Lie in the Dark vp-1

by Dan Fesperman

  They went out the door together, and he escorted her to the steps, listening as her heels clicked down to the ground floor, echoing just as sharply as the time before.

  He ignored Damir’s questioning gaze as he sat back at his desk, but Damir didn’t take the hint. “So,” he chirped. “Success?”

  “Not the sort you have in mind,” Vlado answered.

  “But you got a phone number, I hope.”

  “Confidential. If you want to reach her you’ll have to walk down to Skenderia. Just make sure to take a carton of Marlboros if you want anything more than conversation.” He felt cheapened by the remark the moment he spoke it, though it certainly seemed to be a hit with Damir. “Besides, don’t you have some work to do?”

  “That depends. Where are those new leads you were promising.”

  “Yes. These.” Vlado pulled the fax from his satchel. “Here, take a few pages and you can get started right away.”

  Damir scanned the Cyrillic writing and his eyes lit up. “Where the hell is this from? Somewhere we don’t belong, that’s for sure.”

  “Never mind that. Just oil up your rusty Cyrillic and get reading. It’s a list of paintings, valuable artworks hanging around town, with their last known addresses. We want to know which ones are still here, which ones are missing. Check them one by one, address by address. If the building’s been destroyed, move on to the next one. If the apartment’s been destroyed, ask the neighbors what happened, where the occupants went, then follow up. And if the place is occupied but the painting’s gone, find out when it was taken, and by who, and the official reason given. Get descriptions of whoever they saw, as much detail as you can. With any luck we’ll be on the trail to Vitas’s killer within a day.”

  Damir glanced down at the papers, eagerness apparent in his features. “Sooner, if I can help it,” he said. “I’m on my way.” And he bustled out the door, coattails flying like wings.

  Left on his own, Vlado picked up the phone, and he was pleased to again hear a dial tone. He thumbed through a U.N. directory and dialed the number for the Skenderia barracks. A man’s voice answered in English with a heavy French accent.

  “Yes, this is Inspector Petric from the civil police. I’m trying to reach one of your colonels, only I’m afraid all I have is a first name.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem, the battalion’s only got one colonel, and his first name is Alain. Would you like me to connect you?”

  Vlado sighed. So much for the delusional ravings of an unstable old prostitute, Vlado thought.

  “Never mind, thank you. The colonel I was looking for is named Maurice. I obviously got some bad information.”

  “No you didn’t. Just the wrong place. You’re looking for Colonel Maurice Chevard. He was officially posted here with the battalion last year, but he’s assigned to headquarters at the PTT building. Would you like his number?”

  “By all means.”

  The PTT building housed the headquarters for U.N. Forces, a grim, gray fortress on the west side of town along Sniper Alley, near the turnoff for Dobrinja. It was a precarious location, surrounded by sandbags and sprouting scores of satellite dishes and antennae. In better days it had housed the central telephone company and postal service.

  Vlado dialed the number.

  “Shipping office,” said a voice with a British accent.

  Vlado was so taken aback that for a moment he said nothing.

  “Hello?” the voice spoke again.

  “Yes. Excuse me. I’ve dialed the wrong number.”

  Vlado hung up.

  Colonel Chevard worked in the shipping office, which meant he was directly connected to Maybe Airlines, Sarajevo’s main lifeline, and the best way in and out of the city for food, soldiers, and, perhaps, valuable works of art. This put the Little Colonel’s jeep ride in a new light. Or did it? It really wasn’t much of a connection. And he had no idea how many people worked in the shipping office, or how many might have the authorization to make sure a crated piece of art made the next flight out. With the the right combination of payoffs almost anyone might be able to do it, he supposed.

  Vlado stood up from his desk and paced the room. He lit a cigarette and mulled his options for a few moments, then sat back down, figuring it had been long enough for whoever answered the first time to forget his voice. He again dialed the number at the PTT Building.

  “Shipping office,” answered the same British voice.

