Going Dark

by Neil Lancaster

  Pet appeared behind him. ‘Are you okay, Tom?’

  Tom’s eyes did not move from the screen.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘This man killed my father,’ he said, his voice low and even, giving no indication of the fury that gripped his insides like an ice fist driving through his ribcage.

  18

  1992

  Petrovici, Bosnia

  Tomo walked home from school back to his tiny home in the shadow of the Trebivic mountain, whistling and kicking a stone along the dusty track. He was looking forward to the twelve-kilometre drive with his papa to Sarajevo later that day, where he would join Papa’s wrestling class. The full group of other embryonic wrestlers would all be star-struck by the ex-Olympian wrestler teaching them, with Tomo the proudest of them all.

  He arrived home to a sight he truly was not expecting. Every instinct told him that something was wrong, very wrong. Four burly men in rag-tag camouflage uniforms were stood outside the cottage smoking: all Serbs, laughing at a shared joke, cruelty leeching from their pores. Every window in the house had been smashed, and the garden was strewn with his family’s belongings; clothing and papers fluttered in the stiff breeze. Even the chickens were gone, just a trail of feathers and blood on the grass where they should be.

  The largest approached Tomo with a nasty smile on his pocked face, his vivid pale blue eyes staring directly at the boy. His nose was bent to one side and blood was smeared on his lip. His bull-neck gave way to a muscular body that spoke of hours in a gym and a thin scar traced from his left ear across to his nose. He squatted on his haunches and offered his hand to Tomo, who remained rooted to the spot, ignoring the shovel-like hand. He was transfixed by the tattoo on the man’s wrist: a white, double-headed eagle.

  ‘You must be the great Jacov Novak’s boy. Are you a wrestler too, like your papa?’

  Tomo stared at the man.

  ‘Never mind, son. You’ll get another man for your whore of a mother. Your father could have joined us in glory, not consorted with Roma and Bosniak scum.’ He patted a crest patch on his right shoulder that showed the same two-headed white eagle as that on his wrist. Fury and a maniacal gleam shone in his eyes.

  His mama appeared at the cottage door and rushed to meet Tomo, shooting a look of utter hatred at the intruders as she took him in her arms, protectively. Her face was bruised and bleeding, her dress ripped, and she shivered, her tear-stained face radiating fear and desperation.

  Of his papa, there was no sign.

  His mama sobbed as she clutched him protectively, quivering with emotion.

  The big Serb guffawed, got to his feet, and marched off, barking orders at the other men. They all climbed into a battered Toyota Land Cruiser and sped off in a cloud of dust.

  ‘Mama, what have they done with Papa?’

  His mama couldn’t answer. It seemed as though words wouldn’t leave her mouth, instead remaining at the back of her throat, choking her.

  ‘Gone, little one,’ she said eventually. ‘He’s gone.’

  *

  The next day

  Sarajevo

  The crowds thronged the packed streets, an air of tension lingering, palpable in the cold, crisp afternoon sun. The smell of fear and uncertainty was almost visible, hanging like a fog above the human tide. Long queues formed outside banks and stores as people attempted to fill larders and empty bank accounts. Cash was king, and credit was a memory.

  Soldiers lounged on every corner and by every queue, heavily armed with automatic weapons and hard faces. Mistrust lay everywhere. Mistrust between Serb, Croat, Bosniak, Roma, Muslim, Christian, and Orthodox. The community, once tolerant, was dividing before their very eyes. The buildings either side of the street showed the aftermath of a mortar attack. Shattered windows, strewn glass, and deep scars were gouged in the facades on both sides of the road. The siege of Sarajevo, the city known as The Jerusalem of the Balkans, was taking hold.

  Aishe, a tall, lean woman, fought the tide of bodies while clutching Tomo’s hand. Both were dark in complexion, their brown eyes betraying their Roma lineage. A livid bruise coloured her cheek and a trace of blood remained on her lip. She carried a rucksack almost as large as herself and was dressed simply in a blue cotton dress and woollen coat. The boy looked bewildered and frightened, his world turned upside down.

