by Thomas Ryan
Jeff nodded and stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed he glanced back at reception. The concierge was speaking into the telephone. His eyes didn’t leave Jeff.
7.
Jeff’s bag bounced on the end of the bed. The wardrobe door opened at a pull. Inside, a selection of wire and plastic hangers dangled from a dowelling rod slotted into the V of crossed nails either side. The curtains looked to be in need of laundering, and from the pervading mustiness Jeff guessed it had been a long time since a window had been opened to welcome fresh air into the place. Several prods of the mattress encountered no lumps, although Jeff would have preferred it firmer.
Shirts and jeans went onto the hangers and the empty bag went on top of the wardrobe. The white tiles covering the floor and walls in the bathroom looked to be free of grime and mildew. A hint of pine needles and ammonia irritated his nostrils. He flicked on the extractor fan and arranged his toiletries on the shelf above the basin.
Taking up a position on the bed, Jeff placed the hotel phone on his lap and opened his notebook to the page with the information Kimie had given him at the airport. Before he disappeared Arben had phoned each night and given Kimie details of his progress. In his last phone call he told Kimie he had met with a lawyer named Tomi Mema. Arben had given her Mema’s contact details. Jeff decided the lawyer was as good a place as any to start. A laminated card pinned to the wall above the bedside table instructed him to dial 0 for reception and 1 for an outside line. Upon hearing the click that indicated a free line, Jeff dialled the number Kimie had jotted down next to Mema’s name.
A man’s voice answered. Jeff guessed the language to be Albanian.
‘Do you speak English?’
‘Yes, of course. I am Tomi Mema. How may I help you?’
‘Mr Mema, my name is Jeff Bradley. I understand Mr Arben Shala is a client of yours?’
A pause.
‘May I ask how you came by my private number?’
‘Arben’s wife gave it to me. I’ve just arrived in Kosovo from New Zealand.’
‘I see. What can I do for you, Mr Bradley?’
Jeff’s military-honed instincts had caused him to think hard about how he would explain himself to this lawyer. In a hostile environment he’d learned to treat everyone as an enemy until proven otherwise. Mema might be the best lawyer in Kosovo, but he was not a member of the New Zealand Law Society. Jeff doubted there was even such a thing as a code of legal ethics in Kosovo. And in his experience lawyers could be very tricky customers.
‘I met Arben in New Zealand. He invited me to Kosovo to look at a property he wanted to sell. A vineyard. The trouble is I arrived today and Mr Shala seems to have disappeared. The hotel manager said he left a week ago.’
‘I see. I have not heard from Mr Shala recently. If I hear from him, I’ll be sure to ask him to contact you at your hotel. Where are you staying?’
‘At the Grand. Mr Mema, I’ve come a long way. Shala isn’t really that necessary in the scheme of things. I just want to look at a vineyard and find some bulk wine. Maybe you could help me?’
‘I am very busy Mr Bradley. You might like to talk to a real-estate agent.’
‘Yes, I guess I could.’ The disappointment in Jeff’s voice was genuine. This lawyer was the only firm link he had to Benny. But he had a strong hunch that Mema, like most lawyers, would prefer to avoid messy hassles. ‘Come to think of it, I suppose I could go talk to the UN police. Arben is a New Zealand citizen. They might help me find him . . .’
Jeff’s hanging pause achieved its purpose.
‘Very well, Mr Bradley. You have come a great distance, as you say. I will meet you in the hotel lobby at eight thirty tomorrow morning.’
Jeff dropped the phone back onto the receiver and reached to switch on the television. Static but no picture. He pressed the off button. Stretching his legs seemed like a good idea. He didn’t want to spend any more time in the room than necessary.
Only a few minutes out in the elements and Jeff’s knuckles ached. He breathed into his hands and rubbed them together until they warmed up. He knew full well it was never a great strategy to wander about in hostile territory without the right kit. In the morning he would find the markets and buy gloves. Hands plunged deep into the wool-lined pockets of his parka, Jeff set off on what he now resolved would be but a short walk around the block.
