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

"Thank you, Joko. Thank you so much. This war could spread, you know? We need every man to fight for us."

Lipovina smirked at that. "Oh, Sadik, I hope so. War is good, for all of us."

Chapter Thirteen

Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Streams of Bosnians dressed in the maroon football colours of FK Sarajevo ambled towards the stadium. The bowl-shaped Asim Ferhatović Hase Stadium was the biggest stadium in the country, and all manner of shady types were about to stand side-by-side for the pride of Sarajevo. Games against teams from Srpska always brought trouble, according to Kemal.

James arrived alone, meeting Kemal who waited for him outside the ticket booths. Kemal's football shirt clung tight around his body, the crest bulging out from his breast like it had a lifelong ambition to become three-dimensional. He glanced at FK Sarajevo’s ultras, the fanatical wing of the club’s fanbase, greeting each other with crisp handshakes and much backslapping.

Kemal clapped him on the shoulder. "You look good, James, my friend."

James, too, wore a football jersey identical to Kemal's. He hadn't wanted to wear it, but Kemal had insisted, even going so far as to send it to the Hotel Old Town.

"I can't say maroon is my colour," James replied.

Kemal ignored his complaint, saying, “You had a good night with Nazifa, yes?”

James blushed. “It was fine.”

The night had been fun, but they hadn’t slept together. For now, his relationship with Nazifa was purely a platonic one. James had held back, the memories of Jessi Montoya from Mexico still tainting him.

"I got the tickets,” Kemal continued. “Ismet is already outside. Come. Yes."

They passed the ticket booth, which was little more than a wooden box in the middle of the road. Cars already filled the stadium, parked on the grass and in ankle-deep swamps. James felt exposed here.

"Kemal," James started. "Do foreigners ever come to these games?"

"Of course, my friend. We are all friends here. They sit on the sides." Kemal pointed at the flanks of the stadium. "Ultras go behind the goals. That's where we'll be. You will be fine, it’s no problem. Ismet has told everyone the Englishman is his special guest."

"Alright, I'm not the football hooligan type, though, so I hope I'm not expected to play the part."

"No, no, this is more than football. This is for Bosnia." Kemal shook his fist. "You stay with me and just watch. We tell you when the time has come." He let out a little chuckle. "But you will see."

Kemal directed him towards a grouping of half a dozen FK Sarajevo fans. A long chain-link fence, with police dressed head to toe in riot gear, separated the home fans from the visiting FK Borac Banja Luka supporters. James spied the away team's buses parked well out of range of any projectiles.

"Ismet!" Kemal boomed, waving to his friend. "We are here. James looks good, no?"

"Welcome." Ismet disengaged himself from the semi-circle surrounding him, also dressed in the same shirt underneath his shabby bomber jacket. "You, Englishman, make sure you listen to us. This is dangerous if you don't know what you're doing."

"Yes," Kemal agreed. "Be very careful."

James showed no fear, but his nerves jangled. Kemal was his only real friend here. Ismet's leading ultras didn't look too pleased with his presence or the wearing of their sacred shirt.

Ismet spoke to his allies in booming Bosnian. They shuffled away, leaving just the three of them to await the start of the game.

"Do you have everything you need, James?" asked Kemal.

James gestured to the back of his belt, where he’d hidden his Glock 19. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it.

"Okay, Ismet will speak to the police. You have money?"

James blinked. Nobody had mentioned bringing money to the game.

“You know, to make sure the police give us no trouble, eh?”

James removed a wad of crisp Bosnian bills and handed them over to Ismet. It wasn’t worth the argument.

"This will be enough," said Ismet. "Guns are more expensive. Ultras never bring guns to football. Knives, bats, anything that need you to look into a man's eyes when you kill him."

James cocked an eyebrow. "Of course, but I'm here for guaranteed results."

Ismet let off a laugh. "I like you, Englishman. Pity you were not born Bosnian, eh?"

"We should go," said Kemal, checking the chunky gold wristwatch constricting his fat wrist. "Maybe we can see Ivica."

Ismet gestured to James. "Stay close to me."

The three of them rounded the stadium. Underneath the building, FK Sarajevo fans smoked, finished their beers, and called out to their friends. Everybody knew Ismet. The short walk took them longer than expected as Ismet stopped to press flesh and engage in brief conversations. The other supporters glanced at James but said nothing to him in Ismet’s presence. He knew what they were thinking.

A long line awaited them at the white iron gates. Riot police stood on either side, while other officers in their usual uniform frisked everyone who entered for weapons. Strangely enough, they never did find anything, but James did see bank notes changing hands on a regular basis.

"Let me do this," said Ismet.

Ismet skipped the line and took the arm of one of the riot police. They exchanged friendly greetings, before the stack of James' money found its way into the cop’s personal charity fund. Ismet returned to them with a wink.

"It's that easy, is it?" said James.

"That easy, my friend. You're in Bosnia now." Kemal patted him on the shoulder again.

They got into line and shuffled forwards. Ismet went first, raising his hands in mock surrender. The officer patted him down and let him go. James did the same. The officer felt all the way around him and placed his hand on