Indicted

by Tom Saric

  “FedEx?” he said to Luka’s back.

  Luka turned around. “Excuse me?”

  “Are you the delivery man? Someone downstairs has a package for me.”

  Luka turned his palms up to show he was empty-handed. “I have an appointment upstairs.”

  Toni looked both ways down the hall, muttered something to himself, and slammed the door shut.

  Luka saw a nameplate for Glas next to the adjacent suite’s door. He stood in front of it and knocked. No answer. He pressed the handle, but it was locked.

  He crouched and examined the lock; it was a simple handle lock. Strange, Luka thought, that Marić would have such lax security. Luka knew that fact alone drastically reduced the chance he would find anything incriminating on the other side of the door. But still.

  Luka knelt at the door, unzipping his hip sack and pulling out a small pouch that held a pair of tweezers and pack of bobby pins that he had purchased at a pharmacy in Skradin.

  He looked down the hallway until he was satisfied that he was alone. During his military service, he’d trained himself to pick a lock like this in under a minute. But it had been a while.

  He flattened the bobby pin and inserted it into the lock. Locks like this usually had four or five pins that ran through the keyhole, which, when lifted the appropriate amount by a key, released the lock and allowed it to be turned.

  The first pin was straightforward. As soon as he lifted the lock pin up, he grabbed it with the tweezers and twisted counter-clockwise to keep the pin wedged open. The next two lock pins were just as simple. The tension in his fingers vibrated all the way to his elbow, but if he let go he would have to start over.

  He lifted the fourth pin. A door slammed upstairs, and he heard footsteps. With four pins now up, the door still wouldn’t open, meaning it was a five-pin lock. Luka closed his eyes and grunted, feeling around desperately for the fifth pin. He felt the edge of the bobby pin scrape past it twice. His hands shook.

  The footsteps hit the landing, and a man in a suit rounded the staircase. He hadn’t yet noticed Luka. The bobby pin caught the fifth lock pin, and just as the man looked over, the tweezers turned completely, unlocking the door. Luka waved to the man and entered.

  He shut the door quietly behind him. In the middle of the suite was a round desk holding four large-screen Macintosh computers. File cabinets stood between the windows. Names, dates, and phone numbers were scrawled on a couple of whiteboards, and photos of men in suits were taped to them. Luka recognized a few of them as Croatian and Bosnian politicians. Marić had drawn lines between the photos, indicating some sort of relationship between the men. Another conspiracy theory, Luka thought.

  Luka walked to each computer and touched the mouse. On each, a window immediately popped up requesting a username and password. He rifled through the papers on the desk, rough drafts of articles—“The Real Reason the Government Wants the EU,” “Missing Person or Deceased Person?” and “Corruption in the Ministry of the Interior”—heavily marked in red pen.

  He pulled the handles on the file cabinets, but they were locked. When he tried to rock them, they wouldn’t budge; they were packed full.

  Luka grabbed a letter opener off the desk, inserted the pin into the file cabinet lock, and got to work. As the second lock pin released, he heard the front door click open.

  He looked up and saw the gun on him. A lanky man wearing a tracksuit a size too big stood unflinchingly with his hand outstretched. Hands up, Luka rose. Another man walked out from behind the first, and Luka instantly recognized him from the pictures on the Internet. Zlatko Marić: shaved head, black jeans and dress shirt, round orange plastic frame glasses.

  “If you’re the police, I hope you have a warrant. If you’re not, you have some explaining to do.”

  Luka stepped away from the cabinet, keeping his hands up. He swallowed, wondering how long he had been in the apartment. The clock wall read 12:12, so less than ten minutes.

  “It’s a silent alarm,” Marić said, deadpan, and pointed to a small white sensor the size of a matchbox above the door. He held up his Blackberry. “It notifies me immediately.”

  Marić motioned to the man in the tracksuit, who frisked Luka, then unbuckled his hip sack and passed it to Marić. He unzipped it, pulling out Luka’s remaining passport, and rifled through it.

