Dan Fesperman - Lie in the Dark

“Like what?”

“Little details from his apartment. More than what you’d just pick up in a few minutes between the sheets. Knew what his wife’s name was. What she and their kids looked like. She’d seen all his pictures from home. Knew what sort of guns he kept. Told us he was an important man with the U.N. Said he was tougher than the others. That if a Chetnik shot at him he’d shoot back, and wouldn’t miss. Not like the ones who just take cover and file a report. It sounded to me like he’d talked a lot of manly bullshit to her and she’d believed it.”

“And now I guess we’ll find out if he has any powers of observation and memory. Whatever the case, you were right to come in. Sometimes it’s the little things that lead to the big ones.”

They went out the door together, and he escorted her to the steps, listening as her heels clicked down to the ground floor, echoing just as sharply as the time before.

He ignored Damir’s questioning gaze as he sat back at his desk, but Damir didn’t take the hint. “So,” he chirped. “Success?”

“Not the sort you have in mind,” Vlado answered.

“But you got a phone number, I hope.”

“Confidential. If you want to reach her you’ll have to walk down to Skenderia. Just make sure to take a carton of Marlboros if you want anything more than conversation.” He felt cheapened by the remark the moment he spoke it, though it certainly seemed to be a hit with Damir. “Besides, don’t you have some work to do?”

“That depends. Where are those new leads you were promising.”

“Yes. These.” Vlado pulled the fax from his satchel. “Here, take a few pages and you can get started right away.”

Damir scanned the Cyrillic writing and his eyes lit up. “Where the hell is this from? Somewhere we don’t belong, that’s for sure.”

“Never mind that. Just oil up your rusty Cyrillic and get reading. It’s a list of paintings, valuable artworks hanging around town, with their last known addresses. We want to know which ones are still here, which ones are missing. Check them one by one, address by address. If the building’s been destroyed, move on to the next one. If the apartment’s been destroyed, ask the neighbors what happened, where the occupants went, then follow up. And if the place is occupied but the painting’s gone, find out when it was taken, and by who, and the official reason given. Get descriptions of whoever they saw, as much detail as you can. With any luck we’ll be on the trail to Vitas’s killer within a day.”

Damir glanced down at the papers, eagerness apparent in his features. “Sooner, if I can help it,” he said. “I’m on my way.” And he bustled out the door, coattails flying like wings.

Left on his own, Vlado picked up the phone, and he was pleased to again hear a dial tone. He thumbed through a U.N. directory and dialed the number for the Skenderia barracks. A man’s voice answered in English with a heavy French accent.

“Yes, this is Inspector Petric from the civil police. I’m trying to reach one of your colonels, only I’m afraid all I have is a first name.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, the battalion’s only got one colonel, and his first name is Alain. Would you like me to connect you?”

Vlado sighed. So much for the delusional ravings of an unstable old prostitute, Vlado thought.

“Never mind, thank you. The colonel I was looking for is named Maurice. I obviously got some bad information.”

“No you didn’t. Just the wrong place. You’re looking for Colonel Maurice Chevard. He was officially posted here with the battalion last year, but he’s assigned to headquarters at the PTT building. Would you like his number?”

“By all means.”

The PTT building housed the headquarters for U.N. Forces, a grim, gray fortress on the west side of town along Sniper Alley, near the turnoff for Dobrinja. It was a precarious location, surrounded by sandbags and sprouting scores of satellite dishes and antennae. In better days it had housed the central telephone company and postal service.

Vlado dialed the number.

“Shipping office,” said a voice with a British accent.

Vlado was so taken aback that for a moment he said nothing.

“Hello?” the voice spoke again.

“Yes. Excuse me. I’ve dialed the wrong number.”

Vlado hung up.

Colonel Chevard worked in the shipping office, which meant he was directly connected to Maybe Airlines, Sarajevo’s main lifeline, and the best way in and out of the city for food, soldiers, and, perhaps, valuable works of art. This put the Little Colonel’s jeep ride in a new light. Or did it? It really wasn’t much of a connection. And he had no idea how many people worked in the shipping office, or how many might have the authorization to make sure a crated piece of art made the next flight out. With the the right combination of payoffs almost anyone might be able to do it, he supposed.

Vlado stood up from his desk and paced the room. He lit a cigarette and mulled his options for a few moments, then sat back down, figuring it had been long enough for whoever answered the first time to forget his voice. He again dialed the number at the PTT Building.

“Shipping office,” answered the same British voice.

“Yes, I’d like to inquire about the possibility of sending a private parcel out on one of your flights. I normally post them through the Jewish Center’s convoys, but this one is a matter of some urgency Perhaps you could tell me how it might be done.”

“It can’t be. Strict policy against it. No exceptions. Sorry.”

And with that he seemed ready to hang up, so Vlado spoke quickly. “Surely there are exceptions. I’m told these things can be done occasionally, even if rarely.”

“Look, mate, I don’t want to get rude with you, but I personally double-check nearly every outgoing manifest, and I can tell you on very solid authority that nothing private, or public either for that matter, ever goes out of here under my approval. My boss would skin me alive if anything ever did, never mind what would happen if the press got hold of it.”

“Might I appeal this. To your boss, perhaps. And I don’t believe I got your name, either.”

Vlado had found that, when dealing with the military or other similar hierarchies, requesting someone’s name nearly always got you nothing less than a referral to the next rung up in the chain of command. As if by giving you their name they were obligated to send you home a satisfied customer, or else risk having to explain away any sort of official complaint you might lodge. He never understood why they didn’t simply refuse to give their name and hang up. Passing the problem on to someone else just seemed to be the accepted way of doing things.

“My name is Maclean, sir. Lieutenant Maclean.”

“Very good lieutenant. And your superior officer.”

“Look, Mr….”

“Jusufovic,” he said, saying the first thing that popped into his head-his wife’s maiden name.

“Mr. Jusufovic. In answer to your original question, there are some rare, quite rare, cases in which we can haul private parcels on our flights, usually only as a special favor to people who have done us special favors in matters of aid operations or supply. And even then it is strictly hush hush, and only as a favor to individuals, and not to the Bosnian government, for obvious reasons of nonpartisanship. If you’re asking for that kind of permission, not only can I not handle it, but you’ll have to make the request in person to my superior. He’s the only one who can say yes, and I can tell you right now that nine times out often he says no.”

“And his name?”

“Colonel Chevard, sir, and the earliest he can see you is next Wednesday. If you don’t mind the advice, sir, he can be a bit prickly. If there’s any way you can make it seem like it’s his idea, you’ll stand a better chance. That’s the way it works with the French, you know. So, shall I schedule an appointment for you next Wednesday, then? Mr. Jusufovic? Are you there? Jesus. All that and the bloody bugger hangs up on me.”