by Thomas Ryan
Morgan’s palms landed in front of her on the table. She eyed Jeff. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Jeff’s first reaction was to argue. But there was no mistaking the mood of the lady. And it wasn’t one which would suffer debate. If Jeff had learned anything in the military, it was how to pick his battles.
‘Mm. Good of you to offer, Morgan. Thanks.’
Tomi Mema didn’t feel aggrieved at all upon hearing Jeff Bradley’s request down the line. There was a juicy fee coming his way if the Shala vineyard sold. To meet him on a Saturday when his custom was not to work at all would be part of the investment he’d have to make to earn it. His hands itched at the prospect of such easy money. For the New Zealander to even consider investing in Kosovo showed he had more money than business sense. A ripe plum begging to be picked, no less. He relaxed back in his office chair and pictured summer in Turkey with his family. He would buy the tickets once the cash was in the bank.
A glance at the clock on the wall. Some minutes yet before the agreed meeting time. He set the vineyard file aside and checked through paperwork of cases he’d be taking to court over the coming week. As he perused the pages, he sorted them into the order of presentation. A footstep thudded onto the wooden step outside his office. He placed the cap on the yellow highlighter and put it to one side.
‘Mr Bradley, welcome. Oh . . .’ The smile became a rictus. ‘Ms Delaney, too. How nice. Please come in and take a seat.’
Truth was that Mema had already formed the conviction that ‘nice’ and this Delaney woman were incompatible notions. Her smile looked to have as little warmth in it as his own. At least he could take her presence as a sign that the Shala property would indeed be the topic of conversation.
Mema settled into his chair, hand resting close to the vineyard file. Business time. ‘Now. How might I help you?’
‘I have good news, Mr Mema,’ Jeff said. ‘We’ve found Arben Shala.’
Solid ground felt as if it had suddenly disappeared from beneath Mema’s feet. Acid rose in his stomach. ‘Really, that’s wonderful.’ Shaking hands transported the glass of water on Mema’s desk to his mouth. Some spilled. ‘Where is he? Safely back home in New Zealand?’
‘No. He’s still here in Prishtina. In prison. At the detention centre.’ Jeff’s forehead creased in a frown. ‘Are you okay, Mr Mema?’
‘Yes. Yes. A little overworked maybe. But tell me. How did you come by this information?’
‘I asked one of the international police officers to check the prisons for me. We got lucky. But now I’ve found him, I need to find out what the hell’s going on. I want to retain your services to act as his lawyer.’
‘And we would like you to arrange for us to visit,’ Morgan added.
‘Yes, Mr Mema. As Ms Delaney says.’
The overriding thought in Mema’s mind was of Osman Gashi. He needed to contact him. Another shaky sip of water found its way to his lips. He sat back and directed his gaze through the window.
‘I must say, I am shocked. Who would have thought that all this time Mr Shala was just over there? Across the road from my office?’
‘Will you represent him?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I will represent him. As for visits, they allow one per week. But I’m afraid the visitor must be a family member.’
Morgan leaned forward and aimed a hard look into Mema’s face. ‘I’m sure exceptions are made all the time, Mr Mema.’
An adjustment of position on Mema’s chair. ‘I will see what I can do. You will need permission from the judge. Monday would be the earliest you could see him. But I must ask you, Mr Bradley. Why so much interest in Mr Shala? There is no legal reason he should be involved in the purchase transaction. And if he has been arrested for some crime it might only complicate matters for you. I was under the impression you barely even know the man.’
With a sideways look at Morgan, Jeff sat back and folded his arms. ‘Mm. That. Well, Mr Mema, I have to confess I’ve not been entirely honest with you about Arben Shala. You see, he’s the manager of my vineyard in New Zealand as well as a close friend. And now I know where he is, I want to make sure nothing happens to him. And I want him free as soon as possible.’
Any remaining thoughts Mema may have entertained that he was dealing with a naive amateur vanished in an instant. It took an extreme exercise of will for him to maintain casual eye contact with Jeff.