  “Yes, I’d like to inquire about the possibility of sending a private parcel out on one of your flights. I normally post them through the Jewish Center’s convoys, but this one is a matter of some urgency Perhaps you could tell me how it might be done.”

  “It can’t be. Strict policy against it. No exceptions. Sorry.”

  And with that he seemed ready to hang up, so Vlado spoke quickly. “Surely there are exceptions. I’m told these things can be done occasionally, even if rarely.”

  “Look, mate, I don’t want to get rude with you, but I personally double-check nearly every outgoing manifest, and I can tell you on very solid authority that nothing private, or public either for that matter, ever goes out of here under my approval. My boss would skin me alive if anything ever did, never mind what would happen if the press got hold of it.”

  “Might I appeal this. To your boss, perhaps. And I don’t believe I got your name, either.”

  Vlado had found that, when dealing with the military or other similar hierarchies, requesting someone’s name nearly always got you nothing less than a referral to the next rung up in the chain of command. As if by giving you their name they were obligated to send you home a satisfied customer, or else risk having to explain away any sort of official complaint you might lodge. He never understood why they didn’t simply refuse to give their name and hang up. Passing the problem on to someone else just seemed to be the accepted way of doing things.

  “My name is Maclean, sir. Lieutenant Maclean.”

  “Very good lieutenant. And your superior officer.”

  “Look, Mr….”

  “Jusufovic,” he said, saying the first thing that popped into his head-his wife’s maiden name.

  “Mr. Jusufovic. In answer to your original question, there are some rare, quite rare, cases in which we can haul private parcels on our flights, usually only as a special favor to people who have done us special favors in matters of aid operations or supply. And even then it is strictly hush hush, and only as a favor to individuals, and not to the Bosnian government, for obvious reasons of nonpartisanship. If you’re asking for that kind of permission, not only can I not handle it, but you’ll have to make the request in person to my superior. He’s the only one who can say yes, and I can tell you right now that nine times out often he says no.”

  “And his name?”

  “Colonel Chevard, sir, and the earliest he can see you is next Wednesday. If you don’t mind the advice, sir, he can be a bit prickly. If there’s any way you can make it seem like it’s his idea, you’ll stand a better chance. That’s the way it works with the French, you know. So, shall I schedule an appointment for you next Wednesday, then? Mr. Jusufovic? Are you there? Jesus. All that and the bloody bugger hangs up on me.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Vlado awakened to find it had snowed overnight, then cleared. The sun now shone brightly, and looking out his front door he could see well into the hills with a clarity rare for this time of year.

  He felt refreshed, not only from the solid night’s sleep, but from a renewed sense of purpose. The disappearance of Glavas had both troubled and energized him. At some point during his slumber he had tried to convince himself that Glavas had impulsively decided to exchange his painting for passage out of the city, that perhaps Vlado’s visit had even planted the idea, and that the men who’d escorted him in such orderly fashion-with nothing to hide, apparently, for they’d done it in the middle of the day-had only been starting him on his journey. By the light of day the idea seemed preposterous, but he still clung to th
e possibility.

  Whatever the case, his activities over the past several days had somehow set events in motion that he might now be able to trace if he only knew where to look for the signs. In the weariness of last night such a prospect had seemed hopeless, but this morning, with its rich feel of promise and possibility, it seemed within reach, perhaps only a single flash of insight away.

  He broke open the seal on the new jar of Nescafe and treated himself to a luxuriously strong cup. He then sat at his work bench in the kitchen and pulled out the boxful of his unfinished soldiers. It would be a good way to clear his head, to gain some temporary distance from the facts of the case that had crowded his dreams.

  He wondered for a moment if Damir had managed to turn up anything yet in his pursuit of missing paintings. The search would probably be more difficult and time consuming than they hoped. Oh, well. He was ready for a full and busy day

  His soldiers, he noted with pleasure, needed very little work before they’d be finished, a matter of a few small but important touches-gold on buttons and belt buckles, silver for the sweeping blades of sabers.

