by Thomas Ryan
For three hours they’d been parked outside the entrance to the central bus terminal. Sulla insisted it was the best spot. Anyone entering from the city centre would need to walk past his car. Streetlights, vehicle lights and light beaming through apartment windows and from the bus terminal gave more than enough illumination. If the Xhiha brothers came, they would be identifiable quite a long way off. But it was the ‘if’ that most concerned Jeff.
‘I’m bloody cold, Sulla. The inside of a freezer would be warmer than the inside of your damn car.’
Jeff pushed his frozen hands between his thighs. It did little good. There was no escaping the cold. He only had himself to blame. Tomorrow, for certain, he would buy gloves and a decent winter coat. Sulla, wrapped in a wool-lined jacket, gloves and woollen hat, had been able to doze off resting his head against the window.
‘I am sorry. I would give you my coat but then I would be cold. So I think maybe it is not such a good idea.’
Jeff chuckled and breathed into his hands.
‘You’re a very funny man, Sulla.’
Sulla laughed. ‘Yes, it is not only you who thinks so. My father, he says this to me all the time.’
‘You know. We might be suffering all this for nothing. These fellows might not show at all.’
‘Jeff. You worry too much. This is the way they must come to get home. There is only one entrance. Each hour, the buses leave for all over Kosovo.’ He shrugged. ‘We are a small country. In any direction, it is less than three hours to a border.’
‘They have a car. Why not drive back?’
‘They are peasants. Buses are cheaper than petrol. They could, of course, climb over that grassy bank bordering the highway, but it is not likely. They will have drunk cognac all afternoon. They won’t be climbing anything, never mind driving a car. It is the peasant mentality. Believe me. But if you are too cold . . . ?’
Jeff gritted his teeth. ‘We wait, Sulla. We wait.’
Suddenly everything around them plunged into darkness.
‘A power cut.’ Sulla checked his watch. ‘Right on time.’
‘Oh, just great. I can’t see anything at all out of these windows. When was the last time you cleaned them?’
‘When was the last time it rained?’
Jeff sensed Sulla grinning at him. He cracked a smile himself. He knew he became grumpy when it was cold.
‘Just wait a minute,’ Sulla said. ‘It will be okay. You will see.’
Before Jeff’s eyes flickering lights began to appear in apartment windows as candles and gas lanterns were lit. Then the bus terminal lights flashed twice. A third time and they stayed on. Jeff caught the rumble of a generator on the night air.
‘There, now we can see again,’ Sulla said. ‘Not as good, but enough I think.’
Jeff blew into his hands.
Sulla drummed his knuckles on the window, filling the car with a staccato rhythm. A soft, tuneless hum vibrated in his throat. After five minutes, just as Jeff contemplated clipping Sulla’s ear to halt the irritable sound, it stopped.
‘You know, my father could confirm that Arben’s family lived on that land and would never sell it. He is held in high regard. His word would be taken as truth.’
‘Would your father be prepared to stand up in court?’
‘I would need to ask him. But I do not see why not.’
‘I’m sure Benny would be grateful. If we ever find him. Is it possible the Xhiha brothers are smarter than we think?’
‘No, you must not believe this. They really are as stupid as they look.’ Sulla leaned forward to scan the darkness afresh. ‘No, Jeff. Whatever is going on, the Xhihas are not behind it. They are just pigeons. I think that is the saying?’
‘Close enough.’
Sulla stiffened. A hand landed on Jeff’s arm. ‘Look. There they are.’
A hard squint. Jeff could just discern two figures emerging from the darkness. The shapes certainly looked promising to him. Sulla reached across and pulled a bundle of rags from the glove compartment. He unwrapped a German Luger. Jeff’s eyes widened when Sulla thrust it into his lap.
‘You might need this.’
‘Where the hell did you get this from? Does it even work?’
‘My grandfather stole it from the Germans during the big war. My father has kept it in good order. The magazine is loaded but I cannot guarantee it will fire. But it will scare the brothers. That’s all that counts.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
Jeff glanced up. The brothers had closed to within thirty metres. Their gait looked uncertain and wobbly. Sulla started the car.
