PRIMAL Inception (5 page)

CHAPTER 7

The white sedan was stolen, abandoned by a Serbian family who had been forced to flee on foot, leaving everything they owned. One of Kreshnik’s men now had it parked on a dirt road in a forest a dozen miles from Mitrovica.

Mitrovica was the northern most of Kosovo’s cities. It sat on the Ibar river opposite a Serbian enclave that had long been a hot spot for ethnic tension. Since the arrival of KFOR the Albanians had launched savage riots in an effort to evict the Serbian minority. It was ironic; the forces that liberated Kosovo from the Yugoslav oppressors were now protecting their Serb brothers from retaliation.

As Kreshnik arrived to the outskirts of the city, he did not concern himself with the French KFOR troops guarding the Serbian enclave. That was not his target. His driver pulled the blue Pajero four-wheel drive in behind the stolen white sedan. "Murat, we'll meet you on the other side of town. Have everything ready." He jumped out of the cab, opened the back door, and grabbed his Yugoslav copy of the AK assault rifle.

Joined by another of his men, Imer, he jumped in the back of the white sedan. They were dressed the same as the driver. Blue coveralls with balaclavas rolled up on their heads. Silently all three pulled down their balaclavas and checked their weapons.

Kreshnik watched as Murat drove the Pajero around them and disappeared down the road. He gave him four minutes head start, then slapped the driver’s headrest. "Let’s go."

The little sedan accelerated down the dirt road, out the forest, and raced between ploughed fields. They slowed as the driver checked for traffic on the main road. Seeing it was all clear, he spun the wheel, lifted the park brake and executed a perfect drift turn onto the asphalt.

"Nice!” shouted Kreshnik. His adrenaline was starting to flow.

As they raced toward town, houses started to appear on both sides of the road. They flashed past a truck coming the other way and Kreshnik rocked enthusiastically. Tires squealed as the car careened around an ancient statue on a roundabout.

"That's it ahead." He flicked the safety off his weapon.

The car screeched to halt in front of an ancient stone building topped with a dome and minaret. It was a mosque over five hundred years old.

He jumped out, sprinted up the steps, and through the open wooden doors. He burst into the prayer hall, spraying the AK from his hip as he hosed the dozen worshippers with a full magazine. Bullets punched through their backs as they faced Mecca. In the confines of the ancient building, he heard only the deafening roar of the assault rifle. Eyes wide, Kreshnik embraced the blood lust until his weapon ran dry.

He stood watching bullets from Imer’s AK tear apart more victims, never registering the screams of terror. All he heard was the crescendo of automatic gunfire.

A firm grip on his shoulder snapped him out of the daze. He gave the blood splattered room a final glance before following Imer back down the stairs and into the car.

The driver slammed the accelerator into the floor and they raced down the main street. People flashed by, fleeing the scene. Within a minute, the car was out of town and speeding past farms.

Kreshnik forced himself to take a deep breath. Adrenalin still coursed through his body. It felt like only minutes since he’d donned his balaclava.

"Boss, we're there," the driver said as they pulled alongside the Pajero. Murat was waiting with a jerry can.

Kreshnik glanced around. They were in a wooded area. He remembered the plan and ripped his balaclava off. He tossed the empty rifle on the back seat, jumped out, and tore off his coveralls.

When the clothes and weapons were in the stolen vehicle, Murat doused the insides with fuel. He tossed the empty can in through the open window and joined the others in the Pajero.

Kreshnik pulled on his black padded jacket and strolled over to the car. Lighting a cigarette, he took a drag and tossed it through the open window. It ignited with a whoosh and he climbed into the four-wheel drive. He watched in the rear vision mirror as the raging inferno disappeared into the distance.

Then he smirked. "Job well done, boys."

***

It was early afternoon when Ice parked his Land Cruiser next to a UN vehicle in front of the Smoking Pussy. Two uniformed Canadian officers, a Major and Captain, were already waiting. He knew them both, having introduced himself back at their camp. They were tasked with checking establishments that KFOR personnel visited for the presence of underage prostitutes.

He turned off the engine and glanced in the rearview mirror. He spotted the red 4Runner parked two hundred yards down the street and pulled a UHF radio from his jacket pocket. “Comms check.”

“Got you loud and clear, bud.” Vance’s voice was reassuring.

Ice turned the speaker off and returned the radio to his pocket. It would continue to transmit but, with its speaker deactivated, would not give him away. If things went south Vance would provide backup. If required, he’d request additional support from the Norwegian special forces unit on Quick Reaction Force duties. “OK, I’m heading in.”

Ice got out and gave the two KFOR officers a nod. “Where’s our man?”

“Not here yet,” one of them said.

Ice checked his watch and leaned against his vehicle.

"Did you hear about the attack in Mitrovica?" one of the Canadians said.

Ice shook his head. "No."

"It’s heating up there, eh. Serbs attacked a mosque a few hours ago. Killed five. Wounded another four."

The arrival of a late model Nissan Patrol ended the conversation. It parked next to them and Zahir got out.

Fists clenched, Ice imagined drawing the compact
Glock 19
from under his jacket and slotting the war criminal between the eyes. Instead, he feigned a smile and gave a nod.

Zahir now looked to be the perfect gentleman. He was immaculately presented in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and a blood red tie. Attached to his lapel was a red pin, the crest and double-headed eagle of the Democratic Party of Kosovo. He spotted the CIA operative and a broad smile split his pig-like features. “Mr. Iceman, so good to see you again.”

Ice grasped the aspiring politician’s hand and fought the urge to crush it. He glanced down at Zahir’s polished leather shoes. “Doing well I see.”

“Business is OK. Providing quality services to KFOR and the UN is not a low cost operation though.”

