Lie in the Dark

by Dan Fesperman

  Kasic frowned, as if he’d just eaten something disagreeable. Then he sighed, releasing a long, pained breath from his nostrils.

  “Probably not the partner I’d choose for you if the choice was up to me. But ...”

  As he paused, Vlado wondered if the meeting was being taped, if perhaps Kasic would replay the whole thing later for some international observer, just to prove he’d been on his best behavior. Whatever the reason, Vlado momentarily got the answer he’d been hoping for.

  “Very well, then. Use Begovic as you need him. But sparingly. Keep the major work for yourself. The fewer who have access to your findings, the better. And if you’re feeling overwhelmed in tracking people down, or even in getting the information you need, there is, as I said, help that we might be able to offer. I don’t know what your interrogation skills are like, but should you happen to hit any brick walls with anyone, we have some of the oldest hands in the city in dealing with that sort of thing.” Vlado knew what that meant, most likely. Big fellows sitting around in brightly lit rooms, sipping coffee while they broke kneecaps and hooked up the electrodes.

  “No matter what kind of country we want to have in the future,” Kasic said, “the old ways sometimes still work best. Don’t misunderstand me, Vlado. You’re the boss. As I was saying, we want to come clean on this, the quicker the better. That’s why when I began to hear certain things this morning about Vitas himself, it became all the more important that we immediately give up our jurisdiction.”

  “What sort of things?”

  Kasic lowered his head, shaking it slowly, the portrait of a grieving son.

  “I’d always heard he was a straight shooter,” Vlado prompted.

  “So had I. None straighter, in fact. But maybe with a war on he felt the rules were different, or that they no longer applied.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re interrogating now.” Kasic broke into a broad smile. “In fact as long as you’re here you’d probably like to ask me a few things about my own whereabouts last night. I’ve certainly got motive enough. My promotion was pretty much automatic once Vitas was gone.”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” Vlado said, taking care with his tone. “I’ll have to know where you were at the time of the murder and, assuming you have an alibi, where you were when you first heard of it, who told you. Your reaction. Not only from you but from others. And so on.”

  Kasic nodded, stubbed out his cigarette. “Very good. You’ll have all of the time you need for those things as soon as this conversation is over. But, in getting back to Vitas ...”

  “His lack of virtue.”

  “Yes. The black market, I’m afraid. Nothing fancy. Meat, cigarettes, and liquor, mostly.”

  “Marlboros, for example?” Vlado asked, reaching across to Kasic’s pack and helping himself to one.

  Kasic smiled. He offered Vlado a light and took a cigarette for himself. “Yes, Marlboros. Drinas, too. And he apparently got in deep enough to get himself killed. It’s no real puzzle why, I suppose. Either he was squeezing someone or someone was squeezing him. It came to a head and somebody had to be gotten rid of. It turned out to be Vitas. As for who pulled the trigger, well, we could probably spend the rest of the war tracking that one down if it’s like most of these cases. You know how it works.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure I do. Our little department seems to have lost touch.”

  For the first time Kasic seemed mildly embarrassed. “Yes. This great dent we’ve put in your business. And just when you should have been learning the ropes. Well, the way it usually works these days is that when somebody wants to buy a triggerman he gets some soldier who’s down from the front for a day or two, someone looking for a few extra Deutschemarks for himself or his family. He’s given a gun, a name, and maybe even a location and a time. He does the job, stashes his wad in a mattress somewhere away from a window, or anywhere else it won’t be burned or blown to bits, and vanishes back into the mud. That description narrows it down to a few thousand. But if that’s indeed what happened, it’s not the trigger we’re really interested in. It’s the one who gave the order, the person who presumably is high enough in the smuggling network to order the killing of the chief of the Interior Ministry’s police.”

  “You seem to already know a lot about this case.”

  “Which is either praise for my men’s quick work this morning or a diplomatic way of saying that we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves here. True. And I’m not suggesting at all that you rule out other possibilities. I’m only telling you where our earliest leads are pointing.”

  “Then you have some leads for me.”

  “Yes, although only in the broadest sense.”

  Kasic pulled open a desk drawer, one that presumably had been filled with Vitas’ own work until this morning. He removed four thin file folders and placed them on the desk. “I’m told these people might be of some help,” he said, tapping the files. “They’ve already steered us in a certain direction, as I said.”

  “And these people are ... ?”

  “One is a butcher. The other’s a production foreman at the cigarette plant. The other two are involved in the supply of black-market whiskey. All four have been doing some undercover work for us. They’d heard things about Vitas before now, but naturally they hardly felt free to pass it along while he was in charge.”

  “Word must have traveled fast.”

