The Balkan's Angels I

By Rita Dosek and Péter Tarjányi

The blood-soaked Balkan Wars have come to an end after years of violence, hatred, and extreme genocide. For a soldier named Tom, however, the battle has just begun. He is recruited in secret to hunt war criminalssome of whom are still in power. Europe cannot handle another period of embattlement; national forces will stop at nothing to keep the well-earned peace. This is where Tom comes in.

He is recruited by an old friend to track and hunt the worst of the worst and bring them to justice before an international court. He heads into war-ravaged Bosnia, and, although his intentions are good, it isnt always easy ?nding the bad guy. Political unrest is still prevalent, and it seems as though no one is willing to help this ambitious soldier on a mission to do right.

Worse, there could be a leak in their own department. Tom suspects theres a mole, so its his teams ?rst duty to destroy the villain. Then, they can go after the head honchothe president of Serbia. Nothing is clear on the battlefront; friends become enemies, and enemies become friends. Tom must travel the whole of Europe to ?nd his target, but he will stop at nothing to bring justice to an unjust world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469781433

Rita Dosek

Rita Dosek was born in Budapest, 1978. Having been awarded a grant, she enrolled in the FH Technikum Kantern in Carinthia, Austria, in 1998, and she graduated with a degree in Civil Engineering and Project Manager. After graduation, she became an entrepreneur and set up her own business. She worked on various major construction projects in Hungary and abroad. She also participated in numerous military and police training programs headed by Péter Tarjányi.

Book preview

The Balkan’s Angels

The Balkan’s Angels I.

Copyright © 2012 Péter Tarjányi & Rita Dosek

www.thebalkansangels.com

www.petertarjanyi.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Events in the book are partly based on real-life events, but names, locations, dates, and the plot are a work of fiction. Any similarity or likeness to any events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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ISBN: 978-1-4697-8142-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4697-8144-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4697-8143-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012902862

iUniverse rev. date: 2/28/2012

The Hungarian text was proofread by Sándor Horváth,

László Kiss and Zsófia Kevi

Technical editorial manager was Zulejka Kuha

Composed by Péter Budai

English translation ©2011 Balázs Bujna

The English text was supervised by Judit Kádas

Contents

Part One

Part Two

Part One

SOUTH OF TREBNICA, BOSNIA

JULY 11, 1995 05:07 AM

Tom and Lévai were heading towards the next cache over the steep road through the forest. They had left the bicycles at the foot of the cliff. They advanced along the path that ran five feet from the cliff edge, under the cover of trees and shrubbery. Their clothing blended into the scenery. The speckles of shadow and light completely concealed their similarly patterned fatigues. They nevertheless moved cautiously, as one can never be too careful. Both men were in their twenties, and their greenhorn looks belied the fact that they had already seen plenty of action. Officers of the Hungarian Special Forces, they were con-_5 ducting reconnaissance in the area, as well as providing protectionto diplomatic envoys with a third team-member. Tom, that is, Tamás Erkel, led the way.

The mid-height, muscular, brown-eyed man with close-cropped brown hair and a boyish face could swiftly infiltrate any organization. His sharp wits and aptitude made him rise in the ranks quickly. The grooves of age had not yet etched history on his face, which radiated with youthful fervor and the urge to make a difference. This deployment practically opened up new vistas in his life. Being highest in rank, he was the leader of the battle company. He had been promoted to captain only a few weeks before.

A foreign mission under my command! Free rein! he thought to himself. His mind’s eye drifted back to see admiration gleam in his father’s eyes when he showed him his commission. That’s my boy! his father said, patting him on the shoulder. Being promoted to such an elevated rank at merely 26 is no mean feat. I am proud of you! Tom was overjoyed to hear his father’s words, as he had worked hard for the accolade, and the old man was never one to shower praiseon anyone. Come to think of it, this might have been the first time he had received such earnest recognition from him. Tom wanted to tell him that he was going to lead an independent mission into the Balkans, but he could not. I’ll tell him all about it when we get home, he thought, quickening his pace.

Erno Lévai ambled not far behind him. He was a young lad, taller and leaner than his companion. His mid-length, light brown, slicked back hair, and his intelligent eyes made him look more like a university student than a seasoned commando. This was exactly why they were favored when it came to working undercover-the last thing they resembled were warriors. Despite being just 25, Lévai had plunged early into the thick of life. For as long as he could remember, he had always wanted to be a policeman, and carry out special operations. His exceptional abilities and extraordinary application soon earned him a place at the academy, and there was no stopping him after graduation, until he made it to the Special Forces.

Both men had already been baptized by fire. Pinching armed robbers or drug-smugglers was everyday routine for them, and they frequently put up with hostilities in the process. This mission was, however, something different, something much more than they had ever done before. An opportunity for rapid advancement! Or so they hoped.

It was still early in the morning, but the birds had already started their dawn concert; the whole countryside was ringing with the sound. A little village of tiny houses huddled in the valley that lay stretched out among the rugged mountains. A winding road at the foot of the mountain led towards the city. At this early hour, traffic in the village was usually confined to bicycles. The women pedaled towards the town with milk churns hanging on either side of their saddles, ready to sell their produce there. An occasional wagon popped up here and there, and there was nothing unusual about seeing a couple of trucks drive past on the road below the footpath.

Tom and his companions had set up numerous caches in the area. The concealed little dens doubled as stashes for weapons and communications gear, with potential exit routes planned in detail. The locations of the stockpiles on the mountain were chosen so that they offered an excellent view of the surroundings, were accessible to the men, yet still remained inconspicuous.

