The Eyewitness (10 page)

Lyudmilla bit her lower lip.

“She said her name was Amy. And she had black hair, not blonde like in the picture.”

“Where is she now?”

Lyudmilla looked nervously at the four men sitting by the door.

“Is she still in Sarajevo?”

“London. She went to London four months ago.” Lyudmilla looked down at the photograph in her hands and smiled.

“What's she doing in London?” asked Solomon.

She snorted again.

“What do you think she's doing? She's working.”

“Who sent her?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

“You said a friend wanted to write to her.”

Solomon tried to smile reassuringly.

“He'll want to know where she is and what she's doing, that's all.”

“You ask questions like a policeman.” She put the photograph on the table and stood up.

“You haven't finished your drink,” said Solomon.

She didn't answer, just walked away. She went into the ladies', giving him one last look over her shoulder before the door closed behind her.

Solomon sipped his Heineken, then stubbed out his cigarette in the butterfly ashtray. He headed for the gents', but at the last moment pushed his way through the door of the ladies'. Lyudmilla was standing in front of a mirror, applying mascara to her long lashes. She turned and took a step away from him.

“You shouldn't be in here,” she said.

“Are you worried about the guys by the door? We could go somewhere else you could say I'm taking you to a hotel.”

“I cannot go hotel,” she said, glancing nervously across at the door.

“We go upstairs with customers. Cannot go outside. Please, go aw ray Someone might have seen you come in here.”

“I'll pay you,” he said.

“You want to sleep with me?”

“I want to talk to you.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak the door was thrown open.

“Who the hell are you?” snarled a short, stocky man in a brown leather safari jacket. He was holding the photograph of Nicole, which Solomon had left on the table. He had receding hair cropped short, thin lips and a square chin with a large dimple in the centre. He was one of the four who had been sitting by the door.

“I just wanted to talk to Lyudmilla,” said Solomon.

The man waved the photograph under his nose.

“Where did you get this?”

Solomon swatted away his arm.

“I don't want any trouble,” he said.

“I don't care what you want,” said the man.

“I want to know what you're doing asking questions in my bar.”

Lyudmilla was trembling.

"He was just looking for Amy The man cut her off with a menacing look.

“I'm not talking to you, whore,” he said.

“Get out there and earn some money or I'll get the boys to take you upstairs.”

Tears welled in Lyudmilla's eyes and she hurried out.

“You get a kick out of terror ising women, do you?” asked Solomon.

“Give me your wallet,” the man said to Solomon, “Like hell,” said Solomon.

The man reached into his jacket and took out a gun, which he levelled at Solomon's chest.

“Your wallet.”

“There's no need for this,” said Solomon, backing away.

“I want to know who you are. Give me your wallet.” The man's finger tightened on the trigger.

“There's no need for this. I'm just looking for the girl in the photograph, that's all.”

The man screwed up the photograph with his left hand and threw it in Solomon's face.

“You think you can come into my bar, asking questions, bothering my girls? If that's what you think, you're wrong.” He jabbed the barrel of the gun into Solomon's stomach.

“Your wallet.”

Solomon took it out slowly and opened it to show his Commission identification.

The man sneered at Solomon.

“So you're a cop.”

“No. I'm a co-ordinator. I make sure everything is handled properly.”

“I know what you people do. You accuse people of war crimes.”

“No, we're forensic investigators. We identify the dead.”

The man snarled and whipped the barrel of the pistol across the side of Solomon's face. He felt a flash of pain and blood spurted down his cheek. The man raised the gun again and Solomon lashed out with his fist. He hit the man on the chin and his head snapped back.

Solomon caught sight of his reflection in the mirror: his left cheek was smeared with blood and there was a near-manic look in his eyes. He hadn't been in a fist fight for more than ten years and on the last occasion he'd had two detectives and six uniforms backing him up.

The man roared and pointed the gun at Solomon's face. Solomon grabbed for the weapon with his right hand and clawed at the man's face with his left. He managed to get his thumb on the hammer and forced the barrel away to the side. The man brought up his knee and Solomon twisted to the side to protect his groin. He screwed his fingernails into the man's cheek, then rammed his head back against the mirror so hard that the glass shattered.

