The Eyewitness (31 page)

“No, it wasn't Inga. But she was a good girl and she didn't deserve it. Neither did Karic.”

“I'm sorry,” said Solomon. He was relieved it wasn't Inga, but Sasha was right. It didn't matter who had been killed: what mattered was that the Russian who'd tried to kill Solomon was on the warpath again and it was Solomon's fault.

“Jesus, I'm sorry, Sasha. This is all because of me, isn't it?”

Sasha pulled a face.

“It was my own fault for not killing the bastard when I had the chance. I won't make the same mistake again.”

Solomon nodded slowly, not sure what to say.

“Now the bastard Russian has run off to Sarajevo. Probably thinks I can't get him there. He's got another think coming,” Sasha went on.

“You're going after him?”

“What do you think? How long would I last in this business if I let him get away with it?” He looked at his wristwatch, a white-gold Breitling.

“I'm on a flight to Sarajevo in three hours. Do you want to come?”

Solomon's jaw dropped.

“Goncharov's taken four of his men with him, probably the guy's who shot at me. And two are probably the ones who were in your flat. You saw them, I didn't.”

“I can identify them.”

“Might be a help. And if that girl you're looking for is still there, we could kill two birds with one stone.”

“That's what we're going to do? Kill birds?”

“I'm offering you the chance to find the girl, and to take revenge on the men who shot you.” Sasha looked at his watch again.

“Of course, if you don't want to come .. .”

“I'm there,” said Solomon, hurriedly.

“Just let me get my passport.”

Sasha reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an airline ticket. He handed it to Solomon. It was a British Airways flight to Sarajevo via Zagreb. In Solomon's name. Solomon looked up and Sasha was grinning.

“I knew you'd want to be in at the kill,” he said.

Nicole woke up, gasping for breath, her mouth full of cold water. She spat it out and coughed. A hand grabbed her hair and pulled her into a sitting position, then shook her.

“Wake up, bitch!” hissed the man. He was one of the owners of the brothel, a tall, lanky man with shrapnel scars across his cheek and neck. His right eye was a milky white and half of his right ear was missing.

Nicole struggled to keep her eyes open. She was dog-tired. The brothel was open for business twenty-four hours a day and the upstairs windows had been boarded up so she had no way of knowing what time it was. Nor did she know how long she'd been in the room. Time had lost all meaning. The men came, they abused her, and they left. That was her life.

“You're not here to sleep, bitch!” the man hissed.

“You're here to screw.” He slapped her, twice. Nicole didn't try to defend herself. A lot of the men who came to the room slapped her, or punched her, or bit her. They seemed to enjoy inflicting pain as much as having sex with her.

There was another man behind the owner, a man in his fifties with a beer gut straining at a dirty white T-shirt. He was naked below the waist but he still had on his socks. He had one hand on a semi-erect penis and he was wiping his mouth with the other.

Nicole's eyes fluttered closed. The man swore at her again and twisted her hair savagely. When she didn't react he pushed her back on to the bed. Nicole rolled over into the foetal position, her knees drawn up to her chest. Suddenly cold water splashed over her face and chest and she gasped and spluttered. The owner grabbed her by the hair again and pulled her upright. Nicole opened her eyes. The man's hand was inches from her face holding a white tablet. She clamped her teeth shut but the owner yanked her hair and when she yelped he pushed the tablet between her lips.

“Swallow it, bitch, or I'll kick you around the room,” he hissed.

Nicole tried to swallow but she gagged and began to choke. The owner thrust a glass of water to her lips. Nicole drank and swallowed. The owner picked up another tablet and held it to her mouth. It was smaller than the first. This time she swallowed without choking and the owner pushed her back on the bed.

“The ecstasy will get her in the mood, the speed will keep her going,” he said to the customer.

“Give it a couple of minutes for the stuff to kick in. Sorry about the inconvenience.”

The owner left the room. Nicole lay on her back with one arm across her face, her legs wide apart. The customer stood staring down at her, breathing heavily. Then he grunted and knelt down on the bed. He rolled Nicole on to her front and entered her roughly from behind, swearing at her and calling her a cheap whore. Nicole barely heard him. She tried to blot him out, to blot it all out. She tried to imagine that she was somewhere else, somewhere safe and warm, somewhere where she could sleep in peace.

