Line of Sight - Mike Maden

by Tom Clancy

  “You have my number. I’ll be in the office until late if you change your mind.”

  She extended her hand. Jack took it. Neither bothered to let go. The heat in her hand matched the warmth of her eyes.

  “I’ll call you later either way.”

  “Ciao, Jack.”

  “Ciao.”

  Aida turned and walked away, confident that Jack’s eyes were fixed on her every step as she disappeared into the crowds of tourists.

  She was right.

  40

  When Jack got back to his apartment, he threw a load of laundry into the tiny washer/dryer combo unit in the kitchen. He had to Google instructions for it. Apparently, you needed a degree in electrical engineering to operate one of these things. As near as he could tell, it was going to take at least six hours to finish a load. He was down to his last pair of skivvies, the jeans he was wearing, and a faded Arcade Fire concert T-shirt, so he had to do it. Flying back to D.C. in dirty clothes wasn’t an option.

  Shit.

  Flying back to D.C. period isn’t what he wanted to do. He couldn’t stop thinking about Aida. Yeah, she was a looker, for sure. But there was something else about her. Smart, compassionate, committed.

  Well, yeah. And freakin’ hot.

  Lucky for him, he was able to extend his stay at the apartment because it wasn’t booked for another five days. The place was so good and the rent so cheap, he grabbed all five, partly as a favor to his struggling young landlords, and partly so he could stop thinking about it. It was a great place at half the price of a fleabag motel in Virginia, but Virginia was home and where his job was, and so back to Virginia he needed to go.

  Oh, well.

  After tossing in the load, he pulled out his phone to face the dragon, but to his pleasant surprise the two voice mails that Gerry had left weren’t royal ass-chewings, only pleas to call him when he got the chance. It was six hours earlier in Alexandria, and despite the coffee and baklava, Jack was hungry and knew he wouldn’t get the chance to eat ćevapi again, so he headed back to the same restaurant.

  He dialed Gerry’s number while he was walking. His boss picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello, kid. Glad you finally called. I was getting worried.”

  “No worries. I was out of pocket today.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be on that flight back today. What happened?”

  “Nothing. I just decided to extend my trip another day.”

  “Still haven’t found that girl?”

  “Actually, I did.”

  “And you gave her your mother’s letter?”

  “Yep.”

  “Great, so you’ll be on the first plane tomorrow, right?”

  Jack crossed the Latin Bridge. He was about to tell Gerry about his decision to stay at least one more day, but there was something in Gerry’s voice.

  “Why do you ask? Has something come up?”

  “I’m just concerned about the Slovenian situation.”

  “Did that woman finally get around to filing charges against me?”

  “No, Jack. She’s dead.”

  “What? How?”

  The light turned green and Jack marched past the assassination corner without noticing.

  “Heart attack. She was under police protection at the time, still recovering from the adult spanking you gave her.”

  “Why was she under police protection? The cops knew I left for Sarajevo.”

  “She said she was afraid you’d come back to hurt her.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Either she was crazy or she was afraid of somebody else coming to get her, and used me for an excuse to get protection.”

  “Bingo. The Slovenian cops suspect foul play. She was murdered or committed suicide. Either way, we think she might be a gun monkey for an outfit called the Iron Syndicate. Mean anything to you?”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “We’re dry on our end, too, but we’re shaking a few trees—gently. Still can’t confirm anything.”

  “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “It’s the fact we can’t confirm one way or another that’s got me worried, son. If they exist and we’re having this hard of a time finding them, they’re a serious outfit. And they’re gunning for you.”

  “I’ll keep my head on a swivel,” Jack said, hearing Clark’s raspy training voice shouting in the back of his brain. “But I’m not worried.”

  “Just be damn sure to get on that plane tomorrow, will you?”

  Jack arrived at the restaurant. “Gotta run, Gerry. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Text me when your butt’s in the seat, okay?”

  “Got it. Ciao.”

  “What?”