Now the man brought his knee up again and this time he caught Solomon sharply in the belly. Solomon gasped, and let go of the gun. He punched the man on the side of the head, then slammed his elbow against his chin. The man's eyes glazed over briefly, then focused again. He brought the butt of the gun crashing down on Solomon's head. Solomon staggered back and the man pointed his weapon at his groin, then tightened his finger on the trigger.

Solomon kicked out and the gun jerked upwards as it fired. The bullet whizzed by his head and buried itself in the ceiling. His ears buzzed and he kicked out again, connecting with flesh. The man doubled over and Solomon stepped forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall, head-first. He slumped to the floor and rolled on to his back. The gun was still on his hand and Solomon lashed out with his foot and knocked it to the side. He kicked again and connected with the man's elbow. The gun fell from the man's nerveless fingers and clattered on the toilet floor.

The man cursed and groped for it with his left hand. Solomon kicked him hard in the ribs, but the man was strong and reached again for the weapon. Solomon kicked him until he eventually lay still.

Solomon stood looking down at him, breathing heavily. He knelt down, felt for a pulse in the man's thick neck and found one, regular and strong. As he got to his feet the door burst open and two more heavies rushed in, their guns held high One grabbed Solomon by the collar and swung him against a cubicle door, knocking the breath out of him. The other hurried over the check the injured man.

“He was going to kill me,” gasped Solomon, in Bosnian. The man who'd grabbed him shoved him towards the door and into the bar.

Solomon tried to twist round, but his legs were kicked out from underneath him and he crashed to the floor, face down. He felt a gun barrel press against the back of his neck.

“You're dead,” hissed the man.

Solomon tried to roll over but a booted foot hacked into the small of his back. He heard the click of the hammer being drawn back and cursed himself for going into the bar alone.

Then he heard a loud bang: the sound of a door crashing open. He twisted his head in the direction of the noise. Four uniformed policemen stood at the entrance to the bar in dark blue uniforms. They were all holding handguns and shouted at Solomon's captor to drop his weapon.

“Fuck you,” snarled the man.

Solomon rolled towards the wall as the man who'd been holding him down swung his handgun to point it at the police.

“Down!” shouted the sergeant.

“Put the gun down now!”

The girls sitting at the bar screamed and scattered. The men behind it dropped down out of sight. At the far end, customers hunched into corners or fell to the floor and tried to hide behind the wicker sofas.

The thug who'd stayed in the ladies' room charged out and two of the policemen swung their guns to cover him.

“Put your weapons on the floor or we'll fire!” yelled the sergeant, taking a step towards the man who'd kicked Solomon.

“This is your last chance.” He was a heavy-set man with a thick moustache and day-old stubble over this chin.

The man ignored him. He shouted over at the security man who was still sitting at the table by the door.

"Get your gun out!

He pushed back his chair and pulled out his handgun. The police officers bunched together, suddenly less sure of their authority.

The sergeant ignored the man by the door and walked up to the one who had pushed Solomon to the ground, keeping his gun pointing at the man's face.

Solomon sat against the wall, unable to take his eyes off the sergeant's face. He was glaring at his opponent, his jaw clenched. They were both big men and neither looked as if they were used to backing down. They kept their guns levelled at each other's faces.

“I will shoot you,” said the sergeant.

“Fuck you,” said the man.

“Put down your gun.”

“Put down yours.”

The sergeant's lips tightened until they almost disappeared. Even from where he was sitting, Solomon could see his trigger finger whitening.

“This is our territory,” the man said to the sergeant.

“We are the law here.”

The sergeant said nothing.

One of the girls started to sob. They had all gathered together and were hugging each other in terror. Lyudmilla was somewhere in the middle of the group, a handkerchief clutched to her lips.

The other policemen tried to reassert their authority, holding their guns with both hands and shouting staccato commands.

“Drop your guns! We'll fire! Do it!”

Solomon heard them but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sergeant. The sergeant must have known that at the moment he pulled the trigger all hell would break loose. Even if he fired first and killed the man in front of him, the other security men would start shooting and so would the police. God alone knew how many would die. But the sergeant was past being concerned about anyone else in the bar: he was focused on the man in front of him.

“Do you know who we are? Who we work for?” the man asked the sergeant.

“This is Petrovic's bar. Do you know what Petrovic can do to you? To your family? You think that if we back down now that's the end of it? Think again, my friend. It will only be the beginning.”

For the first time Solomon saw a flicker of doubt on the sergeant's face.

“Go now, and this will be forgotten,” said the man, his gun still pointing at the sergeant's face. ' The sergeant looked across at Solomon.

