“Because Laza Kajevic wanted to kill them. He’d sworn revenge on them after the firefight in Doboj. They would always be in mortal danger as long as Kajevic remained at large.”
A surprised sound escaped me, although now that Merry said it, I realized I should have put that together on my own. That was why people who’d been AWOL for the last eleven years were suddenly out in the open.
“Attila’s explanation made some sense, Boom. But certainly, under the circumstances, it wasn’t my secret to tell you. Nor was it my right to put those people at risk. I did my best to lead you to the NATO records, thinking they’d provide you some clues. Once I saw those aerial surveillance photos, I admit I got a sinking feeling. I hoped Attila had some role in moving those people. It was possible, of course, that she had lied to me, and the Gypsies in the pictures were instants away from their deaths. But I could never make myself believe that.”
“You didn’t ask Attila?”
“I learned a long time ago, Boom, that when it came to the intelligence services and the civilian contractors, I was very much ‘need to know.’ I stayed between the lines. And, by contrast, I never discussed the materials I turned over to you with Attila. It was your job to get to the bottom of all that, not mine.”
I understood the eyes-forward mentality, but I didn’t really approve when the question Merriwell avoided asking Attila was, Did you commit a crime against humanity? But his logic was that there was nothing to gain. If Attila said no, Merry would still be unsure whether she was speaking the truth. And even worse, what would Merriwell do if his former top NCO answered yes?
“And what about my witness, Ferko? Any idea what he was up to? Was he protecting the people of Barupra by testifying they were dead?”
“Same answer: I never asked. My assumption was that his testimony was a contrivance of Ms. Czarni’s, but your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he was being heroic.”
Lawyers and judges, who placed a sacred weight on testimony, seldom saw perjury in that light. And as Goos and I had acknowledged, it was hard to conceive of the man we met in Vo Selo, with his little castle and a ring on each finger, as a bold protector of his people. But perhaps. What had Merriwell said? With their need to live in an ever-changing present, the Gypsies don’t really see it as lying anyway.
I closed my eyes again to concentrate and conjure up my remaining questions. I’d made notes on the plane, but it didn’t seem sporting to take them out.
“And in 2004, what did you understand about the Roma’s role regarding Kajevic?”
“Less than you seem to think. I knew that the Roma had provided the intelligence on Kajevic’s whereabouts. My information was that they sold his people black-market goods—car parts, something like that—and recognized only later whom they’d been dealing with. But even after our soldiers were killed and wounded, I didn’t know that the Roma had stolen the weapons or sold them to Kajevic. I admit, Boom, that those arms were a sensitive issue that we didn’t want the press or Congress to explore for fear of where it would lead. But, as you point out, the identity of the thieves was not central to that concern.”
“So who did you think stole the weapons?”
“I’d been told at the time that those trucks had been hot-wired in the middle of the night by thieves who escaped unseen. Because of other information, Army Intelligence formed a theory that the thieves were jihadis who wanted to get the guns to the Middle East. That’s why we were so unprepared for the firepower Kajevic had acquired. I left for Iraq two days after the raid, when no one yet had an explanation for how Kajevic got his hands on the weapons—or the trucks, for that matter.”
“When did you learn about the Roma’s role in that?”
“I think it was 2007 when Ms. Czarni showed up in Bosnia. Attila told Roger, and Roger told me, that the disappearance of the Roma had some relationship to the weapons Kajevic used. Again, I didn’t ask for details.”
I took a second again to piece things through. In the interval, Merriwell hiked across the room to speak to his assistant on the phone. I could tell that his next meeting was ready to start. I promised him not to be much longer, but he took the time to refresh our coffees from a black plastic Thermos before he resumed his seat in his leather chair.
I asked the question I’d been saving for last.
“Any chance Attila sold the weapons to Kajevic?”
Merriwell did me the favor of briefly reflecting on the possibility before shaking his head emphatically.
“Her behavior has been a bit odd. I imagine you could see that I was surprised when you thanked me at your ex-wife’s house for encouraging Attila to assist you. The day before that, she’d been on the phone, raising her voice with me and insisting I was crazy to turn the NATO records over to you. And she was very put out when I told her that I couldn’t describe the documents. Attila hates no answer more than, I can’t tell you. But selling weapons to Kajevic? There isn’t money enough to make Attila Doby betray her country or our soldiers.”
“She’s back in the US apparently,” I said. “Do you have her address?”
“I’m sure.” Merriwell crossed the office again—he really needed a backpack and a walking stick in here to go end to end—and eventually phoned one of his assistants, who, he said, would provide me with all of Attila’s domestic contact information on my way out.
At the door, Merry again offered his hand. I remained impressed by how hale and confident he looked with his summer tan. He was a complicated guy, like most of us. But I felt he’d told me the truth today. For the most part, he always had, at least about what concerned me: There was no massacre.
“I hope you will stay in touch, Boom. I still look back on that dinner we had as a transformative moment in my life.”
“I take no credit.”
“You gave me hope,” he said. “Which was borne out. You’ll have to come to dinner again to take a look at my place next time you’re in town. Jamie’s redecorating. I’m sure you saw that it needed it.”
I could feel my face fall.
“Oh.” Merriwell smiled hugely when he saw my expression. It was probably the most amused I’d ever seen him, grinning broadly enough to reveal a lot of gum recession. “I guess the American gossip rags don’t reach The Hague.”
“I don’t keep track of them, that’s for sure.”
“Jamie’s come back to me.” He was referring to Major St. John. “She left Rick. I would never have had the courage to reach out again were it not for you.”
I shook his hand once more, and on my way out accepted a piece of paper from Merriwell’s assistant, but I remained dazed. I could not imagine what Merriwell heard in my advice to move on that he reinterpreted to fit his own needs. But he had what he wanted, at least for a while. I had told him, ‘Stay happy,’ as I departed, but I left feeling the man was probably doomed.
35.
Foreign Voices—July 10–11
I stayed overnight in DC at the Huntington and managed to reach college friends, Melvin and Milly Hunter, for dinner. The Hunters—he was black and she was white—were both physicians, Milly an ENT and Melvin an oncologist. We talked mostly about our kids, but the subject turned to race, everything from Obama through Michael Brown. When I first met Melvin, he did not like to mention in public that he was black, but he seemed increasingly desperate about how inescapable color was in America, particularly for their kids, whom they’d idealistically brought up to check ‘Other’ on forms asking about race.