Resolution to Kill

by E. V. Seymour

  Tallis offered to help but she insisted he stay right where he was.

  ‘I will make coffee,’ she announced, clattering into the kitchen.

  While she was gone Tallis glanced around the room. It was comfortable, homely, but there were no displays of great wealth or affluence, then his eyes zeroed in on a photograph of Dario. He went over, picked up the frame. The picture looked recent. Dario had bulked up, his sporty physique blurred by a couple of extra stone. His face had taken on a reddish tinge. He was holding a rifle in one hand and a brace of pheasants in the other. Tallis smiled, went to put it back and stalled, eyes travelling to the stock on the rifle. It carried the unmistakable nationalist red and black chequerboard insignia, a symbol used by the Ustashas, or Croat Fascists. Tallis briefly wondered about Dario’s politics, his stance during the war, something that was never discussed. Any talk of the conflict was like exchanging views on the Mafia in Sicily: you could wind up with your throat cut. Accordingly Tallis had relied for hard information on his grandmother, who maintained that the family had done their best to stay out of the fighting. He’d never thought to question her version of events before.

  Over Turkish-style coffee, which they drank from tiny glasses, Jana asked for how long he was intending to stay.

  Tallis shrugged. ‘A few days, if you don’t mind. Be a pity not to see something of the old homeland now I’m here.’

  Jana issued a thin smile and nodded. The conversation continued in polite and trivial fashion. Later, she showed him to his sleeping quarters, a small but comfortable-looking room in the attic, with sloping ceilings, wooden rafters and a wooden floor. The bed was jammed in next to a small set of drawers.

  ‘Careful you don’t bump your head,’ she said laughing, lighter now that she was free of him, he believed.

  After she closed the door he looked out of the window and into the faded evening light. In the distance the unmistakable flare of red tail lights caught his gaze. Pulling out a pair of Zeiss binoculars from his bag, he focused on the vehicle. The car was a navy-coloured Volkswagen Passat estate identical to the one he’d spotted earlier. He looked more closely: one driver, one passenger, both white. After a few minutes the driver reversed and drove away in the direction of Sisak. Tallis wondered what it meant.

  They called me Anna.

  Soldiers wearing blue helmets picked me out of the sloping ruins of my mother and father’s house and carried me outside. The air smelt of smoke and burning flesh. It stung my eyes and the back of my throat. One of the soldiers was shouting, his face purple and swollen with anger. He spoke in a tongue I did not recognise and yet his gestures were so general I understood. Raising his fist, he cursed the sky, the earth, but mostly he cursed the men responsible for the killing. I did not care. I could not speak

  They put a scarf over my face so that I would not see the bodies of the dead and dying. They did not know that, hiding in the eaves, peering out through the gap between the wall and the roof, I saw it all.

  I was taken in a truck. Someone asked me my name. I did not answer. One of the soldiers put me on his knee and gave me sweets. I did not eat. I kept them. Pushed them deep in the pocket of my skirt. I stared at their frozen faces. Some looked at me. Others stared at the floor of the truck. I did not know it then, but I learnt later that I was a victim. Then I became a refugee, homeless, without family, which is worse.

  They took me to Tuzla. They said that there I would be safe. I did not feel safe. The camp was full of women and children. Most had fled without anything. They had no money, no clothes and no food. They wept for their husbands and sons. I did not weep. Not then.

  A nice lady gave me soup and bread. She talked to me, but I did not understand. I tried to smile at her but could not. She gave me pens and paper. I drew a picture: bad soldiers with guns, burning houses, my pet cat Rikki with blood on his head.

  I was taken into the tent of a woman with two children, a girl and a boy. The boy had blonde hair and brown eyes. He had a sweet face like my baby brother Alen.

  I began screaming.

  My real name is Alma Sehic. I am eleven years old. I am a Bosniak. My mother and father and my little brother are dead. I have no one and nothing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The farm building was in the region of Baranja close to the Hungarian border, midway between Bilje and Karanac. But this wasn’t any farm building; some years before, it had been tastefully converted into a lodge. The owners offered simple rustic-style accommodation, plain home cooking and a chance to sample Croatian’s finest wine.

