by Tom Saric
She scanned the email.
Sara,
Read this carefully. The man who came today was there to kill me. I had to defend myself. They will tell you I murdered people during the war. I did not. I am innocent. I do not have proof right now. You have to take my word.
They might come for you. Take Natalie and go to the place we went for our honeymoon. Take out as much money as we have in the account. Pay cash. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. I will solve this.
P.S. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth. I wanted to, but I just never could.
Give Natalie a kiss.
She looked up. The German was standing behind the computer, his expression blank.
“I would like to meet with you.”
She held up her finger and pressed delete.
17
In downtown Zagreb, Luka sat rigid on a bar stool at the window of a bright café, smoking and sipping Turkish coffee. His eyes were fixed across the cobblestone street on a wooden door, splintered at the edges with the forest green paint flaking off, but stained brass numbers hung firm in the center: 84.
Only one person knew. Luka had slipped quietly from Split; no last-minute goodbye to family, no letters of explanation, not even a blank postcard. He’d vanished.
Using the Bank of France card was his only slip. The transaction must have been traced, and a hired hand was swiftly contracted to rub him out. Only one man was directly connected to Luka, and his law office was across the street.
Since he had been a member of the secret police for the Yugoslav socialist government in the eighties, Tomislav Rukavina was capable of playing all sides of a con. That part of his life would have been spent gaining citizens’ trust, assessing their loyalty to the regime, and reporting them if they wavered in their commitment to the State’s ideals.
He felt foolish for trusting Tomislav. He’d been a reliable advisor, he knew the system, and he had the connections to get Luka underground before he was arrested by The Hague. But if this was an elaborate trap to ensnare Luka, why assist his escape in the first place?
Two coffees and three cigarettes later, a man in a dark suit carrying a black umbrella and briefcase strolled up Skalinska Street. After a decade, Luka still recognized him, though wrinkles had deepened around his eyes and his hair was stark white and thinner. Tomislav Rukavina stopped at the door marked 84, pressed the handle, and walked inside.
Luka put out his cigarette, threw coins on the table, and grabbed a silver teaspoon. He threw his jacket on and hurried across the street, then stood at the door and listened to the footsteps receding on the other side. He pressed the door open and stepped into the dim foyer, where a ragged wood staircase led up to a second floor. Tomislav turned the corner to the second flight of stairs. The stairs squeaked with each step. Luka held the teaspoon in his hand, the butt end sticking out, and placed his whole fist in his pocket.
The squeaking stopped. Feet shuffled. Keys jangled. Tomislav was at his office door. Luka ran up the stairs two at a time, sending them rocking back and forth. He turned the corner. Tomislav stood on the landing, key in the door that had a frosted glass window embossed with T. RUKAVINA, ADVOKAT.
Tomislav’s head turned, and Luka lunged forward, holding Tomislav’s face onto the glass before he could get a look at him. He pressed the teaspoon onto the back of his neck with his other hand.
“What do you want? Do you want—”
Luka leaned in. “Don’t say a word. Open the door.”
Tomislav slowly turned the knob. Luka pushed him through the doorway, hand gripping his shoulder, teaspoon pushed on the base of his skull.
A secretary was typing at a desk, and at the sight of her boss being manhandled, she immediately raised her hands.
Luka scanned the room. A bookcase filled with storage boxes and textbooks ran along one wall. File cabinets stood along the back, next to a door marked “Washroom.” Luka pushed Tomislav forward, keeping him at an angle so the secretary couldn’t get a view of the teaspoon masquerading as a gun.
Luka motioned to the secretary. “Get inside.”
She stood up, picked up her purse, and started walking towards the washroom.
“Leave your purse,” Luka said. She dropped it on the desk. “Show me your cell phone.”
She stopped and stared at Luka. He drove the teaspoon deeper into Tomislav’s neck.
“Give it to him!” Tomislav sputtered.
She shook her head, defeated, then reached inside her pocket and placed her cell phone on the desk.
“Get in the bathroom. I want to hear you lock it. Don’t get out until I tell you to. No one’s going to get hurt.”
The secretary moved into the bathroom and shut the door.
“Now what is this about?” Tomislav said, trying to shake loose. As he turned, Luka grabbed Tomislav’s throat and slammed him against the filing cabinet. Tomislav’s eyes widened as he took in his old acquaintance.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Tomo.”
His eyes swelled as Luka pressed his hand on his neck. The hard point of his Adam’s apple bumped against Luka’s palm.
“L-L-Lu …” Tomislav’s voice crackled.
“You gave me up. You gave me up.” Luka banged Tomislav’s head against the steel cabinet. Heat radiated through his chest. “You’re going to tell me who.”
Tomislav’s face was turning bright red. He tapped Luka’s arm desperately. Luka slightly eased the pressure on his neck.
Tomislav gasped and winced. “Who what?”
“Who sent him?” Luka wrapped his hand around Tomislav’s neck and squeezed harder, bulging the blood vessels in Tomislav’s forehead. Was he overplaying it? Tomislav’s eyes didn’t move right or left—the classic signs of fabrication; instead, they fixed on Luka. No sleight of hand. “The assassin. Who sent him to my home yesterday?”
