Warriors (9781101621189) (18 page)

PARSON SAT IN WHEN IRENA
briefed Dragan and other Serbian and Bosnian law officers about the call she'd intercepted. The group converged at the Sarajevo Holiday Inn. Cunningham and Webster also joined the meeting. As Irena and the lawmen spoke, a lot of things that hadn't made sense to Parson suddenly fit a deadly pattern. Dušic probably had a connection with the church burnings and resulting riots. The fires had reopened wounds only just starting to heal. With small-time arson, the arms dealer had effectively piled up kegs of gunpowder for a big-time explosion. The attack on the Holy Assembly of Bishops would light the match.

“DuÅ¡ic is pretty cagey,” Dragan said. “How did you get all this?”

“Not from DuÅ¡ic himself,” Irena said. “Most of it came from a conversation Stefan had with one of the worker bees.
Razvodnik
s, as DuÅ¡ic calls them.”

“Privates,” Dragan said. “Yeah, sounds like something an old Serb officer might say.”

“Stefan sounded drunk. Maybe that's why he got sloppy with OPSEC.”

“Thank God he did.”

“So why don't you just ask the bishops to postpone their get-together until you catch these bastards?” Parson asked.

“We did,” Dragan said. “They say they won't give in to terrorism. And the assembly convenes in three days.”

So now some war criminal wanted to blow up people of his own faith to relive his glory days, to start a new conflict. Parson lacked Gold's knowledge of history and religion, but he figured nobody's religion locked down divine truth. At best, you could just get a far sighting of truth, like a fleeting echo on a radar scope set to max range. Some people, like Gold, found wisdom in their faith. And some found excuses to spill a hell of a lot of blood.

“Now it comes down to old-school police work,” Webster said. “They just have to find DuÅ¡ic before the assembly starts.”

“They have to get him in time,” Irena said.

“Every cop in Bosnia and Serbia carries a description of DuÅ¡ic, and of the vehicles registered in his name and in Stefan's name,” Dragan said. “We'll need some luck, but maybe that fancy plane of yours can make us some luck.”

“We'll do all we can, sir,” Irena said.

“If they find DuÅ¡ic,” Cunningham said, “they'll have murder charges to hang on him now. Even if they can't prove war crimes, they can put him away for a long time.”

“I'll take what I can get,” Webster said.

“I hope they just shoot his ass,” Cunningham said.

“I don't want that. I hope we get him alive. I want him on trial.”

The cop and the prosecutor, Parson thought. Both wanted wrongs made right, but in different ways. Cunningham preferred to deal with Dušic the way Cunningham's forebears might have dealt with a boat thief or rapist: slit his throat and feed him to the sharks. Webster wanted a teachable moment for the whole world to see. Either one worked for Parson.

After the meeting, Parson found Gold in the lobby with the rest of the Rivet Joint crew. They were waiting for Irena. Time to fly.

Webster looked pleased to see the fliers getting ready to go up on another mission. He folded his arms and smiled.
“Fiat justitia, ruat caelum,”
he said. Gold raised her eyebrows and nodded; evidently she understood the Latin.

“Okay,” Parson said, “is that some funky legal term?”

“A legal maxim, really,” Webster said.

Gold told Parson the literal meaning:
Though the heavens fall, let justice be done.

•   •   •

AT A COLLECTION OF ABANDONED
stone farm buildings near Kotorsko, off the E73 motorway in the Serb sector of Bosnia, Dušic and Stefan met their triggermen. Andrei and Nikolas were joined by three other recruits. The three new shooters had served with the White Eagles during the war. One had a missing front tooth. The second wore a full beard. Dušic liked that; the man looked like a damned Muslim. The third had a shaved head shaped like a pistol bullet. None of them officer material, Dušic guessed, but probably up to their task.

“Gentlemen,” DuÅ¡ic said, “I trust Stefan has briefed you on your mission.”

All nodded. “Yes, sir,” Andrei said. DuÅ¡ic smiled at him.

“Then you know the most important thing is for you to be heard shouting
‘Allah-hu akbar!'”
DuÅ¡ic said. “I scarcely care if you hit anything. Just spray a lot of bullets and make your voices loud. If you kill a few extra, so much the better. But do leave witnesses.”