  “Issued almost a decade ago. Mladen Šimić. Is this a forgery?”

  Marić held the passport up beside his head, smirking as though he expected Luka to confess. Marić appeared calm, in control, with one exception. He blinked hard, four times, all of his facial muscles tightening as he did so: a nervous tic.

  And Luka, who had started off compromised, realized he had a bargaining chip: information.

  “It’s fake,” he said. “As you know.”

  “So who are you?”

  “I’m here for something that I believe you have. I think you will tell me that you don’t have it, but that will be a lie.”

  “Try me.”

  “The list of veterans from the War of Independence.”

  “Don’t know anything about it,” Marić said, too quickly.

  “Of course not. But I have information that would make a very good story. One that I’m sure you would like to report on.”

  Marić rolled his eyes and blinked twice. Hard.

  “In exchange for the list.”

  “I have no list.”

  Luka had no credibility with Marić. He would have to offer a teaser and raise the blogger’s hopes of more secrets to come.

  “You heard about the dead monk?”

  Marić nodded, puzzled, and pointed at the folded newspaper on the table. The front page had a picture of four police cars on the shores of Lake Visovac.

  “He’s not a monk.”

  Marić cocked his head to the side, blinked three more times. He lowered himself into the chair and picked up the newspaper, unfolding it.

  “Who is he?”

  “Ante Čapan.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A man who has been wanted by The Hague since ’98. For genocide. He’s been living in the monastery, in hiding.”

  Marić looked up from the newspaper. “You can prove this?”

  Luka shook his head. “Write the story. If you don’t, in a few days he’ll be identified as Ante Čapan and you’ll miss out on breaking the news.”

  “How do I know—” Marić stopped. Something in the story caught his eye, and he slowly looked up. He pointed at Luka’s picture in the article. “Ilija Srna.”

  “I didn’t kill Čapan.”

  Immediately the tracksuit picked up the telephone and started dialing.

  “Who are you calling?” Luka said.

  “Police.” He shrugged.

  Luka looked at Marić pleadingly. “I have more I can tell you, far more. This is the tip of the iceberg.”

  Marić stared at Luka, gears turning. The tracksuit’s fingers hovered over the keypad as he waited to see what Marić would say. He blinked again, then said, “Hang up.” To Luka: “I have police listening to my calls, tracking my Internet, and watching my front door, just waiting for me to slip up. They want me in jail because I threaten them. I show people what they really do, what they’re really like. And the only way I can do that is by staying clean myself.” Marić blinked uncontrollably. “And now you come in here, a man wanted in a murder investigation? Get out of here, now.”

  Luka stood, frozen.

  “Get out of here or he’ll shoot you.”

  Luka picked up his hip sack and passport, then walked past Marić.

  “We should call the police,” the man in the tracksuit said. “He broke in.”

  “I don’t want the police in here, going through our things.”

  And there Luka had it. Somewhere in those filing cabinets or computers was the list Čapan claimed held the key. He turned around.

  “I came for a list you don’t have. You’re right—my name is not Mladen Šimić. I am Luka Pavi
ć, former sergeant in the Croatian Army. I was indicted by the War Crimes Tribunal in 1998 for a crime I did not commit. I was living in Canada until an assassin came to my home, and I’m here to find out why. I learned Ante Čapan was on Visovac, and I was with him when a sniper killed him and then tried to kill me.”

  Marić stared. No blinking.

  “That should be enough for one story. Get me that list and I’ll tell you everything I know.” On the whiteboard, he wrote down the name of the bed and breakfast where he was staying.

  With that, Luka walked out.

  23

  Luka spent a restless night in the bed and breakfast, lying on a cot with hard springs and listening to a heater that clicked incessantly. Every time his eyelids met, another sound jarred him awake, and the paranoia continued: he’d be tracked down again, or Marić would decide, in the interest of self-preservation, that he should notify police that Luka Pavić had broken into his office. The night crawled by, and Luka burned through two packs of cigarettes before sunrise.

