Vuk heard the car before he saw it. His hand slid down to the Kalashnikov at his feet, then curled once more around his glass. It was the Commandant’s old Mercedes. He recognized the laboured growl of the engine and the snarl of the rear axle.
The Commandant was not alone. With him was a middle-aged man dressed in a dark, well-cut suit, white shirt, dark tie and black shoes. As usual, the Commandant was wearing his green uniform, with his gun at his belt. Vuk had always thought he looked like a younger version of Fidel Castro. El jefe. Yes, that was him. Vuk was well aware that the Commandant was a father substitute, but it didn’t matter. The Commandant had taught him all he knew at the best military academy in the world: the Yugoslavian Federal Army’s Special Forces school, where the toughest young men were schooled in sabotage, infiltration techniques, sniping, communi-cation, self-defence, swimming underwater and survival in the field. It had been Tito’s own idea: to train up a force capable of operating as guerrillas should the bloody Russians try to invade the country, as the Germans had done. Instead the Commandant had had to employ his expensive education and his best pupils against traitorous Muslims and Croatian fascists. Tito had probably never thought it would come to that.
‘Another two glasses,’ Vuk said.
The owner of the café looked up, and Vuk raised two fingers. The man brought out two glasses and placed them on the table without a word. Then he returned to his football match.
The Commandant and the man in the suit were standing talking next to the dirty black Mercedes, which was parked at the foot of the low hill. A flight of steps, several of them crumbling away, led up to the café. Vuk saw Radovan get out and light a cigarette. He waved to Vuk, who waved back at him. Radovan acted as both driver and bodyguard for the Commandant, although they were safe enough here. It had taken Vuk two days to reach this spot after crossing the river late that night. As so often before, after a mission, he had stayed an extra day with Emma. Made love to her in the morning, slept most of the day, made love to her again in the evening and then crossed the river at night in his little collapsible raft. The journey had been totally without incident. He had heard gunfire to the east and south of him, but it had come from small-calibre weapons and been so far away that he hadn’t taken cover, just walked on alone through the night.
The Commandant and the man in the suit climbed the steps towards Vuk. Radovan stayed where he was. He drove the car and guarded the Commandant’s life, but it was his belief that the less he knew about whatever deals were struck the better. The day of reckoning would come eventually, and when it did you wanted to have seen, heard and done as little as possible.
The man in the suit was compact and muscular, although starting to put on a bit of weight around the waist. The sweat was running off him, but he kept on his jacket. Vuk was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. His brown leather jacket was draped over the back of his chair. Vuk could tell that the man in the suit was a Russian. He could spot them easily. Americans likewise. They could change their dress, try to alter their appearance, but it made no difference. It had to do with the way they walked, the way they held their heads, their whole body language. The same went for the Danes. Vuk knew a fair bit about disguise. He also knew that it was their way of walking, of holding themselves, their mannerisms that gave people away, and he kept his eye in by always studying others closely.
The Russian might be wearing a smart western suit, but he was either an old soldier or an ex-KGB man, it stood out a mile; possibly one who was now making use of his talents to smuggle weapons to the various warring factions in the Yugoslavian civil war. He had broad Slavic features and dark eyes. His short black hair was thick and neatly parted. In fact he reeked to high heaven of the Mafia.
Vuk got to his feet and waited expectantly. The Commandant strode forward and put out his hand to Vuk. When Vuk took it, the Commandant pulled the younger man to him and gave him a quick hug, and they thumped one another on the back.
‘Another job well done. I’m proud of you, my lad,’ the Commandant said in Serbo-Croatian, in a voice roughened by black Balkan tobacco.
‘It was nothing,’ Vuk said, stepping back a pace.
‘You like killing, Vuk,’ the Commandant said.
‘That’s what you always say.’
‘But don’t you?’
‘No,’ Vuk said.
‘You’re good at it.’
‘Who’s he?’ Vuk asked.
The Commandant turned to the Russian and said in English, although both he and Vuk knew enough Russian to carry on a conversation in the language:
‘This is my boy. The one I think might be able to help you. The Serbian Dane. Vuk.’
