by Tom Saric
“I’m asking you.”
“I don’t know.”
“The man you want to kill. He knows who was responsible?”
“I think he might. I’ll make him tell me if he knows.”
Braun enjoyed seeing the resignation on criminals’ faces when he arrested them. It made all the chasing and waiting and research and doubt worth it. Now, though, he felt empty. At least Pavić had a lead. The chase wasn’t over yet; it had only taken an unexpected turn.
“How are you going to find him?”
“Excuse me?” Pavić turned his head towards Braun and squinted, trying to make him out. “Who are you?”
Braun knew there was no point in continuing the charade. “Do you know where you can find him?”
“I don’t—” Looking scared, Pavić started to stand.
“Luka, I have a gun, so don’t get up. Listen to what I have to say. I’ve followed you from Winnipeg. I work for the International Criminal Tribunal, and my job is to arrest you. But I’m not going to do that.”
Pavić sat straight, breathing heavily.
“If what you’ve said is true, and right now I believe it is, then whoever is responsible for the killings is still out there. Do you understand?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’ll help you find the people responsible. But there is a condition. When we find them, I arrest them. You will kill no one.”
30
Senator Bart Vance canceled his vacation to Turks and Caicos. He had too much work to do, and he needed to be present and available. Most of his senatorial duties could wait, or at least could be done long distance, but the business in The Hague needed his attention. Clearly, the men he’d wrapped himself up with a decade ago couldn’t tie off a loose end. Now, he’d have to take control.
He stood in the foyer of his two-thousand-square-foot condominium in Georgetown, laced up his Reeboks, and told his wife he’d be back in an hour.
He ran out the door and made his way up the trails along the Potomac River towards East Potomac Park. It was just after sunset, slightly cool and dark. A few park lights showed the way. He upped his speed and checked his pedometer; he was doing a four-minute mile. Not bad for a middle-aged man, he thought.
Nervous energy ran through him, anger at the injustice he was facing. He was a senator, one who was looking for reform. He was there to change Washington, improve Capitol Hill. And now, a few simple indiscretions from his past were threatening to destroy everything.
When he looked back, he knew it was inevitable that any young company had to make some unsavory deals to gain a competitive advantage. And that’s all he had done with NightHawk. Those deals with the Serbs, Croats, and Muslims were the springboard that allowed NightHawk to grow and influence conflicts around the globe. And NightHawk’s interventions helped end the conflict, although he realized that not all would see it that way. But those that didn’t were ignorant of the ways of the world.
NightHawk didn’t even exist anymore. He had left the company, though he still had a minority stake in its derivative, NovaSecurity Solutions. The sins of NightHawk coming back to bite him seemed surreal. Unfair. Yugo was a wasteland full of bloodthirsty psychopaths. Fuck them.
He turned a corner and stopped, catching his breath in front of the park bench where Walter Flaherty sat. He plopped down next to him.
“He got away again, I hear?”
“They detonated one under the hood and got his brother, but he escaped.”
“How did he manage that?”
“Well, Bart, it seems he had some help.” Flaherty half turned away. “Our associates are saying that The Hague agent stopped Pavić from getting in the car.”
“The investigator? I thought you said you had him under control.”
“I said I had the chief prosecutor sorted out. I guess I overestimated the influence she had over him.”
“You sure did, Walt. And now we’ve lost them?”
“Well, Pavlovski has some men looking for them, and we’ve got our boys scouring the area. Local police are looking too, and we’re tuned in to them.”
“Jesus Christ, Walter, this is bad.” Vance stood up and paced in front of the park bench. “This agent… the brief you gave me indicated that he’s top-notch, skilled at tracking people.”
“One of the best I’ve seen.”
“So then that would mean he would know how to elude us.”
“Doesn’t always work like that. Our men have been in his place, installed a key logger on his computer, microphone, the usual.”
“What if he goes mobile? Do you have access to his cell phone?” Vance glared at Flaherty. “Do you know what’s at stake here, Walt? Do you have any idea?”
“Yes, I know that—”
“The presidency, Walt. That’s what’s being thrown around. In five years, they’re saying I might be the guy. If any suggestion of this gets out…”
“We’ll find them. Pavić will never make it to The Hague. I know we don’t want him there.”
“Why not?” Vance said, voice rising.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. The heat on this is high. Pavić is already guilty in the eyes of the press. Maybe we should go with this.”
“But if he gets on the stand, Bart…”
“Not necessarily.” He stopped pacing. Flaherty was starting to understand what he was saying. “Maybe that’s exactly what we want.”
Flaherty smiled. “Get him to do the talking. But how do we do that?”
“We hit him where it hurts.”
31
Bam!
The mandrill let out a shriek and pounced on the chain link enclosure, baring its teeth. Luka spun and reflexively took two steps away from the primate, assuming that the flaring blue-and-red-striped nostrils meant stay away. Braun followed him, and they sat down on a bench sheltered by the thick canopy of Mediterranean pine trees.
