Lie in the Dark

CHAPTER 16

Vlado awakened to find it had snowed overnight, then cleared. The sun now shone brightly, and looking out his front door he could see well into the hills with a clarity rare for this time of year.

He felt refreshed, not only from the solid night’s sleep, but from a renewed sense of purpose. The disappearance of Glavas had both troubled and energized him. At some point during his slumber he had tried to convince himself that Glavas had impulsively decided to exchange his painting for passage out of the city, that perhaps Vlado’s visit had even planted the idea, and that the men who’d escorted him in such orderly fashion-with nothing to hide, apparently, for they’d done it in the middle of the day-had only been starting him on his journey. By the light of day the idea seemed preposterous, but he still clung to the possibility.

Whatever the case, his activities over the past several days had somehow set events in motion that he might now be able to trace if he only knew where to look for the signs. In the weariness of last night such a prospect had seemed hopeless, but this morning, with its rich feel of promise and possibility, it seemed within reach, perhaps only a single flash of insight away.

He broke open the seal on the new jar of Nescafe and treated himself to a luxuriously strong cup. He then sat at his work bench in the kitchen and pulled out the boxful of his unfinished soldiers. It would be a good way to clear his head, to gain some temporary distance from the facts of the case that had crowded his dreams.

He wondered for a moment if Damir had managed to turn up anything yet in his pursuit of missing paintings. The search would probably be more difficult and time consuming than they hoped. Oh, well. He was ready for a full and busy day

His soldiers, he noted with pleasure, needed very little work before they’d be finished, a matter of a few small but important touches-gold on buttons and belt buckles, silver for the sweeping blades of sabers.

From a shelf he took down an oversize atlas of military history. Published in London, it was one of his most prized possessions. He opened it to a map and full-color drawing from the Battle of Austerlitz. There, at the Czech town of cotton mills and sugar refineries, Napoleon had won his most brilliant victory in 1805, defeating not only the Austrians but the Russians as well. The idea of a long-odds winner appealed to Vlado just now. He was using the drawing of the battle as a model for his Austrian hussars, who’d fared badly that day, routed from the field with huge losses.

He held one aloft with a thin pair of tweezers, into the sunlight that seeped through the dull plastic over the kitchen window, and began daubing gold onto the little man’s buttons, taking care not to smudge the bright blue of their tunics. Such pleasing colors. Such dash, with their swords raised in the air, thrust daringly forward. He thought briefly of the muddy men on Zuc, of their faces by the light of cook-stoves and penlight. These soldiers had smooth tan faces, and eyes that were dots of blue. He paused for a moment, smelling the paint, sipping his coffee, and letting the thoughts drain from his mind. He absently set the mug down on the book, and when his reverie broke a few moments later he saw he’d left a brown ring of coffee on the battle map, directly across the blue arrow of Napoleon’s advance. He plucked a dirty shirt from a pile of clothes at the foot of his bed and wiped clean the fields of Austerlitz, then set the mug on the workbench.

He glanced at his watch, wondering where the last twenty minutes had gone, then gathered his satchel and headed out the door.

Damir’s desk was empty, but Garovic was waiting, glancing at his watch with an extra degree of nervousness, his bureaucratic antennae twitching as if he were a cockroach that had just sensed an approaching boot.

“You’re to see Kasic this morning, first thing,” he fairly shouted. “You’re running a bit late, aren’t you. I tried phoning you at home but the lines were down.”

Vlado had wondered how long it would be before he’d have to make an accounting to Kasic, assuming that was what he wanted.

“Did Kasic say why he wants to see me?”

“A progress report. Here’s hoping you have one. For your sake and mine.”

This time there was no waiting in the downstairs lobby. Garovic, ever eager to please, phoned ahead to alert the ministry that Vlado was on his way. He arrived to find a tall man in a dark blue uniform waiting outside the front entrance. He seemed to know Vlado on sight, a bit disconcerting since Vlado had never seen the man in his life. Perhaps it was another small trick by Kasic to impress him. It would have been easy enough to have shown the guard a photo of Vlado a few minutes earlier. But maybe it also meant they’d shown his photo to others, or that this man had watched Vlado on previous occasions.

