Authors: Dan Fesperman
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Spies & Politics, #Espionage, #Suspense, #Contemporary Fiction, #Thrillers
Lie in the Dark (41 page)
“What messages do you bring from my son?” she asked.
“I can only tell you that he is well,” he said, swallowing hard. “He gives you his best. He speaks of you often.”
It was exactly what she’d wanted to hear, and she smiled broadly. So far, so good.
“And he will be coming soon for a visit?”
Vlado looked down at the table. “Yes,” he answered, barely audible. “Yes, soon.” He looked back up into her beaming face. Her eyes glittered, but her gaze was slightly off center, just as it had been during his visit to this same room years before, as if she were sneaking a look at something over his shoulder.
“He wanted to come this time,” Vlado said. “But his work made it impossible. So he said I was to come instead.” He weighed his next words, feeling it was important to phrase them just right. “He said that I was to check the house thoroughly, to see if anything needed fixing. He said I was to attend to all the business that he usually attends to.”
She seemed to brighten, to change expression, as if his words had unlocked some door. “Ah,” she said. “You will want to see his things, then. To check on his things. It is always the first thing he does after tea.”
“Yes. Of course.”
She smiled, seemingly happy to have gotten it right. Then they drank their tea, smiled at each other some more, and it was time. Vlado rose to his feet.
“Where should I begin?” he asked.
“In the cellar, of course,” she said briskly, as if dealing with a dolt. “It is where all his things are.”
Vlado weaved slightly as he stood. The sugar was just beginning to flare into his bloodstream, crawling like a slow lightning. The basement door was in the kitchen, with a full box of candles and matches on a facing countertop. He lit one and stepped carefully down the steep, narrow steps, shielding the flame with his left hand.
Cobwebs clung to his face, and from below he heard the skittering of mice, perhaps something larger, running for cover at the approach of his candle. This would indeed be a popular place with rodents, he imagined, probably the only house on the block with heating and a full pantry.
And down here in the cellar? He turned one way and saw an old coal furnace, still and cold. Even Vitas and all his connections hadn’t been able to provide that precious commodity. Across another wall were old tools, thick with dust and cobwebs, and Vlado began to despair of finding anything at all.
He stepped off in the next direction, and as he reached the far corner the light revealed two items that made his heart soar. Here, at last, were Vitas’s “things,” as his mother had put it. Although Vitas doubtless would have described them as evidence, the sort that one might collect from the captured headquarters of a warlord mobster.
One item was two small, wooden file drawers, the sort one finds in libraries and archives, and it was filled from front to back with index cards. Vlado flipped through a few and saw they were just as Glavas had described them, right down to his initials, scribbled at the bottom of each. There were hundreds, which meant that it must be about complete. This, at last, was the transfer file.
The other item was a wooden crate, about eight feet high, six feet across, and two feet deep, marked with a blue #96 at the top, just as it had been listed on the inventory forms in the ministry’s records.
He’d have to hand it to them, they took good care of their art work when they moved it out of the country. Crated to museum specifications no doubt. It probably would have been easy enough to learn just how from an idiot like Murovic.
Vlado wondered idly what sort of painting must be inside, but had neither the time nor the tools to find out. Of greater interest was the blue-and-white invoice sealed beneath a sheet of plastic across the outside.
It was a U.N. shipping form, cleared for transit to Frankfurt, addressed to the care of a Branko Jusic, doubtless their expatriated connection with his own ties to the shadowy edges of the art market, their dealer to the rest of the world. The Frankfurt destination meant it had a place on the American cargo flight that flew first thing every morning, four hours direct from Sarajevo to Frankfurt, local conditions permitting.
At the bottom of the invoice was the authorization signature, and it was no surprise to see that the order had come straight from the top:
Col. Maurice Chevard,
the signature a bit reckless, with a typical French overdose of dash and style. Vlado peeled off the form and placed it on the floor next to the candle.
