Lie in the Dark (23 page)
Authors: Dan Fesperman
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Spies & Politics, #Espionage, #Suspense, #Contemporary Fiction, #Thrillers
“Inspector Petric. For me there were no doubts. We were in safe hands, hands that had saved virtually everything we had. And being all but on the frontline of a war zone, it didn’t seem practical to have an investigator working in and around the building. And quite frankly, it would have been a very tasteless show of bad faith, an embarrassment, considering all that those men had done for us. Perhaps there were no casualties that night, but they’d suffered others before, and quite literally right on our doorstep. I’m aware of their presumed track record, of their smuggling and their black markets. But for us, as I said. Saviors.”
He pulled down his cigarette for a long, dramatic drag. Vlado scribbled in his notebook, then Murovic asked, “By the way, Mr. Petric, who put you on to all this? Or do you come by your interest in art naturally?”
“One of your former colleagues, actually. Milan Glavas.”
“Ah, yes. Milan. I might have known. He always was quite taken with conspiracy theories. Always guessing at people’s motives, trying to take their measure in an instant. Very much the office politician.”
“Not a very good one, apparently”
“He told you I sacked him, I suppose. And unfairly, no doubt. He had wanted this job, you know. Museum director. But of course he was simply a few years beyond the energy requirements. And let’s face it, Mr. Petric, it didn’t help that he was a Serb. A good one, maybe. But in light of everything that’s happened in the past two years there’s not much room for them in high places right now, at least on this side of the city”
“So you sacked him.”
“Yes. Which embittered him against me forever, no doubt. As if he hadn’t already refused to give me credit for knowing much of anything about my business, or about art at all. But if Milan were half as clever as he thinks he would have known that a copy of the entire transfer file exists in Belgrade.”
Murovic said this with a note of triumph, as if producing the answer to a trick question for an especially dense pupil. A flush of self-congratulatory pride bloomed across his face.
“Belgrade?” Vlado said. He had to admit, he’d been taken by surprise.
This seemed to explain Vitas’ remark to Glavas that the file was-how had he put it? “in safe hands in unsafe surroundings.”
“So,” Vlado said, “Then you do have the files, or at least a copy.”
“Not for another month. As you can imagine, Belgrade hasn’t exactly been eager to cooperate with the newly independent Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina, whose existence it doesn’t even recognize, though from what I hear these files are quite a matter of public record to students or art historians. Just about anyone could probably come in off the street, and if we wanted to be backhanded about it there are people we could send in to copy it out by hand and smuggle us the result. Perhaps I was naive, but I wanted to do things aboveboard. The war won’t last forever, and someday we’ll need to work with those people again. So I decided to first make a good faith effort through the proper international channels.”
“The U.N.?”
“Yes. UNESCO. Belgrade finally agreed, and on February fifteenth a copy of the documents will be shipped via a UNESCO courier.”
“That’s another month. Why the delay?”
“That’s when UNESCO’s grant takes effect. It’s preservation money especially earmarked for Sarajevo. Their man can’t so much as requisition a paperclip, much less book his trains and flights, until the moment the money’s officially available. Then he’s off for Belgrade. And I must say, it will be a relief. For months we’d been figuring we’d eventually have to do it the hard way, by consulting the old timers, Milan included, to try to piece everything together from snatches of tired old memories.”
“Why not do some of that anyway, at least for a few of the more valuable pieces. There are bound to be some that would spring to mind quite readily. Glavas seems to think he could put together quite a bit of it, if he had the time and inclination, and maybe a little help.”
“Yes, I don’t doubt that he does. It sounds like something Milan would claim. A charming man in his own way, really, and full of arcane knowledge, old lore that can be quite engaging when he gets rolling on some story, as long as you have the energy to shut him off. But far less knowledge, I’m afraid, than he’d have us all believe. I think if you were to take him up on his offer you’d come back a few hours later to find him with a few blank sheets of paper and an ashtray full of butts, from your own cigarettes, of course.”
“In fact I have taken him up on his offer. And you’re probably right about the ashtray. We’ll see about the blank pages. But when UNESCO gets here with the copies, I’d like a look, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, but what’s the need? I’m sure with Milan working for you you’ll already have everything you need by then.” He burst into laughter, the sort of venomous chuckle best suited for the corners of cocktail parties and small, chic restaurants.
He guided Vlado toward the door.
“Mind the gunfire today,” he admonished. “Please give Milan my regards. And try not to be too harsh with him when he comes up short.”
He hadn’t asked a single question yet about how Glavas was doing, Vlado noted. Not one query about the old man’s health or safety out in Dobrinja. War had consumed half the city, but it didn’t mean you still couldn’t get caught up in all the old pettiness of peacetime.
But Vlado had at least gained two important pieces of information. The transfer files would be back in hand in another month, meaning if artwork was still being smuggled out of the country, the smugglers probably knew they were working against a deadline, and might be inclined to either sloppiness or desperation.
He’d also learned that Neven Halilovic would be worth talking to, provided he was alive and would open his mouth. Kasic would know where to find him. Perhaps Damir would as well, with all the clubs and coffee bars he frequented.
But Goran Filipovic would know, too.
Goran was a friend of Vlado’s who had spent the first year of the war as an officer in the Croatian brigade. The unit had been disbanded by nervous government officials once Croat-Muslim fighting began in Mostar and central Bosnia. Its soldiers were dispersed into other units, absorbing the Croat threat into the Muslim majority, although the brigade still defiantly kept a small headquarters on the western edge of downtown, a dingy office in an abandoned pizzeria, with the checkerboard Croatian coat of arms flying on a flag out front.
