Lie in the Dark vp-1

by Dan Fesperman

  Vlado watched the emotions play out across Kasic’s face, and reflected once again that perhaps Kasic was in over his head in this new job. In years of following orders to the letter he’d had few chances to develop the right touch for leadership. Ruthless efficiency was sometimes a poor substitute for agility and flexibility, although sometimes it triumphed anyway from its own brute inertia.

  Finally Kasic fell back on his standard opener. “So, then … Obviously you’re not budging. And where does that leave us, besides in the dark?”

  “It leaves us, I hope, only a few days from getting results.”

  “And you’ll have names for us then?”

  “A few, probably. Or at the very least a general outline of the operation.” As Kasic digested this he appeared to be engaged in some inner debate. He hesitated a moment, then began haltingly. “Vlado. It might well … It might just behoove you to not rule out internal suspects. Within the ministry, I mean. Or perhaps that’s the reason for your hesitation at providing a briefing.”

  It was hardly what Vlado had expected, but it was a relief, though he still had to tread lightly. “Do you have suspicions along these lines?” he asked Kasic.

  “Vaguely. Nothing specific. Just talk, really. Old, loose talk within the ministry from weeks ago that, in light of what happened to Vitas, now takes on a different meaning. But nothing I can go into with you, at least, not until I know a few more specifics about what you’ve come up with.”

  Vlado was tempted then and there to tell Kasic all he’d learned. The brown fatherly eyes now seemed more tragic than welcoming. It obviously pained Kasic to admit he might be at the helm of a corrupted ship, and once again he seemed overwhelmed by his new responsibilities.

  But the urge passed. For one thing, offering a full briefing now would blow his cover story of U.N. scrutiny. For another, he still wasn’t sure who he could trust. Besides, if he changed his mind he could always contact Kasic tomorrow, or the day after. He did wonder what this “loose talk” must have been about, although it was clear he wasn’t going to get anything further without giving something in return. But there were other ways of getting information from the ministry, and that, too, would require some finesse.

  “In the meantime,” Vlado said, “there is some help you could give me.”

  “By all means,” said Kasic, brightening a bit.

  “Your files.”

  The frown returned.

  “Nothing I haven’t seen already,” Vlado quickly added. “Just a few things in Vitas’s personnel folder I wanted to double-check, in light of what I’ve learned since.”

  Kasic looked relieved. “No problem,” he said. “I’ve got some business out of the building to attend to, a meeting at the presidency building, so I’ll escort you there. Besides, we have a visitor in records right now who I wouldn’t mind impressing.” He added the latter archly, as if Vlado knew quite well what he was talking about, though he hadn’t a clue.

  He led Vlado down a flight of stairs with a hand lightly on Vlado’s back, as if sheperding a son to the library with overdue books. They entered the double doors of the records department, its vast file room painted in several peeling layers of industrial green. Recent shelling aimed at the nearby presidential building had begun to knock loose some of the ceiling plaster, and a fine white dust coated the tops of the metal file cabinets, arranged in long, dreary rows.

  Facing them across a wide counter was a fidgety-looking clerk who motioned over his shoulder as he leaned toward Kasic, whispering, “It’s Morris from the U.N., sir.”

  “Quite all right,” Kasic whispered back. “I was notified.”

  So, Vlado thought, the resident U.N. watchdog was here to poke around, although it was an open secret that in its guise of cooperation the government heavily sanitized anything the U.N. asked to see. Not that the U.N. ever asked for anything particularly recent or relevant, seeming just as out of touch with reality as any other of the world’s lumbering bureaucracies. Vlado knew it was the weak point in his cover story, although so far it seemed to be holding.

  Kasic placed a hand firmly on Vlado’s right shoulder and leaned closer, whispering, “You’ll forgive me for a moment, Vlado, if I use you for a brief object lesson.”

  “Captain Morris,” Kasic boomed. “Visiting us again, I see.”