Look! Lévai grabbed Tom’s shoulder and pulled him to the ground. A convoy of large green military trucks was just then turning towards the village. Hardly had they turned their heads when the wind brought the hum of yet more distant engines. Additional trucks came into view, this time travelling towards the town. Tom and Lévai caught sight of a black SUV among the troop carriers.

Who do you think that is? asked Lévai.

I can’t see, the windows are tinted, Tom answered. Come on, we’re nearly there. We’ll see more with the SIG. They started off again, very carefully, making sure that no-one noticed them. The cache was by now no more than 50 or so yards away. As soon as they got there, Lévai got out the SIG 2000 sniper rifle from next to a camouflaged tree stump, put its tripod mount on the rock, and lay down behind it, ready to fire. The magazines were already in place, and when he picked it up, he intrinsically cocked the gun, even though he had no intention to shoot. The telescopic sight brought the black car in extreme close-up. Tom took out a special monitoring device that was connected to the rifle scope via a cable, so that he could see whatever Lévai saw through the sights.

The SUV pulled over at the crossroads, letting the convoy pass. A middle-aged, graying man got out from the backseat on the side of the pasture. He fumbled around in his jacket pocket for a while, then took out a cigar and put it in his mouth. Changing his mind, he abruptly put the cigar away with a slightly irritated gesture and dug out a single piece of hard candy from his pocket. He unwrapped it hastily and, pulling a finicky face, put the sweet in his mouth. Tom saw his facial muscles contract as the man’s teeth closed on the mint-filled treat. The telescopic sights were so sophisticated that, had he wanted to, he could have read off the brand name on the sweet’s wrapping a few seconds earlier. Lévai adjusted the zoom on the scope, choosing a wider magnification level so that they could take in the man from head to foot.

The man was wearing a fine shirt and a suit jacket of elegant fabric, and an elemental coldness emanated from his gray eyes. The deep, characteristic grooves around his lips, the hawk-like nose, the contoured hairstyle, the neat, cleanly shaved face, and the oval head had been etched deep into the two friends’ minds, never to fade away.

The scumbag! Lévai blurted out. We should have known! At last, we can snuff him out! he said, with apparent pleasure, and a few moments later Tom saw the red light flick on on the sights of the precision rifle. The icon meant that the target is clear, the sniper is ready and waiting for the order to fire. The whole situation was highly unexpected and incredible, not the least because they had been pursuing this man for weeks. Never in his wildest dreams would Tom have thought that he would simply amble into their sights, and practically present himself as a target.

Several thoughts raced through Tom’s head in a split second. How easy it would be. A single shot is all it takes. This bastard would be wiped off the face of the earth. He remembered how he had seen him kill two men in cold blood a few days before, in front of their very eyes. He shot them as if they were mere manikins. He then vowed to get the man for this. And presto, here he is! And so are the bodyguards in the car, bristling with guns, not to mention the hundreds of soldiers. A single shot and all is over. But all the other scumbags would scamper to safety somewhere, and it would take another fifty years to find them. No, we need to take them all, all at once! Tom grappled with the voice of reason and his urge to ignore it.

One shot and he’s done for! Lévai seemed to be voicing his own thoughts.

And so are we! Tom answered. Look at all those soldiers! A whole army!

What on earth are they up to?

Beats me. But there’s going to be trouble, I can feel it! Tom peered at the eyepiece again: the red icon was still on. Lévai’s finger, he knew, was still standing by on the trigger. He might even have pulled it back, ready to send the 308 cartridge, with one last delicate movement, straight into the head of Government Commissioner Marco Drakulic. He also knew that the decision was all his.

Leave it! he finally said. We have no orders to kill him. Let’s take the stuff we need, and get out of here! If there’s going to be trouble, we need to take care of the others.

Lévai grudgingly let the trigger slide back to position, and started to dig up the equipment with lightning speed. He propped the diagram, drawn previously, against the rock, to see where the weapons,the radio transmitter, the first aid kit, and the signal flares had been buried. Something told him that they would never be back here, so he tried to pack everything he deemed important, and that he could fit into the pannier.

Let’s get a move on! Tom said, himself picking at the sods put in place a few months before. The weather had by this time leveled their dugout perfectly, the uninitiated would not have had any idea that they were standing on top of an arsenal if they did not know where to look. Lévai looked up the rifle first. Eight inches left of the rock, to the north, at an angle of 45°-rifle-he kept repeating the details of the sketched map to himself silently. He measured off the starting point a span from the rock, outlined the location of the weapon on the ground with his finger, and started digging. The equipment was not buried very deep, it was only about a foot under the ground. The disturbed sods were then easily dislodged.

He peeled off the chicken wire from the rifle bag wrapped in nylon, which was put in place to even out the weight and stop the ground over the hole being depressed if somebody should step over it. He took off the nylon bag and looked into the bag to make sure. The disassembled Cover sniper rifle lay intact in its slots. He quickly put it in the pannier, and started looking for the transmitter. Tom had meanwhile freed the flares and bandages, keeping a close eye on the road all the while. They could not pick up everything, only as much as could be inconspicuously carried away in the panniers. Having secured what they could, they cautiously put the chicken wire and the sods back in place. Nature would tidy it all up in time. This equipment might still be needed sometime, perhaps years later.

They shouldered the full bags and hastily made their way back. It took less time downhill, they reached the bicycles in ten minutes, where they quickly took off their speckled fatigues, changed, and started off down the cliff side. They stopped for a moment before they reached the road, jerked their journalist IDs out from under their shirts, and started pedaling towards the town at a relaxed pace. This time, Lévai was in front, Tom followed him, staring at the mudguard trembling in front of him, watching his environment from the corner of his eye.

