by Tom Saric
More footsteps outside. The next screen began loading, slowly, section by section appearing. He typed in the name of the only person he knew had a connection to the bank card, the only person he could trust: Tomislav Rukavina.
The screen went white. The top of the browser read: Windows Internet Explorer (Not Responding)
Luka panicked, hearing more footsteps outside, accompanied by low mumbles.
He forced the browser window closed and relaunched the program, then typed “Tomislav Rukavina,” along with “Odvjetnik,” the Croatian word for lawyer, into the search box.
The screen flashed, and the cursor turned to an hourglass. Luka tapped on the mouse a few times, desperate, wondering how much longer he had to—
The search results popped up. His eyes darted between entries, finding one that appeared to be Tomislav’s.
Luka grabbed a notepad and scribbled down the address and phone number, then picked up the telephone and dialed.
He tapped his fingernails on the desk and then stood, pacing across the room as he waited for the phone to connect.
When he heard the European dial tone, he exhaled in relief.
Drrmmm, Drrrmmm…
Drrmmm, Drrrmmm…
“Dobra Večer, Tomislav— ”
The phone cut out and the house fell dark.
11
The waitress had just placed the drinks on the table—a tonic water with lime for him and a cranberry martini garnished with a slice of blood orange for her—when Braun felt his work mobile buzz in his blazer pocket.
His dinner partner, the voluptuous redhead he’d met on the plane to New York, reached for her glass, running her tongue along the sugar crystals on the rim, making eye contact with him as she did so. Her name eluded him now. Aboard the airplane, she showed no interest in him whatsoever, half turned towards the window, until he unfolded a newspaper and his shirt cuff slipped down, revealing his glinting Patek Philippe wristwatch. Then he suddenly became fascinating.
Two weeks in the Big Apple on a forced leave from the Tribunal, his first non-business trip in a decade. A break long enough to take in some art at the Met, a few shows on Broadway, and enjoy some down time. The last thought made him cringe, but he had promised himself he would leave work behind. His dinner partner would provide some companionship, certainly. He could ignore the phone.
But it kept buzzing against his chest. One quick glance, he told himself, then he was powering it off. He discreetly reached in his pocket and lifted the phone up halfway. The screen showed the name Nicole Allegri—an after-hours call. He knew he should ignore it. She’d made it clear it was over.
“I’m sorry.” He looked at the redhead, who already had her chin on her hand and was scanning the restaurant, probably looking for someone more interesting. “I have to take this.”
He pressed TALK.
“Hi, Nicole, I didn’t expect to—”
“Where are you?”
“New York. City. Just landed a few hours ago. Why?”
“Luka Pavić has surfaced,” Nicole said, urgency in her voice.
“Where?” Braun gripped the phone to his ear and grabbed a stool at the bar. He hunched forward, trying to block out the loud Cuban Bolero music.
“Winnipeg, Canada. It seems he’s been living there under the name Branko Lovrić. He’s married. Has a child.”
Braun couldn’t believe it. Luka Pavić, the final piece of the puzzle. All other high-ranking Croatian nationals wanted for war crimes related to the breakup of Yugoslavia had been traced, tried, and convicted. Pavić had simply disappeared.
“How’d you find him?”
“We didn’t. He shot a man, who’s in the hospital right now in critical condition. Pavić has barricaded himself in his house with his daughter.”
The thought sent a cold trickle down his back.
“I need you there,” Nicole continued. “We need someone to make sure they get him out alive.”
“And the girl too.”
“Right,” she snapped, sounding annoyed that he even mentioned it, “the girl too. Listen, I know you’re on leave, but you’re the closest agent I have—”
“I’ll go. You know I’ll go.”
He wondered why she left him the option. She knew that he’d snowshoe to the North Pole to find and drag one of these criminals to court. He needed to be there. Local authorities didn’t have the experience dealing with these cases. They’d rush into the home, and Pavić would unload a semi-automatic on them. Or worse, he’d kill the girl. Or he’d eat a bullet. That wouldn’t be justice. That was the easy way out.
“We’ll book your flight. Just get yourself to the airport.”
Robert Braun ran down the escalator at arrivals in the Winnipeg International Airport. He skipped past families hugging at the foot of the escalator, a man waiting with a bouquet of roses, a couple of kids jumping up and down holding signs welcoming Grandma and Grandpa. Behind the crowd and next to the vending machine stood a bald man with greying hair. His nose and cheeks were flushed red and he wore a thick down coat. He held a cardboard square with “R. Braun” written on it in black Sharpie.
Nicole had arranged for the Winnipeg Police to allow Braun to assist in apprehending the suspect, which would require cooperation with local law enforcement. The skill of the local team was always the unknown variable. This is their turf, he told himself. It was best to be friendly. If things went awry, then he’d be forceful.
He smiled. “I’m Robert Braun.”
The man removed his leather glove and offered a crushing handshake.
“Jack Kostick. Homicide. How was the flight?”