‘Now remember. Only Ahmed. He is the one that speaks English.’
Jeff gave the surroundings a quick scan. No pedestrians. Anyone in the bus depot would be too far away to notice a disturbance outside.
Jeff flung the door open and raced across the road. The brothers stopped and stared quizzically at the man standing in front of them pointing a pistol. Slow and cow-like, two sets of eyes settled on the barrel of the Luger. Ahmed licked his lips and glanced towards the bus depot. Jeff knew exactly what he was thinking. If they decided to run for it he could never stop them.
Stepping closer he snapped his fingers to grab their attention.
‘Hi, Ahmed. Remember me?’ Jeff said, slowly and clearly. Ahmed peered to get a better look at Jeff’s face. He nodded. A drunken smile displayed a row of tobacco-stained rotting teeth. ‘Sure you do. You’re coming for a ride. Tell your brother to lie on the ground.’
Ahmed glanced at his brother then back to Jeff. The smile persisted, but Jeff saw a new edge of cunning in it. And he could read the message. This was a case of two against one. And these guys were too drunk to be intimidated by a relic from the Second World War.
Jeff had to catch them both off-guard. A lightning step. A cry split the air as the pistol backhanded the side of Ahmed’s head. Grabbing a handful of jacket Jeff pulled the dazed man towards him, the pistol barrel pressed into Ahmed’s cheek. His eyes dilated. Unintelligible sounds came from his mouth. At this proximity Jeff almost gagged from the reek of his breath.
‘Ahmed. I will shoot you if your brother does not lie on the ground. Do you understand?’
Ahmed’s head nodded twice. A brief babble in Albanian followed, loud enough for the brother to hear. Skender crumpled to the ground. Jeff shoved Ahmed to the car. He pulled open the rear door.
‘Get inside.’
Ahmed fell in, Jeff close behind. Sulla revved the motor and pulled away. Jeff glanced through the rear window. Skender was a diminishing shadow on the road.
‘No one is following.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Sulla laughed. ‘No one has noticed what has happened and if anyone did, they wouldn’t care. This is Kosovo.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me.’
Jeff turned his attention to the man slumped beside him. Ahmed was out to it. Snoring. Jeff just shook his head. He tossed the useless Luger onto the front seat.
‘For Christ’s sake, Sulla. It’s a bloody quagmire.’
As Jeff climbed out of the car his boot had sunk into the sodden ground, mud sliding inside to his socks. Sulla’s head popped above his door. ‘When the snow melts, the ground goes squishy. It is God’s work. I am not to blame.’
‘Yeah, right. You owe me a new pair of boots.’
During daytime, the unsealed hectare of land behind the copper-roofed basketball stadium hosted a bevy of trailers and tents. Jeff imagined traders barking out prices on everything from farm produce to electronics. But by night who would know or care what went on here? It would have to be a loud noise indeed that could ever carry to the surrounding apartment buildings. A nod of satisfaction. This was the perfect location for an interrogation. Except for the mud.
Jeff squelched his way around to the rear door. He pulled it open. Ahmed t
umbled out. Jeff shook his head.
‘Legless drunk.’
Sulla helped Jeff yank Ahmed to his feet. The man’s head flopped with little control, mouth slack. A single moan of feeble protest, then silence. A snort of disgust came from Sulla. ‘The drunken piece of shit has passed out.’
‘Any water in your car?’
‘Some bottles in the boot.’
Jeff took firmer hold of Ahmed. ‘Could you get them? If we don’t wake him up we could be here all night.’
Sulla let go of Ahmed’s arm. Jeff managed to keep him upright as far as the front of the car. Ahmed slumped out of Jeff’s grip onto the bonnet.
Sulla emptied two bottles of water over the drunk man’s head.
With a splutter, Ahmed jolted upright, arms flailing. Sulla leaped back, knocking Jeff off balance. Ahmed continued to shadow box. Finally a wild right cross at Sulla missed, but the momentum of the swing sent Ahmed spinning back into the muck. The scowl on Sulla’s face should have burned him to a cinder.