They knew they must not glance around too intently lest someone might get suspicious. They did not want to be searched right now, theyhad more weapons than could be explained away. They were wearing plain clothes, and chose old bikes to ride, so they did not stand out at all. They had their journalist IDs in case anybody did stop them, but they could not trust that international regulations would be observed. The road was pretty run down, and the sudden military traffic forced them down onto the footpath along the shoulder, so it was only after more than half an hour that they reached the city limits again. Lévai slowed down abruptly, Tom managed to brake just in time to avoid a collision.

What’s the idea? he asked.

Look! Lévai indicated with his head. Tom noticed the trucks parked across the road in front of the town gates.

This is a bad sign! I have a very bad feeling about this, Tom responded gravely. He tried to dismiss his gloomy thoughts, in vain.

What should we do? Lévai asked. Tom looked around. Large green trucks loomed at both ends of the forking road, and more kept constantly arriving from behind their backs.

We should pick up The Resident and Little Cow, Tom decided. Little Cow can manage on his own, but The Resident would never be able to get out once trouble starts to brew. Lévai nodded in agreement, and rode on towards the trucks. The Resident was the name they had given to Ferenc Balsay, the intelligence officer working unofficially in the area, commissioned by the intelligence organization and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, who was more spy than scout. He had amassed plenty of contacts over the preceding years, and was providing the Hungarian police and various departments of the Information Office with valuable information.

It was Tom’s, Lévai’s, and Little Cow’s task to protect Balsay. They were to escort him everywhere, under various covers-whatever was necessary for The Resident to do his job. They usually worked with journalist covers, and thus were born Tom Cutter foreign correspondent, Georg Lévai photographer, and Kristian Hoff reporter, alias Little Cow.

The latter was at the moment holed up in the attic of the building opposite their base, watching the street and the flat where The Resident was located. Little Cow was the designated marksman of the team. It hadbeen a long time since anybody referred to him by his proper name. He earned his nickname by booking a Turkish money-forger named Mehemed. Mehemed, who knew no cow, is busy nursing his wounds now, his companions teased him with the nursery rhyme for months, and Little Cow, the name of a cartoon character happily rocking about on his tree-branch, stuck with him. Everybody liked the tall, brown-haired, athletic, easy-going lad, for he made friends easily, and had a heart of gold. He spoke the Slavic languages well, was brilliant with every sort of firearm, as well as being skilled in martial arts. He was predominantly deployed for Serbian and Arabic missions. He could quickly win criminals’ trust, but could have his favorite PKM light machinegun as company on top of a building for several weeks on end if need dictated, always precisely aware of where and when to shoot. This is why Tom designated him the sharpshooter of the team.

The riders were now quite close to the cordon where the soldiers were still sitting on the cargo beds of the trucks, awaiting orders. The commander and the driver were standing beside the vehicles, smoking and chatting cheerfully, with the loaded AK-47’s slung across their chests.

Lévai slowed down, but was ignored. The outward-bound old woman was, however, stopped, and made to turn back. Lévai eavesdropped on their conversation.

Not allowed out now. Get back to your house, one of the soldiers said, insolently blowing the cigarette smoke in the old woman’s face.

What happened? the woman asked, surprised.

"Train crash. Carrying some contagious material, the town might have to be evacuated.

A few yards on, Lévai turned to Tom.

Did you hear that?

I smell a rat, Tom replied, shaking his head.

Yeah, why can’t they leave if the town is in danger?

It’s not that. Have you seen any trains round here? The realization struck Lévai. They had been scouting the area for six months now, and the nearest railroad was dozens of miles away. He too became worried. Why should the town’s entrances and junctions be closed because of an accident? On the main square they saw that all was quiet, their instincts nevertheless told them this might be the calm before the storm.

They finally reached the base. They had set up their headquarters on the second floor of a house standing in a distant corner of the main square. The Resident was waiting for his contacts to show themselves. Although the senior officer, pushing on forty, who had been appointed commander of the mission, he complied with Tom’s security decisions as long as these did not limit his activities. This was why he never strolled out of the house alone, or left without notice. He always let the team know about his meetings in advance so that they could prepare for his protection, and sometimes assigned them tasks the better to hold up his cover story.

Balsay was a high-ranking officer, and had been decorated several times for his services. He knew his way around the spy world, was a good negotiator and could easily give false impressions about himself. He spoke several languages and was well-acquainted with the workings of the criminal mind. There was one thing, however, that was beyond him: he had no experience in physical combat, couldn’t handle a gun, and had always been exempted from PE. He worked his way into the warrior’s world with his brains, not his physical aptitude.

Lévai and Tom rushed up the stairs two steps at a time. They rapped the agreed signal on the door, which soon opened to reveal a sleepy-looking Resident, his short brown hair disheveled. Tom did not wait for him to step aside, but burst open the door and stormed into the room.

We have to leave! he came to the point harshly, while Lévai took one last look down the corridor, cautiously closed the door, and, out of sheer habit, stepped out of the line of the windows.

What? Where? The Resident asked listlessly.

Away from this place! We have to get away! Tom explained, even while already packing the most important stuff. Balsay was wide awake in an instant.

What the hell are you talking about? he burst out. I have a meeting this afternoon. It took me almost two months to set it up. We’re not going anywhere! he said, blocking Tom’s way."

The town is being sealed off! Tom replied. The shit hit the fan, something real bad is brewing. We have to scram while we can. The Resident looked at Lévai, who nodded in agreement, confirming whatthe other had said. Balsay stepped over to the window. Tom instinctively grabbed him and pulled him out of the line of fire.

Chill out! The Resident looked at him with indignation. I just want to verify the intel. But he didn’t step in front of the window again, only peered out sideways.

