by Thomas Ryan
Sulla shuffled through the photos. Colour now burned on his cheeks. He looked up at Caldwell.
‘It is me. But I am not KLA. I was only acting. Playing a role. The film crew couldn’t find a real supplier so I did what the film crew asked me to do and pretended to be one. They promised the film was just for the UK. I wasn’t to know they lied about that. So I used the old Serbian explosives I’d found after the war. They were just props. It was make-believe.’
Caldwell stabbed his finger at the analysis sheet. ‘Mr Bogdani. All explosives have their own chemical characteristics and reflect the environment where they were made. You would know this, Bradley. Right?’
Jeff looked at Sulla who was now head down, studying the documents from beneath furrowed brows. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll also know there’s an easily measurable deterioration process in explosives. These particular explosives showed minimum ageing and they were not Serbian. They were from a batch coincidentally used to blow up a Belgian department store that killed an American ambassador and his family. The same explosives killed eighty-three innocent people in Slovenia. Children. Blown apart. Would you like to see those photographs?’
Jeff noticed Morgan wince and look away to the river.
Sulla wasn’t listening. His eyes were studying the explosives analysis before him. A finger pounced at a place on the document. ‘Look here. The explosives did not go directly to NATO. It was fifteen days later. Fifteen days.’
Caldwell barely gave the paper a glance. ‘That makes no difference. The chain of evidence is clear and documented. The film crew still handed in the explosives that you gave them. Explosives that exactly match the explosives used in the two European bombings.’
Sulla shook his head. ‘There is something wrong with your chain of evidence.’ He levelled a look at the three sets of eyes on him. ‘I can prove it.’
Caldwell had the grace to look surprised. ‘Prove it? How?’
‘I only gave the film crew enough explosive to look good. I still have all the rest.’
‘You kept the stuff? Why on earth would you do that?’
Sulla grimaced like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. ‘Albanians do not waste. My neighbour, he had many old trees that had been burned on his land in the war. It is easier to blow up a big stump with explosives than dig it out by shovel.’
Jeff noticed Caldwell’s jaw drop. It closed as quickly. The first sign of an honest emotion Jeff had observed in the man.
‘There’s no mention of that from you in the court transcript.’
‘No one ever asked me.’
Caldwell’s head tilted to one side. ‘I’d have expected your lawyer to make sure somebody did.’
‘My lawyer was not so good. He had little interest in my defence. On the first day of the trial he told me he had spoken with the prosecutor about a plea bargain. Because of the time I had already spent in prison, if I pleaded guilty to possession I would be free that day. So I agreed. Three times the Austrian judge asked me if I understood what I was pleading guilty to, and three times my lawyer instructed me to say yes. The judge found me guilty, and sentenced me to five years.’
‘Jesus, Sulla. This just goes from bad to worse,’ Jeff said.
‘This was the lawyer who cheated my father out of our house when the Serbs were slaughtering Albanian Kosovons and stealing all our land in 1998. He is a greedy man. He strong-armed us out of the house for a quarter of its worth and came back after the NATO bombings and demanded a broker’s fee. He said he was never paid. Anyway, he said he would defend me for free.’
‘Goodness, Bogdani. And this didn’t raise your suspicions?’ Caldwell asked.
‘Of course. But I had gained a reputation as KLA. And an arms dealer. A terrorist. There was a two-page story on me in the Sunday Times. My lawyer explained that such a high-profile case would help his law practice. He needed the publicity, and in return I would receive the services of a top-class lawyer. It sounded reasonable to me. More proof I am a stupid man.’ Sulla smiled, but it faded quickly. ‘So I went off to prison and my father found me a new lawyer. She argued that I had been poorly represented. The police had never actually found me in possession of the explosives, they had only been seen on the film and these had been given to NATO by the British film crew. The new judge agreed and they let me go. The rest you know.’
Sulla’s attention dropped back to the photos fanned out on the table. Caldwell studied him for a second. ‘The fact still remains, Bogdani. You handed over real explosives to the film crew. The same explosives that did a lot of killing of innocent people.’