  On that particular morning sunshine burst through the clouds, illuminating the rolling landscape. Two vehicles travelled down a gravelled track and parked some distance away. Both were white 4x4s with a blue stripe and orange strip running along the side of the bodywork. Each had two blue lights on the roof and the single word Policija emblazoned on the bonnet. Six policemen wearing navy uniforms and berets caught at a jaunty angle climbed out and, leaning against the vehicles, exchanged muted greetings. Nobody spoke Croatian because the officers were American.

  They’d been running a stake-out for several days, the entire operation in progress for weeks. Intelligence gathered from communications, including a single phone intercept, suggested that their target, or Tier One as the Americans termed it, was inside the lodge.

  ‘Good to go?’ A man, known as Jon, spoke. Racking a magazine into his

  Croatian- manufactured pistol, he glanced up at the others. Five sets of eyes met his steady gaze. They synchronised watches. He nodded briefly and walked away up the muddy lane. The others waited and watched; this the final run before showtime.

  Exactly two minutes later, the officers’ sidearms primed and ready, they moved into position. Two covered the exits. One covered the entrance. Seconds thudded past, then minutes. From the eerie silence it was clear something was wrong. Then Jon’s voice raked the air.

  ‘Man on the move!’

  The officers tore inside, kicking in doors, and into a wall of protesting voices that turned to shouts and screams as the first flashbangs exploded. Amid the din of shattered glass and billowing smoke, rooms were cleared. Exits sealed. Guests and staff ordered to stay the fuck down. The operation was efficient, brisk and, ultimately, disappointing. Nobody, other than a group of terrified tourists on a wine trip, inside. If their man had ever been there, he wasn’t now.

  ‘FUBAR’d,’ Jon cursed. Or put another way: Fucked up beyond all recognition.

  Tallis rose early and looked outside. There was no sign of the car. A string of brightly coloured washing hung on the line. He bet Jana had already spring-cleaned the house before dawn. Lena, a Chechen refugee to whom he’d offered sanctuary, had been the same: dusting and scrubbing and…He let out a sigh. He’d come to escape, not remember.

  He washed and shaved and thought about the day ahead. His original plan was to visit the police station in Zagreb, but now that Jana was satisfied that Dario was no longer missing it seemed pointless. Instead he decided to drop by the butcher’s shop and visit Goran.

  Jana greeted him with a warm smile. She looked more rested in spite of her labours.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’ He would have preferred tea.

  Jana bustled about the kitchen. ‘So what are your plans?’

  ‘Thought I’d go for a drive. Might head out to the lakes in Plitivice.’

  ‘A fine idea. It will do you good to get some clean air in your lungs.’

  Most of his Croatian relatives seemed to think that Birmingham was an industrial wasteland with chimneys belching smoke. To be fair, a good number of his fellow countrymen held the same outmoded view. ‘Haven’t really made up my mind,’ he said, deliberately non-committal.

  A selection of pastries was put in front of him. He smiled gratitude. Forcing the least sugary creation between his teeth, and making a pretence of enjoying it, he asked Jana if she’d noticed a dark blue VW Passat cruising the country lanes nearby.

  A flash of p
ink streaked her cheeks. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Tallis chewed, took his time before answering. ‘I noticed the same car on the journey here. Bit strange, I thought.’

  Jana said nothing.

  ‘Maybe they’re undercover cops or something,’ he said, trying to draw a comment from her.

  Jana swallowed, her obtuse expression not quite reaching the eyes. What the hell was going on? Tallis thought. This time he didn’t mess about. ‘Jana, is Dario in trouble?’

  She let out a nervous laugh.

  ‘Well, is he?’ His look was searing.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Paul,’ she said, eyes snapping away from him. ‘Dario’s fine. I already told you he has business to attend to and then he’ll come home.’

  ‘Cool,’ he said, scraping back the chair. ‘Not sure what time I’ll be back. Don’t go to any trouble with dinner.’ To make a point, he chucked his bag and belongings in the back of the jeep.