“He's going to kill me,” said Solomon.

“If you leave, they'll shoot me.”

The sergeant took a step back and lowered his weapon. Solomon knew that it was over. The man with the gun grinned in triumph, but before he could say anything, the door to the bar was kicked open and half a dozen American soldiers piled in, armed with semi-automatic weapons. They were wearing camouflage uniforms, helmets and flak-jackets. They rushed through the bar, shouting and waving their guns, their boots pounding on the tiled floor. The three heavies dropped their weapons and the police forced them to the ground, spreadeagled like stranded starfish.

Two of the troopers ran over to stand on either side of the sergeant and they pointed their guns at the man facing them. He stood glaring at them, his breath loud and rasping, then he lowered his gun and let it fall to the ground. The troopers stepped forward and grabbed his arms, forcing them behind his back. A policeman produced a pair of steel handcuffs and clicked them on to the man's wrists.

One of the soldiers was an officer, a lieutenant, and he nodded at the police sergeant.

“What is happening here?” he asked, in heavily accented Bosnian.

“They were going to kill me,” said Solomon, before the policeman could speak.

The officer looked quizzically at Solomon.

“You a Brit?” he asked.

“I'm with the International War-dead Commission,” said Solomon, getting to his feet. His head was aching and blood had trickled down his neck.

“Who are you?” asked the lieutenant.

“Jack Solomon,” said Solomon, offering the officer his ID.

“Who did that to you?” said the officer, nodding at the cut on Solomon's face.

One of the policemen pushed open the door to the ladies' room.

“It's nothing,” said Solomon.

The officer jerked a thumb at the man they'd handcuffed.

“It was him?”

“It's okay,” said Solomon. He just wanted to get out of the bar.

“It's not okay,” said the officer.

“We heard a shot.” He repeated what he'd said in Bosnian, looking at the sergeant.

“We had the situation under control,” said the police sergeant, in Bosnian.

“That's true,” said Solomon, speaking in the policeman's language. Backing up the sergeant seemed to be the quickest way out of the bar.

“I don't speak Bosnian,” said the officer.

The police sergeant repeated what he'd said, in English this time.

“It looked like a stand-off when we burst in,” said the officer.

“They were just about to give up their guns,” said the sergeant.

“How did it start?” the American officer asked Solomon.

“It was a misunderstanding,” said Solomon.

The policeman who'd gone into the ladies' appeared at the door.

“There's something you should see here, Sergeant,” he said.

Solomon headed for the exit, but the American lieutenant pointed a finger at him.

“You stay here,” he said. He told one of his men to stand by Solomon while he followed the sergeant. They both returned a few minutes later.

“What happened to him?” the sergeant asked Solomon. Solomon heard a policeman radioing for an ambulance.

Solomon looked at the American but the lieutenant stared impassively at him, waiting for him to answer the policeman's question.

Before Solomon could answer, the thug who'd been handcuffed kicked out at Solomon's groin. A soldier pulled him away.

“He beat him up,” the man shouted.

“He pulled a gun on me,” said Solomon. He gestured at his bleeding cheek.

“Pistol-whipped me.”

“There was no gun in there,” said the sergeant.

“His men took it.”

“What were the two of you doing in the toilet?” asked the sergeant.

“This is stupid,” said Solomon.

“I'm the one who was attacked.”

“But you're not the one lying unconscious on the floor, are you?” said the sergeant.

“You'd better come with us.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“If you refuse to come with us, I will arrest you, yes.”

“They're the ones who were going to shoot you.”

“Which will be dealt with back at the station. As will your case.”

Solomon looked across at the lieutenant.

“Are you going to let them take me?” he asked.

“Looks like a police matter,” said the American officer casually.

“Before you arrived, they were just about to cut a deal,” said Solomon. He gestured at the police sergeant.

“They were going to back off. They were going to let them kill me.”

“That's not going to happen,” said the lieutenant.

“We'll escort you back to town. We have your details. Nothing's going to happen to you.”

Solomon realised it was futile to argue. He was taken outside by two policemen, who put him into the back of a blue van. One policeman climbed in with him.

The nightclub heavies were being loaded into another van. They had all been handcuffed.

“Have you made a will?” asked the policeman next to Solomon.

“What?”

“You know who he is, the man you hit?” He sucked his teeth.

