Authors: Dan Fesperman
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Spies & Politics, #Espionage, #Suspense, #Contemporary Fiction, #Thrillers
Lie in the Dark (36 page)
It took an hour for Vlado to find the first item he wanted. It was the inventory of property seized from Zarko’s headquarters following his surrender.
They’d listed everything, the guns, the currency, the ammo boxes, right down to the bootleg cases of cigarettes, the boxfuls of women’s hosiery, and the stacks of pornographic magazines still wrapped in plastic. Zarko’s ability to keep his men from tearing open the latter item was the greatest testimony yet to his leadership skills.
Midway through the second page of the single-spaced list Vlado found the first item of interest:
79. Wooden crate, approx. 8’ × 6’ × 2,’
shipping form attached.
79. Wooden crate, approx. 8’ × 6’ × 2,’
shipping form attached.
The next item was further down the same page:
96. Library-style card file, 2 drawers.
96. Library-style card file, 2 drawers.
Next to both items were handwritten notations in the margin:
Custody transferred, 10-04-93, see attached.
Custody transferred, 10-04-93, see attached.
Vlado thumbed to the end of the report, where a page of cream-colored bond had been stapled to the back, the same sort he’d found in the waste can of Vitas’s apartment. Its message was short:
Items #79 and #96 transferred to personal custody of department head, E. Vitas.
It was signed by Vitas, with no further explanation. The date was a mere two days after the raid. Obviously the items had piqued his interest, and he apparently hadn’t felt they’d be safe in ministry custody. And by the time he’d finally gotten around to following up his suspicions, his adversaries had been ready and waiting. At least, that’s how Vlado read it. It could also mean Vitas had simply bided his time before trying to capitalize financially on his find.
Items #79 and #96 transferred to personal custody of department head, E. Vitas.
It was signed by Vitas, with no further explanation. The date was a mere two days after the raid. Obviously the items had piqued his interest, and he apparently hadn’t felt they’d be safe in ministry custody. And by the time he’d finally gotten around to following up his suspicions, his adversaries had been ready and waiting. At least, that’s how Vlado read it. It could also mean Vitas had simply bided his time before trying to capitalize financially on his find.
Vlado reviewed the file materials dealing with the capture and shooting of Zarko, beginning with a detailed, signed statement of events by the commander of the custody detail. He recalled that at the time there had been a great deal of grumbling in the city over the circumstances of Zarko’s death. For one thing, Zarko had still been a hero to many, remembered for his defense of the city. For another, the shooting had carried the unmistakable scent of a summary execution, the sort that had happened in the old days.
The papers showed that the custody detail had included six people, and they’d been assembled with special care more than a week in advance, specifically to handle the assignment that they’d then bungled. Vitas had obviously wanted to get it done right, fearing the very sort of criticism that resulted when Zarko was shot. Vlado reviewed the list of names, recognizing three of the six, including the commander. All were known as reliable, vigilant officers. He didn’t recognize the other three, although one seemed oddly familiar. It had been whited-out and retyped, presumably after a typographical error. But there was no reason to assume those three hadn’t been selected with just as much care.
According to the commander’s report, stamped FOR DEPARTMENTAL USE ONLY, the detail had traveled in a small truck with a canvas opening in the back and armored sides. After picking up Zarko he and his men were to drive straight to the jail. They made one stop at a security checkpoint posted at barricades a block away, shunting past a foreign TV crew, then encountered no further delays until stopping briefly for some children who’d been kicking a soccer ball in the street. At that point, the commander said, the suspect had tried to escape by jumping from the back of the truck. He got only as far as throwing open the rear flaps when he was shot. An attached report by witnesses, however, said that the flaps had never opened, which would mean he’d never actually jumped. No wonder people had been upset. For once the wild rumors of the street seemed to have some validity. There was disagreement as to whose bullet had killed him, the commander said, and his report did not name which of the six men claimed to have opened fire. It was a curious omission, considering that this was strictly an internal report. But someone had undeniably been quick on the trigger.
Neven’s words came back to him. Zarko would never have tried to escape, he’d said. Perhaps after three days of fighting he’d snapped, unable to think clearly. But if that was the case, why had he surrendered? Neven was right. It made little sense. And even if he’d bolted, wouldn’t he have at least tried to grab a gun first, instead of just jumping out the back? Vlado flipped back to the beginning of the report. Yes, just as he’d thought. Zarko had been handcuffed as well.