They’d decided to climb Marian, the steep, forested hill that rose from the edges of Split’s old town. The public park at the top of the hill was a near-perfect hiding place: public enough that they wouldn’t look like they were hiding but private enough that they could talk undisturbed. It was far enough away from the explosion and large enough in area that the police wouldn’t look there. From their vantage point, they saw flashing blue lights on The Riva, the area cordoned off by investigators.
The tiny zoo at the top of Marian was ideal. The zoo itself was atrocious: three black bears competed for space in an enclosure that looked like a dog kennel; lethargic wolves swayed in their cages, streaks of dried blood smeared on their white coats; donkeys lapped up black water from a puddle on the concrete floor. The place smelled of feces and wet animals. Intermittent sounds of desperate creatures—howling, whimpering, cawing, scratching—beat throughout the zoo.
The baboon-like monkey was the only one with fight left in him. He pounded the chain link, scratching with his claws, biting—a ferocious flurry of brown fur and white teeth. Yellow eyes wild. Determined to be freed.
“Let’s sit down and go over this,” Braun said, sitting ramrod straight on the bench.
Luka considered running; downhill he would be considerably faster than up. He’d assessed the agent on the way up. He was fitter than Luka, wiry, and younger. But he was favoring his right side, possibly an ankle. The injury could make up for the difference in fitness.
Eeeeiahssss! Eeeeiahssss!
The mandrill moved to the far side, where another couple stood. He again attacked the chain link, screeching and eliciting an equally blood-curdling scream from a woman in a red dress.
“We don’t have time to hesitate,” Braun said, looking at his watch. “We need to go through this now, quickly, and plan our next move.”
“I need to know you’re telling the truth,” Luka blurted out. “That you’re not going to arrest me.”
The agent took a moment to digest this. He pushed the bridge of his plastic glasses up the slant of his nose, then turned his head, watching the c
ouple walk past them and around the corner towards the ostrich corral. As soon as they were out of sight, his hand slid underneath his jacket, and he pulled out a Sig Sauer and pointed it squarely at Luka’s chest. He snapped the hammer down with his thumb. Click.
The agent stared at him, dark eyes hiding behind thick lenses. There was something cold and rational in them. Luka could sense the agent’s mind weighing the options. His trigger finger flexed.
Luka’s face tightened.
The agent’s smile grew, then he chuckled. He pulled the gun back and then tossed it to Luka. It spun through the air, and Luka caught it, cradling the live gun in his hands. “You can keep my gun,” the agent said.
Luka examined the pistol to determine how close he’d come to being shot. He could tell from the gun’s weight that the magazine was full. He pulled the slide back, and a bullet popped out and fell onto the ground, spinning to a stop on a puddle on the concrete path.
As Luka opened his mouth to speak, he heard something buzzing on Braun.
“My phone,” Braun said, reaching into his jacket.
Luka cocked the gun, raised it, and pointed it at Braun. The agent flicked his eyes up at the sight of the gun. He lifted his right hand, showing Luka the vibrating smartphone.
“It’s The Hague calling,” Braun said. “They’ve probably heard about the bomb.”
“Someone wants me dead.”
“Obviously.”
“They killed Ante Čapan, too.”
Braun nodded. This was not news to him. He stood up and walked away from the mandrill, Luka striding alongside him.
“Who were you meeting with in the café?” Braun said, glancing out over the horizon.
“Boško Pavlovski.”
Braun nodded immediately, as if he’d heard the name a thousand times. “Officially a clothier, but earns his money trafficking counterfeit cigarettes, hash, and heroin.”
“That’s what I was told.”
“Why were you meeting with him?”
“He knew my brother, and we contacted him. We thought he might be able to identify who was trying to kill me.”
“Did he?”
“He said the assassin in Winnipeg was Dragoslav Gavrić.”
“The dead man?”
Luka unzipped his hip sack and pulled out a squished box of Marlboros, lighting one and inhaling deeply.
“Your file says you don’t smoke.”
Luka shrugged. “People change.”
“Why did Pavlovski want to kill you?”
Luka flicked some ash off the cigarette. “Same reason Dragoslav Gavrić came to my home. Same reason Ante Čapan was shot.”
“But what is that reason?”
“Nisko.”
“How do you know that?”
“Dragoslav identified me as Luka. Ante Čapan and I are only connected by what happened in Nisko.”
“It’s also linked by you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dragoslav came to your home. But then you escaped, assumed it was related to Nisko, and found Ante Čapan.”
“You’re saying …”
“Someone’s been following you. Maybe they were after the reward.”
Luka shook his head. “A group of people. An organization. But it all comes from Nisko.”
“How do you know that?”
Luka pulled up his sleeve and pointed at the inside of his forearm. “Dragoslav had a tattoo above his wrist. So did the assassin in Nisko. It was the head of a—”
“A tiger.”
“How did you know that?”
“Lucky guess.”
“I think they need me dead, and they need people to think I was guilty of what happened in Nisko. Now that they’ve smoked me out, they figure this is their best chance, while I’m on the run.”
Braun shook his head. “Unlikely. The White Tigers disbanded a decade ago. Most of them retreated to Serbia or Bulgaria. Some of them still work contracts.”
“Well, then, someone hired them. Boško would know.”