The British Airways jet touched down at Sarajevo airport shortly after nine p.m. There were long queues at Immigration, and it was after ten o'clock by the time Solomon, Sasha and Rikki walked out of the terminal building. Four other men had joined the flight in Zagreb. They had sat together at the back of the plane but Solomon had seen them nod to Sasha when they boarded and they had joined him at the luggage carousel. They were big men, not as big as Rikki but broad-shouldered and thick-wasted with army haircuts and designer stubble. They all wore bomber jackets, cargo pants and matching diving watches. They followed Sasha and Solomon as they headed for two black stretch limousines.

Each car had a driver, and a man in a waxed cotton jacket was sitting in the second.

The four men in bomber jackets got into the front car while Sasha, Solomon and Rikki climbed into the other. The man in the waxed jacket nodded at Sasha, who took a brown envelope from his inside pocket and gave it to him. He slit it open with his thumbnail and Solomon glimpsed a wad of banknotes before the envelope vanished inside the man's jacket.

Rikki pulled open a concealed lid to reveal a large drinks cabinet. He lifted a bottle of Cognac and Sasha nodded. Rikki filled three crystal tumblers and handed one each to Sasha and Solomon.

Sasha clinked his glass against Solomon's, then drank deeply.

Solomon took a sip from his glass, then put it on a shelf behind the driver's glass partition. His leg had begun to itch and he pulled the knitting-needle out of the cast and scratched away.

Sasha frowned at the knitting-needle.

“How were you able to take that on the plane? Didn't it set off the metal detector?”

Solomon shrugged as he scratched.

“It went off but I told them my leg had been pinned. Anyway, I'm not even sure it's metal. Might be some composite material. Some sort of plastic.” He stuck it back down the cast and worked away at the itch.

“What's your plan, Sasha?” he asked.

“Where do we go from here?”

The man in the waxed jacket handed Sasha a black-leather holdall. Sasha opened it and took out something bulky wrapped in an oily cloth. It was a black machine pistol, just over a foot long with an oblong magazine sticking out of the bottom. He passed it to Rikki and took out a second weapon for himself.

“I'm going to kill that bastard Russian and anyone who's helping him,” he said flatly.

“And what about me?” said Solomon.

“Don't I get a gun?”

“Have you ever fired one of these?”

“No.”

“Any sort of gun?”

“No. Vice cops don't need guns, not in the UK.”

“Even with a silencer these are loud, and they jump around a lot,” said Sasha.

“You don't want to fire one unless you've had a lot of practice. A bullet from this will tear off a limb.”

Solomon settled back in the seat.

“So I'm just along for the ride?”

“You're here to identify the two guys who shot at you. And this Petrovic, do you know what he looks like?”

“I met him once, yeah.”

“You never told me the full story about that, did you?”

Solomon tried to play innocent, but he knew he was wasting his time.

“Petrovic didn't go to all this trouble just because of the girl, did he?” Sasha said.

“All he had to do was yank her back to Bosnia. There was no need to have you killed.”

“I put him in hospital,” said Solomon.

Rikki chuckled, and took a swig of Cognac.

“How did you manage that?” asked Sasha.

“I've been told he's one tough son of a bitch.”

“I burst his spleen. Lucky kick, maybe. I don't know. It all happened so fast.”

Sasha slapped Solomon's plaster cast.

“I'm going to have to watch you,” he said.

“Maybe you're not as soft as you look.”

The car in front pulled away from the terminal.

“Who are those guys?” asked Solomon.

“Croats. Good men. I've used them before.”

Solomon knew without asking that Sasha was referring to the revenge he'd taken on the Serbs who'd killed his brother. The limousine edged forward, then accelerated quickly after the first vehicle.

“Where are we going?” asked Solomon.

“To see Petrovic,” said Sasha.

“You can ask him about his spleen.”

“Now?”

“Later tonight.”

“How do you know where he is?”

“I have friends in Belgrade, where he gets some of his girls.”

“Won't they tip him off?”

“Give me some credit. He's back in his clubs. Usually he hangs out in one called the Butterfly.”

“I know it.”

“You've been there?”

“It's where I had my altercation with him.”

“The busted spleen?”

Solomon nodded.

“What about Goncharov?”

“My friends don't know him. But we can ask Petrovic, can't we?” Sasha broke the machine pistol expertly into its individual components and reassembled it. He slotted in the magazine. Clicked on the safety, then screwed a bulbous silencer into the barrel. For the first time Solomon realised the enormity of what they were soon to do. The adrenaline had kicked in the moment Sasha had told him they were going to Sarajevo, but he hadn't considered what they would do when they arrived. The guns were a tangible symbol of what lay ahead.