“Big mistake,” he said.

“Big, big mistake.”

An ambulance arrived, siren wailing. Two men in green overalls rushed into the bar with a metal stretcher and reappeared less than a minute later with the injured man. They put him into the ambulance and it roared off.

The American soldiers climbed into their vehicles, a green Humvee and two Jeeps. A uniformed policeman got into the front of the van that Solomon was in and started the engine. The sergeant climbed into the front passenger seat.

They drove all the way to Sarajevo in silence. Solomon's heart sank as they parked outside the main Sarajevo canton police station on Mis Irbina Street. The American vehicles drove away as he was taken through a metal security door into a busy reception area where his watch, wallet, belt and shoes were taken from him by a female officer whose breath reeked of garlic. She gave him a form to sign. It was in Bosnian. Solomon tried to read it but she tapped it with a pudgy finger and told him to hurry up. He signed it and asked if he could make a phone call.

“Later,” she said.

Solomon turned to the sergeant, who was standing behind him.

“Do you know Dragan Jovanovic?” Solomon asked.

The sergeant pursed his lips.

“I know of him.”

“Will you find him and tell him what's happened?” Dragan was based at the Mis Irbina Street headquarters but Solomon doubted that he would be in the office so late. Someone would have to call him at home.

“Come with me,” said the female officer. She put a hand on Solomon's shoulder.

Solomon shook her off.

“Okay?” he asked the sergeant.

Before the sergeant could answer, the female officer's fingers dug into Solomon's shoulder and she pulled him away, then marched him along a stone-flagged corridor, jangling a set of keys. She pushed him into a cell with green-painted brick walls and a small barred window set close to the ceiling. There was a metal bed with a thin sheet of foam rubber over the springs and a plastic bucket that stank of stale urine. The door clanged shut. It was made of vertical metal bars less than six inches apart.

“Dragan Jovanovic,” Solomon called after her.

“Will someone call him and tell him I'm here?”

Footsteps crunched on the flagstone floor, a slow, measured tread. Solomon sat with his head in his hands and didn't look up. A pair of tasselled brown loafers topped by fawn slacks moved into view and he cursed. He knew only one person in Sarajevo who wore tasselled loafers.

“Have you any idea how much damage your escapade has done to the Commission?” asked Miller.

Solomon still didn't look up. He thought that the question was rhetorical so he didn't answer it. He had been in the cell all night and for most of the morning. The police had taken his watch from him so he didn't know for sure how long he'd been there, but it must have been more than twelve hours and he'd snatched barely a couple of hours' sleep.

“We have a certain position in this town,” continued Miller, in a dull monotone, as if he was reading from a script, 'an authority. We're doing a job that the locals can't be trusted to do, and we have to maintain an appearance of respectability. We're supposed to be better than them."

Solomon looked up.

“Why are you here, Chuck?”

“Why do you think I'm here?”

“I don't know. To gloat?”

“This isn't about gloating,” snapped Miller.

“This is about getting your nuts out of the fire.”

“I don't need your help.”

“Oh, really?” said Miller.

“Do you know how precarious your position is?”

Solomon shrugged.

“What were you playing at?”

“I wasn't playing,” said Solomon.

“You were brawling. In a bar.”

“It wasn't like that.”

“You've put a guy in hospital.”

“He deserved it.”

“You're not in the playground, Jack. You nearly killed him. What the hell were you doing in that club? You owe me an explanation,” said Miller.

Solomon sighed.

“You won't like it,” he said.

“That's a given.”

Solomon badly wanted a cigarette but the police had taken his Marlboros and the Zippo off him when they arrested him.

“I was looking for the eyewitness. The Pristina case.”

Miller slapped his hand against the bars of the cell.

“I thought I told you to pass that on to the Tribunal?”

“I did.”

“So why are you still working on it?”

“I want to find the girl. I want to know what she saw.”

“I told you to drop it. You promised you would.”

“I'm sorry.”

' “Sorry” doesn't cut it. You can't keep lying to me like this. I'm your boss, and I deserve your loyalty if not your respect."

“What more can I say? I said I'm sorry.”

“What is so important about that case? There are forty thousand missing people in the Balkans and most of them were probably murdered. Why are you taking this one so personally?”

“Because if I don't it's going to get lost. Because someone has to care. Twenty-six men, women and children died of suffocation in the back of that truck. They died slowly and they knew they were dying, and someone has to get the men responsible.”