Kasic was again waiting at the top of the stairs, and once they’d settled themselves into his office he opened with the two words that seemed to preface all his conversations. “So, then.”

He paused, arranging the papers on his desk. “Tell me how it’s going.”

Vlado had wondered on his way over exactly how he’d answer such a question. Glavas’s disappearance had made him wary of just about everyone. And if he could hold out information on his partner for days at a time, then he could hold out on Kasic as well, at least until he was ready to make his final report. Nor did he want Kasic putting his own men onto the trail, behind his back, muddying the waters and drawing further attention to where he was headed. While walking to the ministry he’d formed a general strategy on how to fend off Kasic for now, yet even as he opened his mouth to answer he had not decided exactly what to say.

But Kasic spoke again before Vlado could begin. “I assume it’s going well. Or at least I’ve decided that it must be, or you would have asked for our help by now.”

So, a challenge right away.

“I may need help yet,” Vlado answered. “For further interrogation, that sort of thing. But otherwise, yes, I think I’m making progress. Not enough for any arrests yet, but I’ve developed some theories.” He weighed his next words carefully “And they do seem to match with some of your early leads and suspicions.”

Kasic beamed at the news, his gymnasium vitality shining through his long face, the brown eyes almost fatherly in their softness. Vlado wondered how long the smile would last.

“So, then,” Kasic resumed, “our undercover men were of some help.”

“For themselves, perhaps. I presume they’ve both been paid bonuses.”

The smile disappeared.

“As you had said,” Vlado continued, “they were a little short on specifics. And even in their generalities, well, they were somewhat on the right track. Vitas definitely seems to have gotten himself mixed up in some sort of criminal racket, either from the inside or the outside.”

“The outside?”

“By investigating it. On his own, apparently, without telling anyone else in the department. Either to be in position to cut himself into the smuggling operation or because he didn’t trust the rest of the ministry.”

“Meaning me,” Kasic stated, with a trace of indignation.

“Meaning everyone but himself, including you and a few hundred others.”

Kasic paused.

“But as for the other angle from the undercover men, the general angle of meat and cigarettes. Productive?”

“I’m not so sure. It may have been something more lucrative.” This was as far as Vlado wished to go, and he put his strategy into motion. “Beyond that, I’m afraid I’m not prepared to say anything more just yet. In the interests of the ministry, of course.”

Kasic looked as stunned as Vlado had hoped, though signs of anger quickly began moving across his features.

“Surely you don’t consider it to be in the ministry’s interest to be left in the dark on this matter. And surely you have no trouble sharing your findings with me,” Kasic said, his tone mildly incredulous.

“None whatsoever, if it were merely a matter of trust,” Vlado said. “It is more of a matter for your own protection, and for that of the ministry in general.” Kasic started to interrupt, but Vlado raised a hand and plunged on. “Please. Let me finish. Vitas was killed because of something he found out. Either he was trying to use the information to his own financial advantage or against someone else, but either way it got him killed. That being the case, I see no reason at this point to jeopardize further senior members of the ministry or the department in the same way, especially when, officially, your role in this case is only one of assistance.”

Then, before Kasic could break in, Vlado played his one and only bluff. “But more to the point is the matter of the independence of this investigation,” Vlado said. “You should be aware, sir, that certain people in the U.N. command have made it known to me that they are watching me closely to see that I maintain my ‘objectivity’-their word, not mine-and that I don’t cozy up to the ministry. I wouldn’t want to do anything that would damage the U.N.’s trust in the department, which, I can tell you on good authority, is quite high at the moment. I even considered canceling this appointment simply so I wouldn’t be seen entering or leaving the building. But I suppose one visit won’t be out of bounds as long as I don’t say too much.”