“Fine,” Braun said, but he had only one thing on his mind. “How far is it to the house?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Can you make it ten?” Braun picked up his leather sport bag and slung his briefcase strap over his shoulder, then started towards the exit.
“Gonna be cold in that little jacket,” Kostick said, following him. “Supposed to go down to minus twenty-five tonight.”
Braun ignored that, thinking only about getting to the house, to Pavić.
He stepped past the sliding doors and was hit by an icy gust of wind. A puff of snow blew in his face, and he wiped it away with his bare hand. He followed Kostick to the parking lot, where the other man unlocked the white Crown Victoria, opened the passenger door, and tossed the wrappers and paper coffee cups on the seat into the back. Cigarette butts filled the ashtray under the dashboard. Braun sat down. He smelled stale whiskey—he could ignore what the man did on his own time. Kostick seemed slow-moving but sober. All Braun needed was a ride to the house. Kostick turned the ignition and The Doors blared on the radio.
“Homicide?” Braun tried to say over the music, then louder, “Homicide?” Kostick didn’t hear him as they pulled onto the road, so Braun turned the volume down. “You said you’re homicide. Is the victim dead?”
“No,” Kostick said. “At least not yet. He’s clinging to life.”
“Then why is homicide involved?”
“Like the chief says: it’s a helluva lot easier to interview a homicide victim while they still got a heartbeat.”
“You’ve talked to the victim?”
“For a few minutes. While he was lucid.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s the one who told us that Lovrić was a cover, a fake identity, and that he was wanted by The Hague. By you guys.”
“How did he know his identity?”
“Says he’s a private eye hired by the family of one of Pavić’s victims in Yugoslavia. Says he was supposed to find Pavić and bring him to the attention of the authorities.” Kostick shrugged. “I guess he succeeded, though probably not the way he would’ve wanted.”
“And so Pavić shot him?”
“Mmm-hmm. With a hunting rifle. But it’s still not totally clear.”
“Why is that?”
“Victim had a gun drawn too.”
“How does he
explain that?”
“He didn’t.” Kostick turned to Braun. “Like I said, he was only conscious for a couple of minutes.”
Braun nodded, trying to maintain an air of pleasantness. He looked out the window at the city Luka Pavić called home. Buildings, cars, and sidewalks were buried under snowdrifts. Even the roads looked like they were paved with ice. Falling snowflakes made orange halos around the streetlights, contrasting with the inky sky. Purgatory for a murderer, Braun thought.
“What about Pavić? Where is he?”
“Still in the house.”
“Any movement inside?”
“Nothing.”
“Have you contacted him yet?”
“Nope.”
Warmth rose in Braun’s face. Nearly six hours had passed, and no one had verified that Pavić and his daughter were alive.
“So we don’t know his state of mind, or if he or the child are alive,” Braun said.
“Nope.” Kostick looked over and raised his eyebrows.
“This is a standard part of negotiation. Don’t you think he should be contacted?”
“I’m the homicide investigator, I don’t make those decisions.” He cleared his throat and stared ahead at the road. “And quite frankly, Mr. Braun, neither do you.”
Braun’s mouth dropped open, but he stayed silent. It wasn’t worth criticizing their decision-making. The next step was what counted. Maybe it was better that the Winnipeg Police hadn’t contacted Pavić. If they didn’t have enough know-how to do that, then he couldn’t trust their negotiation skills. Had they profiled Pavić? Had they identified a point of leverage to negotiate surrender?
They arrived at the house on the 200 block of Sinclair Avenue, where a police barricade had been set up. Braun stepped out of the car and made his way towards the house, careful not to slip on a patch of ice.
Flashing red and blue lights on top of four squad cars marked a perimeter, their headlights focused on the house. Over the fence, Braun saw more blinking lights in the back lane. Police officers stood behind the yellow tape, urging neighbors and gawkers to go home. To his left, he saw the tactical team reviewing a blueprint on the hood of a squad car. The house itself was eerily still. The white bungalow had all of its curtains drawn.
He needed to speak to the tactical team leader and share the file he had on Pavić. Braun had just lifted the yellow tape and begun to walk under it when a police constable rushed over.
“Excuse me, you can’t come in here!”
“Relax, Leitch,” Kostick said from behind. “He’s with me.”
“I’ll still need to see some ID.”
Braun was reaching into his pocket when he heard a commotion.
“I’m going to talk to him right now!” a woman yelled.
A young woman marched across the front lawn towards the door, plowing through the snow. Officer Leitch sprinted after her, grabbing her by the shoulder and nearly tackling her to the ground. She shook free and dusted the snow off her jacket and pants. Leitch put his arm around her and tried to lead her back to the sidewalk, but she pushed him away.
“He’s my husband! Let me talk to him. Someone explain to me what is going on here!”
Leitch led her to a squad car and opened the door. She eventually agreed to get in of her own accord.
“That’s the wife?” Braun said.
“I guess that’s Mrs. Lovrić,” Kostick said. “She was visiting her father two hundred kilometers away and was stuck in the storm, so she’d just be getting here.”
