Not one of them looked back or offered their support to him as they scurried to freedom like cowardly pigs. Now, the number of true Serbs in the detention unit was dwindling, and his trial had been postponed for another year, forcing him to mingle with the disgustingly impure Croatian and Kosovar dogs roaming the floors here. There was no shortage of war criminals in the detention center, from all sides of the war, and he had to sit around on a daily basis and make small talk with the very people he had tried to ruthlessly stomp out, on behalf of the traitors who had turned their backs on him. He had little to look forward to, but the visit today from one of his most trusted and cherished allies might give him a renewed sense of purpose. The chance to taste the sweetest nectar of life. Revenge.
The nondescript, gray metal door leading out of the courtyard opened, and Josif Hadzic stepped through the solitary breach in the courtyard’s walls. Josif had changed significantly since Srecko's imprisonment, transformed from the young, scrawny, awkward nephew into a muscularly lean, handsome, young Serbian man. His thick black hair, prominent brow, and deep-set brown eyes proclaimed to the world that he was of pure Serbian stock. A true testament to the cause Srecko had spent his entire life fighting for…and for which he had been summarily discarded by the so called "patriots" that now lived in luxury.
Despite Josif's soft, almost serene composure upon entering the courtyard, Srecko harbored Josif's secret. He was a dedicated ultra-nationalist, like his uncle, after having seen the direct impact of the NATO-imposed restrictions on their just campaign to carve out a little space for the true Serbia. His family had lost everything due to their allegiance with Milosevic's army, but fortunately, none of them had been imprisoned. Josif's father, Andrija, Srecko's younger brother by three years, had wisely kept his nose out of the seductively lucrative spoils of Srecko's enterprises.
He had taken care of his brother, but always from a distance. He respected Andrija's choice, and his brother had served loyally in the regular Yugoslavian Army for several years, fighting for the cause during the Bosnian war. Now, Josif's family was in shambles. His father an absent, raging alcoholic and his mother a catatonic drone working several shift jobs in the outskirts of Belgrade. She refused to accept the modest amount of money Srecko had offered to keep them afloat. "Poisoned money," she would say.
Josif started visiting Srecko during the early days of his incarceration at The Hague. Srecko immediately recognized the hunger and intelligence in his eyes. He soon arranged for Josif to stay close by in Amsterdam. Srecko had unfinished business and plenty of hidden money to keep an underground organization alive. More than anything, he needed loyalty that would not abandon him in his time of need.
Josif walked briskly to the stone table. "Uncle," he said, and Srecko rose from the table to hug him with the cigarette still burning in his right hand.
"My Josif. Have you brought me some good news?" he said, glancing at the hardcover book in Josif's hands and signaling for the young man to have a seat at the table.
"Always good news, Uncle. And a gift. I know how fond you are of the Fruska Gora National Forest," Josif said and slid the book toward his uncle.
"One of the thickest, most mysterious forests in the world. We used to take a lot of trips there, your father and I. Lots of good memories…and a few bad," he said and raised a knowing eyebrow at Josif.
"I think you'll find page twenty-three to be your favorite," he said and looked away at the sky.
Srecko opened the book and casually thumbed through the pictures, stopping once or twice to admire the picturesque scene of a forest engulfed village, or a hidden waterfall. He stopped on page twenty-three and his eyes narrowed to a reptilian quality. Page twenty-three was not part of the original picture book’s publication, but rather a cleverly-designed and professionally-inserted counterfeit addition. Designed to look the same in structure and layout, the half-page-sized picture had nothing to do with the Fruska Gora National Forest from an outsider's perspective. To Srecko, the photograph had everything to do with the forest.
"This was taken recently?" he said, still staring intensely at the picture.
"A few days ago in Buenos Aires. Our guy emailed the pictures while they finished lunch."
"Do we still know where they are?" Srecko said and looked up from the photo.
Josif lowered his head slightly in a subconscious deference to his uncle.
"No. Once they started walking, our guy found it impossible to follow them without tipping them off. I'm sorry about that, but…"
"No need to apologize, Josif. Never apologize. Not even to me. This is great work. It shows great patience and intellect, my nephew. Very important traits to have," he said, glaring at the picture.
"They'll show up again. That bitch is predictable and has a taste for expensive things. She won't be hard to find. As for him, tell our people to be extremely cautious. This one is capable of just about anything."
"What would you like to do about them, Uncle?"
"I want them dead, but first, I want to know what they did with my money. I don't care what needs to be done to get this information out of them. They’re trying to indict me on charges that I ordered the systematic rape of over two hundred Kosovar whores…why not add another rape to the list? Or two."
"We'll try for both, but what if we can only grab one?"
"Grab the woman first. I can't stress to you how badly I want her to suffer…and I want to see it on video. I have a DVD player, and I'm getting tired of the usual movies."
Josif grinned and stood up. "Understood, Uncle. I'll keep you informed. See you next week," he said and his grin faded into a deadly serious gaze.
"You know, the security here is pretty terrible. I'm worried about your safety," Josif said.
Srecko stifled a laugh at the audacity of what Josif had just implied.
"Perhaps one day it will come to that, my nephew. For now, I'll let the lawyers work their magic. One of my dearest friends was granted a provisional release a few weeks ago. Haven't heard a word from him since, of course," Srecko said.
"Mr. Stanisic hasn't disappeared, as some expected, which is a good thing. Maybe the lawyers can get you the same deal," Josif said.
"Maybe," he said and hugged his nephew.
He watched Josif stride toward the door, which buzzed and opened from the inside. He waved one more time at his nephew before the door closed, sealing him off from his only contact with the outside world besides his lawyers. He sat down slowly and removed a crumpled pack of generic cigarettes from the front breast pocket of his wrinkled gray collared shirt. He tapped a cigarette and lit it with a disposable butane lighter retrieved from the back pocket of his threadbare pants. He took a long drag on the cheap tobacco, then exhaled the thick smoke through his nose several seconds later, tapping his free hand on the picture in front of him.
Staring at the picture of Marko Resja, or whoever he claimed to be now, sitting alongside that supposedly beheaded whore, stoked the deepest embers of his seething rage. He started to feel sick and immediately took another nicotine-filled drag on his cigarette, igniting the tobacco embers in a fierce orange glow that lasted for three seconds. The wave of nicotine filtered through his bloodstream and entered his brain, triggering pleasure receptors, which barely cut into the anger. It gave him a moment of clarity to process a few level thoughts.