  “In these sorts of networks it usually does. These four gentlemen came forward with their stories before I even reached my desk this morning. Motivated by the thought of bonuses, no doubt. It’s yet another way of profiteering, and these people are hardly without their own guilt. In fact, my biggest concern about not having our own people on this is that I’m afraid at times you’ll feel like a fish out of water. Our sources aren’t exactly the conventional sort, even for undercover people. We can’t pay them much to begin with, so most of their wages come from skimming their own profits from the system we’re trying to shut down. Which of course puts us in the odd position of having to tolerate it. Let’s face it, we’re all novices at this game. Before the war half of them were either driving taxis or living in some mountain village, wondering how many eggs they might be able to steal from the neighbor’s henhouse. Ask this ‘butcher’ here where to cut a rack of lamb and he’ll probably point to the rump. Even the racketeers who had some experience beforehand are operating at a level now they never would have dreamed of, with their own private armies, even now, even after October. But these informers at least know the streets, even if they aren’t always what you’d call street smart. A bit rough around the edges you’ll likely find.”

  “Sounds like they’re not much good for anything.”

  “I wonder that myself sometimes. But Vitas always figured they were worth it.”

  “Maybe because he was using them to tie him into the market.”

  “Possibly, and if that’s so then any of their information could be suspect. But for the moment it’s the only place we have to start. Unless of course you turn up something. Or unless there was something at the scene. But from what I saw of your report earlier, there was little or nothing.”

  So he had read the report. “Yes, precious little.” Vlado thought for a moment of the folded paper in his pocket, with the name and address in Dobrinja, then let the thought pass without comment.

  “Yet I must say,” Kasic said, “even though these people of ours are far from angels, their stories ring true.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “What reason would they have for lying? Sure, they might pick up a few D-marks for their troubles, but passing the word on something like this would only seem to make them vulnerable to whoever gave the order.”

  “Unless they’re in league with whoever gave the order.”

  “Maybe. But we’ve done a pretty good job of vetting these people. And don’t think that we haven’t ever checked up on th
em. There are others who do nothing but inform on our informers, just to make sure we’re getting a straight story. So I doubt they’d risk their relationship with us by peddling us rubbish. We can put them out of business very quickly. Besides, these four men work in four different places, with three different products, and they live in different parts of town. As far as we know, they’ve never even spoken to each other. Yet their stories are strikingly similar, at least in the way they pertain to Vitas. And another thing, at their roots, all of these illegal operations are quite simple, whether you’re talking about chain of command or chain of supply. Their aims are simple, too: lots of money with as little trouble as possible. Even when it’s tempting to look for complicated solutions and convoluted schemes, the longer you see these people at work the more you realize what a straightforward master greed usually is.

  “So I think you can take these men at their word, at least on the big picture. Which might be all you’ll get from them anyway. Don’t expect much detail. For one thing, it’s never been their strength. They’re informers, not trained investigators. For another, they can’t help but have some fear of whoever’s still calling the shots. Killing someone of the rank of an Esmir Vitas tends to have a very bad effect on people’s memories. But they’re a start, which now is all I have to offer.”

  “Even assuming they’re telling the truth,” Vlado said, “is there anyone that high up left in the rackets, anyone still powerful enough to order this murder? In meat, cigarettes and whiskey, I mean. It’s hardly the top of the line. Not like gasoline. Or human beings, for that matter.”

  Vlado could imagine Grebo cringing through his last remark. Doubtless he’d just betrayed some egregious hole of ignorance on the workings of the black market.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” Kasic answered. “Maybe Vitas thought in his own odd way that he was being ethical by not dealing in the greatest areas of desperation, fuel and freedom. Meat’s a luxury, and perishable at that. It’s not like you can hoard it as currency. But, cigarettes, let’s face it, they’re the closest thing some people have to hard currency It’s how we pay our soldiers, or police. Ever since October we’ve sensed a certain desperation settling into all these markets as supplies have tightened. And if you’re already feeling the squeeze and then suddenly the chief of the Interior Ministry’s police elbows into your field, well, you can see how someone might see that as a matter of life or death, no matter how powerful Vitas was. But your point is well taken. Our side of the river wouldn’t seem to have too many people left with enough clout to order this sort of thing.”

  “Then you think the order could have come from across the river. From the Serbs.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Meaning that even if we can identify who gave the order, we may not be able to do anything about it.”

  “Like I said. A possibility.” He stubbed out another Marlboro. “And not a happy one. But it would at least be enough to satisfy the U.N., especially coming from someone outside our department. It might even serve our purpose better. Put more of the blame on the opposite bank of the Miljacka and maybe they’ll see our arguments a little more clearly But this brings me to the most disturbing element of what we know of Vitas. It concerns his possible contacts with the other side.

  “Vitas grew up in Grbavica, you know,” Kasic said. “In fact, you knew him as a boy, didn’t you? Although I believe you were better friends with his younger brother.”

  Vlado was impressed, wondering how Kasic could have dug up that item on such short notice. Surely Garovic hadn’t known. Yet, this was such a small town in so many ways, growing smaller by the day Fast work nonetheless.

  “We went to the same school,” Vlado said. “But he was eight years ahead of me. And yes, I knew his younger brother well. He was a classmate. Killed just about a year ago.”

  “Yes, a mortar shell through the roof. I remember. His whole family. Which left Vitas quite alone, I suppose. His mother was a Serb, you know. His father was a Muslim, although he would have nothing to do with those labels. He was a Yugoslav first and only, he used to say. One can only wonder what he’d be saying now.”

