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

James exchanged a look with Sinclair, who shrugged his shoulders in response.

“Okay, Kemal. Let’s not take too long. It’s late.” James frowned. “I hope it’s important.”

“Of course, of course. Important things must be talked over with beer, eh?”

“Alright.” James stepped forwards to get into the car when Sinclair held him back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Sinclair.

James shrugged in confusion.

“Look at my size. I won’t fit in the back.”

“I bet you would.”

“I’ll toss you for it.”

James hunted for a coin in his pocket. He took out the large silver and gold five-mark coin. Balancing it on the edge of his thumb, he flipped it high into the swarm of snowflakes.

“Heads,” Sinclair called.

The coin landed square in James’ palm and he turned it over onto the back of his other hand. Lifting it quickly, his heart sank.

Sinclair gave him a taunting smirk. “Well, I suppose that’s the way it goes. Go on, James. Be my guest.”

James muttered obscenities to himself as he squeezed himself into the back of Kemal’s mobile death trap. Sinclair’s seat swung back, cramming James’ knees between the two seats again. He winced at the pressure on his chilled legs.

“Why you flip a coin?” Kemal asked curiously as the car spun its wheels and jerked away from the curb.

“Nothing special,” said James. “So, what is this all about? You look like you’re worried about something.”

“No, no, very excited. I am very excited. I know many people and have something important for you. Very important. But first, beer.”

Now James felt on edge. Kemal seemed so sure that he’d uncovered something. But what could he have found that the likes of Jacob Finch and Sinclair couldn’t? He and Sinclair had already found a Serbian spy posing as an ambassador, after all.

Kemal whisked them through the driving snow. The windscreen wipers did little to stop the snow from piling up on all sides. Kemal had no more view than a tank’s episcope. Yet he plunged on with reckless abandon. He stopped outside a pub ten minutes later. James squinted to see any landmarks, only to be greeted by a whiteout.

“Couldn’t you have given us your news in the hotel? The snow’s getting worse,” said James.

“No, no, never. It’s tradition.”

“Not to worry,” said Sinclair. “James just doesn’t like to sit in the back of your car.”

Kemal cackled and the two men opened their respective doors. The snow grew thicker and faster with every passing second. Still, James sprang out of what he could only describe as the worst car in Bosnia. He saw a glimpse of the bar and dove straight under the little shelter outside the front door. A couple of Bosnians smoked away, raising their eyes at the strange foreigner.

James felt like his hair had adhered to his forehead. “Hurry up, you two.”

Kemal greeted the locals in his native language. They patted him on the shoulder as he passed.

“This is a very nice bar. Very nice, my friends.”

The three men broke into the warmth of the pub. The darkened surroundings were illuminated only by bands of green neon running along the walls and the bar itself. Faded newspaper cuttings decorated every inch of the walls. James gazed up at the cuttings. All from the war. All holding up the collective suffering like a trophy.

“Come, sit,” Kemal called happily with three beer mugs held in his enormous hands.

They took up a table in a darkened corner. James noted a few American backpackers bantering with each other at the other side of the room.

“Keep your voice down,” said James. “Tourists. They’ll understand us.”

Kemal clicked his tongue. “You worry too much, my friend. Drink, drink.”

Under duress, James and Sinclair raised their beer mugs to meet Kemal’s. They each took a gulp, whereas Kemal downed half his beer in one. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he chuckled.

“Well?” said Sinclair. “What do you have?”

“The best news. I found the man Ivica mentioned. The traitor Goran Pejakovski. We know where he is now.”

James tilted his head. “Really?”

“Yes, he’s in Jajce in the north.”

“Srpska?”

“No, no.” Kemal took another gulp of beer. “Jajce. Close to Srpska, near the border. It’s still Bosnia. I asked some friends and my son. They found him. He lives there and we have his address.”

“Then let’s go. Tomorrow?” said James. “Let’s make this quick to keep them off balance.”

Kemal shook his head. “It’s not so simple, my friend. I also found out something else. These people are working with Serbians, real Serbians. Mafia Serbians. You know Joko Lipovina?”

James looked to Sinclair for more information.

Sinclair tucked his cold hands inside his coat pockets. “I’ve read about him. I did some research about people who might be linked with these gangs. Joko Lipovina was a name that came up often, mainly involving criminal investigations. He’s never been prosecuted successfully, of course.”

“Yes. Lipovina is a big man. A dangerous man. Mafia boss from Serbia. I think he comes from Novi Sad. If Kadrić is working with him, we need help. Two men is risky. We don’t know how many men he has.”

James tapped his finger on the table. The excitement of the chase had kicked in. Now he had a real target he could hunt. He wanted more than anything to leave Sarajevo within hours and take this man out.

“What are our options for more men?” asked Sinclair. “Kemal is right, James, we need to think this through. We don’t know Pejakovski’s defences. We also don’t know Jajce.”

James took a deep breath. He knew the logic, but he hated waiting around to make plans. There was no telling how long Pejakovski would remain in Jajce. There was also no telling when