He’d just ordered a Johnny Walker Black, bourbon being unavailable, when a man sat down next to him.
“Mr. Duncan,” the man said, holding out his hand, “I am pleased to finally meet you. Janus Dukhovic.” The man was just above six feet tall, heavy-set, with close-spaced eyes and a thin face that stood out oddly from his heavy girth. He had black hair and black eyes that were cold and hard.
“Mr. Dukhovic,” Mike said, shaking his hand and waving at the bartender. “Would you care for a taste to cut the dust?”
“Of course,” Dukhovic said. “I’m always willing to drink for free.”
When the drinks arrived, they moved to one of the booths and toasted.
“To IFOR,” Dukhovic said dryly.
“To peace between nations,” Mike replied just as dryly, taking a sip of the scotch. “What were you told?”
“That you want to look at the slave trade,” Dukhovic said, shrugging and pulling out a Marlboro. As he lit it he continued. “I have toured many people around the slave trade. Most of them, I think, enjoy the sight,” he added, smiling brutally and blowing out smoke. “I had two congressmen once that were so excited I think they nearly came in their pants.”
“I’m sure,” Mike said coldly. “I’m less interested in the girls than in how they are transported. I understand that the vehicle of choice is a nine-passenger Mercedes van, usually white, usually with tinted windows.”
“This is true,” Dukhovic said, puffing on the cigarette nervously and reevaluating the man across from him.
“I need to find as many of those vans as possible,” Mike continued. “And walk near them. Ones that are carrying girls are lowest on the list. The girls are usually traded at Eagle Market, right? But they don’t stay there overnight, true?”
“True,” Dukhovic said, blowing out a smoke ring. “There are various houses in the town that their protectors keep.”
“Where are the majority of the vans going to be?”
“During the day at the parking lot at Eagle Market,” Dukhovic said, shrugging. “They tend to be clustered in the southwest quadrant.”
Mike looked at his watch and frowned.
“We’re going to be at this for a while,” Mike said. “Maybe the rest of the day and well into the night. Are you up to that?”
“Of course,” Dukhovic said, putting out his cigarette. “When do you want to start?”
“Now,” Mike replied, downing his drink.
“There are dozens of protectors in the town,” Dukhovic said as they drove through Herzjac in his ancient Peugeot, the springs complaining at the rough ride. Much of the town was paved with asphalt, but it was sketchily patched and sometimes seemed to have more potholes than pavement. “And dozens of houses. And all of the dealing does not occur in Eagle Market. Some of the finest girls never go there, but are traded at the houses.”
“Van,” Mike said, gesturing with his chin down an alleyway.
“You wish to stop?” Dukhovic said, looking for a parking place. The street was lined with cars, however.
“Just drop me off and circle around to the other block,” Mike replied. “I’ll walk down the alley and meet you there. Be aware that I’m, we’re, probably going to be walking as much as driving.”
Mike slid out of the Peugeot and through a couple of cars to the street. There were shops lining the street, some of them starting to close, and a few pedestrians. He strolled to the alleyway, then turned down it, looking around in interest. Most of the buildings in Herzjac were built of limestone block like the pensione, with a scattering of Soviet-era concrete. As they had driven, he had seen still visible signs of the fighting in the area, mostly bullet pockmarks, but also some homes that had clearly suffered from artillery shelling. There were a large number of tree stumps, a clear sign of a town that had been under siege.
The alleyway was cobbled, with many of the cobbles missing, and stunk of garbage and shit. There was debris scattered through it, mostly newspapers and garbage.
The van was parked by a side door to a three-story building on the far street. The door was metal and well set into the frame, not that he particularly cared. He was more interested in whether he could be observed as he walked past the van and casually raised his hand towards it, lifting it further to scratch his head. Nothing. He needed to get a radiation source to test it.
He kept walking to the far block and looked around for the Peugeot. Dukhovic had passed his position and was pulled in to a free parking place, so he strolled over to the car and got in.
“What I just did is what I’m here for,” Mike said. “You’re the expert, tell me the best way to do it.”
“Over in Serb town is where most of the houses are,” Dukhovic replied, thinking. “I’d suggest we get dinner, wait for the girls to start coming back to the houses and then walk around. It might take most of the night, maybe part of tomorrow, but we can cover all the vans that way.”
“Security issues?” Mike asked as Dukhovic pulled out into traffic.
“There are some robbers in the area,” the Croat said, lighting a cigarette as he drove. “And if it becomes obvious the protectors may get upset.”
“Can you cover us on it?” Mike asked, looking around as they drove. The girls in this town were just as awesome as in the rest of Eastern Europe. Maybe it was something in the water?
“No,” Dukhovic said shortly, blowing smoke out the window. “When the market was first set up, the routes had every nation plying their trade. Bulgarians were prominent, but they didn’t dominate or anything. But about five years back, the Chechens started getting into it in a big way and there was… call it a slave war. Lots of killing. Not as bad as the real wars, but very bad and very bad for the trade. Anyway, now most of the protectors are fucking Chechens. I got out when I saw it coming, but a bunch of my friends who stayed in the business are dead from the damned Chechens.”
“Same thing happened in the U.S., twice,” Mike said. “The cocaine trade in the southeastern U.S. used to be mainly internal. They received their shipments and distributed, but the guys who ran the internal distribution were mostly American background. Heavy Mafia influence, but even that wasn’t dominant. Then, well, there was this thing called the Mariel Boatlift in the 1970s, under that bastard idjit Carter. Castro agreed to let people who were ‘longing for freedom’ come to the United States. What he really did was empty out his prisons. Not even the political prisons, just the prisons with all his real criminals in them. Burglars, murderers, rapists, armed robbers. So south Florida got about ten thousand criminals dropped on it, really brutal ones. They quickly took over the drug trade. Anyone who got in their way they just eliminated without making any fuss about it at all.
“Then in the 1980s, when the crack wave hit, the Columbians came in, heavy. They had soldiers who were trained in their civil war and it was even more brutal than when the Marielitos took over. Lots of use of automatic weapons, which had been fairly unusual up to that time. They’re still in control. So I know what you mean.”