The sun shone down brightly in the sky, with a few cirrocu-muli to keep it company. Children were chasing one another in the cobbled streets. The circulated water babbled with a familiar sound as it was piped into the pool from underneath the statue angels’ wings on the decorative fountain in the main square. Left of the fountain, in old Mirtic’s cafe, people were reading the day’s news cheerily, washing it down with pastries and their morning coffee. It was business as usual at the butcher’s opposite the flat, and the boss was talking amiably with some of his customers. The elderly Mrs. Mirtic was sitting on the bench by the fountain, feeding the pigeons as was her custom.

See for yourself! Where is this invasion, this blockade? We’re staying!

Tom reached for the transmitter, irritated. Cow, you there? he asked. Yes, chief, standing by! came Little Cow’s buoyant voice over the receiver. Put in your earphones, I want you to hear our every word, Tom commanded. Can you see any military activity in the town?

Little Cow had made himself comfortable in the loft of the tallest house opposite the flat, granting him a view of the whole area. All is calm in the town, no soldiers anywhere.

See? said The Resident cynically.

And elsewhere? Tom pressed him.

At the strategic points,, came the depressing answer. Trucks are blocking every exit. I can’t see any movement yet, they’re probably sitting on the cargo beds. Tom raised his eyebrows in a sort of What did I tell you?-fashion.

What do you think they’re up to? The Resident asked again.

We’ll learn that from the six o’clock news, hundreds of miles from here!,Tom looked at him, but saw that this was not good enough. You of all people should know better! We’re sitting on a powder keg, ready to blow. The Muslims and the Orthodox Christians are cryingfor each others’ blood. This wouldn’t be the first time in history that they clash. It’s not the best policy to be a Bosniak around here nowadays.

We’re no Bosniaks. Keep your shirt on, they can’t touch journalists. Their only problem is that they’re worried about their economy and scared shitless that distant Arabic relatives might come in and pocket their profits. It’s not us they’re after.

We’re not in their good books either. You know as well as I do that’s not how things go around here. If chaos erupts, no-one will care what religion you are! Recent years have shown that. A lot of Croatians, Serbians, and who knows what other nationals could tell you about it.

I’m not convinced, The Resident insisted.

My task is to protect you. When I say go, we go!

Not so fast! the intelligence officer, sleepy just a moment before, was now incensed. As far as I know, I’m the senior officer around here! You are a mere advisor, I’m the one calling the shots. I won’t have you wreck two months’ work just because you’ve chickened out!

It’s your life at stake. All our lives, Lévai entered the discussion to back Tom up. The Resident continued in a calmer tone.

My informant will come this afternoon, at three. If he can’t find me, he’ll be back tomorrow morning, at eight. If I’m still not around, he’ll disappear for months, he explained. I can’t just call him next week to tell him, ‘Sorry mate, I was sick.’ You get me? You know how these things go. If you’re not there, they’ll think you got caught, or there’s something you forgot to tell them, and won’t contact you again. It took me a lot of time and effort to get to this man. I can’t go risking that they won’t learn about the new drug route back home based on a hunch. Tom knew the spy was right, perhaps even empathized with him, but the alarm bells kept ringing in his head: Get out while you can!

And I can’t go risking your life! he clung to his convictions.

Then bring me some tangible evidence!

What? A human head? An intercepted command? Are you out of your mind? Tom’s voice rang with anger again.

Let’s go down and ask them.

Come again?

We’re journalists, aren’t we? They can’t touch us. We’d just be interested in all the hubbub.

We’d be crazy to hand ourselves over on a plate.

All right, then we won’t budge.

Tom nearly exploded with impotent rage. Fists clenched, he once again drew closer to the window, from the side, so as not to present an easy target. He saw two trucks turning into the street on the opposite side of the square. Four soldiers were watching the street below them from a military jeep. He knew their situation was worsening, and time was running out.

Fine, he decided, surprising both Lévai and Little Cow. Have your most important things ready. If there’s trouble, be prepared to make a go for it! he briefed the victorious spy. You’re not coming with us. I’m going down with Lévai. You copy, Cow?

Copy that, Cow said, putting the 150-cartridge magazines next to the PKM machine-gun. The PKM is a real chaos-generator and area-controlling weapon, which is why Little Cow cherished it so much. Although it was not a gun for marksmen, this was no regular marksman task. He was to cover his companions from above, which required copious amounts of ammunition. His legendary calm had vanished-Tom was making a dangerous move, openly entering a situation in which they could be, at best, captured, at worst, get engaged in armed combat. His internal alarm bells had also been tripped by what he had seen in the town, but he had kept quiet because he trusted Tom. He slowly emptied his mind, and, taking three or four deep breaths, readied himself for the fight.

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Marco Drakulic was standing next to the car, watching as the green trucks, like bees from a beehive, swarmed out of the ‘apiary’ at his bidding. The drivers drove around the black SUV parked at the wayside, and when they noticed who was standing beside it, they saluted the government commissioner. He was the right hand man of Drazen Gojkovic, the president reigning over Serbia.

Why did we stop here? Jaroslav Obradkovic, the young officer sitting at the wheel asked diffidently. He thought of himselfas Drakulic’s sidekick. He admired the commissioner, and looked up to him as his mentor-it was the greatest day in his life when Drakulic asked him to become his personal bodyguard. The commissioner had no real need of protection, and considered it a drawback of his rank to have to keep a bodyguard, but rules were rules, so he appointed the first private he came across to comply with president Gojkovic.

Marco, you play a major role in shaping Serbia’s future. It is appropriate that you protect yourself accordingly, the president had said to him one day.

I can take care of myself, Drazen. I have enough men at my house, and know who to call if there’s trouble. I don’t want anyone breathing down my neck, Drakulic shrugged.

