Interdiction (A James Winchester Thriller Book 3) (James Winchester Series) - James Samuel (best memoirs of all time .TXT) 📗

Something which resembled a smile broke across Darko's face.

"Here, I've got a secret for you." Kadrić reached into his moleskin coat and pulled out a small bottle of clear liquid. "Raki, my own. Very special rakija from my country house. Let's toast Srpska."

Kadrić grabbed a couple of empty glasses from the wooden windowsill of the restaurant. He handed them to Darko, who rinsed them from a small bucket used for collecting rainwater. Pulling out the stopper, he took in the whiff of pure Balkan alcohol, made from fermented grapes.

"You make strong stuff," said Darko as he inhaled the aroma from his glass of rakija.

"Only the best raki, my friend."

Kadrić replaced the bottle inside his coat and lifted his full glass. "Here, živeli, for Srpska."

"For Srpska."

The two men downed their rakijas and they both laughed heartily. To them, they toasted and drank like it was their last drink. In their world, it quite possibly would be their final toast.

Chapter Seven

Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina

The Hotel Old Town was more like a rented apartment than a real hotel.  James and Sinclair each had their own rooms, kitchen, and a living room. James reclined on the balcony looking out at a courtyard of grey buildings puffing away on a cigarette and drinking coffee. If he arched his head, he could sometimes see the menacing clouds hurling snowflakes at them.

An old woman with ghostly white hair padded around the place in her slippers. She wore an apron and carried a yellow dust cloth, yet James had never seen her do any cleaning. Each morning she smiled at them and continue shuffling along the wooden floors. She'd never spoken a word of English and James had yet to learn her name.

"I see you're working hard." Sinclair joined him on the balcony, a tight blue dressing gown wrapped around his bulging shape.

"Football match isn't until Saturday. Nothing else we can do about Kadrić in the meantime."

"Well, I was thinking that maybe there are things we can do. We should use our time wisely here, if you're not going to be a tourist at least."

"Have you seen the weather?"

"There you are.” Sinclair’s face grew serious. “I was thinking about this football match. It's a risk. It's too risky –"

"Don't talk to me about risk. I'm always the one taking the risk and every time I've taken a risk everything has worked out fine. Remember Cambodia? I took on a whole army on top of an ancient temple. I think I can manage a game of football."

Sinclair rolled his eyes. "Okay Rambo, but I wasn't talking about that. Snatching someone in the middle of a riot isn't the easiest thing in the world. You're only going to have Kemal with you and... we can't really trust some animal like Ismet won’t get carried away. We might not capture Ivica Boro, this guy Ismet mentioned. We need a plan B."

James sipped at his coffee and tapped out the ash drooping from his cigarette. "Go on."

"Look," Sinclair's expression grew serious. "I couldn't find anything about Ivica Boro. If he's anyone at all, he doesn't appear on the Internet. Without a picture, there's no point getting anyone to look into any government records. There could be thousands of Ivica Boros in the Balkans. This might be a waste of time."

"You sound like Gallagher sometimes with your concerns." James threw his feet up on the iron fence of the balcony. "So, you got any other bright ideas?"

"Actually, yes."

"I'm shocked."

"The White Rose. You saw what Kemal's son had in that house. He's intelligent and the chances are he's been tracking some of these Bosnian-Serbs for a long time. If we attach ourselves to the White Rose, it could present us with some leads."

James dropped his feet from the fence and left his cigarette burning on the edge of the ashtray. "You want me to team up with a guy who would bow his head if someone punched him in the face?" He shook his head. "That's absurd. He would be a liability on any mission."

"We want information, nothing else."

James considered the idea. He didn't understand Ratko in the slightest. He identified with Kemal's anger at his son's approach to life. One day it might get him killed, and he wouldn't even fight for his own life. More importantly, it could force James into defending him from the same psychopaths who had murdered that soldier.

"Well?" Sinclair urged.

"No. We don't need him."

"You're going. I've already called Ratko and told him you'll visit him today."

"Bollocks, I'm not going anywhere."

Sinclair seized James' burning cigarette and flicked it off the balcony. They watched it sail away and land in a pile of freezing snow.

"Whoops." Sinclair got up to go back inside. "I suppose since you're done with your cigarette, you'll have to get on with it."

James watched Sinclair waddle back to his room. "You know, I still have the packet."

Chapter Eight

The wind howled through the city streets. A minor snowfall had been transformed into a maelstrom, forcing everyone to bow their heads in subservience. The windscreen wipers of James' taxi worked overtime to clear the thickening snow. Lunchtime had just passed, and the streetlights were already burning, for what little good they were doing.

James paid the driver his fare and ventured out into the whirling snowstorm. He pulled up the collar of his black woollen coat and moved slowly down the street of identical houses until he found the little brass sign of the White Rose. He rang the bell and blew into his hands. If they were going to stay in the city, he’d have to find some gloves before he got frostbite.

Ratko pulled open the door. "Come inside, quick. This weather is terrible.”

The door slammed behind James and the warmth