by Thomas Ryan
His law degrees were Yugoslavian and useless in Albania, so he moved to Kosovo and established a law practice. Hassan ensured Avni had the money to bribe his way into a position of authority and grow his influence in the airports, ports and border controls. Hassan began to send him men and women from the Middle East wanting to start a new life in Europe. Under Avni’s direction, his henchman Gashi developed corridors for illegal immigration through Montenegro, Croatia and Slovenia into Austria and Italy. He organised boats to smuggle goods and people across the Adriatic.
Soon, Avni was making millions from these illegal activities and needed to hide the money. He established offshore bank accounts, but when the Americans changed the world-banking laws Avni could no longer dump huge amounts into the tax havens. So he began setting up export companies in Western countries. His clients coordinating the illegal immigrations made their payments to Avni by purchasing and importing goods at higher than the normal price. Avni, as a shareholder in all these companies, had the profits paid into his offshore bank accounts. All legal and legitimate with a paper trail to show it. In the end he only received 30 per cent of the original payments, but it was clean and it was plenty.
Hassan, impressed by Avni’s ambition and business expertise, proposed another venture. There were many wealthy men and countries around the world who wanted to strike at the heart of Western civilisation, and who were prepared to pay enormous amounts of money as long as the trail never led back to them. Avni hesitated, but then he remembered his mother defiled in the dirt of Srebrenica. When all was in place he hired the Akbar brothers and his reign of terror began.
Tomi Mema sat alone in his office. His secretary had long gone and so should have he. But as much as he loved his family, tonight he did not need the hassle of clambering children and a wife who could be at times over-demanding.
He poured a second cognac and took a sip. Bradley and the American woman were not going away. Of that he was now certain. The tension headache he’d had since meeting them was threatening to become a migraine. Why had Gashi not let Shala do a runner? They already had the vineyard whether Shala signed over the documents or not. But he had experienced before the insatiable need in Gashi for more. It would lead to their undoing.
What if Bradley met with Shala? A shudder ran through him at the thought. But another thought had begun to bother him. Exactly what had Gashi implied when he’d promised to take care of things? Mema couldn’t bring himself to articulate his suspicions. Might the day come when Gashi took it into his head that Tomi Mema himself needed some kind of taking care of?
Into Mema’s mind once more came the repeated invitation of his cousin to move to Zagreb and start a new life. He recalled how readily he’d told his cousin to stop badgering him. But now the prospect had taken on more appealing dimensions. He had enough money for it.
Mema tossed back the cognac and stared at the empty glass in his hand for a minute. With a bang it went back onto the desktop.
The alcohol was fuelling his resolve, his decision firming. Tonight he would tell his wife they were off to join his cousin. She might hate the idea. Too bad.
But when he pictured her reaction his head drooped.
The cognac bottle came back to hand. Amber liquid trickled into the glass until it spilled over the rim.
24.
A roar erupting in the corner came from a group crowded round an island table, heads turned up and eyes glued to the television. Already covered with spilled beer, empty glasses and ashtrays, the table top was quickly filling with butts which signalled that sports afternoon in the Kukri was underway. Man United had scored.
From their vantage point some distance from the bar, Morgan and Bethany had watched the heated discussion last through two beers, and to the two women it appeared the argument was not going Barry’s way. He slammed his empty glass on the counter and yelled for a refill. Neither Morgan nor Bethany recognised the basketball-player-tall man causing Barry so much aggravation. His oval face atop hunched shoulders, and his pencil-thin lips set in a tolerant, sympathetic smile, were spurring Barry into overreaction. He waved his arms about like a drowning man to emphasise his points.
Morgan raised an eyebrow at Bethany. ‘What do you reckon? Sports or politics?’
Bethany shrugged. ‘I think one more beer and they’ll have forgotten whatever it was they were fighting about.’