  ‘Mama, what is happening? Where are we going?’

  ‘Hush, little one. We must hurry,’ she replied, a haunted look in her dark, glittering eyes. The mask of fear couldn’t quite disguise her classic bone structure and innate beauty.

  ‘But why have we left our home? What did those bad men want? Where’s Papa?’

  ‘Papa has gone, Tomo. He’s gone…’ Tears coursed down her cheeks, fear and fatigue etched across her features. ‘We must leave this place; we’re not safe. Keep up. We must hurry.’

  The enormity of what had happened to her Jacov hit her so suddenly, it took all her resolve not to collapse.

  Jacov had warned her they were at risk in the political turmoil of Bosnia and the wider Yugoslavia. Their mixed origins hadn’t endeared them to anyone: he was a Bosnian Catholic and she was of Romany gypsy heritage. Jacov’s work as an English interpreter with the government had raised his head firmly above the parapet and into the sights of the Serbians and the Bosniak Muslims.

  Just the day before, he had told her that only in England could they be safe. ‘The Bosniak Muslims hate us because we’re Catholics, and my Serbian countrymen hate us because you’re Roma. I won’t join paramilitaries in the killing of innocents, so we will never be left alone.’

  ‘They should love you, Jacov,’ she had protested. ‘You were an Olympic hero for Yugoslavia.’

  He had shaken his head. ‘That only makes them hate me more. No, the Yugoslavia I loved is gone. We have to go too. Don’t worry, the arrangements will be made.’

  Jacov was a taciturn man who wasn’t given to panic, so his words had resonated with her. He feared no one, but she could see he was terrified for his family.

  Their home was in the high ground south-west of Sarajevo. The area would clearly become the focus of intense military activity as the opposing forces tried to gain an advantage. No one would be safe when the paramilitaries came, particularly the Roma and their children.

  When the opposing forces clashed, as they surely would, Jacov had feared he wouldn’t be able to protect them, so he’d made his plans to get them all out safely… But before Jacov could do anything, they’d run out of time.

  She shuddered at the memory of the day before, when the gang of Serbs had come to their home and tried to get Jacov to throw in his lot with them.

  ‘Join us, Jacov,’ the grinning leader had said. ‘Join us in ridding our country of the Bosniak scum and non-believers. Do that and we will forgive you for marrying a Roma bitch.’

  Jacov had launched at the man, breaking his nose with a thunderous right hook. And after that… It had all happened so quickly after that. A rifle butt to the back of Jacov’s neck dropped him to the floor, and he was dragged outside. Aishe was left alone with the leader. He had looked her up and down and her stomach had churned, the silence in the room overpowering as she had realised what he intended.

  He had approached her, fumbling with his trousers, a pistol in his free hand. As she shook her head, the crack of a gunshot from outside split the silence in two.

  The memory welled up, threatening to overwhelm her, but she forced the horror down. Only now mattered, only right now and the chance she had, her one remaining chance, to get a future for little Tomo.

  The arrangements made by Jacov had amounted to a scrap of paper with a name and telephone number scribbled on it. She’d made the call which had led them to a cab office in a grimy side street in downtown Sarajevo. Aishe and Tomo entered a tired and scruffy office where an elderly woman manned the desk.

  Thick dust lay everywhere, and an ancient calendar of Sarajevo’s historic buildings hung askew on the wall. Peeling linoleum covered the sti
cky floor. The silence was only interrupted by a ticking clock which showed it was 3.49pm.

  Aishe approached the desk. ‘I’ve been told to ask for Braslav.’

  ‘Who are you?’ The woman’s scorn was evident with every syllable.

  ‘I’m Aishe and this is my son, Tomo.’

  The woman surveyed them, her eyes showing the greyish bloom of cataracts, and her face heavily lined, her make-up only serving to make her look more hag-like. ‘Roma?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aishe said quietly.

