by Chris Allen
"Let me remind you that this was your plan, Wolf. You assured me that the way to keep the ICTY at bay was to attack them. Scare them into submission, you said. Show them real fear. All you have done is stirred the fucking hornet's nest. This is your mess," he said. "And you will clean it up. Where is he now?"
"Simovic?"
Drago nodded.
"I believe he is in custody, probably Belgrade." "What about the other one? That fucking brother of yours," asked Drago with overt contempt.
"The same, I suppose."
Drago was close now, sitting on the front edge of the Alexander Roux desk, intending to intimidate with his size set against the backdrop of the portrait. It wasn't working. The waft of alcohol and body odor was nauseating. The Wolf had known him too long and was immune to the playground theatrics. It seemed that Drago had forgotten who the fuck he was talking to. All the Wolf could see was a sad, fat, scared old man who drank too much. His days were numbered. The Wolf would make sure of it.
But he had to do it properly.
To remove Drago right here, right now, would start a war among the factions that would take years to resolve. No, the construct of Drago's downfall had to be smart, surgical and, above all, impossible to trace back to him.
"You must fix this," Drago ordered, poking the Wolf's chest. "You must fix it all, Wolf. That is what I pay you to do. And you have more at stake than just money on this one, I think." Wolf remained silent, ignoring the cheap taunt and the fat, hairy finger waved inches from his face. "I want you to go to America and find this bitch, Clancy, and kill her; kill both of them, the daughter, too. That's the only way to get these fucks off my back."
"Yes, sefa," the Wolf answered.
"You will do this thing for me." Drago did not respond to the acknowledgment. "Because, if you don't, I will kill you."
"Yes, sefa," said the Wolf and he stood, came face to face with Drago, and set his deathly cold gray eyes squarely upon his former mentor. Then he turned and walked out.
Wolf knew what had to be done. If he was to remedy any of this he needed to reinsert himself back into the play. That meant recovering some lost ground and that was going to be tricky. He had survived a long time by layering his plans with as much depth as possible to remain involved but always one step removed from the center of the action. Obviously that was no longer possible.
The Wolf would fix everything, once and for all, and he would kill Clancy and the daughter.
But he wouldn't be doing it for Drago.
Chapter 49
UN DETENTION UNIT, SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE
Having finished his first meal at Scheveningen, Ivan Simovic, or Detainee 93-96-69 as he was now known, was returning to his room under escort. He intended to watch television for the first time in weeks. The last fortnight had taken their toll. His age was catching up and he was less fit than the old days. It had been a while since he'd been allowed to sleep properly and he was exhausted. They had told him to expect a visit from his appointed defense counsel later that afternoon, and he knew he would need his energy; he had a lot to say.
As the big Serb approached the door to his cell, the detention unit guard dropped back, saying, "Go on by yourself," before walking back to the mess hall. Simovic watched the guard's back as he disappeared along the corridor the way they'd just come. Strange. But he was too weary to question it and lazily headed to his cell.
When he walked in through the open door, he froze.
"How was lunch?" asked a young, fit and familiar-looking man in an expensive suit. He sat on the cell's only chair, legs outstretched across the tiny space, feet resting comfortably on Simovies bed. "Don't be shy, come in."
"What the fuck is this?" said Simovic. "You're that fucking cop. Why aren't you dead?"
"Cop is not entirely accurate, but it'll do for now. As for being dead, well, clearly I'm not."
Alex Morgan removed his legs from the bed and gestured to the big Serb, Simovic, to sit down. The look on Morgan's face made it clear it wasn't a request. Simovic took the remaining few steps necessary to reach the end of the bed and sat down, feet on the floor, hands on his knees, jaw clenched.
"Excellent," said Morgan. "Now, I don't think you've been properly introduced to my colleague."
The presence of the person occupying the doorway was felt before they were seen. Simovic's eyes turned sharply from Morgan and landed upon another man, similarly dressed to the cocky bastard on the chair but this guy filled the doorway.