Goran had seized the opportunity to bow out of the army altogether, citing a shrapnel wound to his right leg. It had left him with a limp that worsened at the approach of any superior officer, and somehow no one had ever questioned whether he was still fit for combat.
He’d then pooled the prewar Deutschemark savings of his in-laws and two old aunts to open a small café in a low-slung, well-protected building in the city center. He timed it perfectly, opening just as people began seeking night life again, realizing they’d either have to begin imitating the rhythms of a normal life or go crazy in their cellars. The café went over so well that he then opened a small cinema in a room across the hallway, stretching a large sheet across the wall at one end for a screen, and rounding up eighty mismatched folding chairs for seating.
Doing any sort of business these days, especially any successful business, inevitably put one into contact with the people running the rackets and black markets, and Goran had used his vantage point and his army contacts to make himself an informal expert on all the various rivalries and relationships. He’d sniffed out the likelihood of the November raid three days before it occurred, and could tell you on any given week who was up, who was down, and who had better be looking for a way out of the city. Through all this he’d developed a knack for knowing when it was okay to keep gossiping and when it was time to stop asking questions, and he knew better than to ever ask for anything more than his own meager piece of the action, just enough to keep his bar and his theater up and running. It was bad enough owing these people money. The last thing you wanted to owe them was a favor.
Nowadays you could usually find him either tending bar or next door in an office across the hall that adjoined the theater, a cramped place smelling of gasoline and throbbing with the pulse of the two generators that kept his business empire going from inside a small closet. He was almost invariably hunched over a computer keyboard, using special software to type subtitles onto the latest videotape he’d managed to smuggle in via a friendly journalist or aid worker. He now had enough extra titles in stock to print up a small schedule covering the next month of showings, and his efforts at marketing and posting signboards around town had paid off. Except on days of heavy shelling the theater was usually a packed house, even at the princely sum of a D-mark a head.
He and Vlado still drank together every now and then, a few beers rather than plum brandy, just enough to work up a belch or two and make the week’s memories shimmer and slide, enough to feel light-headed all the way home, then sink deeply into a yeasty slumber.
Vlado checked first in the café, opening the door onto an atmosphere of smoke and noise so thick it seemed he’d have to shove his way through. He scanned the room, every table full, maybe forty people in all. It was only 4:30, but with a 9 p.m. curfew, night life, such as it was, began with the first sign of dusk. The conversation was loud and boisterous. There wasn’t a soul in the place without a cigarette, but Vlado could see only four who’d actually bought a drink—two with beers, two with coffee. The guitars and vocals of an old Yugoslav rock band, No Smoking, blared from giant speakers in each corner. The group had been popular before the war. Now they were disbanded, and the lead singer was in Belgrade. No one here seemed to mind.
Vlado weaved through the tables to the bar, where a young woman stood, looking bored as she searched through a shoebox of cassette tapes for the next selection. He had to shout twice to get her attention.
“Is Goran here?”
“Try next door,” she said. “In the theater.”
Vlado moved into the hallway, elbowing past four revelers just arriving, then approached another doorway where a man sat at a card table having just sold the last ticket for the evening’s first showing.
“Vlado,” the man greeted him, grinning, although Vlado couldn’t recall his name. “You’re looking for Goran?”
“Yes. In his office?”
“On the phone. But I’ll tell him you’re here. Wait inside. You can catch the first few minutes of the movie while I get him. On the house.”
Vlado eased through the door. It was chilly inside, though not so smoky, and apart from the conversation in English blaring occasionally from the movie soundtrack it was quiet as a tomb. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw that every seat was filled, a crowd of people still in their heavy coats, the rising vapor of their breath just visible overhead in the wide beam of light from the projector.
From countless other movies and TV shows Vlado could tell right away that this one was set in New York, and by the creeping cadence and low tones of the soundtrack, it was obvious something sinister was afoot, that danger was approaching. But what struck him most about the scene was its neatness and order. Here was a working society with streets uncluttered by shell holes and burned cars. A place with bright lights, glass storefronts. You could walk around the corner and have a beer, a hot meal, a cup of coffee, stay as late as you wanted, and go home to a warm apartment with clean sheets and a light switch on the wall. And all you had to worry about were a few criminals out trying to shoot you. It looked like paradise. Now he realized why these people so willingly gave up a week’s pay for two hours of entertainment.
A hand tapped his right shoulder.
“In here,” a voice whispered. “He can see you now.”
Vlado reluctantly left the streets of New York and walked in to find Goran at the keyboard, muttering, his shirttail hanging through the opening in the back of his folding chair.
He turned, a smile spreading on his broad, unshaven face. “Vlado. Well, it’s about time. For two weeks I can’t get you in here for a beer, and now you pick a day when I’m trying to finish with some comedy I’m not even sure I can translate. Too much American hip-hop language and inside jokes. So where’ve you been?”
“Around.”
“So I’ve heard. The man about town. Keeping late hours at his apartment all by himself. Exciting life, Vlado.”
Vlado smiled. It was an old and frequent topic between them.
“So what’s up, then. Something by the look in your eye tells me you’re not here for a movie or a beer.”
“I’m looking for somebody. Neven Halilovic. I can’t remember what happened after the raid. Whether he was killed, pardoned into the army, or is still in jail.”
“You can stop looking. Last I heard he was dead. He was put in the army, all right, but never made it past the first month. One of those wild attacks across the Jewish cemetery that never comes to anything but more bodies across the graves. But offhand I don’t remember who told me all that, so I can ask around to make sure. Why? You fellows finally getting into corruption cases, or have you joined the special police force without telling me?”
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