Suddenly Sulla tensed. ‘See here.’ He pushed two photos in front of Caldwell. ‘Look closely. The packs I am giving to the journalists? The tops are slightly blackened. But on these photos at the NATO handover, they are not.’
Caldwell squinted at where Sulla was indicating. ‘That could just be shadow.’ He held the photo to the light. ‘But leaving that aside for the minute, where is the rest of the stuff?’
‘I have it safely hidden. But I can retrieve it easily enough.’
Caldwell put the photo on top of the rest and returned them to the folder. ‘How long would this take?’
‘I can have it tomorrow.’
A card appeared out of Caldwell’s pocket and went across the table to Sulla.
‘Very well. Let me know when you do. I’m after real terrorists, not would-be actors. You can ring me on my mobile. If you ever plan on having a normal life again I suggest you utilise this opportunity to prove your innocence.’
Caldwell sat back and directed a steady look at Jeff. ‘There you have it, Bradley. The answer you came here for. Now I’d appreciate it if you would just go home and leave the rest to me. You have my contact details. I promise I’ll keep you informed.’
The glare Jeff threw at Caldwell said that he was not given to quietly disappearing on demand. ‘Screw you, Caldwell. I’m not leaving. I’m going after the bastards who killed Arben. With or without your help.’
Caldwell smiled. He didn’t give the impression of a man easily offended. ‘Mm. Once SAS, always SAS? That it?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I appreciate a noble sentiment as much as the next man. But you’re a civilian now. You make wine. I’m sure it’s very good wine, but you’ve been out of the game too long. It shows. And might I say you’ve caused enough trouble? Why not just leave the intelligence work to people paid to do it? Does that not sound like reasonable advice?’
The amiable insult had Jeff gritting his teeth. But there was no way he wanted Caldwell to see it had affected him. With a half-smile at Jeff, Caldwell shoved Sulla’s file back in his briefcase and stood to leave. He picked up the bill the waiter had dropped onto the table for their coffees.
‘Now if you’ll all excuse me. Ms Delaney, nice to meet you. Goodbye for now, Mr Bogdani. Mr Bradley, have a safe journey home, won’t you?’
‘Thank you,’ Jeff said. ‘When I do go home I can assure you I will.’
Jeff watched Caldwell’s departing back. But some instinct attracted him to four solid figures in suits that rose from a table some distance away and sauntered in the direction Caldwell had taken. Had it been the heavy shoulders? The athleticism in otherwise relaxed gaits? His eyes homed in on bulges beneath the armpits that would have gone unnoticed to any casual observer. Jeff realised he was taking a grim satisfaction in proving himself not quite as rusty as Caldwell had implied.
And one thing he knew about the CIA’s methods. Had Sulla’s answers not satisfied Caldwell, even just for the present, all three of them might now be handcuffed with bags over their heads and on their way to a covert American detention facility.
He adjusted his sights on Sulla. ‘Any more surprises in the offing?’
Sulla’s head shook.
‘No Jeff. Inshallah.’
/> 31.
Sulla parked down a side street a hundred metres from Tomi Mema’s office. Jeff’s head twisted to give him a view of the passenger in the back. ‘You ready, Morgan?’
‘Never readier. Let’s go see what the little shit has to say for himself.’
‘Hey. Tread carefully there. A feisty in-your-face Yank grabbing him by the family jewels is not what’s needed at the moment. We need to scare him, not beat him to death. Not until we know for certain he was complicit in Arben’s murder.’
‘I didn’t club Sulla over the head, did I? And God knows he deserved it.’
Sulla’s head shot around to see the look on Morgan’s face. Jeff laughed at his expression of shock. Sulla’s English may have been excellent, but maybe not his grasp of Yank irony. Jeff’s hand extended to pat his shoulder.
‘The lady’s all bark, Sulla. Now here’s the plan. I want you to stay here. Morgan and I won’t raise Mema’s defences half as much as your hulking great mass of black leather will. We need him relaxed. We won’t be that long. Okay?’