Hermann Braunschweiger leant against the frame, arms folded and legs crossed at the ankles like he'd been kept waiting for ages. Simovic had no idea where he'd come from. There'd been no-one in the corridor when he'd walked in seconds ago.
"Guten tag," offered Braunschweiger.
At the sight of Braunschweiger, the penny dropped. Simovic recalled the feeling of being thrown twelve stories to his death, or so he thought at the time, by a guy the size of a bull elephant. When he'd slammed into the back of the Albanian police van instead, he'd already soiled his pants. His embarrassment in front of the cops had been hard to swallow. "This is harassment!" Simovic hissed. "You're the ones who snatched us from Tirana. You're supposed to turn us in.
"We have turned you in," replied Morgan. "Isn't your accommodation satisfactory?"
"No you didn't, you fucks! You kept me in solitary lockdown, I don't know where, but then I just turn up here this morning and everything's rosy? You're not getting away with it!"
"We have no idea what you're talking about," said Braunschweiger. "My colleague and I arrested you last night in Tirana. Then we brought you straight here and handed you over to the tribunal."
Simovic's eyes blazed as he looked back and forth between the agents for some glimmer of acknowledgment or hint of a ruse. He got nothing.
"That's certainly the way I remember it," said Morgan, then he leant forward and added menacingly, "but, if you'd prefer to be returned to our friends who specialize in looking after people like you for us - you know, spend some more time in a dark room with a bag over your head and white noise pounding in your ears night and day - I'd be happy to arrange it."
"You pieces of shit!" Simovic coughed up phlegm and spat heavily upon the floor at Morgan's feet.
Morgan didn't hesitate. He stepped from the chair, grabbed Simovic by the collar and forced him face down on the floor. Simovic's chest fell upon the thick mess of mucus he'd spat out and Morgan took great delight in pressing the man into it until it was gone. He had Simovic back on the bed in an instant, his tunic smeared with his own spit.
"You're fucked! You're totally fucked!" the big Serb yelled. "You can't do that in here. I've got you now."
"It's funny about that, Mr Simovic," began Morgan, "because people who normally come here are yet to be tried by the tribunal and so they're protected by the presumption of innocence. Which makes this place a detention center rather than a prison."
Simovic suddenly lost his confidence. He had no idea what was going on. He looked up at Braunsch-weiger.
"No CCTV cameras," said the Key. "No record of anything that happens in here." With that, Braunsch-weiger eased into the cell and slowly closed the door behind him. He moved toward the big Serb in a manner that told him to shove along. Obediently, Simovic shuffled to his left and the Key sat down next to him.
"Take your shirt off," Morgan ordered.
"What?"
"Perhaps you'd like me to assist you?" Braunsch-weiger offered helpfully.
The big Serb recoiled. He didn't need any more encouragement. Slowly he sat forward, pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it on the bed beside him.
"Just as I thought," Morgan said, extracting a folded piece of A4 paper from the inside pocket of his coat. "Exactly the same as this one." He tossed the paper across to the big Serb.
"It would appear you belong to a very select fraternity, Herr Simovic," said the Key, observing the big Serb's tattoo.
The big Serb bluffed clumsily, trying to regain some ground
. "You're wrong. It's just a tattoo I liked when I was young."
"Spare me, Simovic, we're not here for a statement or a confession. We've got everything we need from you already. This visit was to show my friend here your ink. And now we've done that, we'll be leaving"
"What is this?" asked Simovic. "It's some kind of a setup. You guys didn't just come in here to see a fucking tattoo. You're after something and I'm not telling you any fucking thing."
"That tattoo tells us all we need to know," said the Key, pointing at it. "You're a Zmajeba—a Dragon. You work for General Dragoslav Obrenovic, an indicted war criminal and fugitive of justice. We also know that you are related to Drago. That makes you even closer. We know that blood ties count for a great deal among your kind. So, the decision has been made. The ICTY has decreed that you are going to be indicted as an accessory to Drago's war crimes. War crimes, Herr Simovic. Do you understand? You will rot in a cell like this for the rest of your days with only your little tattoo there for company. Our job is done."