  The woman stood up slowly, her heavy frame disappearing through a beaded curtain to a back room, muttering as she went.

  The silence in the room was cloying, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the wall. Tomo stared at the clock, his face a mask of confusion.

  Aishe looked at her son’s dark, handsome face. His cheeks were stained with fat tears that carved trails on his grubby skin. His near-black eyes were impassive and her heart ached for him. The enormity of his father’s death had not yet arrived, but it would soon. And how would they cope then? They’d have to. She’d have to. Jacov’s legacy must be protected. Nothing else mattered but Tomo now; his future was all that concerned her. Grieving could wait for another day.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a sturdy, grey-haired man with sharp green eyes and a kindly face, with a monstrous grey moustache that totally dominated his upper lip and cheeks. He wore dark trousers and a short-sleeved, crisp cotton shirt.

  ‘Aishe?’ he asked, grunting when she nodded. ‘And you must be little Tomo?’ His eyes held a smile as he looked at the little boy.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I am Braslav, an associate of Jacov’s.’ He started to ask when Jacov would arrive but the desolate look on Aishe’s face told its own story.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ Aishe replied, casting her eyes down to hide the welling tears.

  Braslav shook his head. ‘This is happening too often. What will become of our country? I promised Jacov I would help him, and I will,’ he said firmly. ‘You have everything you need?’

  Aishe looked sadly at him. ‘We have nothing else. They took everything.’

  Braslav shook his head again. ‘Do you have money and papers?’

  Aishe nodded. ‘We have enough money for the journey only and we have our papers. We also have these.’ She reached into her pocket and produced a small, soft leather bag. Tipping the contents into her hand, she proffered them to Braslav.

  Three small stones glittered in her hand, given to her by Jacov only three days before.

  Braslav looked at the diamonds with a mild expression of wonder.

  ‘Hide them well, my dear. Men will kill for such a prize. These are Jacov’s legacy to you to start a new life in the free world,’ he said as Aishe returned the stones to her pocket.

  Braslav looked firmly at Tomo, his green eyes shining with tears.

  ‘Your father told me much of you, my friend. “The next Yugoslav wrestling champion,” he would say. We will get you to England in his memory. Tomo, your papa was a great man. Maybe Yugoslavia won’t survive, but we will make sure you do, Tomo Novak.’

  19

  ‘I need to speak to Ivan,’ Tom announced as he paced the floor of the hotel room.

  ‘Is it worth the risk?’ asked Pet.

  ‘I have to. I don’t know if he has any leads on where the leak came from. The Brankos had him up against a wall and the information had to come from somewhere. He may know something, even if he doesn’t know it himself.’

  ‘Okay. How are you gonna call him?’

  ‘With that sat-phone I just used. It’s untraceable, right?’

  ‘At least from this end, yes. But if they’re listening to him or tracking him, then it doesn’t matter if it’s untraceable, does it?’

  ‘I think it’s worth the risk. If he has information, then we need it.’ He picked up the chunky sat-phone and dialled Ivan’s number, which he’d retrieved from his own iPhone.

  ‘Hello?’ Ivan answered.

  ‘Ivan it’s Tomo. Can you speak safely?’

  ‘Man, where you been? People looking all over for you.’

  ‘We need to meet, now. Where can you get to?’

  ‘Man, I’m scared. I thought those bastards were going to kill me. And it’s late as well,’ Tom could hear the naked fear in his voice.

  ‘Come on, Ivan. We have to meet. I need to see you now: it’s urgent. I need to know how the Brankos found out about me. It’s important and I don’t want to talk for long on the phone.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’m in Willesden Green. Can you meet me in Gladstone Park? Benches by the kids’ playground. It’s quiet there this time of night.’ He was slurring as if he’d been drinking.

  ‘I know where it is. It’s ten-thirty now; I’ll meet you there at midnight. Don’t let me down, Ivan,’ said Tom, hanging up. ‘Do you have a car?’ he asked Pet.