“He’ll be on high alert. We’ll never get to him.”
“He’s my only lead.”
“Not necessarily. Do you have a clean passport?”
“Yes. Why?”
“We’re going to drive to Bosnia. Republika Srpska.”
32
Republika Srpska, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Each passing kilometer was a kilometer deeper into Republika Srpska than Luka had ever been. Deeper than he’d ever wanted to be. Over a decade later, reminders of the war lingered, buildings pockmarked from artillery shells and machine gun fire. Every fifty kilometers or so along the highway, signs warning of minefields stood in front of burned homes, their crumbled insides spilling out of empty window frames.
Watching the scenes from the passenger seat of Braun’s Alpha Romeo as they whizzed along the freshly paved highway made it feel like they were floating, dreamlike. Braun had connected his iPod, and orchestral music enveloped them. Trumpets and trombones blared from the rear speakers, rolling drums pounded on the driver’s side, high-pitched flutes whistled from somewhere in the ceiling, and the warm murmur of strings came from all angles.
Braun barely spoke, seeming lost in his own thoughts. He broke from his trance only two times, once to tell Luka not to smoke in the car, and again to tell him their destination: Banja Luka.
The silence gave Luka six hours to think. He divided his time between convincing himself that he could indeed trust Braun and, flowing from that, that Braun actually trusted him. Without mutual trust, their agreement could go nowhere.
Why had this agent agreed to help Luka, cut off communications with his superiors, and used his credentials with The Hague to get them through border crossings into Herzegovina and then across a checkpoint to Republika Sprska? Why cross the line to accomplice when a clear alternative presented itself? He could have cuffed Luka, shipped him off to The Hague, and let the courts deal with the mess. Instead he was here, next to Luka, driving across no-man’s land to meet a man who might know who was hunting Luka.
At 1:00 p.m., Braun took the turn-off for the Autobusni Kolodvor—bus station—in Banja Luka.
“Bus station?” Luka said. “Why would we drive all this way—”
“How long do you think it would take for someone in Republika Srpska to recognize that I’m not a local?”
Luka shrugged, not acknowledging that Braun’s tailored suit, plastic framed glasses, and glinting wristwatch were more fitting for a Paris bistro than a rundown Balkan bus station.
“Not very long at all. We take precautions. As you’ve seen, we can’t be too careful.”
“Where will we meet him?”
“He will get on the bus at Bočac, we will speak, and then he will get off.”
“Who is he?” Luka said. “I need to know.”
Braun turned to him. “Someone with knowledge of the White Tigers.”
“An informant?”
Braun turned towards the road but said nothing. His cheeks began to flush.
He was ashamed, Luka realized. He shut the radio off. He should have asked earlier. “This man is a White Tiger?”
Braun’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. His eyes darted between the road and the rearview mirror. He took a deep breath in and offered, “Was.”
Suddenly, Luka got it: the informant was a White Tiger who had testified against his superiors, probably to get immunity. Free, in spite of all the murders he had surely committed. And now, Luka was going to him, to ask for—no, to beg for—information. Luka’s neck felt hot. No. There were limits. “Once a White Tiger, always a White Tiger. Turn around.”
Braun kept driving. He made another turn towards the bus station.
“Harboring a murderer.” Luka stared at Braun, his voice steady. “The White Tigers were the most brutal killers in a region full of atrocities. They were the most evil in a land plagued by evil.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Let me ask you, M
r. Braun, how many people did he torture? But you’ve cut him some sort of deal. You’re his accomplice. And you expect me to trust him. How many people?” Luka leaned in and whispered, “How many children?”
Braun slammed on the brakes, and Luka’s shoulder hit the dashboard. “I had no choice,” he said. “I had to go for the big fish. I’m not proud of it, but he gave me Banović. So, yes, I had to protect him. But his day will come, and I will find a way to hold him accountable. But I had to get Banović first.”
Luka wondered about that. A murderer for a bigger murderer. Would he have made the trade?
“And he will be able to tell us who Gavrić was working for. So you will also have to make a compromise. You can kill this man if you want, or you can use the information he will give you to save yourself, maybe see your family again. I’ll let you make that choice.”
33
The bus stopped at Bočac and the door hissed open. From the back of the nearly empty bus, Luka watched the man board.
It could only be him—the informant, the White Tiger. He took careful steps up the aisle, six inches at a time, leading with a gnarled wooden cane. In his other hand he held a yellowed cloth, which he swept across his liver-spotted head. Halfway down the bus, he stopped and brought the cloth to his mouth, coughing violently. His Šajkača, a traditional Serbian canvas cap, nearly slipped off his head.
The man paused, squinted, and lowered himself into the seat in front of Luka and Braun.
He looked straight ahead. The bus started rolling.
“You brought company.”
A deep voice from such a feeble man.
“Is that a problem?” Braun said.
“Shouldn’t you be taking that murderer to The Hague?” He half turned towards Luka, his face now contorted into a smirk. “You’re all over the news.”
“Nenad, listen,” Braun said. “More information has come up, and we need your help.”
“I heard Banović is slipping away from you.”
“His trial isn’t over yet.”
