Secrets of the Dead (21 page)

On a proper highway, Ferizaj would have been fifteen minutes’ drive from Pristina. On the E65 road south, it took the best part of an hour. It might have afforded Abby time to think, except that most of the time she was too busy trying to stay alive. The two-lane road was Kosovo’s main corridor to the outside world, crammed every hour of the day with lorries, buses, cars and even the occasional horse-drawn cart. Traffic crawled along, and if a gap appeared it was immediately plugged by a vehicle attempting some kamikaze overtaking move. On the bridges, yellow signs gave speed restrictions for tanks, a reminder that this was still occupied territory.

Camp Bondsteel, the largest US base in the Balkans, stood in rolling hills below the pointed spire of Mount Ljuboten, better known to the soldiers as Mount Duke. Abby left her
car
in the parking lot and walked up a narrow path between a chain-link fence and high concrete blast barriers. To her left a high earthwork stretched around the perimeter, and it occurred to her that the basic design for a military camp hadn’t changed in millennia.

The gatehouse was a windowless, corrugated-iron warehouse with red-painted walls and X-ray machines. The moment she walked in, a Hispanic man in a brown uniform accosted her.
FORCE PROTECTION
, said the badge on his sleeve. She wondered why the world’s most powerful army needed protecting, and from whom. He asked for her badge and looked disconcerted when she couldn’t produce one.

‘I’m with the EULEX mission,’ she said. ‘I need to meet with one of your soldiers, Specialist Anthony Sanchez.’

More consternation. A tall black sergeant strode over. ‘Is there a problem, ma’am?’

It was going wrong far faster than she’d expected. She found herself beginning to stutter. ‘No problem – just – I need to speak to one of the soldiers here. Specialist Anthony Sanchez.’

‘She’s from the Justice Department,’ the guard contributed.

‘Is he in trouble?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Do you want to make a report for his commanding officer?’

‘That’s not –’

‘Do you have security clearance?’

‘I –’

‘Perhaps you should come back another time, ma’am,’ said the sergeant firmly. He scribbled a number on a piece of paper and gave it to her. ‘Here’s the number for the Public Affairs Office if you want to make a complaint.’

‘Thank you.’

She trudged back down the path, among a gaggle of local cleaners and contractors finishing for the day. She couldn’t face the drive back straight away: she went to the café across the road and nursed a coffee, while she watched the clouds gather in the valley. This part of the world had more than its fair share of storms.

Michael would never have let this stop him, she thought. Michael would have charmed a pass out of the guard, or talked his way in with a joke and a bottle of whisky. She replayed the conversation in her head and winced. How had she become such a wretched failure? She stared out the windows at the concrete walls and watchtowers. It wasn’t the sort of place you broke into.

She finished her coffee and made her decision. The café had a payphone: she used it to dial the number on Jessop’s note. He answered almost at once.

‘Good to hear from you.’

‘What are you doing in Kosovo?’

‘I could ask you the same question.’ He wasn’t angry, or menacing. If anything, he sounded sympathetic. Abby fought back the urge to reciprocate.

‘Is Mark here?’

‘Stuck in London.’ Jessop didn’t sound too troubled by it.

‘I need to see you.’

‘Then that makes two of us.’

They met in Bar Ninety-One. Michael used to joke it was EULEX in miniature: a cross between a French café and an English pub, squatting in a Yugoslav building whose upper windows were still blown out from the war. It was warm and busy, but Abby would have preferred somewhere less obvious. This was Pristina’s answer to Rick’s Place in Casablanca: every
diplomat
, bureaucrat, journalist and spy passed through here sooner or later. She recognised three German judges, deep in conversation with the police chief; at another table the EULEX Chief of Staff laid bets on a Premier League football match with someone from the press office.

Jessop was sitting in a corner watching the football, a Peja beer and a pint of Guinness untouched in front of him. He waved when he saw her, as if their meeting was the most natural thing in the world, and pushed the beer towards her.

She remembered the entry in Michael’s diary.
Jessop, 91
. ‘Do you come here often?’

‘When I’m in town.’

‘You know, there’s a rumour the CIA has bugs in the light fittings.’

He took the voice recorder out of his jacket pocket and looked at it mock-wistfully. ‘I won’t need this, then.’

