“Yes, but he’s dead now, isn’t he.” And for Murovic this obviously closed the possibility of further suspicion.
“Tell me a little bit more about these men, then. What sort of detail did they usually post overnight?
“Five men, and not just the lowest foot soldiers. Zarko assured me we’d have some of his best people as long as we needed them.”
“His best people. Officers, you mean.”
“His top officer, in fact. On duty every night.”
“His name, if you recall?”
“Halilovic. Lieutenant Neven Halilovic. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
He had. In hearing the name, Vlado felt he was crossing that unseen line in the darkness that had worried him earlier. Halilovic had been Zarko’s right-hand man, jailed since the November raid. Or had he, too, been among those killed in the final assault? Or perhaps later, while “trying to escape,” as with Zarko.
“So he was there when this shell hit?”
“Yes.”
“And were there any casualties among the guard detail?”
“Not as such.”
“No, of course not. Another freak twist of fortune then. And did it occur to anyone afterward, yourself included, Mr. Murovic, to perhaps ask an arson investigator to have a brief look around. If only to protect the good name of the vigilant Mr. Halilovic.”
“As I said, Mr….”
“Petric. Inspector Petric.”
“Inspector Petric. For me there were no doubts. We were in safe hands, hands that had saved virtually everything we had. And being all but on the frontline of a war zone, it didn’t seem practical to have an investigator working in and around the building. And quite frankly, it would have been a very tasteless show of bad faith, an embarrassment, considering all that those men had done for us. Perhaps there were no casualties that night, but they’d suffered others before, and quite literally right on our doorstep. I’m aware of their presumed track record, of their smuggling and their black markets. But for us, as I said. Saviors.”
He pulled down his cigarette for a long, dramatic drag. Vlado scribbled in his notebook, then Murovic asked, “By the way, Mr. Petric, who put you on to all this? Or do you come by your interest in art naturally?”
“One of your former colleagues, actually. Milan Glavas.”
“Ah, yes. Milan. I might have known. He always was quite taken with conspiracy theories. Always guessing at people’s motives, trying to take their measure in an instant. Very much the office politician.”
“Not a very good one, apparently”
“He told you I sacked him, I suppose. And unfairly, no doubt. He had wanted this job, you know. Museum director. But of course he was simply a few years beyond the energy requirements. And let’s face it, Mr. Petric, it didn’t help that he was a Serb. A good one, maybe. But in light of everything that’s happened in the past two years there’s not much room for them in high places right now, at least on this side of the city”
“So you sacked him.”
“Yes. Which embittered him against me forever, no doubt. As if he hadn’t already refused to give me credit for knowing much of anything about my business, or about art at all. But if Milan were half as clever as he thinks he would have known that a copy of the entire transfer file exists in Belgrade.”
Murovic said this with a note of triumph, as if producing the answer to a trick question for an especially dense pupil. A flush of self-congratulatory pride bloomed across his face.
“Belgrade?” Vlado said. He had to admit, he’d been taken by surprise.
This seemed to explain Vitas’ remark to Glavas that the file was-how had he put it? “in safe hands in unsafe surroundings.”
“So,” Vlado said, “Then you do have the files, or at least a copy.”
“Not for another month. As you can imagine, Belgrade hasn’t exactly been eager to cooperate with the newly independent Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina, whose existence it doesn’t even recognize, though from what I hear these files are quite a matter of public record to students or art historians. Just about anyone could probably come in off the street, and if we wanted to be backhanded about it there are people we could send in to copy it out by hand and smuggle us the result. Perhaps I was naive, but I wanted to do things aboveboard. The war won’t last forever, and someday we’ll need to work with those people again. So I decided to first make a good faith effort through the proper international channels.”
“The U.N.?”
“Yes. UNESCO. Belgrade finally agreed, and on February fifteenth a copy of the documents will be shipped via a UNESCO courier.”
“That’s another month. Why the delay?”
“That’s when UNESCO’s grant takes effect. It’s preservation money especially earmarked for Sarajevo. Their man can’t so much as requisition a paperclip, much less book his trains and flights, until the moment the money’s officially available. Then he’s off for Belgrade. And I must say, it will be a relief. For months we’d been figuring we’d eventually have to do it the hard way, by consulting the old timers, Milan included, to try to piece everything together from snatches of tired old memories.”
“Why not do some of that anyway, at least for a few of the more valuable pieces. There are bound to be some that would spring to mind quite readily. Glavas seems to think he could put together quite a bit of it, if he had the time and inclination, and maybe a little help.”
“Yes, I don’t doubt that he does. It sounds like something Milan would claim. A charming man in his own way, really, and full of arcane knowledge, old lore that can be quite engaging when he gets rolling on some story, as long as you have the energy to shut him off. But far less knowledge, I’m afraid, than he’d have us all believe. I think if you were to take him up on his offer you’d come back a few hours later to find him with a few blank sheets of paper and an ashtray full of butts, from your own cigarettes, of course.”
“In fact I have taken him up on his offer. And you’re probably right about the ashtray. We’ll see about the blank pages. But when UNESCO gets here with the copies, I’d like a look, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, but what’s the need? I’m sure with Milan working for you you’ll already have everything you need by then.” He burst into laughter, the sort of venomous chuckle best suited for the corners of cocktail parties and small, chic restaurants.
He guided Vlado toward the door.
“Mind the gunfire today,” he admonished. “Please give Milan my regards. And try not to be too harsh with him when he comes up short.”
He hadn’t asked a single question yet about how Glavas was doing, Vlado noted. Not one query about the old man’s health or safety out in Dobrinja. War had consumed half the city, but it didn’t mean you still couldn’t get caught up in all the old pettiness of peacetime.
But Vlado had at least gained two important pieces of information. The transfer files would be back in hand in another month, meaning if artwork was still being smuggled out of the country, the smugglers probably knew they were working against a deadline, and might be inclined to either sloppiness or desperation.
He’d also learned that Neven Halilovic would be worth talking to, provided he was alive and would open his mouth. Kasic would know where to find him. Perhaps Damir would as well, with all the clubs and coffee bars he frequented.
But Goran Filipovic would know, too.
Goran was a friend of Vlado’s who had spent the first year of the war as an officer in the Croatian brigade. The unit had been disbanded by nervous government officials once Croat-Muslim fighting began in Mostar and central Bosnia. Its soldiers were dispersed into other units, absorbing the Croat threat into the Muslim majority, although the brigade still defiantly kept a small headquarters on the western edge of downtown, a dingy office in an abandoned pizzeria, with the checkerboard Croatian coat of arms flying on a flag out front.
Goran had seized the opportunity to bow out of the army altogether, citing a shrapnel wound to his right leg. It had left him with a limp that worsened at the approach of any superior officer, and somehow no one had ever questioned whether he was still fit for combat.