His English was heavily accented, but it had an American twang to it. He had attended a number of courses run by the Green Berets in Texas, all strictly hush-hush. That was during the Cold War, when Yugoslavia, for all that it was neutral, feared the Russian Bear more than the imperialists in Washington. The Americans had taken great pleasure in training anyone who could, however temporarily, be regarded as an ally. Be it an Iraqi officer opposed to Iran, or a Serbian soldier who hated the Soviet Union. The Yanks had no sense of history and no talent for strategic thinking, the Commandant had told him. The Commandant was proud of his American English and loved to show it off.
The Russian offered his hand, and Vuk shook it. The Russian had a firm handshake, and he looked you straight in the eye.
‘Pleased to meet you, Vuk,’ he said in beautiful English. Had to be an old KGB agent who had worked undercover as a diplomat in London and possibly other European cities. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. And all good.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Kravtjov.’
‘Sit down, Mr Kravtjov. Have a drink.’
Kravtjov pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and carefully wiped the dusty, scuffed plastic slats before sitting down. Vuk filled the three small glasses and raised his own:
‘A toast?’
‘To mutual understanding,’ the Russian said.
‘To victory,’ said Vuk.
Kravtjov glanced at the Commandant and drained his glass in one long swallow.
‘Shit!’ he said. ‘That’s good, very good, but it’s not a civilized drink without pickled gherkins.’
The Commandant laughed:
‘I’ll have to remember that for next time.’
‘What does Mr Kravtjov want with us?’ Vuk asked.
He refilled their glasses. He could both see and sense that Kravtjov and the Commandant had been discussing something. He had the impression that some sort of business deal had already been struck. Something that involved him and his unique gifts. That went without saying. But it irked him that the Commandant took him so much for granted. There was a time when he could have done so, but not now, or not in quite the same way.
The Commandant fiddled with his glass and lit a cigarette. Kravtjov did likewise. The Russian held out his pack of Marlboros to Vuk, who took one.
The Commandant excused himself to Kravtjov and switched to Serbo-Croat. But the Russian probably understood a good bit of it, Vuk thought to himself, as he listened without interrupting.
‘Vuk. Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, Kravtjov worked for the KGB. He still has friends in high places. He can get us the information we need. He can also provide us with arms.’
Vuk said nothing, but he gazed intently at the Russian. The Commandant went on:
‘He will pay us four million American dollars for a hit.’
Vuk said in English:
‘I don’t kill for money.’
Kravtjov leaned forward and said in the same language:
‘That’s a lot of fucking money, Vuk!’
‘I don’t kill for money.’
‘It’s not for you. It’s not for me. It’s for the cause,’ the Commandant said.
‘I don’t kill for money,’ Vuk repeated.
Still with his arms folded on the table, Kravtjov sa
id softly:
‘I understand how you feel, Vuk. Believe me, I do understand. But think about it. The war will soon be over. Your lot haven’t exactly won the first round. You need money. You’re pariahs. You need money to buy arms. To safeguard your future.’
‘Listen to what he has to offer,’ the Commandant said.
Vuk made no reply, simply waited. Again Kravtjov exchanged a glance with the Commandant before going on.
‘I can’t go into detail until I know whether you’re in. You do see that, don’t you? You know how these things work, right? But I am acting as middle-man for a nation which is willing to pay four million dollars for the liquidation of a target who has trod on rather too many toes.’
‘Why me?’ Vuk asked.
‘The target will be making an appearance in Denmark. You’re the perfect man for the job,’ the Commandant said.
Vuk emptied his glass.
‘The perfect man,’ said Kravtjov.
‘The target is not an enemy as such,’ the Commandant said. ‘But innocent civilians lose their lives in every war. You know that better than anyone, Vuk. Kravtjov has a plan, a good one. We pin the blame on someone else, a Muslim. One of our enemies. We’ll get the money. They’ll get the blame.’
Vuk stood up and walked away from the table. The Commandant kept his eyes on him.
‘What’s all this about?’ Vuk said.
The Commandant dropped his cigarette and ground it under the sole of his American army boot.
‘At the end of the day, a ticket out of here,’ he said wryly.
‘I thought as much.’
