Retribution (12 page)

CHAPTER 19

 

T
he glare of the afternoon sun made the young receptionist's computer screen nearly impossible to read. She sighed and rose to adjust the blinds. Her
abayah
and pashmina shawl met the traditional requirements of the Muslim newspaper but, in direct sunlight, felt almost unbearably hot. As she stepped to the second-floor window, she noticed a man standing across the street, looking up at the newspaper office. The unwavering attention struck the receptionist as unusual because the building was nondescript, especially for the shops and stores of King Street, and had no signage whatsoever. Most would not have even known that the Muslim newspaper was located there but for a speakerphone at the street entrance that had the tiny words
Al-Arabi
taped to it. But the man kept staring at the second-floor windows and, in turn, at the receptionist as she lowered the blind.

“What's he up to?” She spoke to the other woman who shared the front office.

“Who?”

“There's a man across the street.”

Together they peeked around the shades. The man continued to watch, standing there in his strange, black-and-white striped sweater hat pulled down over his ears, long black beard, and zipped, collared jacket. He paused only to look down at a map he was holding, and then resumed his watch over the newspaper's building.

Both women were on edge, like all who worked at
Al-Arabi,
and with good reason. The newspaper itself was always on edge. It wasn't under the threat of any radical Muslim or jihadist. On the contrary, many thought of the paper as the voice of the radical and fundamentalist Muslim community. But such popularity bred unhealthy obsessions, plus opposition from extremists from other camps. Not to mention the attention of numerous government agencies.

“He's coming.” The first secretary spoke the words as the man folded the map, placed it in his coat pocket, and then started to cross the hectic street toward the building.

“Should we call the guard?”

The guard was the oversized, overweight man who always wore the same suit, one too small, and was kept by the newspaper to provide security around the clock. He had to turn his shoulders to walk down the narrow stairs of the second-floor flat. But at the moment he was in the back, taking one of his notorious naps. He was effective in providing an imposing wall between the workers and any unwanted visitor, but generally he had little to do. He was there more to appease the women who were constantly on edge.

“Hello.” A voice crackled over the speaker. The traffic noise often made it barely audible.

“Can I help you?” The first secretary spoke into the box with hesitation.

“Yes, I looking for Zabara.” The man seemed to struggle over the English words. “Sadik Zabara.”

“Come up.”

The other receptionist gave her a shocked glare of displeasure at the invitation. They both stood behind the first desk as they heard the door swing open and heavy steps coming up the stairway.

Close up, the visitor's skin shone a milky white. His black beard and dark curly eyebrows gave the impression of a Rasputin. He had unforgettable eyes. One was brown and the other green.

“Yes.” The man worked hard to choose his words, then resorted to what he'd said before. “I looking for Zabara. Sadik Zabara.”

“May I ask why you would want to talk with Mr. Zabara?” In his very short time at the paper, Zabara had earned the respect of both women. In the international language of the sexes, he was tall and attractive. He also seemed very determined. So far he'd worked late, very late, and he always smiled at the receptionists as if he appreciated what they did to help produce the weekly paper.

“Zabara a friend of my friend.”

“And who are you?”

“We both from Sarajevo.”

“Oh, you are from Bosnia?”

“Bosnia, yes.”

“And your name?”

“Knez. Jovan Knez.”

“Knees?”

“I write for you.” Knez took a pad from the desk and wrote out
Jovan Knez
. He wrote down the telephone number to the small hotel where he was staying. “Please tell him it involves General Deli
. I am a
Crni Labudovi
. A black swan.”

“A black swan?”

“Yes. He will know.” Knez pulled up his sleeve to show the tattoo of a small black swan with the words
crni labudovi
in script underneath.

“And that is
labudovi
?” The first secretary wrote down on the note
laboodovey
. It was wrong but close enough.

“Yes, yes.”

The man turned and headed down the stairs. Both women turned to the window, following the stranger as he crossed over and headed down King Street, toward the Hammersmith tube station.

 

 

He didn't know it, but William Parker had only missed the stranger by an instant. As he walked out of the entrance from the tube station, the man passed him walking in. They exchanged glances, but neither recognized the other. For the time being, it kept one of them alive.

“Mr. Zabara.” The secretary waved at Parker as he came up the stairs to the newspaper. They knew his step, as he would always take two to three steps at a time.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Zabara, a man came to see you.”

William Parker gave the first girl a brief look, a look of confusion.

“Who?”

“He left this note.” The note was a yellow Post-it. In pen, it said
Jovan Knez—
Deli
.
And in a different handwriting, the word
laboodovey.
One word stood out: Deli
.

“Thank you.” Parker put the note in the pocket of his Barbour jacket, turned around, and yelled over his shoulder. “I'm going to get some coffee. Can I get you two something?”

“No, thank you.” They both spoke over the other's words.

He smiled and walked back out to the street, crossing over through the traffic to the small coffee shop near the other train station, Ravenscourt Park, which lay just across the street from the Hammersmith tube. He preferred the smaller station, as the coffee shop afforded him a wide view of the street and the much busier Hammersmith tube station across the street. Any pedestrian traffic using the London subway would more likely come from the Hammersmith station, and anyone heading to the newspaper's office would most likely pass through the Hammersmith tube entrance. He paid for a cup of Colombian coffee, with low-fat cream, took a table in the back, near the window, pulling his chair up against the wall, and sat so that no one was behind him. He pulled out the PDA and entered the password.

William Parker sent a simple e-mail to Scott.
Jovan Knez? Deli
? Laboodovey?
Parker had a good idea of what he was going to get on Deli
. Rasim Deli
had commanded the ARBiH—the Bosnian Army—his Muslim troops famously slaughtering bound Serbian prisoners of war. Deli
had also led smaller death squads called
Crni Labudovi
. The Black Swans. Deli
had been prosecuted as a war criminal, been sentenced to jail, but died of a heart attack in Sarajevo while awaiting the outcome of his appeal. Most of his Black Swans had never been apprehended or identified.