by Thomas Ryan
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR
‘Ryan is a freaking good storyteller. What a brain!’
— Ron Davis, author of Disadvantage Line
‘A ripping good yarn, well told.’
— Capt. Martin Knight-Willis MC Rtd. Formerly New Zealand SAS and Rhodesian SAS
‘Ryan is that rare breed of thriller writer, a craftsman and an artist.’
— Lee Jackson, author of Redemption
ALSO BY THOMAS RYAN
Short Stories
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2015 by Thomas Ryan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
www.apub.com
ISBN-13: 9781477830093
ISBN-10: 147783009X
Cover design by bürosüdo München, www.buerosued.de
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014958627
For Meg,
my muse,
my friend,
my perfect wife,
with all my love.
CONTENTS
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
40.
41.
42.
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
48.
49.
50.
51.
52.
53.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1.
Arben Shala. Get your passport out of that hotel. Get the hell out of Kosovo.
The imperatives flashed in Arben’s mind like neon signs.
But he knew the more immediate threat might well be hypothermia. Released from the detention centre without gloves or hat, he asked to be driven to his hotel. The police had laughed. Their response: leave or go back to the cell. His choice: ankle deep snow or another night in prison. The snow won.
Arben’s arms rose to beat at his chest. But this threw him off balance. Precious strength went to save his stocky frame from crashing to the icy boulevard. Steaming billows of breath disappeared into the night in rapid succession. He knew he must resemble an arthritis-ridden old man. Would he be attracting unwelcome attention? Stinging eyes cast side to side for evidence of it. None.
A screech above his head.
Arben stumbled. His heart thumped like a hammer.
More screeching.
The crows had arrived. He’d seen them at the end of each day when temperatures plummeted. They swooped across the Prishtina rooftops like a black cloud, settling on sagging power lines, television aerials and the fractured clay guttering that edged dilapidated apartment buildings. Silhouetted against a darkening sky, they would perch, watching the activities below like an army massing for an attack.
Out of the dusk emerged the bronze statue of Mother Teresa. Arben’s hand reached to find the solidity of its base. He stopped there, chest heaving. A fit of coughing half-doubled him. He wiped his mouth. Icicles forming in days-old stubble fell away in his fingers.
An unsteady step forward. Then another. His eyes encountered those of two women entering a nearby shop. He noted the frown lines. Lifting a hand, he gestured he was okay. They hesitated. The one closest to the door said something. The other nodded and they disappeared inside.
Arben rubbed his hands together in a vain attempt to keep the circulation going. Wrapping his jacket tighter around himself, he pressed on. The lights of the Grand Hotel were now in sight.
Along the busier part of the boulevard nervous drivers blasted car horns at motorists and pedestrians alike. The defining line between pavement and carriageway had become lost beneath two feet of snow. Light from shops splashed colours out of a child’s paintbox across the snow and sludge. Through shop-front windows Arben could see cheerful faces flushed with the warmth of central heating. He dismissed any thought of joining them, even for just a moment.
Away from cover, the more hardy vendors stood alongside small iron cookers filled with hot embers. Arben’s mouth watered as aromas of roasting chestnuts and maize cobs assaulted his nostrils. The growl in his stomach reminded him that he had refused to eat for two days. A symbolic and largely futile protest, it was true, but one that at least had served to boost his spirits. He would eat later. No time now.
As he crossed the top of the lane flanking one side of the Grand, he caught a glimpse of the multi-storey UN headquarters building barely visible through the falling snow. Had he a machine gun he would have emptied the magazine at it. Arben was not a violent man, but the UN had known he was in prison. And it wouldn’t have escaped them that the circumstances of the crime of which he stood accused were so unlikely, so bizarre for a man with his profile, that almost certainly official corruption must have been lurking around somewhere. Yet they did nothing. Working saliva into a dry mouth, Arben spat in the direction of the building. It disappeared into the snow on the pavement.
He looked over his shoulder to search the shadows. No one in sight. But he knew they’d be there. Watching.
At first glance Arben’s hotel room looked just as tidy as he had left it. Despite the housemaid’s best efforts, the smell of air-freshener and bathroom cleaner failed to mask the background odours of damp carpet and mildew. Arben drew open the door of the wardrobe. His coat was still there. He laid it on the bed and ran his fingers over the satin lining. When he felt the package he whispered an elated ‘Yes’. He dragged the serrated brass teeth of the door key across the cotton threads holding the seam. The stitches parted. Inserting thumb and forefinger into the gap, he clamped onto the edge of an envelope and pulled it out. Two thousand euros and his New Zealand passport were inside it. The police had confiscated the Serbian passport he had used to enter Kosovo. The corrupt bastards could keep it for all he cared.