‘We’re done for, Vuk. Soon NATO and the Americans will be charging all over the place. They mean it this time. And this time it won’t be blue-capped Mamma’s boys from the UN with light arms. This time they’ll have tanks and heavy artillery, and the right and the will to use them. They might start digging. In the wrong places, Vuk. Think about that. Think hard.’
But that was the one thing Vuk did not want to think about. The murky, grey spring afternoon in that Muslim village when all sense of humanity had evaporated, and the air was heavy with the sickly smell of blood. When not even the earth that was shovelled over them afterwards, or the smoke from the burning houses, could expunge that smell. It would be there in his nostrils for the rest of his life. They had been seized by bloodlust and behaved like the berserkers he had learned about in school in another country.
‘I don’t trust the Russian,’ Vuk said.
‘Do you trust me?’
Vuk regarded him.
‘You’re all I’ve got. You and Emma, maybe, but I’m not sure,’ Vuk said.
‘Vuk! Listen to me. Milosovic is selling us down the river. As sure as a whore spreads her legs. He wants to have the embargo lifted and stay in power. He’s selling out the Bosnian Serbs. We’ll be allowed to stay with him, but the Muslims will get our old land. We’re done for. Slobodan has sold us for thirty pieces of silver. And he’ll turn us in too, if the Americans insist. Vuk! I know the Americans. They don’t appreciate the nuances of the situation, they don’t know the first thing about politics, they don’t know the first thing about the Balkans, but they know all about making deals.’
‘So it’s you and me?’
‘That’s the essence of it, yes,’ the Commandant said. He rummaged around for his cigarettes. It was the first time Vuk had ever seen him look ruffled – no, panic-stricken almost. Beneath the uniform and those impassive features was a frightened man.
‘The essence?’
‘Of whom you and I can trust.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Vuk said, although in fact he did.
‘The Russian’s money will give us freedom. We can stay here. Carry on the fight. We could move to Serbia. Or South America. Start a new life. This is our chance. You can be the one to take that chance for your comrades.’
‘For you,’ Vuk said.
‘For you and me. And perhaps for Emma.’
‘So this is not about the cause?’
‘The cause is dead, Vuk. We’ve got to look out for ourselves now. You owe me that. I made you who you are. I took you in when you were nothing but a kid, shaking in your shoes and weeping in horror at what they had done to your parents…’
‘Enough.’ Vuk did not raise his voice, but he saw fear flicker in the Commandant’s eyes. It was the first time Vuk had ever known the Commandant to show fear of him. He was right of course. He was who he was because the Commandant had licked him into shape and given him a mission. Taught him the sweetness of revenge and given him the tools with which to wreak such vengeance. But then he had had the cause. Now there was only the money.
The Commandant put a hand on his arm:
‘Do you still trust me, Vuk?’
‘Yes,’ Vuk lied.
‘Then prove it,’ the Commandant said.
Vuk walked back to the table and sat down. He emptied his glass again. His hands were steady, but his throat was still dry. There seemed to be a spot there that could never be slaked. The Commandant also took a seat, raised his glass, drained it and nodded to Kravtjov.
‘Do you have anything against killing a woman, Vuk?’ Kravtjov asked.
‘As long as it’s understood that I don’t kill for money,’ said Vuk.
‘Of course.’
‘Who and when?’
The Russian leaned forward again and lowered his voice, as if they were on intimate terms. Vuk looked at the Commandant. His face was beaded with sweat. He lit another cigarette, and for the first time since he had known him Vuk felt no sense of awe, respect or love. He felt only contempt. The Commandant had sold him out, but Vuk would make sure that he never got to cash in. He did not hear what the Russian had said, so he asked him to repeat it.
‘I said, we’ll meet in three days’ time in Berlin. I live in Berlin. It makes a good base. All right?’
‘All right.’
‘How will you get there?’ the Russian asked.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘No, of course not.’
Kravtjov raised his glass in a silent toast and knocked back his drink.
‘Who’s the target?’ Vuk asked.