  From a shelf he took down an oversize atlas of military history. Published in London, it was one of his most prized possessions. He opened it to a map and full-color drawing from the Battle of Austerlitz. There, at the Czech town of cotton mills and sugar refineries, Napoleon had won his most brilliant victory in 1805, defeating not only the Austrians but the Russians as well. The idea of a long-odds winner appealed to Vlado just now. He was using the drawing of the battle as a model for his Austrian hussars, who’d fared badly that day, routed from the field with huge losses.

  He held one aloft with a thin pair of tweezers, into the sunlight that seeped through the dull plastic over the kitchen window, and began daubing gold onto the little man’s buttons, taking care not to smudge the bright blue of their tunics. Such pleasing colors. Such dash, with their swords raised in the air, thrust daringly forward. He thought briefly of the muddy men on Zuc, of their faces by the light of cook-stoves and penlight. These soldiers had smooth tan faces, and eyes that were dots of blue. He paused for a moment, smelling the paint, sipping his coffee, and letting the thoughts drain from his mind. He absently set the mug down on the book, and when his reverie broke a few moments later he saw he’d left a brown ring of coffee on the battle map, directly across the blue arrow of Napoleon’s advance. He plucked a dirty shirt from a pile of clothes at the foot of his bed and wiped clean the fields of Austerlitz, then set the mug on the workbench.

  He glanced at his watch, wondering where the last twenty minutes had gone, then gathered his satchel and headed out the door.

  Damir’s desk was empty, but Garovic was waiting, glancing at his watch with an extra degree of nervousness, his bureaucratic antennae twitching as if he were a cockroach that had just sensed an approaching boot.

  “You’re to see Kasic this morning, first thing,” he fairly shouted. “You’re running a bit late, aren’t you. I tried phoning you at home but the lines were down.”

  Vlado had wondered how long it would be before he’d have to make an accounting to Kasic, assuming that was what he wanted.

  “Did Kasic say why he wants to see me?”

  “A progress report. Here’s hoping you have one. For your sake and mine.”

  This time there was no waiting in the downstairs lobby. Garovic, ever eager to please, phoned ahead to alert the ministry that Vlado was on his way. He arrived to find a tall man in a dark blue uniform waiting outside the front entrance. He seemed to know Vlado on sight, a bit disconcerting since Vlado had never seen the man in his life. Perhaps it was another small trick by Kasic to impress him. It would have been easy enough to have shown the guard a photo of Vlado a few minutes earlier. But maybe it also meant they’d shown his photo to others, or that this man had watched Vlado on previous occasions.

  Kasic was again waiting at the top of the stairs, and once they’d settled themselves into his office he opened with the two words that seemed to preface all his conversations. “So, then.”

  He paused, arranging the papers on his desk. “Tell me how it’s going.”

  Vlado had wondered on his way over exactly how he’d answer such a question. Glavas’s disappearance had made him wary of just about everyone. And if he could hold out information on his partner for days at a time, then he could hold out on Kasic as well, at least until he was ready to make his final report. Nor did he want Kasic putting his own men onto the trail, behind his back, muddying the waters and drawing further attention to where he was headed. While walking to the ministry he’d formed a general strategy on how to fend off Kasic for now, yet even as he opened his mouth to answer he had not decided exactly what to say.

  But Kasic spoke again before Vlado could begin. “I assume it’s going well. Or at least I’ve decided that it must be, or you would have asked for our help by now.”

  So, a challenge right away.

  “I may need help yet,” Vlado answered. “For further interrogation, that sort of thing. But otherwise, yes, I think I’m making progress. Not enough for any arrests yet, but I’ve developed some theories.” He weighed his next words carefully “And they do seem to match with some of your early leads and suspicions.”

  Kasic beamed at the news, his gymnasium vitality shining through his long face, the brown eyes almost fatherly in their softness. Vlado wondered how long the smile would last.