  He showered, left eighty kuna on the nightstand, and walked up and down the empty streets of Zadar until 7:00 a.m., when a kiosk opened and he could buy another pack of Marlboros.

  He lit one, walked to the main square, and sat at an outdoor café table underneath a red parasol. A man and woman wearing stylish beige suits sat two tables over, reading the newspaper, drinking coffee. A cool breeze blew off the Adriatic, sending napkins fluttering off the table.

  A waiter with tattooed forearms placed an ashtray on the table, and Luka ordered a coffee with cream. When the waiter left, he flagged down a paperboy and purchased a copy of Jutarnji List. He flattened the paper on the table, and a wave of hope ran through him as he read the headline.

  “Slain Monk Was Accused War Criminal Ante Čapan”

  Glas is reporting that the monk found shot on Visovac Island was Ante Čapan, a fugitive wanted for war crimes of genocide related to the War of Independence. Glas further alleges that Luka Pavić, another fugitive indictee, who is also wanted in association with a murder in Canada last week, was present when Čapan was shot. A spokesman for Glas would not identify the source of this story, stating that they have a “credible but anonymous source.” As of press time, police have declined to comment.

  Another waiter returned, an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard and an earring in each ear. He placed a napkin down on the table and then set the saucer and coffee on top. Luka offered him ten kuna, but the waiter waved his hand and walked away.

  Luka lifted the saucer, brought the cup to his lips, and sipped. A gust of wind sent the napkin flying off the table, but Luka ignored it. His eye was instead drawn to an envelope the waiter must have placed beneath it.

  He glanced over his shoulder but only saw the young waiter who had taken his order. Luka picked up the envelope and looked inside. It contained an unlabeled compact disc.

  Standing up, he downed the rest of his coffee, burning his tongue, then put the CD in his jacket pocket. He walked up Wide Street, underneath the windows of Glas, without looking up, feeling sick with exhilaration. He was only vaguely aware of his feet touching the ground; instead, he was completely focused on what he would find on the disc. Marić had come through.

  He found an Internet café in the basement of a building, below a closed gelato store. Luka walked in, paid for an hour’s worth of computer time, and sat as far as he could from the front desk.

  He inserted the CD and waited for the menu to pop up.

  The disc contained two files. Luka opened the first, a Word document named tolp.doc.

  This is it. I trust you will hold up your end.

  Luka closed the first file and opened the second, a seven-megabyte PDF document with 836 pages of names and birthdates written in small font. The header: Homeland War Veterans Register.

  The names had no discernible order and seemed to have been put together haphazardly.

  Using the search function, he typed “Čapan,” and seventeen names were found. The third listing: Čapan, Ante, 1975-08-12. Another Ante Čapan was listed, but the birth year was 1965. Too old.

  Luka then tried one of the names that Čapan had mentioned, Filip Nemet, but the search turned up nothing. Saša Tadić was listed twice. Could this be the same man? A wave of cold washed over him at the thought that one of the dead men had been in the Croatian Army. If so, the charges of genocide were—

  But it could just as easily be an error, or another person. So Luka searched for Bojan Radović. One entry. Radović, Bojan, 1959-10-22.

  Luka did the calculation in his head. Radović had died at age thirty-three.

  Two of the three men were listed as serving in the Croatian Army. How could that be, when The Hague identified them as Serbian civilians?

  Luka sighed, realizing that all of these connections were likely wishful thinking. The list was discredited, not because the government didn’t want it to be real, but because it wasn’t real. That explained the list’s lack of order: it had been slapped together by a man with an axe to grind.

  He typed in his own name to see if he was listed. Sixteen entries for Pavić came up. He scrolled through each, looking for his name as the cursor jumped through the entries. But he never got to his name, because he stopped on a man he knew had not served his country. A man who had betrayed his people, his family, and fought against them. A man who had deceived Luka.