He ran his eye over the two bodyguards who lingered in the background. They were sharply dressed and clean-shaven.

Zahir looked at the two KFOR officers and canted his head at the hotel. “Shall we go inside, gentlemen?”

They followed him through the front door. Ice’s eyebrows rose as he walked in. The floor was spotless, the tables neatly aligned, and pop music was playing softly. Even the odor had improved.

Zahir’s beaming face turned to them. “As you will find, gentlemen, we have all the correct licenses. Our alcohol is good quality, our security adequate, and we have a responsible service of alcohol policy. That means your people can have a good time in a safe environment.”

One of the Canadians gestured to the upper level. “Come now, Zahir. We all know why we’re really here. Where are the girls?”

Zahir pointed up the staircase in the corner. “Additional services are available upstairs.”

“Then that’s where we should go.”

The upper level had also been thoroughly cleaned. In the reception area, a hostess greeted them. She was middle-aged, and her ample bosom was barely restrained by a black dress with a plunging neckline. She directed them to sit on a fake leather couch. Ice remained standing.

Zahir snapped his fingers. “Bring them out.”

The girls filed into the room and stood in front of the men in their underwear. They all looked to be in their early twenties. Ice noticed Svetlana and the young girl he had seen previously were absent.

Zahir turned to the KFOR officers. “Do you need to see their papers?”

“No,” one of them replied. “Everything looks just fine from here.”

“Good.” Zahir headed to the stairs. “Gentlemen, feel free to inspect the rooms, the ladies will show you. Iceman, if you would join me downstairs.”

Ice followed him down to the bar. The staff had draped white linen on one of the tables. An uncorked bottle of red wine and a platter of food awaited them.

“Please, have a seat.”

He lowered himself into a chair.

Sitting, Zahir splashed some wine into a glass, swirled it, then inhaled the aroma. “This is local wine, merlot. It’s excellent.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Zahir shrugged and took a sip. “We’ve had our differences, Iceman. But, the past is the past. Now we need to help Kosovo heal her wounds. We need to forget past transgressions, and focus on what is best for the people.”

“And that’s you?”

“Kosovo needs a strong leader. You are a warrior, you understand that.”

Ice placed his hands on his knees and clenched his fists.

Zahir dipped a piece of bread in a bowl of sauce and ate it. “The UN, NATO, the world, even the CIA are happy to forgive and forget. Why not you? Won’t you help me do what’s right for Kosovo?”

“What’s right for Kosovo? You sent Kreshnik to murder a family of innocents. I watched as he executed them. Is that what’s right for Kosovo?”

Zahir placed his glass of wine on the table. “You still don’t understand the Albanian way. It’s an eye for an eye. It’s our code, our culture. Those Serb animals kidnapped Albanian girls and raped them. They killed our women, and in return we killed theirs.”

“You’re everything that’s wrong with this country,” Ice said, his voice low and hard.

Zahir squinted. “Be careful, Iceman. Otherwise you might end up like your friend Svetlana.” He traced a finger around his neck.

Ice was a hair-trigger from leaping from his chair and snapping the man’s neck when the front door of the club burst open and Vance stormed in.

The former commander of the Gray Wolves lifted his glass. “Ah, Vance. If I’d known you were in Kosovo, I would have invited you.”

“That’s a nice thought, Zahir, but I’m only passing through. Just dropped by to get Ice. We’ve got another meeting. Ain’t that right, bud.”

Ice stared Zahir in the eye as he rose. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“It’s been a pleasure.” Zahir lifted his glass. “Drop by any time.”

“We will.” Ice followed Vance out the front door and across to where the 4Runner was parked next to the Land Cruiser.

“You OK?”

He exhaled deeply. “Yep.”

“That bastard was trying to bait you.”

“Thanks for stepping in.”

“That’s what partners are for, bud. What’s our game plan now?”

“I’ll meet with the OSCE. See what they say.”

***

If anyone was going to be interested in Zahir and his atrocities, Ice thought, it would be the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe. The OSCE was responsible for administering the upcoming elections and was working closely with the UN to ensure Kosovo transitioned to a stable and legitimately run country.

Ice left Vance at the CIA compound to run the
HUMINT
audit and arrived at the OSCE’s makeshift office alone. He handed the Zahir file to the woman at the reception area and was told to wait. Thirty minutes later, his patience had worn thin and the constant scream of a circular saw being used by builders renovating the office was getting on his nerves.

Finally, a middle-aged woman dressed in a business suit appeared at the door to the staff offices. “Mr. Anderson?”

Ice rose in response to his cover name. “That’s me.”

“Come this way, please.” She ushered him along a short corridor and into her office. “Please excuse the noise. They’re building us additional offices for the election.”

Ice sat in a chair facing her desk.

She took her own seat. “Who did you say you worked for, Mr. Anderson?”

“I’m with the US State Department.”

She looked over her glasses at him. “Oh, that’s interesting. Well, I’ve run my eye over your Zahir Jashami file.”

“It’s Jashari,” Ice corrected her.

She glanced down at the file. “So it is. Well I’ve looked at the file and am afraid it won’t preclude him from running in the elections.”

Ice gritted his teeth. “He’s a war criminal.”

“No, he’s only been accused of committing crimes. According to my database, he hasn’t been formally investigated or prosecuted. In fact, from what I’ve seen in the UN records he was responsible for saving an American pilot, and the defeat of a particularly nasty Serbian death squad. So I hope you can understand why the OSCE cannot simply ban him from running in the elections.”

At a loss for words, Ice stared at her. He felt like a schoolboy being disciplined by a high school headmistress.

“Furthermore, from what I understand, the UN have earmarked him as being a highly suitable candidate. He’s one of a handful of leaders who has the support base and respect to keep Kosovo from tearing itself apart.”