The Wolf of Sarajevo (7 page)

“Tell me, Sarah,” Eric said, as he sipped his coffee. “What are you doing in Sarajevo? And what does it have to do with me?”

“My team is worried about Bosnia.”

“We all are.”

“Our predictive models all point toward some sort of conflict—maybe even a renewal of open war—in the next six to twelve months.”

“How much did you pay for that model? 'Cause I think I could have got you the same prediction for a hell of a lot less.”

Sarah smiled. She had many different smiles. And Eric thought of the last time he had seen that particular one, a little off center, producing just one dimple on her right cheek. The last time he had kissed her.

“You're in the wrong line of work,” she said. “You should have gone into consulting.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Anyway. Our analysts have been watching things deteriorate over the last eight months or so. The critical variable seems to be the rise of Marko Barcelona and the White Hand. Dimitrović's government and the paramilitaries in the RS are operating more or less under his direction, even if that's not anything you or I might recognize as control.”

Eric nodded. He knew all this.

“At first, we'd been operating under the assumption that Mali was an extension of Dimitrović, that Dimitrović himself created the
White Hand for his own purposes. The Hand was a tool for undermining the Bosnian state and giving himself an alibi for breaking his commitments.”

“But lately you've started to think that maybe the reverse is true,” Eric suggested. “That Mali is controlling Dimitrović. That maybe Dimitrović built the White Hand but lost control of his creation. A kind of Dr. Frankensteinović.”

Sarah's smile was different this time. The soft one that meant she was impressed.

“That's about it,” she said. “It would explain Dimitrović's one-eighty on changing the Bosnian constitution and trying to make this place into a viable unified country. Mali has a different agenda.”

“What is it?”

“Himself.”

They finished the coffees. Jasna brought them each a small glass of brandy, her family's personal home brew, she whispered conspiratorially, so the other diners would not overhear. For old times' sake, she explained. Jasna's
rakija
was made from quince and smoother than the typical plum-based moonshine.

“So what does Mali have on Dimitrović?” Eric asked.

“We're not sure yet,” she admitted. “Something big. Something important. We had one source in Dimitrović's camp who reported that there was a disc or a tape. Dimitrović was evidently bitching about it one night and our source was there. But he didn't know what was on it.”

“Can you use him to try to get more on this? Something more specific.”

“We can't ask him anything anymore.”

“Sleeping with the fishes?”

“The worms.”

“That works too. So where do I fit into this?”

“I want you to help me find out what Marko Barcelona has over Zoran Dimitrović. What's his leverage and how can we counter it.”

“I'm just a regular diplomat, Sarah. This is really more your organization's sort of thing, isn't it? Don't you have some Jason Bourne type you can wheel out for something like this? Someone with substantially more muscle mass.” Eric was fortunate to get his height from his father's side and stood a hair under six feet tall. But his build was from his mother, lanky and whip thin. He was in good shape and strong, but although he was a regular at the embassy gym and ran every weekend with Sarajevo's Hash House Harriers, Eric was never going to be anything but skinny. The rectangular hipster glasses he wore did nothing to make him look tougher.

“I'm not looking for someone with massive biceps,” Sarah replied. “I need someone with a bulging Rolodex. No one in the U.S. government has anything like your range of contacts in Republika Srpska. You know everyone who matters in Banja Luka and Zvornik and all of the one-cow towns in between. I need your help. Bosnia needs your help.”

“Okay. I understand that. But why the cloak-and-dagger? Why not do this through channels? Set up a task force. Have me seconded to it. Why are we having this conversation at Jasna's rather than the ambassador's office?”

“Eric, you've grown cynical over the years.”

“Just a little more cautious maybe.”

“Don't get me wrong. A little cynicism is a good thing. It'll help keep you sane . . . and alive. But only in small doses. Too much can be poisonous.”

“Like love or oxygen?”

“God, you are a child of the eighties. That's very sweet.”

“And you are a clever girl.”

“Ain't I though.”

“But back to my question.”

Sarah's smile vanished like a mirage. She bit her lower lip and looked quickly around the restaurant, looking for anyone who seemed out of place. The gesture seemed somehow mannered, a moment staged for Eric's benefit rather than a piece of genuine tradecraft.

“We have a leak,” she confided. “Someone on the inside. Maybe CIA. But maybe State or one of the other agencies. There's not enough data to be sure. We don't know if it's someone working directly for Dimitrović or if Belgrade or Moscow is passing him stuff, but we have to believe that anything we do through channels will get to Banja Luka. That's what we think happened to our source in Dimitrović's office. We only get one shot at this, so we need to be extremely careful. We're doing this with a small team.”

