The Eyewitness (32 page)

Dragan held out his hand for a cigarette. Solomon tossed him one. He caught it deftly and put it to his lips, then lit a match with his thumbnail.

“You're sure about this?” asked Dragan.

“You're sure you want to go through with it?”

“I can't explain why I feel the way I do, Dragan. I wish I could. It's like I'm trapped on some sort of roller-coaster and I can't get off.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

Dragan put his beer bottle on the floor.

“You don't leave me with any choice, then,” he said.

“I'll have to come with you.”

“What?” exclaimed Solomon.

“You heard me,” said the policeman.

“You need taking care of.”

“Sasha will do that.”

“How well do you know this guy?” asked Dragan.

“What if he's got another agenda? If he decided to do something to you in Arizona, there'd be nothing to stop him.”

Solomon toyed with his bottle of Heineken. He knew that Dragan was right. Sasha had already tortured and killed Petrovic. And he was heading up to Arizona to kill Goncharov and his thugs. He might well decide that he was better off with no witnesses around.

“How do I explain you to Sasha?” he asked.

“No way he's going to want a cop around.”

Dragan grinned.

“I'll dress casual,” he said.

“Don't forget I worked undercover with the federal police. You just tell him I'm a friend from the Commission. I know enough about your work to get by.”

“And why are you going to Arizona? He'll want to know.”

“You can say I've been there a few times. Which is true. And that I'm worried about your safety. Which is also true.”

“You're sure about this, Dragan?”

“If I don't take care of you, who else will?”

Solomon was sitting on his balcony eating a fried-egg sandwich and drinking a mug of coffee when he saw a black Range Rover and a blue Toyota four-wheel-drive park below his building. He peered down and saw Sasha climb out of the Toyota. A few seconds later his intercom buzzed. He limped over and picked up the handset. He asked Sasha if he wanted a coffee but was told that they should head off straight away.

Solomon picked up his holdall, which contained a change of clothes and his wash bag and took the lift to ground level. Sasha was waiting for him outside the main doors.

“What happened to the limos?” asked Solomon.

“These are less conspicuous,” said Sasha. He took the holdall and walked towards the Toyota.

“I want a friend to come with us,” said Solomon.

Sasha stopped dead in his tracks.

“You what?”

“A friend of mine from the Commission.”

“This isn't a road trip,” said Sasha.

“Arizona's a no man's land.”

“He knows Arizona. He's been there before.”

“It's practically a war zone,” said Sasha.

“So the more manpower, the better.”

“Who is he?”

“His name's Dragan. He used to be in the army, but now he's one of our exhumation officers. He'll be useful.” He had agreed the cover story with Dragan before the policeman had left.

“What do you mean ”useful“? This isn't a game of cricket. We're going to war. Last night was a walkover compared with what's waiting for us up in Arizona.”

“Look, Sasha, you need me to identify the two men who shot me because they're probably the ones who killed your man and the girl. And I want Dragan here.”

Sasha pointed a finger at him.

“I have Goncharov's photograph, remember? And I won't have any problem getting him to tell me where his men are, believe me. The only reason you're still part of this is because you want to get that girl from Kosovo.”

Solomon put a hand on his shoulder.

“Okay, you're right. I need you more than you need me. There's no way I could have done what you did last night, no way I could have taken Petrovic and got him to tell me where Nicole is. And I know how dangerous Arizona can be. I don't have the manpower or the firepower to go up there on my own and get her. So I'm asking you. Please. Let Dragan come with us. If nothing else, he can watch my back.”

Sasha was suspicious.

“You don't trust me?”

Solomon took his hand off Sasha's shoulder.

“I wouldn't be here in Bosnia if I didn't. I just mean that if Dragan's there to keep an eye on me, you have an extra man.” He gesticulated at his plaster cast.

“I'm not going to be any good in a firefight, am I? And I see you don't have drivers this time. Dragan can drive one of the cars.”

Sasha took out a packet of small cigars from the inside pocket of his leather bomber jacket and lit one. He blew out a cloud of bluish smoke, which dissipated slowly as he stared at Solomon with his pale grey eyes. Then he smiled slowly.

“You're scared, aren't you?” he asked.

“What do you think, Sasha? Even when I was a cop, I didn't see guns like the ones you used last night. And I've seen heavy guys before, but those Croats would put the fear of God into anyone.”

