Resolution to Kill Page 5

  ‘I know, Fikret,’ she laughed. ‘And a secretary and a maid.’

  She waited until Fikret was out of earshot and leant towards Tallis. ‘He lost everyone apart from his grandmother in the war.’ Tallis felt his stomach clench. He wondered if Dario had had a hand in the destruction of Fikret’s life. Diamond poured coffee from a tall jug and handed him a cup.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Please.’ He stirred in two spoonfuls.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continued seamlessly, ‘I helped organise a food convoy. Got together some like-minded individuals. We were so naïve.’ She laughed, tilting her head back, exposing the whiteness of her throat. ‘Hadn’t got a clue what we were doing. We lobbied, held meetings, appealed to anyone we could think of to donate money or food. Somehow, by luck and sheer determination, we got together two lorries and headed for Zagreb. That’s when the fun started.’

  ‘At Zagreb?’

  She nodded ruefully. ‘We were shuffled around like a pack of cards. Nobody wanted to lift a finger. Not the UN Commission for Refugees, not the military, nobody. Frankly, it was pretty distasteful. You could see the UN helicopters flying overhead delivering supplies to their personnel, but not to the people who were starving.’

  ‘Must have made a deep impression.’

  ‘A lasting impression. For the record, I’m no fan of the United Nations.’ She smiled coldly.

  ‘To my mind, the organisation equates neutrality with moral indifference. Anyway,’ she continued, businesslike, ‘eventually we managed to push our way through to Tuzla, where they had a major refugee camp. One look and I decided to stay.’

  ‘What, just like that?’

  ‘Exactly like that,’ she said firmly. ‘Bosnia has turned into a lifelong commitment. I’ve experienced more joy here than anywhere in the UK.’

  ‘So what exactly do you do?’ Tallis tasted the coffee, which was hot, strong and sweet.

  ‘Hope International is a charity that offers help to casualties of war. We work with men and women who were kept in concentration camps, families who were displaced, those who are disabled.’

  ‘So it’s a pretty broad remit?’

  She nodded. ‘There are a number of organisations working alongside us. Together we offer specific treatments, anything from psychotherapy to physiotherapy, and the entire spectrum in between. It’s my job to coordinate, sort out interpreters and check out suitable locations. Most of our clients come to Sarajevo, but there’s an awful lot more we could do outside the capital.’

  ‘I’m guessing it’s more than simply an administrative role?’

  ‘That’s what I love about the work.’ She smiled, eyes sparkling. ‘You meet some terrific people. Often they’ll just walk into the office and start talking.’

  ‘About their experiences?’ Tallis frowned.

  ‘God, no.’ She shook her head. ‘That can take years.’

  ‘Not your average nine-to-five job, then?’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. She inclined her head. ‘Anyway, enough of me. I’m curious to know how you think I can help. You mentioned you were writing a thesis. Did you say you were at Warwick?’

  He didn’t enjoy telling a lie, especially to someone he judged to be a decent human being, but truth was a luxury he couldn’t afford. ‘As a mature student,’ he said, knowing that he’d already sorted out a backstop with Asim’s assistance, something, until recently, only available to ‘official’ intelligence officers, and one of the few advantages of the restructure. Any call from Diamond to check his credentials would be re-routed to a specialist department running black ops. ‘I have a personal interest as my grandmother was Croatian.’ Always a good idea to chuck in a dose of truth for added authenticity, he reckoned.

  ‘Now I understand,’ she said, animated. ‘You speak the language?’

  ‘Some,’ he lied. ‘Not fluently, of course. I’m interested in a particular group of individuals. You’ve heard of the Jokers?’

  Diamond sucked in a deep breath. ‘Paramilitaries who teamed up with the HVO, the army of the Bosnian Croats. They wanted a separate identity within Bosnia-Herzegovina,’ she said. ‘Do you know anything about the massacres near Vitez?’

  ‘A little. I was hoping you could fill me in on the detail.’