Morgan cast a glance at her empty glass. Its condition had been the motivation for Barry going to the bar in the first place. Trying not to be too obvious about it, she glanced towards the door. Jeff might or might not show up. And she hadn’t quite admitted to herself that the snug skirt, black woollen leggings and emerald-green sweater that displayed her figure so well had been selected with him in mind. She was still a little miffed with the good-looking man from New Zealand.
Barry stomped his way back to the table. He slumped into his seat and glared at the two women.
‘Bloody useless UN arseholes. That guy at the bar is Geoffrey Sloan. He works at the justice ministry. He confirmed that everything the lawyer told you is correct. Jeff’s mate is stuck in that bloody prison over the weekend. Nothing anyone can do. A court order can have him released but that can’t happen until Monday. Even if someone agreed to do it.’
‘So that’s it?’ Morgan said.
Barry presented hands of surrender.
‘End of the line. Well . . . maybe not quite. Sloan did say the one man who can help is the Director of Justice. One of your people, Morgan. A Yank. But it’s Saturday afternoon. It’s doubtful he’ll be in his office. And he won’t be working tomorrow, that’s for sure.’
Morgan’s lips pursed. ‘Unfortunately, I doubt he’d be very helpful. I’ve met him before and he spent the entire time patronising me and staring at my chest.’
Morgan shrugged resignedly and for a moment they sat in a defeated silence.
‘So what do we do now?’ said Barry finally.
‘Well, I can think of one thing . . .’ said Bethany.
‘What?’
‘You forgot my drink, darling.’
‘Oh, shit. Sorry.’ Barry hauled himself out of his chair. Bethany grabbed his arm and pulled him down for a quick kiss.
Morgan sighed and turned to look at the door again. There was still a chance Jeff might turn up.
Avni Leka hung his greatcoat on the cherrywood coat rack near the door. The muffled sounds of a television show filtered through from the next room. Voices babbled away in Spanish. Fatmire must have been watching one of her favourite Mexican soaps. She would not be expecting him. If she had been, the recording of an Italian singer crooning a love song would have accompanied the smell of roasting meat up the hallway to greet him.
He sat on the stool in the hall to remove his shoes. An earlier intention to spend an evening with his children had lost out. After a stressful day what he needed was Fatmire. She alone had the magic touch that could relax him.
A step to the sitting room doorway.
Fatmire lay sprawled asleep across the leather couch in T-shirt and panties. The shirt had ridden up to expose long legs spread in innocent invitation. To look upon her firm young body in this way was as aesthetic as it was erotic for Leka. He barely dared breathe lest he wake her and spoil the moment. This twenty-five-year-old beauty belonged only to him. It had never seemed to matter to her that he was a balding man in his fifties and old enough to be her father.
They had met when Fatmire approached him, looking for work. She had no family, no home. A casualty of ethnic cleansing. But her beauty had captured Leka from the very first. And he still remembered with great joy the surprise he’d felt when she accepted the offer of becoming his mistress. So he’d supplied her with an apartment and income and now, two years later, both were more than happy with the arrangement.
Leka found he could trust Fatmire enough to conduct his covert operations from one of the bedrooms in her apartment.
This had the extra advantage of keeping it as far away from his family as he could get it. Fatmire had become his confidante. He discussed and planned his ventures with her. Many a night she would sit up with him as he bounced ideas around. She knew when to hold her silence. Although she did not fully grasp the intricacies of Leka’s projects, she understood enough to be a danger to him should the authorities ever come knocking on her door.
His wife knew he no longer loved her, that he had a lover, and had learned to live with it. She had children to love and a bottomless bank account. It was enough. At first he feared his wife might react in the time-honoured way of a woman scorned. But thankfully she had not. He well knew how Albanian women could become irrational and vengeful. But as the wife of a chief prosecutor she was a respected member of her community, her social status being more important to her than becoming acrimonious over her husband’s infidelity.
She accepted her circumstances just as Fatmire had accepted hers.
Fatmire’s eyes opened. She smiled and reached out a hand. Leka moved forward to grasp it.