“How do you know the mole's not part of that team?”

“We can't know. But we're playing the odds. The smaller the number of people who know what we're doing, the less the chance of exposure.”

“Do you have authority for this?” Eric asked.

“It falls under our group's standing authorities. We've got a letter from the Langley lawyers that says so.”

“Can I bring Wylie in on this? Let him know what I'm doing.”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

“Why not?”

“I don't trust him to keep his mouth shut. He's a braggart and a drunk and kind of a gasbag.”

“You've got his number,” Eric agreed, with a rueful shake of his head.

“Wylie's already cut you loose,” Sarah added. “You work for Sondergaard now. You don't need to account for your time to him. Or to Sondergaard. Not really. She'll be in and out of Bosnia. You'll still be available to her when she needs you. But you'll also be available to me. I need you, Eric.”

Sarah leaned toward him, and over the powerful smells of grilled meat and mint and cardamom, Eric picked up a hint of her perfume. L'Eau d'Issey. The same one she had used when they were together. Was she still wearing the same perfume or did she put it on just for him, hoping that he would remember? Of all the senses, scent offered the most direct connection to memory.

Eric sighed. He could rationalize his choice in professional terms any way he chose. On the surface, it was about the future of Bosnia. But if he was going to be honest with himself, this was as much about the past as it was about the future. Sarah and Srebrenica and a garage in suburban Orange County. Ghosts.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Take me to Banja Luka. Help me meet some people who might be in a position to know what's going on and what Mali is using to control Dimitrović if—in fact—that's what's happening.”

“And then?”

“What do you mean?”

“There's always more.”

She smiled that “I'm impressed” smile again.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Maybe so,” she agreed. “We'll see. But we have to hurry. There's no time to waste.”

“Because of Sondergaard's conference?”

“No. Because whatever it is that Mali has . . .”

“Yes?”

“We're not the only ones looking for it.”

GENEVA

OCTOBER 13

A
s a matter of principle, he hated code names. Too much artifice; not enough value. He used them, of course. It was an integral part of his chosen profession. It was tradecraft. But he did it reluctantly. For this op, he had been saddled with an especially clunky sounding code name—Klingsor. It sounded like something best treated with a shot of penicillin. Fuck it. If he was going to be Klingsor, then he would be fucking Klingsor.

Klingsor and his team had their mark. They were targeting a Geneva-based lawyer named Emile Gisler. Kundry—Klingsor tried to use the code names for the op even in his private thoughts to minimize the risk of a slip over the radio or the phone—had told him that their mark almost certainly had the package. Kundry wanted it something fierce. It was Klingsor's job to get it.

Klingsor and Kundry had worked together before. Kundry was a
solid professional, one of the best he knew. But there was something about this current op that did not feel quite right. It seemed ad hoc, made up on the fly, and cobbled together from bits and pieces of capabilities. But Klingsor the Sorcerer had performed miracles for Kundry on more than one occasion. Odds were he could do it again.

Geneva was a god-awful place to do this kind of thing. The Swiss liked things neat and tidy. The national sport of Switzerland was ratting out your neighbors to the police, and static surveillance quickly drew a host of disapproving glances followed by a visit from a friendly member of the Kantonspolizei acting on an anonymous inquiry from a “concerned citizen.” It was better to keep moving even if the logistics were a little more convoluted as a consequence.

“Klingsor,” said a voice in his ear. The receiver was no bigger than a hearing aid and connected via Bluetooth rather than the Secret Service–style spiral cord that practically screamed “I'm a spy.” “This is Echo Three. I have eyes on target, southbound on rue des Rois. Gray suit. Red tie. Black briefcase in his right hand.”

Echo Three could just as easily have been describing himself. Geneva was a city of bankers and bureaucrats, and they dressed the part, anonymous men who could have stepped right off the canvas of a Magritte painting if bowler hats ever came back into fashion.

“This is Echo Four. I have acquired the target.”

“Echo Three. Dropping contact.”

Klingsor did not want to do it this way. Too many things could go wrong with a snatch and grab, and the consequences of a fuckup could be quite severe. But Gisler's office had been a dry hole. Klingsor's team had tossed the place pretty thoroughly. It had taken no more than ten minutes to crack the safe. There had not been
anything inside. Just gold, gaudy jewelry, cash, and a thick stack of bearer bonds. Nothing really valuable. No information. The package was no doubt secured in one of the several hundred safe-deposit boxes that Gisler maintained for a client list that included drug dealers, Central Asian autocrats, the more respectable sort of terrorist—think Red Brigade rather than al-Qaeda—and “controversial businessmen” from east of the Urals. Gisler was not too picky as long as the check could be expected to clear. Kundry had ordered the snatch and grab, which is why Klingsor found himself sitting in the passenger seat of a panel van cruising through the streets of Europe's most antiseptic city.

