The Field of Blackbirds (A Jeff Bradley Thriller)

by Thomas Ryan

  ‘This is Kosovo, Barry. Everyone knows we’re here.’

  Basholli had his men in place a good half-hour before Sulla and Barry arrived. When Barry’s UN vehicle entered the city a man dressed in a green military jacket and black beret ticked off the plate’s number on the paper in front of him.

  When this news reached Basholli, he proceeded to his safe house deep in the woods. Surrounding trees shielded the clearing from the morning sun and trails of footsteps criss-crossed the overnight covering of frost. The cold was just as biting inside the house as out. A glance towards the fireplace. One of Basholli’s men was using a magazine to fan a flame that fought for life under a pile of damp logs. Displaying little confidence in the likelihood of much warmth from that quarter, the others had opted for the alternative and sipped cognac from glasses held in cupped hands. Coffee bubbled away on the stove. Basholli poured himself a cup.

  Word had come through that Sulla had parked not too far from his father’s house and he and his driver were now just sitting in the vehicle. The UN vehicle and the UN driver were unwelcome complications. If either came to any harm, Basholli knew Peje would be flooded with international police and he and his men would be first in the firing line. He gave explicit orders to his men that Sulla and his companion were not to be harmed.

  Barry’s fidgeting was beginning to annoy Sulla. After twenty minutes he’d seen no sign of Basholli’s men. They were either not here or so well hidden he was never going to see them.

  ‘Time for me to go in, Barry. You wait here. I will not be longer than ten minutes. Whatever you do, do not leave the vehicle.’

  ‘No way, mate. I’m coming with you.’ One of Barry’s hands rested on the door handle, the other fingered the UN identification card hanging round his neck. ‘See this? Large and easily seen. It’s like a bloody bulletproof vest, mate. No one wants to fuck with the UN.’

  ‘This may be so. But I’m not willing to take the risk.’ Sulla opened the passenger door. ‘I need you to stay here with the car.’ Barry opened his mouth to protest, but Sulla held up his hand. ‘Enough. Now. If anything happens, do not come to help me. Drive away and go straight to the police. But Barry, do not leave the vehicle.’

  A breath whistled through tightened lips as Barry’s raised his hands. ‘All right, all right. Don’t worry, I’ve got the message already. Jesus.’

  Sulla’s eyes narrowed. He was not convinced Barry had really listened to a word he said. He climbed from the vehicle and closed the door. A quick stretch as his eyes scanned the vicinity.

  Basholli answered his cell phone on the first ring.

  ‘He’s on the move.’

  ‘Good. You know what to do. And remember. No shooting.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Basholli snapped his phone shut with a stony expression. In fifteen more minutes, Sulla would be standing before him and it would nearly be all over. The thought of it made him physically ill. But there was no way he could allow his men to discern the distaste he harboured for what the fates had planned for him and the brother of his wife this day.

  Sulla planned to get the explosives and leave without disturbing his father. This was not a time for visiting. The longer he was in the area the more he placed his father and Barry at risk. It concerned him that Barry would probably not follow his instructions. The Australian’s stubbornness baffled him. And why would a man he barely knew put himself in danger to help him? It was foolishness.

  A squeak of complaint and the door in the gate swung open at his push. He was forced to stoop to go through it. As his eyes lifted from the paved courtyard covered with weeds white from morning frost, they settled on the business ends of the barrels of three Kalashnikovs.

  36.

  Welcome home, Sulla. Please, come in. Stand against the wall. Just there, next to the bench.’

  Sulla’s earlier decision that he shouldn’t upset or involve his father now looked like very poor judgment on his part. He should have asked him to bring the explosives to Prishtina. When he learned of the death of his incompetent son, it would probably kill him anyway. Sulla recognised the speaker waving a rifle at him, but could not remember his name. One of Basholli’s lieutenants, he knew that much. The other two he had never seen before.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid. You cannot move faster than a bullet. And you have the old man to consider.’

  ‘Leave my father out of this.’

  ‘Your father is safe. As long as you behave he will not even know we have been here.’

