The Eyewitness (33 page)

It was almost four o'clock in the afternoon when the two vehicles reached the massive coal-fired power station and chemical factories on the edge of Tuzla. The Croat driver beeped his horn and Rikki pulled over to let him pass, then followed him some ten car-lengths behind, his foot alternating between the accelerator and brake.

The Croat drove to a roadside restaurant and pulled up behind it. Rikki parked. Sasha opened the door.

“We'll eat here,” he said.

He handed Solomon his walking-stick as he eased himself out of the vehicle. They walked together into the restaurant, a whitewashed single-storey building with a sloping, red-tiled roof. There was a large conservatory to one side filled with tables. The Croats were already inside, helping the owner to push two together. Dragan walked over to Solomon, who lit cigarettes for them both.

“How's the leg holding up?” he asked.

“Fine,” he said. He nodded at the Croats.

“How are the guys?”

“Not very talkative,” said Dragan.

“Wouldn't want to meet them on a dark night.”

“They're on our side,” said Solomon.

The owner, a bald, portly man with a bushy moustache, produced a large white tablecloth, which he threw over the two tables with a flourish. Then a young waitress in a black and white uniform appeared with knives, forks and spoons.

Dragan and Solomon sat at one end of the table, the Croats at the other. Otto patted the waitress on the backside and ordered nine bottles of the local Pilsner beer. Sasha nodded at Otto and the two men went outside to stand by the Range Rover. Dragan and Solomon could see them talking and tried to look unconcerned, joking with the Croats about whether or not the waitress was a virgin. Both men knew that Sasha was cross-checking Dragan's story with Otto.

Their beers arrived with a tray of glasses, and they poured and toasted each other, clinking glasses and shouting, "Zivjeli'. Then platters of smoked fish, smoked meats and cream cheese appeared, with baskets of sweet-smelling bread. The Croats ate hungrily, but Dragan and Solomon sipped their beer, waiting for Sasha to return.

“Come on, eat up!” urged Rikki, and nudged Dragan.

Dragan grinned and stabbed at a chunk of fish with his knife. Solomon sipped his beer and watched Sasha and Otto: they were standing so close together that their heads were almost touching, and Sasha had his arm around the Croat's shoulders. Solomon forced himself to look away. He didn't want to appear nervous, because Rikki kept looking in his direction.

He wanted to ask Dragan what he'd said while he was in the Range Rover, but he knew that Rikki at least spoke some English and the Croats might know some too. He could only hope for the best. He wondered what Sasha would do if he decided that their stories didn't match up.

“Come on, Jack,” said Dragan. He nodded at the Croats, who were devouring the food as if they hadn't eaten for days.

“If you don't get started, they'll have had it all.” He pushed a platter towards Solomon and winked.

Solomon helped himself to slices of smoked meat and a dollop of cream cheese. He took one of the rolls and broke it in half, then smeared it with cheese. He tried to chew but his mouth was dry so he took a gulp of beer to wash it down. Eating was the last thing he felt like doing, but as Sasha would pick up on any sign of nerves he fought the urge to retch and took another bite.

Rikki had already finished his Pilsner and was ordering another round when Sasha and Otto came back. Otto sat with the three other Croats and Sasha took the chair between Solomon and Rikki.

“How's the food?” asked Sasha.

“Good,” said Solomon.

“Everything okay?”

Sasha held his eyes for several seconds. Then he said, “Everything's fine.”

Solomon's stomach stopped churning and he reached over to help himself to more meat.

“What's the plan?” he asked.

“We'll drive up to Arizona after this and take a look at the place from the outside by daylight. Then Otto and his guys will go in. He knows a place where we can lie low until it gets dark.”

“What about Nicole?”

Sasha picked up a platter and used his fork to scrape a pile of meat, fish and cheese on to his plate.

“If she's there, we get her out.”

“And Goncharov? What are you going to do with him?”

Sasha looked suddenly like a shark preparing to strike.

“What do you think?”

“I think I'm glad I'm not in his shoes,” said Solomon.

Sasha laughed and slapped him on the back. He told the Croats what Solomon had said and all four laughed and nodded. Tomislav made a cut-throat gesture with his knife, which made them laugh all the more.