The big Serb's face dropped. The color ran from his face.
"I'm no war criminal!" he said. "I was just a soldier during the war."
"Just following orders, right?" said Morgan. "That one's been tried before."
"I didn't even know Drago during the war. I got pulled into the business afterward. We're cousins. I needed a job."
"Your family must be very proud of your chosen profession!" Braunschweiger said, then he looked at Morgan. "What do you think?"
"I think he's full of shit. If he tries to con his way out of the war crimes charges to avoid the tribunal then he's likely to only face stock-standard criminal charges for organized crime back in Belgrade. He'd get only five, maybe ten years on criminal charges. That's
getting off too lightly in my book. No, we need to keep him here and make sure he's charged with war crimes alongside his old friend Drago. The ICTY will throw the book at him and, like you said, he'll spend the rest of his miserable days in a cell."
"Yes, of course. You're right,' answered the Key. "Well, that's too bad for you, Herr Simovic. Thank you for showing us your tattoo, anyway. You've helped us in settling our bet. You see, I didn't believe my colleague when he told me that he'd seen the mark of the Zmajeba."
By now the big Serb could see the rest of his life being flushed down the toilet. He had everything to lose and nothing to gain by sticking his neck out for Drago. He wasn't the one sitting in a cell facing a life behind bars. Who knew, right now Drago was probably covered in whores with his face buried in huge tits. No, Simovic was not taking the fall for anyone.
Especially not Drago Obrenovic.
"What can I do to convince you pieces of shit I'm telling the truth?"
Chapter 50
EL DJEM, TUNISIA
Youssef Ali Hassan, the young policeman at his desk diligently filling out a report regarding a tourist being robbed, had no idea his day was about to change.
Youssef took his responsibilities very seriously. He had only been with the police, the Stirete Nationale, a few months and was yet to become jaded by the monotony and relentlessness of compiling police reports. He happily tapped at the prehistoric computer, fastidiously checking every word, comma and period to ensure his report was submitted at the best possible standard. His station, located on the Avenue Mohamed, was a stone's throw from the amphitheatre which, Youssef loved to boast, was featured in the Russell Crowe movie Gladiator.
It was only 74 degrees Fahrenheit outside but the humidity level was an oppressive 83 per cent. Youssef had a small fan, decades older than the computer, sitting beside him on the desk, directed straight at his face and chest. Still, sweat dripped from his arms onto the veneered bench top and his uniform, pristine when he'd started his shift, clung to him like wet plastic wrap.
Just as he reached the end of his report, his day rocketed out of control.
There came the sudden thud of someone collapsing against the high bench top that served as the station's customer service area and as a barrier to unauthorized entry into the inner sanctum. Startled, Youssef was on his feet.
A man's muscular arms were folded upon the bench top and his head was cradled within them. His thick dark hair was matted with the white dust of the surrounding countryside and his skin was the color of fresh sunburn. He was dressed in Western clothes that, despite their obvious state of disrepair and filth, looked expensive.
"Can I help you, sir?" Youssef offered nervously, gently shaking the man by the shoulder. His clothes, like Youssef's, were also sticky and wet from the humidity. He wore no jewelry, although there was a pale band of skin on the left wrist where a watch would usually sit, and as he lifted his head to speak, Youssef saw lips red and cracked from dehydration. A pair of piercing gray eyes emerged as lids heavy with exhaustion opened. The stranger raised himself slowly, holding the bench with both arms to keep steady.
"Officer, could I trouble you for some water," he began, his voice deep, but raspy and weak. "And perhaps if I could sit ..."
Youssef lifted the entry panel that gave access into the office area and carefully ushered the man in. He sat him down at an empty desk, walked to a back room and returned with a large pitcher of water and a plastic cup. Without a word, Youssef filled the cup and held it to the lips of the stranger, who gratefully relieved him of it with both hands and drank it dry. They repeated the process until he was ready to speak.