The hardy citizens of Prishtina were out en masse. But unlike Jeff they had dressed for the conditions. Seated at tables lined up against the wall of the hotel, groups of men in heavy coats and woollen hats chain-smoked cigarettes and drank coffee and cognac. Family groups out for evening strolls cut across the courtyard at the rear of the hotel and disappeared down a lane.
Jeff decided to follow.
The lane looked as if it might have once been a through-road that had since been reduced to just a few metres of useable pavement. To his left a three-metre-high iron fence topped with razor wire ran the entire length as far as a lower boulevard. The fenced-off section of road acted as car park for neat rows of white Toyota Land Cruisers with large black UN transfers on the doors. In the background stood the imposing multi-storey United Nations headquarters.
Wooden shelving strung onto the UN fence displayed a variety of CDs and DVDs. On top of upended fruit crates street vendors had arranged cigarettes, tissues, biscuits and confectionery in tidy stacks. They hailed the strollers and haggled for sales. To Jeff’s right, the entrepreneurial-minded had turned ground-floor apartments into restaurants and cafes. These were all busy.
The distinctive shape of Gurkha knives painted on a board over the entrance of a bar called the Kukri caught Jeff’s attention. Peering through the window he thought it had the look of an ex-pat watering hole. Every third-world country had one, in his experience. A quick drink before returning to the hotel struck him as more inviting than hazarding cracked pavements and cigarette salesmen. He decided his walk could wait for another time.
Inside he found the bar packed and noisy. Chinese, Indians, Africans and Europeans crowded shoulder to shoulder. Some wore uniforms: mostly police. Jeff recognised insignias from South Africa, Italy and the USA. The ratio of men to women was about fifty-fifty. He chuckled at this evidence of equal opportunity policies in an institution such as the UN. Even in a war zone.
Television sets hung from wall brackets, all tuned into English sports channels. Waiters wended back and forth carrying handles of beer, and at least three more staff behind the bar kept them supplied. An assortment of paraphernalia adorned the back wall. Jeff spotted international football jerseys, berets and hats, and photos of UN and NATO personnel. The aroma of cooked chicken and French fries did battle with a blanket of cigarette smoke.
Jeff elbowed his way through the crowd to the bar. A barman was bellowing orders to his staff in a regional English accent. The burly man eyed Jeff as he approached.
‘What’ll it be, mate?’ he yelled.
‘I’ll have a beer.’
‘What brand?’
‘Anything that tastes good. I’ll leave it up to you.’
‘Ah ha. Just arrived, have you?’
Jeff nodded.
‘Where’re you from?’
‘New Zealand.’
‘Another bloody Kiwi.’ The man’s tone and hearty laugh belied his disapproval. He swung a glass under a tap and yanked the lever. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Jeff Bradley.’
‘Call me John.’ He deposited the handle of beer on the counter. Froth erupted down its sides. ‘First one’s on the house.’ John turned and yelled to a man standing at the end of the bar. ‘Hey, Barry. Another one of your compatriots has just landed.’
The man called Barry waved an acknowledgement and made his way towards Jeff. ‘How yer goin’, mate. I’m Barry Briggs.’ The accent was definitely Australian.
‘Jeff Bradley. I did tell him I was a N
ew Zealander.’
Barry snorted derisively. ‘No problems. Ignorant Pommie bastard thinks Australia and New Zealand are the same country. Come on down and join us.’
Before Jeff could answer, Barry had snatched the beer from under his nose and walked off. There was little choice but to follow. Barry nodded at his two drinking companions.
‘These two arseholes are countrymen of yours. Bruce from Wellington. Gary from the Waikato. I’m from Sydney. Manly. The northern beaches. Maybe you’ve been there?’
‘I know Manly.’
Jeff scrutinised his three companions. Gary looked a bit woozy. His hands gripped the bar like it was a lifeline. Bruce attempted a smile of sorts, but there was little discernible warmth behind it. And no verbal comment either. This big man appeared to be the type who kept to himself. Barry, on the other hand, was the open book of the three. Friendly, chatty. And honest, Jeff judged. He felt he was a man he might be able to trust. In a pinch. His life had often depended upon forming quick judgements like this.