Vlado went back to the list of the six-man detail, and the same name as before caught his eye. “Kemal Stanic.” Where had he heard it before? He asked for the man’s personnel file. Krulic sighed loudly, then sluggishly retrieved the file before slumping back in a chair with his newspaper and his cigarettes.
Initially there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary in the man’s background, although perhaps it was a bit odd he’d been a grocer before the war. Age, 35. Nothing odd there.
Not until Vlado saw the names of the man’s four children, with the notation “deceased” next to two of them, did he realize what had seemed familiar about the name. Yes, that was it: Kemal’s grocery. There’d been a shootout there a year earlier, when Zarko himself had been fighting with members of a rival gang. Two children had been killed in the crossfire.
Their father, the grocer, was Kemal Stanic. He’d created a bit of a stir a few days later inside the courthouse, shouting down some judges and attorneys, railing against the city in general and the justice system in particular, for of course in those days no one had made a move to apprehend Zarko. The local newspaper had run something on it, and then it had died away.
Christ, who in his right mind would have put him on a detail to guard Zarko? Vitas, apparently, for his signature appeared on the last page of the assignment list, next to a red, block-lettered stamp, APPROVED.
But Vlado looked again through the Stanic file, and this time the hiring date jumped off the page. He’d joined the force only five days before the raid. Vitas’s stamp of approval was dated three days earlier. Two days after the shooting, Stanic was dismissed into the army, but in the space where the terms and status of his separation should have been recorded, there was only the notation,
See attached.
This time there were staple marks at the top-right of the back page, but no attachment. Perhaps Vitas had taken this item as well. He appeared to have been holding all the key cards in the deck when he died. But where had he left them, and who had them now?
See attached.
This time there were staple marks at the top-right of the back page, but no attachment. Perhaps Vitas had taken this item as well. He appeared to have been holding all the key cards in the deck when he died. But where had he left them, and who had them now?
Vlado turned back one more time to the list of the custody detail. There again was the name: Kemal Stanic, typed across dried white correction fluid. Was there a typographical error below, or someone else’s name? Vlado scratched away at the correction with a fingernail, working slowly, carefully, like an art restorer seeking the original. The name below was longer. The first name began with a B, although Vlado couldn’t be sure of the rest. The last name, however, with much of it stretching beyond Stanic’s, seemed to be Milutinovic. Vlado asked for one more file.
By now, the U.N. man had gone. So had everyone else except Krulic, who was hunched in a corner, snorting smoke like an enraged but underpowered dragon.
“It’s all right,” Vlado said. “This one will probably do it for the day, and I’ll pass along the best of marks on your behavior next time I see Kasic. I need the personnel folder for B. Milutinovic.”
“Boromir or Bosko?” Krulic asked a moment later, a folder in each hand.
“Both.”
Both were reputable officers. Neither contained any mention of a special posting to the custody detail. Vlado wasn’t sure that would have been included anyway, unless they were cited later for exceptional work. But an item in Boromir’s file caught his eye. A full-year veteran of the Ministry’s special police, he’d been cited several times for good work until it had all come crashing down on the last day of September, two days before the raid. If Vitas had put him on the custody team, he’d then lost his services at an inopportune moment.
The reason for his dismissal:
Illegal conduct. See attached.
This time there was indeed an attachment.
Illegal conduct. See attached.
This time there was indeed an attachment.
It was a single-spaced investigation report based on the accounts of two undercover operatives, and when Vlado saw their names he felt the skin prickling on the back of his neck. One was a supervisor at the cigarette plant named Kupric. The other was a butcher named Hrnic. Each told a tale of unsavory connections, with the unfortunate Mr. Militunovic linked to the illicit trafficking of meat and cigarettes.
The whole affair had taken a mere two days to initiate and conclude, amazing alacrity under any circumstances, much less amidst the hurlyburly that must have prevailed in the days just before the raid.