“You could stay here, in Sarajevo.”

“No,” Solomon said.

“I want to be around when you get Nicole out. She's not going to know who you are or why you're there.”

Sasha blew another cloud of smoke.

“If he comes, you're responsible for him.”

“Sure.”

Sasha fixed him with a cold stare.

“You understand what that means?” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

“If he fucks up, I'll hold you responsible.”

“He won't.”

Dragan paced around his apartment like a big cat confined in a cage. He lit a cigarette, then flicked the spent match out of the open window. It was the fifteenth he'd smoked since he'd returned to his apartment. He'd seen the stars fade as the sky brightened, and the first rays of the sun creep over the edge of the hills that surrounded the city. In the early hours his wife had asked him what was wrong, but he'd sent her back to bed and told her not to worry. It was work, he'd said, nothing he couldn't handle. He just needed to think. He told her he'd have to go away for a day or two. She didn't protest: she'd been a policeman's wife for long enough to know that there was no point. The job was his life. She'd muttered something, and left him to it. Dragan had paced, smoked and cursed Jack Solomon for being one stubborn son-of-a-bitch.

Anyone else would have given up long ago, and Solomon was lucky not to have been killed on his first visit to the Butterfly. Even luckier not to have died in London. The men who'd tried to kill him were gangsters and assassins, yet he hadn't given up. Arizona was one of the most lawless places in the world, ruled by the gun: life wasn't just cheap there, it was disposable. Solomon knew that, yet he was still prepared to go in to rescue a prostitute who might not even want to be rescued.

“Damn you, Solomon,” said Dragan aloud.

“Damn you to hell and back.”

If Solomon had let things lie, the girl would have disappeared, Petrovic would have gone back to running his criminal organisation, Solomon could have started afresh in London, and Dragan could have carried on doing what he did best. Now the girl was back in Bosnia, Petrovic was lying in the city morgue, Solomon was in the firing line again, and Dragan would have to risk everything to clear up the mess.

He went over to his big-screen TV and pulled open the bottom drawer beneath it. Among the pirated video-cassettes of blockbuster movies there was a plastic case. Dragan opened it. Inside was a Yugoslavian M70 pocket pistol, a cleaning kit, a box of ammunition and several spare clips, a souvenir of his days with the Odjeljenje Za Organizovani Kriminalitec I Droge. When he had been in uniform he'd carried it as a back-up weapon, strapped to his right ankle. When he was undercover, it had been the only gun he carried.

He took the case over to the coffee table and methodically field-stripped, cleaned and reassembled the weapon. He slotted eight cartridges into the clip and rammed it home. In a perfect world he'd have carried spare clips with him, but there was no point in having a concealed gun if ammunition was rattling around in his pockets.

His nylon ankle-holster with its Velcro straps was in a cupboard in the hall and he strapped the gun to his ankle, rolled down his trouser-leg and examined his reflection in the bedroom mirror. Perfect.

Solomon called Dragan on his mobile and the policeman was waiting for him on the pavement when the Range Rover and the Toyota pulled up.

“That's him?” asked Sasha. Dragan was wearing a blue fur-trimmed parka, baggy brown trousers and Timberland boots. Over one shoulder he carried a green nylon holdall.

Solomon nodded.

“Stay here.” Sasha got out of the car and walked over to Dragan. The two men shook hands, then Sasha pointed to the Range Rover, which contained the four Croats. Dragan looked across at Solomon, winked, then climbed into it. Sasha walked back to Solomon, rubbing his hands, and got in.

“Right, let's go,” he said. Rikki was driving.

“What was that about?” asked Solomon.

“What?” asked Sasha, lighting a fresh cigar.

“You know what. He could have ridden with us.”

“It means we can talk without worrying about what's said.”

“You can trust Dragan,” said Solomon.

“I don't trust anyone,” said Sasha. He clapped Rikki on the shoulder.

“Except Rikki.”

Rikki pulled away from the kerb and the Range Rover followed as they left Sarajevo. It took almost four hours to drive to Tuzla. Rikki was a careful driver, bordering on obsessive. He checked his rear-view mirror every few seconds, and looked back over his shoulder before every manoeuvre.

