The Bach Manuscript

Chapter 38

Ben did as he was asked, and walked into the warehouse after Husein Osmanović. Rusty old lifting equipment and bits of chain lay around the bare floor. The walls were daubed with graffiti and scorched in places where kids or vagrants had lit small fires.

Osmanović muttered ‘This way’ and led Ben deeper into the building and down a flight of crumbly concrete steps that led to a steel door. Their footsteps echoed off the bare walls of the large, empty space. If this was Osmanović’s HQ, it was a little more spartan than Ben imagined Kožul’s to be.

The other side of the door was a smaller room, just a bare concrete cube lit by dirty skylights. In the middle of the room stood a long, rough wooden table covered in an array of miscellaneous weaponry. At a glance Ben saw there was a mixture of modern hardware and stuff dating back to the Second World War. Old guns never died; they just fell deeper into the dodgy black market underworld. The other item on the table was a Samsonite cabin-size suitcase, its lid closed. Ben could only wonder what was inside.

Two men stood by the table, one scraggy and gaunt and bald, the other wide and swarthy. They watched Ben keenly as he walked into the room. The scraggy one badly needed a wash. Ben could smell the sour body odour from several metres away.

‘These are my associates, Duša and Nidal,’ Osmanović said. ‘They have my complete trust. Aside from that, all you need to know about them is that they have reason to hate and despise Zarko Kožul almost as much as I do, which is saying a great deal.’

‘All these years he’s been operating,’ Ben said, ‘and nobody’s put a stop to him?’

‘I told you, many have tried. It would be a mistake to underestimate his power. However, we are not completely without the means to rid our country of scum like Kožul.’ Osmanović waved a hand over the rows of weaponry.

Ben stepped closer to the table. It looked as though someone had raided a firearms museum and loaded a small truck with everything from American M16s to Russian Kalashnikovs; a massive Nazi-era heavy machine gun on its field bipod; an assortment of submachine guns that ranged from slick Steyr machine pistols to agricultural-looking British Stens from the 1940s. At the smaller end of the scale, Ben’s hosts had laid out a mixed collection of pistols and revolvers, some modern, others that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Adrian Graves’ secret collection of historic arms.

‘This selection is all we could assemble at short notice,’ Osmanović said, noticing Ben’s expression. ‘You have a preference for a specific make and model?’

‘Whatever works,’ Ben said. ‘If I need to bang in a nail, I don’t worry about who manufactured the hammer.’ He picked up a Glock .45 auto, checked it over, inspected the fully-loaded magazine, and worked the action a few times to make sure it functioned properly. Duša and Nidal were watching his every move like a pair of hungry dogs.

Osmanović smiled. ‘A good choice. The Glock is a reliable tool and the forty-five slug will put a man out of action every time, with just one hit.’

Ben tossed the gun back onto the table. ‘As long you can get the hit on the man when it counts. Are Tweedledee and Tweedledum here up to the job?’

The scraggy one, Duša, seemed to understand. He flushed red, snatched a big chunky Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum off the table and twirled the revolver around his index finger like a cowboy. Proving what a fearsome gunslinger he was. Maybe Ben was supposed to be impressed. Instead he turned to Osmanović and said, ‘Being able to do tricks with a sixgun doesn’t make you a shooter, any more than owning a Fender makes you Eric Clapton.’

Osmanović signalled to Duša to put the gun down, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who would understand your wariness of us better than I? But you must believe that I would not expect you to walk into the lion’s den without expert backup. Be assured, these men are among the best you will find in Serbia. Nidal was with the Military Police Battalion. Duša has spent three years with the Falcons, 72 Special Brigade, fighting terrorism.’

‘And avoiding soap, by the smell of him,’ Ben said.

If Serbia was anything like Britain, it was full to the brim with wannabe warriors going around bragging to anyone who’d listen that they’d been part of this or that elite unit. Ben had encountered more SAS fakers in his time than had ever actually served with the regiment. But he was just going to have to take Osmanović’s word for it.

‘You said you had a plan.’

‘Here it is.’ Osmanović went up to the table and opened the Samsonite case. It was filled with polythene-wrapped bricks of white powder, stacked in three tiers.

‘Is that what I think it is?’

Osmanović chuckled. ‘The bottom layers are nothing more than white sugar. But the top layer is pure uncut heroin, taken from a dealer who, shall we say, will no longer be needing it. Street value, thirty euros a gram. Not what it used to be worth, but you can be sure Zarko Kožul will be interested in purchasing it from us for the right price. To be more precise, from you.’ He pointed at Ben.

‘Not exactly my cup of tea, Husein.’

‘If you can think of a better way to get inside his fortress, Mr Hope, I would welcome any ideas. This will get his attention better than anything.’

‘Until he discovers the sugar.’

‘By which time, you will have made your move against him.’

Ben paused, weighing up the options, visualising the scenarios as movie images unrolling on a screen in his head. ‘And you?’

‘On your signal, we will launch the attack from below. This will create a diversion and keep Kožul’s men busy. If the man you seek—’

‘Dragan Vuković.’

‘—if Vuković is in the building, he is yours to deal with however you like. All we want is Kožul.’

‘Want, as in, taken captive?’

‘I would just as soon put a bullet in his head myself. But if you were to beat me to it, I would not shed tears.’

‘In other words, you want me to kill him for you.’

Osmanović spread his hands. ‘We would consider it a great favour. For a long time we have waited for someone like you to come along.’

‘I’m not an assassin,’ Ben said.

‘But you want your man. This is the price for getting inside. Are you with us, or not?’

Ben didn’t like the arrangement one bit, and he was liking it even less the more he thought about it.

‘We haven’t talked about the police. Things start kicking off, it won’t be quiet. We’ll have five minutes, ten maximum, before they roll in.’

Osmanović shook his head. ‘Forget about the police, my friend. This is New Belgrade, not Little England. Kožul owns most of the cops, and those he does not own have more sense than to step inside his territory. Nobody will come.’

Ben was silent for a minute longer. Still thinking, still not liking.

‘Okay, I’m in,’ he said finally. Osmanović looked pleased, until Ben pointed at the open case and added, ‘But we’re not going with this crap. No drugs. If we do this, we do it my way.’

‘As you wish. I have a reliable source that informs me Kožul will be in his office every evening this week. I propose we hit him tonight.’

‘You seem to want this very badly,’ Ben said.

‘I would gladly risk a bullet to see another of those Scorpion motherfuckers dead. Never forget, never forgive. That is my credo.’

‘What about money?’

‘All I have in the world, I would give up without a second thought if it helped to nail Zarko Kožul’s worthless hide to a wall.’

Ben smiled. ‘Seeing as you’re prepared to be so generous, how much cash can you get together in the next few hours?’