Jeff finally made it to the Kukri by 5 p.m., just in time to watch the second Premier League match of the day. Cheers and groans blended in with the general din of laughter and shouting.
After hearing what Barry had discovered, Jeff said, ‘I guess that’s it then. We’ve run out of options.’
He was more disappointed than he was prepared to show. At lunch Sulla had told him he knew no one in the detention centre. Another dead end. The look on Morgan’s face told him she could see how he felt. For a second he sensed that she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and tell him things would be all right. He wouldn’t have minded that. It would have eased the apprehension lurking inside his brain that things might not be all right at all.
Instead it was Bethany who laid a hand on his arm.
‘It must be horrible in that place. I can’t begin to imagine what the inside of a Kosovon prison must be like.’
‘Me neither,’ Barry chipped in. ‘What about you, Morgan? Any idea?
A shake of Morgan’s red head. ‘Not really. I can only guess it can’t be good.’
Jeff hoped Morgan was wrong. He had already resolved not to phone Kimie and tell her about Arben being in jail. Not yet. If the fates decreed, the whole affair could be over on Monday and she would never have needed to know.
The waiter came with a tray of drinks and packets of potato crisps. ‘Cheer up, mate,’ Barry said. He transferred the contents of the tray onto the table. ‘You found where he is and you know he’s safe. You’ve hired a lawyer and on Monday you get to see him. It’s all going to turn out fine.’
‘You’re right, Barry. Thanks again to all of you for helping out.’
‘No problems, mate. Now, can we watch the match and drink some beer?’
Jeff picked up his beer and tried to relax. Barry was right. Arben was safe for the moment. By Monday it would all be over.
25.
Have I done something to antagonise Sabri?’
It was Sunday afternoon. Courtyard time. Arben walked with Bedri as he did on each visit to the exercise yard.
‘Why? What’s the little thug done now?’
‘Done? Nothing to speak of. It’s just that I catch him staring at me sometimes. Not friendly. Then he spits. He doesn’t speak any more either. Not that he ever did that much. But now, not at all. It’s . . . strange.’
‘My friend, Sabri is strange. Don’t let it get to you.’
Silence for a minute as the two men stepped out the twenty paces that was the length of the oblong-shaped exercise yard. The ping-ping of a table-tennis ball came from the centre. The laughter of Imer and another inmate occasionally burst into abuse. Arben glanced behind him. Near the entrance gate he spotted Sabri surrounded by a handful of strutting young bucks. Bedri followed Arben’s eyes.
‘New guys, Arben. Think they own the place. Sabri has them in line in very short order. They all end up terrified of him.’
‘How does he do that? He’s not that big.’
‘How? Let me ask you. Are you scared of him?’
Arben swallowed. He wanted to say no, of course not. But the words refused to come. Bedri’s forefinger tapped Arben’s chest.
‘There’s your answer right there, my friend. The guy’s a psychopath. People react without knowing why to all the weird stuff they sense going on in that crazy head of his.’ Bedri pulled Arben to a halt. ‘Sabri’s kind doesn’t need a reason to hate. They just hate.’
Arben’s gaze turned again towards Sabri. He discovered Sabri looking back. Something in the eyes sent a shiver through Arben. He looked away and turned his attention back to Bedri.
‘What was it Sabri did to end up in here?’
Before the question was out of his mouth, Arben wondered if it had been wise even to ask it.
Bedri’s mouth tightened. ‘You ask? Okay, I’ll tell. Sabri and a friend were sitting in a cafe in Prizren. Both out of their brains on drugs. A university student sent to the cafe by his father to collect espressos made the mistake of looking in Sabri’s direction. Sabri took it as an insult. He pulled a knife and sliced the kid’s stomach open. His guts fell out onto the floor. Sabri was still laughing when the police arrived to take him away.’
Arben felt the blood drain from his face. ‘How . . . how long’s he in here for?’
‘Who knows. His trial keeps getting adjourned. His family’s no doubt organising money to pay the bribes. If they drag it out long enough he’ll probably get off.’