‘I understand. I will wait.’
Despite the sudden appearance of Jeff and Morgan at his office door, Tomi Mema managed to turn on his polished smile. As he emerged from behind the desk, the hand of the practised professional extended first to Morgan, then to Jeff.
‘Mr Bradley. Ms Delaney. So nice to see you both. Please take a seat.’ A hand waved to the chairs opposite the desk. He resumed his own. ‘Mr Bradley, I thought you might have left Kosovo by now.’
‘Not yet. The Shala family has asked me to stay and see if there’s any possibility of reclaiming their property. They don’t want Arben’s death to have been for nothing. How could I say no?’
To Jeff’s satisfaction the smile on Mema’s face took on a mask-like quality. ‘Er . . . I see. And how can I be of service?’
‘I want to hire you to dispute the Xhiha brothers’ claim. Everyone I’ve talked to tells me you’re the best there is.’
The hook was baited. But Jeff thought the look Mema threw at Morgan held a hint of reticence.
‘Of course, anything you need. But we will need to discuss my fee first. And there will be other costs.’
‘Money’s no object.’ Jeff mentally cringed at his use of a Wall Street financier’s cliché. But part of his strategy relied on Mema being convinced that he represented rich pickings. ‘Name your price. I’ll have the money transferred.’
The mention of money appeared to banish any reservations the lawyer may have had for the reasons for Jeff and Morgan’s visit. Mema retrieved a sheet of paper from his desk drawer.
‘Very well, I’ll itemise an estimate for you now.’
Jeff and Morgan watched as he fell to jotting down figures across the page.
‘Oh. There is something else, Mema.’
Mema’s head lifted. ‘Yes?’
‘Strange one, this.’ Jeff assumed a pose he hoped resembled a look of mild curiosity. ‘I’ve heard you met with Arben a number of times in prison and knew he was there all along.’
A rasp from a quick intake of breath. Jeff had seen wounded soldiers, pale from shock, but none had looked as bad as Mema did right then. A shaky pen found its way back onto the desktop. The lawyer cleared his throat.
‘Oh no . . . Mr Bradley. You must be misinformed. I am in the prison all the time. It would be easy enough for someone to jump to the wrong conclusions.’
Wide eyes stayed fixed on Jeff’s as a hand wended its way uncertainly for the water bottle on the side of his desk before knocking it over and sending it tumbling to the floor.
‘Now, I think we both know that’s not true, don’t we?’ Jeff spoke softly. His tone could even have been mistaken for pleasant. ‘I’m not a great fan of people who lie to me.’
Beads of perspiration had broken out on Mema’s death-mask of a face. Jeff stood and leaned on the desk, his face inches from Mema’s. His voice remained even.
‘Whatever games you were playing cost my friend his life.’ A gasp from Mema as Jeff’s finger lodged hard against his chest. ‘So here’s the deal. You go get these documents for Arben’s vineyard signed off by the court. Don’t think for a second of trying any of your dirty tricks on me, you little shit of an arsehole. Or it’ll cost you your life. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
Mema appeared incapable of moving, let alone breathing. Jeff pulled away and sat down again with folded arms. He exchanged a glance with Morgan. Her mouth had tightened into a grim smile of satisfaction. She nodded. Jeff focused back on Mema. He looked to be shrinking into his chair.
‘You do understand what I’ve just said to you, Mema?’
Mema’s silence and continuing slack-mouthed expression of shock began to dent Jeff’s resolve to play it cool with the man. The tightening in his throat warned him his anger was on the rise.
In one move Jeff leaned forward with two fingers poking at Mema’s eyes. ‘Do you fucking understand me?’
Mema jumped. A frantic nodding of the head ensued.
Jeff’s hand dropped. He surveyed the shaking man for a second.
‘Good. Good, Tomi.’ Jeff stood and gestured to Morgan to do the same. He looked back at Mema. ‘Get it done. I’ll be back.’