Col. Maurice Chevard,
the signature a bit reckless, with a typical French overdose of dash and style. Vlado peeled off the form and placed it on the floor next to the candle.
He flipped again through the file drawers, and as he did so, the Orthodox New Year began. It was midnight. In a few moments the bombardment was proceeding in earnest. He paused for a moment to listen. It must be quite a sight, he thought, the red tracers arching into the night, the shellbursts that looked pretty as long as you didn’t bother to consider what happened afterward. He wondered for a moment what Mrs. Vitas must be doing upstairs, what she must make of all this. There was no movement on the floorboards, and he imagined her sitting placidly by the fire, its lights dancing in her vacant eyes. He pictured Vitas himself seated on the couch, all those visits with their tea and idle chat, probably mostly about schooldays, with no talk of war or death. Or, more likely, Vitas himself had never come at all, had only sent supplies and these items in the basement via trusted intermediaries. Trusted only because they were well paid.
Vitas himself might have appeared only in the form of a letter, a note on one of those sheets of cream-colored bond. But in his mother’s mind, that had been enough, as good as a visit.
Vlado thumbed through the cards, finding that many had been roughly check-marked, perhaps denoting the items that had already been shipped. By rough calculation, totaling the assessed value for each such item, he figured that about eight million dollars worth of art must have been moved by now. Even accounting for the cut rates of the black market in stolen art, it was a lucrative venture, and, from the number of unchecked cards, was still continuing, courtesy of Markovic’s own list, probably at a brisker pace than ever considering the approaching UNESCO deadline. He wondered what Murovic would think when he began to find all of his precious pieces missing, if he’d feel at all betrayed by his old pals.
As he looked again at the crate, he pondered the magnitude of what Vitas had accomplished. He must have moved heaven and earth to get these out of the ministry’s property room and across the river. He must have known as soon as he’d seen the items at Zarko’s headquarters exactly what they signified. For all Vlado knew, that might even have been what precipitated the raid. No wonder Kasic had done all he could to ensure that Zarko would be silenced. It would have solved his problem even as he enlarged his own cut of the profits. He’d then managed to rub out most of the paper trail that connected him to the deed, though he’d trusted too greatly in a small bit of correction fluid.
Vitas’s only miscalculation had been concerning his own safety, and now his mother would pay the price as well.
Vlado found nothing further in his search of the room. He used rolls of U.N. tape and plastic, left by whoever had covered the broken windows, to bundle up about fifty of the cards from the file box, taking care to include several that had been check-marked and some that hadn’t. He also wrapped the invoice, taping both bundles several times to ensure they’d stay waterproof, then stuffed them into his satchel before covering it, too, with tape and plastic.
Then he headed back up the steps, blowing out the candle as he reemerged into the light at the top.
She was still seated on the couch, fully awake. But now she looked at him in a slightly different way, as if pleasantly surprised to see anyone at all emerging from her cellar.
“I know you,” she said suddenly. “You’re Vlado. You’ve forgotten your knapsack. You left it at our place in the mountains last night. Husayn speaks of you often,” she said.
It was the name of Esmir’s younger brother, killed a year ago.
“He is a good friend of yours, isn’t he?” she said.
“Yes, he is.”
“When you see him, tell him to come home,” she said, in a tone more admonishing than pleading. “It is time for him to come home.” Her expression became stern, that of a mother scolding her boys as they strolled up toward the front steps, long overdue for dinner.
“Esmir too,” she said. “It is time for both of my boys to come home.”
“Yes,” Vlado said again, at a loss for any other words. He’d hoped to make his way up to Esmir’s old room, to rummage around for some dry clothes, but he saw now it would be best just to leave. He’d make do with what he had.
“I’d better go now, then,” he said, “if I’m to see your sons.”
“Yes,” she said in a drifting tone. “We’ll look for your knapsack later. But would you like some tea first? Esmir always has tea first.”
“No. I’m afraid I have to go now.”
He edged toward the door, half expecting her to try to stop him, or to implore him to go and find her sons immediately. He feared she would cry. But her expression was as blank as when she’d first laid eyes on him.
