The Small Boat of Great Sorrows (3 page)

By the time he reached his stop it was dark, and it took a brisk twenty-minute stroll to reach a tall, gray high-rise where he rode an elevator to the eleventh floor. He opened a door at the end of the corridor to find an American in a suit waiting for him on the living room couch.

CHAPTER TWO

“He has been here for an hour,” Jasmina whispered quickly as Vlado shut the door behind him. “I've made coffee twice. I ran out of things to say twenty minutes ago.”

She was flushed, wiping her hands briskly on a dish towel. Their daughter, Sonja, was nowhere to be seen. Across the room on the couch, the American visitor put down a German magazine and looked toward them expectantly.

“Did he say what he wants?” Vlado whispered. “Who he's with?”

“Nothing but small talk. Family and jobs and the lousy German weather. Said he's here on business and left it at that.”

The man's gray suit said government, but nothing else did. He was all elbows and knees, folded into place like a jack-in-the-box, and on closer inspection even his uniform wasn't what it had seemed. The suit was wrinkled, the shoes were scuffed, the tie was knotted with the slapdash skill of a groom late for his wedding. His face was impassive, probably as intended. But the eyes gave him away—an expressive gleaming brown, lively and eager. If he had a tail, it would be wagging, and Vlado wondered why. And why an American?

The authorities, both national and international, had long since lost interest in Vlado following his sudden arrival nearly five years ago. He had shown up unannounced at an American military base in Frankfurt on a cargo plane from Sarajevo, spilling from a wooden crate like the misloaded parcel he was. As a homicide detective who had smuggled himself out of a sealed war zone with a sheaf of incriminating documents, he had been something of a sensation at first. Not the sort that made headlines—just the opposite, in fact, for the results of his work had been an embarrassment for more than a few international agencies. So, he had attracted various men in gray from miles around, fretting over what secrets might have been blown, who might have been compromised, whose credibility might need to be rebuilt.

Just about everyone had wanted to hear the story he'd unearthed, a tale of theft, smuggling, murder, and corruption that might have been impossible to believe if not for the packet of evidence in his satchel.

He'd been debriefed by everyone who seemed to count in this part of the world—the UN, NATO, the Council of Europe, Interpol, and half the embassies in Germany. Protocol demanded that the Germans go first. Then came a tag team of Americans and French, arguing loudly over who had precedence. Next came the British, the most polite but somehow the most frightening, with the cool clipped manner of executioners. The parade seemed as if it would never end, and everyone spoke the careful language of damage control.

Some played it friendly, offering cigarettes and jokes. A short, jolly American talked Yugoslav basketball for a while, biting off half his questions with inappropriate giggles, lunging forward every time he came to a key point. Vlado, who knew a thing or two about interrogation, figured the man was probably proud of his style. The ones who weren't good at it usually were.

The French and Germans were icy, unyielding, seeming to frown at his every word. An intense chain-smoking German named Rolf kept asking about another German named Karl, who, judging from the line of questioning, must have been a Balkan smuggler of some success. Pleading ignorance of Karl only earned a raised eyebrow from Rolf, followed by an unconvinced smirk and a slow release of cigarette smoke.

The whole thing lasted four days, hours on end in a small, windowless room under a cool blaze of fluorescent light. Mornings brought lukewarm coffee in chipped mugs that left sticky rings on white Formica. Cold lunches arrived on a wobbly cart. Then more questions, followed by a bland, overcooked dinner and a night of poor sleep in a steel-frame bed down the hall. A guard outside the door turned the pages of newspapers throughout the night while Vlado tossed in his sleep, trapped in dreams of long walks through ravening crowds, awakening exhausted and sweating to the knocking of a radiator before the whole business started again. He could only guess what the fallout had been back in Sarajevo—a few less bureaucrats to worry about, perhaps, but probably little else.

In the end, the Germans deemed him unsuitable for repatriation—too many enemies on both sides, especially in the middle of a war, when it would have been too easy for someone to kill him. Besides, it turned out he had a family already living in Berlin. They'd been there for two years, in fact, a wife and daughter who were evacuated during the first month of the war. So the authorities did the easy and humane thing by letting him stay, and sent him packing to Berlin with a train ticket, a residence visa, and a work permit. Later he would discover just how rare and valuable such documents were when the Germans began sending home every Bosnian refugee they could find.