  Pavić, Nikola, 1965-04-14

  His brother.

  24

  Bulić, Croatia

  An organ droned and church bells rang. People dressed in black filed out of the church, their faces solemn. Older women wiped their eyes with handkerchiefs. A few clustered in small groups outside, shaking hands and exchanging condolences over the death of Ante Čapan. Others got in their cars and rolled away.

  Braun watched the church door, leaning on the hood of his car, holding the most recent photo of Pero Čapan he was able to find. He wore sunglasses to avoid eye contact with anyone. When the passing mourners looked at him for more than a moment, he nodded acknowledgment, which was enough to keep them walking.

  The flow of people from the church doors slowed to a trickle. Pero Čapan still hadn’t exited, and there was only one way out. After another two minutes passed, Braun decided to look inside.

  He took a deep breath and walked up the stairs to the church entrance, then pushed past the elaborately carved wood door into the atrium. Red, blue, and yellow light beamed through stained glass windows at the front of the church. He walked into the nave and stood at the end of the center aisle. Rows of pews led to the altar, above which hung a massive crucifix. Candles flickered to the right, at the feet of a Virgin Mary statue.

  He heard a low mumble and saw a figure kneeling in the front pew. Recognizing the man as Pero Čapan, Braun walked towards him, conscious of his feet clicking against the floor. Pero held a rosary between his fingers, thumbs working their way through the beads, praying desperately for a soul beyond help.

  Braun waited a moment, then cleared his throat. Pero turned his head and stared blankly, without any hint of emotion. In the light, Braun could see old bruises along the man’s face and an eye half-closed from swelling. He waited another moment, but when Pero turned back towards the altar, Braun stood in front of him.

  He flipped open his badge. “Mr. Pero Čapan, my name is Robert Braun, investigator for the War Crimes Tribunal.”

  Pero flashed a defeated smile. “You’re too late, my friend. Someone beat you to him.” The old man made a choking sound, holding back tears. “I wish you had come first.”

  “So do I.”

  Braun slid into the pew next to the old man.

  “I’ve never prayed so hard in my life,” Pero said.

  “Is there anything left to pray for?”

  The old man smiled a bit and looked at Braun. “You came, didn’t you? I guess I just started praying too late.”

  “Sir, I’m here as part of a different investigation. I was not looking for your son, a
nd I am not investigating your son’s death. I’m looking for information.”

  “My son was no murderer, if that’s what you think.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “He was a good boy.”

  Braun didn’t say a word.

  “I keep begging God for forgiveness. Who would give their son up to slaughter?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I led him right to my son. I might as well have put the gun in his hand.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “My son’s killer.”

  “Did he do this to you?” Braun motioned to Pero’s bruises.

  He shook his head. “He came later. He made me believe him. He told me they were innocent, that they were set up. That he needed to talk to Ante to clear their names. I just had so much hope. I’d been hiding him for ten years. Ten years. I just wanted to believe him so I could bring my son home.”

  “Luka Pavić came here?”

  “Two days ago.” Pero nodded.

  “And you told him where Ante was.”

  “And he shot him. I know it.”

  “Why would he kill Ante?”

  “Ante always told me they were innocent. He said he had to go into hiding to avoid you people. But now I realize he was hiding from the man he could finger.” Pero squeezed his eyes closed. “And I gave Ante up.”

  “So then Pavić went to Visovac.”

  He nodded. “I thought my prayers were answered. My son’s name would be cleared. But now I prayed for you to come here. Someone that would put a bullet in Pavić’s head. For Ante.”

  “Where is Pavić now?”

  “I don’t know. Hiding like a coward in a hole. A traitor like his whole family.”

  “What family?”

  “His brother fought for the Yugoslavs against his own people. Now he lives on an island in peace.” Pero shuddered as he spoke. “My son had to die like an old dog.”