Tapping again. Begging. Luka loosened his grip.
Tomislav: “I don’t know what you’re—”
“How did he find me?”
Tomislav’s eyes were wide, not just with fear now but also disgust. There was no flicker of deceit, of guilt.
“Where were you?” Tomislav said hoarsely.
“I’ve been living in Canada for almost a decade, in hiding. I have a family. An assassin came to my house to kill me.”
Tomislav closed his eyes and shook his head, whether in pity or disappointment, Luka couldn’t be sure.
“You have a family.”
Luka thought of Natalie and Sara feeling abandoned and deceived. Tears welled in his eyes. He let his hand slide off Tomislav’s neck, and the attorney gasped and coughed.
“I always wondered what happened to you, Luka.” Tomislav clenched his face in pain and rubbed his neck. “I’m so sorry about your family. But I had nothing to do with some assassin coming to your home.”
“Someone did,” Luka said. “Someone did.”
“Not me.”
Luka sighed. “I see that.”
“But maybe I can help you.” Tomislav cleared his throat. “Tell me everything.”
Tomislav sat at his oak desk in front of a large window overlooking Zagreb’s medieval downtown. Luka dropped into the overstuffed armchair across from him and described what had transpired in Winnipeg.
Tomislav sank back in his chair and gripped the armrests. “How did he find you?”
“I don’t know,” Luka said. “One month ago, I needed extra money for a loan. I was desperate, so I used the bank card you gave me.”
“You think someone traced the withdrawal?”
Luka shrugged, his face blank.
Tomislav stared at Luka for a moment before a look of disbelief came
over him. “And you thought I had something to do with it.”
Luka dropped his head.
Tomislav leaned forward and pointed a finger at Luka. “Think about it. I got you that card so that you could start a new life and be safe from persecution by The Hague. And you concluded that I traced a withdrawal and se
nt someone to kill you?”
“Someone did. Someone who knew about the card. Who else knew?”
Tomislav waved his hands. “I don’t know.”
“You got it from somewhere.”
Tomislav leaned back and swiveled towards the window. “A fund was created after the war. Donations from a number of sources were put together to discreetly support people who would seem unsavory to the International Community: accused war criminals and politicians, mostly. The funds were set up in numbered accounts at international banks. Only the applicants had access to the comings and goings of the fund.”
“So who was the applicant on my account?”
Tomislav pointed at himself, then stood up and paced by the window. “A year ago, we had a break-in. I didn’t figure it out at the time—it was a discreet, professional job. The door locks weren’t damaged, nothing seemed out of place. I only suspected something because the deadbolt on the front door was off.”
Tomislav walked to the far wall and put his hand on the black safe that rested beside a bookshelf. “A few days later, when I needed something from the safe, the key code didn’t work. It was a bit strange, but I thought it was probably a computer glitch. The master code still worked, though. I checked the files and they all seemed to be in place.”
Tomislav punched in a five-number key; the gears hummed and the safe clicked open. He reached inside, pulled out a stack of manila folders, and dropped them on the desk. He pulled one from the middle of the pile and handed it to Luka.
Luka opened it and saw a statement from the Bank of France dated May of 1998, along with photocopies of passports for Ilija Srna and Mladen Simić, with the original photos of those men inside.
“As you can see, Luka, there’s no information that links you to the file.”
“Did you report the break-in?”
“I didn’t think there was anything to report. Nothing was stolen. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. Maybe I forgot to lock the door. And besides, how could I tell the authorities that someone had stolen information that could lead to the discovery of a wanted war criminal?”
“Why do you keep these files?”
“Originally, it was in case I needed to put more money into them, or if there was trouble with the passports. I needed some record of them. But, Luka, until just a few weeks ago, I didn’t even put all of this together.”
Luka passed the file back to Tomislav. “What are those other files for?”
“You weren’t the only one.”
“Only one what?”
“Person that I helped. Your file was one of many. They were all intact.”
Luka stood up, gears turning in his mind. “You said you only figured out a few weeks ago that there was a break-in. Why?”
“I received a phone call.”
“From whom?”
“Luka, these deals were made when I was still associated with the secret service. I shouldn’t be having to deal with this anymore.”
“Who called you?”
“Ante Čapan.”
“You helped him? I thought he’d disappeared long ago.”
“He did, but he was hiding in his father’s basement. He got tired of it—the paranoia, the isolation—so he came to me. This was after you left.”
“And where did he go?”
Tomislav laughed. “He was like you, Luka. He took off, even though I instructed him to wait for my go-ahead. He withdrew the money in his account and disappeared. That is, until I got a phone call from him two weeks ago. He wanted to know if I’d sold his information to someone. Two men wanting to know where he went had roughed up his elderly father. That’s when I thought about the break-in.”
“Where is Čapan now?”
“The Canaries, Argentina, fucking Canada like you—I don’t know, Luka. He wouldn’t say. And I don’t blame him.”
