Dan Fesperman - Lie in the Dark

Besides, even if spreading the information further was a risk, there was a certain safety in numbers that resulted from keeping Damir better informed. If he knew what to look out for, he’d be more adept at watching Vlado’s back, not to mention his own.

“It’s Kasic,” Vlado finally said. “He made me promise. To keep it all close to the vest.”

Damir said nothing. True or not, it was obvious this explanation wasn’t sufficient either, and Vlado understood. After two years of watching the Ministry shut them out of the biggest cases in the city, they finally had their piece of the action, but Vlado was keeping it all for himself.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Vlado said. “I promise. And I’ll tell you more. As much detail as I can. It’s probably time you knew anyway, if I get the leads I’m hoping for from Dobrinja.”

He knew he would have to come up with a way to at least honor the spirit of his pledge to Kasic without further wounding his partner’s ego. And, who knows, a better informed Damir might even help turn the tide. But all that would have to wait until early evening. Vlado had gotten a late start and needed to catch up.

But he decided to make the first small offering of information, a morsel to at least convince Damir his heart was in the right place.

“The old man in Dobrinja thinks this is all about art, smuggling it out of the country.”

Damir looked wide eyed, obviously mollified. “Oh, but I almost forgot,” he said, scrambling to open his notebook. “Your Nescafe man called this morning.”

It took a moment for Vlado to realize he must have meant Toby, the British journalist.

“He says your package has arrived. And if that means more coffee, then I hope you won’t forget your friends. Anyhow, he said you’d better get a move on. Seems he’s bursting with curiosity.”

That was the last thing Vlado needed, some reporter asking questions all over town about a copy of the transfer file. He dreaded the idea of another long walk so soon after slogging back from Zuc, but decided he’d better get over to the Holiday Inn.

Toby was in a bright and frisky mood, scrubbed and clean-shaven by the Holiday Inns private supply of running water.

The thought only made Vlado feel dirtier and more worn out, with an edge of grouchiness. Or maybe it had something to do with where he’d spent the night. He thought for a moment of the teenage boy with a girlfriend, and wondered what he was up to about now. Probably cuddled with her somewhere away from their parents, nuzzled against the warmth of a smooth, womanly neck. Telling her about the boy with the radio, of the way his face had disappeared with a wet, smacking sound and a burst of red mist, or not talking about it at all, but holding it inside, down deep where no one would ever reach it.

“So, you’re some sort of art lover, I take it,” Toby said, grinning, waving a stack of fax paper in his right hand.

Vlado could see that the writing was in Cyrillic, alphabet of Serbs and Russians, and wondered how much, if any, Toby was able to decipher. Toby seemed to sense his concern.

“Couldn’t resist having my interpreter take a look at it,” Toby said.

God only knew who that was, Vlado thought, remembering the disreputable-looking bunch that hung out by the hotel’s rear entrance.

“He says it’s nothing but museum stuff, items stored around here. You doing art thefts now? Or is this something private, something on the side?”

“Please,” Vlado said, feeling too tired to fend off such eager interest. “You mustn’t ask anyone else about this. No one. It is a most sensitive matter, even dangerous.”

Toby’s face went solemn and grave.

“No. ’Course not. Don’t worry, I know you’ll clue me in as soon as you can. In the meantime,” he said, stooping toward his big bag, “you look like you could use some more of this.”

It was another jar of Nescafe.

I’d rather not, Vlado thought, but his mouth never uttered the words, and his right hand reached for the jar.

He had no illusions about how Toby viewed these transactions. Each donation was a further claim on Vlado’s loyalty, a down payment on whatever police secrets might eventually be in the offing. And there had better be some soon, he seemed to be saying, or he’d go off seeking his own interpretations of the facts at hand. For all Vlado knew Toby had made his own copy of the list. Vlado should have known better than to trust a journalist to be a courier of sensitive information. It was like asking an alcoholic to bring you a bottle of wine. But with the scarcity of fax machines and international phone lines he’d had little choice.

“Thank you. It’s most generous,” Vlado said.

“Like I said. Comes with the business. Almost routine giving away this stuff by now. And I don’t come here half as loaded as some of the blokes you see. Whiskey, cigarettes, sugar, chocolate. Christ, it’s all they can do to fly in with a bar of soap and clean underwear and still make the U.N. weight limit. Sarajevo baksheesh.”

Yes, thought Vlado. Another way to keep the wogs talking into the cameras and tape recorders. But as long as Toby was feeling so generous this morning, why not keep him occupied a while longer. Undoubtedly he’d have a car, or access to one, and Vlado needed a ride to Dobrinja to run through the file with Glavas. By the look of it Bogdan had managed to fax details of more than a hundred items.

“Would you be interested in making a little trip over to Dobrinja this morning?” he asked Toby. “We’re a little short on official vehicles, and there’s someone I need to see. It will only take a few minutes.”

Toby thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not. Not doing anything this afternoon but sitting on my ass, trying to follow up this morning’s briefing with a few phone calls, and the lines have been down for an hour. Haven’t been to Dobrinja in a while anyway. Always an adventure. And there’s nothing doing here until the Serbs let fly with their New Year’s bash tomorrow night. The way things are going it’s all the fireworks we’ll get around here for a while. Christ but it’s been bloody slow.”

Vlado wondered if Toby would be talking this way to just anybody in the city, to a grieving mother and child in some gloomy apartment, for instance; so open in his disdain for the war’s sluggishness, its lack of media savvy. Somehow he didn’t think so. For them he’d have his game face on, uttering sympathetic banalities to coax a few more quotes. But something about Vlado’s being a policeman had made Toby drop the pretense, as if he were only hanging out with colleagues. Cops and reporters, Vlado mused, love-hate partners in the weary fraternity of those who’d seen too much.

They made the trip in an armored car, with large blue stickers plastered on either door proclaiming The Evening Standard in Gothic lettering. Vlado was impressed by the heaviness and security of the car. The back was stuffed with rattling jerrycans and cardboard boxes filled with food, notebooks, and dirty clothes. He told Toby it was a nice feeling to be bulletproof for a change.

“Grenade-proof, too. Or practically. Some Swedes driving one of these the other day took an RPG round, not a direct hit but damn near. All it did was knock them around a little. Broke a few ribs driving into a ditch but otherwise okay.

“Had a close call myself once. Out front of the Holiday Inn. Colleague didn’t shut his door proper, and when I swerved onto the road it flew wide open on the wrong side. Snipers must have been up there saying, ‘Well, we’ll bag us one now,’ and before I could even turn her around and shut the door three shots were pinging all around us. Didn’t think anything more of it until we were filling her up with gas the next day. The petrol tank leaked joyously. A ricochet from the street must’ve bounced right up into her. Now I can’t fill it more than two-thirds. A few inches lower and we’d have gone up in smoke. That was two weeks ago, and I still haven’t gotten her fixed. And, Christ, the way they gouge you for repairs around here maybe I never will. For all I know they make a wax mold of your keys while they’re at it.