  ‘No. I got an Uber here,’ Pet replied.

  ‘Okay, how do I do that then?’

  ‘You don’t know about Uber?’

  ‘I thought it just meant something was really good in German.’

  ‘You really are a Luddite. You know about the internet, right?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Well you know smart phones have these things called “apps”?’

  ‘Are you patronising me?’ Tom affected a hurt expression.

  ‘No, just fucking with you, Detective. Uber is an app that means you can instantly call a cab. Where do we need to go?’ Pet smiled broadly at Tom’s mild embarrassment.

  ‘Target roundabout on the A40.’

  Pet clicked a few times on her iPhone. ‘Done. It’ll be outside in six minutes. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘No way. It could be dangerous, and I don’t know if he’s alone. He won’t talk in front of you. You’re not a field agent, you’re a consultant. No chance.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I can keep watch. I can also track Ivan using my iPad, so we can see where he is.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Easy. I have his phone number. A simple hack and I can use his phone’s GPS to track him. It will take me about three minutes to sort out. You gotta admit that’s good tradecraft, being in control of your informant.’

  Tom paused for a second. He couldn’t deny that it was perfect tradecraft that many a specialist agent-handler would use. Be in control of your informant, not the other way around, was the mantra of safe informant-handling. Tom wondered just how much she knew, and how much of ‘just a consultant’ she was.

  ‘Okay. I can’t fault your logic.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss man,’ she said as she returned to her laptop and produced an iPad from her holdall. She began tapping at the keys with the look of intense concentration he’d noticed before, her tongue slightly protruding from the corner of her mouth.

  Tom picked up the Sig, tucking it in the rear of his waistband, and also took his burner phone and his iPhone. He then secreted the SD card behind a loose edge of carpet. There was nothing to link him to the hotel but why take the risk? The SD card was the only bargaining chip he had left.

  ‘Okay. I have him live now on GPS. He’s at an address at Melrose Avenue in Willesden.’

  ‘Blimey. You’re better than Mike gave you credit for. Do you know how long that would take me through official channels?’

  ‘Never, would be my guess.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go and get this done. I’m tired and need to sleep.’

  *

  The cab arrived outside the hotel exactly six minutes later: a beaten-up Nissan driven by a Pakistani driver who, it seemed, spoke little English. That was perfect; a chatty driver was the last thing they needed at that moment.

  After being dropped off at the Target roundabout they made their way on foot to the McDonalds car park, where the VW Passat was waiting: exactly where Tom had asked Stan to leave it, with the key secreted just inside the rim of the exhaust pipe.

&nb
sp; They got in and Tom took a moment to familiarise himself with the controls and the location of the blues-and-twos. Pet fired up the app on her iPad.

  ‘He’s not moved yet. He’s still at the address in Melrose Avenue, so we have plenty of time.’

  Tom set off, keeping well within the speed limits, fully aware that he was carrying an illegal firearm. He also had no idea if the Sig had been used before, which could make life difficult if he was found in possession of it and it had been used in a murder. Forensic testing on firearms was of such high quality that it only needed one shell casing or intact bullet to link a crime conclusively to an individual weapon.

  He certainly didn’t need to be getting arrested at that particular moment, not with whoever was feeding information to Branko and Adebayo still somewhere out there. At the very least, he’d be staring at a charge of unlawful possession of an illegal firearm, which could again land him in jail. The realities and seriousness of his situation threatened to overwhelm him again, but he quickly shook it off, the memory of what Branko had done to his family overtaking any doubts. He would see it through and bring those people down, no matter what the cost.

  ‘He’s still static at Melrose.’ Pet’s lightly-accented voice cut through his ruminations.

  ‘That’s good: at least we know he’s close by. When we get there, I’ll approach the meeting place and you take up a position and keep an eye open. If you see anyone else approaching, send me a text to the burner phone.’