  Goran did not look overly surprised to see him. Word had obviously got around.

  ‘Hey, Paul,’ he said, grinning. He put down the meatcleaver he was holding, wiped his bloodied hands on his butcher’s apron and gave Tallis a half hug. Thirteen years younger than Dario, he looked nothing like his older brother. While Dario was dark with Italian colouring and thickset in middle age, Goran was blond, fair-skinned and slim.

  ‘Good to see you.’ Tallis clasped the man, the odour of raw meat and fat so early in the morning sickening. He wondered how Goran could stand it. It was a million miles away from the more aromatic scent of wine.

  ‘Let me finish putting out my stock, then I can maybe stop for a few moments. I’m not as clever with a blade as Dario.’

  Tallis briefly surveyed the trays of meats, including lamb and pork prepared for spit-roasting, spicy sausages and thinly sliced veal. But the chat had to wait. No sooner had Goran finished slicing a side of bacon than the first customers poured through the doors. Resting his back against a tiled corner of the shop, no bigger than an average-size family bathroom, Tallis watched and listened.

  ‘Still no Dario?’ one old lady enquired. She had bony hands with nails like talons that displayed within a centimetre how much fat and how much lean she wanted on her modest piece of beef.

  ‘Am I not good enough?’ Goran said, laughing and rolling his eyes at Tallis. ‘I thought you liked me. Here, let me give you an extra slice, on the house.’ He winked.

  And so it went on, every question deflected by banter. Goran was good with customers, a natural. In common with most butchers, he had a sunny personality and a quick line in wit even as he darted in and out of the cold store, bringing out great carcasses of meat, which, with a few deft blows from a variety of blades and saws, he somehow transformed into comprehensible and identifiable joints. There was real artistry in it, Tallis realised, never having paid it much attention before. Almost two hours passed before there was a lull.

  ‘Come on,’ Goran said, striding over to the door, shutting it and turning the open sign to closed.

  ‘Is that OK?’ Tallis asked. ‘I don’t want to hold you up.’

  ‘I need a cigarette.’ Goran grinned. ‘Let’s go through to the back.’

  Tallis followed him past the cold store through a beaded opening and into a kitchen area. Goran offered him coffee, which he declined, then shook out a cigarette from a pack and lit it. He threw his head back, inhaling and exhaling with deep pleasure.

  Tallis could have asked after Zlata, Goran’s girlfriend. He could have enquired how the wine business was going. He didn’t.

  ‘So what’s the story with Dario?’

  ‘Story?’ Goran said, taking another drag. Smoke narrowed his eyes and shrouded his expression.

  ‘The reason for your brother’s dramatic disappearance.’

  ‘Who said it was dramatic?’ Goran flashed a playful smile, tipped his chin and blew out another lazy plume of smoke. He looked cool, but Tallis didn’t buy it. First, Dario’s younger brother had come out with a vague reply, then aimed a question in answer to Tallis’s question and topped the lot off with a grin. Yup, Tallis thought, Goran is definitely on the run.

  ‘My mother. And don’t say she has a tendency to exaggerate,’ Tallis said, heading off any smart remarks. ‘I’m not a fool,’ he added softly.

  ‘Never took you for one,’ Goran said, equally softly, his eyes snatching to Tallis, the smile gone.

  ‘So?’ Tallis hiked a dark eyebrow.

  Goran glanced away as though weighing something up in his own mind, or more likely, Tallis believed, planning to take the verbal equivalent of a detour. Before Goran tried to bamboozle with another of his anecdotes, Tallis took the lead.

  ‘How much do you know about Dario’s extra-butchery activities?’

  ‘The cigarette trade? Not a lot other than it provides me with a regular and cheap supply.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t know if he’s pissed someone off?’

  Silence.

  Tallis’s stare locked on to Goran with the precision of a guided missile. Goran glanced away, smiled and clicked his cheek. ‘You’re fly.’

  Right, they were getting somewhere. ‘What’s it all about?’ Tallis pressed.

