One of the men stripped the watch from Brujic’s wrist and tossed it to Grahovac, who took a several seconds to inspect it. Brujic broke the silence, which may or may not have made a difference in the outcome.
“He’s the one that gave it to me! He said it was a fake that he stole from some shithead in the Zemun market. This is a fucking setup! Can’t you see that?” he said.
Although he never actually said it, the tone suggested he meant to add “you stupid fuck” to the end of the sentence.
When several members of the platoon and Radovan’s security detail chuckled at his comment, Marko knew the man was as good as dead. He still had no idea if he’d survive the next few minutes, but he now had a much better chance.
“Mr…?” he paused and looked to Marko to finish his sentence.
“Resja. Marko Resja, sir,” he replied.
“Mr. Resja gave you this watch, in attempt to frame you?” he said, turning back to Brujic, who strained against the thick hands pressing him to the ground.
Now the laughter grew, as Radovan’s tone implied that Brujic’s story was nonsense.
“Yes! He gave it to me a few days ago. Out of the blue. He’s trying to pull some shit on us. The watch is a fake. I don’t have money to buy expensive watches,” he said.
“But you have money to eat in expensive restaurants?”
“That’s different. I wasn’t paying. It was that whore from the—”
His comment was interrupted by a solid kick to the face by Grahovac’s black, spit-polished combat boot, which momentarily silenced his desperate plea.
“Haul him up and shut him up,” he said and turned around to Marko.
While the men struggled to get Brujic to his feet, Grahovac tossed the watch to Resja.
“That’s a twenty-eight thousand dollar Rolex Cosmograph. I own two just like it. I could use a keen eye like yours on my security detail. Consider that a reward, and wear it as a reminder of what happens if you betray the cause,” he said, in a more controlled tone.
Twenty-six thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five dollars to be precise. Arranged through an exclusive jeweler at the Potsdamer Platz Arkaden in Berlin. Paid for, in advance of pickup, by General Sanderson.
“What happens to him?” Marko asked, against Brujic’s duct tape muffled screams.
“He goes into the pit with the rest of them, after Nenad’s crew works him over,” Grahovac replied, turning to the platoon leader.
“Give him the special treatment, reserved exclusively for the Kosovar whore queens… and get rid of that shit over there. What the fuck are you keeping them around for?” he demanded, pointing at the huddled women and children sitting off to the side, under armed guard.
“We wanted to save a few of them for you and your men,” Nenad replied.
“Get rid of them, and get out of here. I want this wrapped up in thirty minutes.”
“Grab your rifle, and hop in the rear vehicle. You smell like donkey shit,” Grahovac uttered, still glaring at Brujic’s battered, duct-taped face.
Marko ran off to grab his gear. When he returned, Radovan and his entourage were already on their way to the Range Rovers, forcing him to sprint to catch up with them. Radovan glanced his way.
“Sniper, eh? Any good?” he yelled.
Nenad, who stood a few feet away, answered the question for Marko.
“One of the best I’ve seen in a while, sir!” he said, then slapped Marko on the back. “Don’t embarrass us, Resja,”
Marko nodded before climbing into the back seat of the rear SUV. The rich smell of leather penetrated the stench he had choked on for the entire three-day field operation, easing him into the vehicles luxurious interior.
“Fuck, man. You do smell like shit. Crack the windows,” said the man directly in front of Marko.
“Bojan,” said the burly guard next to Marko, extending his hand.
“Marko. What’s going to happen to them?” he said.
“Your buddies in front of the pit?” said Bojan. “They’re going into the pit… where they belong.”
Marko stared out of the window at Sava, who looked slightly relaxed, despite the fact that they hadn’t been allowed to face away from the pit. He was glad that the Range Rover’s tinted windows hid his face. If Sava locked eyes with him for even a moment, the boy would know that he was as good as dead. He just hoped they made it quick for him. His thoughts of Sava faded, as the SUV started slowly moving away from the center of the village. Phase two of his mission had just begun.
He had just passed the most critical test for any covert field operative. What the psychologists and psychiatrists involved in Black Flag’s mental readiness division program called a “permanent trust point,” or “PTP.” They had told his training class that most operatives will never reach a “permanent trust point” with any of the organizations they are attempting to penetrate, and among those operatives who do, even fewer will survive the circumstances surrounding it.
Marko had pulled off the impossible — but he still had a long way to go. Radovan Grahovac’s personal security detail was a few tiers away from Srecko Hadzic’s inner circle; the ultimate goal assigned to him by General Sanderson.