The Small Boat of Great Sorrows (10 page)

“I better get you up to speed on what to expect at this cocktail hour,” Pine said. “Haven't seen the guest list, but it will probably be a minefield. Here, this tie ought to do.”

It was a bold red with gold paisley. Vlado frowned.

“Trust me. Go with red. Power color. Half the people there will want to pigeonhole your politics within the first five minutes, and the ones who disagree will try to eat you alive. How much have you been keeping up with the state of play back home?”

“In Bosnia?”

“Not Germany, that's for sure.”

“A little. Sounds like it hasn't changed much since I left. Same parties with the same stupid views.”

“I was talking more about the people really running the show. The high representative's office. The EU. NATO. All the NGOs and internationals. You know?”

Vlado didn't.

“I'll give you the short version. At the top you've got the high representative. Mostly a Euro perspective and bureaucratic as hell. He's supposedly just overseeing things, letting the national governments and parties do their stuff. But his people control a lot of hard currency and tell the NGOs and aid agencies what they can and can't do, so who's really the boss now? Here, try the blue one.” He'd grabbed a dark blue suit from the rack, tossing it onto the other three. Vlado saw the old salesman blanching at the brisk treatment of his merchandise but biting his tongue. Guilders were guilders.

“Then there's SFOR. Benny's feelings are pretty representative on that topic, but they're still the biggest army. The international police force is around, too. Powerless. Might as well not be there.

“Then you've got local police, your old employers, but with three separate ethnic breakdowns, and with the civil side and the Interior Ministry side, the old MUP people who will still lock you up for your politics if you're not careful.”

Vlado glanced up, shaking out his sleeves. This one would do. He nodded to the clerk while Pine continued.

“Somewhere at the margins of all this you've got the private investors, all trying to make a buck while looking as altruistic as possible, and yes, I know I'm going fast. Here's a tie you can live with. Red and boring, perfect. Strap it on. What's that one cost, sir, sixty guilders?”

The salesman nodded without a word, not wanting to interrupt the flow of commerce.

“Nationality matters, too. The French don't trust the Americans, the Americans don't trust the French, and any Yank will run like hell at the slightest whiff of
anyone
from Iran, Afghanistan, or Morocco, the old suppliers of the mujahedeen forces who technically aren't supposed to be there anymore, even if everyone knows the holy warriors never went away completely. The Scans are pretty much everywhere, doing good and keeping quiet in the usual Scan way. All the Germans want is to get in and out without having any soldiers caught painting swastikas, which has already happened, so too bad for them. The French want to give the Serbs an even break but without upsetting the balance next-door in Kosovo. The Brits want to make it look like they're independent from the Americans, only without pissing off the Americans.”

“And the Americans?”

“Oh, the Americans ask very little. We only want the greatest amount of influence for the least amount of money and aggravation. Anything complicated is the high representative's problem, and the lower you go down that food chain the more likely you'll find one of their people hanging out with local bureaucrats, the kind who always have their hands in somebody else's pockets. So things get murky. Sometimes even dangerous. Three people dead behind a gas station and you don't know why. Then a week later ownership papers change hands on a dozen local storefronts. And one of the new owners is somebody like our guy Matek. Throw in a few dozen leftover warlords with various cuts of the black market, plus some rabblerousers who didn't get quite enough of the war, then overlay that with the usual thieves and drug barons, including a few radical Muslims and some interlopers from the Albanian heroin trade, and that pretty well sums up the state of play. Homesick yet?”

“Sounds like business as usual in the Balkans.”

“Pretty much.”

Vlado pulled his own trousers back on. The shopkeeper had pinned the new pair and handed them to a tailor in the back, where you could hear the thrum of a sewing machine. A few minutes later the tailor, pins in his mouth, hustled the suit back up front, where the dizzied clerk waited to be rewarded with a tribunal credit card.

“Okay,” Pine said. “We're cutting it kind of close. Better catch our tram. You can change at the hotel, and I'll swing by and get you at quarter to seven.”

“That should give me just enough time to check in with Jasmina.”

“Which reminds me,” Pine said, suddenly looking sheepish. “No outside calls. They've put a stop order on the phone in your room. Operational security. Which I know must sound pretty lame with all the blabbing you've already heard. But no calls home till we're done.” Then, in a softer tone: “I really am sorry.”