‘If you like,’ Morgan added, ‘I could ask the USAID officials to intervene. Or, as Mr Shala is a New Zealand citizen, the British Consulate office might have an interest. Would that be helpful?’
Mema’s heartbeat was a sickening staccato. His eyes flicked between Jeff and Morgan. ‘Let’s see what I can do first. I’ll check my diary. I only mention prison rules because that is the law. But I am sure I can arrange something.’ He pulled a black book on the desktop towards him. A shuffle of pages followed. An unsteady finger singled out one. ‘Ah, here it is. Yes. Be here at nine thirty Monday morning. Visiting hours start at ten. I will take you across.’
Mema forced a smile. He did not like being forced into making knee-jerk decisions like this. Judging from the heat beneath his collar he knew his brow would be beading in perspiration. His hand flipped the diary closed with what he hoped looked like finality.
‘Is there anything Jeff or I should bring for Arben?’ Morgan asked.
Hands clenched onto Mema’s knees beneath the desk to stop himself from thumping a fist on it.
‘Oh. Some clothes. I’m sure he would welcome that. A book. Magazines.’ Hands pushed onto the desk to assist Mema to his feet. ‘Now, can you excuse me? Family, you know? Er . . . A birthday.’
Mema stood in the office doorway and watched until Bradley and the American woman had disappeared from sight. Only when he was certain they were not coming back did he lock the door and clamber back behind his desk. One hand sought the phone, the other flicked through the pages of his diary in search of Osman Gashi’s number.
Jeff pulled Morgan to a stop outside the Kukri. ‘Thank you for the support today. I won’t come in right now. Got to meet up with my driver.’
Morgan stood with hands on hips. Narrowed eyes regarded Jeff. ‘This driver of yours. How helpful was he in getting the information on Arben’s whereabouts?’
Jeff’s eyebrows executed a small rise that he hoped looked like innocence.
‘Sulla? He translated for me. Couldn’t have done it without him.’
Her eyes narrowed further. ‘Really, Jeff? Translated for you? If all you needed was a translator, I speak the language. You know that. And I know more about the vineyard than any taxi driver. You asked for my help, you know? And I went out of my way to give it to you. And now I learn Arben actually works for you. That’s a big I-don’t-trust-you, don’t you reckon? Do I really come across as some kind of flighty tart you can’t rely on?’
Jeff embedded his teeth into his lower lip for a second. ‘No, of course not.’ He tilted his head back as he blew into the air. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Morgan. Bad judgement call.’
‘Bad judgment call? Not a great answer, is it?’ Her green eyes bored into him. ‘Don’t let it happen again. Okay?’
‘No, ma’am. I won’t. I promise.’
A half-smile played at the edges of Morgan’s mouth. She took a step away. ‘Good. I like your attitude, soldier. Now. If you’d like to join up with us here later, the expats gather to watch Match of the Day. Afterwards there’s usually a disco or karaoke.’
Before Jeff could formulate a response, Morgan spun on her heel and disappeared through the doors. A part of him wanted to chase after her.
But Sulla would be waiting. They had arranged to meet for lunch to discuss what next in the search for Arben. Now he knew where his friend was, he wanted him protected. Sulla might have a contact inside the detention centre. He would catch up with Morgan later.
23.
>
I’m leaving now, sir.’
The door to Leka’s office had opened just wide enough for his secretary’s face to show.
Leka’s attention switched from his visitor. A wave of acknowledgement and her face disappeared. He turned back to Gashi. The envelope he’d stuffed with euros landed on the table between them.
‘Captain Morina should be happy with the extra bonus there. However, he’s made a good point. It’s been too easy and we’ve got lazy.’
The smile disappeared from Gashi’s face. ‘You think it’s time to stop?’
‘Let’s say, I think it wise not to push our luck. When this Shala business is finished with, get rid of the vineyard and the Xhiha brothers. Little games like this? They are peanuts. It is no big loss.’ Leka shrugged. ‘I have other ways to make money.’