Yet, for all the disgrace Milutinovic had suddenly brought down on himself, not only was he not prosecuted, but he’d been given a generous—incredibly generous, under the circumstances—severance payment of five hundred D-marks. No wonder he hadn’t made a stink. It was more than he would have made in a year’s work. Not that his squawking would have been given much heed in that chaotic time, anyway. In the rush of last-minute details Vitas probably hadn’t even known Milutinovic had been bumped off the custody squad, much less replaced by an unstable grocer with a murderous ax to grind. It was tantamount to a death sentence for Zarko. If someone had wanted him out of the way in order to claim a bigger share from the smuggled art, this had done the trick.
Vlado flipped to the disposition report from Milutinovic’s disciplinary hearing, and there again was the block red stamp of the word APPROVED. It was dated September 30th.
Below it was the full, bold signature of the man who had orchestrated this entire manuever, Assistant Chief Juso Kasic.
CHAPTER 17
V
lado glanced over his shoulder every few feet on his way home, half expecting to see Kasic, or perhaps the man in the beret who’d greeted him at the ministry, or even the four men in dark overcoats who’d taken Glavas away. Thinking of them he decided on a detour, and he turned toward the small hill on the east side of town that had come to represent so much about the way this war was fought.
lado glanced over his shoulder every few feet on his way home, half expecting to see Kasic, or perhaps the man in the beret who’d greeted him at the ministry, or even the four men in dark overcoats who’d taken Glavas away. Thinking of them he decided on a detour, and he turned toward the small hill on the east side of town that had come to represent so much about the way this war was fought.
Sprawled atop the hill were the buildings of the Kosevo Hospital complex, home to the city’s dead, dying, and wounded. This status made the hospital a prominent site on the targeting map of every siege gunner. Although who needed maps when from most vantage points Kosevo was as easy to spot as the highest office tower. For anyone gazing down the long barrel of a howitzer it loomed on its hump of land like a broken medieval fortress, its crowded wards ripe with the promise of being able to finish the work that yesterday’s shells had only begun.
The hospital’s doctors and administrators—or at least, the ones who hadn’t either left or been killed—had duly and painstakingly mapped each of the hundreds of shell impacts. They distributed the maps liberally to journalists, human rights organizations, and visitors of all stripes, another small cry of outrage with its inevitable perverse edge of pride: Look at what we have endured.
Vlado’s destination was a low-slung plastered building halfway up the face of the hill. You didn’t need directions to it anymore because of the smell that announced from a hundred yards away that this must be the city morgue.
Early in the war the place had been quite literally swamped by death, the chambers of its cellar knee-deep in stacked bodies, maggots, and floodwater from pipes that had burst in the shelling. The director had fled, along with half his staff. It had taken weeks to get another team up and running, and by then the overload was nearly unbearable. The water and most of the maggots had since been mopped away, but the smell from those weeks had never quite disappeared, and some believed it never would.
The smell was even stronger indoors, as Vlado found the moment he opened the door, a stench of rot and putrefaction that nearly doubled him over. He reached for a handkerchief, then stopped, working hard to breathe through his mouth, feeling the rasp of the foul air on his throat. Two men sat behind a dull gray counter at empty desks, smoking cigarettes and reading outdated magazines as if manning the office of an auto garage. Both wore thick, black rubber boots. Stained cotton smocks hung beside heavy rubber gloves behind them on the wall.
“Police Inspector Petric,” Vlado announced, still struggling not to inhale through his nose. Somehow the stench was registering anyway, more as taste than smell.
“I’d like a look at your new arrivals. Particularly anything that might have come in from Dobrinja. Or anyone in the past twenty-four hours who has showed up with a Dobrinja address, no matter where they were found.”
“Got a name?” said one of the men, putting down his magazine.
“Glavas, Milan. Older man. Late sixties, early seventies.”
The man checked a clipboard, flipping back a page, then shook his head as he exhaled smoke.
“No one by that name. But we do have three without I.D.s.”
He opened a rear door and leaned down a stairwell. The reeking smell doubled in intensity. Vlado shifted uncomfortably.
“Mustafa!” the man shouted down the stairs. “The three no-names, were any from Dobrinja?”
Mustafa came strolling up the stairs in reply, wiping his hands on a filthy rag. His smock, too, was stained brown, only his glistened with fresh additions.
“Yes,” he answered finally. “Two of them, I think. A man and a woman. Both older. She’s still here, funeral tomorrow.”
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