Dan Fesperman - Lie in the Dark

Murovic said this with a note of triumph, as if producing the answer to a trick question for an especially dense pupil. A flush of self-congratulatory pride bloomed across his face.

“Belgrade?” Vlado said. He had to admit, he’d been taken by surprise.

This seemed to explain Vitas’ remark to Glavas that the file was-how had he put it? “in safe hands in unsafe surroundings.”

“So,” Vlado said, “Then you do have the files, or at least a copy.”

“Not for another month. As you can imagine, Belgrade hasn’t exactly been eager to cooperate with the newly independent Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina, whose existence it doesn’t even recognize, though from what I hear these files are quite a matter of public record to students or art historians. Just about anyone could probably come in off the street, and if we wanted to be backhanded about it there are people we could send in to copy it out by hand and smuggle us the result. Perhaps I was naive, but I wanted to do things aboveboard. The war won’t last forever, and someday we’ll need to work with those people again. So I decided to first make a good faith effort through the proper international channels.”

“The U.N.?”

“Yes. UNESCO. Belgrade finally agreed, and on February fifteenth a copy of the documents will be shipped via a UNESCO courier.”

“That’s another month. Why the delay?”

“That’s when UNESCO’s grant takes effect. It’s preservation money especially earmarked for Sarajevo. Their man can’t so much as requisition a paperclip, much less book his trains and flights, until the moment the money’s officially available. Then he’s off for Belgrade. And I must say, it will be a relief. For months we’d been figuring we’d eventually have to do it the hard way, by consulting the old timers, Milan included, to try to piece everything together from snatches of tired old memories.”

“Why not do some of that anyway, at least for a few of the more valuable pieces. There are bound to be some that would spring to mind quite readily. Glavas seems to think he could put together quite a bit of it, if he had the time and inclination, and maybe a little help.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt that he does. It sounds like something Milan would claim. A charming man in his own way, really, and full of arcane knowledge, old lore that can be quite engaging when he gets rolling on some story, as long as you have the energy to shut him off. But far less knowledge, I’m afraid, than he’d have us all believe. I think if you were to take him up on his offer you’d come back a few hours later to find him with a few blank sheets of paper and an ashtray full of butts, from your own cigarettes, of course.”

“In fact I have taken him up on his offer. And you’re probably right about the ashtray. We’ll see about the blank pages. But when UNESCO gets here with the copies, I’d like a look, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, but what’s the need? I’m sure with Milan working for you you’ll already have everything you need by then.” He burst into laughter, the sort of venomous chuckle best suited for the corners of cocktail parties and small, chic restaurants.

He guided Vlado toward the door.

“Mind the gunfire today,” he admonished. “Please give Milan my regards. And try not to be too harsh with him when he comes up short.”

He hadn’t asked a single question yet about how Glavas was doing, Vlado noted. Not one query about the old man’s health or safety out in Dobrinja. War had consumed half the city, but it didn’t mean you still couldn’t get caught up in all the old pettiness of peacetime.

But Vlado had at least gained two important pieces of information. The transfer files would be back in hand in another month, meaning if artwork was still being smuggled out of the country, the smugglers probably knew they were working against a deadline, and might be inclined to either sloppiness or desperation.

He’d also learned that Neven Halilovic would be worth talking to, provided he was alive and would open his mouth. Kasic would know where to find him. Perhaps Damir would as well, with all the clubs and coffee bars he frequented.

But Goran Filipovic would know, too.

Goran was a friend of Vlado’s who had spent the first year of the war as an officer in the Croatian brigade. The unit had been disbanded by nervous government officials once Croat-Muslim fighting began in Mostar and central Bosnia. Its soldiers were dispersed into other units, absorbing the Croat threat into the Muslim majority, although the brigade still defiantly kept a small headquarters on the western edge of downtown, a dingy office in an abandoned pizzeria, with the checkerboard Croatian coat of arms flying on a flag out front.

Goran had seized the opportunity to bow out of the army altogether, citing a shrapnel wound to his right leg. It had left him with a limp that worsened at the approach of any superior officer, and somehow no one had ever questioned whether he was still fit for combat.

He’d then pooled the prewar Deutschemark savings of his in-laws and two old aunts to open a small cafe in a low-slung, well-protected building in the city center. He timed it perfectly, opening just as people began seeking night life again, realizing they’d either have to begin imitating the rhythms of a normal life or go crazy in their cellars. The cafe went over so well that he then opened a small cinema in a room across the hallway, stretching a large sheet across the wall at one end for a screen, and rounding up eighty mismatched folding chairs for seating.

Doing any sort of business these days, especially any successful business, inevitably put one into contact with the people running the rackets and black markets, and Goran had used his vantage point and his army contacts to make himself an informal expert on all the various rivalries and relationships. He’d sniffed out the likelihood of the November raid three days before it occurred, and could tell you on any given week who was up, who was down, and who had better be looking for a way out of the city. Through all this he’d developed a knack for knowing when it was okay to keep gossiping and when it was time to stop asking questions, and he knew better than to ever ask for anything more than his own meager piece of the action, just enough to keep his bar and his theater up and running. It was bad enough owing these people money. The last thing you wanted to owe them was a favor.

Nowadays you could usually find him either tending bar or next door in an office across the hall that adjoined the theater, a cramped place smelling of gasoline and throbbing with the pulse of the two generators that kept his business empire going from inside a small closet. He was almost invariably hunched over a computer keyboard, using special software to type subtitles onto the latest videotape he’d managed to smuggle in via a friendly journalist or aid worker. He now had enough extra titles in stock to print up a small schedule covering the next month of showings, and his efforts at marketing and posting signboards around town had paid off. Except on days of heavy shelling the theater was usually a packed house, even at the princely sum of a D-mark a head.

He and Vlado still drank together every now and then, a few beers rather than plum brandy, just enough to work up a belch or two and make the week’s memories shimmer and slide, enough to feel light-headed all the way home, then sink deeply into a yeasty slumber.

Vlado checked first in the cafe, opening the door onto an atmosphere of smoke and noise so thick it seemed he’d have to shove his way through. He scanned the room, every table full, maybe forty people in all. It was only 4:30, but with a 9 p.m. curfew, night life, such as it was, began with the first sign of dusk. The conversation was loud and boisterous. There wasn’t a soul in the place without a cigarette, but Vlado could see only four who’d actually bought a drink-two with beers, two with coffee. The guitars and vocals of an old Yugoslav rock band, No Smoking, blared from giant speakers in each corner. The group had been popular before the war. Now they were disbanded, and the lead singer was in Belgrade. No one here seemed to mind.