On the bedside table a silver photo frame lay face down. He extended the plastic flap at the back and stood it up in the space next to the telephone. There was no resisting an urge to reach out and run a finger across the images of his wife and children behind the protective glass.
‘I’ll be home soon,’ he whispered. ‘I love you.’
He kicked off his shoes. The malodorou
s clothes he had worn the past week followed. When he was naked, he dumped the filthy pile into the plastic bin by the door. He sank into the downy duvet on the bed. It would be so easy to collapse there and sleep.
‘Keep moving, Arben, don’t stop now,’ he muttered.
In the bathroom, he turned on the basin’s tap and scooped water over his head. The haggard unshaven face looking back at him through the mist on the mirror shocked him. He wiped the glass and leaned closer. Eyes had puffed up. Skin looked bruised with fatigue.
He soaped his face. None too gently, he dragged the razor across his stubble.
‘Dammit.’
He ripped off a piece of toilet paper and dabbed away fresh blood.
‘Damn. Damn. Damn.’
The headache that had plagued him all day returned. Dropping the bloodied paper to the floor he massaged his forehead. It had no effect. He needed painkillers. A search through his toilet bag proved fruitless. He slammed his fist against the wall, then leaned on the basin and closed his eyes. His mind drifted back to the days of his youth, of hunting with his father and grandfather in the mountains on the border with Macedonia. Freezing winds had howled through the rocky crevices, chilling his bones until he thought they might snap. The pain had made him cry. But never had he experienced such misery as now.
Shaving done, he stepped into the shower. Water sprayed over him in erratic bursts. At least it was hot. Frozen limbs began to thaw.
The hot shower and a change of clothes lifted Arben’s spirits. As he trundled his bag across to reception new vitality returned to his step. The sense of freedom, now so close, had beaten off fatigue for the moment. A squeaky suitcase wheel alerted the duty manager of his approach.
‘Mr Shala. We haven’t seen you for some days.’
Arben’s response was little more than a curl of the lips. Not quite a smile but it would do.
‘Have you been travelling?’
Arben knew that nothing happened in Kosovo hotels that managers did not know about. And that hotel staff had no qualms supplementing their meagre incomes by spying for anyone prepared to pay them. This conversation was a reminder that he still needed to be on his guard.
‘May I have my bill?’asked Arben.
‘You are leaving Kosovo?’
A shake of the head. ‘I’ve met a friend. From the old days. He has an apartment near Kaminice. I’m going to stay with him.’
‘How nice for you.’ The stocky manager’s greying head dropped as he thumbed through a stack of documents. An invoice came to light. ‘Here it is. Would you like the hotel driver to drop you somewhere? The bus station perhaps?’
Arben hadn’t anticipated this offer. ‘Um. My friend’s waiting at a cafe. A short walk from here.’
‘Wonderful.’
Arben gave the invoice a quick scan then dumped a handful of euros onto the counter. Pocketing the receipt, he grabbed the handle of his bag and wheeled it towards the door.
‘Please come again,’ the duty manager called after him.
Arben didn’t bother to reply.
At the door a pair of gloves and woollen hat came out of his overcoat pocket. He pulled the hat down over his ears. Gloved and warm, Arben stepped out into the cold with his bag trailing behind him.
The snowfall had become heavier.
A street seller at the bottom of the lane was keeping himself warm by swinging his arms like propellers. Arben bought a phone card from him. The intrepid entrepreneur withheld Arben’s change. He lifted a cloth covering a small wooden crate to reveal a stack of cigarettes and a dozen chocolate bars. Arben licked his lips. He counted off another ten euros and bought all the chocolate bars. By the time he reached the public phone a few metres away he had devoured one bar and was partway through another.
The phone attached to a metal pole had only a sheet of Perspex as overhead cover. Arben hunched under it and removed a glove. He had decided against calling his home. Kimie would know from the tone of his voice something was wrong and he had no time for explanations. He pushed the card into the slot and dialled a number he knew as well as his own.
Two rings.
‘Hi. You’ve reached the number of Jeff Bradley. Please leave a message.’
‘Dammit, Jeff. It’s Benny. I’m in a lot of trouble. I’m leaving Kosovo tonight. I’ll ring you tomorrow from Macedonia.’
He rang off and crossed the street to the three taxis lined up outside the shopping mall. Only one cabbie was prepared to venture outside his vehicle. Arben eyed him.
‘I need to go to the Macedonian border.’