Vlado wondered for a moment if he’d laid it on too thick, but Kasic seemed more befuddled than skeptical. He’d clearly expected a full briefing without resistance. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a fresh pack of Marlboros, this time not offering one to Vlado but absently lighting one for himself.

“As for your first reason,” Kasic said. “Your concern for members of the department is misplaced, not to mention unwise. For one thing, the more of us you keep informed-within reason, of course-the more you’ll guarantee your own security. The way I see it, working the case alone is what got Vitas killed, whether his motives were good or evil. A lone hunter is always an easier target.

“As for your worries about my safety, don’t be ridiculous. Part of my job is knowing how to take care of myself. We’re not some bunch of civilians who happened to have witnessed a crime and need protection. We are the law, and the more we know, the stronger our position.

“It’s your latter point that’s the sticky one, I suppose. Although I doubt that even the most exacting official from the U.N. command would interpret your ‘independence’ as precluding an informal debriefing from time to time.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Vlado said, and decided to stop at that, to let the idea simmer a while longer. As the silence lengthened it was clear he’d put Kasic in a position he hadn’t been prepared to defend. How, indeed, could he force Vlado’s hand? Even if he suspected Vlado was exaggerating, he couldn’t be sure. His only alternative was to shut down Vlado’s investigation, and that would play poorly, not only in Sarajevo but probably in Washington, London, and Paris as well. He’d be able to deal with Vlado later, of course, but Vlado could worry about that some other time.

Vlado watched the emotions play out across Kasic’s face, and reflected once again that perhaps Kasic was in over his head in this new job. In years of following orders to the letter he’d had few chances to develop the right touch for leadership. Ruthless efficiency was sometimes a poor substitute for agility and flexibility, although sometimes it triumphed anyway from its own brute inertia.

Finally Kasic fell back on his standard opener. “So, then … Obviously you’re not budging. And where does that leave us, besides in the dark?”

“It leaves us, I hope, only a few days from getting results.”

“And you’ll have names for us then?”

“A few, probably. Or at the very least a general outline of the operation.” As Kasic digested this he appeared to be engaged in some inner debate. He hesitated a moment, then began haltingly. “Vlado. It might well … It might just behoove you to not rule out internal suspects. Within the ministry, I mean. Or perhaps that’s the reason for your hesitation at providing a briefing.”

It was hardly what Vlado had expected, but it was a relief, though he still had to tread lightly. “Do you have suspicions along these lines?” he asked Kasic.

“Vaguely. Nothing specific. Just talk, really. Old, loose talk within the ministry from weeks ago that, in light of what happened to Vitas, now takes on a different meaning. But nothing I can go into with you, at least, not until I know a few more specifics about what you’ve come up with.”

Vlado was tempted then and there to tell Kasic all he’d learned. The brown fatherly eyes now seemed more tragic than welcoming. It obviously pained Kasic to admit he might be at the helm of a corrupted ship, and once again he seemed overwhelmed by his new responsibilities.

But the urge passed. For one thing, offering a full briefing now would blow his cover story of U.N. scrutiny. For another, he still wasn’t sure who he could trust. Besides, if he changed his mind he could always contact Kasic tomorrow, or the day after. He did wonder what this “loose talk” must have been about, although it was clear he wasn’t going to get anything further without giving something in return. But there were other ways of getting information from the ministry, and that, too, would require some finesse.

“In the meantime,” Vlado said, “there is some help you could give me.”

“By all means,” said Kasic, brightening a bit.

“Your files.”

The frown returned.

“Nothing I haven’t seen already,” Vlado quickly added. “Just a few things in Vitas’s personnel folder I wanted to double-check, in light of what I’ve learned since.”

Kasic looked relieved. “No problem,” he said. “I’ve got some business out of the building to attend to, a meeting at the presidency building, so I’ll escort you there. Besides, we have a visitor in records right now who I wouldn’t mind impressing.” He added the latter archly, as if Vlado knew quite well what he was talking about, though he hadn’t a clue.