‘I really want to kick him.’
Instead Sulla laid hold of him once again and pulled him back onto the bonnet. With a grimace at the soiling of his coat, Sulla grabbed Ahmed’s collar to make sure he stayed where he was. A single convulsion and Ahmed’s head lifted from his chest. A stupid smile followed. The expression that passed over Sulla’s face told Jeff he foresaw what was coming next. But he wasn’t quick enough to get out of its way. A gurgle and remnants of undigested food splattered down Sulla’s trousers.
Sulla let out a roar. ‘You worthless son of a dog.’
In a flash he released his hold of Ahmed and reached into the car, pulling out the Luger. He jammed it hard against Ahmed’s temple.
Jeff grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t . . .’
A loud click.
Silence.
Sulla jerked the weapon before his eyes and glared at it.
‘Lump of German shit.’
In some happy world of his own, Ahmed had taken to giggling. Sulla turned from him, mumbled something in Albanian and kicked one of the car tyres. He glared again at the Luger and flung it onto the back seat. Jeff rubbed his hands together. He envisaged a long, cold, miserable night.
22.
Can I intrude, guys?’
Barry looked up with a fork poised between plate and lip to see who else the Kukri bar had attracted for breakfast. Bethany and Morgan, mouths full, offered nods of greeting.
‘Huh, Jeff. Take a seat mate. We always have breakfast together on Saturdays. Expat tradition. Anyway, Morgan hates to eat alone.’
A twist of Morgan’s eyebrows. ‘Barry’s a wonderful liar, Jeff. Truth is he’s here because he’s too lazy to make Bethany breakfast in bed.’
Jeff met her smile then searched around for a waiter. With coffee and a full English breakfast ordered, he sat back and listened to the others chat. After a while Morgan glanced across at him from behind her coffee cup.
‘You’re quiet this morning. Problem?’
‘Uh? Oh. No problem.’ Jeff sipped his coffee. Behind the counter the barista banged his metal scoop on the sink bench to loosen a wad of grinds. ‘It’s just I’ve come by some information. About Arben Shala.’
Knife and fork clinked to a rest on Morgan’s plate. Her eyes fixed on Jeff’s.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I have reason to believe he’s in the Prishtina Detention Centre.’ Jeff mentally kicked himself for making this sound like a military briefing. ‘Anyway, that’s where I think he is.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘I, er . . . had a talk with a mutual acquaintance.’
An arch of Morgan’s eyebrows. ‘A talk, huh?’
‘Mm. The information seems pretty reliable. I’m waiting for my driver then I’ll go across to the police station and find out.’
Barry’s interest perked up. ‘Jesus, if that’s all your problem is, I’ll get it sorted in a jiffy. Here. Write your man’s name down on this.’
A notepad and pen slid across the table.
‘And you’ll do what with it?’
Barry looked around and pointed. ‘See the man mountain ogling down the shirtfront of the blonde looker? South African cop. Friend of mine. He’ll get us what we want to know.’
The pen did its work. Jeff tore out the page and handed it to Barry.
Morgan’s eyes narrowed again at Jeff. ‘My, that was a stroke of luck, Jeff. Yesterday there were you and I banging our heads against a brick wall. Today you’ve found the guy. Just like that. Is there something you’d like to share with me?’
Jeff met her curiosity with a grin. ‘Sure there is. My driver and I had a chat with one of the Xhiha brothers last evening. He didn’t know much, but he did know where Arben was. I thanked him for his troubles and sent him on his way, and that was that.’
Head tilted to the side, a one-eyebrow arch of scepticism appeared on Morgan’s face. ‘Really. And in the course of this, shall we say, friendly chat, he proved to be the cooperative type after all. Have I got that right? In direct contrast with our earlier experience of the man? Just goes to show what a poor judge of character I am, doesn’t it?’
Jeff squirmed in his chair and cast an eye around for the arrival of his breakfast. ‘Er. I guess we Kiwis have a charm all our own.’
‘You guess, do you, Jeff?’ Morgan turned to Bethany. ‘You ever notice any particular charm attached to your countrymen?’
