And suddenly there was his voice at the other end of the line, as gruff and loud as ever. The connection was remarkable.
“Bogdan, it’s Vlado Petric. From Sarajevo.”
“Vlado? My God, is it really you? And from Sarajevo? It’s like being called by the dead. A call from Sarajevo. Is it as bad as they say?”
“I guess that depends on how bad they’re saying it is.”
Bogdan answered with his big belly laugh.
“Same old Vlado. Never gives away his feelings without a joke or a struggle.” It was an observation mildly surprising to Vlado, even a little annoying. But at ten D-marks a minute this was no time to explore it further.
“Belgrade hates you, by the way, not you personally but you as a resident of Sarajevo. And even I am growing a little tired of you. You’re all anyone in the world hears about from this war. The whole world feels sorry for you and hates all of us. We have no jobs, no gasoline, inflation that doubles every hour, but it is Sarajevo they weep for on CNN. But now that is off my chest, my friend. For Chrissakes, how are you? How is your family?”
“They’re gone.”
There was momentary silence at the other end, and Vlado realized he’d been misunderstood.
“Gone to Germany, I mean. Berlin. Since June ninety-two.”
“Good God. A long time. But they’re alive, at least.”
“Yes, alive and growing. Sonja is almost three now.”
Bogdan, with his own children, understood without another word the weight of that remark, and all its ramifications. He knew how quickly children changed at that age, and how quickly they grew apart from someone far away.
“So, listen, Bogdan, I am on a borrowed and very expensive phone and can’t spend much time. But what I need is a favor, if you can do it. I don’t think it will be risky, but if you decide it is then don’t bother.”
Vlado explained what he needed, a copy of information from whatever Belgrade called the transfer files, more particularly those items listed with Sarajevo locations. Bogdan said he’d try. He had friends at the Ministry of Culture who’d find it for him, no questions asked, and the rest would be easy.
“I’ve been wrangling with some of their people lately anyway. Was finally starting to make a name for myself but now some of them think my work’s a little too adventurous. Or subversive is more likely.” He laughed again. “But I’ll tell them I’m trying to compile a list of which of our national treasures might still be in the hands of those dirty mujahedeen in Bosnia, in your incestuous city of heathens and mixed marriages. That ought to get them moving.”
“It’s several hundred items, but copy as many as you can, or least the ones with the higher values. And then you can fax it to this number. It’s a satellite phone, so it may cost a little. But anything you could do would be a great help.”
“Anything you can tell me about what this is for?”
“A murder investigation. That’s really all I can say. Sorry.”
“It’s good enough for me, Vlado. I’ll do what I can.”
Damir was waiting for him at the office, looking tired and despondent.
“Any luck in Dobrinja?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Vlado said. “In a few days I hope to have all the leads we could ever ask for. I only hope they don’t lead down the same dead end.” Damir waited for more, but that was all he was getting for now. Vlado knew it wasn’t fair, but he pressed on. “What about you? Anything more?”
“All my sources are dry on this one. About all they agree on is that the ministry’s undercover men are genuinely shady characters. But maybe that means they’re good undercover men. I don’t know. The more I’ve thought about it the more I feel like maybe we’re out of our league. Maybe there’s a good reason the ministry’s been taking these cases all these months, and not us.”
“How about the whores?”
Damir’s face brightened. “There was one I quite fancied,” he said, and Vlado felt a pang of jealousy, wondering if it was “his,” the “bank teller,” as he thought of her. Then just as quickly he felt guilty for caring. Some of his mother’s Catholicism must have rubbed off after all.
“She calls herself Francesca. A nice blonde, short, a little soft at the edges but in all the right places.” And in spite of himself Vlado relaxed. He thought he remembered the one. By her manner she’d seemed almost as experienced as the one who’d styled herself as the leader.
“Learn anything from her?”
“For our purposes? No. Same problem you had. The bossy one kept opening her mouth. What a bitch. But I’m seeing Francesca some other time, I think. She hasn’t been in the business too long to forget that she can still appreciate a man for an evening out. As long as he pays her way, of course.”
Damir was on the verge of further descriptions of this woman’s virtues and good sense when Vlado’s phone rang. Nice to hear them ringing again at all, he thought.
It was Goran.
“Vlado,” he shouted. He’d been typing when Vlado picked up the receiver, but now the clattering of keys stopped.
“The ghost lives, Vlado. Your man Neven Halilovic, former right hand man of the late lamented Zarko. He’s up on Zuc, living in his own little stronghold, if you can call that living. Seems he has managed to put together his own private army up there. Keeps the regular army happy by holding down a key part of the line, and they keep him happy by staying off his back. Though he’s not happy at all, by most accounts. Understandable under the circumstances. Can’t think of any other part of the line where there’s been more shelling and shooting lately, day in and day out.”
Vlado paused. He was glad to hear Halilovic was alive, but this was hardly where he’d expected to find him. A prison cell would have been much more conducive for a quick and productive interview. But did he want to get to the bottom of this case or not?
“How can I get up there?” he asked.
“Zuc? Are you serious? Even if you went, there’s no guarantee you can get past his guards and actually see him. And if that happens he might always decide to hold on to you for a while. He may owe the army but he doesn’t owe the police.”
“Are you actually urging me to be cautious, Goran? The man who believes I should live a little bit, even if it means dying? Just tell me how to get up there.”
“It’s easy enough, really,” Goran said quietly. “Replacement units go up every night. Small groups. Mostly the raw recruits, no training and none of their own weapons. They do an overnighter and come back down in the morning just before dawn, turn in their rifles, pick up their pay in cigarettes, and go home to sleep. Boys, for the most part. Kids with pimples and leather jackets and nervous girlfriends who wait up for them.”
“Every night?”
“Tonight even, if you wanted. I was about to say it wouldn’t be a good time. The shelling’s been heavier this morning. But Orthodox New Year is tomorrow night and you definitely don’t want to go then. So, yes, you’d better do it tonight if you’re hell-bent and determined to go. You are hell bent and determined, aren’t you? Because if you’re not you’ve got no business being up there for even a minute.”
“Then consider me hell-bent and determined.”
“Now you’ve got me wishing I’d never opened my mouth.”
“Exactly what I was hoping.”
“I just wanted you to get out of your house, to have a few beers or something. Are you sure this is worth it?”
“Not really. But the only way I’ll find out is to go. Anyway, it’s the only way I’ll find out anything more than I know already, which is precious little.”
“Well,” Goran said with a sigh, “I’ve got a friend you can call to arrange it. They assemble units over near the cigarette factory. I’ll call him with your name and number and have him get back to you, if you want.”
Vlado paused a second. Then he took the leap. “Yes. Go ahead.”
“Okay then.” Goran said. “But if you come to your senses, call me back and we’ll have a beer.”