Vlado felt a flush of anger. The last thing he wanted to do was make Jasmina worry. “You might have told me earlier. Jasmina will assume the worst.”

“Spratt told me not to, until now. I can have one of the secretaries call. She'll tell Jasmina everything's okay but that she won't hear from you for a while.”

“What else haven't you told me?”

Pine frowned. “Not much. But by late tomorrow you'll know everything.”

Vlado, holding the new clothes across his arm like a valet, knew that this should set off alarms. He'd heard these kinds of assurances before. Nothing good ever came of them. But he felt powerless to protest.

“Look, I'm not happy with this part of it, either,” Pine said. “If it were up to me, I'd have outlined the whole thing for you back in Berlin. You'll just have to trust me.”

Vlado had taken that kind of advice before, too. The last time it had nearly gotten him killed.

CHAPTER SIX

Contreras had found himself a big brick home on the edge of a park, the grandest residence to date of any of the chief prosecutors, and he liked to show it off. This would be Pine's third visit. The first two were for staff cocktail parties, where the investigators and prosecutors turned themselves into genteel drunks, padding about on Oriental rugs while immigrant waiters replenished their drinks. No one seemed to know quite how to react to these events with their crystal glasses and bottomless booze, but with every sip they uneasily hoped the tribunal wasn't footing the bill. The smart money said the Peruvian embassy was paying the freight, gratified to have their man in such a high-profile position. But some believed it was Contreras himself.

The story on Contreras was that he'd married into a rich family, a wealth that not only bought him into the Peruvian judiciary but also kept him living in grand style. The tale had assumed enough heft and substance to keep the staff drinking without guilt. But for most of them the novelty had worn off.

Vlado would rather have spent the evening locked in a room with files and briefing papers, reading more about their suspect. Instead he was strolling up a brick walkway in his new suit, smelling the resin of the tall pines in the raw November evening.

The red-and-white flag of Peru was hanging out front, as if this were a consular home and Contreras its resident poo-bah. A waiter opened the door, bowing slightly and gesturing toward a large room to the side where Vlado glimpsed white tablecloths and silver platters. Already there was a buzz of conversation, the tinkle of ice cubes in glasses. Brushed and bald heads gathered beneath the shimmer of a grand chandelier.

Vlado felt calm enough, considering. He gave a final tug at the knot of his tie. The suit did wonders for the general impression he made, it seemed. Already people reacted as if his IQ was forty points higher than when he wore the mud and denim of Berlin.

“If anyone asks who you are, say ‘staff' unless I introduce you,” Pine muttered. “Try to stay close by. And if the waters get too deep, just smile a lot and laugh at their jokes.”

Vlado doubted one could get into much trouble here. The scene struck him more as an overly stuffy reception, something that an archbishop might put on, or some government official who'd just been promoted beyond his capabilities.

A deep voice came at them from behind.

“Calvin, you're starting to look bored at these things already.” Pine tensed, and Vlado turned to see Spratt, who seemed just as stiff as he had in the office. Unwinding didn't seem to be part of the man's repertoire. “So, all squared away for tomorrow?”

“More or less,” Pine said. “A little more time to prepare Vlado might have been nice.”

“I suspect he'll do fine. And you'll have more time to bring him up to speed once you're in Sarajevo.”

Vlado thought he saw an odd look pass between them, and he wondered what it was all about. Having missed lunch, he grabbed a handful of peanuts from a nearby bowl. A waiter swooped in to pour wine; Spratt waited for him to depart, then glanced around for eavesdroppers and lowered his voice.

“Now, if the French will just hold up their end with Andric,” Spratt continued, “we'll be in business. You boys can do your bit and be back in a matter of days.”

“So, you really think it will be that easy?” Pine asked.

“The way we've got it sketched it would seem to be a foolproof operation.”

“I just hope we're not underestimating the old man.”

“Not as long as we get him away from the bodyguards. Which is where you come in, Vlado. That's what makes you indispensable. I'm more worried about rounding up all our witnesses on Andric. We're still holding out for Popovic as the star, but apparently nobody has seen the man in more than a month.”

Vlado nearly choked on a peanut at the mention of Popovic. He half expected Spratt and Pine to turn toward him to spring the trap, demanding an explanation. But if this exchange was for his benefit, they were disguising it well.