Even though Jeff was pretty certain Morgan was stringing him along for fun, he still shifted again in his seat. Bethany turned wide eyes on Morgan. ‘Not a smidgeon, Morgan. Now, if Kiwi women were cans of Steinlager . . .’
Much to Jeff’s relief, Barry returned. He looked across and caught sight of the back of the South African disappearing through the door.
‘Hansie’s going across to the detention centre now. If Arben Shala’s in there, we’ll know in twenty minutes.’
‘Thanks, Barry.’
‘It’s going to cost you, mate. I told him you’d be buying the drinks tonight.’
Amidst the general bonhomie around the table Jeff was conscious of Morgan’s occasional close scrutiny as he ate his breakfast. It came as a welcome relief when Barry’s South African mate returned a little more than twenty minutes later. Hansie had an Austrian police officer in tow.
‘Everybody, this is Klaus Otto. He works in the Central Police Station as an advisor. I thought you might want to hear his news firsthand. Take it away, Klaus.’
Jeff pushed his plate and coffee mug to one side and rested an elbow on the table. The thickset Klaus looked around the group. A finger brushed across his flare of a moustache. His uniform jacket came in for a quick adjustment. He cleared his throat.
‘Arben Shala is in the detention centre.’ It sounded like Klaus was filing a report to a superior. Maybe it was just the thick accent. ‘He is being held under a fifteen-day holding order. I have no intelligence regarding his well-being. The detention centre is under the control of the UN. Standing orders are that he is to be well fed. All health issues are to be attended to.’
And there had been Jeff fearing that his earlier news delivery sounded like a military briefing. With a suppressed smile he raised a hand.
‘What about legal help?’
Klaus appeared to relax a little. Attention switched to Jeff. ‘It does not show on his file, but that does not mean he has no lawyer. I think it not likely the proceedings could progress to this point without one. The court may have appointed someone. If it is a court appointee, it could explain why he is still in custody. They are not good, these Kosovon lawyers.’
‘Thank you, Klaus. That’s good news. It’s a relief to know he’s alive and well.’
But Klaus maintained eye contact with Jeff. ‘I read through the transcript of the charges against him. Shala is accused of knowingly purchasing a s
tolen mobile phone. This is a serious offence in Kosovo. However, in the original statement given to the court, he said he bought the mobile legitimately from a shop and not off the street as was claimed by the police. He did have a receipt. I thought it unusual that under these circumstances he would still be in custody. I did a bit more digging. He is not being held because of any charges about the phone, but for trying to leave the country while on bail.’ Klaus paused. ‘If you want my opinion, the whole affair looks most irregular.’
A waiter placed a tray on the table and began loading dirty plates. Something close to a scowl appeared on Klaus’s face as he viewed the cause of the clinking and jingling that intruded upon the gravitas of his narrative. Morgan caught his eye. ‘You said irregular, Klaus. In what way?’
Klaus glared at the back of the departing waiter. ‘If I was the investigating officer,’ his eyes scanned the faces focused on him, ‘I would be more interested in the man who sold the phone to Mr Shala. He’s disappeared and the shop has gone out of business. But Mr Shala had the receipt and purchased the item from a registered store, so I can’t see how he could be charged without stronger evidence of illegal behaviour. Without the shopkeeper, this is impossible. In my opinion, it is Mr Shala who is a victim here. Questioned yes, but he should never have been arrested.’
Morgan looked at Jeff, then back at the officer. ‘But if this is so obvious to a UN policeman like yourself, surely you can intervene on his behalf? At least have him released from jail?’
‘Sadly we are unable to interfere in the judicial process. We are strictly here to observe and advise.’
‘Well, why not advise then,’ Morgan spat back.
Klaus recoiled at Morgan’s accusatory tone. Jeff’s hand rose again. ‘Is there any way I can get in to see him?’
His neck flexed just the once. A finger ran around the inside of Klaus’s collar. ‘Normally visitors would need to be family members. But a good lawyer should be able to pull a few strings.’
‘I’ve met the lawyer he used when he first came to Kosovo. I’ll go see him.’