  Diamond fixed him with a straight look. ‘Between October 1992 and April 1993 there had been a lot of tit-for-tat combat. It boiled down to Muslim fighters holding their own against the Bosnian Croats. As well as laying siege to a number of towns, a strong nucleus occupied the town of Vitez. When a commander of the HVO was kidnapped and killed…’

  ‘By the Muslims?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Diamond flicked a smile. ‘Something I should make clear,’ she said, steel in her expression. ‘I am not partisan. Every group - Serb, Croatian and Muslim - was capable of the most extreme violence. The reason the Serbs have had such a bad press is that they had the most weapons and used them.’

  Tallis knew this already. There was strong evidence that Croats and Muslims raped Serb women, that Croats and Muslims raped each other’s women. This was a war where everybody, apart from innocent civilians, had blood on their hands. He nodded for her to continue.

  ‘After the abduction and killing of their leader, the Croats sought revenge and set about blasting a corridor through the Lasva Valley. It culminated in a number of massacres, one of the most infamous at Ahmici, which lies a few kilometres south of Vitez. This was quite a deliberate strategy,’ Diamond said. ‘Ahmici is important to Muslims for its religious significance.’

  ‘Anyone held accountable?’

  ‘Several paramilitary commanders were brought before the International War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague and found guilty of torture, rape and murder.’

  ‘Were they the only ones?’

  ‘The only ones caught and convicted. Others had their cases thrown out for lack of sufficient evidence. Some went on trial and were found not guilty. To put this into some kind of context for you, around a hundred and three Bosnian civilians were killed in Ahmici and its surroundings. Thirty-three were women and children. Over a hundred and fifty houses and two mosques were destroyed. This is only a snapshot of the systematic destruction of a people and their way of life,’ she concluded with a shudder. ‘There were others involved, I’m certain, and people like me are still picking up the pieces.’

  ‘And now? What does the future hold?’

  Diamond was thoughtful. When she spoke she appeared to choose her words with care. ‘Of course, I’m delighted that people like Radovan Karadzic and Ratko Mladic have been captured.’

  Tallis nodded, something in her eyes telling him that there was a ‘but’ to follow. He remained silent, sipped his drink, waiting for her to continue, which she did.

  ‘Bosnia and Herzegovina has three presidents,’ she said.

  ‘Politics must be a terrible muddle.’

  She agreed. ‘Because we’re ruled by a federation of Muslims, Croats and Serbs, nothing is ever agreed. Everyone wants to push their own agenda.’

  ‘You mean ethnically?’

  ‘Yes,’ Diamond said, looking him in the eye. ‘Take Sarajevo,’ she said, gesturing towards the window. ‘A modern city, much of it rebuilt, lots of glass frontages, lots of bright and shiny new buildings. It crackles with energy, and yet there are ghosts beneath the surface. In the past couple of years, I’ve noticed a significant change.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘As a single woman I’ve always been happy to walk through the city at night, always felt safe. Not any more,’ she said with vehemence. ‘There’s a deep underlying tension.’

  ‘Organised crime?’

  ‘That’s certainly true, but it’s not the whole picture.’ She hesitated. He could see that she was struggling to give him an honest opinion. ‘Look,’ she said authoritatively, ‘ordinary people here are fabulous. Many of them have, at least on the surface, put the past behind them. They don’t have much money. Some have few possessions, but they are the most gener
ous and warm-spirited people on this earth. They will literally shower you with kisses and hugs and presents. They are also courageous and defiant in the face of adversity. But there are problems. Unemployment is high, trade low and some of the main industries - logging for example - are open to corruption. What we can never forget is that Bosnia and Herzegovina is a nation of bereaved. We are not at all like neighbouring Croatia or Serbia.’

  And there’s nobody to do the caring because everyone - Muslims, Serbs and Croats - has suffered, he thought.

  ‘More coffee?’ Diamond said suddenly, an attempt, he thought, to reduce the heat in the conversation.

  He declined. ‘Stella, what are you really saying?’

  She let out a sigh, made another faltering attempt. ‘That the population is…’

  ‘Disconnected?’ He helped her out.