“And that man has to be you, does it?”

“If no one else will, yeah.” Solomon stared at Miller.

“That's the way it has to be, Chuck.”

Miller stared back at him for several seconds.

“The guy you beat up, Ivan Petrovic, he knew the girl?”

“She worked at his club until a few months ago. She was a hostess.”

“A prostitute?”

Solomon assented.

“You know how much trouble you're in, don't you?” asked Miller.

“He won't press charges,” Solomon said flatly.. “That's the least of your problems. You know who he is?”

“He's a pimp and a trafficker. He won't go running to the police.”

“He won't have to,” said Miller.

“He's going to have you killed as soon as he gets out of intensive care.”

“Bullshit,” said Solomon. He sat back on his bed and leaned against the cold stone wall.

“I'm serious. Petrovic isn't just a pimp or a bar-owner. He's one of the biggest villains in the country, as dangerous as they get. He kills people. He pays to have people killed and on occasions he does it himself. With relish.”

Solomon closed his eyes.

“How did you know I was here, Chuck?” said Solomon quietly.

“I got a call. A local. He told me what had happened and said I should get you out of Sarajevo out of the country.”

Solomon nodded. It could only have been Dragan. The policeman had probably been reluctant to get involved once he'd discovered the identity of the man Solomon had put in hospital. With good reason: corruption was a way of life in the Bosnian force and many of Dragan's colleagues could well be on Petrovic's payroll. It was hardly surprising that so many officers were corrupt: a new recruit to the Uprava Policije, the canton police, earned just eight hundred marks a month. An inspector like Dragan would be lucky to get much more than a thousand. That was less than a tenth of the equivalent salaries in the UK.

“I spoke to the police, who said that if I guarantee you'll be on the next plane out of Sarajevo they'll look the other way.”

Solomon opened his eyes.

“You're sacking me?”

“No. Your job will still be here, but you're going to have to take the two months' leave you're owed. Plus a month's unpaid. After three months, if the heat's off, you can come back.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Solomon, “You either do that, or I'll have to let you go,” said Miller.

“I can't afford to have a hoodlum like Petrovic coming after you with guns blazing.”

“I can take care of myself, Chuck.”

“In London, maybe. But this is Sarajevo. Life is ' ”Cheap," Solomon finished.

“I know the cliche.”

“Cliches usually become cliches because they're true,” said Miller.

“You can't do your job here if you're looking over your shoulder all the time. Look, you're owed leave. You've barely had a day off since you started with the Commission. And you're owed a return flight home. Take the vacation. Recharge your batteries. In three months Petrovic himself might be dead, the way the gangs here are ripping into each other.”

“There's nothing for me in London.”

“You've got family.”

“I've got an ex-wife who wishes I was dead.”

“So go anywhere. Go lie on a beach. You get a paid-for ticket to the UK. Where you go from there is your own business.”

“Thanks a bunch, Chuck.”

Miller sighed.

“You think I'm a callous bastard, don't you?”

Solomon didn't answer.

“Just because I don't wear my heart on my sleeve doesn't mean I don't have feelings,” Miller continued.

“I did your job for two years, and we had half the staff then that we have now. We all have our way of dealing with it, and my way is to treat it like an academic exercise. They're not people. They're cases to be closed or passed on. Once you start thinking of them as people, you're lost.”

“I hear what you're saying,” said Solomon.

Miller carried on as if he hadn't heard Solomon: “You seem to think I've stopped caring. I haven't. I just don't want to start empath ising again, like I used to. I don't want to start imagining what it's like to be lined up in a field and shot in the back of the head. To be locked inside a church that's set on fire. To see my wife raped and my children killed. To be locked in a truck with twenty-five other people and watch them suffocate. I've got a pretty good imagination and I'm fucked if I'm going to use it to make my own life a living hell.”

Solomon felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the man. In the two years they'd worked together, Miller had never come close to opening up.

“I'm sorry, Chuck,” he said.

“Fuck you,” snapped Miller.

“I don't need your pity.”

“I mean I'm sorry for screwing you around like this. Sorry for the hassle.”

Miller turned his back on Solomon.

“Just go, will you?” he said “The cops are doing the paperwork, you'll be out in an hour or two. Go home, get some sleep, and I'll have the tickets sent round to you. Call me when you get to London.” He walked away before Solomon could say anymore.