  “See you soon.”

  Jack hung up and searched for an open seat.

  There weren’t any.

  * * *

  —

  Jack waited for a few minutes, and found himself scanning the crowd more closely than he otherwise would. If that woman really was a hired hitter and she was dead, whoever paid her would send somebody else. But how would this syndicate know he was in Sarajevo?

  The same way they knew he was in Ljubljana.

  Yeah, these guys have resources. But like Gerry said, nothing was confirmed. And if they really were out there, they were as likely to come after him in the States as here. And he wasn’t one to hide.

  Jack caught sight of a tall Muslim man in a traditional cotton tunic and pants pushing a stroller, followed closely by a woman dressed head to toe in black, only her eyes showing where the niqab barely parted. They entered the restaurant directly.

  A funny thought struck Jack. How does that woman eat in a restaurant? Does she slip the ćevapi sausage up underneath her robe? And what about spaghetti or a hamburger? Or does she expose her face when she eats in public?

  A moment later, a man and woman got up from a group table just outside the door. Jack figured out they were seating family style, at least at dinner, so he slipped over in that direction, asking with pointed gestures if it was available. To judge from the smiles and nods he received, it was. He took a seat.

  Just then, the burqa-clad woman and her husband passed by Jack, exiting the restaurant with takeout boxes full of food and a happy toddler babbling in the stroller.

  Burqa problem solved, Jack noted.

  His ćevapi arrived hot and was just as tasty as he remembered. It didn’t take him long to devour the meal. But he enjoyed it a little less than he had before, because he found himself keeping one eye on the passing crowds as he ate. Jack imagined an assassin’s bullet plowing into his skull with his mouth full of sausage and onions. Not a pretty picture.

  Other than that, Mr. Ryan, how was the ćevapi?

  For some reason, though, he wasn’t scared. More like annoyed that someone wanted to ruin his vacation. Gerry wanted him to tuck tail and run back home. That was the smart play, he had to admit. The Slovenian cop Oblak knew he was coming here, and, strangely, the Bosnian cop, Kolak, knew it, too. Someone wanted him dead and followed him to Slovenia. Someone else could be here in Sarajevo, right now, for the same damn reason.

  Leaving made a lot of sense.

  But he couldn’t get the image of Aida out of his mind. If he left tomorrow, there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d ever see her again. His last two failed relationships proved that.

  But if he got his brains blown out like a Sarajevo Rose on the limestone pavement, that would cramp his dating life as well.

  Helluva dilemma.

  Well, Clark always said, a dumb guy thinks with his head, and a smart guy thinks with his brain.

  True that.

  Jack peeled off enough Bosnian marks to pay the tab along with a generous tip and headed back out onto the street, ducking into a crowded souvenir shop with two exit
s. He purchased a blue-and-gold Dragon ball cap—the Bosnian national soccer team—and switched it out with the one he was wearing, which he stuffed in his waistband and hid beneath his shirt. He headed out of the second exit, keeping the corners of his eyes glued to the window glass across the street to see if he was being followed.

  He continued his SDR for another thirty minutes, alternately wearing one hat and then another, always careful to keep his face pointed away from any surveillance cameras that might be around, including the ones on ATMs.

  Satisfied that he wasn’t being tailed, and feeling just a little stupid for being paranoid, he dialed Aida’s number, hoping she hadn’t changed her mind.

  He’d just have to figure out what to tell Gerry tomorrow when he wasn’t on that plane.

  Fuck the Iron Syndicate.

  41

  NEAR TJENTIŠTE, REPUBLIKA SRPSKA, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  Brkić listened carefully to Red Wing’s electronically altered voice, but he still couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “It’s extreme, yes. I agree,” Red Wing said. “But necessary, if we want the referendum to fail.”

  Brkić still wasn’t sure about Red Wing’s order. It hadn’t been part of their plan. But their plan so far hadn’t entirely worked, either. Extraordinary measures were called for now, if they were to succeed.

