In rapid succession, each device ignited, and burned intensely for five seconds. The thermite packages created very little noise, but generated an incredible amount of smoke, usually on both sides of the door. He pushed firmly on the heavy oak door, which gave way now that the locks had been melted. He held his breath and stepped into the house. The caustic smoke obscured his vision and burned his eyes momentarily, but he immediately recognized that he was on a small landing. Several stairs led up into the house through an enclosed stairwell that separated the landing from the main house, and kept him out of sight.
His ears picked up a familiar sound, which relieved him of any fears that his attack had been compromised. A hardcore rap song from Dr. Dre's Chronic album vibrated throughout the lodge. His mouth formed a thin grin as a Serbian accented "Yeah motherfucka" echoed alongside Snoop Dog's lyrics.
He eased up the stairs, and peeked around the corner. The lodge's ground floor was an open concept space, which gave him a clear view straight through the kitchen, into the great room. He didn't see any smoke detectors in the kitchen, which allowed him to relax the pace slightly.
The ceiling opened up just past the eat-in kitchen area to form a two-story great room, with floor to ceiling windows on the far wall facing Marko. A dark gray slate fireplace and chimney split the middle of this wall, and disappeared into the timber framed ceiling. The men were stationed around a rustic, dark wooden coffee table, which was centered on the fireplace, and littered with a pile of mixed currency. A dimly lit chandelier hung low over the coffee table, attached to the ceiling by a thick, black chain.
He spotted Pavle immediately, which was not a difficult task. Pavle was paralyzed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair, which currently faced the fireplace. Both of Pavle's outstretched arms embraced the deep hip hop beat with a slow, synchronized wave. Each hand held a thick stack of American bills.
He assessed the bodyguards. A large, stocky man in a black turtleneck sweater and brown jacket stood in front of Pavle, bouncing up and down completely out of rhythm. The second bodyguard sat on a dark, rich leather couch to the left of the table, nodding his head to the steady rhythm and rolling what Marko assumed to be a marijuana joint. He didn't see any obvious weapons, and chuckled at the pathetic crew in front of him.
Ready to make his move, he took the time to touch the razor sharp edges on both the front and back of the climbing axe. The axe would provoke the final outrage. The inevitable civil war between two of Slobodan Milosevic's largest paramilitary groups would tear Belgrade apart from within, and give Marko the cover he needed to tie up a few more loose ends before vanishing. For the first time in several years, he felt hopeful.
His time in this shithole of a region was rapidly coming to an end, and he intended to walk away with a little more than just the satisfaction of a job well done. Pavle held the key to his brother's vast criminal fortune, which would soon belong to the United States government — minus a small finder's fee. He caressed the axe's blade once more before he lowered his body to a full crouch, and slipped into the kitchen. He still had a long day ahead of him.
BACK IN BLACK
May 25, 2005
Chapter One
Daniel sat at a brushed metal, modernist workstation in his expanded cubicle, staring blankly at a sleek flat screen monitor. An MBA from Boston University's School of Management had earned him a little extra space in one of the outer cubicles, and a partial view of the tall pine trees behind the building's rear parking lot. His one hundred square foot home at Zenith Semiconductor was as close to the "corner office" as modern workplace design theory would allow, and he had fellow MBAs like himself to thank for it. At least his position entitled him to a frosted glass "privacy door," which he could slide shut to emphasize his desire to remain undisturbed. Few of the staff and entry level management had this option, and were therefore vulnerable to constant, unannounced intrusion.
His door had only been closed for fifteen minutes, and he'd already counted at least five lingering shadows behind the translucent glass. He continued to stare at the market analysis presentation on the screen, unmotivated to continue. His indoor soccer team pulled the late slot the night before, and he still hadn't recovered from a three hour sleep deficit. He shook his head and decided to take a walk around the ten thousand square foot cubicle "ghetto," known more formally as the third floor.
He stood up from his sleek designer chair, and surveyed the immense room. At six feet tall, Daniel could effectively see over the cubicles. Just as he slid the door open, his phone rang.
"I almost escaped," he muttered, and plopped himself back down into the soft chair.
He put his headset on, and pressed a button on the gray desk phone. "Daniel Petrovich."
"Daniel, it's Sandy. I have a call for you from Azore Market Solutions."
"Do you know who it is?" said Daniel, surprised to be hearing from Azore so soon.
"They didn't say," said Sandy, one of the junior assistants assigned to the marketing department. "Just that they needed to talk with you immediately."
He had contracted with Azore Market Solutions to provide raw data for an overseas regional marketing analysis, but didn't expect to hear from them for another month. He usually conducted business with them via e-mail, so he was slightly concerned about the call. If Azore couldn't deliver the data, he'd have to start the process from scratch, which would put Zenith's South American market expansion efforts behind schedule, and his job at risk.
"Alright. Put whoever it is through. And Sandy…would you please ask who's on the line next time? I don't know if I'm talking to the CEO or a janitor," he lamented.
"I don't think it's the janitor, but I'm not sure. Do you want me to ask who it is before I put the call through?"
"No, don't worry about it this time," he said, and hung up.
Several cubicles away, Sandy shook her cropped brown hair and rolled her eyes. “Fucking janitor bullshit," she mumbled as she transferred the call.
Dan shut the door to his cubicle, and pressed the button to connect the call. "Daniel Petrovich."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was hoping to reach Marko Resja," the male voice said, betraying no emotion.
Daniel felt a surge of adrenaline fire through his central nervous system, and his brain switched over to a long dormant mode of operation, instantly ceasing to function as Zenith Semiconductor's Emerging Markets' Analytical Lead. He stood up slowly, glancing down the vast sea of cubicle tops.
"I'm not in the building, so you can sit back down," said the voice.
Daniel remained standing and opened the cubicle door.
"Are you sitting?"
"I am," replied Petrovich.
"That's better. Do I have your attention?" said the voice, which confirmed that he was not under direct surveillance.
Daniel activated the "wander" function of his headset.
"You never lost it."
As long as he remained on the third floor of Building A, his headset would function without a hard wire connection. He might be able to get a slight head start on whatever was coming his way. He opened the top drawer of his desk, pocketed his keys and cell phone, and started to walk toward the nearest staircase.
"The general has a proposal for you," said the voice.
"I'll be sure to look him up the next time I'm the D.C. area," said Dan, approaching the door to the stairwell.
"This proposal is extremely time sensitive."