by Neil Howarth
He looked out of the window up towards the forest and the mountains. She was up there. Some instinct deep inside him told him she was alive. He held on to that thought.
The truck dropped him on the edge of the town and Fagan made his way towards the town square. He headed for the bar where they had had lunch, a lifetime ago. It was not open yet. Fagan worked his way around the back and found a rear door. It was unlocked. He moved inside and stepped into a small kitchen. It was clean and tidy, and deserted. The door to the bar was open. He pulled out the Glock and moved towards it.
Zoran was behind the bar polishing glasses. He didn’t see Fagan until he had stepped up beside him and thrust the barrel of the sound suppressor into his neck.
“Okay Zoran, it’s time you and I had a little chat.”
Zoran froze. “Sir, please. I cannot help you. You should leave. It is not safe for you here. Those men who were in here yesterday, they are very bad news. You do not want to get involved with them.
“Take a look.” Fagan stepped in front of him, grinding the barrel harder into Zoran’s neck. “You want to see bad news, then look closely. I’m here on my own. My friend is not waiting outside. She is out there on that mountain. She’s alone, apart from those men who were here yesterday. They are looking for her, and I don’t have to tell you what will happen if they catch her. Now you’re going to talk to me, or so help me I will blow your brains all over this bar.”
Zoran looked as if he was about to faint.
“Tell me about those men.”
Zoran found his voice and quickly told him what he knew. He confirmed that they worked for the local gangster, Ratko Vladij, who was also the brother of Colonel Dragonov Vladij. He also confirmed they were out in numbers looking for him and the girl.
“Yesterday you said that the witness who was killed had a sister. You said she had moved away. You had not heard from her. You were lying.”
He could see the fear in Zoran’s eyes.
“Please, if these men find her, she is dead.”
“I would hate to see you spill your guts all over this floor.”
Zoran took a deep breath. “She is living here with her husband. They used to live in the village, but when her brother died, they moved out. I don’t know where she is now.”
“What is her married name?” Fagan ground the tip of the suppressor harder into Zoran’s neck.
“Crosnic,” Zoran blurted out. “Her name is Armena Crosnic.”
“You must have some idea where she might have gone. Does she have relatives?”
Zoran shrugged and even managed a smile. “This is the Balkans. People have many relatives. They could be anywhere in these mountains.”
“Zoran listen to me. If I don’t find her first, she will die.”
Zoran nodded his head, and Fagan pulled the gun away. Zoran looked at Fagan and slowly reached for a bottle. He poured himself a large vodka with a shaking hand and sank it in a single gulp. He refilled his glass and held up the bottle to Fagan.
Fagan shook his head.
Zoran emptied the glass again and wiped his mouth. “I was in the cemetery yesterday morning. I was walking my dog. When I stopped by Tarik’s grave, I noticed something.”
“Well tell me.”
“Someone had put fresh flowers on it.”
43
Bretsnia, Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Fagan extracted one last thing out of Zoran before he left. His car keys. The car turned out to be a battered old truck parked out front. Zoran had given him directions, and he headed out to the cemetery. The engine made an ominous clunking sound, and the steering wheel vibrated vigorously as if the truck was about to shake itself apart. But it made it up the hill to the small cemetery. He parked a short distance from the main gate and walked the rest of the way.
A set of stone steps led up to an arched entrance with two wrought iron gates, that were open. A paved pathway led between the trimmed lawns that surrounded the graves. It obviously came from a time when the faiths had lived and died in peace, because the cemetery was divided. Muslim on the right, with the same obelisks and simple tombs he had seen back in Sarajevo, and on the left, Christian, with traditional crosses and more ornate memorials of angels and saints. Towards the back, there were flat, stone-built, crypts and even one or two marble mausoleums. There must have been money in Bretsnia at some stage, though looking at the dilapidated state of the mausoleums now, that had to be some years ago.
Zoran had told him the location of the grave. He made his way through the tombs on the Muslim side counting as he went. He stopped at the point where the paths crossed and stepped up to a grave. The headstone was a simple granite obelisk.
‘In memory of Tarik Samirovic, beloved son, and brother.’
He looked at the flowers someone had placed on the grave. They had withered in the sun. They were not fresh today. He crossed the path and sat beneath a tree with a good view of the main gate and of the grave. It might be a futile task but for one other piece of information that Zoran had given him.
She visits her brother’s grave every day.
He watched a gathering of dark clouds slowly make their way across the sky. He went to look at his watch, then remembered. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. He had been sitting there for almost two hours. He was beginning to wonder if Zoran had been just trying to get rid of him. Or maybe the girl had got scared and gone into hiding up in those hills. He looked up at the forested hillside, it seemed to rise in a vast undulating sweep, as far as the distant horizon. This Colonel, the Beast of Bretsnia, had stayed hidden up there for twenty-five years. If the girl had gone up there, what chance did he have of finding her?