Abby put her bag on the table and pulled it open. ‘I’ll save you some more trouble. Help yourself to whatever you want to steal.’

Jessop ignored it. ‘You’re supposed to be on sick leave. Why did you come back to Kosovo?’

‘Trying to get away from people like you.’

‘And how’s that working out for you?’ He stared at her face. The wound from Dragovi
ć
’s pistol cut a thin crimson ribbon down her chin; the bruising around it was in full flower. Abby looked back defiantly and said nothing. Jessop took a long sip of his drink.

‘We showed your necklace to some boffin at the British Museum. He authenticated it as genuine fourth-century Roman, the real McCoy.’

‘Can I have it back, then?’

‘It’s in London. If you tell me the truth about how you came by it, maybe I’ll ask them to FedEx it.’

She stared into his face, the hard lines and no-nonsense haircut. There wasn’t much to trust there.

‘I told you the truth in London. Michael gave it to me. He didn’t say where he got it.’

‘Did you know he was an obtainer of rare antiquities?’

But she wasn’t interested in that line of conversation. ‘My turn,’ she countered. ‘Why did you meet Michael here the week before he died?’

Jessop was too professional to look surprised. ‘Did he mention it?’

‘I found a note in his diary.’

He drank his Guinness and wiped foam off his upper lip. ‘Nice to get a decent pint, in this part of the world.’

She didn’t smile. ‘Why did you meet him?’

‘OK – since we seem to be getting on so well being honest with each other. I’m on the anti-trafficking taskforce. I met with Michael to discuss arms smuggling.’

‘He was working with you?’

‘He thought I was representing a Russian businessman who wanted to import Ukrainian-made AK-47s to Italy.’ He held her gaze, waiting for the penny to drop. ‘He was going to help me.’

The bar erupted in cheers. Up on the TV screens the home team had grabbed an equaliser. Abby just stared at Jessop. She wished the noise could change what he’d said, sweep it back and drown it. She drank a deep gulp of beer, bitter liquid sour in her mouth. Nothing changed.

The game restarted, more urgent now.

‘Do you have proof?’ Abby asked. ‘You were pretending, so you could trap him. Maybe he was, too.’

‘We’ve got plenty of proof. We’d been tracking him for months.’

His face offered no hope. Abby pushed back her chair and ran to the bathroom. When she emerged five minutes later, eyes wet and skin red, Jessop was still there. He hadn’t touched his drink while she was away.

‘What do you want from me?’ she whispered. ‘Michael’s dead. Who are you still chasing?’

‘There’s a man called Zoltán Dragovi
ć
…’

‘I’ve met him.’

Now it was Jessop’s turn to look stunned.
A hit
. Abby took grim pleasure in it.

‘He picked me up in Rome on Friday. Shouldn’t you have been following me or something?’

‘Jurisdictional issues,’ Jessop muttered. ‘Go on.’

‘His men bundled me into a car and took me somewhere that looked like a museum. Like his villa in Montenegro. I thought he was going to kill me.’ She touched her chin. ‘He made do with this.’

‘What did he want?’

‘What does he have to do with Michael?’

Jessop sighed. ‘Dragovi
ć
is the biggest people-smuggler, gun-runner and drug-trafficker in the Balkans. Michael worked in Customs for the most porous country in the region. Do you need me to spell it out?’

She still couldn’t believe it. She told herself she didn’t believe it. But deep down, in the cold recesses of her soul, she knew it made sense. Michael’s never-ending supply of easy money, the car and the holidays that were extravagant, even by Pristina expat standards. The villa. A memory flashed into her head, stripped of all the darkness and denial that had obscured it for so long.

‘That night at the villa,’ she said slowly. ‘I woke up and went outside. Michael was by the pool with the man who killed him, but they weren’t fighting. They were looking at something together. He only attacked Michael when he saw me.’

She remembered Jessop’s original question. ‘Dragovi
ć
wanted to know why I survived.’

‘They left you for dead. They were almost right.’

‘No.’ She pinched the skin of her forehead between finger and thumb, fighting back the headache pounding against it. ‘Dragovi
ć
said there was someone else there. The man he sent never came back, but there wasn’t any body.’ She looked up. ‘Was there?’