‘What brings you to this shithole?’
Gary’s voice slurred. A fringe of hair fell across his face.
‘Business.’
Gary’s jaw dropped. ‘Christ, you gotta be bloody joking. Don’t waste your bloody time. You can’t trust any of these thieving bastards. Want my advice? Take the next plane home.’
Jeff offered a polite smile. ‘I wish it was that simple.’
‘Well, don’t say you weren’t warned. Tell him, Barry.’
‘Gary’s pretty much on the money, Jeff. If you’re looking to do business here, at least be careful.’
Gary waved to one of the bar staff for another round of drinks. He glanced across at Jeff with what looked like contempt. Gary had obviously decided Jeff was a fool, and he was far too drunk to be convinced otherwise.
‘How long have you guys been in Kosovo?’ Jeff asked Barry.
Gary butted in: ‘Two years too bloody long, mate. Thass how we know about these shitheads.’
At this point Gary saw someone else he preferred to talk to. He turned his back on Jeff and wobbled unsteadily into the crowd.
‘Don’t mind Gary,’ Barry said. ‘He’s been away from home too long and makes up for it with the booze. Hell, we all do, except Gary’s an ass when he drinks too much. I’m with the UN. Maintenance. Gary’s a driver and Bruce here’s a liaison officer. God knows what the hell that is. Truth be known, mate, I think he hides in a corner all day and hopes no one finds him.’
Bruce smiled again, sipped on his beer, but kept looking straight ahead of him.
‘How did you come to be here, Barry?’ asked Jeff.
‘I’m a carpenter by trade. Me and a mate went to the UK for a working holiday. One night I met this bird in the pub who worked for UN recruitment. She told me the UN was looking for carpenters and asked if I’d be interested in going to Kosovo. Good money. I’d had a few too many so said sure, why not. I didn’t remember giving her my number and by Sunday had forgotten all about it. Monday morning she phones and tells me to come into her office and bring my passport. Two days later I was on a plane to Kosovo. And I’m still bloody here.’
Bruce chuckled at his story.
‘How stable is Kosovo? Anything I need worry about?’ asked Jeff.
‘For now it’s peaceful enough. On the surface, anyway. The Albanians and the Serbs hate each other, but the Albanians are in the majority so they have the upper hand. The KFOR troops – that’s NATO if you didn’t know – try to keep a lid on it. Every now and then they beat each other up. Nothing too horrendous. You can walk the streets without getting hit over the head if that’s what’s worrying you.’
As the evening progressed, the crowd grew noisier. The numbers of drinkers ebbed and flowed. Jeff remained in his position leaning on the bar but paced his alcohol consumption. He could learn a lot from those who didn’t. Even Gary’s drivel had assisted in building an overall picture of life in Kosovo.
Gary returned in a worse state. At first he mumbled what could have been abuse to anyone who would bother listening. But finally his head inclined onto the top of the bar and that’s where it stayed.
Two burly men joined the conversation, with accents Jeff recognised as South African.
‘Jeff, meet the two most useless bloody cops in Kosovo,’ Barry said.
The South Africans laughed and bought a round of drinks.
‘You are an Aussie?’ asked the South African who had been introduced as Hansie.
‘He wishes,’ Barry butted in. ‘He’s a bloody Kiwi.’
The conversation turned to rugby and soon Barry and the South Africans were deep in discussion about the chances of their national teams that year. At eleven o’clock Jeff roused himself to stand.
‘Barry, I’m leaving. Thanks for the heads up and the hospitality.’
‘No problem, mate. You know where to find us. We’re right here every night.’
Jeff bought a final round of drinks for everyone and left.
The brisk night air was a welcome respite from the smoke-filled bar.
When Jeff turned on the tap in the bathroom no water came out. He phoned the desk. The night manager told him with a touch of tartness that the city’s water supply was turned off every night at midnight. It would come on again at six in the morning.
‘You should have bought some bottled water.’