It’s not only about protection. You need someone for prestige. You have a very influential family, Gojkovic referred to the extensive network of contacts in control of the Drakulic family. His brother was commander of the army, his sister-in-law dominated the construction industry, while the cousinhood held sway over the pharmaceutics industry and the real estate business. The war was making them all immensely rich.

It was no accident that the president had chosen him as special government commissioner. Such a delicate task called for a trustworthy man of no mean influence. He was thus put in charge of requisitions in the occupied territories, the selling off of antique art and other seized valuables, and laundering the money that entered the treasury. He did not disappoint Gojkovic-he always knew how much and when to invest or take away, and where the money should come from in order that the war for the Serbian nation should end in victory.

I don’t want you getting hurt.

Drakulic did not want to argue with the short-tempered president over such a trifling matter, and so once outside his door, appointed the greenest-looking young officer who crossed his path. This was Jaroslav Obradkovic, who thought his lucky star had shone on him that day. Fresh out of military school, and already in such a distinguished post. The commissioner had probably read his file, and must have noted his grandfather’s name, who had been a high-ranking officer in the Drina legion, he thought. Obradkovic was very proudof his ancestors, and studied with inhuman application to live up to their names. He was a twenty-two-year-old, brown-eyed, brown-haired youth whose beard had just started. He kept close to Drakulic whenever he could, although the commissioner mostly only took him along when he needed to travel somewhere.

What did you say? Drakulic asked. He could hardly hear himself talk through the noise of the trucks.

I asked why we stopped, Obradkovic repeated.

It is always good to see for yourself whether your orders are carried out properly, the commissioner answered in an educational tone. He could not shed his original profession; he was a teacher in civilian life, and he never missed an opportunity to furnish Obradkovic with some helpful advice. Not because he was that fond of him, but only to keep up appearances.

Let’s go back to headquarters! he ordered his driver, getting back into the car. Obradkovic looked at him in the rear-view mirror. He was quite annoyed with his charge for not letting him get out of the car, and otherwise disregarding security regulations. He wanted to do his job properly, but Drakulic frequently sabotaged his intentions.

The vest, sir, he tried again, alluding to the bulletproof vest.

Nonsense, this is all I need, said Drakulic, taking his bone-grip Beretta 92, embossed with silver etchings, out of his shoulder holster.

Let’s hope that will not be necessary, said the boy, tightening his grip on the downward-pointing Kalashnikov held between his legs.

That is why you’re here with me, said Drakulic, putting his gun away. One bodyguard is no bodyguard, Obradkovic muttered under his breath, scanning the road. He was a good soldier, trained by the best instructors, but he could work no wonders. He was fully aware that Drakulic only hauled him along out of obligation, he was nevertheless grateful that he was the one chosen for this task.

What’s that, my boy? asked Drakulic with a black look.

Nothing, it’s just that I can’t make myself useful, sir, the boy answered.

We’ll get you some suitable job, the commissioner said coldly. That will teach you. A lesson, he finished the sentence to himself.

Headquarters were set up about twelve miles from the town, in one of president Gojkovic’s residences, because he wanted to take part in important decisions himself. General Milorad Vukovic and the president were already waiting for Drakulic in the conference room.

What is the situation like on the ground? Gojkovic asked the government commissioner when he entered.

Strategically important positions are being occupied, Drakulic answered. Although he was no soldier, Gojkovic was always interested in his opinion on military matters, as he considered him an excellent strategist. Not in a military but a business sense.

What about the houses?

I’ve arranged everything, the commissioner replied. The houses won’t be harmed. Gojkovic leant back with satisfaction at the other end of the oval table.

Tell the soldiers why we’re doing this, he said, taking a draw on his cigarette.

Yes, sir, General Vukovic jerked upright. The government commissioner bit into his third candy that day absent-mindedly, looking at the paintings on the walls. The china cabinets held devotional objects, the wall opposite was decorated with weapons. Drazen Gojkovic was personally ordering General Vukovic to capture the town. The commissioner noted the developments contentedly. Precisely as he expected. He quickly convinced the president why it was important to start relocating the population as soon as possible. Acquiring the goods and chattels and resalable valuables-arguments duly laced with national ideology and appropriate national passion-really made it an obvious decision.

We can finally strike back! nodded the president.

We shall commence sealing off the area at the first opportune moment.

The Russians have briefed me. The area is not under spy satellite surveillance, President Gojkovic squinted knowingly, stood up, and walked over to the map on the opposite wall. Lure the press away somehow. And we need at least double closure.

Triple closure, the general insisted. If you please, sir, we shall organize a press conference immediately. About the rail accident we agreed on…

Marco Drakulic was watching the two men confer and it occurred to him how good it was to control everything without stepping into the limelight. He was the one who suggested the idea of the train crash as a cover story. He knew the town like the back of his hand, and knew in advance where the fortification should be, where the relocation should begin, where the relocation camps should be set up, where from and where to shall the buses be travelling, and which corps would be ordered to carry out the dirty work. It would be a few days. A few days is all it would take.

For Drakulic’s men, the peacekeepers were the easiest to get out of the way. It took no more than a few bimbos, drugs, booze, and parties, in exchange for which the soldiers looked the other way. The national army could have brought the weapons across the border on their backs if they wanted to, and the articulated trucks carrying drugs came and went as if they had been moving bread or milk. The peacekeepers thought that here they were virtually cut off from the world, and that anything that happened during the mission would fade into oblivion once the war was over. How wrong they were! Marco Drakulic’s arms reached far, even over Western European borders.

Our prior information? the president inquired, although he had already settled that his men had long before leaked the deceptive information about strategic objectives that served to cover the relocating operation.