  “You knew his father?”

  “Somewhat. I met him a few years ago, just before his death. Not long after that his mother died as well.”

  “So you think Vitas still had contacts in his old neighborhood.” Vlado asked. “And if he did, is that so unusual?”

  “Not as such. It happens even now. People manage to get news back and forth, along with the gasoline and coffee. Sometimes even the phone connections pop back up for a while. It drives the army crazy when it happens, but there you are. I myself still know people over there. My paternal grandfather was a Serb, though my father and I were both raised as Muslims.”

  Meaning, in reality, that he was probably raised neither as Serb nor Muslim nor anything else in particular until it came time to choose sides once the war began. Like nearly everyone else in the city, Kasic had probably thought of himself mostly as a Sarajevan, as set apart from those narrow-thinking rurals of whatever background. So, Kasic had thrown in his lot with the bunch that had pledged to preserve Sarajevo as it was, which happened to be the Muslim government of the new nation of Bosnia. So far he was backing the loser in the war, although neither that nor the Serb flavoring in his background seemed to be hurting his career advancement.

  “My house was in Ilizda, you know,” Kasic said.

  “I didn’t, actually.” It was a suburb now held by the Serbs.

  “Yes, and a nice house, too. Big and comfortable. Probably some army commander garrisoned there now, propping his boots on my coffee table while his dog curls up on my bed.”

  For a moment Kasic’s face had a faraway look, as if he’d looked across the office floor and spotted the booted general lounging at one of the desks.

  “But with Vitas,” Kasic resumed, “I fear he may have had some channels open that were, at best, improper.”

  “And at worst?”

  “The conduits for illegal activity. Smuggling. Which, if it’s true, amounts to little more than providing aid and comfort to the enemy, not to mention considerable profit. The very people he used to rail against so convincingly had perhaps even become his paymasters. This is not for me to say conclusively, of course. That’s for you to discover in your investigation. I only want you to be aware of what is being said.”

  “And where does this impression come from?”

  “The same place as our other information,” he said, handing over the thin files. “From these four gentleman. You’ll find the butcher at Markale Market any day of the week. The cigarette man is on shift at the cigarette factory for another ...”—he paused to check his watch, a massive model favored by the old Yugoslav People’s Army—“for another two and a half hours. So you can catch him there today if you like. The same is true of the two whiskey connections. Their addresses are noted in the file, and all four are expecting a visit.”

  He paused, as if about to conclude, then said, “And now, whenever you’re ready, you can question me.”

  Vlado was caught off guard. He shifted gears rapidly, wondering if he was being tested. He wasn’t ready to question Kasic just yet, and he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself trying. He needed to shift control of the conversation.

  “Later would be better, actually. But I’d probably start by asking for a look inside that desk,” Vlado said, glancing at the space beneath Kasic’s elbows.

  Now Kasic was the one who seemed suddenly at a loss.

  “Yes, the desk,” he said. “I would have waited to move in, but things happen so quickly around here that I thought it best to get right on top of things. His business files, or at least the ones that had nothing to do with this case or with any of these activities, I’ve kept.”

  Vlado started to object, but Kasic raised a hand, tilting his head, and said, “I know, you’d like to be the judge of that. But you’ll simply have to take my word. I know it’s not easy, bu
t there are some things in our files too sensitive for anyone but our people to see at present. They have nothing to do with Vitas. They concern other investigations, and I don’t want them compromised.”

  “Wouldn’t it at least be important for context. Perhaps I’d know better where the pieces fit if I can have a better look at the whole range.”

  Besides, Vlado was curious, having felt shut out of things for far too long. He could feel himself easing into the rhythm of an investigation, could sense a thrumming in the back of his mind where the workings had been idle for months.

  “I believe you’ll find all the context you need with those people,” Kasic said, pointing to the thin files in Vlado’s hands. “As for Vitas’s other things, I’ve kept them separate from my own. They’re right here.” He pointed to a large cardboard box in the corner of the office, taped shut. Which meant he or someone else had already gone through everything.

  “I’ll also need access to his apartment. His car, too, if he still had one.”

  “Of course.” Kasic reached into the desk again. “Here are his house keys. His car, I’m afraid, was destroyed a month ago. A direct hit on a building across the street while it was parked out front. And, Vlado, I know Garovic is nervous about all this. About the sensitivity of the case. That’s just the way he is. Let me deal with that. You go where you need to go. Ask what you need to ask, and don’t worry about stepping on any toes. Mine included.”

  Kasic rose from behind his desk, his hand outstretched for a parting shake. As Vlado turned to go, Kasic placed a hand firmly on his shoulder.

  “Vlado?”

  “Yes.”

  “A last word of caution.” Kasic paused. “There will be people watching you closely on this, and I’m not speaking merely of me and the U.N. Some of them I’m probably not even aware of myself, but suffice it to say that they have the means to influence any and all aspects of your life. They will want results, Vlado, and they will want them quickly. They will not wish to be told of some chain of evidence that drifts off into the hills to points unknown. They will want specifics, name by name.”