  Morris, stooped over an open file drawer, replied by glancing up from his labors with an unintelligible grunt. But the cool reception didn’t deter Kasic.

  “This is Inspector Petric, Mr. Morris, though perhaps I don’t need to introduce you. He’s the man called in from the outside to handle the Esmir Vitas investigation, of course. I invited him in for a briefing, and you’ll be pleased to know that in no uncertain terms he told me it was none of my business. I grudgingly must agree.”

  Morris was staring back now, seeming annoyed and more than a bit puzzled. To Vlado it was plainly apparent he didn’t know anything about either Vitas or the investigation, and cared less. He was probably only running an errand for someone else, searching the files for some bit of minutiae to be plugged into a thick report no one would ever read. Kasic seemed not to notice. He was too intent on completing his clumsy bit of theater.

  “I hope you don’t mind for a moment if he joins you in your browsing.” Kasic then turned grandly toward the clerk and said, “Whatever files he needs, Krulic,” but by then Morris had bowed back to his work with another grunt. Vlado felt almost embarrassed for this hammy performance, but it had at least served an important purpose, whether Kasic realized it or not.

  As Krulic hurried off to retrieve the Vitas personnel file, Kasic leaned low once more to whisper in Vlado’s ear, and when he spoke it became clear he’d developed a counterattack to Vlado’s strategy. “Don’t forget my offer of help, Vlado. Use our manpower, our expertise. If you feel that our undercover people haven’t been completely forthcoming, perhaps we can persuade them to be more accommodating.

  “But whatever you do,” he said, his tone carrying a sudden hint of steel, “don’t sit too long on your information. This fellow Morris has been down here three days running. They may be playing chummy with you, but we’re not feeling that way with them at all. So if you’re worried about tying up every loose end before making any moves, then don’t.”

  “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “That neatness is not a major concern. That speed is everything. That even accuracy, or getting exactly the right man, may not be the most important thing, as long as we get somebody from this city’s collection of lowlifes, the faster the better. Better for all of us, Vlado. For the ministry, for the country. And don’t forget your own welfare in all this.”

  He gripped Vlado’s shoulder and smiled, now drilling him with those brown eyes that could look warm and liquid one minute, cold and metallic the next. Was this last comment a job offer or a threat? Vlado wondered.

  “Good hunting, then,” Kasic announced to the room. He leaned toward Vlado, whispering, “But, please, old son, don’t stay in the field too long by yourself. It’s dangerous out there. Pick your shots soon. Aim wisely.”

  Vlado was no longer embarrassed for him. Perhaps he had underestimated Kasic. Krulic returned with the Vitas personnel file, but Vlado knew from previous inspection there’d be nothing helpful inside. What he really wanted to see would take a bit more doing, but with any luck Kasic had unwittingly provided the key. After a few minutes of shuffling through the papers for show, Vlado returned the file and said, “And now, while you’re at it, I’d also like to see the files for the October raid.”

  Krulic looked up with a start. “You’ll need approval from upstairs for that one,” he answered immediately. He’d been well trained in saying no, and now that Kasic had left for the day he’d reverted to his natural state as a slothful, chain-smoking civil servant in the best tradition of the Tito era, reluctant to react to anything other than the urge for nicotine, caffeine, or undeserved promotion.

  “You heard Kasic,” Vlado said, speaki
ng a bit louder. “I’m to have access to anything I want. What more approval do you need than the head of the department.”

  This time Morris was a more attentive audience, straightening to listen in. Now it was Krulic who was unimpressed. “Sorry. Permission has to be in writing. It’s the rule.”

  The rules. Always the last line of defense for entrenched laziness. But Vlado had a final round of artillery.

  “Very well. I’ll have someone sent out to disturb Mr. Kasic, who has just gone to the presidency for an important meeting. We can have the meeting interrupted and he can be called into the hall, which I’m sure will cause some embarrassment. Then he’ll have to come back into the office so he can sign the proper forms, of course, because the rules won’t allow him to simply send a note. And he’ll no doubt be grateful that you were so diligent in following the rules to the last letter even after he’d made his own wishes so clear only moments before he left.”