We had been anticipating a Bosniak assault… the general recited the bogus intelligence. We need no collaborators. We had to turn the town into a fortress, as we had to prepare for a major battle. Quite apart from this, due to an accident that occurred 14 miles from the town, military presence is all the more warranted.

The government commissioner was amused by this farce, starring the heroes. Responsibility is always shouldered by the dumb, the know-it-alls, the martyrs, or the heroes. Drakulic knew that when the war was over, the heroes would become targets.

Take over the operation. The officers should continue preparations, the president now turned to the government commissioner, putting an end to the discussion. Marco Drakulic nodded in acknowledgement. It was a pleasant feeling to speculate that with the position he had, and the deniability the presidential order allowed, he couldwield authority that might be immensely profitable once the war was over. He didn’t simply want to survive, he wanted the best possible life. Drakulic understood the possibilities inherent in war-he had become a true businessman! War does not only serve the weapons trade, the booming art business fueled by looting, human trafficking, and the development of medicine. In the long run, it can cement real estate-and land speculation-all it takes is some ethnic cleansing in the right place at the right time.

President Gojkovic left, Drakulic and the general stayed in the control room. Field officers from the operative department were continuously reporting to Vukovic. The commissioner had nothing to do but make sure that unexpected developments were handled appropriately, and that everything happened the way it was ought to.

The first unit has hermetically sealed the town in a radius of five miles. We have nine checkpoints.

Who have been stopped?

There are altogether twelve individuals waiting to pass.

Let them through towards the town.

The woods have been scoured, the field officer went on. Nobody has been found. It is still early in the morning.

Following the radio traffic, Drakulic circled the town on the map with a red marker along the second and third closure rings.

They worked fast, let’s hope there were no blunders, he said absently The general turned towards him indignantly.

My men know that they are not allowed to make mistakes! Drakulic could sense ruthlessness in the tone of his voice. He knew that strict punishment was handed out to anyone not complying with orders perfectly. He did not care much for Vukovic, but he was not shocked either. He needed leaders like this, who did not treat his men with kid gloves.

And the population? he asked, with a certain edge.

Completely unaware. Life is going on as usual.

Soon there will be nothing here, but… Drakulic muttered, but he did not finish the sentence. He colored the town on the map, now confined inside the centermost, red bullseye, white with correction fluid, as meticulously as if his sole concern in life was not going over the lines in a coloring book. There now was a hideous white stainwhere the town used to be, with red edges spilling outward. Like a negative image of a gunshot wound. As if nothingness itself were bleeding!

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The 17-year-old Ivan Radic was coming home from the next village from some friends, and he was soon admitted inside the cordon. Once home, he told Mira how professional the soldiers were-no disruptions, and proper information.

Then we’re safe, Mira said, pulling the boy close to herself to plant a passionate kiss on his lips. The hunky, innocent-looking Ivan was the love of her life. She felt that she could not have found a better person for herself. They had decided that they would marry as soon as they turned eighteen. For now, they were seeing each other in secret; their parents would not have approved of their necking in public. Ivan embraced her love and pushed her onto the bed. He stroked her shiny black hair. She was beautiful, lying there in front of him. Her ivory skin, her warm, brown eyes, and her curving breasts aroused him. Mira pulled him to her. He knew that she also wanted it. His heart started racing. He kissed her again and slowly slid his hand on her breasts.

Not here! Mira whispered in his pounding ears. Wait for me in Mirtic’s cafe. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I’ll show you a wonderful place! These last words she said with lustful eyes gazing directly into Ivan’s. He felt utter bliss. Overcoming his desire, he arranged his clothes, and throwing the girl one last kiss, set off for the cafe.

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Tom was angrily packing his equipment so that everything should be in one spot, if they had to make a run for it. He could of course simply punch The Resident square in the nose, but he did not feel like lugging an 11-stone body on his back while fleeing on rooftops, through alleys, and undergrowth. He had done it before, and it was definitely not pleasant. Tom’s objective was to protect The Resident, from himself if need be, and even The Resident’s crazy experimentseemed more likely to succeed in getting them out than having to run with an unconscious and handcuffed man did.

You stay here, ready to scram! Tom put the package, no bigger than a briefcase, over The Resident’s shoulder. No meddling now! Don’t interfere with our radio traffic! You can listen, if you want to, here’s the earplug, he said, handing him the skin-toned, tiny earpiece that plugged directly into the ear canal, allowing undetected communication.Don’t say a word unless you’re in mortal danger, understand? Tom asked, eyeing The Resident angrily. Balsay did not want to push his luck-he got what he wanted after all.

Tom tried out the comm equipment before going down. He squeezed the button of the transmitter attached to his wrist to his chest and started talking, then eased the pressure so that he could hear the others. Little Cow reported clear reception, and Lévai also entered the conversation for a moment. The two then arranged the journalist IDs in their necks so that they were easily seen and put their handguns in the waist-holster, which they covered up with their undone shirts. They would have liked to go down with an assault rifle, but that would have been difficult to conceal, so they relied on a ‘second weapon’ approach. This is what they called having a single pistol on them.

On our way! Tom said as they entered the stairway, talking to Little Cow, who was by then hypnotized by the sights of his PKM, ardently scanning the square below.

Two UAZ military vans in the middle of the square, Tom heard the unnerving report over the radio.

We’re going into the side street, to the jeep, he answered.

Roger that, Cow said, adjusting his aim.

Lévai and Tom tried on a conversational air as they stepped into the street. The hardest part of disguise was always keeping one’s body from giving the game away. A seasoned fighter will always move differently than a journalist working at a desk. Lévai swung his arms a bit, and Tom started gesturing as he spoke.

Shit, it’s started, the earplug said. They’re storming Mirtic’s cafe!