“Yes, sir,” Nikolas said.

“Your escape from the target area is your responsibility. If you survive and get away, you will do so richer than when you arrived.”

Dušic reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a checkbook. The gap-toothed man grinned. The others watched intently. Dušic wrote out five checks; Stefan reminded him of the men's full names. For this transaction Dušic did not worry about secrecy; these checks were drawn on a Swiss bank known for its discretion. He planned to pay the
razvodnik
s not in dinars but in EU currency. He held up the checks for the men to see. Each check paid thirty thousand euros. Gap-tooth stepped forward, hand outstretched, still wearing that stupid grin.

“Ah-ah,” DuÅ¡ic said, wagging his finger. He tore the checks in half. Gap-tooth looked crestfallen. DuÅ¡ic handed out half checks. “If you complete your mission to my satisfaction,” he said, “you will receive the other half. Do not worry about cashing torn checks. This bank has seen taped checks from me before.”

Stefan opened the back of the van. He passed out the new AK-47s to the
razvodnik
s, along with magazines and boxes of ammunition.

“Do any of you need instruction on this particular firearm?” Stefan asked. Ever the good NCO.

“I have used an AK many times, but it has been a while,” Bullet Head said.

“You will recall that the weapon is very simple,” Stefan said. “First, pull back the bolt and check that the chamber is empty.” The men followed Stefan's direction; their weapons made shucking and clacking sounds as they opened the chambers.

“Let the bolt slide forward,” Stefan said. Five bolts snapped closed. “Take your magazine in your left hand and place the upper corner against the opening of the magazine well.” Stefan reached to Bullet Head's gun, repositioned the magazine. “Like this,” Stefan continued. “Now rock it into place.”

The men rotated the magazines into position. Dušic heard five nearly simultaneous clicks.

“That's it,” Stefan said. “We call this ‘rock-and-lock.' Do it that way every time, and you will find you can reload quickly even in the dark. So now you must chamber a round. Point your rifles in harmless directions and take them off
SAFE
.”

The men stepped apart from one another and trained the barrels at ground or sky. Each found the safety without instruction.

“Now pull the bolt all the way back, then let the spring return it forward.”

Dušic watched the men charge their weapons. No one shot himself in the foot, he observed, so perhaps these idiots would do. Maybe two or three might even live to cash their checks. If they survived, he would use them again in bigger operations.

Stefan briefed the
razvodnik
s on last-minute details of the operation. He showed them a photo of the Patriarchate and pointed out the main entrance, where he hoped to place the car bomb.

“But remember that circumstances may require me to park elsewhere,” he warned. “Just stay well away from a black Citroën.”

“Yes, sir,” Nikolas said, “a black Citroën.” The others nodded.

As Stefan gave the final orders, Dušic gazed out over the countryside. A green meadow stretched before him, and beyond that a forested hillside defined the horizon. A lone hawk wheeled above the trees, circling and hunting for prey. Such a beautiful land. Perhaps that's what had drawn the ancient Ottomans here: They'd wanted more fertile ground than the dusty hellholes where they belonged. Soon enough, no more mosques would defile this country. As always, getting out into the field reminded Dušic of younger days, with a platoon to lead and a job to do.

On the road that wound along the foot of the hill, he saw something that brought him out of his reverie. Two police cars sped along without lights or sirens. They slowed and turned onto the farm path.

“Get to cover!” DuÅ¡ic shouted. “Stefan, grab your rifle.” DuÅ¡ic pulled his CZ 99 from his waistband.

The
razvodnik
s hesitated. “Is this some kind of test?” Gap-tooth asked.

“No, it's not a test, you bloody fool,” DuÅ¡ic said. “If those police take you now, you will spend the rest of your life in prison. I do not know how they found us.”

Stefan snatched up his M24 from the back of the van. He directed the men inside a stone barn. They took up firing positions at windows long since robbed of glass.

“You're going to earn some of that money right now,” Stefan said.

The two police cruisers eased up to the farm path. They stopped perhaps a hundred meters from Stefan's van. Each car carried two men.

“When do we fire?” Andrei asked.

