Dan Fesperman - Lie in the Dark

“Captain Morris,” Kasic boomed. “Visiting us again, I see.”

Morris, stooped over an open file drawer, replied by glancing up from his labors with an unintelligible grunt. But the cool reception didn’t deter Kasic.

“This is Inspector Petric, Mr. Morris, though perhaps I don’t need to introduce you. He’s the man called in from the outside to handle the Esmir Vitas investigation, of course. I invited him in for a briefing, and you’ll be pleased to know that in no uncertain terms he told me it was none of my business. I grudgingly must agree.”

Morris was staring back now, seeming annoyed and more than a bit puzzled. To Vlado it was plainly apparent he didn’t know anything about either Vitas or the investigation, and cared less. He was probably only running an errand for someone else, searching the files for some bit of minutiae to be plugged into a thick report no one would ever read. Kasic seemed not to notice. He was too intent on completing his clumsy bit of theater.

“I hope you don’t mind for a moment if he joins you in your browsing.” Kasic then turned grandly toward the clerk and said, “Whatever files he needs, Krulic,” but by then Morris had bowed back to his work with another grunt. Vlado felt almost embarrassed for this hammy performance, but it had at least served an important purpose, whether Kasic realized it or not.

As Krulic hurried off to retrieve the Vitas personnel file, Kasic leaned low once more to whisper in Vlado’s ear, and when he spoke it became clear he’d developed a counterattack to Vlado’s strategy. “Don’t forget my offer of help, Vlado. Use our manpower, our expertise. If you feel that our undercover people haven’t been completely forthcoming, perhaps we can persuade them to be more accommodating.

“But whatever you do,” he said, his tone carrying a sudden hint of steel, “don’t sit too long on your information. This fellow Morris has been down here three days running. They may be playing chummy with you, but we’re not feeling that way with them at all. So if you’re worried about tying up every loose end before making any moves, then don’t.”

“What are you saying, exactly?”

“That neatness is not a major concern. That speed is everything. That even accuracy, or getting exactly the right man, may not be the most important thing, as long as we get somebody from this city’s collection of lowlifes, the faster the better. Better for all of us, Vlado. For the ministry, for the country. And don’t forget your own welfare in all this.”

He gripped Vlado’s shoulder and smiled, now drilling him with those brown eyes that could look warm and liquid one minute, cold and metallic the next. Was this last comment a job offer or a threat? Vlado wondered.

“Good hunting, then,” Kasic announced to the room. He leaned toward Vlado, whispering, “But, please, old son, don’t stay in the field too long by yourself. It’s dangerous out there. Pick your shots soon. Aim wisely.”

Vlado was no longer embarrassed for him. Perhaps he had underestimated Kasic. Krulic returned with the Vitas personnel file, but Vlado knew from previous inspection there’d be nothing helpful inside. What he really wanted to see would take a bit more doing, but with any luck Kasic had unwittingly provided the key. After a few minutes of shuffling through the papers for show, Vlado returned the file and said, “And now, while you’re at it, I’d also like to see the files for the October raid.”

Krulic looked up with a start. “You’ll need approval from upstairs for that one,” he answered immediately. He’d been well trained in saying no, and now that Kasic had left for the day he’d reverted to his natural state as a slothful, chain-smoking civil servant in the best tradition of the Tito era, reluctant to react to anything other than the urge for nicotine, caffeine, or undeserved promotion.

“You heard Kasic,” Vlado said, speaking a bit louder. “I’m to have access to anything I want. What more approval do you need than the head of the department.”

This time Morris was a more attentive audience, straightening to listen in. Now it was Krulic who was unimpressed. “Sorry. Permission has to be in writing. It’s the rule.”

The rules. Always the last line of defense for entrenched laziness. But Vlado had a final round of artillery.

“Very well. I’ll have someone sent out to disturb Mr. Kasic, who has just gone to the presidency for an important meeting. We can have the meeting interrupted and he can be called into the hall, which I’m sure will cause some embarrassment. Then he’ll have to come back into the office so he can sign the proper forms, of course, because the rules won’t allow him to simply send a note. And he’ll no doubt be grateful that you were so diligent in following the rules to the last letter even after he’d made his own wishes so clear only moments before he left.”

It was a direct hit. Krulic held firm for only a moment, then beat a retreat. He slouched off to retrieve the file without another word. Morris ducked back into his drawer, and Vlado allowed himself a small smile of triumph.

Although the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina was the world’s newest country, and among the smallest, its government had already amassed a pile of records worthy of a nation ten times its size and age. Some were simply left over from the volumnious documentation of Yugoslavia, but in the previous two years local officials had zealously built upon these foundations. They’d fallen back on the old rule of thumb that the more paperwork your department generated, the more important it must be, and after two years of war neither death nor distraction had deterred their zeal.

Likewise, if you were preparing to mount an important law-enforcement operation, one of the final measures of its magnitude would be the volume of its paperwork. For that reason, Vlado had great expectations for the file on the October raid, and as Krulic dropped a thick folder heavily onto the counter he saw that he would not be disappointed.

He took the bundle to a nearby table and settled in for a long spell of reading. The file told its story in the dry, sterile jargon of police bureaucrats and interoffice memos. But as Vlado made his way through the requisitions, organizational charts, duty lists, assignment orders, mission goals, and sweeping policy statements, he began to acquire a feel not only for the operation, but for the atmosphere that must have existed within the department at the time.

The mood had been grim, a feeling of being under siege by the wild and increasingly bold tactics of the gangs and their warlords. The handiwork of Vitas was apparent in much of the paperwork, and Vlado could sense the way in which he had attempted to shut down all leaks and conduits of information to the outside, so that after a great period of apparent quiet the Ministry would be able to strike with the suddenness of a cat from a dark corner, with all claws bared.

There were forms upon forms, and stacks of signed orders and authorizations, some of which had gone straight from Vitas to the Interior Minister and onward to the President’s office.

There were guarantees of cooperation from the local army corps, a pledge of help from the military police. Vitas had gone to a great deal of trouble to secure the partnership of others who would share in the blame if things went wrong. Yet he had also taken pains to retain the authority necessary for claiming the lion’s share of credit for a success.

With all this activity, of course, it would have been virtually impossible to have kept the brewing operation a secret, no matter how much Vitas clamped down. The gangs had obviously realized they were in for a fight, although according to Neven they’d been surprised by both its ferocity and its timing. Either their sources within the Ministry had failed the gangs by lack of vigilance or had intentionally left the gangs in the dark, for reasons of their own.