by James Samuel
James clenched his fist. “I’m leaving Bosnia.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Mrkopalj, Gorski Kotar, Croatia
Nazifa tried to keep her eyes away from the noose. She soon lost track of how many hours she had spent here. Her only opportunity to leave the cabin came when she needed the bathroom. Even then, Branimir or Zvonko would accompany her.
Every time she went outside it made her heart sink. She saw no distinguishing features and no points of reference she outside the cabin. The thick wall of trees hemmed them in. Only the dirt track cut through the trees. Too narrow for a car, it led about 300 metres back to the clearing where they’d pulled her from the trunk.
The cold light of a winter’s day offered few reference points for marking time. She slept intermittently on the floor and spent the rest of her time mulling over everything that had led her here. Soon, she forgot how long it had been since her kidnap.
Branimir kicked open the door with a thump. A few snowflakes blew into the cabin to be vaporised by the heat of the stove.
“Nazifa.” Branimir clicked his fingers. “You have a visitor.”
Gordon Maugham entered the cabin behind Branimir. He towered over the Croatian. For the first time, Nazifa got a good look of the man who had sneaked up behind her that night. The Englishman wore a joyless expression and piercing blue eyes. His hollow cheeks somehow made him seem less than human.
“Good afternoon, Miss Aleksi,” he started. “I don’t believe we had much time to speak, but I was rather in a hurry.”
Nazifa clenched her teeth. “Fuck you.”
“Charming.” He looked from Branimir to Zvonko, who was perched on the edge of the bed rubbing his eyes. “Leave us,” he said.
The two Croatians exchanged glances and filed out of the cabin. Another gust of wind blew inside, rattling the windowpanes and causing the open stove to flicker.
“Now, Miss Aleksi, you have found yourself in rather a complicated situation. Understand, you mean nothing to me.” Gordon sat at the table. “Please, sit.”
Nazifa bit her tongue and rose to meet him. She ducked by the noose, attempting to shake the nausea bubbling every time she looked at it.
“Do you know where you are?” Gordon asked.
“Croatia.”
“Where in Croatia?”
“Why do you ask me these stupid questions?”
Gordon’s mouth tightened. “What if I told you that you could leave here with your life?”
Nazifa only frowned. She wouldn’t rise to these stupid games.
“I’m prepared to give you that option.”
Nazifa clutched the adjacent chair with her handcuffed hands. Her knuckles whitened as Gordon removed her phone from his pocket and slid it across the table towards her. She stared at it, expecting a trick.
“Pick it up.”
“What are you trying —”
“Pick up the bloody phone.”
Nazifa took the phone in her hands. It was indeed her phone. Gordon had even charged the battery. She unlocked it and swiped through the menu screen. It looked completely untouched.
“What have you done to it?”
“Nothing, I assure you. I’m not aware of your passcode.”
Nazifa took in deep breaths through her nose. “Well?”
“I want you to make a call. Someone to pick you up. You are in the countryside close to Mrkopalj. A road leading into the forest from the south side of the village leads here. There’s only a single unpaved road leading in that direction.”
Nazifa shook her head. “I can find my own way.”
Gordon’s pupils appeared to flash with orange light. “You will make the call, or you will hang.”
She couldn’t help but take another glance at the noose. Nazifa realised she had no choice but to play his game. She had no other avenues of escape.
“Call James Winchester. Tell him where you are. You will say you escaped, and you are hiding here. Not a word about us.”
“And if I don’t?”
Gordon jabbed his head at the noose. “It’s your one chance of survival. Is he really worth that much to you?”
Nazifa thought about it. He was a useful man to have around, but did she care for him? Did she truly love him? In her heart she knew he was merely a tool to serve the Bosnian cause. If it was a choice between him and her, the choice was obvious. She swiped to her address book and made the call.
The phone rang. Every ring that went unanswered was like one of her lives ebbing away. She mouthed the word ‘please’ as she willed him to pick up. The ringtone stopped. Nazifa opened her mouth to speak when the cold, mechanical tones of his voicemail cut her off. She grimaced.
“Such a shame. Perhaps I made a miscalculation. I thought you meant something to him.”
“No, wait.” She threw her hands out in case he came at her. “I can get through to him.”
Gordon flicked his eyebrows. “Then you best make it quick, I’m not a man who likes to be kept waiting.”
Nazifa gulped and moved to Sinclair’s number. Her pulse quickened. The noose appeared to edge closer every second.
The incessant ringing started off again. Sinclair was her last hope for salvation. She turned away as hot tears came to her eyes. Swiping them away, she struggled to hold herself together.
“Nazifa?” said Sinclair.
“Sinclair.” Her legs wobbled and she reached out to grab the chair. “Sinclair, help me. I don’t have much time.”
“Calm down, Nazifa. How can I help you?” His soothing voice was like honey poured into her ear. “Are you looking for James?”
“Yes, yes, I need him here. Now. I need him to help me.”
“Slow down, I can barely understand you. What’s happened?”
“I was taken. Taken out of Sarajevo. I got away. I don’t know who they were. I’m in Croatia.”
Sinclair paused. “I see. James isn’t here at the moment. I don’t know when he will be back.”