  Sulla breathed a little easier. He knew the man spoke the truth. Basholli would never allow anyone to harm his father-in-law. He glanced about the courtyard. His father had been busy. The small vegetable garden looked freshly turned and the fruit trees pruned. Clay pots of varying sizes sat in nooks and crannies. A grape vine was a new addition. He noted that a leg on the small iron table he had bought for his father had rusted.

  Three steps and Sulla reached the indicated spot.

  ‘Now, if you will raise your arms please. A quick search. Nothing more.’

  Sulla did as instructed. The man to his left moved forward to frisk him.

  ‘He’s clean.’

  To Sulla’s ears came the squeak of a rusty hinge and the shuffle of feet. His gaze flew in the direction of the gate. Barry stumbled into the courtyard with two armed men close behind. Sulla’s eyes rolled to the heavens. Yet another poor judgment call.

  This was turning into a disaster. He should never have let Barry come.

  Barry straightened and held his identification card aloft, waving it like a crusading priest wielding a crucifix to ward off a coven of vampires.

  ‘Are you people stupid? UN, mate.’

  The men with the guns exchanged glances then laughed.

  Barry tried hard to maintain a brave front. But there could be no disguising his shaking hands, nor the shade of grey his face had gone.

  Sulla aimed a hard look at him. ‘Barry, just do as they say.’

  The spokesman flipped open a mobile phone and moved out of hearing distance. Sulla assumed it would be Basholli on the other end. And he also assumed that the only reason he remained alive was that for some reason Basholli wanted him that way. He couldn’t imagine it would be for long. It didn’t matter that they were brothers-in-law. Given the belief of senior KLA operatives that Sulla had sold them out to NATO, Basholli had little choice but to kill him.

  The phone call over, the headman ordered Sulla and Barry out of the courtyard and into two black Mercedes parked outside: Sulla into the front vehicle, Barry into the second.

  It worried Barry that he hadn’t been blindfolded. He’d read novels and seen movies. Kidnappers always blindfolded the abducted otherwise they could lead police to the kidnappers’ hideouts. He could think of just one reason not to bother with blindfolds. It left his stomach feeling jittery and close to heaving.

  With an armed man squeezed either side of him and their rifles across his back for want of room, Barry was forced to lean forward. As the cars drove along the main road out of Peje, his left leg began to cramp. Ten minutes later the vehicles turned onto a mud track and drove into the woods a short way before entering a clearing. The cars stopped outside a single-storey house. Armed men moved forward and surrounded the two vehicles.

  This is it, Barry thought. No one will ever find my body out here. He now wished he were back in Sydney sunning himself on Manly Beach. This adventure wasn’t turning out to be quite as much fun as he’d imagined.

  A dozen pairs of eyes followed Sulla’s walk towards the house. He tried to ignore them. He would walk with head high and shoulders back. If this were to be his last day, he would face it like a man.

  Sulla knew Basholli had numerous houses like this one, far from prying eyes and listening devices. Such secret lairs were where the planning was done and where his men hid when the heat was on. A small hallway
led into an open-plan kitchen-lounge. The stench of cigarette smoke hung in the damp air. It was tempered by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Unwashed coffee cups lay on the bench. There were no paintings on the walls, no carpeting cushioned the floors. But Sulla knew the spartan environment would be more than enough for ex-soldiers of the Kosovon Liberation Army.

  Blerim Basholli sat behind a circular dining table in the centre of the room, leaning back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other. Two men flanked him. One had a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. The other rested the butt of his on his thigh.

  Basholli gestured Sulla to sit. ‘I wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you, but this is not a pleasure for me. I hope you can believe that.’

  ‘How is my sister?’

  ‘I left her sleeping. She knows nothing of this.’

  ‘The man in the car with me. The international. He is a friend.’

  Blerim held up a hand. ‘I promise he will not be harmed. Now. To business.’ Basholli clasped his fingers together and rested them on his lap. ‘I am curious. I heard you had left the country. That pleased me. My first thoughts were Thank you Sulla, you have spared me the indignity of committing a terrible deed. But then you come back. Not only do you come back, you come here, to Peje. To my home, Sulla.’ Basholli’s voice had risen. A vein bulged down his forehead. ‘You have slapped me on the face. You have made me very unhappy and now I have to make your family very unhappy. Why? Why have you done this to me?’