He led Vlado down a flight of stairs with a hand lightly on Vlado’s back, as if sheperding a son to the library with overdue books. They entered the double doors of the records department, its vast file room painted in several peeling layers of industrial green. Recent shelling aimed at the nearby presidential building had begun to knock loose some of the ceiling plaster, and a fine white dust coated the tops of the metal file cabinets, arranged in long, dreary rows.

Facing them across a wide counter was a fidgety-looking clerk who motioned over his shoulder as he leaned toward Kasic, whispering, “It’s Morris from the U.N., sir.”

“Quite all right,” Kasic whispered back. “I was notified.”

So, Vlado thought, the resident U.N. watchdog was here to poke around, although it was an open secret that in its guise of cooperation the government heavily sanitized anything the U.N. asked to see. Not that the U.N. ever asked for anything particularly recent or relevant, seeming just as out of touch with reality as any other of the world’s lumbering bureaucracies. Vlado knew it was the weak point in his cover story, although so far it seemed to be holding.

Kasic placed a hand firmly on Vlado’s right shoulder and leaned closer, whispering, “You’ll forgive me for a moment, Vlado, if I use you for a brief object lesson.”

“Captain Morris,” Kasic boomed. “Visiting us again, I see.”

Morris, stooped over an open file drawer, replied by glancing up from his labors with an unintelligible grunt. But the cool reception didn’t deter Kasic.

“This is Inspector Petric, Mr. Morris, though perhaps I don’t need to introduce you. He’s the man called in from the outside to handle the Esmir Vitas investigation, of course. I invited him in for a briefing, and you’ll be pleased to know that in no uncertain terms he told me it was none of my business. I grudgingly must agree.”

Morris was staring back now, seeming annoyed and more than a bit puzzled. To Vlado it was plainly apparent he didn’t know anything about either Vitas or the investigation, and cared less. He was probably only running an errand for someone else, searching the files for some bit of minutiae to be plugged into a thick report no one would ever read. Kasic seemed not to notice. He was too intent on completing his clumsy bit of theater.

“I hope you don’t mind for a moment if he joins you in your browsing.” Kasic then turned grandly toward the clerk and said, “Whatever files he needs, Krulic,” but by then Morris had bowed back to his work with another grunt. Vlado felt almost embarrassed for this hammy performance, but it had at least served an important purpose, whether Kasic realized it or not.

As Krulic hurried off to retrieve the Vitas personnel file, Kasic leaned low once more to whisper in Vlado’s ear, and when he spoke it became clear he’d developed a counterattack to Vlado’s strategy. “Don’t forget my offer of help, Vlado. Use our manpower, our expertise. If you feel that our undercover people haven’t been completely forthcoming, perhaps we can persuade them to be more accommodating.

“But whatever you do,” he said, his tone carrying a sudden hint of steel, “don’t sit too long on your information. This fellow Morris has been down here three days running. They may be playing chummy with you, but we’re not feeling that way with them at all. So if you’re worried about tying up every loose end before making any moves, then don’t.”

“What are you saying, exactly?”

“That neatness is not a major concern. That speed is everything. That even accuracy, or getting exactly the right man, may not be the most important thing, as long as we get somebody from this city’s collection of lowlifes, the faster the better. Better for all of us, Vlado. For the ministry, for the country. And don’t forget your own welfare in all this.”

He gripped Vlado’s shoulder and smiled, now drilling him with those brown eyes that could look warm and liquid one minute, cold and metallic the next. Was this last comment a job offer or a threat? Vlado wondered.

“Good hunting, then,” Kasic announced to the room. He leaned toward Vlado, whispering, “But, please, old son, don’t stay in the field too long by yourself. It’s dangerous out there. Pick your shots soon. Aim wisely.”