  ‘Ah, there you have me.’ Goran flicked another smile. He stubbed out the cigarette, lit another, playing for time, Tallis thought.

  ‘Ideas?’

  Goran shrugged. ‘Maybe he tried to undercut someone.’

  ‘Someone?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Come on, Goran, who?’

  Goran let out a tight sigh. Tallis crossed his arms, made out he wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

  ‘Man called Draza Mirkovic,’ Goran said.

  ‘Serb?’

  ‘From Belgrade. Made his money arms smuggling. Has a finger in lots of pies.’

  ‘A gangster?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  That would explain Jana’s fear, Tallis thought. ‘Does he drive a VW Passat estate?’

  Goran let out a genuine laugh. ‘Drives a charcoal-grey Maserati.’

  Big-league player then, Tallis thought. What the hell was Dario doing messing around with someone like that? ‘So Dario steps on Mirkovic’s expensively shod feet and now he’s keeping his head down.’

  ‘You’re getting the picture.’

  ‘How much trouble is Dario actually in?’

  ‘Let’s say the matter is being sorted.’

  Where Tallis came from that meant one of two things. Either Dario was paying a handsome sum for his transgression or he was arranging to have his competitor taken out of the game. There was an alternative. ‘If he’s in that much shit why doesn’t he go to the police?’

  Goran stared at him as if he were mad. ‘You’ve been away too long. Organised crime has become part of the establishment. Either the cops are too scared to intervene or they’re on the payroll.’

  Terrific. ‘And you think he’s really going to be able to extricate himself?’

  ‘Paul, you worry too much. It will be fine,’ Goran said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Dario is taking sensible precautions. He will buy Draza off. They will drink travarica together…’

  ‘And kiss and make up,’ Tallis said with cynicism. Something he’d learnt over the past couple of years was that a key disadvantage of using human intelligence is that people fabricate, people tell lies. You didn’t need to be an expert on tradecraft, a posh word for psychology to Tallis’s mind, to know that Goran was way too laid back. In essence, Goran was spinning one big lie. Question was: why?

  ‘I’d better get back,’ Goran said, making for the beaded curtain. ‘Good to see you.’ He squeezed Tallis’s arm, their conversation over.

  Buying himself some thinking time, Tallis spent the remains of the morning wandering in the provincial town of Samobor, twenty kilometres west of Zagreb. With its nineteenth-century town houses, elegant shops and tree-lined streets, it was the kind of place city dwellers aspired t
o at the weekend. After eating lunch in a café off the main square, he headed for the capital and the central police station, where he found himself in a scrum of international students trying to obtain residency permits, a necessary requirement for studying at the university. It was some time before Tallis could catch a desk officer’s attention. The woman, middle-aged and dough-faced, issued a brief smile.

  ‘Can I help?’ She spoke Hrvatski, the official language of Croatia.

  Tallis kept his voice low and authoritative. ‘I’d like to speak to an officer in organised crime.’

  The small eyes glinted. ‘May I ask what this is in connection with?’

  ‘Illegal arms smuggling.’ He gave an assumed name. ‘I’m a British Customs officer,’ he added. It was the best snap cover he could come up with. And like the best legends, it held a grain of authenticity. Customs officers, powerful individuals with extensive rights to arrest, often worked hand in glove with the security services, their remit to track drugs and money routes necessary for terrorism. He just hoped he could blag long enough to obtain the necessary information before they discovered who he really was and had him arrested.

  The woman slid off her stool and, against a soundtrack of soft flesh chafing against nylon, crossed to a door leading to a back room.

  Another ten minutes passed. By the time he was ushered through an open-plan area and into an interview room, it was already gone five.

  Usual set-up: table, four chairs, two on either side. He glanced up and saw the camera in the corner. Switched off. Two guys entered or rather sped into the room and introduced themselves on a wave of coffee-tainted breath. They looked like throwbacks to the 1970s. Wearing leather bomber jackets, one had thick blond hair that came down to the collar of his shirt, the other a scrub of dark. Impressively lavish sideburns marked them out as retro-men. Tallis mentally christened them Starsky and Hutch.