“I thought they'd tracked him down,” Pine said. “Lounging at the Grand Hotel in Pristina.”

“You're thinking of some other thug. No trace of Popovic. He could be anywhere. Vienna. Kosovo.” A brief pause. “Berlin. Belgrade. You might want to ask LeBlanc, our friend from France.” Spratt gestured toward a far corner. “Apparently he's been making some noise about it.”

Vlado tried to see whom Spratt was referring to, but there were six or seven people where he'd pointed.

“He's apparently the one who helped link these two cases together,” Spratt said, “he and Harkness.”

“Who's Harkness?” Vlado asked.

“A meddlesome blowhard,” Pine said. “Paul Harkness. Officially he's the State Department's special liaison to the tribunal. Used to be posted to the embassy in Belgrade, then to Sarajevo. But damned if I know what he really does other than stick his nose into everybody else's business.”

“Now don't be too nasty about Paul,” Spratt said in a scolding tone. “He's done a lot for us down there. And none of this would be happening if it weren't for him.”

“Which should tell us something about the whole operation.”

“How'd he get interested in Matek?” Vlado asked.

Spratt looked toward Pine, as if to ask how much Vlado knew. “I can't say with any authority,” he offered hesitantly, “but apparently one of them turned up something in an old file, he or LeBlanc. That's his counterpart from France. An unlikely alliance, I must say. Those two have spent the past five years trying to tear each other's liver out, and now they're getting along like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.”

“More like Jekyll and Hyde,” Pine said. “Now if you could only tell which was which.”

“Apt enough. But it's the jurisdictional problem that worries me more than any of the personalities. We've got no business going after some old Ustasha. We're only authorized for crimes committed since '91.”

“So our part of this operation is illegal?” Vlado asked.

Pine smiled ruefully while Spratt rattled the ice in his drink. His ears were red again. “Technically . . .” He said the word with evident distaste. “No. But for
official
purposes, all you're doing is arranging a meeting with Matek for interrogation of a potential witness. Then, while he happens to be under our control, a unit of SFOR troops will take him into custody on behalf of the Croatians, who are supposedly putting together an indictment as we speak.”

“And unofficially?”

Spratt grimaced, so Pine picked up the thread. “We're rounding him up, plain and simple. Jurisdiction be damned.”

“But if it works,” Spratt said, “Contreras will be the toast of the town, and our international sponsors will be happy as clams.”

“So here's to Hector Contreras, then,” Pine said, raising his glass. “The founder of the feast.”

“He's an Ebenezer Scrooge?” Vlado asked.

Spratt looked up with a glint of astonishment. “Looks like you've got a sharp one, Calvin,” he said, sounding like the headmaster speaking to the hall proctor. “It's not every Bosnian who'd have nailed that reference.”

“I took a lot of English in school,” Vlado said, nettled by the condescension. “I guess if I want to stay in character, I should say ‘God bless us every one,' and let Pine carry me on his shoulders.”

“Sorry,” Spratt said, rattling his ice again. “Running low here. Better get another.”

Vlado watched him head for the bar in the corner. “Sounds like a popular case we're on,” he said to Pine.

“Well, anything that puts Andric in the bag can't be all bad. Who knows, maybe you'll even learn a little of your history.”

“Nobody ever said much about the war growing up. Just the heroic stuff.”

“Not even that cranky old uncle you mentioned?”

“Yes,” he said. “Uncle Tomislav. Off in the middle of nowhere. Big dry hills where nothing grew but goats and rattlesnakes. I must have been ten or eleven the last time we went. I slept in a back room upstairs while my uncle and father sat in the back garden all night, playing cards and drinking brandy. I woke up in the middle of the night and they were shouting, going back and forth like drunken debaters. And my sense of it was that they were arguing about the war. Nothing specific, just a lot of old grudges about who started it, who did what, all the things no one ever talked about. It was probably the only time I ever heard my father talking politics, so I went to the window to watch. They were panting like bulls, mad as hell. Kind of funny, but a little scary, too. My aunt and my mother had to come out in their robes and pull them off to bed. The next morning we left without even having coffee, which is about as rude as running off with the silver.” He looked up at Pine. “And what about your family? What's your father like?”