  “So, then,” Kasic resumed, “our undercover men were of some help.”

  “For themselves, perhaps. I presume they’ve both been paid bonuses.”

  The smile disappeared.

  “As you had said,” Vlado continued, “they were a little short on specifics. And even in their generalities, well, they were somewhat on the right track. Vitas definitely seems to have gotten himself mixed up in some sort of criminal racket, either from the inside or the outside.”

  “The outside?”

  “By investigating it. On his own, apparently, without telling anyone else in the department. Either to be in position to cut himself into the smuggling operation or because he didn’t trust the rest of the ministry.”

  “Meaning me,” Kasic stated, with a trace of indignation.

  “Meaning everyone but himself, including you and a few hundred others.”

  Kasic paused.

  “But as for the other angle from the undercover men, the general angle of meat and cigarettes. Productive?”

  “I’m not so sure. It may have been something more lucrative.” This was as far as Vlado wished to go, and he put his strategy into motion. “Beyond that, I’m afraid I’m not prepared to say anything more just yet. In the interests of the ministry, of course.”

  Kasic looked as stunned as Vlado had hoped, though signs of anger quickly began moving across his features.

  “Surely you don’t consider it to be in the ministry’s interest to be left in the dark on this matter. And surely you have no trouble sharing your findings with me,” Kasic said, his tone mildly incredulous.

  “None whatsoever, if it were merely a matter of trust,” Vlado said. “It is more of a matter for your own protection, and for that of the ministry in general.” Kasic started to interrupt, but Vlado raised a hand and plunged on. “Please. Let me finish. Vitas was killed because of something he found out. Either he was trying to use the information to his own financial advantage or against someone else, but either way it got him killed. That being the case, I see no reason at this point to jeopardize further senior members of the ministry or the department in the same way, especially when, officially, your role in this case is only one of assistance.”

  Then, before Kasic could break in, Vlado played his one and only bluff. “But more to the point is the matter of the independence of this investigation,” Vlado said. “You should be aware, sir, that certain people in the U.N. command have made it known to me that they are watching me closely to see that I maintain my ‘objectivity’-their word, not mine-and that I don’t cozy up to t
he ministry. I wouldn’t want to do anything that would damage the U.N.’s trust in the department, which, I can tell you on good authority, is quite high at the moment. I even considered canceling this appointment simply so I wouldn’t be seen entering or leaving the building. But I suppose one visit won’t be out of bounds as long as I don’t say too much.”

  Vlado wondered for a moment if he’d laid it on too thick, but Kasic seemed more befuddled than skeptical. He’d clearly expected a full briefing without resistance. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a fresh pack of Marlboros, this time not offering one to Vlado but absently lighting one for himself.

  “As for your first reason,” Kasic said. “Your concern for members of the department is misplaced, not to mention unwise. For one thing, the more of us you keep informed-within reason, of course-the more you’ll guarantee your own security. The way I see it, working the case alone is what got Vitas killed, whether his motives were good or evil. A lone hunter is always an easier target.

  “As for your worries about my safety, don’t be ridiculous. Part of my job is knowing how to take care of myself. We’re not some bunch of civilians who happened to have witnessed a crime and need protection. We are the law, and the more we know, the stronger our position.

  “It’s your latter point that’s the sticky one, I suppose. Although I doubt that even the most exacting official from the U.N. command would interpret your ‘independence’ as precluding an informal debriefing from time to time.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Vlado said, and decided to stop at that, to let the idea simmer a while longer. As the silence lengthened it was clear he’d put Kasic in a position he hadn’t been prepared to defend. How, indeed, could he force Vlado’s hand? Even if he suspected Vlado was exaggerating, he couldn’t be sure. His only alternative was to shut down Vlado’s investigation, and that would play poorly, not only in Sarajevo but probably in Washington, London, and Paris as well. He’d be able to deal with Vlado later, of course, but Vlado could worry about that some other time.