The Range Rover led the way to Arizona with Rikki following a hundred yards behind. Sasha had told Dragan that he could ride in the Toyota now, so he'd obviously passed the test with Otto.

He sat in the back with Solomon whilst Sasha rode up front with Rikki. Dragan flashed him a reassuring grin, but didn't say anything.

They drove in silence for two hours along a single-carriage way road until Rikki announced that they had arrived. Solomon peered around his shoulder. In the distance he could see that wooden shacks lined both sides of the road, with cars and trucks parked nearby.

The Range Rover slowed and Rikki eased back on the accelerator to keep pace. They reached the outskirts of the shanty-town. The first shacks they passed were filled with cases of brand-name whisky -Johnnie Walker, Famous Grouse, Suntory.

“Is it the real thing?” asked Solomon.

“Difficult to tell,” said Dragan.

“If it's cheap, it's probably been smuggled in duty-free. If it's really cheap it's counterfeit.”

Some of the shacks they drove past were packed with boxes of cigarettes, American and local brands. One had dozens of fridges stacked outside it, another had televisions and microwave ovens, while yet another offered more than a hundred pedestal fans in different colours. Chinese women in sheepskin fleeces were selling plastic flowers and artificial trees, old Muslim women were surrounded by boxes of soap powder, and children stood guard over piles of car parts while their parents polished complete engines.

“They'll have been stripped from stolen cars,” said Dragan.

“You can get parts for practically any make here. Or you can order a car. Tell them what make, model and colour you want, and come back a week later to pick it up, complete with false documentation. The further back from the road you go, the more illegal the stuff gets. Counterfeit currency, drugs, guns. There's supposed to be a group of Russians here who can order Soviet weaponry to be delivered to any country of your choosing. Grenades, bazookas, mines. They have auctions of girls here, too. They bring them from all over and sell them on.”

“Not so much now,” said Sasha.

“A lot of the auctions have moved to Belgrade. There were too many fights out here.”

They passed a parking lot filled with four-wheel drives, all used vehicles but with no registration plates. They had handwritten prices on pieces of cardboard tucked under their windscreen wipers and all were at least half the price they would fetch in Sarajevo. An Arab was walking around with two Bosnian heavies, kicking tyres and shaking his head.

“A lot of cars end up in the Middle East,” said Dragan.

“They put them in containers and drive them overland. A few bribes to Customs are their only overheads.”

Otto stopped beside a shack selling cigarettes, and Rikki pulled up next to the Range Rover. By the time Solomon had climbed out, Sasha was beckoning him into the cigarette shack.

Otto was giving a big bearded man a bear-hug and kissing his cheek. Then the man hugged the other three Croats, and shook hands with Sasha. He nodded at Solomon and Dragan. He took them between stacks of cigarette cartons and through a wooden door to a large room that contained a rattling refrigerator, a Formica-covered table and a dozen rusting, metal-framed chairs with canvas seats and backs.

Sasha took the seat at the head of the table, the bearded man sat on his left and Rikki on his right. Rikki was carrying a large manila envelope. The four Croats took the seats in the middle, leaving Solomon and Dragan at the end facing Sasha. Sasha gestured at the bearded man with his thumb, “This is Bruno,” he said to Solomon.

“He knows the place we're going to. It doesn't have a name because they don't cater for the internationals and all the locals know where it is. The bad news is that it's one of Petrovic's places, but the good news, of course, is that Petrovic isn't around any more.”

Solomon remembered to fake surprise Sasha hadn't told him what he'd done with the Serbian gang-leader.

“What's happened to him?” he asked.

“Who's Petrovic?” asked Dragan.

“You don't have to worry who Petrovic is,” said Sasha, jabbing a finger at Dragan.

"He's been taken care of He held out his hand to Rikki, who gave him the envelope. He opened the flap and slid out the contents. Solomon recognised the photographs of Goncharov that Alex Knight had given him in London. Sasha passed the pictures around the table.

“This is the man we're looking for. Sergei Goncharov, a Russian.” He tapped the picture of the blonde woman talking at Goncharov's side.

“Ignore her, she's in London,” he said.

