“You look well fed also, Turk.” Klingsor had no idea what the Turk’s real name was. Maybe he had forgotten it himself after so many years operating under different aliases.
“Yes. I suppose so. But one must still try to stay fit. A little time in the field always helps.”
“Is that what this is? The field?”
“You tell me.”
“It’s fucking Geneva.”
“So it is. A law office it would seem. Where is the good barrister? Tucked into that freezer in the corner?”
“That’s where we keep the ice cream. The Echoes have a terrible sweet tooth.”
The Turk actually cracked a smile.
“Corpsicles?”
Klingsor shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t kill him.”
“I know.”
“What else do you know?”
“I know a traitor when I see one.”
“That’s not fair, Turk. This operation is in the best interest of our country. It’s . . . patriotic.”
“It’s not sanctioned. It’s rogue.”
“It’ll be sanctioned after the fact if we succeed.”
“But you haven’t done that, have you? Succeed, I mean.”
“Not yet.”
“You’re grasping at straws.”
“Maybe.”
The two men paused, eyeing each other like tired boxers in a clinch. Klingsor considered his options. None were especially appealing. Maybe he could make a run for it. They’d need another freezer for the Turk’s body, but that would be easy enough to arrange. Klingsor had four different passports in four different names identifying him as the citizen of four different countries. Two of them were absolutely clean, meaning that the Agency did not know about them. There was a bank in Zurich, one of the small ones, with a numbered account and a safe-deposit box with a hundred thousand dollars in cash. He could disappear. South America, perhaps. He had friends in Uruguay.
The Turk seemed to be able to read his mind, or maybe Klingsor was just predictable, like every other asshole caught with his pants down around his ankles and his dick in his hand.
“Don’t even think about it,” the Turk said, as though offering friendly advice.
“What?”
“Killing me and making for the bushes like a rabbit. You’re not my first job, you know. It won’t work.”
“You’re sure about that? Seems like a viable option to me at the least.”
“Oh, that’s right. You can’t see it. I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“Can’t see what?”
“Here.” The Turk reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small mirror, like the kind a woman might keep in her purse. He gestured toward Klingsor’s face. “Take a look.”
Klingsor looked in the mirror. A red dot of light danced on his forehead just a little bit right of center. A laser sight. Klingsor glanced out the window but could not see where the shooter was located. One of the rooftops, perhaps, or an apartment. It was impossible to know.
Klingsor choked down an irrational impulse to brush the dot of laser light off his face.
“Your unfortunate barrister friend aside, you are not known as an especially brutal operator. You are a more subtle player. More cautious. I respect that.”
“Is that why I’m not already dead?”
“Among other reasons, yes.”
Klingsor felt himself relax just a little bit. This was beginning to look more like the opening gambit of a negotiation than the prelude to a premature and permanent retirement.
And he was ready to negotiate. Loyalty was important to Klingsor. He valued it highly. But life was complicated. There were many values that had to be balanced. Openness and security. Freedom and respect. Duty and desire. And at the very top of the pyramid perched self-preservation, the primus inter pares of values. It trumped loyalty every time.
“You know some things, but not everything,” Klingsor suggested as casually as he could. “You’d like to know more.”
“Ours is the information business, no? You can never be too rich or too thin or know too much.”
“Two of the things on that list are untrue.”
“I suppose it depends on the circumstances.”
“What is it that I have that interests you?” Klingsor wondered if the red laser dot was still fixed to his skull. A part of him wanted to look in the mirror, but he did not want to give the Turk either the satisfaction or the leverage. It would weaken his bargaining position.
“We’d like to know just how deep the rot goes,” the Turk answered. He removed his glasses and began polishing the lenses with the end of his tie. “We know about Parsifal, of course, but the chain of communication we have is all in code. Good security practice. Very admirable. You, I understand, are Klingsor, and we know that your control is Kundry. What we’d very much like to know is the identity of this Kundry. Who he is and whether he represents the apex of this unauthorized operation.”
Klingsor smiled at this. He had something to trade. The rest was details.
“You’re not much of an opera buff are you?”
“On the contrary, but I prefer the Italians. Wagner’s a little too bombastic for my tastes. All those Valkyries and magic rings.”
“So you’ve never seen Parsifal?”
“No. Why does it matter?”
“Because then you would know.”
“Know what, please?”
“Kundry is a woman.”
KRIVA RIJEKA
NOVEMBER 14
10:45 A.M.
28
Something had gone wrong. Mali was not certain exactly what, but Gisler had missed two reporting deadlines. The system was not especially complicated. It wasn’t supposed to be. What it was supposed to be was reliable and regular as a fucking Swiss watch.
Every two weeks, Gisler would put a coded message in the classified section of a Zurich-based Internet jobs site. Every fortnight, the message was the same: All is well. Then he had missed two postings in a row. That had never happened. He had taken Mali’s money for the month, but that was an automatic transfer out of a numbered account. Gisler did not need to be alive for the check to clear.