It amused Leka greatly to watch Gashi bristle at the disparaging remark. He knew the big man worked hard at pursuing petty scams such as land grabs like the Shala vineyard. It had been only one of many. Gashi appeared to consider that they somehow elevated him from low-life pimp to sophisticated entrepreneur.
His head dropped. ‘You’re the boss.’
‘The stolen phone ploy has run its course as well.’
Leka needed to consider alternatives. The crimes needed to be petty and carry less than a maximum sentence of two years imprisonment for it to stay in the Municipal Court and under his control. Getting the judge to order that Shala was held in custody a further fifteen days had not been difficult. She would have been delighted to find the envelope pushed under her apartment door. Her task had no great risk attached to it, and didn’t even require her to do anything unlawful. That Shala had tried to run had made it easier for her.
‘We have another problem,’ Gashi said. ‘Tomi Mema phoned. Earlier this morning the man from New Zealand and the American woman paid him another visit. They know Shala is in the detention centre.’
Leka’s brow crinkled into a knot. ‘How the hell did they find that out?’
Gashi picked up a letter opener from the desk and began playing with it. ‘It seems the New Zealander was shitting Tomi all along. Shala works for the New Zealander. They’re friends. He knew Shala was in trouble and came to Kosovo to search for him. He’s teamed up with the international police. They found Shala for him.’
‘My God.’ Leka’s voice was a whisper. He stared without blinking at Gashi.
‘They’ve asked Tomi to organise a visit to see Shala,’ Gashi continued. ‘They said if he could not organise it for them, they would go to the British office. The American woman said she would talk to the US authorities.’
Leka felt a vein throb in his temple. He’d been warned that giving in to anger could have dangerous effects on his blood pressure. But some insignificant pissant property fraud was now threatening his international money-laundering network. A network worth many millions which had only flourished because he managed to keep it under the radar. Leka found it a struggle to keep his voice calm. ‘What did Tomi tell them?’
‘That he would organise a visit for Monday. Then he phoned me.’
The retractable pen in Leka’s hand clicked open and shut in quick succession. ‘If the New Zealander and that American whore meet Shala they will know Tomi has been lying. They’ll be yelling for their police friends.’ A snap as the plastic pen broke. He hurled the pieces at the wall. ‘We can’t have the international police talking to Tomi. The man’s weak.’ Narrowed eyes fixed on Gashi. ‘Now listen to me. This has to be taken care of. Right now. You understand me?’
A cursory nod from Gashi.
‘I understand. Shala’s cell is . . . shall we say, accessible.’
After Gashi left, Leka sat staring at the still-life painting of fruit hanging on the wall above his filing cabinet, without really seeing it. He knew Gashi would get the job done. But he needed a plan in case the international police oversaw the ensuing investigation.
His mobile rang. With a scowl he pulled it from his pocket. ‘Yes.’
Halam Akbar’s voice. ‘This is your man from abroad. We need to talk.’
‘What? Now?’
‘Yes. Now.’
Leka’s jaw clenched for a second. ‘Christ. If you must then. But . . . no names.’
‘Understood. The courier was followed. The police have him. And the money.’
The throb in Leka’s temple started anew. ‘The courier doesn’t know any of us. There’s no way anyone can connect him to you. Or me. We’re in the clear. Don’t worry.’
‘His capture is of no concern to me. You understand, of course, that I never saw any of the money.’
The tone of Halam’s voice was too even. There might or might not have been a threat in it. Could Leka take any chances? He knew full well that this assassin would think nothing of blasting his house to kingdom come with him and his family inside it.
‘I understand. I shall speak to the client and arrange another payment. No problems.’
Leka was not about to tell Halam the money would come from his own pocket. There was security in letting the terrorist believe he belonged to a much larger organisation.
‘Good. But this time I will come to Kosovo and collect it myself.’
The upward jerk of Leka’s head sent a twinge through his neck. With a grimace he slapped a hand to the spot.