“Esmir wanted me to tell you one more thing,” Vlado said. “He said that it is safer now outside, but only early in the mornings, and that tomorrow morning he would like you to go and see your neighbors, to get in touch with your friends again. To let them know you are all right.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “My friends. Yes. I’ll have them over.”
Vlado wasn’t certain if such people even existed anymore, except in her own imagination.
“You must ask them for food, or firewood, if you run low,” Vlado said. “Esmir may not be able to provide any for a while.”
“My son provides all of that. He’s an important boy at his school. You know him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Vlado said. “Yes, I know him.”
He opened the door, glancing quickly in both directions to make sure no one was in the streets. A few shots still spattered in the hills, but the whole block seemed empty. Not a single light was on except in this house. He turned to say good-bye.
“Thank you for everything,” he said, but she seemed not to have heard him.
“Tell them to come soon,” she said, scolding now. “Tell my boys.”
He backed down the steps and strolled away, heading in the direction he’d come from. He looked back only once, just in time to see her shutting the door, a smile of satisfaction on her face.
CHAPTER 20
T
he only way back was the way he’d come, so Vlado set out for the sewer grate four blocks away, keeping to the edge of the streets and trying to walk lightly, although by now he felt almost invisible, indestructible.
he only way back was the way he’d come, so Vlado set out for the sewer grate four blocks away, keeping to the edge of the streets and trying to walk lightly, although by now he felt almost invisible, indestructible.
Those feelings vanished a block short of his destination, when a voice called to him from behind.
“Halt! Military police. Please be prepared to show your identification papers. You are in violation of the curfew.”
Heavy shoes clopped toward him, and Vlado turned to see the vague outline of a man far up the block. He hadn’t even heard the policeman, and Vlado cursed his carelessness. He debated whether to try to brazen it out, to state indignantly that he, too, was a policeman, then flash his badge in hopes this fellow wouldn’t notice the distinctive blue-and-white seal of Bosnia-Herzegovina, or the absence of the double-headed eagle that the Serbs used on all their official papers.
It was too risky, the differences too obvious, and he edged slowly backward. Perhaps in the darkness the policeman wouldn’t notice his progress toward the next intersection, ten yards away.
“Halt, I said.”
A flashlight beam swept the street, tunneling a path straight toward Vlado. It was now or never, and he darted for the corner. As he did there was a sudden burst of footsteps and another shout, and then nothing. Either too lazy to run or stopping to shoulder his automatic weapon, Vlado figured.
Vlado had a thirty yard head start and was around the corner, now only half a block from the grate. Getting it open would eat up the difference, though. He’d have to try to shake the policeman first, if the policeman was indeed still in pursuit.
Vlado ducked into a doorway, vaulting the three steps to the door and trying the handle. It was locked. He crouched in a corner of the landing, hoping that would be enough to conceal him. The policeman’s footsteps clattered around the corner. There was no flashlight now, which probably meant he was holding the gun with both hands. The footsteps stopped, then the light again flicked on, sweeping the streets. It swiveled from left to right, slowly. Then a second time, slower still. The policeman stepped forward, still moving the light, two steps, three, then a fourth, which put him even with Vlado’s doorway, no more than ten feet away The policeman was still breathing hard from his run, the vapors clouding into the night. Vlado thought he could smell slivovitz. Good. The drunker the better. The policeman cursed, snaking the light wildly at windows and doorways. He flicked off the beam, turned, and walked back the way he’d come, muttering something about “goddamn kids” as he stepped noisily around the corner.
Five minutes later Vlado was prying open the grate of the storm sewer and stepping back into the shallow water. An hour later he’d fought his way back through the razor wire and was staring out the end of the tunnel into the river. Both banks seemed quiet. It wouldn’t do to head onto the streets here, though. He dropped back into the river, sliding down the slimy rocks feet first, splashing at the bottom. He began wading downstream, scanning the banks as he moved.
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