  ‘I suppose. It’s not their fault,’ she added hastily. ‘But it makes them vulnerable, particularly to those who do not have their best interests at heart.’

  ‘You don’t seriously think the country could collapse back into chaos?’ The thought was horrifying, even to someone like himself, someone who was more than familiar with bloodshed.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ she said, a solemn look in her eyes. ‘I think most of the world would like to forget about us.’

  So was Dario lying low or was he hiding out with old mates and plotting the next outbreak of violence? Tallis wondered. He mentioned the name to Diamond.

  ‘Garich?’ she murmured.

  He resisted the urge to press her.

  ‘Oh.’ She paled suddenly, recognition in her eyes.

  He flinched, sensing that he was going to hate what was about to be disclosed.

  ‘A woman was brought here three years ago by a friend,’ Diamond began. ‘The woman never spoke of what had happened. In fact, she never spoke at all. Traumatised by grief, she’d become mute. We did our best for her. There’s a fantastic British charity that provides a range of holistic treatments for our clients. We thought that she might benefit. Anyway, she’d been coming for a few weeks when her friend told me about her.’ Diamond turned away and reached for a tissue. ‘Sorry,’ she said, wiping away a stray tear. ‘I have absolutely no idea why some people’s stories are more upsetting than others.’ She blew her nose, ran the back of her hand over her cheeks in defiance of another stream of tears threatening to erupt.

  ‘Garich and his cronies abducted three young Muslim girls, fastened them to railings, raped them repeatedly, then threw petrol over them and set them alight. They died in agony. And one of those girls was this woman’s daughter.’

  He left Hope International with bile in his throat. As he made his way back to the Dodge he didn’t notice the cobbled marketplace, the horse-drawn carriages, the monastery behind the brewery, the curious handrail that rose steeply up the middle of one street, or the pretty girls with their cheap clothes worn with effortless style. He did not realise that, connecting the old town to the new town, he was walking along the wide boulevard that had once been Sniper’s Alley. Shaking with fury, he wanted Garich found, unearthed and exposed to the world. He wanted him physically worked over and mentally taken apart, level by level, until he was a terrified and broken man. That’s what Tallis felt right now, at that moment. In his head he knew that it would pass, that professionalism would take over. He also knew that he badly needed to get the rage out of his system.

  He took the main route out of Sarajevo heading towards Visoko. Zenica, a large industrial town, lay further north in central Bosnia.

  The scenery was breathtaking. Intersected by the River Bosna and dominated by mountains, a plush green valley of freshwater pools and Alpine flowers spread out before him, the terrain was studded with rugged forests of conifers and ancient settlements.

  He passed through the quiet town of Visoko, with its wooden mosque and architecture that spoke of an Ottoman influence, and continued along the foothills of the Dinaric Alps. Finally he turned off and drove along the corridor of villages that punctuated the Lasva Valley, the scene of the massacres.

  There was no motorway. Roads were winding, signs sporadic, the hinterland predominantly rural, with red-roofed houses, stone barns and roadside stalls selling home produce, goatskin rugs and slippers. An abundance of people wore traditional dress. Five miles south of Vitez, he pulled up at the village of Ahmici and stepped out of the Dodge.

  It was as quiet as a library. Sun glinted off the top of recently constructed buildings and dwellings, the visible traces of warfare mostly absent. Birds sang in the trees, kids played in the fields. There was an undeniable sense of order. And yet…

  In spite of the clean streets, the carefully cultivated gardens and the majestic backdrop of hills in the distance, an atmosphere of tension and suspicion hung over the little village like thick acrid smoke.

  His desire to leave strong, he felt a pang of fear, the type that grips the soul of a soldier as he is about to embark on a tour of duty from which there is no return. It was as if Tallis could hear the sound of rockets and grenades, the crackle of machine-gun fire, the screaming and the fury. The clean air suddenly seemed permeated by the smell of burnt human flesh. In that instant he grasped what it had been like for the Bosnians, both here and in the city. He understood the desperation, the daily walk with death, the possibility of a shell dropping out of the sky and into the marketplace or café, and the fear of not making it through the day, the reality of existing in a mute and helpless state of despair. A wild madness rippled underneath the surface of this little place, he thought. And as he looked into the faces of those around him, he experienced something he’d never felt in Sarajevo. People viewed him as a stranger, as someone not to be trusted, someone to be feared. And because of Dario, because he had loved the man as an uncle, his face glowed with shame.