  Red Wing was right, even if it was for the wrong reason. Red Wing was often right, Brkić reminded himself. He’d known the man for a long time. Shed blood with him.

  Red Wing had even saved his life.

  That meant something, didn’t it? More than the money and the weapons and the networks he provided. A debt that Brkić could never repay.

  And yet, Brkić had other loyalties.

  And another plan.

  He was glad he’d never told Red Wing about it, or the missiles. Their alliance was one of mutual convenience, an arranged marriage. But this new order reminded Brkić that Red Wing’s loyalties were not his own in the grand scheme of things. How could they be? Red Wing was neither Bosnian nor Chechen.

  “Yes, you’re right. It must be done.”

  “Excellent. You are still following the protocol?”

  “A new phone every day. Yes, of course.”

  “Call me when it’s done.”

  Brkić ended the call and tossed the phone into the crackling burn barrel that was keeping the night chill away. The phone popped in the fire, sending a burst of sparks floating up into the dark pine branches above his head, triggering a memory of another forest years ago, when his name was still Rizvan Sadayev.

  POLJANICE, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA, 1992

  Sadayev heard the sputtering twin air-cooled radial piston engines low in the cloudy night sky long before he saw the plane. The twelve hundred feet of narrow dirt road servicing the small village saw double duty tonight as an airstrip for the rugged warhorse, a converted Vietnam-era Douglas C-47, a faded Greek air cargo company logo painted on its bullet-riddled fuselage.

  A radio call from the plane was the signal for him and five other vehicles to turn on their headlights to illumine the road, a thin thread of hard-packed dirt wending its way between villages tucked between the thick swaths of forested hills and wide, grassy pasturelands of the Bila Valley. Central Bosnia was still a Muslim stronghold, but was under siege by Serb and Croat forces.

  Sadayev was a junior commander in a unit of foreign jihadis in Bosnia—bosanski mudžahidi—fighting independently from the Bosnian Army. The other foreign jihadi fighters in country were organized by the Bosnian government into the El Mudžahid, a unit they kept under their tight control.

  Sadayev’s unit wanted no such control.

  The plane landed with a heavy bounce and came to a hard-braking stop just short of the tree line. They began unloading the first crates of weapons, food, and ammunition before the engines had feathered to a stop.

  The agent bringing the much-needed supplies jumped out of the cargo area and greeted Sadayev with a firm handshake. He identified himself only as “Red Wing,” but his reputation as a fighter and his recommendation by trusted friends were all the credentials he needed. Sadayev introduced him to the other commanders in his unit—two Tunisians, four Saudis, a Libyan, and a fellow Chechen.

  “Where are the other planes?” Sadayev asked.

  “Delayed.” Red Wing smiled as he pointed at the bullet holes stitched into the aluminum fuselage. “We were lucky to get through.”

  “We have an operation that begins in forty-eight hours, and the Serbs have tanks. Our weapons are useless against them.” The Chechen was dismayed. The vintage American plane carried only seventy-five hundred pounds of cargo.

  “I brought what you need, for now. The rest will be here within the week.”

  “Inshallah,” Sadayev said. “God willing.”

  Red Wing smiled. “Yes, of course.”

  Sadayev wasn’t ungrateful. The UN arms embargo served only to cripple the Bosniaks’ ability to resist their murderous neighbors. Illegal arms shipments from the Libyans, Saudis, Turks, and others gave their Muslim brothers a fighting chance. Rumors were the German BND supplied embargoed arms to the Croatians, and the Serbs could always count on Serbia and the Russians.

  Without men like Red Wing, the Bosniaks were doomed. But Sadayev was under no illusion. Red Wing fought against the Western powers, but Sadayev and his men fought for Allah.

  But such is God’s way, he thought. To use unbelievers to accomplish His will.

  “We’ll discuss your operational plans later, my friend.” Red Wing clapped Sadayev on his broad shoulder. “I have an idea you might appreciate.”

