by Mike Maden
Emir ignored the insulting lack of courtesy and bit his tongue, knowing his passengers were paying close attention now that they were about to cross the border. He assured them it was a quick and painless process that involved little more than waving them through or, at most, stamping their passport pages and driving on.
This was a little-traveled crossing, especially at this time of night, and Emir had done it a hundred times if he’d done it once. More important, he knew the customs officer stationed here on this shift very well, and the man was on the organization’s payroll. He was a good Muslim brother as well. No worries.
But Emir was a cautious man and thumped across the bridge a few kilometers slower than the speed limit permitted, then pulled to an easy stop in front of the barrier arm, which, to his surprise, was in the down position.
What surprised him even more was the customs officer who approached his van. He didn’t recognize the pinched, officious face or the crisp uniform. The fact he was carrying a clipboard was worrisome as well.
“Passports.”
“Is there a problem, sir?”
The man glanced at the rear passenger window. “How many passengers?”
“Six tourists, and myself. Is there a problem?”
“Not if you hand me your passports for scanning.”
“Normally, we just get stamped.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”
“Sorry, my mistake. Just give me a moment.”
Emir turned around in his seat and the six passengers passed their passports forward, two sleepy American teenagers in the near bench, two Germans behind them, and two nervous Greeks in the back, a hard-sided Pelican case wedged between them.
While Emir was gathering passports, the customs agent circled the van, casting an inspector’s eye on the vehicle and scratching notes on his clipboard. He circled back around a few moments later, greeted by Emir’s forced, impatient smile.
“Passports,” the man repeated.
Emir handed the stack of them over.
“I need to scan these. It will take a few minutes.”
Emir swallowed his panic. The two Greek passports were good enough for the lax border controls he frequented in the region, but they almost certainly wouldn’t pass a computer check. He had to do something.
“Sir, I noticed you were making notes about my van.”
“Oh, yes. That. I found several problems. Your left headlight isn’t properly aligned, and your right rear tire is nearly bald, a clear safety violation.” He referred back to his clipboard. “I’m tempted to impound your van for violation of the commercial vehicle standards.”
“You must be kidding,” Emir blurted out. The man had spoken enough to reveal he was a Serb, probably from Pale, judging by the accent. It angered him. At least the two of them were speaking in Bosanski, the Serbo-Croatian language spoken throughout the region. Otherwise his passengers might have become alarmed, especially the two Greeks, and he couldn’t be sure what they might do next.
“I think I’m going to issue you a personal citation as well. Two months of driver education, and a citation for careless operation of a commercial vehicle.”
“That’s a four-hundred-mark fine.” About two hundred euros, Emir quickly calculated. A lot of money.
“So you do know the law?” The Serb officer allowed himself a grin.
Emir reached for his wallet. “Of course, I understand. But you know, I’ve been on the road for the last three days and I haven’t had a chance to inspect the vehicle.”
Emir knew that cops in this part of the world were grossly underpaid, and like almost everybody else in Bosnia, his salary probably couldn’t keep up with the rising cost of living. So cops like him found other sources of income, including shaking down drivers desperate to be somewhere else. Corruption was corroding everything in Bosnia these days. It was more than annoying, but it was the cost of doing business. Soon that would change, Emir reminded himself. And he would remember this man when it did.
Emir pulled out a neatly folded wad of two hundred Bosnian convertible marks, the local currency. “I’ll be sure to take care of all of those things as soon as I get back to Sarajevo.” He slipped the folded cash to the officer. The Serb took the money without even looking at it and pocketed it while still staring at his clipboard. “Well, yes, I understand how it is. I’m not a harsh man. Just trying to keep the law, yes?” He glanced up at Emir.
“Yes, of course,” Emir said, offering a smile. “It’s very late. Perhaps we can leave now?”
The border policeman frowned. “Not just yet. I must first scan these passports.” He pointed toward a cinder-block building behind him and the door marked “WC.”
“There is a public restroom if your passengers have the need. I’ll be right back.”
The Serb turned on his heel and headed for his tiny tollbooth with the large glass window. He wasn’t in any hurry, making a big show of taking his time, Emir noticed.
Bastard.
As soon as the Serb had turned his back, Emir snatched up his phone and hit the speed dial.
“What’s the problem?” asked one of the two Greeks sitting in the back. The Syrian’s English was good, better than the Chechen’s.
“No problem,” Emir said, lying. Walib’s nerves were frayed. Emir couldn’t blame him after the harrowing week the two defectors had spent crammed into the backs of trucks and the trunks of cars crossing borders from Turkey to here, with rumors of Russian Spetsnaz in hot pursuit. It would be fatal to both men if the SVR—the Russian version of the CIA—were somehow alerted to their location tonight. Worse, the mission would fail, especially without the Syrian missile officer.
Emir watched the Serb slow-walking toward the booth, flipping through the passports as he went. No one was picking up on the other end of Emir’s call.