  ‘I had no intention of returning here, but I had little choice. I must clear my name to help a friend of your wife’s father.’

  Basholli shook his head. ‘You wish to clear your name to help a friend of your father? How about my name. The names of my men? Are you going to clear these, too?’

  ‘I can explain. But it is a long story.’

  Basholli’s laugh lacked any discernible humour. ‘You were always a good storyteller. This whole mess is because of your damned stories. But . . . we have time. So go ahead. Tell me a story.’

  Sulla told his brother-in-law of meeting Jeff, looking for Shala, the scam over the vineyard, the Xhiha brothers. His brother-in-law sat listening without interrupting. When Sulla finished, Basholli scratched the back of his neck then slowly nodded and leaned forward.

  ‘That’s all very interesting, Sulla. But it does not explain why you have returned to Peje.’

  ‘Because of the explosives.’

  ‘The explosives? Always these damned explosives. There were no explosives, Sulla. Just that shit you used for getting rid of stumps. They had nothing to do with us and yet they are still causing trouble. My men are very displeased with your imaginary explosives. Especially those who went to prison because of them.’

  ‘I have felt much guilt for a long time for what I did, and because of what happened to you and your men. My stupidity caused you much grief, but not as much as these explosives will cause you now. The explosives I gave to the television crew were switched before they were handed in to NATO.’

  Basholli’s head tilted to the side. ‘Go on.’

  ‘In Macedonia I met an American. Probably a CIA agent, I think. He told me the explosives NATO received from the television crew were the same used in terrorist bombings in Belgium, and now in Slovenia. They think someone from Kosovo, possibly the KLA, supplied explosives to these bombers. So you and your men are primary suspects.’

  A snort came from Basholli. ‘Only thanks to you and your idiotic television programme.’

  ‘That may be true. But also thanks to me, I can prove you’re innocent.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Luckily I still have some of the explosives buried at my house. Once the authorities test them it will confirm the switch and this will clear all of us.’

  Basholli sat back and stared at Sulla. ‘Even if what you say is true, you could have lived without the clearance of any names. Started again somewhere else. Clearing your name may be understandable, but it is not as important as staying alive. You knew what would happen if you ever came back to Peje. You’re lucky you weren’t shot on sight. Why risk it?’

  ‘The American agent told me the name of the man they believe is funding the European terrorists. He has been raising money for these people through the property scams. He had a friend of my father murdered. The man I told you about. Arben Shala. Now my New Zealand friend is going after this criminal and needs my help.’

  ‘And you risked coming back here for this foreigner? He is not family.’ Basholli slapped his chest. ‘I am family and what do you give to me? Nothing but heartache and trouble.’

  ‘I cannot undo the past, Blerim.’

  ‘Even if I believe you, and I think I’m inclined to do so, it wouldn’t matter. Because of you we have suffered. That is still on your head. It changes nothing.’

  ‘True. What is done cannot be undone, even if it is possible to clear both our names. But perhaps you might be interested in the man they are after.’

  ‘Okay Sulla. Last chance. Dazzle me. Who is the man the Americans are after?’

  ‘Osman Gashi.’

  ‘Holy shit. Yahooo! Thank you, God. Thank you, Holy Father and Mary and Joseph and whoever else. Thank yooou.’ Barry kissed his hand and bashed the top of the steering wheel. ‘Bloody flaming hell.’

  Sulla clung to the strap above the door as the UN vehicle bounced across potholes and ruts in the road.

  ‘I think you should maybe slow down a little, Barry.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, mate. Just as soon as I pass that last building and we’re out of this fucking town. Yeehaaaa.’

  ‘We are safe. I promise. Now please slow down.’