Mali had used an untraceable burner cell to call Gisler’s office. The assistant who answered had been polite enough but evasive about Herr Gisler’s whereabouts. He had even tried the one-time-use emergency number that he and Gisler had established for exactly that purpose. No answer.
He had to assume that Gisler was blown. Mali would need to make new arrangements for the safekeeping of the package, but that would take time. It would have to wait until the situation had stabilized. Until Lukić had done his job.
It was not like he had lost access to the package altogether. Gisler had been holding a copy. The lawyer was just a dead man’s switch, an insurance policy. The original was hidden away someplace safe. You did not leave something as explosive as the package lying around.
Mali was not, by nature, an overly optimistic man. But events were moving in the direction he wished them to go with the seeming inevitability that was the hallmark of a well-conceived plan. There would be hiccups; there always were. Gisler’s unexplained disappearance was one. But it was more an inconvenience than a cause for real concern.
The meeting last night with Dimitrović and his lieutenants had gone well. War was a complex business. Moving soldiers around the board was the easy part. There were political considerations, financial constraints, operational plans and backup plans, egos to massage and pockets to line. No one wanted to make a major decision without Mali’s personal blessing, and it was easy—even gratifying—to understand why they were reluctant to cross him. Planning a war was a great deal of work with seemingly endless details, but it was almost done and it would be worth it.
Once it was all over, there would have to be some chan
ges. In truth, Mali did not care much for Dimitrović. He was limited, undereducated, uninteresting. For the time being, he needed Dimitrović. But if all went as Mali planned, the day would come when he could jettison the National Party leader. Until that day, Dimitrović would do what he was told.
As much as he might like to, it was unlikely that Mali would be able to rule directly. He had tried to shed his past the way a snake might shed his skin, but he knew that he would never be completely successful. His personal history was such that he would have to rule from the shadows. It would be better, of course, if he could do that through a vehicle that was less damaged than Dimitrović. The president of the RS carried a lot of baggage, psychological as well as reputational. He was a dark and twisted figure, easy to dislike. But for now Mali needed Dimitrović. For now.
Still, Gisler’s disappearance gnawed at his confidence. Had that fat fuck looked at the tape he was holding for Mali? Had curiosity gotten the better of greed? Had he understood what he was looking at? And did he then decide that he could make better use of it? Mali could not afford another distraction. He had enough problems.
Nikola Petrović was one. His position as Sondergaard’s pet Serb had given him a political profile well beyond anything Mali had imagined possible. His party was now the focal point of a growing political movement that had picked up support from the left, students, urbanites, and what was left of the intelligentsia. Dimitrović’s local supporters were largely pensioners, villagers, and the working class. For now they had the whip hand, but it would be important to crush Petrović and his supporters at the early stages of the upcoming conflict. Once the fighting started, it would be easy to bring enough force to bear to overrun Petrović’s surprisingly competent personal security.
Mali hoped it would all be over quickly, but there was a chance that fighting could drag on for months, maybe even years. He was prepared for that.
The bungled assassination attempt on Petrović had succeeded only in elevating his political profile and turning the Social Democrats into a legitimate rival of the National Party. Killing Petrović now would only solidify his status as a martyr and reinforce support for the blasted Sondergaard Plan. Mali needed to blow that up first. Then he could deal with Petrović and any other fifth columnists on the RS side.
From the bar, Mali poured three or four fingers of Chivas into a crystal tumbler. The humidor on the bar top was stocked with Cohibas and he took one of these as well. He needed to relax.
As near as he could tell, there were only three possible outcomes: victory, prison, and death. Victory was always good. Death was inevitable. It did not really matter when it came along. Mali did not believe in an afterlife and certainly not in hell. Human nature being what it is, the devil would long ago have run out of room.
Even prison would have its charms, he decided. The luxuries he enjoyed in his new life were pleasant enough, but what Mali aspired to, what he craved, was power. He could have that in prison if it came to it. A man of his talents could always find a way to rise. Power was relative. Even in prison, someone had to be on top. Did they still use cigarettes to keep score in prison, or was that something out of the 1950s? If so, Mali would corner the fucking market in cigarettes. He’d be a king. Always a king. Given the choice, it was better to rule in hell.
The Scotch and cigar numbed his tongue. A pleasant alcoholic fuzz grew like moss on his thoughts. He considered calling Marija into his office for a quick fuck, standing up at the bar or on the leather couch. Maybe later, he decided. There was work to do.
It would be better, on balance, to live and stay out of prison. He needed to know that things were on track.
Mali pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. Just a few years ago, he would not have dared to use the phone. The NSA would have quickly picked up the conversation. Even the mighty United States had its limits, however, and the Balkans was now little more than a backwater. The NSA was so focused on the mess in the Middle East, Ukraine, Pakistan, China, and other hot spots that it had little time for eavesdropping in the Balkans. Once the fighting started, that would change, but for now his scrambled cell would provide sufficient encryption to deter the local services.