  He started at the sound of his mobile phone. It was Jon.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve found Garich.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He’s holed up in a village in Lonjsko Polje Nature Park.’

  Less than a hundred kilometres from Zagreb, Tallis registered. ‘It’s a big area. Where exactly?’

  ‘In a disused farmhouse near the town of Jasenovac.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘We need you back here. Our brief is to take him alive.’

  Tallis glanced around him. He was miles away. In an operation like this, timing was critical. If Garich, or the people sheltering him, got one whiff that he was under surveillance, he’d either dig in for a fight or move.

  Jon was speaking again. ‘We’ll send in a Black Hawk to collect you.’

  ‘Haven’t you got something less obtrusive?’

  ‘It’s fine. The drop zone is a kilometre from the target.’

  Tallis gave Jon his coordinates. ‘How many men have you got watching Garich?’

  ‘Two on the barn, two on the house.’

  ‘And you want me to do what exactly?’

  ‘Talk to him, get him to give himself up.’

  ‘And if I don’t manage to persuade him?’

  ‘Transport should be with you in around forty minutes,’ Jon said, cutting the call.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The pilot landed the Black Hawk in the drop zone. Tallis climbed out and ducked, glancing once over his shoulder at the sight of the helicopter rising vertically into the sky. Alone, the noise of the machine no more than a distant echo, he checked his compass. By his estimation, it would take twenty minutes to follow the old road on the east bank of the River Sava and reach the perimeter of the farmhouse.

  What would he say to Dario? What could he say to a man who’d carried out such bestial acts? The memory of Diamond’s account sent a chill shiver along Tallis’s spine. His mouth felt as if it were full of sand, his mind a tangle of crooked thoughts. With effort, he refocused on the mission, pushed aside the past and embraced the present. His future, and possibly his survival, depended on
it. And how would Dario react? Would he welcome him as a friend or immediately spot him as a foe? Would Dario seek to justify his actions? As repellent, would he try to elicit sympathy? Tallis couldn’t work it out. He had as little handle on Dario Garich, a man he’d known for years, as he might on a serial killer he’d met yesterday. And that was dangerous. Knowing the enemy was halfway to defeating him, yet Dario Garich was as elusive as smoke. Of only one thing could Tallis be certain: Garich would be armed.

  Around two hundred metres from where he’d landed, Tallis teamed up with Jon and another man.

  ‘You good to go?’ Jon handed him a map, giving the exact location. Tallis nodded. In spite of his personal connection, he felt a steely determination about the mission. ‘Pete and Steve have Garich under surveillance,’ Jon told him. ‘They’ll act as backup should things cut up rough.’

  ‘Radio contact?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘Too risky. Garich might have friends. They could get suspicious.’

  ‘Do we have a secondary point in case of emergency?’

  ‘It’s around five kilometres east of the drop zone.’ Jon gave him the coordinates.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing Tallis a Colt .45 pistol. Tallis took the powerful weapon, standard US government issue in blued carbon steel.

  ‘I’ll be on my way, then,’ Tallis said, heading for the road.

  ‘Tallis,’ Jon called after him.

  Tallis briefly turned.

  ‘Good luck.’

  The light was dull, the sun bled of colour. A herd of horned cows driven by an old man passed him on the road. A group of white storks flew overhead. On one side: forests of oak. The other: meadow and marshland. Tallis was briefly reminded of the plains surrounding the villages of Chechnya. Silence consumed him.

  He turned off where the way forked left on to a single track that led through a forested area, the only noise his boot soles cracking against twig and branch. Following a path through the trees, he spotted a building, end on, an external wooden staircase leading to an upper storey. He circled it.