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The smoking soldiers instantly flicked away their butt-ends and stormed into Mirtic’s cafe. People were already being marched off from round the corner; the invasion was clearly proceeding at different speeds in the various zones. There was no need to kick in the cafe door-Mirtic always kept it open to all. The first soldier went in straight ahead, another at an angle, while the others covered the third wall. There was eight of them. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the buoyant smoke of morning cigarettes inside the cafe, and there was music coming from the radio. Mirtic was fiddling with something behind the bar. His wife was doing the dishes. Ivan Radic was sitting at the table by the window, reading a newspaper. A group of young men were playing cards next to the bar. A boy of about 15 was trying to decide which of Mrs. Mirtic’s sandwiches to have. A gust of icy air seemed to wash over the amiable buzz of the room as the soldiers charged inside. The faces froze with terror. The bodies all seemed to die instantaneously. Only the soldiers glowed with aggressive energy. They were yelling.

Remain where you are! Nobody move! They knew it was not so much what they said as the way they said it. They knew how civilians usually react. They should not stop now. Surprise, speed, and savageness is what counted. Someone should be brutalized immediately to keep the advantage their victims’ stupor lends them. It could be anyone, there is always one who asks the first question. The target must be the first to regain consciousness, the one who thinks on his feet, the one who can still take action, the one to be made an example of.

What happened? Ivan rose from his chair. Hardly had he uttered the words than the soldier standing closest to him shoved him back with the butt of his rifle, sending the boy crashing to the floor, even knocking the chair over. The scene unfolded rapidly, there was no time to think, or, alas, to feel anything. The first of the armed men was already on his way in, the others covered him, blocking off the room. It took but a few moments to search the cafe and the premises. The soldiers brought out Mirtic’s son and two daughters, and his aged mother in her nightclothes.

No time to explain. Leave everything here and go! Ivan was fondling his bleeding nape. Mirtic slowly started out from behind the counter. He stepped over to his daughters, and reached to take thehand of the elder one, but she was jerked away from him. The soldiers separated the men from the women. The girls cuddled up to their mother, which made Mirtic slightly less uneasy.

We must transport you to a safe place immediately!

I am waiting for someone, Ivan insisted, not learning from what happened earlier. She must also be safe. When she arrives, we’ll follow you.

No time for that now. You are in the wrong place. Don’t worry, our soldiers will take care of everyone. Come on! Get a move on!

Ivan gave up. Pursued people cannot think straight. The soldiers were not put off their stride. The people did indeed made haste, they were flustered, quite contrary to the slow-motion effect they were moving under during the first few minutes. Their powers of thought, deliberation, and inquiry, however, were quickly evaporating. Mirtic had a vague notion that the soldiers were lying. They always do!, the thought crossed his mind, but he could not help but obey them. The soldiers were shouting and shoving them outside. Terrified glances were searching out loved ones in the crowd. Mirtic kept his composure enough to be able to cast a reassuring look towards his panic-stricken daughters. His mother whimpered quietly, but the soldiers’ shouting drowned out the sound.

The men were first to be rounded up in front of the building. The first bus pulled up, and they were made to get on.

Two soldiers stayed behind in the cafe. One wolfed down what was left of the boy’s sandwich and took a sip of the coffee. The other cut the phone line, kicked down the TV-set, and swept the radio to the floor, along with the glasses. The sound of shattering glass gave way to silence. The two made their way into the flat to gather up any easily carried valuables.

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Tom sneaked a peek towards the jeep and saw the soldiers jump off, preparing for the blockade. They had chosen the worst possible moment to step out onto the street. They could not turn back now-it would have been even worse than going up to them. He was sizing up their guns while ostensibly explaining something to Lévai. The

AK-47’s on the soldiers’ shoulders were in full automatic mode, even though they were no professionals who could afford to run around with cocked guns. AK’s had the drawback that, when fired, the bursts could easily drag the muzzle to the right, or upwards, making the gun hard to aim with and scattering the rounds all over the place. This was bad-but only if someone was trying to curb the number of innocent victims.

In such a situation, even experienced soldiers would set their rifles to single shots, but precise firing was apparently not an issue with these guys. The alarm went off in Tom’s head. On seeing the two of them draw closer, the soldiers took up a semi-circular, clearly hostile formation.

We are from the press, Tom said in English, which sped things up a little. One of the soldiers drew a bead on them, which made Tom and Lévai spring to either side, giving a clear shot to Little Cow. They jerked their handguns from their holsters, and, backing off towards the entrance, opened direct fire on the Serbian gunmen. The four soldiers did not have a snowball’s chance in hell. The angle Little Cow was firing from made prompt escape impossible. Tom’s and Lévai’s bullets were purely security measures. This was all well and good-trouble was the oodles of more soldiers piling into the square, who all started towards them upon hearing the gunfire.

180 degrees, Tom shouted. Lévai put away his gun and turned back, knowing full well that they were to get The Resident. He heard the PKM rattle high up in the air, and felt Little Cow shielding them like a guardian angel. The angle of the side alley and the square offered them some cover from the approaching soldiers for a while, and they knew that the source of the machinegun-fire would be what the gunmen first moved towards, giving them a couple of seconds to escape. Lévai kicked in the door for Tom, and they bounded up the stairs in single file. Tom was reminded of his childhood, when he would run up the escalator that was travelling down.

He loathed the feeling, yet wanted to relive it again and again-the feeling of time stopping around him, of everything slowing down, and that however hard he tried, he just could not gather enough momentum to move, yet still managed to end up upstairs. He had to-they had to get the third one out, not to mention Little Cow.