But for all their care with paperwork, the authorities never bothered to inform his family that he was on his way, or even that he had escaped. For all Jasmina and Sonja knew, Vlado was still back in their besieged apartment, biding his time until his next monthly phone call to Berlin, still braving the bombs and the bullets. Which is why when he showed up on their doorstep on the eleventh floor, fresh off the train, he'd been something of a shock, making for an awkward moment or two.

Since then the international authorities had forgotten him. There hadn't been a single visit, letter, or phone call, either to thank him or to let him know what had occurred in his wake. It was as if he'd been dropped into one of the holes at Potsdamer Platz.

Until now.

The American opened his mouth to speak.

“Herr Petric?” he said.

“Vlado Petric. Yes. And please, speak English. Mine is a little out of practice, but it is still better than my German, Mr. . . .”

“Pine. Calvin Pine.”

Pine stood, tall and bony, reminding Vlado of the big construction cranes that loomed above him at work, like praying mantises in search of a meal. Being an American, Pine smiled and held out his right hand for a firm shake. The only people who grinned more in this part of the world were Japanese tourists. But the smile at least had a glimmer of mischief at the corners, a boyishness that made it hard for Vlado to feel put upon. His light brown hair was as stiff as broom straw, with various sectors in revolt. And when he spoke, at least he kept his voice down, unlike the noisy Americans you saw rattling down Unter den Linden in bright clothes and running shoes, shooting videos of everything that moved, griping about exchange rates and whatever they'd just paid for lunch.

Vlado wished he'd had time to clean up, wished he'd shaved that morning, wished he hadn't just stepped from a huge, muddy hole in the ground. He wondered what sort of impression he must be making.

“You're from the embassy?” he asked.

“Actually, no. From The Hague. The war crimes tribunal. I'm an investigator.”

Vlado knew of only one matter, a single name, that could have brought the tribunal to his door, and it had nothing to do with his work back in Sarajevo, where the criminals he'd dealt with were smugglers and black marketers, commonplace murderers intent on money, not ethnic slaughter. All he knew of the tribunal he'd learned from a Bosnian in Berlin, someone whose name he didn't wish to utter just now—someone, it now appeared, who had gotten him into deep trouble. If that was why Pine had come, this would be an unpleasant evening indeed, for Jasmina as well as himself.

“Why do you need to speak to me?” Vlado asked, knowing he must already sound like a suspect. Probably looked like one, too, reaching for his cigarettes and staring at his feet.

Pine seemed to note the change. He paused briefly before plowing ahead. “Because we need your help. We've got a job we think you might be interested in.”

The answer was a pleasant surprise. Vlado glanced toward Jasmina, as if she might offer a hint of what came next, but she only shrugged. “I'll make more coffee,” she said. “And Vlado, why don't you ask our guest to sit. You've both been standing for the past five minutes. You look like gunfighters in an American Western.”

Vlado translated her remark for Pine, who grinned and folded himself back onto the couch. He had that American way of informal amiability, the salesman's knack for banter, for easing into his surroundings. As they sat, Vlado saw Sonja peeping around a corner.

“This is my daughter, Mr. Pine,” Vlado said. “Sonja, who I haven't even said hello to yet.”

He coaxed her out with a smile, but she wasn't yet ready to forgive Pine, who had taken her usual spot on the couch. It was where she and her father always sat at this hour to read, and she held a storybook in her right hand.

“We'll do that later,” Vlado whispered, switching to his native tongue. “Go on now. I'll come and get you.”

She turned, casting a parting glance of cool appraisal toward the couch.

“She's nine?” Pine asked.

“Just turned it.”

Pine had learned that either from Jasmina or from a file, and Vlado wondered uneasily what other information he'd dug up.

“Oh, and one bit of housekeeping,” Pine said. “Before we continue, I have to ask that you keep the details of our meeting entirely confidential, no matter what you might decide to do. For reasons of operational security.”