Emir touched his waistband, feeling for the small-caliber pistol he kept in a banded polyester holster. Killing the Serb wasn’t the best option. But letting the Serb scan the passports into the Interpol I-24/7 database clearly wasn’t an option at all.
And failing this mission was impossible.
“I’ll be right back.” Emir climbed out of the van and headed for the tollbooth, trying to decide what he would do with the Americans and Germans after he killed the Serb, but three steps from his van his eye caught sight of a pair of speeding high beams curving in a violent arc onto the far side of the trestle bridge.
The bouncing high beams also caught the Serb’s eye from behind the glass, causing him to glance up as he prepared to scan the first German passport.
The four-door Fiat sedan skidded to a halt on the asphalt in front of the customs booth. A bald man dressed in shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops jumped out, not even bothering to shut off the engine. He jogged over to the door of the booth and rattled the locked handle until the aggravated Serb reluctantly stood and opened it.
Emir suddenly recognized the other man as the border agent who should have been there in the first place. Emir approached the booth cautiously, uncertain as to what was unfolding in the blur of wildly gesticulating hands and muffled voices shouting behind the glass. By the time he arrived at the front of the booth the voices had lowered and the gestures were calmer. Emir relaxed a little. This was the time-honored ritual of negotiation, Bosnian style.
The Serb officer shrugged hugely and the Bosniak’s head waved back and forth for emphasis. The Serb glanced at the ceiling and the Bosniak checked his watch. The Serb took his seat and lit a cigarette from the pack on his desk, clouding the cramped booth with blue smoke on the first exhale. Then he slid the lighter and pack across the desk and the Bosniak snagged one for himself and lit up as well, signaling the end of the negotiation.
The Bosniak came out of the booth with a wide smile plastered across his unshaven face, the cigarette dangling from his lips and the stack of passports in h
is hand.
“Emir, it’s good to see you.”
Emir smiled but lowered his voice. “Where the hell were you?”
The Bosniak’s smile disappeared. He tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his flip-flop.
“My brother, I’m sorry. They changed my shift. I called you. Didn’t you get my message?” He handed Emir the passports.
“For your wife’s sake, I hope you fuck better than you lie.”
The border officer quailed. He’d never known Emir to swear or to speak in any vulgar terms.
“I failed, obviously. But I have solved everything. See?” He pointed to the passports in Emir’s hands. “No scans.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course.”
Emir stepped even closer. “As sure as your life?”
The Bosniak nodded. “Yes, I’m certain. He has no reason to lie. But unfortunately, it will cost you five hundred euros, cash. Now.”
Emir glanced over at the tollbooth. The Serb looked up just at that moment, a thin smile creasing his narrow face. Emir nodded his unsmiling thanks and silently cursed the incredible greed of the Orthodox thief. He reached again for his wallet. All he had on hand was two hundred and forty euros in bills. He handed it to the Bosniak.
“Brother, this won’t do.”
“It’s all I have.”
“But I made him a deal. He says his mother needs a surgery.” The claim was not unreasonable, Emir knew. Health care was free but of poor quality in Bosnia. The best medical services were privately provided, and expensive.
“If you don’t pay him, he’ll call those passports in and report you.” The Bosniak lowered his voice for effect. “I know this man. He’s not kidding.”
Emir smiled. “I’m not kidding, either. That’s all I have right now. You’ll have to make up the difference.”
The Bosniak pointed at his empty pockets. “I don’t have any money with me—”
Emir’s eyes burned like smoldering coals, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
The Bosniak swallowed hard. “No worries. I’ll take care of it, Emir. I swear.”
For a moment, Emir considered killing this fool and the Serb with the pistol in his waistband, but his rage cooled.
“Yes, you will. We’re leaving now.”
The Bosniak nodded. “Please tell our friend how sorry I am to have failed tonight. It won’t happen again.”
Emir’s eyes softened. He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I know it won’t. Thanks for showing up when we needed you.”
The man sighed audibly. “Of course. Safe travels, brother.”
Emir jogged back to the van, fired up the engine, and handed the passports back before driving away. Everything is fine now, he told himself, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the mission had nearly been compromised by that lazy idiot. Half of the money he handed over tonight would probably wind up in the Bosniak’s pocket as well.
And the Serb? Who can trust a Serb to keep his mouth shut?
Emir picked up his phone again and hit the speed-dial number of a true brother he trusted completely. The man was local, and talented. Emir whispered in Bosnian and in code, though the tourists weren’t paying any attention to him. By this time tomorrow, the Serb would be dead without suspicion in a car accident or a drowning.
The Bosniak would die within the week, but only after Emir found a suitable replacement.
15
KOBARID, SLOVENIA
Jack shifted uncomfortably in his creaking wooden chair, an empty styrofoam cup in front of him. More than anything, he needed to pee. But he was hoping the interrogation would be over in a few minutes and he didn’t want to leave the room.