  He turned around and helped unload the next crate out of the door. Sadayev and the others joined in. It would be light in a few hours.

  * * *

  —

  Two days later, a four-wheel-drive Bosnian Serb Army BOV-30 armored personnel carrier skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. Its twin-mounted thirty-millimeter guns on its rectangular turret swept the village square in an ominous arc, scanning the small, neat Bosniak houses for resistance.

  Nothing.

  A moment later, a Serbian sergeant emerged from the cupola and scanned the area with his binoculars.

  All clear.

  He lowered himself back down and radioed the convoy commander. His ten-ton high-speed scout vehicle did double duty racing ahead of the column, confirming that neither mines nor enemy forces were located on the road or in the village.

  They would stay put until the convoy arrived and dismounted infantry cleared the houses. Even if the civilians had fled, the village would have to be razed and the wells poisoned before they moved on to the next Bosniak enclave.

  * * *

  —

  The Serb column rumbled down the dirt road, flanked on the left by a thick band of pines fifty meters away, and a wide, grassy meadow on the right, stretching more than a kilometer to the woods.

  The lead tank in the column was an M-84, a Serbian-produced variant of the Russian T-72, with a 125-millimeter smoothbore autoloading gun and a three-man crew, including the convoy commander, a captain in the regular Army of the Republika Srpska.

  Both the captain and his gunner stood in the hatches despite the threat, however unlikely, of sniper fire. The cramped, uncomfortable turret was a particular torture for the six-foot-tall captain, especially when buttoned up. The turret’s primary purpose wasn’t crew comfort, but rather to house the tank’s autoloader, an ingenious Soviet design that reduced the crew size by twenty-five percent.

  The autoloader could generate up to eight shots per minute, cycling the separate carousels of both charges and projectiles into the cannon’s breech in a seamless mechanical motion. When the autoloader operated, the captain felt like a midget riding inside a giant semiautomatic pistol, as toaster-sized propellant charges and arm-length explosive roun
ds clunked through the mechanism just inches from his shoulder. The crew compartment carried thirty-nine rounds of HEAT, armor-piercing and HE-frag shells.

  Even when the gun wasn’t firing, the vehicle at cruising speed echoed with the deafening roar of the tank’s grinding steel tracks and the relentless V12 diesel engine. Pitiful electric fans hardly blew away the fumes, let alone the heat. The captain’s TKN-3 primary optical sight and two episcopes were barely adequate under combat conditions, and practically useless otherwise. Better to ride the hatch and risk getting shot than stay hot, blind, and deaf for hours for no good reason.

  The captain confirmed his scout’s radio report and gave his gunner a thumbs-up. He turned around for another visual check on the convoy behind him. Thirty meters behind was the first of five FAP 2026 six-wheel-drive trucks loaded with heavily armed Serb White Eagles militia infantry, already infamous for their brutality against Muslim civilians. At least a third of the militia platoon were felons recruited straight out of prison, valued for their insatiable appetites for violence and mayhem.

  The last vehicle in the convoy was another M-84 tank. It would be dark soon. If the village really was empty, they’d bivouac there tonight, and head out first thing in the morning after destroying it. Then they would proceed to assault the next village in the valley. With any luck, they’d cleanse the entire district of Muslims within the week. Poorly equipped and led, the Bosnian Army had put up virtually no resistance in the area.

  You could hardly even call it a war, the captain mused, with forty-one tons of steel rumbling beneath him. His frontal armor could withstand direct hits by 105-millimeter tank guns and TOW missiles, neither of which the Bosniaks possessed in this region.

  His tanks were invulnerable.

  42

  The Chechen Sadayev crouched at the base of the pine tree, the heavy bulk of the RPG-29 “Vampir” rocket launcher supported on the folding tripod behind the pistol grip. At this close distance he could’ve tracked the lead Serb tank through the iron flip sights, but his eye was pressed against the rubber cup of the magnified PGO-29 glass optics for extra accuracy.