Jeff and Sulla proceeded to the Kukri bar without Morgan. She had pleaded the need for a hot shower and an early night.
Barry bought a round of drinks and listened with rapt interest as Jeff described first the meeting in Macedonia with Caldwell, then the encounter with Tomi Mema.
‘Bloody hell, mate. Nothing that exciting ever happens to me. Not ever. This is my life. The Kukri, the same people, the same beer and the same sports on the telly. I might as well be back in Sydney watching the Waratahs lose another rugby match. So what happens now?’
‘Sulla is going to Peje tomorrow to see his father and get the explosives.’
‘And this doesn’t worry you, Sulla?’ said Barry.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked Jeff.
‘Bloody oath there is,’ Barry said. ‘You wouldn’t know, Jeff, but the whole area is controlled by ex-KLA guys. Mostly they’re into smuggling. Back and forth across the mountains into Albania. Other shit as well. From what you guys have just said, Sulla is not exactly one of their favourite sons. If they spot him he might end up with his silly bloody head shot off.’
‘I must take that risk to clear my name. If the Americans still believe I am a terrorist, my life will be shit for ever. I’ll never get a visa to travel anywhere ever again.’
Barry stared at him. ‘I’m thinking a visa would be the least of your problems. If the bloody Yanks suspect you’re a terrorist you might end up in a hole in a country that isn’t even on the map, mate.’ He paused. ‘Hey. Here’s an idea. Why don’t I drive you in my UN vehicle? It could be enough of a cover to get you in and out in one piece.’
Jeff glanced at Sulla. ‘Not a bad idea at all. Sulla?’
‘No. Thank you for the offer, Barry, but I cannot allow you to become involved.’ He turned to Jeff. ‘Things could go wrong.’
From further along the bar Hansie’s voice called to Barry. He gestured at the rugby match playing on the TV above his head. Barry raised a hand. ‘Just a second, mate.’ He turned back to Sulla. ‘Look, sport, I’ll be buggered if I’m going to let you two have all the fun. This is what’s going to happen. I’ll be outside the Grand Hotel in a UN SUV at eight in the morning. Sharp, mate. Be there.’
Sulla’s mouth opened to say something, but Barry had already departed to join Hansie.
32.
It was the third time his mobile had rung in as many minutes. Avni Leka had ignored the first two. ‘Damn it.’
Fatmire grabbed his buttocks. Held him. Wouldn’t allow him to withdraw. He knew it would make no difference. The moment had passed. Lately, with so much on his mind, attaining an orgasm had proven a hopeless task. To
night Fatmire had brought him to the precipice twice and each time the blasted phone had broken his concentration.
He rolled onto his back and reached to the side table for his watch. 10.32 p.m. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat and reached to switch on the lamp. Fatmire rose to her knees and began kneading his shoulders. But Leka bent away to retrieve the ringing mobile buried in his clothes on the floor. He checked the caller ID and frowned. Osman Gashi. Under his breath he muttered a curse. Gashi would not call him at this hour unless there was trouble. And that meant his night was about to be ruined.
He thumbed the answer button. There was no attempt to disguise his irritation. ‘Gashi, what do you want?’
‘We need to meet. It’s urgent.’
‘I’m busy. Tell me now.’
Leka had no desire to dress and meet Gashi. Fatmire poured a cognac and placed it on the table next to him. He had no need of the drink. The alcohol would only make his goal more difficult. She lay back and spread-eagled herself across the white satin sheets, gyrating, touching herself, her eyes closed as she thrust her hips in time to imagined music. She was a beautiful, desirable woman, her young body so sculpted, so firm. He felt a sudden wave of sadness and frustration, knowing he could never truly fulfil her sexual needs.
‘Not over the phone, Avni. I’ll be waiting for you in Edi’s Restaurant.’
With a groan Leka dragged his eyes away from Fatmire. ‘All right. Give me half an hour.’
He reached for the half-filled glass of cognac next to the lamp and downed it in one gulp.