So here it comes, Vlado thought, worried again.

“I suppose I can agree to that.”

“Good. In that case, how would you like to go back to work? Real work, I mean. Police work, like you used to do. A temporary job only, I'm afraid. But it could lead to something permanent, if you decided that's what you wanted.”

Vlado tried not to show his relief, lighting a cigarette then offering one to Pine, knowing the American would probably refuse.

“No thanks. Don't smoke.”

“Investigative work? I hadn't heard you were short of help at the tribunal. And it's not like I could just pull up and move to The Hague, if that's what you're saying. But what exactly are you saying?”

“You wouldn't be working at The Hague. You'd be going back to Bosnia. Only for a few weeks, at the most. Then, later, for good. If you wanted.” Pine glanced toward Jasmina in the kitchen. “Which you'd have plenty of time to think about, of course. And we'd help with resettlement. Housing. Plus a regular job, doing what you did before. Investigations. In a jurisdiction that would actually be glad to have you.”

“But not working for the tribunal. That part would only be temporary, as you said.”

“Yes. A one-time job, I'm afraid.”

This got stranger by the minute. Vlado wondered which police jurisdiction in Bosnia would actually be glad to have him, or if such a place existed. Pine wore a little smile, as if sharing an inside joke about the way that Vlado had left things in Sarajevo. There was no sound from the kitchen, but Vlado sensed Jasmina's presence just beyond the doorway. She'd be listening with her mouth set firmly and her hands still, wondering what was about to happen to the little world they'd made in Berlin, which, on balance, was comfortable enough. Safe enough, too. If there would be a problem in taking this assignment, Jasmina would be the reason. Like many Bosnian women strewn across Europe by the war she had somehow blossomed on the barren soil of abandonment, spreading shallow but hardy roots in an unwelcoming land. Vlado had seen it happen in plenty of these families, the women picking up confidence while the menfolk, suddenly adrift, wandered and drank, sliding off toward melancholy and dreams of home.

“Maybe we're not too eager to go back,” Vlado said for her benefit. “And maybe you'd better tell me a little more about this one-time job.”

Jasmina had moved to the kitchen door, wearing an expression that let Pine know she wished he'd never come. Vlado, however, was transformed. The sagging man of ten minutes ago was now edging forward in his chair.

“Of course you'd always be free to stay here, once our work was done,” Pine said, perhaps playing to his audience in the kitchen. “The Germans have assured us of that. And either way you'd be well compensated. If you took the assignment.”

Vlado blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. These past few years he had tried to think as little as possible about his old line of work. Burning your bridges and nearly getting yourself killed can have that effect. But it wasn't hard to recall the buzz of putting together an investigation, peeling away the wrappings until you found the prize at the center or, sometimes, found nothing at all. Guessing and arguing with colleagues as you went, like scientists waiting for the smoke to clear in a beaker. That sort of business seemed a long way from here, another distant land with its own hills and valleys, and he'd pretty much given up hope of returning.

He sighed, already sensing the weight of a decision. If his life was about to pivot, he hoped he had the energy for it, the resolve, and he recalled his sense of premonition from earlier in the day, down in the bunker. Walk through a door into 1945 and this is where you came out—into a room where a tall American arrived bearing gifts, offering to usher you back through another door you hadn't entered in years.

“Maybe you had better tell me about this assignment.”

Pine looked awkwardly around the room. “I'm afraid your wife will have to leave first. Some of this isn't supposed to go beyond you and me. Not for now, anyway.”

“It's all right,” Jasmina said briskly, striding past with a tight smile. “I'll go read to Sonja.”

They waited until they heard the door of the girl's room snick shut. Sonja, who'd been eavesdropping from the hallway, complained noisily at the injustice of it all. Vlado and Pine looked back at each other, leaning forward with forearms propped on knees, a hint of conspiracy in the air.

“There's a suspect we want to bring in,” Pine said, almost in a whisper. “Have wanted to for some time. A Serb general, Andric. Heard of him?”

“Yes. From the massacre at Srebrenica. His name comes up around here now and then. All their names do, if you talk to the widows. And going after him would only make more widows. He's protected. It would be suicide.”