Arben’s eyes widened. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘This is Kosovo, my friend. So remember. That man is a very crazy person. Crazy people do crazy things. Take the warning.’
‘Imer will keep him in order, won’t he? That’s what he does.’
‘Not for much longer. Imer received his release date on Friday afternoon.’
‘But he’s said nothing about it,’ Arben said.
‘To me, he has. I’m his friend. It’s just that he refuses to get too excited. He says that until the day they let him walk through the gates and do not drag him back, he won’t believe he’s free. That’s Imer.’
But Arben now saw the reason why the dynamic of the cell had in fact changed in the previous two days. Imer had seemed preoccupied. Didn’t obsess so much over maintaining order. Now the prospect of losing the man he considered a guardian angel became a horrifying prospect.
That night, Arben sat at the table stirring his coffee. What would he say to Tomi Mema in the morning? Sabri lay in silence on his bunk and was for the moment out of his thoughts. There was a scrape as Bedri pulled up a chair next to him. His mouth came close to Arben’s ear.
‘Arben, you need to be careful. Sabri has been talking about you to Imer. He said his gang of thugs should beat you up if you don’t give them money.’
Arben’s stomach lurched. ‘But . . . but I don’t have any money.’
‘He reckons you could pay it on the outside.’
‘Why would he do such a thing? I haven’t done anything to any of them.’
Bedri’s finger pointed at his own temple and performed a circular motion. ‘Crazy, remember? Greedy piece of shit too.’
‘What did Imer say?’
‘Imer said he would beat Sabri to a pulp if he laid a finger on you. He’d do it anyway if it wouldn’t affect his release.’
‘I understand. Please tell Imer not to do anything.’ He gripped Bedri’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Bedri. I can look after myself. I might be middle-aged but I’m not useless. After the kindness you and Imer have shown me, I would hate it if either of you suffered trying to protect me.’
The need to empty his bladder woke Arben. He’d had a restless night. Trying to sleep with Sabri’s radio blaring was hopeless. Arben detected from the chorus of snores that everybody was now asleep. He would turn it off on
the way to the toilet. He climbed down from his bunk. Squinting, he studied the line of knobs. Light filtering through cracks in the toilet door gave just enough illumination. He identified the volume controller and reached out.
A hand snapped onto his wrist gripping like a vice.
Arben tried to pull away. The hold tightened. Cold sweat broke out on Arben’s forehead as he saw the shadowy form of Sabri rising off his mattress. Arben’s mouth opened. No words came. Panic gave him strength. He pulled and managed to shake himself free then shuffled backwards until he hit the cell door. There was no escape. Nowhere to hide. Sabri came after him. Light reflected off something in his hand. Arben knew it had to be a blade.
‘Sabri. Don’t do this.’
The noise of the radio was covering the gasp that was all the voice Arben could muster. A smile with no humour spread across Sabri’s face. Arben threw himself to the side and grabbed the plastic table. With something to keep him separated from Sabri, Arben cast about for a weapon. There was nothing. He reached a hand behind him to hammer on the cell door. The guardroom was some distance away. Would they even hear?
Sabri grabbed the edge of the table, flipped it upwards and dived at Arben’s legs. They both fell to the floor. Sabri squirmed and manoeuvred Arben onto his back. Pinned down and facing a mask of hatred within an inch of his face, a surge of adrenaline galvanised Arben’s body. A deep breath and he pushed for all he was worth. Sabri tumbled to the floor alongside him. Arben leaped to his feet and kicked the blade from Sabri’s hand.
Growling the guttural sound of an animal of the wild, Sabri sprang to his feet. Arben didn’t hesitate. All his weight went into a right-hand swing. His fist smashed into the side of Sabri’s skull. The psychopath dropped to the floor and lay motionless. Arben stood over him. Breath whistled through his nose. His hand hurt.
But his racing heart was also a triumphant heart. He stood there with eyes closed and a sense of great relief.