“As soon as they get out and you have a clear shot,” DuÅ¡ic said. “We have no choice.”

Inside the barn, Dušic took stock of his tactical situation. His team benefited from the defilade of stone walls. The police had no cover but their vehicles, and bullets could penetrate the doors. Dušic's broad strategic situation was somewhat worse. How in God's name had they known his location? He would worry about that later.

The barn smelled of straw and dried manure. A light breeze caressed the grass outside. Dušic analyzed each moment, a field commander once again. He drew binoculars from his pocket and surveyed the scene.

The driver's door on one of the cruisers opened. The officer began to step out, but then he crouched behind the door.

“They see us,” DuÅ¡ic said. “Hold your fire, but stay ready.”

The officer behind the car door reached for something. Dušic assumed it was a weapon, but it turned out to be a hand microphone for the cruiser's public-address system.

“You there in the barn,” the officer called. “Identify yourselves.”

The
razvodnik
s looked at Dušic and Stefan.

“No one speak,” DuÅ¡ic said.

Stefan stepped back from his window and looked around. He propped his rifle against the wall. An ancient scythe lay among decaying straw. The tool bore not only a blade but a cradle—four wooden tines parallel to the blade, to catch the cut wheat or barley. Stefan upended the scythe so that it rested on the end of its handle and on the tips of its blade and cradle. He placed it about three meters back from his window, kneeled, and rested his rifle across the scythe. A stable platform for an accurate shot. Stefan could still see well through the window, but the enemy outside would have difficulty seeing him. Another poetic move, Dušic thought. The reaper and his scythe.

“You there,” the police officer repeated, “place your weapons on the ground and walk out slowly. You will not be harmed.”

In the other car, an officer appeared to make a radio call. Sending for backup, presumably. For now, Dušic and his team faced four policemen. Good odds. Those odds would worsen dramatically when backup arrived. Cover and terrain worked in Dušic's favor. Time did not.

“Stefan,” DuÅ¡ic called, “give the man an answer.”

Stefan adjusted the elevation knob on his telescopic sight. He placed his cheek to the stock and clicked off the safety. The M24 coughed.

The bullet slammed through the door of the first police car. The officer who had demanded surrender fell and dropped his assault rifle. Weeds and the door obstructed view of his body. After a moment, the man cursed and crawled behind the car with his weapon.

“Body armor, Stefan,” DuÅ¡ic said.

“I see that.”

Not just any body armor but probably Level III gear, since it had withstood a high-powered rifle bullet. Dušic imagined the door had absorbed some of the energy, too. This operation would require true precision.

“We do not have all day, Stefan,” DuÅ¡ic said.

Stefan racked his bolt, chambered a new cartridge. Adjusted the parallax on the scope. Settled his cheek back on the weapon for another shot.

At the second police car, an officer crouched by the vehicle. The open passenger door and the dashboard concealed his head and torso, but his legs remained visible underneath the door. Stefan adjusted his aim, tilted the barrel downward just a few degrees.

The M24 spoke again. Through the lenses of the binoculars, Dušic actually saw the bullet's trace; the projectile displaced air ahead of it so forcefully that it made a visible shimmer—right under the car door and into the policeman's leg. Dušic thought he even heard the slap of impact. He knew he heard the cry of agony.

“I'm shot!” the man shouted. And probably down for good, DuÅ¡ic figured. A strike from a 7.62 round nearly anywhere on the body would incapacitate.

“Do not move,” one of his colleagues said.

“Help me,” the wounded man called. “I'm bleeding.”

The
razvodnik
s gripped their weapons, looked at Dušic as if they needed guidance.

“What now?” Nikolas asked.

DuÅ¡ic thought for a moment. “Draw the others out,” he said. “Shoot him again. But do not kill him yet.”

Nikolas gaped with his mouth half open, as if he couldn't understand simple instructions. Might as well get some use out of this one while I can, Dušic thought. He's too stupid to last long.

“Yes,
you
, imbecile,” DuÅ¡ic said. “And do not waste ammunition.”

Nikolas pointed the AK through a window. His hands shook as he fired from an offhand position with no support, and of course the idiot missed.

“Again,” DuÅ¡ic ordered. “Try aiming this time.”