“Oh.” Pine snorted, smiling. “Atticus Finch. That's what he always looked like anyway. Or dressed like. Another literary reference for you.”

“Atticus? A Roman name?”

“I guess you read mostly Brit lit. Atticus Finch is from
To Kill a
Mockingbird
. Hero lawyer of the South. He was for civil rights before civil rights was cool. And every morning my dad went off to work looking just like him. Linen suits and seersucker. A wardrobe made for mopping your brow on the courthouse steps, right next to the statue to Our Confederate Dead.”

“So your father was a crusader?”

Pine shook his head. “Not exactly. I doubt any of his clients ever ran from a lynch mob, although to their credit I guess none of them ever led one. They'd have been on their porches a few blocks away, sipping drinks and wondering what the ruckus was. Doctors, bankers, real estate developers.” He swirled his wine, a faraway look in his eyes. “Jaycee glad-handers wanting to dispose of one little problem or another. A wife past her prime or a tenant behind on his rent. The kinds of things you didn't want people talking about at the country club. And with my father you got discretion with a capital
D
. For a nice hourly fee, of course. I guess that's why he could never stomach the idea of his son slumming with thugs and gumshoes. On a government salary, no less.”

Vlado wondered at the tone of disappointment. It all sounded perfectly respectable to him. But now Pine's expression was transforming from disappointment to worry, and Vlado turned to see a woman approaching from across the room, a grim look on her face, striding purposefully in her high heels. She drew up close to Pine, then, seeming to have just noticed Vlado, turned to accommodate them both.

“Hello, Calvin.”

“Janet.”

“So, guess who drew the short straw on helping the Croatians prosecute Matek?”

“You?”

“Don't sound so disappointed.”

“It's not that. It's just, well . . .”

Vlado watched their body language with interest. The woman had eased a foot closer, as if challenging Pine's right to his spot on the floor. Pine leaned away but without moving his feet, making him look stiff and off balance. They made an interesting pair. It occurred to Vlado that if you were to breed them, you might produce a new species of wading bird, a little tottery on long, thin legs and bony frames. Or perhaps the woman was just uncomfortable in high heels. She had large hazel eyes and light brown hair that swept around an oval face. Her small, prim mouth seemed to barely move when she spoke, as if she was used to imparting secrets.

But for the moment she was zeroed in on Pine. When she moved, her hair nearly brushed against his face, and Vlado could have sworn Pine flinched, ever so slightly, while holding his wineglass before him in a defensive position.

“Well, look on the bright side,” she said. “It probably means they never found out. Otherwise, they never would have paired us on anything this sensitive.”

Vlado cleared his throat, as much to remind them of his presence as to pierce the bubble of their conversation. She turned without missing a beat.

“You must be the Bosnian. Vlado, is it?”

Somehow he didn't mind it from her, maybe because her offhandedness seemed directed more at Pine than at him. Or perhaps it was the trace of irony in her tone, as if she was saying she knew exactly what it was like trying to prove yourself to this crowd.

“Yes. Vlado Petric. And you are?”

“She's Janet Ecker,” Pine said. “An attorney on loan from the NSA. That's the National Security Agency. Code breakers and official snoops, basically, so she's usually the one who gets to handle information when it starts to get touchy.”

“Which is probably why they put me on Matek,” she said. “To make sure nothing too sensitive is handed over to the Croatians. Or the French. They've got me working overtime with the black marker.”

“And you two are friends of some sort?”

Pine winced, but a smile flickered briefly on Ecker's face, as if sharing in Vlado's minor insurrection. Vlado wondered how much she'd had to drink.

“You could say that,” she said. “Just don't say it around the office. And if you were going to be here for long, I wouldn't say it around you. You see, Calvin spent months looking for a good Dutch girl but settled for an American. Until he got something going down in your part of the world. Doing his part for better diplomatic relations.”

Pine reddened. Vlado considered sauntering off for another drink, but Ecker mercifully changed course. “So, what do you make of his file?” she asked Vlado. “Matek's, I mean.”

It was pleasing to suddenly be treated as an equal, even if only as part of her fencing with Pine. “I haven't seen much. Just the summary. But he seems like standard-issue Ustasha.”

“So far we've only gotten the sanitized stuff,” Pine said.

“If I have my way, you'll be entitled to as much as you want,” Ecker said. “It's amazing stuff.”