As they reached the centre of the city, the first limousine peeled off and drove south towards the hills. Sasha saw Solomon frown and explained that the Croats were going to stake out the Butterfly.

They drove to the Holiday Inn, and Solomon waited in the limousine while Sasha and Rikki checked in. Sasha had offered to get him a room, but Solomon still had his apartment. Sasha and Rikki left their guns on the back seat. The tinted windows of the limousine were opaque from the outside but Solomon still flinched every time someone walked past. He wondered what the penalty was for having a loaded machine pistol, then remembered that possession of a weapon was the least of the crimes they'd be committing that night. He leaned over and picked up one of the pistols. He was surprised by how heavy it was. He doubted that he'd be able to fire it with one hand. He put it down and tried not to look at it again.

A short time later, Sasha and Rikki returned, and the limousine headed out of the city. As they got closer to the Butterfly, they checked their guns again. They parked a short walk away from the bar. Sasha and Rikki opened their jackets: they were wearing nylon shoulder holsters and slotted in their weapons.

Rikki spoke to the driver, who opened the glove compartment, then handed him two ski masks and a Polaroid camera. Rikki gave one of the masks to Sasha, then got out of the car. Sasha turned to Solomon.

“You wait here. No matter what happens, you wait for us.” He grinned suddenly.

“Don't worry, it'll be okay.”

A figure walked towards the limousine and Solomon tensed, but then he recognised one of the Croats. Rikki went over to talk to him.

Sasha slapped Solomon's shoulder and climbed out of the car. He joined Rikki and the Croat, and the three men headed down the road towards the Butterfly.

Solomon sat staring at the back of the driver's head and listening to the soft clicks of the limousine engine as it cooled. He was breathing heavily and forced himself to relax. Whatever was happening to Petrovic, he deserved it. He was a violent criminal who corrupted the police, who trafficked in women, who thought he was above the law and probably was. Solomon knew that there was no way he could ever have persuaded Petrovic to tell him where Nicole had been sent, so Sasha was the only option. Petrovic had brought it upon himself. The limousine engine stopped clicking.

He jumped as he saw two men jogging towards the limousine and it was a second or two before he realised that it was Sasha with one of the Croats. Sasha climbed into the back of the limousine, and thrust a dozen Polaroid photographs at Solomon.

“Which one's Petrovic?” he asked.

Solomon flicked through them. They were all men some defiant, some confused, some scared. Solomon tapped the one of Petrovic, who was glaring at the camera he could feel the hate burning out of the photograph.

“Recognise anyone else?” asked Sasha.

None of the pictures were of Goncharov and Solomon couldn't see either of the men who'd been in McLaren's flat. He pointed out the men who'd been in the bar when he'd had his run-in with Petrovic but said he didn't know their names.

“Right, you can leave the rest to us,” said Sasha.

“What are you planning?”

Sasha put the photographs into his pocket.

“I'm going to have a quiet word with him. The driver will take you back to your apartment and I'll phone you when I have something. Try to get some sleep.”

Solomon took several deep breaths to calm himself. He doubted that he would be getting any sleep that night.

Sasha kept the gun jammed hard against Petrovic's neck as they drove along the twisting hillside road. The man was lying face down on the floor of the limousine, a black hood over his head.

“Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?” Petrovic snarled.

Sasha put his mouth close to the hood.

“Of course I know who you are,” he hissed.

Rikki was in the front, sitting next to the driver. The four Croats were in the back with Sasha. They had their feet on Petrovic, keeping him pinned to the floor. The Bosnian's hands were tied behind his back and his feet had been taped together.

Half-way up the hill there was a ruined house, its roof long gone, the walls peppered with shrapnel scars. There was no glass in the windows and all the doors had been stripped out. Its nearest neighbour was half a mile away. One of the Croats had told Sasha about the house, and its basement he had used the basement before, he had said, but he hadn't explained why.

They pulled up behind the house and the driver switched off the lights. There was a near full moon and the sky was cloudless. Rikki opened the door, and he and Sasha got out of the car. The Croats bundled Petrovic out and dragged him across the grass into the house. Two of the Croats had torches and switched them on as they went inside.

Sasha and Rikki stood at the rear of the limousine.