The driver looked to the heavens with a world-encompassing sweep of an arm.
‘The road conditions are very bad. Even if I was prepared to take you to the border it’d take twice as long as usual and I would never get a return fare. Not at this time of night. For sixty euros it’s just not worth my while.’
Arben was in no mood for bartering. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of notes and counted some off.
‘How about three hundred?’
Fanned out like a poker hand, six fifty-euro notes appeared before the cabbie’s eyes. He plucked them from Arben’s fingers.
With a sense of deep relief, Arben threw his bag onto the back seat and climbed in after it. As the vehicle pulled away he felt he could relax. But only a little. He would not feel truly safe until he crossed the border.
The man in the passenger seat of the black Mercedes lit a cigarette. He lowered the window and flicked the match into the darkness. A blast of cold air swept across the front seat.
‘Shut the fucking window,’ the driver moaned.
‘Stop complaining. At least we’re moving.’
But with a shiver the passenger rolled up the window.
The car followed Arben’s taxi. When it took a left-hand turn at the central bus depot, the passenger pulled out his mobile phone and punched in a number.
‘Tell me,’ said a voice.
‘He’s in a taxi on the road to the Macedonian border.’
‘He might be visiting friends like he told the hotel manager. But if he’s not, make sure he doesn’t cross the border.’
‘Will do.’ The passenger snapped his phone shut and slipped it into his pocket. ‘We’re to follow. If he tries to cross the border, we’re to stop him.’
The driver’s face pressed almost against the windscreen as he manipulated the steering wheel to take the car through the blizzard.
‘We need to get ahead. It’ll be impossible to pass in these conditions.’
‘Don’t worry. Our chance will come.’
His money had bought a drive to the border as far as Arben was aware, not a racetrack trial. A shout at the driver to slow down earned him a grunt followed by an accelerated burst out of the next corner. Arben got the message. The cabbie would drive his car any way he damn well liked. To steady his nerves Arben preoccupied himself with checking to see if he was being followed. It proved a futile exercise at best. Through the grimy rear window all car shapes were lost in a haze of bobbing headlights.
When the taxi finally reached the border town of Kaminice, Arben unclenched his hands and rubbed the tops of his thighs. His muscles, taut from tension and cold, threatened to cramp. He had a sudden vision of his legs collapsing just metres short of the border crossing, and him being bundled into an ambulance and driven back to Prishtina. He shuddered at the thought. Massaging his legs was having the desired effect. Warmth was returning.
Cafes and small shops lined the right-hand side of the long main street. In Kaminice at night, as Arben knew was the tradition in all the towns of Kosovo, the locals left the comfort of their homes to gather in small groups. So there they were, chatting with friends and warming their hands over coal-fired stoves. A few curious eyes glanced at the taxi, but no particular interest came his way.
The tax
i stopped two hundred metres short of the border control.
‘I can go no further. You have to walk from here.’
With a cursory nod Arben climbed out and plodded forward, dragging his suitcase behind him. He barely glanced at the car easing past. But when it stopped a few metres ahead and the doors opened, his gut turned.
‘Oh fuck. No.’
Two men, braced for the cold in long woollen overcoats, climbed out of the Mercedes and picked their way through the dirt-streaked tyre-churned snow towards him. They displayed no obvious urgency. Arben cast around in panic. His eyes focused on the shadowy figures inside the control booths two hundred metres away. But he knew very well that the border guards would not intervene to help him. Even if they bothered to notice that the occupants of the black car were acting in a suspicious manner, the heavy snowfall and sub-zero temperatures would prove persuasion enough for underpaid border guards to look the other way.
Arben’s shoulders sagged.
He offered no resistance as the men pushed him to their vehicle. All he could do was pray to God that Jeff Bradley had got his message.
2.
Holy shit, Jeff. Take it easy.’
The task of Manny the trainer was to steady the punching bag from behind. It was normally a cakewalk. But on this occasion the need to unwind and release pent-up aggression was powering Jeff’s fists.
‘You’re the trainer, Manny. You know I don’t hold back.’
‘What’s got you so pissed this morning?’
Like dew on a windscreen, drops of perspiration merged into rivulets running over the chiselled pecs and six-pack of the upper body that Jeff took pride in sustaining. Another duck, another weave and he let fly with a right cross. The leather glove sank into the canvas hard enough to jolt Manny backwards. Jeff followed with a left hook. The bag elevated, throwing Manny completely off balance and sending him crashing onto his rump. Jeff reached out a mitt to help pull him to his feet.
‘Come on, old man. I’ll buy you a fruit juice.’