The first raindrops began to splatter on the paved pathway. Fagan stood up and stretched, easing out his left arm. The high-pitched squeal of a motor scooter straining up the hill cut through the growing patter of the rainfall. The sound reminded him of Walter. He had not heard from him, which meant no contact with Frankie.
He stayed under the tree. The rain was now falling quite heavily. She appeared through the front gate carrying an umbrella. He could not see her face, not that he knew what she looked like, but something told him it had to be her. She made her way towards him and stopped in front of Tarik Samirovic’s grave. She placed the flowers in front of the headstone and knelt there, letting the rain splatter against her umbrella.
Fagan approached slowly then stopped a few feet away.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
The girl turned quickly, tipping back the umbrella, and backed away. Her dark eyes wide in fear.
Fagan stood where he was. “I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Joseph Fagan. I know who you are, Armena. I’m sorry about your brother.”
The girl looked at him, uncertain, the fear still evident on her face. “How do you know who I am?” She said in English.
“Zoran, at the bar in the town told me about you. I believe you could be in great danger.”
The girl gave a small shrug of her shoulders. “I know that.” She looked towards the gate. “I must leave.”
“Armena, please, I also need your help. You know your bother’s death was not an accident.”
Armena chewed the inside of her lip and nodded.
“The people responsible are now after someone special to me. And if I don’t find her soon, I know they will kill her too.”
The girl seemed to study him. She had been pretty once. Her hair was midnight black, tucked inside the hood of her raincoat. Her eyebrows were equally dark, thick above liquid brown eyes, but there the beauty ended. There was a tiredness that etched into the skin around her eyes and pulled at the turn of her mouth. It seemed to weigh on her, as if life had used her up then discarded her.
“I am sorry about your friend but how am I supposed to help?”
“Can we get out of the rain.”
Armena chewed on her lower lip then seemed to make up her mind. She began walking towards the gate. Fagan kept his di
stance behind her. The sound of an engine revving up the hill drifted in on the wind. The girl heard it too and stopped. Fagan moved up and gripped her arm. He pointed towards a stone crypt on the Christian side. She nodded, and they headed in that direction, quickly weaving between the headstones. The crypt door was locked, but they crowded into the covered entrance, which gave Fagan a good view of the main gate.
A black Mercedes SUV came into view and stopped. Two men got out.
Fagan had a forlorn hope that they had not visited Zoran, but a bad feeling deep inside him told him he was wrong about that.
“I think we should leave,” Fagan said.
The girl nodded. “We should go this way.”
She led the way through the tombstones, towards the stone wall that bordered the cemetery. Fagan spotted a gate a short distance from where they stood. They hurried towards it, Fagan keeping Armena in front of him. He heard a cry but kept on moving. A bullet smacked off a headstone just in front of them. Fagan veered towards a stone mausoleum, keeping Armena in front of him, shielding her from the attackers. They ducked behind it and emerged into a small lane with stone carved crypts on either side. They hurried along it and reached a cluster of outbuildings. Fagan made his way towards the back. He tried the door of one of the buildings. It was locked, but it looked old and not that strong. He jammed in a swift boot and the door flew open. He pushed Armena inside. The place was full of gardening implements and grave digging tools. This would have to do. These men were not going away. It was time to push back, and he was in just the mood.
“Stay here. If I’m not back in ten minutes, head in that direction.” He pointed towards a back door. “And don’t come back. You need to disappear. Do you understand me?”
The girl nodded, though she seemed so paralyzed by fear he wasn’t sure she understood him at all.
Fagan stepped towards the door and peered out. There was no sign of the men. He pulled out the Glock and headed out.
He worked his way back through the trees that ran along the edge of the cemetery. He caught a movement out to his left. A man appeared, making his way through the gravestones, holding an MK47 automatic rifle. Fagan waited for him to get closer then stepped out, the Glock extended in front of him.
“The gun, on the floor.”
The man stopped. He looked at Fagan but did not drop the gun. His eyes flicked out to his left. Fagan caught the movement. His buddy was coming towards them over a small hill. The first man lifted his MK and Fagan shot him between the eyes.
Bullets ripped up the turf at Fagan’s feet, but he was already moving. He let go a couple of shots at the other man then dived for the cover of a large headstone. The pain seared up his left side as he hit the dirt. He crouched down behind the block of granite as the other man poured in fire, the bullets ripping large chunks out of the headstone. The firing suddenly stopped. Fagan glanced out as the man dropped the depleted MK and reached for a pistol in his belt. Fagan thanked God for amateurs and rolled clear of the headstone, the Glock held in both hands. He put two rapid shots in the man’s chest, and the man gave a grunt and collapsed. Fagan struggled to his feet and stood there swaying. His shoulder throbbed painfully. He heard a movement behind him and swung around, the Glock extended in front of him.
The girl stood there, her eyes wide.
“Who are you?”
It was a question Fagan wished he could answer.
44
Churchyard, Bretsnia.