‘No. Absolutely not. The country is crawling with NATO troops. It is far too risky.’
‘This is not your concern. Just have the money ready.’
The line went dead.
Leka stared at the phone in his hand for a few seconds. He lowered himself into the armchair Gashi had not long vacated. His head fell back, resting upon the upholstery. Although he didn’t want that bomber anywhere near him, Kosovo was probably the last country on earth the authorities would expect him to enter. He decided it was not something he should worry himself with; his bigger concern was the courier. Could he be confident that Gashi had ensured there would be no trail back? After all, the man’s land schemes had become sloppy. Was the sloppiness about to contaminate his own business as well? This could not be allowed, not after he had come so far after losing so much.
The need to clear his brain had become pressing. Leka stood and pulled on a coat and made his way into the street. The bite of winter air on his bare head helped to ease the nagging throb. Soon he found the dirt path beneath his feet that led onto Mother Teresa Boulevard. Heavy clouds forming to the west warned him rain was close. He needed to find shelter but instead continued walking, lost in thoughts of the past.
His childhood in Communist Albania had been a happy one. His father, a law professor at Tirana University, enjoyed a better standard of living than most of Albania’s citizens and Avni Leka never experienced the harsh existence the dictator, Enver Hoxha, imposed on the majority of his people. Hoxha, fearful of conspiracies to overthrow him, had spies everywhere. Arrests were a common occurrence.
Avni’s father, convinced his own arrest was inevitable, fled with his family to his sister in Srebrenica, Bosnia. Avni enrolled in the school of law at the Sarajevo University, his younger brother continuing his studies at a school near Srebrenica. In 1990, Franjo Tudjman decided that, as Tito was dead, Croatia should regain its former statehood.
The Serbian leader, Slobodan Milosevic, had different ideas and determined that he and his Belgrade government would keep Yugoslavia under Serbian rule. In 1991, both Croatia and Slovenia declared independence. War had begun.
Emboldened by the successes of Croatia and Slovenia, the Bosnians declared independence. Avni watched helplessly as the country his family had chosen as their home disintegrated. As the Serbian military moved closer, word of massacres at Zvornik, Lerska and Snagovo quickly spread throughout the region.
Srebrenica became an isolated enclave, the entire region held by Serb forces. There was no escape, and Avni and his family, along wit
h everyone else, became trapped in the town. Avni’s younger brother took up a rifle and stood with the other Bosnian troops on the outer defences. Avni stayed back to protect their home and their mother and father.
Finally, when Avni thought all was lost, the UN Security Council declared Srebrenica a safe area and that they were sending international troops to keep the peace. A truce was put in place. The Serbs used the lull in the fighting to build up their forces and when it became obvious that the UN statements were just rhetoric and no troops were to be sent, the Serbs attacked, supported by heavy artillery and tanks.
The Bosnians were no match and within days were completely overrun.
When Serbian soldiers finally arrived on his doorstep, Avni was alone. His father had gone in search of his brother and had not returned. Avni tried to protect his mother but a rifle butt to the head sent him reeling to the ground. A bullet was fired into his chest, collapsing his lung, and he was left for dead. Still conscious, he watched the soldiers as, one after another, they raped his mother, then lifted her unmoving form from the dirt and tossed her into the back of a truck. Lying in a pool of his own blood, laughter caught his attention. Avni watched with deadened eyes as Serbian soldiers and UN troops mingled amiably, sharing jokes and offering each other cigarettes and coffee.
Avni never saw his mother, father or brother again.
On that day he lost all faith in Western justice. The world had turned its back on him, killed his family and declared he was on his own. Well, so be it. Instead, Avni turned to the Islamic community. They nursed him back to health then provided transport back to Albania. When the mullahs called the faithful to prayers, Avni became a regular attendee. His tragic story came to the attention of a visiting Iranian, Hassan Dara. Over coffee, Hassan declared to Avni he had an interest in working with embittered Islamists to help them find solace through vengeance. To Avni, this offer provided direction to his otherwise purposeless existence.