At least it was dark.

Gisler was on his way back to his apartment from the bar where he spent most nights drinking. He liked to drink. And eat. Their mark was something of a bon vivant with a penchant for fine dining and the build to prove it. Gisler was as close to perfectly spherical as Klingsor had ever seen a man achieve. Klingsor listened in on the radio as Echoes Two through Four traded coverage of the lawyer back and forth, always keeping him in sight but never giving him a chance to spot the coverage by overstaying their welcome. They were a good team. Klingsor was proud of them. This next part was the tricky bit.

Klingsor pulled a black balaclava out of his pocket and slipped it on over his head. Echo One did the same.

The van crept carefully down rue du Diorama, turning left onto rue de la Synagogue just as Gisler reached the intersection. This was a quiet part of Geneva, which even on a good day could not be mistaken for Berlin or Milan. At twenty minutes to midnight, there
was no traffic. The one security camera covering that intersection had come down with a nasty virus. It would show a continuous loop of nothing in particular for the next three hours before the virus took its own electronic life.

Echo One slid the van door open. Echoes Three and Four had come up alongside behind Gisler wearing masks like Klingsor's, and in one carefully choreographed motion, they muscled the rotund Swiss lawyer into the back of the van before he had time to so much as protest. Had he tried, he would have had a hard time making himself heard with the palm of Echo Four's hand pressed firmly over his mouth. Echo One closed the door and the driver pulled away from the curb. The whole thing had taken no more than six seconds. It was textbook.

“What a fat tub of lard,” Echo Three complained. He said it in German. They had agreed as part of OPSEC that all conversation would be in German. It was not Klingsor's best foreign language, but his Hochdeutsche was more than adequate, and it was the one language other than English that all members of the team had in common.

The lawyer had recovered from the initial shock. He did not seem especially surprised at what had happened. With the kind of clients Gisler routinely dealt with, Klingsor supposed that kidnapping was no doubt an ever-present risk.

“Who do you work for?” Gisler demanded, once Echo Four had removed his hand. He tried to stand up, but Echo Four pushed him back onto the floor of the panel van using just enough excess force to make the point.

“Tell me who you work for,” Gisler insisted again.

“You don't want to know,” Klingsor answered. He put as much menace as he could into the phrase. He wanted Gisler afraid. As he spoke, he leaned forward and let his jacket open up far enough that the well-padded lawyer could see the butt of Klingsor's Glock sticking out of its holster at his waist.

“Do you want money?” Gisler asked. “I have money. Enough money.” The fear was already starting to eat away at his bluster. That was good.

Klingsor said nothing and his team was disciplined. They followed his lead. He wanted Gisler to imagine the worst. His thoughts would settle inevitably on his own particular and personal fears. He would do a better job of frightening himself than Klingsor ever could. Quiet was most effective in raising anxiety, and anxiety made men like Gisler talkative.

It was a twenty-minute drive to the parking garage. The building was only half finished. The company that owned it had recently sold it to another developer with an address on Cyprus that was little more than a post-office box and a tax credit. That company was controlled by Klingsor's employer. The deal would ultimately fall through. But for now, work on the garage had been suspended while all involved did due diligence. They would have it all to themselves.

Echo Three unlocked the gate, and the van took a circular ramp down three stories into subterranean Geneva.

“It'll be quiet down here,” Klingsor explained to Gisler. “And private. We have some things to discuss.”

“What do you want from me?” Gisler asked. The lawyer did not try to put on any kind of display of false bravado. His double chin
quivered with evident fear. He was sweating heavily, Klingsor noted. His shirt was already soaked through at the collar.

“Just one simple little thing,” Klingsor said.

“What is it?”

“Be patient.”

The van stopped. Klingsor opened the door and Echo Four hauled the lawyer to his feet by the collar of his bespoke suit jacket. The sound of ripping cloth testified to both Echo Four's freakish strength and Gisler's substantial bulk.

A plain steel door was set in the wall of the garage next to where the van had parked. Klingsor opened it with a key from a chain around his neck and Echoes Three and Four hustled Gisler inside. The room behind the door was little more than a raw concrete cube. In the center of the room was a dentist's chair. A metal table held a range of tools, some sharp and shiny, others dull and blunt. A car battery sat at the far end of the table with a pair of jumper cables lying next to it.

It was all for show.