“Sinclair, please. This is an emergency. I’m alone. In a cabin near Rijeka. The south side of the village of Mrkopalj. There’s one road. I’m in the forest. Please help...” She cast a furtive look at the impassive Gordon. “I don’t want them to find me.”
“Stay where you are. The moment James returns I will tell him where you are. Keep yourself hidden.”
“Come on, please.”
“You have nothing to worry about. Believe me.”
Gordon shifted his chair backwards. His shadow loomed over her like death itself. He held his palm out and gave a light flick of his fingers.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
“No problem. Stay where you are.”
The line went dead. Gordon snatched the phone out of her grip and pocketed it. He held an amused simper across his face.
“When Winchester is liquidated, you will be free to go.”
Nazifa stamped back towards her place on the floor. Her dry mouth tasted only the ashen flavour of guilt. There was no question about the right thing anymore. It was a matter of survival.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Sinclair had his head in his hands as he stared at the swirling grooves in the coffee table. What had he done? Gallagher had issued the order to eliminate James. He hadn’t said anything about this.
He slammed a fist down on the table. The empty porcelain coffee cup jumped and landed on its side then rolled onto the floor with a crash. Sinclair threw his chair out and kicked the fragments of porcelain aside. Gallagher had played him for a fool.
Sinclair struggled to press the right icons on his phone. His fat fingers were cumbersome. After a few seconds of fumbling, he dialled Gallagher’s number.
“Wood?” Gallagher answered.
“What are you playing at? This wasn’t part of the deal. You told me you wanted reports of James’ activities to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. The whole time you were trying to find a way to get to him.”
“Wood, what is the matter with you? Those are serious accusations. May I remind you that I am your employer?”
“No,” Sinclair shouted. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Nazifa called me. Asking for help. She’s in Croatia, how do you think she got there? We agreed to get rid of her, not to use her as bait for James.”
“And that is exactly what was done. Maugham has done a remarkable job in getting her there. You were the one who gave the order. I gave you the option, if you recall.”
Sinclair stopped and began to pace back and forth down the main corridor of their hotel suite. What Gallagher said was true. He was culpable in this.
“Nazifa Aleksi is no longer a problem, thanks to you,” Gallagher continued. “Maugham is with her now.”
“I know she didn’t escape,” he said through gritted teeth. “It was obvious she was lying. You think I couldn’t smell it from a mile away?”
“Winchester will respond to her call for help, and then he will be liquidated.”
Sinclair stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Gallagher had followed through on his threat at last.
“No... please. After all these years...”
“I concede Winchester is one of our most talented operatives, but he has proven himself to be a liability. He has gone too far this time.”
“And what makes you think I won’t just tell him everything?”
Gallagher released a little chuckle. “It’s all quite simple. If you were to reveal the trap, it would implicate yourself in the matter. Your role in the plot would be apparent. Not only would he likely shoot you, but James would also see the girl as the victim in all this and respond anyway. No matter what you told him, who would believe a traitor? Winchester would not be able to decipher truth from lies. Say nothing. He dies. Lie. He dies. Tell the truth. You both die.”
Sinclair lowered the phone from his ear. He put out a forearm to steady himself against the varnished doorframe. For once, he saw no way forward. His betrayal couldn’t be hidden away without sacrificing himself. Maugham was too deadly an enemy for James.
Touching his head against the doorframe, he closed his eyes. His phone hung limp by his side.
After a few seconds, he raised the phone to his ear. “How long will it be until you liquidate me as well?”
“Why on earth would I liquidate a man who has been so immensely helpful over these last weeks?”
“I know too much.”
“You have nothing to fear from me. The offer still stands. After Winchester departs for Croatia, return to London and we will begin preparing your new role within the organisation.”
Sinclair shook his head in disbelief. After ending the call with Gallagher, he collapsed onto the sofa. The strength drained out of him, rendering him speechless. Maugham was Gallagher’s favourite assassin. An expert in murder. A master of his craft.
If he told James, he would go to die. If he didn’t tell James, he would also go to die. Perhaps if he kept his mouth shut, James could go to the grave believing he still had one true friend in the world.
Chapter Sixty-Four
James’ thighs burned with every step up the steep hill towards the White Fortress, which protected the walled city of Vratnik in the hills of Sarajevo. He passed the Yellow Bastion overlooking the old town. Just mere minutes from the great limestone fortress, and Plemenac. A black car edged past him. The sort of car a man like Plemenac might drive. He watched it tackle the hill with a violent lurch of its engine as it shifted through the gears.
Soon he would leave Bosnia behind. His experiences here left him wondering who the good guys were and who were the bad. The moral juncture had grown more and more insistent for days.
The T-junction at the top of the road came into view. The car he’d seen made a turning through the old Višegrad gatehouse into the neighbourhood. He stopped and watched it squeeze through. He didn’t trust Plemenac. He expected an ambush. Sinclair would have advised him against any meeting with Plemenac. Then again, Plemenac could have made a move at any time. He could shoot him, but he could never shoot back.