Vlado was no longer embarrassed for him. Perhaps he had underestimated Kasic. Krulic returned with the Vitas personnel file, but Vlado knew from previous inspection there’d be nothing helpful inside. What he really wanted to see would take a bit more doing, but with any luck Kasic had unwittingly provided the key. After a few minutes of shuffling through the papers for show, Vlado returned the file and said, “And now, while you’re at it, I’d also like to see the files for the October raid.”

Krulic looked up with a start. “You’ll need approval from upstairs for that one,” he answered immediately. He’d been well trained in saying no, and now that Kasic had left for the day he’d reverted to his natural state as a slothful, chain-smoking civil servant in the best tradition of the Tito era, reluctant to react to anything other than the urge for nicotine, caffeine, or undeserved promotion.

“You heard Kasic,” Vlado said, speaking a bit louder. “I’m to have access to anything I want. What more approval do you need than the head of the department.”

This time Morris was a more attentive audience, straightening to listen in. Now it was Krulic who was unimpressed. “Sorry. Permission has to be in writing. It’s the rule.”

The rules. Always the last line of defense for entrenched laziness. But Vlado had a final round of artillery.

“Very well. I’ll have someone sent out to disturb Mr. Kasic, who has just gone to the presidency for an important meeting. We can have the meeting interrupted and he can be called into the hall, which I’m sure will cause some embarrassment. Then he’ll have to come back into the office so he can sign the proper forms, of course, because the rules won’t allow him to simply send a note. And he’ll no doubt be grateful that you were so diligent in following the rules to the last letter even after he’d made his own wishes so clear only moments before he left.”

It was a direct hit. Krulic held firm for only a moment, then beat a retreat. He slouched off to retrieve the file without another word. Morris ducked back into his drawer, and Vlado allowed himself a small smile of triumph.

Although the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina was the world’s newest country, and among the smallest, its government had already amassed a pile of records worthy of a nation ten times its size and age. Some were simply left over from the volumnious documentation of Yugoslavia, but in the previous two years local officials had zealously built upon these foundations. They’d fallen back on the old rule of thumb that the more paperwork your department generated, the more important it must be, and after two years of war neither death nor distraction had deterred their zeal.

Likewise, if you were preparing to mount an important law-enforcement operation, one of the final measures of its magnitude would be the volume of its paperwork. For that reason, Vlado had great expectations for the file on the October raid, and as Krulic dropped a thick folder heavily onto the counter he saw that he would not be disappointed.

He took the bundle to a nearby table and settled in for a long spell of reading. The file told its story in the dry, sterile jargon of police bureaucrats and interoffice memos. But as Vlado made his way through the requisitions, organizational charts, duty lists, assignment orders, mission goals, and sweeping policy statements, he began to acquire a feel not only for the operation, but for the atmosphere that must have existed within the department at the time.

The mood had been grim, a feeling of being under siege by the wild and increasingly bold tactics of the gangs and their warlords. The handiwork of Vitas was apparent in much of the paperwork, and Vlado could sense the way in which he had attempted to shut down all leaks and conduits of information to the outside, so that after a great period of apparent quiet the Ministry would be able to strike with the suddenness of a cat from a dark corner, with all claws bared.

There were forms upon forms, and stacks of signed orders and authorizations, some of which had gone straight from Vitas to the Interior Minister and onward to the President’s office.

There were guarantees of cooperation from the local army corps, a pledge of help from the military police. Vitas had gone to a great deal of trouble to secure the partnership of others who would share in the blame if things went wrong. Yet he had also taken pains to retain the authority necessary for claiming the lion’s share of credit for a success.

With all this activity, of course, it would have been virtually impossible to have kept the brewing operation a secret, no matter how much Vitas clamped down. The gangs had obviously realized they were in for a fight, although according to Neven they’d been surprised by both its ferocity and its timing. Either their sources within the Ministry had failed the gangs by lack of vigilance or had intentionally left the gangs in the dark, for reasons of their own.

It took an hour for Vlado to find the first item he wanted. It was the inventory of property seized from Zarko’s headquarters following his surrender.