Detective Valter Oblak pushed through the door and sat down across the battered steel conference table from Jack with his notepad and pen in hand. He had a carefully groomed three-day growth of beard on his lined face and his close-cropped hair was tinged with gray. In jeans and an athletic shirt, he looked more like a coach than a cop. He opened up his notebook again and reviewed it.
“Just one more time, Mr. Ryan, if I may—”
“Sure.”
“And you said here . . . you twisted at the very last second before the knife could strike you, ja? Very lucky.”
“Yes, I said that before. About five times.” Jack couldn’t tell the man that hundreds of hours of training in close-quarters combat (CQC) had honed his senses to a fine edge. He wasn’t even conscious of making the decision to twist out of the way. It was purely reflex.
Oblak looked up. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to get the details right.”
Jack knew from his own training in interrogation that the detective was just trying to catch him in a lie.
“I understand. Sorry if I sound impatient. I’m a little stressed.”
Oblak set his pen down and leaned back with a sigh. “Well, there is one more thing. I just received a phone call from headquarters. The woman who you said attacked you? She’s filing charges against you for assault, attempted rape, and attempted murder first thing tomorrow morning.”
Jack’s eyes bulged. “What?”
“She says that you attacked her with the intent of raping and killing her, and that she only tried to defend herself with the knife.”
“That’s bullshit. Like I said, she tried to stab me with that knife, which was hers. My prints aren’t even on it. All I did was defend myself.”
The detective checked his notes, shaking his head. “Breaking her jaw, wrist, and forearm in the process of ‘defending’ yourself.” He looked at Jack. “You’re a big, strong guy. Was that kind of force really necessary?”
“It was an instant reaction. I wasn’t really thinking.” Which was true, Jack thought. It was all adrenaline and muscle memory at that point. Fortunately, he’d calmed down enough while she was still knocked out to grab retina and fingerprint shots with his smartphone and get them to Gavin Biery, Hendley Associates’ IT director.
“Lucky for her you didn’t kill her, then.”
“I never intended to. How can she claim I wanted to kill her if I didn’t do it after I knocked her out?”
“And you claim it was she who was trying to seduce you before trying to kill you. But why would she behave in such a manner?”
“How the hell should I know? Check her Tinder profile.” Jack instantly regretted the snarky comment, but he was exhausted and still highly apprehensive. He was beginning to regret his decision to not have his lawyer present.
Oblak’s eyes narrowed. “We take sexual assault and violence against women extremely seriously in my country, Mr. Ryan.”
“Not more than I do, Mr. Oblak. I was raised by a strong woman and a father who taught me to respect them.”
Jack cast his gaze down at the worn blue indoor-outdoor carpet of the tiny conference room. Good old Gerry Hendley. He was the first person Jack called after he knocked the woman out. In his honey-baked Carolinian drawl, Gerry promised to take care of things on his end and not to worry, but he warned Jack not to touch anything, which turned out to be damned good advice. He further advised Jack not to say anything to anybody, but that if he did, to just tell the truth. Also good advice.
“I appreciate that, Detective, and I hope you appreciate the fact I didn’t require my very nervous lawyer to be present in this room even though she’s pacing downstairs in the lobby. I’ve cooperated fully and answered all of your questions over her objections.”
Oblak’s eyes softened a little. “Yes, I do appreciate it, and your cooperation has been duly noted.”
Jack leaned forward. “Do you really believe her accusations against me?”
Oblak set his pen down again. “Frankly, no. But I hope you understand my situation. Once she claimed you attacked her, the nature of the case changed entirely. She is presumed under the law to be
telling the truth.”
“In other words, I’m guilty until proven innocent.”
“In effect, yes. You should also know she has contacted her attorney and has asked for police protection. She says she’s afraid for her life.”
“She’s bluffing. If I wanted to rape and kill her in a secluded area, why in hell didn’t I rape and kill her in the secluded area instead of calling the police?”
Oblak shrugged. “I don’t disagree. In fact, her attorney has already communicated with my office and made an unofficial offer. Ms. Iliescu would be willing to drop her charges against you if you decided to not press charges against her.”
“So that’s her play.”
“But her attorney claims that while her client is so traumatized that she would prefer not to press charges, she will do so if forced by circumstances.”
“Unbelievable.” Jack drummed his fingers on the table. “So, is there a chance I’m actually going to be arrested?”
“It’s according to my discretion at this point.”
“And how are you leaning?”
Oblak frowned. “Frankly, there are too many holes in her story that don’t add up, including the most obvious one that you’ve pointed out. Why call the police if you intended to commit a crime?”
“So I’m free to go?”
“Of course, but please be advised that the state prosecutor may decide she has a case against you, and you might be subject to arrest in the future.”
“How can that be?”
Oblak shrugged. “We have politicians just like you do in the States. If the prosecutor thinks the trial makes good publicity for her office, she might be tempted to do it, even if the case lacks merit.”
Jack shook his head. “When will that happen?”
“Who knows? Could be tomorrow. Perhaps never.”
“Humor me. If I were to be arrested and charged tomorrow, how long would it take to go to trial?”