  It was a direct hit. Krulic held firm for only a moment, then beat a retreat. He slouched off to retrieve the file without another word. Morris ducked back into his drawer, and Vlado allowed himself a small smile of triumph.

  Although the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina was the world’s newest country, and among the smallest, its government had already amassed a pile of records worthy of a nation ten times its size and age. Some were simply left over from the volumnious documentation of Yugoslavia, but in the previous two years local officials had zealously built upon these foundations. They’d fallen back on the old rule of thumb that the more paperwork your department generated, the more important it must be, and after two years of war neither death nor distraction had deterred their zeal.

  Likewise, if you were preparing to mount an important law-enforcement operation, one of the final measures of its magnitude would be the volume of its paperwork. For that reason, Vlado had great expectations for the file on the October raid, and as Krulic dropped a thick folder heavily onto the counter he saw that he would not be disappointed.

  He took the bundle to a nearby table and settled in for a long spell of reading. The file told its story in the dry, sterile jargon of police bureaucrats and interoffice memos. But as Vlado made his way through the requisitions, organizational charts, duty lists, assignment orders, mission goals, and sweeping policy statements, he began to acquire a feel not only for the operation, but for the atmosphere that must have existed within the department at the time.

  The mood had been grim, a feeling of being under siege by the wild and increasingly bold tactics of the gangs and their warlords. The handiwork of Vitas was apparent in much of the paperwork, and Vlado could sense the way in which he had attempted to shut down all leaks and conduits of information to the outside, so that after a great period of apparent quiet the Ministry would be able to strike with the suddenness of a cat from a dark corner, with all claws bared.

  There were forms upon forms, and stacks of signed orders and authorizations, some of which had gone straight from Vitas to the Interior Minister and onward to the President’s office.

  There were guarantees of cooperation from the local army corps, a pledge of help from the military police. Vitas had gone to a great deal of trouble to secure the partnership of others who would share in the blame if things went wrong. Yet he had also taken pains to retain the authority necessary for claiming the lion’s share of credit for a success.

  With all this activity, of course, it would have been virtually impossible to have kept the brewing operation a secret, no matter how much Vitas clamped down. The gangs had obviously realized they were in for a fight, although according to Neven they’d been surprised by both its ferocity and its timing. Either their sources within the Ministry had failed the gangs by lack of vigilance or had intentionally left the gangs in the dark, for reasons of their own.

  It took an hour for Vlado to find the first item he wanted. It was the inventory of property seized from Zarko’s headquarters following his surrender.

  They’d listed everything, the guns, the currency, the ammo boxes, right down to the bootleg cases of cigarettes, the boxfuls of women’s hosiery, and the stacks of pornographic magazines still wrapped in plastic. Zarko’s ability to keep his men from tearing open the latter item was the greatest testimony yet to his leadership skills.

  Midway through the second page of the single-spaced list Vlado found the first item of interest: 79. Wooden crate, approx. 8’? 6’? 2,’shipping form attached.

  The next item was further down the same page: 96. Library-style card file, 2 drawers.

  Next to both items were handwritten notations in the margin: Custody transferred, 10-04-93, see attached.

  Vlado thumbed to the end of the report, where a page of cream-colored bond had been stapled to the back, the same sort he’d found in the waste can of Vitas’s apartment. Its message was short: Items #79 and #96 transferred to personal custody of department head, E. Vitas. It was signed by Vitas, with no further explanation. The date was a mere two days after the raid. Obviously the items had piqued his interest, and he apparently hadn’t felt they’d be safe in ministry custody. And by the time he’d finally gotten around to following up his suspicions, his adversaries had been ready and waiting. At least, that’s how Vlado read it. It could also mean Vitas had simply bided his time before trying to capitalize financially on his find.