“Have you got them?” asked Sasha. Rikki pulled a pair of bolt-cutters out of his coat pocket. Sasha nodded his approval.

“Fingers or toes?” asked Rikki.

“Your call,” said Sasha.

“If it was you, which would you rather lose?”

Sasha scowled at him.

“Just asking.”

They walked into the house and stood looking down the stairs that led to the basement. Petrovic was screaming but the noise barely reached the kitchen.

An hour later, Sasha went back to the limousine. There was blood on his right hand and he stopped to wipe it on the grass. He took out his mobile and called Jack Solomon.

“She's in Arizona,” said Sasha.

“So is Goncharov.”

“Petrovic told you that?”

“Petrovic told me everything. I'm driving up tomorrow. Do you want to come?”

“Of course.”

“We'll pick you up at your flat at midday or thereabouts.”

“Is everything okay?” asked Solomon.

“Why do you ask?”

“You sound tense.”

“It's been a tense evening,” said Sasha. There was blood on the toe of his right shoe and he wiped it on the grass.

“Just be ready to go tomorrow.”

Solomon rolled over on to his side but the cast made sleep impossible in that position he could only sleep on his back or his front with any comfort. He tried to clear his mind but the events of the past few days kept buzzing through it. It was as if he no longer had any control over what was happening: it was Sasha's show, and Solomon was just along for the ride.

He sniffed. He could smell smoke but he'd smoked his last Marlboro on the balcony as he drank a bottle of Heineken before he'd turned in. He'd not smoked in bed since he was a uniformed police officer and had been called to a house where an old woman had burned to death after falling asleep with a cigarette in her hand. Now he didn't even have an ashtray in the bedroom. He sniffed again. It was cigarette smoke, but it wasn't a Marlboro: it was a sweet-smelling local brand.

Solomon sat up. Dragan Jovanovic was lounging in an armchair by the window, his legs crossed, his right hand draped over the back of the chair.

“For God's sake, Dragan, don't you ever knock?” said Solomon.

“I'm a policeman, I don't have to knock. And you should lock your door, Jack. There are many dangerous men in Sarajevo.” He ran his left hand through his close-cropped greying hair.

“What are you doing back in town?”

“First, I'm pretty sure I locked my door. And second, how did you know I was back?”

“I just said, I'm a policeman. It's my job to know what's happening in this city.”

“And what is happening?”

Dragan took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke across Solomon's bed.

“We could do this down at the station,” he said.

“Are you playing good-cop-bad-cop all on your own?”

Dragan didn't say anything, just stared at Solomon.

“And now the silent treatment?”

“We've known each other a long time, haven't we?” asked Dragan.

“Sure.”

“So why are you treating me like shit? Why won't you answer a few simple questions?”

“Because it's God knows what time and you've just broken into my flat, that's why. What's going on, Dragan?”

“Ivan Petrovic, that's what's going on. My boss is going to have to find someone else to play pool with. They've just fished his body out of the Miljacka. And he was missing a few fingers. So, I think, Jack, old friend, that I should be asking you what's going on, don't you?”

Solomon sighed.

“Let's go outside, yeah? I don't feel like having this conversation in my bedroom.”

Dragan went out as Solomon swung his cast off the bed. The policeman went into the kitchen, reappeared with two bottles of Heineken and opened the sliding window that led to the balcony. They sat in plastic chairs. Dragan used his slab-like teeth to prise off the caps off the bottles, then handed one to Solomon. They drank their beer looking out over the darkened graveyard opposite the apartment block. Solomon handed his friend a Marlboro, lit it, then one for himself.

“You have a nice flat here. I've always said that.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to stay now that your job's gone?”

Solomon shrugged. He was wearing baggy pyjama bottoms and nothing else, but it was a warm night. Dragan had on a dark grey suit and he'd loosened his collar and tie. He looked exhausted.

“I'm not sure,” said Solomon.

“Depends if I can land another job here.”

“But that's not why you've come back, is it? You're not here to hand out your CV.”

“A few fingers?”

“A bolt-cutter, it looked like. Somebody wanted him to talk. And he must have done, otherwise they would have carried on cutting. I wonder what they wanted to know. What do you think?”

Solomon took a long pull on his Heineken but didn't reply. Two white UN four-wheel-drives rattled by on the road below.

“It's about that bloody girl, isn't it?”

Solomon squinted across at the policeman.

“That's a hell of a leap,” he said.