"Thank you, officer," he said. "So very much."
"How can I help, sir?" Youssef asked. "Have you been in an accident?"
"No, nothing like that," the man replied. He leant back in the chair and rubbed his hands across his face, collecting his thoughts, ready to begin.
"My name ... is Raoul Demaci."
Chapter 51
BERLIN, GERMANY
"Do you think he's ready?" asked Morgan quietly.
"I'm not sure. Do you think he would appreciate more sleep?" Braunschweiger replied. "Perhaps we should ask him."
"Good idea."
Alex Morgan walked to the center of the dimly lit, perfectly square room and took a seat at a perfectly square table. There was only one door into the room and no windows. The walls, floor and ceiling were all once highly polished concrete, but the room had lost its sheen long ago. A single fluorescent tube shone unsteadily in a rusted metal cage, fastened to the ceiling and too high to reach. The walls were light green and plastered with the graffiti of previous occupants, and there'd been plenty of those over the years. Four decades of them, in fact, before it had been closed down, because the politics of the world had changed. The Cold War was over and places such as this had become unpalatable with modern governments. Of course, that didn't mean the location could not still be useful.
Hermann Braunschweiger was familiar with this place. Berlin was his old patch. He'd pulled some strings.
The table was made of metal, like the two chairs that sat on either side of it. The table and both chairs were bolted to the floor. Directly beneath each chair, a worn D-shaped metal nub protruded from the cement floor; an old tether point for restraining subjects to the chairs. Only one of them was in use today. Around the table were well-worn scuffs in the cement, like cattle tracks, where a great deal of pacing had once occurred.
"You awake?" Morgan asked.
After a few moments the man in the opposite chair replied, "Who are you? I know your face."
The greasy hair was still greasy, hanging lower over the narrow shoulders, Morgan thought, and the scratchy beard was a bit thicker now, still the same red and brown mix of tumbleweed. But the shifty brown eyes, yellowing teeth and cigarette-stained fingers were what Morgan remembered most of all from their first sight of each other. That had been in the offices of Interpol's Special Representative to the UN in New York with Tappin and Ryerson. Unfortunately, that particular meeting had been cut short before they'd had a chance to get to the bottom of the man's past.
"Who I am isn't important," Morgan asserted. "But the questions we are going to
ask and the answers you are going to provide are. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he said dolefully. "Where am I?"
The man was slumped in the seat, confused and disoriented from lack of sleep. He had been well prepped by the team, Morgan noticed. They were experts in getting subjects, especially subjects like this one, ready for interview without resorting to pain and suffering - that would be against the rules; although, no doubt civil libertarians would argue the
finer points of exactly what defined "pain and suffering". It meant little to Morgan. He had a job to do and he knew the realities of what creatures like this were prepared to submit other human beings to in order to prolong their own existence.
"Would you like some water?"
"I need a cigarette," he said. "Just a cigarette, please."
"There's no smoking in here," Morgan replied matter-of-factly. "Maybe later, when we're done."
The man's fingers clenched until his knuckles whitened. He was struggling. One simple strategy Morgan knew the prep team had used was to give the subject an unlimited supply of cigarettes for a couple of weeks before withdrawing them completely thirty-six hours ago. It had worked, Morgan noted. This guy was a chain smoker and his addiction, along with some carefully managed sleep deprivation, had his nerves on a knife edge. That was helpful.
"Would you like some water?"
The man nodded. "Yes."
Morgan pulled a small notepad and pencil from his suit jacket while Braunschweiger brought over a plastic bottle of water, unscrewed the lid and placed it down on the table in front of the man. At this, the man opened his eyes properly and looked at the two agents, one seated, one standing 3 feet from him. The expressions on their faces confirmed the magnitude of his dire situation.
"What is your name?" asked Morgan, the pencil in his hand poised over the notepad. His tone was deadpan, unemotional. The timbre of his voice was calm and measured.