  Vlado reviewed the file materials dealing with the capture and shooting of Zarko, beginning with a detailed, signed statement of events by the commander of the custody detail. He recalled that at the time there had been a great deal of grumbling in the city over the circumstances of Zarko’s death. For one thing, Zarko had still been a hero to many, remembered for his defense of the city. For another, the shooting had carried the unmistakable scent of a summary execution, the sort that had happened in the old days.

  The papers showed that the custody detail had included six people, and they’d been assembled with special care more than a week in advance, specifically to handle the assignment that they’d then bungled. Vitas had obviously wanted to get it done right, fearing the very sort of criticism that resulted when Zarko was shot. Vlado reviewed the list of names, recognizing three of the six, including the commander. All were known as reliable, vigilant officers. He didn’t recognize the other three, although one seemed oddly familiar. It had been whited-out and retyped, presumably after a typographical error. But there was no reason to assume those three hadn’t been selected with just as much care.

  According to the commander’s report, stamped FOR DEPARTMENTAL USE ONLY, the detail had traveled in a small truck with a canvas opening in the back and armored sides. After picking up Zarko he and his men were to drive straight to the jail. They made one stop at a security checkpoint posted at barricades a block away, shunting past a foreign TV crew, then encountered no further delays until stopping briefly for some children who’d been kicking a soccer ball in the street. At that point, the commander said, the suspect had tried to escape by jumping from the back of the truck. He got only as far as throwing open the rear flaps when he was shot. An attached report by witnesses, however, said that the flaps had never opened, which would mean he’d never actually jumped. No wonder people had been upset. For once the wild rumors of the street seemed to have some validity. There was disagreement as to whose bullet had killed him, the commander said, and his report did not name which of the six men claimed to have opened fire. It was a curious omission, considering that this was strictly an internal report. But someone had undeniably been quick on the trigger.

  Neven’s words came back to him. Zarko would never have tried to escape, he’d said. Perhaps after three days of fighting he’d snapped, unable to think clearly. But if that was the case, why had he surrendered? Neven was right. It made little sense. And even if he’d bolted, wouldn’t he have at least tried to grab a gun first, instead of just jumping out the back? Vlado flipped back to the beginning of the report. Yes, just as he’d thought. Zarko had been handcuffed as well.

 
Vlado went back to the list of the six-man detail, and the same name as before caught his eye. “Kemal Stanic.” Where had he heard it before? He asked for the man’s personnel file. Krulic sighed loudly, then sluggishly retrieved the file before slumping back in a chair with his newspaper and his cigarettes.

  Initially there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary in the man’s background, although perhaps it was a bit odd he’d been a grocer before the war. Age, 35. Nothing odd there.

  Not until Vlado saw the names of the man’s four children, with the notation “deceased” next to two of them, did he realize what had seemed familiar about the name. Yes, that was it: Kemal’s grocery. There’d been a shootout there a year earlier, when Zarko himself had been fighting with members of a rival gang. Two children had been killed in the crossfire.

  Their father, the grocer, was Kemal Stanic. He’d created a bit of a stir a few days later inside the courthouse, shouting down some judges and attorneys, railing against the city in general and the justice system in particular, for of course in those days no one had made a move to apprehend Zarko. The local newspaper had run something on it, and then it had died away.

  Christ, who in his right mind would have put him on a detail to guard Zarko? Vitas, apparently, for his signature appeared on the last page of the assignment list, next to a red, block-lettered stamp, APPROVED.

  But Vlado looked again through the Stanic file, and this time the hiring date jumped off the page. He’d joined the force only five days before the raid. Vitas’s stamp of approval was dated three days earlier. Two days after the shooting, Stanic was dismissed into the army, but in the space where the terms and status of his separation should have been recorded, there was only the notation, See attached. This time there were staple marks at the top-right of the back page, but no attachment. Perhaps Vitas had taken this item as well. He appeared to have been holding all the key cards in the deck when he died. But where had he left them, and who had them now?