The houses along the road towards the White Fortress grew more ramshackle until they disappeared completely. The undulations of the dusty road took him out into the open. The cliffs fell on each side down into the valley below, through which the Miljacka River wound.
At this hour, a near total darkness bathed the area. A rare clear winter’s day inched towards its conclusion as a charcoal smear enveloped the last of the sun.
Ahead of him he saw not one but two figures. He squinted into the dusk but couldn’t make them out. James never broke step, but his muscles tensed. Plemenac had brought an executioner with him.
“Mr. Winchester,” said Plemenac as he came into view. He took a long, hissing drag of his cigarette. “Our final meeting.”
James looked not to Plemenac but to the man standing beside him. “Mr. Heranda?”
Miran leaned against his cane. “We meet again. Ambassador Plemenac tells me you were preparing to leave Bosnia?”
“Yes,” he replied with less surety than he would have liked.
“You are surprised, no?” said Plemenac.
James said nothing.
“Mr. Heranda and I have worked together for many years. Surely you must have made the connection. How could I have known where you were staying if it were not for Mr. Heranda?”
James flushed with anger. “But he’s not a Serb. Why would you be on the same side?”
Miran smiled. “I am Croatian by birth, but a Serbian in my heart. Many of my family members have Serbian heritage.”
James’ jaw clenched shut. Now it all made sense. This assignment had never had anything to do with Kadrić. It was a small problem but for the time-sensitive nature of the kill. That’s why Blackwind had been hired.
“Well, Mr. Winchester, I think we should have a little talk before you go, no?” Plemenac crushed his cigarette underneath his shoe. “If you will excuse us, Mr. Heranda, for one moment.”
“Go. Then we have business to discuss.”
Plemenac gestured for James to follow.
James hesitated for a couple of seconds. He wanted more than anything to put an end to Plemenac now. Yet the sword of diplomatic immunity and a boss who would sell him out like a shot hung over him. He couldn’t do it, and Plemenac’s smug demeanour proved it.
He joined Plemenac and they began to walk towards the darkness. James pricked his ears up, searching for any sound that didn’t fit. They stepped beyond the lights of the street. Here the protruding wall known as Bijela Tabija overlooked the natural entrance to Sarajevo.
“What finally convinced you to leave?” asked Plemenac.
“Do you know why I even stayed?”
“You gave me a fair idea. Your strange Western philosophy of trying to solve the world’s problems.”
“Then that should tell you why.” James glanced from side to side. There were no signs in the overgrown grass, just the sound of traffic in the city below. “Heranda over there just justifies my decision.”
Plemenac pulled out a cigarette packet, Drinas, the cigarette brand smoked widely during the civil war. “We smoked a lot of these. You tried them?”
James nodded, hardly listening to the question. They had entered the fortress proper now. Most of it consisted of crumbling ruins. It formed a half-crescent moon shielding the sharp nose of the cliffside. He scanned the fortress. Former foundation holes left chasms eight foot deep.
“You think you are going to die here?” asked Plemenac. “No, no, I told you before. You fitted into the plan excellently. Despite everything you did, you have not changed anything. Killing you is unnecessary. You are a warrior.” Plemenac blew out a huge cigarette cloud and turned to enjoy the night at the end of the path. “It would be more hassle. A bigger problem to kill a Westerner. That’s why I will let you go.”
James ran his tongue along his teeth. It would be so easy to walk away now. So simple to leave
Kemal to his rampage, allow Nazifa to fade away, and watch a country that wasn’t his own descend back into its usual nationalist squabbling.
“There will be a war,” Plemenac mused. “Centuries of hatred. Nothing you can do to stop it. Even if you did, you would only be postponing it.”
“Why did you kill Ratko?”
Plemenac turned. “Ratko Avdić? I thought you stopped working with him.”
“I did. He didn’t deserve to die that way. He didn’t deserve to die at all just for the sake of sending me a message.”
He grinned and held his arms out. “Come on, Mr. Winchester. It had nothing to do with you. Ratko’s death was not a message. It was the detonation. All part of the plan. Why would I need to send you a message when I can call you?”
James looked on at him in disgust.
“Listen to me, Mr. Winchester, do you know Kemal? Ratko’s father?”
“Of course.”
“The message was for him. How well do you know Kemal? Who is he?”
James thought about it. They’d spoken little about personal matters. Practically all their conversations revolved around business. Other than some miniscule knowledge about Kemal’s nationalism, he realised he barely knew him at all.
“Kemal is one of the leading Bosnian nationalists in this country. He is the…” Plemenac rubbed his chin. “The Sadik Kadrić of the Bosnian side, if you will.”
“No, that isn’t Kemal. He wouldn’t blow the country open, no matter how much he hates Serbians.”
“No? Did you never think about how he lives? He has no job. Yet he doesn’t live with his son. He is single. Yet he doesn’t live on the street.”
James shifted uncomfortably. He’d never thought about it before.
“He is a criminal. He knows the mafia. Why do you think he knows so many violent elements of the nationalist scene? It’s not because he loves football, I can tell you that. Kemal is known to every Serbian nationalist in the Balkans. He is our enemy. You tell me you saw me kill Kadrić. Was Kemal with you?”