Klingsor had no intention of torturing Gisler. It was not that his organization was above that sort of thing. But that was not his department. There were specialists for that, and Klingsor respected what they did. They were professionals. Klingsor, however, was an expert on human psychology. The manipulation of fear. He was quite good at it, almost an artist, really. And that is what this was, a kind of performance art. He could leverage the full range of emotions. Greed was a reliable old standby, and lust had its place, particularly with the young and naïve. But fear was his favorite. It made the strong weak and the weak bare their souls. If Klingsor did his job correctly, Gisler would be back at his apartment in a few
hours unharmed. At least physically, at least for now. What might happen to him when his client discovered that his lawyer had misplaced the package left in his keeping was not Klingsor's concern.

Echo Three stripped Gisler of his jacket and tie, and forced him down into the dentist's chair. The chair was Klingsor's idea, a trademark of sorts. For most people, there was an almost Pavlovian response to the chair. The association with pain was strong and deeply rooted. The chair set the right tone
.

I am going to hurt you.

The skin on the lawyer's face and neck was pale and clammy. There were dark circles of fear sweat under his armpits. Klingsor bent over him. With the mask on, only his eyes were visible, eyes that Klingsor knew how to use to create the impression of a window to a dark and twisted soul. He liked to believe that wasn't true. He was a devoted family man, with two daughters he adored and doted on. He was a good churchgoer and generous to his many friends. This was a job. But he was introspective enough to recognize the corrosive effects that this particular art form could have on the psyche. Every man had his limits.

I'll take a break after this job, he had promised himself, go someplace warm and lie around for a while, maybe put in for a transfer to a different department, something with less travel. He had tried that once or twice before and had been denied. He was, they had assured him, too valuable in his current position. Well, fuck them.

Klingsor stared at Gisler from behind his mask, willing his eyes to be as cold as polished stone.

“You have something I want.”

“Tell me,” Gisler croaked.

Water dripping from the ceiling had formed a puddle in the
middle of the room. There was a broken pipe somewhere. The effect was suitably dramatic.

“You are keeping a package for a man. You may not even know what's in it. But it is very important to me. I want it. Tonight.”

“I keep almost everything in safe-deposit boxes,” Gisler pleaded. “The banks are closed. They will not open until nine.”

Good,
Klingsor thought. They were already discussing the terms of the handover. This should not be especially difficult.

“Tell me where.”

“All over the city. What is it you're looking for?”

“A package left in your care by a man named Marko Barcelona.”

Gisler looked confused.

“I don't have the faintest idea who that is.”

“Don't fuck with me,” Klingsor said menacingly. “This is not a game.”

“No,” Gisler agreed. “I'm telling you the truth. What's his real name? Maybe I know him by something else.”

This was a problem. Klingsor did not know. Marko Barcelona was an obvious alias, but nobody seemed to know who he really was. And Klingsor's organization was usually pretty good at that sort of thing.

“He's the head of the White Hand,” Klingsor answered. “A Bosnian criminal organization. Sometimes he goes by Mali. Other than that, he uses no other name that we know of. It's likely that the package contains a tape or a disc or a memory stick. Maybe it's just the URL to a site on the dark web where it's sitting on an anonymous server, but I will have it from you.”

Klingsor sensed that this was the time to imply a more direct physical threat. Gisler was right on the edge. His complexion was
waxen and pale. His shirt now soaked all the way through with sweat. His breathing was heavy and ragged, and he stank of fear.

On the table was a power drill. Klingsor picked it up and pretended to examine it carefully. It was an older Makita, covered in stains that were supposed to look like dried blood but were really nail polish. The drill bit was long and had a quarter-inch router head at the tip.

“You don't need that,” Gisler gasped. “I'll tell you everything you want to know. Please.”

The lawyer stiffened and tried to clutch at his chest, coming up short because of the restraints.

“He's having a heart attack,” Echo Three said. There was no hint of panic in his voice. They were all experienced professionals.

“Be careful. Could be a trick,” warned Echo Four.

Echo Three gave him a dismissive look.

“Him?”

“Okay. No.”

“Get the defibrillator from the van,” Klingsor instructed.

Echo One retrieved a bright red hard-plastic case from the back of the van. He popped it open and pulled out a pair of paddles. Then put them down.

“The fuckin' battery's dead.”

“Didn't you check that?” Klingsor demanded.

“No,” Echo One admitted.

“Can we plug it in somewhere?”

Echo One held up the plug. It had a British-style three-prong connector. It would not fit the European plugs in a Swiss parking garage.

“What the hell?” Klingsor asked.

“We got the kit from the London office,” Echo Four said.