They’d listed everything, the guns, the currency, the ammo boxes, right down to the bootleg cases of cigarettes, the boxfuls of women’s hosiery, and the stacks of pornographic magazines still wrapped in plastic. Zarko’s ability to keep his men from tearing open the latter item was the greatest testimony yet to his leadership skills.

Midway through the second page of the single-spaced list Vlado found the first item of interest: 79. Wooden crate, approx. 8’? 6’? 2,’shipping form attached.

The next item was further down the same page: 96. Library-style card file, 2 drawers.

Next to both items were handwritten notations in the margin: Custody transferred, 10-04-93, see attached.

Vlado thumbed to the end of the report, where a page of cream-colored bond had been stapled to the back, the same sort he’d found in the waste can of Vitas’s apartment. Its message was short: Items #79 and #96 transferred to personal custody of department head, E. Vitas. It was signed by Vitas, with no further explanation. The date was a mere two days after the raid. Obviously the items had piqued his interest, and he apparently hadn’t felt they’d be safe in ministry custody. And by the time he’d finally gotten around to following up his suspicions, his adversaries had been ready and waiting. At least, that’s how Vlado read it. It could also mean Vitas had simply bided his time before trying to capitalize financially on his find.

Vlado reviewed the file materials dealing with the capture and shooting of Zarko, beginning with a detailed, signed statement of events by the commander of the custody detail. He recalled that at the time there had been a great deal of grumbling in the city over the circumstances of Zarko’s death. For one thing, Zarko had still been a hero to many, remembered for his defense of the city. For another, the shooting had carried the unmistakable scent of a summary execution, the sort that had happened in the old days.

The papers showed that the custody detail had included six people, and they’d been assembled with special care more than a week in advance, specifically to handle the assignment that they’d then bungled. Vitas had obviously wanted to get it done right, fearing the very sort of criticism that resulted when Zarko was shot. Vlado reviewed the list of names, recognizing three of the six, including the commander. All were known as reliable, vigilant officers. He didn’t recognize the other three, although one seemed oddly familiar. It had been whited-out and retyped, presumably after a typographical error. But there was no reason to assume those three hadn’t been selected with just as much care.

According to the commander’s report, stamped FOR DEPARTMENTAL USE ONLY, the detail had traveled in a small truck with a canvas opening in the back and armored sides. After picking up Zarko he and his men were to drive straight to the jail. They made one stop at a security checkpoint posted at barricades a block away, shunting past a foreign TV crew, then encountered no further delays until stopping briefly for some children who’d been kicking a soccer ball in the street. At that point, the commander said, the suspect had tried to escape by jumping from the back of the truck. He got only as far as throwing open the rear flaps when he was shot. An attached report by witnesses, however, said that the flaps had never opened, which would mean he’d never actually jumped. No wonder people had been upset. For once the wild rumors of the street seemed to have some validity. There was disagreement as to whose bullet had killed him, the commander said, and his report did not name which of the six men claimed to have opened fire. It was a curious omission, considering that this was strictly an internal report. But someone had undeniably been quick on the trigger.

Neven’s words came back to him. Zarko would never have tried to escape, he’d said. Perhaps after three days of fighting he’d snapped, unable to think clearly. But if that was the case, why had he surrendered? Neven was right. It made little sense. And even if he’d bolted, wouldn’t he have at least tried to grab a gun first, instead of just jumping out the back? Vlado flipped back to the beginning of the report. Yes, just as he’d thought. Zarko had been handcuffed as well.

Vlado went back to the list of the six-man detail, and the same name as before caught his eye. “Kemal Stanic.” Where had he heard it before? He asked for the man’s personnel file. Krulic sighed loudly, then sluggishly retrieved the file before slumping back in a chair with his newspaper and his cigarettes.

Initially there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary in the man’s background, although perhaps it was a bit odd he’d been a grocer before the war. Age, 35. Nothing odd there.