“You're not denying it, then?”

Solomon drained his bottle and put it down next to his chair.

“I didn't kill him,” he said quietly.

“I never said you did. With that cast, you're hardly likely to have thrown him in the river. But you know who did, don't you?”

Solomon didn't reply.

“Do you have any idea what a difficult position this puts me in?” asked Dragan.

“You called me from London and asked me to talk to Petrovic. A few days later he's butchered and murdered.”

“I didn't ask you to talk to him. I asked you to check out the bar to see if Nicole was there, that's all.”

“You put me in the firing line, Jack, and I think I have the right to know what the hell's going on. Don't you?”

Solomon rubbed the back of his neck. The muscles had tensed and he had the beginnings of a headache.

“What do you know?” he asked.

“I know that six guys went into the Butterfly club late last night wearing ski masks. They had silenced machine pistols -Hungarian KGP-9s, we think. They shot three of Petrovic's men. One is dead, two are in intensive care. That's when it all got a bit weird.”

“Weird?”

“They wanted to know which one was Petrovic. No one said anything, so one of the men produced a Polaroid camera and started snapping at all the men in the place. Then he took the Polaroids outside. He was gone for a couple of minutes. When he came back he went straight up to Petrovic and slammed him with the gun. They dragged him out and that was that.”

Solomon's hand shook as he lit another Marlboro.

“At first I couldn't work out why they needed the camera,” said Dragan.

“To identify him, right?”

The policeman wagged a finger at Solomon.

“Once a cop, always a cop, hey? But if they needed someone to identify him, that means they aren't local because Petrovic is a celebrity in these parts. But whoever was there to identify Petrovic could have worn a ski mask, too, and gone in with them.” Dragan leaned over and slapped Solomon's plaster cast.

“Unless something else might give him away. Something a ski mask couldn't hide.”

Solomon sat back in his chair.

“Why are you here, Dragan?” he asked.

“Looks to me like you already know all there is to know.”

“You were there, weren't you?”

There was no point in denying it.

“And the men in ski masks?”

“One is a friend from London. He brought one of the heavies with him and the other four were Croatians. Ex-army, I think.”

“That's some friend you have there.”

“He's Albanian. Kosovar Albanian.”

“Name?”

“Sasha's the name he uses. Are you going to arrest me?”

Dragan drained his bottle and pushed himself out of the chair. He ambled off to the kitchen and returned with two fresh Heinekens. He opened them and handed one to Solomon before dropping back into his chair.

“Well?” said Solomon.

“Are you going to take me in?”

“For what?”

“You know.”

Dragan shrugged his massive shoulders.

“No one in the Butterfly mentioned a guy with his leg in plaster,” he said.

“I don't see that I'd have a case. And I don't think you'd want to confess, would you?” He took a long pull at his bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You really should get some decent beer in,” he said.

“I'll do that,” said Solomon.

“I might as well get you a key cut, too.”

Dragan flashed Solomon a tight smile.

“Where is the girl?”

“Arizona. Petrovic has sent her to a brothel there.”

“You're going after her?”

“They're picking me up this afternoon.”

“Arizona's a dangerous place,” said Dragan.

“I know.”

“No, a really dangerous place. There's no law up there. Wild West.”

“Sasha can take care of himself. He knows what he's doing.”

“Yes but do you?”

Solomon leaned forward in his chair.

“Petrovic had me shot.” He tapped his cast.

“And this wasn't a warning, Dragan. They dug two bullets out of me and if the cops hadn't turned up they'd have finished me off. They tried to kill Sasha, too. Shot one of his bodyguards and killed a girl who worked for him.”

“It wasn't Petrovic. He hasn't left Sarajevo.”

“He got an associate to do the dirty work. Name of Goncharov. A Russian. He's in Arizona, too.”

“So, your new best friend is heading up there for another shoot-out, is he?”

“We're going to rescue the girl. The eyewitness.”

“Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe she doesn't want to be rescued?”

“I don't believe that. Her family were murdered, she's got to want justice.”

“This doesn't sound like justice,” said Dragan.

“It sounds like revenge.”

“It's a thin line,” said Solomon.

“But I'm happy to see her family's killer answer to the War Crimes Tribunal.”

“But this Sasha isn't doing it out of the goodness of his heart, is he? He wants Goncharov.”

“I'm not going to shed any tears for the Russian. Not after what he did to me. And he sent the girl back to Bosnia.”