Jeff slammed down the phone, resisting the urge to go downstairs and wring the man’s neck. He took a glass from the bedside table into the bathroom and dipped it into the toilet cistern. It’d quench his thirst at least. With luck it would be as clean as anything likely to exude from the hotel’s plumbing system.
Jeff fell back on the bed and burst out laughing. His SAS mates would give him hell if they heard him whingeing over a glass of rusty water. He had drunk worse from Iraqi swamps. He hoped he would not be paying for it in the morning.
Tomorrow, the lawyer. Then the hunt for Benny would begin in earnest.
Welcome sleep could claim him now.
8.
The travel magazine on his lap lay open at an article about fishing in Lake Ohrid. Jeff had read the first paragraph a number of times but the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans kept distracting him. He was desperate for a caffeine fix. Breakfast in the hotel basement had consisted of a choice of cold meats, cold eggs, cold tea, and worst of all, cold coffee. He had settled for a bun and fruit juice.
The foyer buzzed with activity. Guests and new arrivals waited as the manager and his assistants tended to requests and filled out paperwork. Knots of men and women, mostly UN personnel, milled about engaged in noisy conversations and sipped coffee that could never have come from the basement.
In his peripheral vision Jeff saw a figure approaching.
‘Mr Bradley?’
‘That’s me.’ Jeff dropped the travel magazine onto the coffee table and stood.
‘I am Tomi Mema.’
Mema’s handshake and manner reminded Jeff of Quentin Douglas, though his divorce lawyer had a firmer grip.
‘If you like we can talk over coffee,’Mema said.
‘If it’s hot and fresh I won’t say no.’
‘Ah ha. You have tried the Grand Hotel breakfast menu. Come. I will take you to a cafe where the beverages are drinkable.’
Mema’s neatly clipped jet-black hair, not a strand out of place, matched the manicured nails and hands that had never dug a hole or chopped a piece of wood. He had a small scar above his right eye, spoiling an otherwise immaculate appearance. Jeff recognised the Armani suit. He’d had to buy one for himself when Rebecca dragged him back into Civvy Street and tried to turn him into a corporate executive. He’d never worn it. Mema’s shoes looked Italian quality. Jeff’s guess was that the shirt and yellow silk tie came from a similar home. If the fortyish Tomi Mema was anything to go by, Kosovon lawyers
made good money – and the care and attention Mema devoted to his appearance left Jeff thinking he might earn more than most.
With a light touch to Jeff’s elbow, Mema led him down the same lane he had walked through the previous evening. By night, neon lighting had added a sparkle to small pockets of the street, but failed to illuminate much of the dominant red-brick buildings and grey concrete. Now, the dreary scene came into full view. Deciduous trees lined the roadways, their naked branches adding little charm to the all-round drabness. The early morning sun could do nothing to dispel the city’s bleakness.
The Kukri bar stood open, but empty. Staff in green aprons were cleaning and preparing for another night. Vendor calls and general clatter filled the air. The night before, Jeff hadn’t made it as far as the bottom of the lane. Now, as he and Mema continued further, security guards at the entrance of the UN compound watched their movements – until two young women in tight-fitting jeans grabbed their attention instead.
Mema stopped on the kerb. Jeff guessed they were heading for the complex on the other side of the road. Cars, bumper to bumper, honked along the muddied carriageway. Citizens wrapped in greatcoats, scarves and boots dodged the odd tsunami thrown up by tyres that had discovered concealed potholes. Apart from the pervading sense of dampness, Prishtina looked like any other city newly awake to a working day.
‘It snows in Prishtina through the winter,’ Mema explained as they walked towards a huge concrete edifice. ‘Sometimes the outside temperature can drop below minus ten, very cold. This building is a shopping mall, just as they have in America. It is centrally heated and inside very warm. Today the sun is shining and it is not so cold. Shall we sit outside?’
‘Outside’s fine by me.’
Jeff blew into his hands. It reminded him of his resolve to buy gloves.
Mema pointed to a table then called to a waiter to bring coffee. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and dried off Jeff’s seat then did the same to his own. He shrugged. ‘The waiters are paid very little. Please, sit. You said on the telephone you are acquainted with the Shala family?’