Not until Vlado saw the names of the man’s four children, with the notation “deceased” next to two of them, did he realize what had seemed familiar about the name. Yes, that was it: Kemal’s grocery. There’d been a shootout there a year earlier, when Zarko himself had been fighting with members of a rival gang. Two children had been killed in the crossfire.

Their father, the grocer, was Kemal Stanic. He’d created a bit of a stir a few days later inside the courthouse, shouting down some judges and attorneys, railing against the city in general and the justice system in particular, for of course in those days no one had made a move to apprehend Zarko. The local newspaper had run something on it, and then it had died away.

Christ, who in his right mind would have put him on a detail to guard Zarko? Vitas, apparently, for his signature appeared on the last page of the assignment list, next to a red, block-lettered stamp, APPROVED.

But Vlado looked again through the Stanic file, and this time the hiring date jumped off the page. He’d joined the force only five days before the raid. Vitas’s stamp of approval was dated three days earlier. Two days after the shooting, Stanic was dismissed into the army, but in the space where the terms and status of his separation should have been recorded, there was only the notation, See attached. This time there were staple marks at the top-right of the back page, but no attachment. Perhaps Vitas had taken this item as well. He appeared to have been holding all the key cards in the deck when he died. But where had he left them, and who had them now?

Vlado turned back one more time to the list of the custody detail. There again was the name: Kemal Stanic, typed across dried white correction fluid. Was there a typographical error below, or someone else’s name? Vlado scratched away at the correction with a fingernail, working slowly, carefully, like an art restorer seeking the original. The name below was longer. The first name began with a B, although Vlado couldn’t be sure of the rest. The last name, however, with much of it stretching beyond Stanic’s, seemed to be Milutinovic. Vlado asked for one more file.

By now, the U.N. man had gone. So had everyone else except Krulic, who was hunched in a corner, snorting smoke like an enraged but underpowered dragon.

“It’s all right,” Vlado said. “This one will probably do it for the day, and I’ll pass along the best of marks on your behavior next time I see Kasic. I need the personnel folder for B. Milutinovic.”

“Boromir or Bosko?” Krulic asked a moment later, a folder in each hand.

“Both.”

Both were reputable officers. Neither contained any mention of a special posting to the custody detail. Vlado wasn’t sure that would have been included anyway, unless they were cited later for exceptional work. But an item in Boromir’s file caught his eye. A full-year veteran of the Ministry’s special police, he’d been cited several times for good work until it had all come crashing down on the last day of September, two days before the raid. If Vitas had put him on the custody team, he’d then lost his services at an inopportune moment.

The reason for his dismissal: Illegal conduct. See attached. This time there was indeed an attachment.

It was a single-spaced investigation report based on the accounts of two undercover operatives, and when Vlado saw their names he felt the skin prickling on the back of his neck. One was a supervisor at the cigarette plant named Kupric. The other was a butcher named Hrnic. Each told a tale of unsavory connections, with the unfortunate Mr. Militunovic linked to the illicit trafficking of meat and cigarettes.

The whole affair had taken a mere two days to initiate and conclude, amazing alacrity under any circumstances, much less amidst the hurlyburly that must have prevailed in the days just before the raid.

Yet, for all the disgrace Milutinovic had suddenly brought down on himself, not only was he not prosecuted, but he’d been given a generous-incredibly generous, under the circumstances-severance payment of five hundred D-marks. No wonder he hadn’t made a stink. It was more than he would have made in a year’s work. Not that his squawking would have been given much heed in that chaotic time, anyway. In the rush of last-minute details Vitas probably hadn’t even known Milutinovic had been bumped off the custody squad, much less replaced by an unstable grocer with a murderous ax to grind. It was tantamount to a death sentence for Zarko. If someone had wanted him out of the way in order to claim a bigger share from the smuggled art, this had done the trick.

Vlado flipped to the disposition report from Milutinovic’s disciplinary hearing, and there again was the block red stamp of the word APPROVED. It was dated September 30th.

Below it was the full, bold signature of the man who had orchestrated this entire manuever, Assistant Chief Juso Kasic.