The light seemed to go from behind her eyes. He rushed forward and grabbed her as she collapsed.
The faint only lasted a moment. Her face was pale, but she could soon stand on her own.
“Are you all right?”
She managed a nod but didn’t speak.
Fagan held onto her as they headed back to the gate. The black Mercedes SUV was parked there. Fagan looked down the road at Zoran’s pile of junk. He had a bad feeling that Zoran would not be needing it again.
He tried the door of the Mercedes. It was open. He helped the girl into the passenger seat.
“Wait here,” he said and headed back the way they had come.
He quickly searched the two bodies. They did not have a lot. Neither had credit cards or identification, but they each had a substantial wad of cash, which he stuffed in his pocket. He found the keys to the Mercedes and hurried back.
Armena was sitting where he had left her, her face pale as alabaster. Her eyes were wide in shock. He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine and headed back down the hill.
He glanced across at the girl.
“We can’t stay in this vehicle long. As soon as these people work out their friends are missing, they are going to be tracking it.” He glanced across at the girl. “So you tell me. Where are we going?”
He wasn’t sure she had heard him.
“Take the road to the left here.” She suddenly spoke in a faltering voice. She indicated towards a fork in the road. Fagan yanked on the steering wheel and took the left one.”
They followed the road for about ten miles before Armena indicated a turning to the right.
“My husband’s Grandfather has a farm up here. We have been staying there.”
Fagan turned the SUV onto a narrow track and followed it as it wound its way up into the hills. They arrived at a small farm cottage, built into the side of the hillside. Fagan parked out front. The place appeared deserted.
Armena climbed out and rushed inside. “Marko,” she called out.
Fagan jumped out and followed her in. He could hear her moving about upstairs, calling out her husband’s name. But there was no answer. She appeared on the stairs and came down to where Fagan stood.
“Do you know where he might have gone?” Fagan asked.
Armena pulled out a modern smartphone and made a call. Fagan could hear the phone ringing on the other end, but no one answered.
Armena looked at him nervously. “He never answers his phone.”
“You need to get rid of that,” Fagan said. “They can track you on it.” Fagan took it from her, she didn’t protest. He walked to the door and pulled out the battery and the SIM card, and threw it all into the distance.
“We have to go. We can’t stay here.”
“But Marko.”
“We’ll contact him as we go. Maybe you can leave him a message. Tell him you’re all right.”
They climbed back into the Mercedes and drove to the edge of a small town. Fagan dumped the SUV, and they moved quickly through the back streets and ended up in a small cafe on the corner of a tiny square. Fagan ordered black coffee for him and water for Armena. She sat in silence for a while then looked across at him.
“What do you want from me? You said your friend was missing.”
“Do you want the people who murdered your brother to get away with it.”
The girl shook her head.
“Then let’s help each other.”
“What will we do?”
“For now we need to drop out of sight.”
He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, but eventually, she nodded.
“I should call my uncle. He will help us.”
Fagan handed her his phone. “Use this.”
Armena made a call then handed it back. “He will come for us.”
Armena did not speak while they waited. Fagan left her to her thoughts. He looked at his phone. He pressed the special icon that Walter had told him about. A single Wifi network appeared. He tapped on the icon and a few seconds later the phone showed he was connected.
Armena said something as a truck jerked to a halt out front. A man with long white hair in unruly curls and a thick white mustache climbed out. Fagan looked down at the phone, then put it back in his pocket.
His name was Omar, he was Armena’s uncle on her mother’s side. He drove them out of the town. He and Armena were having a conversation that Fagan did not understand, but by the look on their faces, it was not cordial. The old man wound his way into the hills and stopp
ed the truck in front of a small cottage, at the top of a cart track. He said something to the girl that Fagan still did not understand, then disappeared inside the house. He did not look happy.
“What did he say? Does he have a problem with me?”
The girl gave a small shrug. “It is not you. He is angry with me. He has been telling me that I should take Marko and leave. But I was not ready. He told me not to go to the cemetery, said it was far too dangerous. Of course, he was right, but I ignored him.”
“Has he heard from your husband?”
She shook her head, and tears brimmed over onto her cheeks.
“I’m sure he’ll turn up.” Fagan tried to be reassuring. He wished he believed it.
45
Dinaric Alps, Bosnia and Herzegovina.
She had been on the track for an hour when she heard them.
Frankie had started out later than planned. It had rained first thing, and she figured that being soaked and frozen was not going to help her chances of getting over this mountain. So she had waited until it stopped.
She could hear them much more clearly now. Even from this distance, she could identify the high pitched roar of off-road motorcycles. There was more than one, maybe even three or four. She had to move. She took a bearing on the snow-topped mountain directly ahead. She knew from the map app on the phone that Walter had given her, there was a pass through the mountains that would take her into the valley beyond, and hopefully to safety. She had looked at it when they were driving up here, it was supposed to be their plan B exit.