Several times, Sasha turned the conversation to Dragan. His questions were innocuous and casually asked, but Solomon knew he was being tested. Sasha wanted to know how they'd met, how long they'd worked together, jobs they'd done, places they'd been. It was phrased as idle chit-chat but he was sure that Sasha intended to ask the same questions of Dragan. Any discrepancies would have to be explained. Their cover story was based on the truth, the only lies about Dragan's supposed job with the Commission.

The four Croatians were a taciturn bunch, except the one called Otto, who was sitting on Dragan's right in the back of the Range Rover. They had introduced themselves by first name only. The driver was the biggest of the four with a wicked scar across his left cheek. He grunted that his name was Mirko, then didn't say another word. The man in the front passenger seat was Tafik. He hadn't turned round when Dragan had climbed into the car so he didn't know what the man looked like.

On his left was Tomislav, the only one of the quartet who had offered to shake hands.

Otto's breath reeked of garlic, and Dragan took out a packet of cigarettes and offered them round if nothing else the smoke might mask the smell. Tomislav and Otto produced gun-metal Zippos and lit the cigarettes. The Zippos bore the same crest, and Dragan asked what it represented. Otto told him it was the crest of their Croatian Army unit, but didn't go into details. That they were army was without question: they were all well muscled with short haircuts and faces sprinkled with ruptured capillaries from too many nights spent outside in rough country. Their hard, soulless eyes suggested that they'd seen too much killing to be bothered any longer by death. Dragan tried not to think about the fact that he was surrounded by four trained killers, who had already tortured and murdered one of the country's most ruthless gangsters.

Otto kept grinning at him with grey teeth and asking him about his work with the International War-dead Commission. Dragan talked at length about identifying the victims of the ethnic-cleansing atrocities but kept the details vague. From time to time Otto would ask a question that required a specific answer the location of an office, the name of an official and Dragan knew he was being tested. He continued to smoke and act as if he was at ease, but inside his mind was racing, cross-checking everything he said with the cover story. He had been involved in enough interrogations to know what the signs of lying were and how to conceal them, but that didn't make the process any less stressful.

Otto also asked him about Arizona, and there he was on firmer ground. He'd visited the area several times when he'd been with the federal police, once undercover while investigating a drugs ring operated by former senior officers of the Kosovo Liberation Army. The name had stuck after the Americans had renamed the roads. When they had moved into the former Yugoslavia to keep apart the warring factions, they had found the road names unpronounceable: the main road from Bosnia to Croatia became Arizona.

With the huge volume of troops and commerce passing along the road, it hadn't taken long for the entrepreneurs to move in, initially offering food, drinks and cigarettes, then prostitutes and drugs. What started as a few roadside shacks swiftly grew to a shanty-town that wasn't shown on any maps. The Chinese moved in, funnelling counterfeit designer clothes and CDs from Far Eastern sweatshops. The Russians sold weapons and ammunition raided from the fracturing Soviet military. The Bosnian and Albanian pimps moved in their girls. Side-roads sprang up, with brothels and illegal bars, and shops with heroin from Afghanistan. Amphetamines from China were sold under the watchful eye of armed gangsters. Because the shanty-town was so close to the Bosnian-Croatian border, it remained unpoliced. People disappeared regularly and no one went looking for them. Stolen cars were stamped with new identity plates, driven across the border and on to Italy and Germany, no questions asked. False passports and papers for virtually every country in the world were available: all you needed to know was who to ask and how much to pay.

Traders and shopkeepers drove up from all over Bosnia to load up with cheap cigarettes and counterfeit goods, and get laid in the area's brothels. Arizona became one of the major prostitute-auction centres, with hundreds of girls arriving from around the Balkans and the former Soviet Union to be traded like cattle then shipped off to the West. The same smuggling routes were used to transport drugs, weapons and counterfeit goods. Arizona generated millions of dollars of profits every month, and with that sort of money at stake, law-enforcement officers were either bought off or killed. Dragan's undercover operation had been blown by a senior officer taking bribes from the KLA gang. He had been lucky to escape with his life, and it wasn't long after that that he had left the federal police. He hadn't been back to Arizona since. Otto asked more and more questions about Arizona, and it became clear that he was no longer testing Dragan: he was interested. He wanted details about transport, roads, population levels, communications, and as his questions became increasingly specific, Dragan realised he was briefing a soldier who was planning a military attack.