“He'll have protection. Two men at least, probably more. No pictures, but Jack here has had a close look at them so he can tell us what they look like.”

Solomon described the two men who had broken into McLaren's flat as best he could. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

When he'd finished, Sasha passed around the photograph of Nicole, the blown-up shot taken from the wedding picture.

“This girl's in the building somewhere. We're going to get her out.” Tomislav looked at the picture and said something to Mirko, who grinned, showing two metal front teeth in his upper jaw.

“English,” said Sasha.

“Here we speak English so that we can all understand each other.”

Tomislav apologised.

“I was just saying she was pretty,” he said.

“Pretty or pig ugly, we're getting her out,” said Sasha.

“That was taken three years ago. She's dyed her hair black or brown.”

Solomon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the printout of Nicole's agency page that he'd taken from the Internet cafe. He passed it across the table to Sasha.

“That's what she looks like now.”

Sasha looked at it and frowned.

“This is off Goncharov's website?”

Solomon nodded.

“They took the page down after I went to see her.”

Sasha passed it round.

“Right, this is how we play this,” said Sasha.

“Goncharov knows me and Rikki and he's seen Solomon. Same goes for his heavies. We stay outside until the last moment. Otto, you and your guys go in this afternoon for a look round. Check out the girls, see if you can locate Goncharov and find out where Nicole is. Two groups of two would make sense.”

Otto nodded at Tomislav.

“You and me,” he said.

“I'm not sharing a girl with you again,” said Tomislav, and grinned.

“What about me?” asked Dragan.

“Goncharov doesn't know me.”

“It's a dangerous place if you don't know what you're doing,” said Sasha.

“Your friend was shot twice in London for asking the wrong questions. If he did that here, he'd be dead.”

“I've been to brothels before,” said Dragan.

Sasha gave him a long, hard look, then nodded slowly.

“Okay, you go in, but you go in alone. Any trouble and you take care of yourself.” He turned to look at Otto.

“You don't stick your neck out for him, okay?”

“Understood.”

“No guns the first time,” said Sasha.

“You're just there to look around. If anyone asks, you're construction workers on the way to Sarajevo. You can tell them there's an agent down there who's promised you work in London. Don't ask questions, don't stick out.”

“What if the Russian isn't there?” asked Tomislav.

“Then we keep going back until he is,” said Sasha.

“What we can't do is ask if anyone has seen him.”

“Why is he here?” asked Dragan.

“He told Petrovic he was here to buy girls,” said Sasha.

“The truth is he got out of London because he knows I'm after him.”

“And why are you after him?” asked Dragan.

Sasha stood up and pushed back his chair. He pulled out a revolver, cocked it and pointed it at Dragan's face.

“Sasha!” shouted Solomon, and tried to get to his feet, but Tomislav forced him back into his seat.

Dragan stared back at Sasha, unfazed.

“You ask too many questions, you know that?” Sasha snapped.

“I just want to know what we're getting into, that's all.”

“It's none of your business,” said Sasha.

“If you don't like it, go back to Sarajevo.” He pointed at Solomon.

“You're here because he wants you here.”

Dragan reached into his jacket, and Sasha's finger tightened on the trigger of his gun. Dragan smiled sarcastically as he brought out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. He lit a cigarette, then tossed the packet to Solomon. His hands were rock steady.

“I'm not interfering,” said Dragan, 'but if I don't know what the situation is, I'm going to be a liability. If this Russian is scared of you he's going to be jumpy, and if he's jumpy he might be sitting in that brothel with a loaded gun."

“If you're scared, stay here.”

“Not much scares me, Sasha. Least of all a gun with its safety on,” Dragan responded. Sasha twisted his gun to the side. The safety was off. When he looked up, Dragan was grinning from ear to ear.

“Made you look,” he said.

“Sasha, put the gun down,” said Solomon.

“It's my fault. I hardly told him anything about what's going on.”

Sasha continued to stare at Dragan. Then he put the gun on the table and sat down.

“The Russian tried to kill me. He killed one of my friends and one of my girls.”

“So you're here to kill him? Is that it?”

“Dragan, leave it,” said Solomon.

Dragan turned to him.

“If he goes in there shooting, where does that leave us?” he asked.