Dan Fesperman - Lie in the Dark

He’d let Toby, a reporter, see the transfer file, and God knew who Toby might have asked about it. He’d blabbed about Glavas to the gossipy director of the national art museum, a man who undoubtedly had his own uses for such information. Then there were his blunt questions to Neven himself, a man looking for a way out of a tight spot, a well-connected man who knew as well as anyone how to use the right sort of information for the right sort of leverage.

Even if Krulic hadn’t already phoned Kasic, by tomorrow morning the entire ministry would be aware of exactly which files Vlado had requested. He couldn’t have drawn attention to his trail any better than if he’d lit a long line of torches in his wake. He’d barged along as if this were any sort of murder in any sort of city.

So where did that leave him, other than vulnerable? He could tell all to Toby; then Toby would get a nice story. Or perhaps Toby would only ask a lot of embarrassing questions and write no story at all, considering that Vlado still had little actual proof. Either way, Vlado would likely end up with a bullet, and Damir as well. And for a panicky moment he wondered if Damir weren’t already dead, stashed in some alley or thrown into the river, having asked one too many sensitive questions, careless if only because Vlado had given him so little to go on.

He could do as Kasic had asked, and turn over the worthless undercover men to the ministry for further questions. But even worthless men working at minor graft have families to support and small mouths to feed, so why sacrifice them? As he stumbled past that thought, his telephone rang.

So, the lines were back up at last. But he was damned if he’d answer it now. With each ring he felt more claustrophobic, as if the air in the room were slowly being consumed by the sound.

He picked up the hunk of meat, stuffing it in his coat pocket, then opened the door. The view was of nothing but mountains, outlined darkly in the pale, washed light of a rising moon that had just broken through the clouds. The graveyard below, out where Glavas and all the others lay beneath their mounds of mud and snow, glowed whitely, with just the hint of a sparkle.

He stepped outside, shutting the door behind him on the ringing telephone, and walked briskly toward the center of town.

Clouds had moved back across the moon by the time he reached the office, and from the look of the sky there would soon be more, further blotting the light on yet another night without electricity. But he was relieved to see that the office generators were up and running, and that everyone on his floor had left for the day. No Garovic to lean over his shoulder. He had just begun to calm his nerves amid the peace and quiet when his phone rang, as if the earlier call had stalked him down the hill.

This time he picked up the receiver.

It was Damir. Hearing the familiar voice sent a wave of relief over him. “Where the hell have you been, Vlado? I’ve been trying everywhere.”

“Was that you ringing my house about twenty minutes ago?”

“You mean you were there? Why didn’t you pick it up?”

“I don’t know. Too skittish. My place had been searched.”

“Mother of God. By who?”

“Kasic’s people, if I had to guess.”

“Mother of God,” he said again, in a lower voice this time. “Vlado, what’s going on with this case?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Too many people in high places with their fingerprints on it. You wouldn’t believe what I found in some files this afternoon. But it’s nothing we should dare discuss over the phone. Suffice it to say that you should trust no one. The further I go the more I wonder if maybe Garovic was right. Maybe I should’ve just left this one alone.”

“Well, unfortunately I’ve got more bad news for you. Some U.N. guy’s been trying like hell to reach you all day. From the moment you left to see Kasic he must have called six times. So frantic he was half out of his mind. I told him he could talk to me just as easily, but he insisted that only you would do. He wanted your home number, but I wouldn’t give it to him. He wanted your address, too, but well, you know I’m not giving him that.”

“What did he want?”

“He wouldn’t say. Wouldn’t leave a name or number, either. But I think he really is U.N. Definitely foreign, anyway.”

“French?”

“British, from the accent. And not your Nescafe man. I memorize voices of people that generous.”

“Maybe he’ll call here.”

“Maybe. But in the meantime he just called me here a few minutes ago.”

“At home?”

“Yes. How the hell he got the number I’d like to find out, but considering some of the women I know, I think I can guess. I don’t like it, Vlado. This Vitas case, we’re going to get ourselves killed. Or stuck in a trench somewhere.”

“What did he say?”

“That he had to get hold of you. Had to meet with you. Now, and not tomorrow. I told him there was nothing I could do to arrange it because I didn’t know where you were, but the only way I could finally get rid of him was by agreeing to reach you at home tonight. For some reason he still can’t seem to get your home number. One of the benefits of your celibacy, I guess.”

“But he wouldn’t leave his own number?”

“Said it was too sensitive, that he can’t have you calling him when the wrong person might answer, not only at his office but wherever he’s living. So all he left was a message. He wants a meeting tonight, with you and you alone. Half an hour after curfew.”

Vlado glanced at his watch.

“Christ, that’s in forty minutes. Where?”

“The end of Dakovica Street. Down by the river. He said it’s then or never. And Vlado?”

“Yes.”

“He said he’s convinced his life is in danger, yours as well. But he wouldn’t say why, or from who.”

“And you’re sure he was British?”

“As far as I could tell.”

“But not French? You’re sure he couldn’t have been French?”

“I’d know a French accent right away. My first woman was French, you know, back during the Olympics. I was only fourteen. You think I’d forget French accents after that? I’m just glad this guy reached me and not Garovic. Can you imagine how nuts he would have gone?”

The mere thought of that possibility, of Garovic spluttering and red in the face, paralyzed by the sheer bureaucratic horror of the moment, was enough for some welcome levity. The two of them shared a laugh over the phone.

Damir slipped into a confiding tone. “Vlado, I know you don’t think of me as much of a policeman.”

“That’s not true.”

Actually, in some ways it was. Not that Damir wasn’t smart, or didn’t have the skills. He just always seemed too interested in women, drink, and a good time to ever make a big investigation work. Vlado conceded to himself that perhaps one reason he’d held back had to do with this as well, not just his promise to Kasic, who’d proven unworthy of such loyalty anyway.

“I’ve just questioned your seriousness at times, that’s all. Your commitment. But you’re young. You’ll outgrow it. And who can learn to be a good investigator with a war on anyway? We’re all too busy saving our own skin.”

“Well, one thing I’m serious about, and that’s backing up my colleagues. know you were always closer to Vasic before the war, that the two of you always worked better together. And I understand that. He had a wife, kids, like you. But Vlado, you shouldn’t go into this one alone. You don’t even know this man’s name and you’re going to go meet him only a block from where Vitas was killed, by the same person for all we know.”

That had occurred to Vlado, and he was relieved at the offer of a backup.