  ‘Okay, okay. But Jesus, mate, I can’t get back to Prishtina fast enough. I’ve been surrounded by guys with Kalashnikovs who wanted to shoot me. How fucking unbelievable is that? Tell you what Sulla, the Kukri is going to get a hammering tonight. Then I’m going to take Bethany to bed and stay there for a week.’ He glanced across at Sulla. ‘Anyway. What in the hell did you say to get them to let us go?’

  Despite a noticeable reduction in speed, Sulla still clung to the door strap. ‘I mentioned the name Osman Gashi. It worked as I hoped it might.’

  ‘Really? Why? What’s this Gashi guy to them?’

  ‘Gashi murdered Blerim Basholli’s father.’

  37.

  Gasping for breath, Osman Gashi rolled onto his back. The Viagra could keep him as hard as a rock but his lack of physical condition often kept him from crossing the finish line. Perspiration flowed from his pores like floodwaters down the face of a dam. A hand went to his chest. The racing of his heart reminded him of his doctor’s warning: too many cigarettes, too much booze, too much food and not enough exercise. ‘You are going to have a stroke, Mr Gashi. You must change your lifestyle.’

  He’d told the doctor to go screw himself. The old fool received more than enough money from him to import the best medications to keep him healthy and away from impotency’s door. He would live the life he wanted.

  Gashi rolled his head to the side. The young hooker flashed a smile back at him. He doubted she was warming to him out of any pleasure from their sexual encounter. More likely it was gratitude he was no longer pounding her. What did he care what she thought? Ignoring the smile, he reached out and squeezed a firm, young breast.

  The girl ran her hand across his thigh. He pushed it away. He was finished. Any more would most likely kill him.

  ‘Get out of here.’

  A flat-hander across her bare arse drew a yelp. Gathering up her clothes she ran from the room.

  When his breathing returned to its normal guttural wheeze, he hauled his naked body upright. He reached for a bottle of mineral water lying on the floor and poured the contents over his head then wiped himself off with the bed sheet. Red silk. The men who used his services paid top dollars and expected the surr
oundings to match the quality of the women he supplied. This was the red room. Red wallpaper, red sheets, red chairs, even the spa bath was red. The shower sported white tiles inlaid with red roses. Gashi enjoyed the erotic effect under dimmed lights. Whenever he banged one of his whores, it was always in the Red Room.

  But even the new girl couldn’t distract him for long from a new unease in his life. How was it possible that Sulla Bogdani had left Peje alive? Tomi Mema assured him he gave the message to Basholli exactly as instructed. And Mema did not have the balls to lie to him. Sulla could not have entered Peje without Basholli knowing. His men would have been everywhere. What’s more, the UN vehicle would be as easy to spot as a lump of coal on a snowfield. What could Sulla have said to make Basholli forgo his long-sworn vengeance?

  Gashi spread gobs of imported baby shampoo over the remnants of his hair and stepped under the shower. Soapy water dribbled from his pate and into his eyes. He shut them and purred like an overfed cat as warm water flattened the hairs of his body like waterweeds in a stream. He loved showers. No matter what kinds of human perversions his line of business exposed him to, he was convinced a clean body led to a clear head.

  With Sulla still alive, the New Zealander would stay in Kosovo and contest the ownership of Arben Shala’s property. Of this he was certain. He needed to close any doors that might lead back to himself. As for the Xhiha brothers, it was long past time that they were reunited with their uncle and the rest of their ancestors.

  Where else could he be vulnerable?

  He discounted his own men. They would never betray him, greed being enough leverage to ensure loyalty. And death for betrayal was always additional motivation. That left Tomi Mema and Captain Agim Morina. Morina did not know enough about his business activities to be any threat. Certainly he did not know of his connections to Avni Leka.

  That left Tomi Mema.

  If Basholli had truly let Sulla Bogdani walk, then no doubt Sulla would now know it had been Mema who had warned Basholli of his return to Peje. If Sulla decided to go after Mema the pompous lawyer would squawk like a nest full of baby crows. Mema had handled all the paperwork for the property transactions and represented all the victims. Mema knew everything. On top of that, the New Zealander now knew Mema had lied about knowing Shala.