‘The police only found Michael’s. I suppose the other chap could have been swept out to sea.’

‘But then who killed him?’ Abby looked down. She’d finished her drink and not even tasted it. ‘What do you want from me?’ she said again.

Jessop reached across the table and took her hands in his. She tried to pull away, but his grip was tight and he wouldn’t let go.

‘Look at me.’ She twisted her head around like a miscreant child, refusing to meet his gaze. ‘
Look at me
. You think Michael’s death was the end of something? Ever since that night, Dragovi
ć
’s been going crazy. Routine’s out the window. Kidnapping you, taking you to meet him – that’s not part of the plan. Some of his closest associates have never met him, so why you?’

Have you ever wondered why you’re not dead?

‘We’re picking up chatter from Dragovi
ć
’s people – more
than
we’ve had in months. Whatever Michael was involved in was something huge, way beyond the low-grade smuggling stuff we had on him. And we don’t have a fucking clue what it is.’

She stopped struggling and stared at him, looking for comfort in his grey eyes and finding none.

‘I don’t know either. I don’t even know why I’m alive.’

‘You’ve got something.’

She pointed to her bag. ‘Everything I have in the world is right there.’

‘Think back. Something Michael told you? Something he gave you?’

‘I suppose he could have left something in my flat.’

‘We went through it pretty thoroughly.’ He saw her expression. ‘Sorry. You weren’t there to let us in.’

She pulled away from his grip, and this time he let her go. But a thought was forming in her head, a way out of the labyrinth that Jessop and Michael and Dragovi
ć
had spun around her.

‘Can you get me into Camp Bondsteel?’

Constantinople – April 337

ANOTHER SUN IS
setting as the dust of another day begins to settle. The shopkeepers hang their shutters; the smiths and potters douse their fires for the night. Behind closed doors, pickpockets flex their fingers, murderers sharpen their knives, and jealous wives stir poison in their husbands’ wine.

I wait on the hillside watching copper sunlight streak the sea below. I’m standing sentry duty, patrolling the frontier between day and night. I don’t know who I’m looking for; I’m hoping I’ll know him when I see him. I’m alone. Simeon wanted to come, but I sent him away. His story about the message left in the church hardly seems credible – but I’m curious to see where it leads.

The statue of Venus stands in a small square where five roads meet, on the southern slopes of the city overlooking the sea. Inevitably, prostitutes use it as a rendezvous, though there aren’t so many about tonight. Perhaps my watching puts them off.

Like sentries the world over, my mind wanders and I remember …

… tumbling out of bed in the darkness, pulling on my coarse wool cloak and trying not to wake the others. The night was so cold that the waterskins have frozen solid and cracked open. It’s the darkest day of the darkest month, in one of the darkest places on earth.

Constantine opens the door and we slip out. Across the parade ground, along behind the headquarters and past the stables. At this hour, the world exists as smells and sounds: woodsmoke from the ovens, sheep bleating in their pen as they wait for the butcher, the slurp of a horse munching hay from the byre. The main gate is locked, but there’s a postern in the east tower and the sentry’s asleep.

Beyond the walls, our boots crunch the frosty grass. We’ve crossed a frontier; we’re beyond the edge of the world. We scramble over the earthen dyke, down into the valley and across the stream, up the facing hill. My head hurts with the cold but it’s a good pain: clean and pure.

At the top of the hill stands a copse of three birch trees and a holly bush. There’s light in the sky now, though no sun. Constantine halts, orients himself to the bluest part of the horizon, and waits. His misting breath makes a nimbus of the air around him.

‘If the Tribune finds out we left camp without permission, we’ll have night-time guard duty for a week,’ I grumble (it must be early in our lives, this memory; I don’t think we’re more than sixteen). ‘Or worse. What if the locals find us, two Roman soldiers on the wrong side of the wall?’

Constantine draws his sword and points it at the horizon, then swings it round behind us. ‘Do you know what the difference is between here and there?’

‘Better-looking women?’ I guess.

He points back to the fort, dimly visible on the ridge behind us. ‘That wall. Behind it, no one fears attack. In front, there’s nothing worth defending.’

‘Does that make you feel better about standing here freezing to death and listening to the shadows?’