The abiding question was whether our presence in Madovic—or the initial misplaced response of Kajevic’s thugs—had been enough to spook him and lead him to move. The monastery offered advantages as a hiding place hard to equal, especially in the Balkans of today where safe harbors for Kajevic were probably dwindling. Commanding that kind of highpoint made it impossible for any large law enforcement or military detail to enter Madovic undetected. Only a single approach led to the mountain compound; even if troops blocked it off and surrounded the place, it was a near certainty, given the history of persecution of the monks, that the rebuilding had included subterranean escape routes, probably through the wine cellars. Finally, entering the monastery to arrest Kajevic was, even if not quite legally forbidden, likely to agitate many people, especially in Serbia, where the Orthodox Church would portray it as a grave violation of a sacred place.
All in all, the general thought it was best to attempt discreet intelligence-gathering in Madovic for several days.
“May I ask you to remain in the area, please?” she said. “We are likely to have further questions for you, if it turns out Mr. Kajevic has not departed.”
I could see that Goos was displeased by the request. He’d had enough of Kajevic and his Tigers, but the general promised to assign us an escort while we were in Bosnia, NATO troops in civilian garb, since the sight of military uniforms would be enough to send Kajevic packing. On the other hand, no one would wonder why we’d hired private bodyguards after the other night. In return for staying around, I requested the general’s help in replacing our passports and cell phones.
At the end of the meeting, Attila stood at the door to say good-bye to everyone. Despite her initial excitement about identifying Kajevic, after second thoughts she wanted no public role in this operation.
“Still need to do business in this country,” she said. “Anything you need on the DL, let me know.”
By the time we were back at the Blue Lamp, two soldiers had shown up in jeans and bulletproof vests, with sidearms visible on their hips. I thought the hotel people might object, but to them it was no more than an indication that the establishment was housing dignitaries. As far as handguns went, Bosnia remained the same kind of Wild West as the US, where anybody could carry one with a little paperwork.
Goos still wasn’t happy.
“Mate,” he said, when we returned to the lounge, “this isn’t our show. I don’t want to be the wuss,” he said, “but our Attila has the right idea. We’d best think carefully before spending the rest of our lives being known as the people who brought that fellow in. Some diehard will pin our faces on his bulletin board.”
I understood, but there were certain limiting realities. Merely the jostling on the short drive out to Attila’s office had been agonizing for Goos. An eight-hour trip back to The Hague, involving two flights, let alone dragging a bag of rocks from Barupra, wouldn’t be possible for him before next week, leaving aside a trip by medevac, an idea Goos immediately dismissed as too grandiose and humiliating.
We spent the following day, Friday, trying to get back to work and to make sense of the information we’d come across this week. Many pieces didn’t fit. But the priorities were pretty much as we’d figured: (A) Make arrangements to exhume the Cave; (B) Speak to Ferko; (C) See if Internet searches could help ID the soldiers assigned to the military intelligence unit in April 2004 and establish whether they’d posted anything that might shed light on what had occurred in Barupra.
Goos went back to poking through Facebook and YouTube. My job, which I didn’t relish, was to create some kind of report to our bosses in The Hague. The idea was to bring our Court supervisors up to date without being especially forthcoming, either about our kidnapping or whom we’d found, news which in both cases was guaranteed to spiral events out of control.
Late in the day, not long after our replacement phones were delivered, I received a call from Attila. She’d tasked one of her Roma employees, who, she said, lived like “a normal person,” to get information on Ferko. The employee had taken the trouble to visit Vo Selo.
“Ferko is totally un-assed,” Attila said. The story from the locals was that within a couple of hours of our visit to Ferko, four police officers had shown up at his house. They made an immediate impression by shooting all of the dogs. According to the one neighbor who had spoken to Ferko, the cops had punched him around until Ferko had coughed up the fact that he was a witness in a case in which we were the lawyers. Ferko swore he’d told us he wanted nothing more to do with us, which further corroborated that Goos and I weren’t looking for Kajevic. Presumably, that was what propelled Nikolai’s commander to run to the water tank to prevent our assassination. Back in Vo Selo, as soon as the cops left, Ferko and his family loaded their four cars with everything they could carry. The neighbor believed they were gone for good.
“Any idea where?” I asked.
“None,” Attila said. “Apparently he took a hammer to his cell phone right there, so no one could track him. I have the number, in case you want to try anyway.”
I went to report all of this to Goos, who was working in the breakfast area. Across from him at the little white table, I dialed the number Attila gave me for Ferko, which produced a long message in the Bosnian dialect of Serbo-Croatian. I handed the device to Goos.
“Not in service?” I asked once he’d clicked off.
“Disconnected.”
“Crap.” The fact that Ferko had run for his life, probably after dealing with Nikolai’s boss and other members of the ex-Arkan gang, did not require explanation, especially for us. But Goos remained baffled about Ferko.
“Here’s where I give it away,” Goos said. “Why’s he tell this story in the first place, not even to mention moving bones around and planting bullets so we think it’s all fair dinkum?”
I wasn’t sure if Goos was being rhetorical.
“You think Esma put him up to the whole act?”
“Why’s he bother, mate, for Esma or anyone else? That’s what I’m saying.”
“Maybe because it actually happened? Maybe he lost some people he cared about and wanted justice done?”
“Does that man with the dogs and the rings strike you as a figure of good citizenship? He’s telling this story, true or not, because there’s something in it for him, but I’ll be stuffed if I know what it is.”
Our conversation, and the riddles about Ferko brought me back to a place I did not want to go: calling Esma. She was the only person we knew who had any connection to Ferko, and we were also obliged to confront her, as an investigative matter, about who her erstwhile client had proven to be. I wanted to hear her say this was all a surprise to her, just to get a sense of whether it was actually true.
The complications for me in approaching Esma showed yet again why we should have kept our private parts private in the first place. My lack of success in sustaining dating relationships had made me fairly practiced about ending them, and I had learned that cold turkey was the only reliable approach. ‘Let’s be friends’ just prolonged the pain for the party more wounded, who took it as a beachhead for hope.
So it was unfair to call Esma. And understandable that she might not pick up. I felt obliged to explain this to Goos, and to apologize. He passed the back of his hand through the air.
“You won’t get a gobful from me, mate, about this. Wouldn’t be many single blokes who wouldn’t crack on to her.”
I didn’t need a translation. I’d acted predictably for any male with an unregistered penis.
Adhering to the ethical proprieties, Goos should have been the one to call Esma. But we both knew I was far more likely to get to the truth, if she was inclined to talk.
I started with the most antiseptic approach, a text: Must speak to you briefly. Business issue. Very sorry to have to be in touch.
She didn’t reply. On Saturday, I tried e-mail. And on Sunday, I finally called, twice in fact, leaving the same message both times. After that, Goos took over, but I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t answer either of us. It was the mess I’d made.