“The streets are narrow.”
“Twenty feet on average. Aside from about an hour on each side of noon, they’re in constant shade. Very cozy.”
“And that’s where all the Balkan immigrants settle?”
“Not all, but most. Truth be told, the city loves it. Whatever else anyone might say about the immigrants, they know how to take care of their neighborhoods. You get a pothole in the street and the locals have it repaired before the city workers even hear about it.”
They were walking uphill now, the tall houses closing in around them. The streets were crowded with vendors hawking food from hastily erected stands. No one paid them much attention, but Cahil caught a few oblique glances and the occasional smiling nod with a “Dobar dan.” Good day.
“I assume they know we’re outsiders?” Cahil asked.
“Oh, yeah. It’s nothing official, of course, but there’s a network here. Not much happens without word spreading. Don’t worry about it; they love tourists. Most of the business here is strictly cash-based, and tourists have plenty of cash.”
“How about crime?”
“Very little. During the day is really the only time this place sees any tourists. At night …” Bob shrugged. “Word has it that a lot of these neighborhoods police themselves. They either deal with the criminal by ad-hoc council, or they turn the accused into the police. In fact, last week a man from Ville Tirana was found lying on the steps of a precinct house. He was bound and gagged with a note taped to his forehead reading, ‘Thief.’”
Cahil chuckled. “Good for them.”
“Other times, it’s not so good,” Bob replied. “Rapists and murderers usually just disappear.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. “Where’s Zukic live?” Cahil asked.
“The address Walt gave me is in Little Sarajevo,” Bob replied, pausing at an intersection. He pointed up a winding street of shops and apartment buildings, all painted in faded rainbow shades. “That way. It’s easy to get turned around in here. Little Sarajevo is mostly Bosnian, with some Serbs and Croats thrown in. For the most part, they all keep to themselves. They’re friendly enough, but you don’t see a lot of block parties, if you know what I mean.”
“So I take it there’s not much of a Muslim-Christian problem here?”
“Not like back home, that’s for sure,” Bob replied. “You get a few street brawls, but nothing major. The last Serb-Bosnian murder was over two years ago.”
“Sounds like they don’t care much for politics.”
“Oh, no, they care. It’s one of their favorite pastimes, debating everything from U.S. involvement in Bosnia, to the elections in Pristina, to where Milosevic dies.”
“What’s the consensus on that one?”
“Surprisingly, most Serbs and Bosnians alike think he’ll be cooking. The difference is, Serbs think he’s going there because he raised their taxes.” Bob stopped walking and pointed to a peach-colored apartment building across the street. He frowned. “Huh. I’ll be damned.”
“What?”
“I didn’t recognize the address, but now that I’m here … That building — the one Zukic lives in — also happens to be the headquarters of the Bihac Istina—the Bihac Truth. It’s one of the more popular dailies here.”
“Bihac?” Cahil repeated. “Isn’t that a village in northern Bosnia? Why—”
“It’s also where a lot of Bosnians believe the largest mass grave in their country is — over three thousand and counting. Back in ‘they claim a Serbian death squad came in and slaughtered the whole town.”
Cahil grimaced and shook his head. “Is it safe to assume the Istina isn’t exactly a conservative paper?”
“It’s about as militant as they comes. Anti-Serbian, anti-U.S. — anti-anything they see as against Bosnia.”
“What’re the chances Zukic’s living there is just a coincidence?”
“Slim to none.”
“Maybe Walt got the address wrong.”
“No, I checked it with my local sources. This is the place.”
“So, does the Istina just talk tough or—”
“As far as I know, nobody’s got anything concrete, but …”
“But what?”
“Don’t quote me, but my grapevine says the Istina’s been spreading its wings: tunneling money, providing safehouses, handling stringer agents — those sorts of things.”
“What’s your gut tell you?” Bear asked.
“I say the rumors are true. The Istina’s about as much a newspaper as I am Irish — and that’s only about a quarter. Most of what they do is beneath the surface.”
Interesting turn, Cahil thought. Litzman’s contact-of-choice in Marseilles was neck deep in a militant pro-Bosnian group. Though far from proof of anything, it was perhaps the first inkling of an answer to their “who-what-where” question. The problem was, if Susanna were right and Litzman was close to finishing his job, the “who” of it didn’t help them much. If they were going to shut Litzman down, they needed to know the what and where.
Joe McBride had broken one of his unbreakable rules.
For as long as he’d been married to Libby he’d never shared any details of the cases he worked. Sure, he talked about them in general terms, but he’d always spared her the nitty-gritty stuff. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle it — she’d worked as an ER nurse, after all — but rather his own protective caveman instinct that kept him from sharing.
The Root kidnapping was different. He needed her counsel. If he went through with what he was considering, he would be stepping off a very tall cliff.
Libby listened in silence as he laid out the case, from start to finish. He ended by sharing his admittedly nebulous suspicions. She toyed with her coffee cup for thirty seconds, then said, “What’re you saying, Joe? Jonathan Root arranged the kidnapping and murder of his wife?”
“No, that’s not the feeling I get. He’s involved, though. How exactly, I don’t know, but he’s up to his neck in it.”
“Did you talk to the FBI — Oliver?”
“He’s skeptical, but I don’t think he’s dismissed it. As far as the bigwigs, the law has been laid down: Aside from chasing down the remaining kidnappers, the case is closed. You know, Jonathan Root has been out of Washington for over a decade, but even today, when he talks, people snap to.”
“Where did his lawyer say he went?”
“Belgium, to break the news to relatives.”
“Could be plausible.”
“I guess.”
Libby sighed. “Well, this much I know: I’ve worked with a lot of doctors who have almost uncanny intuition. They can just look at a patient and know what’s wrong with them, and not one of them — not a one — comes even close to having your instincts. Joe, if you’ve got a bad feeling about this, you can’t ignore it. The question is, what do you do? If Root’s as powerful as you say, and everybody from the FBI to the White House is watching this, it doesn’t leave you much room.”
“I know. First thing’s first, I want to find out if he’s really in Belgium. If we could check his credit cards—”
“Could you do that?”
“No. Collin could, but he’s—”
The doorbell rang. Libby patted his forearm, and walked to the foyer. McBride heard the door open and her say, “Just a minute … Joe, for you.”
McBride walked down the hall. Standing in the foyer, a suitcase sitting beside his feet, was Collin Oliver. His expression was one of equal parts excitement and dread. “Hey, Joe,” he said.
McBride stared at him for a moment, then said, “Lemme guess: Not Belgium?”