Kravtjov produced a picture from his inside pocket and pushed it across the table to Vuk. The face meant nothing to him: it was that of an attractive woman of around forty who obviously had a penchant for large gold earrings. She had a round face and curly hair. She had a rather sweet gentle look about her, but there was also something about that face which spoke of a determined and forceful personality.
‘Does she have a name?’
‘Sara Santanda.’
Vuk sat back in his chair and gave a sudden laugh, a quiet laugh, deep in his chest, but it made the Commandant and Kravtjov sit bolt upright in their seats.
‘What’s so funny, Vuk?’
‘You want me to take out a woman on whom those fucking ayatollahs in Teheran have put out a contract because she has insulted the Prophet and a religion that I hate more than anything else in the world.’
At this the Commandant laughed too, a loud bark that rapidly degenerated into a bout of coughing.
‘Exactly, my lad, exactly,’ he said between coughs. ‘That’s the beauty of it. You take her out, some fucking Muslim gets the blame, and we get four million dollars.
Vuk looked at him, then at Kravtjov.
‘I’ll see you in Berlin, Mr Kravtjov. Till then, you keep this to yourself. This is between you and me. Is that understood?’
‘And your commandant?’
‘And my commandant.’
‘Agreed,’ said Kravtjov, putting out his hand. But instead of shaking it, Vuk reached for the bottle and filled his glass again. He drained it in one gulp, got up and walked away.
Chapter 6
Vuk left that same evening. He packed his rucksack with a couple of spare shirts, a pair of beige chinos, a blue tie, underwear, camouflage paint, a black polo-neck sweater and black jeans. His apartment in Pale cons
isted of just two rooms. The bed was unmade, and in the kitchen stood a pan containing the remains of a meal: baked beans with a couple of fried eggs on top. There was a table with three high-backed chairs set round it and an empty bookcase. The floor was bare and dusty.
He stayed off the bottle, drank black coffee instead. Not that it mattered so much tonight, but in a couple of days he would need to be in command of all his faculties. He felt hollow inside but at the same time relieved. He had made a decision, and there was no going back. He felt his own treachery like a solid lump in the pit of his stomach, but he had come to the conclusion that there was no other way. A card had been dealt. Now it was up to him to play his ace. He knew he would miss the light and the scent of these green hills, but he also knew in his heart that he had had his day. And so had the Commandant.
Vuk assembled the bomb. It was a simple device. A few grams of Semtex and a detonator pencil. Once the pencil was snapped it would take an hour for the acid thus released to burn through to the Semtex. The Commandant was a creature of habit. He visited his mistress every day between seven and nine pm, then went home to his wife and two children. Radovan would be sitting in a nearby café, having a coffee and a short, while the Commandant was enjoying himself. Vuk no longer trusted the Commandant. He had sold him once. He would do it again. The first time was always the hardest. Betrayal came easier the second time, and the third. He pressed the pencil detonator gently into the soft plastic explosive and stuck the magnet to the other side. He held it close to the pan on the top of the cooker and it snapped onto the metal. He wrenched it free and wound some dark-grey tape around the little clump to hold everything in place, then slipped his Smith & Wesson into the pocket of his leather jacket along with a small carton of bullets.
He opened the door of the broom cupboard built in alongside the old gas cooker and removed a brush, a bucket and a dustpan. He opened his Swiss Army knife and carefully prised up two of the floorboards. They were already loose. He fished a brown leather pouch out of the space underneath the rest of the floorboards inside the cupboard and took from it three passports: one Danish, one Swedish and one Russian, all well worn. In the Russian passport photo Vuk had black hair and a moustache. In the Swedish and Danish ones he was fair-haired and clean-shaven. Each passport contained a number of stamps. Also in the bag were two Eurocards, an American Express card and a Swedish press card. The man pictured on this last was somewhat younger. The resemblance wasn’t too good, but it might do at a pinch. Vuk tucked the whole lot into the inside pocket of his jacket. He groped around under the floor again and came up with another pouch. He undid the strings and pulled out two bundles of banknotes. A fat roll of American dollars with an elastic band around them and a bundle of deutschmarks held by a money clip. He popped the deutschmarks into his trouser pocket and the dollar bills into the jacket’s inside pocket.
The Serbian Dane Page 6