“Who is doing this, Tomo?”
“I don’t know.” Tomislav put his face in his hands and shook his head. “But someone wants you dead, and it sounds like they want Čapan dead too. You saw something that day.” Tomislav stopped, swallowed, and put his hand on Luka’s shoulder. “Your family. Are they safe?”
“I told them to go to a hotel in the countryside and stay there as long as possible.”
“Good. If someone is after you… You just never know.”
On the way out, Tomislav handed Luka the address for Ante Čapan’s father, then closed the door and turned the deadbolt. He thought about how much he hated surprises.
And this wasn’t the first time that Luka Pavić had caused a nasty surprise.
Tomislav walked over to the bookcase, kneeled, and opened a storage box sitting on the bottom shelf. He took a cellular phone from inside, flipped it open, and turned on the encryption software. Then he checked his watch and calculated the time difference before dialing the number.
As he waited for the line to connect, he knew that his only option was to restore order. Sometimes that took temporary disorder.
A man with an American accent came on the line. “Yes.”
“Our man just left.”
“He found you?”
“Yes.”
“You know where he’s going?”
“I know exactly where he’s headed.”
“Good. Make sure this ends today.”
The line went dead.
18
Braun had left Mrs. Lovrić inside the interrogation room and told her he would return in a moment. He went to the drink machine, dropped in a toonie, and bought a bottle of water.
He returned to the interrogation room and peered through the door window. Sara Lovrić sat upright in the plastic chair, facing the desk in the center of the stark white room. She kept her hands folded over the black purse on her lap, as though she was afraid to touch anything. A fluorescent light flickered intermittently.
These war criminals always seemed to have families that would stick their necks out for them. They overlooked any wrongdoing, forgave murder and genocide. They mislabeled justice as “persecution.” It was a form of Stockholm syndrome. In the eyes of family members, murderers were the victims.
His job was to make them see the truth.
Sara Lovrić had clearly lied to him. She had put on a convincing act when he told her that her husband was a wanted war criminal. Her shock had seemed genuine enough, but it might have been a ploy to buy her husband time to climb out of his house to safety.
And now he could be anywhere.
Braun had advised the Winnipeg Police to access security tapes from the airport, bus stations, and the US border crossing one hour away. He’d issued an alert through his own offices in The Hague, but those rarely caused more than a blip in international wires. Customs and immigration officials were more worried about drug trafficking and terrorists than war criminals from conflicts past.
By the time the police gained access to security videos and reviewed them, Pavić would already be three steps ahead of them. He could feel Pavić slipping away with each passing second. His best hope of tracking him was through the brainwashed woman sitting in the interrogation room.
But he needed to tread lightly.
He tucked his collar under his blazer and adjusted his shirt cuffs before pushing the door open. Sara Lovrić didn’t raise her head. He stood inside the room and let the door slam, watching her reaction. She was a beautiful woman, with high cheekbones and dark, almond-shaped eyes. She made a show of glancing at her watch.
“How much longer do I have to sit here?”
“Until we are done talking.” Braun walked around the table and sat down. He set down the bottle of water and leaned back.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet. But some charges may be laid.”
“Like what?”
Braun shrugged. “Depends if you want the list of local crimes or international ones. Aiding the escape of a criminal, for one. That could land you in prison for ten to fifteen years.”
“Aiding? How did I aid?
By making him dinner? Feeding him?”
“How about by withholding information from police?”
“I had no idea about his identity.”
“You don’t expect anyone to believe that you weren’t aware of a tunnel connecting your basement to a storm sewer?”
She didn’t defend herself. She blinked.
“Do you have anything to say about that?”
“You said you wouldn’t believe me.”
“You knew nothing about the tunnel?”
“Nothing.”
“How?”
“Because that was his workshop. I never went there.”
She twisted her purse strap between her fingers. He was getting to her, and she was shutting down. He needed to slow down, bring her around, and make her realize that they were on the same side.
“Do you know why I came here, Mrs. Lovrić?” he said, his voice soft.
“To arrest my husband.”
“That’s not quite true.”
“You could have fooled me.”
Braun gave her a warm, reassuring smile to mask his annoyance. “I’m here to make sure that justice is done. Your husband was discovered serendipitously, and I came to aid in his transfer to The Hague, where he can be tried.”
“And so you can put him away for life.”
“It’s up to the Tribunal to determine if he is guilty or not.”
“Is there any evidence against him?”
Braun nodded.
“Like what?”
“I’m not able to disclose that information here.”
“You don’t have a case against him, do you?”
“We do.” Braun blinked.
“You’re lying.” Sara nodded and gave him a small, knowing smile.
“Are you sure that you’re able to spot a liar, Mrs. Lovrić?” Braun couldn’t restrain his grin.
Her voice shook. “Don’t try to cover up your insecurities by talking down to me.”
“If you’re being truthful and you really had no idea that your husband of nearly a decade was a war criminal wanted for the murder of fourteen people, then I think you have lost all credibility in detecting deception.”