Burn! Burn! Burn! Tom yelled, addressing The Resident, as he was nearing the door. He fervently hoped that Balsay would not freeze, and would know what to do in case they were exposed. He did not want to have him panic, like the protected diplomat in a previous assignment, who had locked himself in, and Tom had to lose precious minutes changing the guy’s mind, having no other option available. They themselves had reinforced the locks, there was no use attempting to kick down the door. By the time they got to the third floor, they were relieved to see The Resident already standing in the doorway, the two bags slung over his shoulder.

Tom and Lévai burst into the flat for one last look around. They quickly put on the tactical vests they had prepared, which could be worn under their clothing and were packed full of ammunition and arms. Anything they could not put on they had stuffed into the survival bags, which now hung on the shoulders of Balsay, white as a sheet. There were dressings, bottles of water, foodstuffs, a back-up communication kit, four radio transmitters, four concealed controllers, back-up battery cells, the rest of the ammunition, and back-up weapons in there.

Tom smoothed over the bed and checked the whole room once again to see if they had left anything they needed, then stepped into the stairwell to cover the downstairs staircase-in case the soldiers had already reached the entrance. He could hear submachinegun-fire from the square, and knew that by now, Little Cow’s hideout was under enemy fire. They would have to get out asap, to allow their guardian angel to escape as well. No clue was to be left behind: Lévai tripped the switch of the detonator they had set up, and darted out into the stairwell, going upstairs this time. Tom grabbed The Resident, who stood awkwardly in the doorway, and shoved him after their companion.

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The countdown on the display of the watch in front of Little Cow started from ninety seconds. He hit the start button as soon as Lévai and company disappeared in the bowels of the building opposite him. He knew very well that running up the stairs and turning theswitch on the detonator should not take too long. This was to be the key to his escape. He must hang in there until then. He watched the square and the soldiers gathered on it intently, firing his bursts systematically to cover as large an area as he could. He had surveyed the square days before, he knew full well where the soldiers could take cover after firing.

The narrow, confined spaces between the houses were to his advantage, as the rounds kept ricocheting off them, making locating the exact position of the sharpshooter difficult. Everyone was trying to take cover, and the soldiers were firing left, right, and center, pell-mell, further swelling the turmoil below. Little Cow hoped that by the time they figured out which building to aim at, the bomb in their headquarters would go off. His main target was the commander’s jeep, and he literally pinned down the officers hiding behind it. Scared shitless, aren’t you?, he thought. The less chance you have to get your men organized. It was clear to him, however, that if the soldiers searching for his outpost sidled up to the wall beneath him, only rebounds could hit them, since save leaning out the window, which would be utter suicide, he was not able to cover that angle.

45 more seconds!, he glanced at the watch. I’m on my way, boys!

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Tom’s lungs were wheezing by the time they got to the landing-they were burning as if they were about to burst with each breath he drew. His ears were blocked; all he could hear was the maddening roar of his heartbeat. Outside noises were muffled, as if he were inside a tightly shut jar. Panicking was out of the question. The single objective now was getting them out. He was moving The Resident, who had no commando training whatsoever, in front of himself. He could only hope that the poor man would not keel over, and he would not have to carry him on his back, as that would thwart the whole rescue mission, and they would be done for. The stairs leading to the attic loomed in front of them now as if it was Mount Everest itself they were attempting to scale.

Don’t you give up! Come on, he yelled at the man in front of him, on the verge of collapsing. We have to get out!-A lot of thingshad to work out in their favor before that could happen, however. An escape route was kept ready all along, as they could not foresee when they would need it. The roof was the obvious retreat course to take from their base on the third floor. The hostiles have seen us, they know where we are, they are about to break the door down, the thoughts flashed across Tom’s mind. 90 seconds, and the bomb goes boom-please let Lévai find the keyhole before then! He was worried about opening the door to the attic. The man in front was already holding the key, but Tom knew that fine motor skills disappear during a mission when one’s adrenaline levels hit the roof. Shooting, running, fighting, no problem, but putting a key into a damned keyhole, that is tough. We should have left it open. He fretted, even though he knew that if anyone in the building should wander this way, they would have been exposed instantly, which is why they kept the door locked.

Forward! he blared at the fumbling Resident, who had lost his balance in the intense scramble. He grabbed him by the belt, and thrust him upwards with the force of a speeding truck. Tom was watching Lévai, and listening to the outside noises coming through the jar walls. He could still hear the PKM rattling on, which meant Little Cow is still alive! Tom was sure that Cow was doing all he could to hinder their pursuers. Lévai reached the door, found the keyhole in an instant, and the door swung open as he kicked it in time with turning the key. Without losing his stride, he threw himself on the planks propping up the roof, which they had installed earlier to hold the roof tiles in place. There had been no way out towards the roof, so they had to make one. A glaring cavity on the top of the house would have aroused suspicion, so they carefully buttressed the tiles with planks.

The force of his jump made him crash through the impromptu scaffolding, and he rolled on as he hit something solid to avoid the bulk of tile fragments raining down. The order of the trio automatically swapped. Tom climbed out the opening, pulling The Resident after him. Lévai stood up and started after them. Their backs against the ridge, they inched their way towards the neighboring house, stepping along the rain gutter. The two buildings almost touched; the balcony of the building behind theirs was little more than five feet below them. They had checked out the inhabitants beforehand. A harmless agedcouple were living in that flat. Tom jumped, and Lévai pushed the hesitant Resident after him, who lost his balance on touching down, and fell, but did not hurt himself. Tom bashed in the glass door with the metal table on the balcony, and on he went inside the flat. Lévai pulled the diplomat to his feet, and pushed him through the doorway.

The couple peering out of the kitchen was ignored, only a long, perplexed face registered with Tom for a split second as he went straight for the front door. He wrenched off the door chain