He had his in-house assassin on speed dial. Mali took a brief moment to savor that thought. He had come far. And he had farther still to go. He would be king.
It hurt that she was involved. That they were on opposite sides. He wished that it wasn’t so. She could have been his queen.
The sniper answered on the second ring.
“Da.”
“Is everything ready?” Mali asked.
“Da.”
Whatever his other charms, Lukić was not one for small talk.
“Any complications?”
“Ne.”
“Anything you need?”
“Ne.”
“This is pretty fucking important. Just so we understand each other.”
“I know.”
“Once this is done, there will be others. I have a list.”
“We’ll see.”
“You understand how important this shot is? How much depends on it? It’s the trigger for a whole series of actions that will transform this country.”
“I understand.”
“And you understand that the only way to communicate with us if anything goes wrong is over the radio. Cell phones won’t work. Landlines will be down. All starting about three hours before zero minute. We’re going to take the whole system down. You’ll be on your own.”
“I always am.”
“Tell me that you can do this, Darko. That you can get it done. No bullshit.”
“She is already dead.”
TRNOVA, BOSNIA
NOVEMBER 14
11:30 A.M.
29
It was like traveling back in time. As Eric and Sarah drove through this forgotten corner of Bosnia, the trappings of modern life began to disappear. There were no power lines running alongside the road. No streetlamps. Smoke coming from the chimneys in the villages they passed through was from fires that Eric knew were used for heat and cooking rather than romance and atmosphere. Mud and wattle had fallen off the sides of the farmhouses in patches, exposing the timber frames beneath. The tractors parked beside the barns were old enough to remember Marshal Tito and the all-powerful Communist Party.
The mountains that loomed over them on either side were steep and foreboding. The forests were dark and threatening, like something out of a fairy tale.
Most striking to Eric, however, was the lack of commerce. The constant blast of advertising, economic come-ons, and hustle were an inescapable part of urban life. Out here there were no ads for Coke, no billboards marketing second-rate politicians and second-division sports teams. There were no car dealerships or supermarkets or movie theaters. Other than the aging tractors and stubbly fields, the only markers of economic activity were the hand-carved signs advertising various personal services. A few farmers sold honey, jam, and rakija on the side. Many of the signs said simply VULKANIZER, indicating that the villager who lived there also repaired tires.
It was a wild part of the world. Out here, tradition was more important than law. And Eric knew that every single male villager, no matter how poor, had a gun.
“Have you seen a wolf yet?” Sarah asked from the passenger seat, evidently affected in the same way Eric was by the raw power of the landscape.
“Nah. The bears keep them in check.”
“Do you feel bad about missing the opening of the peace conference?” Sarah asked.
“Not too much. Today is strictly ceremonial. It’ll be a set piece. The real negotiations start tomorrow. Those I need to be there for. We’ll have a week to do a deal, maybe ten days. After that, we’ll have lost whatever momentum we have and the Sondergaard Plan will wind up on the ash heap of history alongside a hundred other Balkan peace proposals.”
> “You really think that this one’s different, don’t you?”
“I think that she’s different. If anyone can pull this off, it’s Annika. She’s Dick Holbrooke in heels. I don’t think anyone else could do what she’s doing, match how far she’s come.”
“So this has a chance?”
“Hell, yes.”
“And failure means another Balkan war?”
“That’s what I think. The stakes are high. That’s why we need to find Father Stefan now. If he really has something that can help us keep Dimitrović from playing the spoiler role, we need it now, not a week from now. I hope like hell he’s home.”
“You sure about what we’re doing? That we’re not wasting our time on a wild-wolf chase?”
“Sure? No. But it makes sense. You’re the one who told me about the Geneva connection. The book we found in Mali’s desk drawer listed regular payments to someone in Geneva. It’s hard to believe that this isn’t connected to this package you’re so damn cagey about. The only other entry in the book was for someone called Father S.”
“And you think it’s this guy?”
“I do. It seems to fit. Father Stefan was the spiritual advisor to Radovan Karadžić, Ratko Mladić, and the old gang from the genocide. He was the most important figure in the Orthodox Church in Bosnia through most of the nineties. And then he just disappeared. Dropped off the grid. Word was that he became a hermit. Not a few people assumed he had gone crazy. Then a few years ago he resurfaced as a simple parish priest in a small chapel out here in vukojebina.”
Sarah laughed. “That can’t possibly be the name of this place.” Vukojebina meant literally the place where the wolves fuck.
“Alas, no. It’s just an expression like ‘the sticks’ or ‘the middle of nowhere.’ But I suspect that it might be literally true as well.”
“I remember Stefan from the nineties, but I never met him. Is he still political?”
“Not so far as anyone can tell. He’s been quiet as a church mouse for the last fifteen years or so.”
The Wolf of Sarajevo Page 25