“We need her.”
“For what?”
“To get the girl out.”
Braun ducked under the yellow tape and ran to the squad car, then opened the door and sat down next to Luka Pavić’s wife. He pressed the lock down. Constable Leitch smacked on the window, demanding that Braun open it, until Kostick intervened to calm him down.
“Who the hell are you?” She glowered at him and put her back to the door, maximizing the distance between them. Hair was falling over her face. Streaks of mascara were dried on her cheeks. But she wasn’t crying now.
“My name is Robert Braun. I’m an—”
“My husband is no murderer.”
“You might be right. The man he shot is still alive.”
“How do you know he shot him? Do you have a witness?”
“What is your first name?”
“I asked you a question.”
“So did I. Mrs. Lovrić, we’re in no position to discuss guilt or innocence right now. But the facts are that your husband shot a man today. That man is clinging to life. But all of that is secondary, because as far as we know, your daughter is inside the home with him, and we don’t know his state of mind.”
“He would never hurt her. Never.”
“For her safety, because I know you’re a mother first, before you’re a wife, I ask you to cooperate with us.” Braun held her gaze. “For Natalie.”
She stopped abruptly, leaned forward, and held a clump of hair in each fist. “Oh God, Natalie. He wouldn’t…”
“Let me introduce myself again. My name is Robert Braun, and I’m an investigator with the International Criminal Court.”
She kept her head down, shaking, and then she sat up straight and looked at him. “What? Why are you here?”
Her stare was blank. She obviously hadn’t been listening to the news reports. His heart fluttered. Naturally, she was confused and protective of her husband, but this was an opportunity to fill her in and bring her to his side. She was leverage.
“How long have you known your husband, Mrs. Lovrić?”
“Eight years.”
“What do you know about your husband before he came to Canada?”
“We met when I was on a student exchange in France. He’d left Croatia by then. What are you trying to say?”
“Your husband is wanted for the murder of fourteen civilians during the Croatian War of Independence. I’m here to arrest him and transfer him to The Hague.”
“No, that’s—”
“His real name is Luka Pavić.” Braun clicked open his briefcase and removed the dossier of faxes he’d received from Nicole prior to boarding the plane. He slipped the photo of a young Luka Pavić out from under a paperclip and handed it to her.
“Remember that this photo is over ten years old.”
“Murder?” The picture fluttered between her trembling fingertips.
“He’s charged with executing fourteen people. He’s also suspected of murdering a young girl, but her body was never found.”
Her mouth moved but no words came out. Braun had just inserted the dagger. No mother could ignore the murder of a child.
“Her name was Natalia Nemet.” He twisted the dagger. Doubt grew in her mind.
“Natalia?”
Braun nodded, knowing he didn’t have to say anything more.
“Help us, Mrs. Lovrić. Help us get your daughter out of there safely.”
12
In the darkness of the house, guided by faint flashing blue and red lights that glowed through the window shades, Luka made Natalie a ham sandwich—pickle and tomato, no mustard, no mayo. She had woken from her nap, confused that the power was out.
He lied again.
“Just workers doing repairs.”
He carried the plate to Natalie’s room and sat on the bed beside her.
“Could you read me a book?”
“Power’s still out.”
“Maybe get a flashlight from the basement?”
Above the bed sat her favorite books: The Cat in the Hat, Alice in Wonderland, and every book in the Olivia series. Every night, he read them to her. She would lie on the bed, forcing her eyelids to stay open, begging him to read “just one more.” Sometimes, he read to her long after she drifted off. Who would read to her now?
“We can’t turn a light on.”
“Well let’s play hide-and-seek, then. It’s more fun in the dark.” She got up and made for the door before he reached out and stopp
ed her. “Let’s play before the workers fix the power and the lights come back on. I’m the best hider.”
“No, you’re not,” Luka whispered to himself.
“Natalie.” Luka held her chin. “There are no workers.”
“Oh,” she said, and fell silent.
“The police are outside, Natalie. They’ve come for me.”
“But they only get bad people.” She looked at him speculatively. “Did you do something bad?”
“No, sweetheart, I did not.” Luka hesitated. How did one explain this to anyone, let alone a child? “But they think I did something very bad. So I have to leave and fix some things.”
Natalie sat upright in bed, her little brain registering danger. “Where are you going, Daddy?”
“I have to go away for a while.”
“Can I come with you?”
“No, only me.”
Her lip quivered and then she threw her arms around Luka. “Daddy, I’m scared.”
“No.” Luka took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “There’s nothing to be scared of. Daddy has to go away for a little bit. But I’ll be back.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
He pulled her to him. For the first time in a decade, he felt that he had just told a whole truth.
The lights came on. Natalie scrunched her eyes closed, adjusting to the glare. When she opened them and looked at Luka, her jaw dropped.
“Daddy, your beard’s gone.” She smiled and touched his cheek. “Your face is smooth. Your hair’s blond!”
Ring! Ring! Ring!
