
Kemal wrenched the door open. His eyes were red and bloodshot. The happy yet brutal Kemal had been crying, and he made no attempt to hide it. Blood that resembled skid marks stained his shirt.
“He’s gone. He’s gone,” Kemal managed to get out.
James rushed into the house. The smell of death made him hold his breath. He rarely stayed around long enough to see what happened to a body in the minutes after death. The sight still unnerved him. Ratko lay at the foot of the sofa. His eyes lay open, lifeless and judgemental.
He took a tentative step forwards, feeling nauseous as the smell hit him. Ratko had long evacuated his bowels, leaving an evil odour. Slash marks rippled through his clothing. His murderer had taken his time, drawing out the process. Poor Ratko was now somewhere between rigor mortis and secondary flaccidity. It wouldn’t be long before the flesh started to decay.
“James…”
“Plemenac.” James reverberated with anger. “It could only be Plemenac.”
Now the stunted, disjointed message made sense. Plemenac had made a mistake. He’d crowed about his plan and left before Ratko expired. In his dying moments, Ratko had had the wherewithal to send Sinclair that message. James’ heart swelled with a mixture of pride and fury. Every movement to grab his phone must have been agony.
“My son…”
Kemal lumbered past him. His legs moved like that of a drunk. His eyes flooded with tears. He made no attempt at wiping them away in an attempt to preserve his warrior masculinity. Once again, he dropped to his knees, reaching out a hand to feel his son’s cold face for the final time.
James gulped, unsure of what to do. He reached out a tentative hand and squeezed Kemal’s shoulder. None of them had predicted that Plemenac would victimise Ratko. It was a message, not just a message to him but to all Bosnian nationalists who wanted to get in the way of his plans for a new civil war.
Kemal let out a primal, unrestrained roar. He punched the table with a meaty fist. When it didn’t jump far enough, he hit it again and again, grazing his knuckles and leaving a small trail of blood oozing from his index finger.
James backed away, allowing Kemal to let his grief pour out. Then Kemal went deathly quiet, like he was the one who had died. The tentativeness gone, he moved his hand with purpose and, with some effort, managed to close his son’s eyes.
“He dies. Every Serbian will die,” Kemal’s monotone sent a pang through James. “Every town, every city, and then him. I will give him the war he wants.”
James stood motionless, not daring to argue with a man who had just lost his son.
“I’m sorry, my friend, but you are not here to stop this war. If you try to stop me, I will… I will have no choice.”
James met his gaze wordlessly. Kemal’s face had changed. The laughter had left his eyes. All the goodness seemed to have dripped out of him leaving only the man who had once gone to war.
James inclined his head. “I’m sorry, Kemal.”
“Me too, my friend, me too.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Ratko’s final sacrifice touched both James and Sinclair. Although neither of them had taken to Ratko and his steadfast beliefs, he didn’t deserve to die. He had done everything he could to achieve what James also wanted to achieve. Now they had a problem. Kemal had disappeared and wouldn’t answer his phone.
“You think he’s really going to do it?” asked Sinclair as a pot of coffee brewed on the stove.
“Yes.”
“Seemed like quite a definitive answer.”
“I saw it in his eyes. Kemal has nothing to live for now. It was his only son and his wife divorced him years ago. It’s not the first time I’ve seen that look in a desperate man.”
“Then why are we wasting our time on Plemenac at all?” Sinclair folded his arms. “Kemal looks capable of starting a war all by himself. If he starts to massacre Serbians, it will accomplish exactly what Plemenac wanted.”
James rai
sed his voice. “You think I’m not aware of that? Am I supposed to try to explain to him why he shouldn’t want revenge? It’s what I would have done. If it was my son, I would have set this world on fire until someone could take me down.”
An uncomfortable silence settled between the two friends.
“Then where does that leave us?”
“It leaves us with a problem. How can I let Kemal do what he said he’s going to do and then claim to have the moral high ground with Plemenac?”
Sinclair shrugged. “You don’t. It’s both of them or none of them.”
James waved a dismissive hand and stormed out of the kitchen. Time was running out. They had only a couple of days before Plemenac would initiate his plan. The odds were overwhelmingly against him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to kill Kemal.
He withdrew his phone and closed the living room door behind him. The thick smell of coffee about to brew disappeared. James cradled the smartphone in his hand and tapped a number without a name attached to it. It rang four times before the caller picked up.
“James Winchester,” said Plemenac. “I never thought you would actually call this number.”
James’ lip curled upwards in disgust. “This has gone on long enough.”
“I agree, it has. Did Adnan deliver my message?”
“He did..”
“Are you asking for a meeting, Mr. Winchester? Although I would be happy to meet you, I wouldn’t trust you not to shoot.”
“You know I can’t kill you, or you wouldn’t have come to my hotel. You’re too well-known and protected by diplomatic immunity. My boss would throw me to the wolves the moment I did anything to you. There would be an international warrant out for my arrest. I’m not that stupid.”
Plemenac laughed over the phone. “You seem to be understanding the situation at last. Very well. The White Fortress, six tonight. Would you mind giving me an advance brief on the subject of our meeting?”
