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

They strolled along the Miljacka River. Everyone passed them at speed, wrapped in thick black, grey, and brown coats. Many of the older men wore dark flat caps with cigarettes lolling from their mouths. Another world that would soon evaporate in the decades that followed.

“Our target is Sadik Kadrić, a Bosnian-Serb,” Sinclair began. “He’s a veteran of the last war. Rumoured war criminal but escaped international justice through lack of evidence. A committed Serbian nationalist, he wants to start a new war to free Republika Srpska from the Federation.”

“Republika what?” James said, huddling deeper into his coat.

“Srpska. It means Serb Republic if you translate it directly. Bosnia is officially split between the Federation, which is where the Bosniaks and Croats live, and Republika Srpska where the Serbians live.”

“Okay. Cigarette?”

Sinclair checked his phone. “Okay, we have time. The café is only about a street away.”

James sat on the low wall above the river. Below, a chilly grey water slid its way through the city, carrying all sorts of garbage with it. Ladders led down from the bank to concrete slabs where, in the summer, local Bosnians fished the polluted waters.

“What’s the likelihood that this Sadik Kadrić will succeed?”

Sinclair made a hissing sound through his teeth. “Hard to say. Bosnia has been on the brink of a new war since the end of the last one. The Daytona Agreement in 1995 didn’t really resolve anything. It just stopped the war.”

James took a long drag and puffed it out into the frigid air as he leaned into Sinclair’s story. The details might come in handy as he planned his attack on the target.

“Besides, we are here, so the threat must be serious enough. Kadrić has been staging false flag attacks to try to build tension. A soldier and his family were murdered in cold blood before we arrived. They found a Srpska flag pin at the scene of the crime.”

“How convenient,” James said with a hint of sarcasm.

“Too convenient. As if a murderer would accidentally leave a flag pin behind. It was a message. According to the file, Kadrić has been running nationalistic organisations for years since he re-emerged after the war. This is just the latest.”

“So, he’s staging murders in the name of his little republic?”

“Worse. He’s also killing Bosnian-Serbs and making it look like the Croats or Bosnians did it. He’s never killed anyone high-profile. Couple of local police officers. A soldier. Some local councillors. But like any good serial killer…”

“He’s getting more confident and it’s only getting worse.”

Sinclair nodded.

James eased himself up from the wall and pinged the remainder of his cigarette into the river below. The muck immediately swallowed it up and carried it away to parts unknown. He ignored Sinclair’s tut of disapproval.

“Who’s the client, Sinclair?”

“Miran Heranda,” said Sinclair. “A real estate developer a tad older than you. He would have remembered the war, but he would have been too young to fight at the time. Our background research revealed that he survived the Siege of Sarajevo.”

James nodded. Even he knew the Siege of Sarajevo, the longest siege of a capital city in history. For over three years, the city had been bombarded with artillery shells, indiscriminate sniper fire, and countless atrocities from the same smog-shrouded hills towering over them.

“Hell of a way to grow up.”

“He seems sincere.”

“Don’t they all?”

“Cynic.”

He smirked at that. “Well, nice to see we finally have a client who isn’t as up to it in their necks as our targets. Someone who wants to make their country a better place, rather than muck it up even more. For now.”

“A rare thing in this business,” Sinclair agreed. “I think it should be about time to meet Kemal. He’s going to be one of our contacts on the ground. Understandably, Miran is rather skittish about involving himself personally.”

“And miss out on all the fun? He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.”

The two Englishmen approached the café across the street. Its two floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the darkened insides and the low lights hanging above a long counter. A half-dozen men in colourful winter jumpers huddled together across several tables.

James and Sinclair entered the café to no real fanfare. They received a couple of glances, but the Bosniaks quickly returned to their conversations. The well-lit café only served to highlight the grease stains on the wall and the mould growing in the corners.

Sinclair pointed off to a table by the side. “That’s the man from the photo. Over there.”

Kemal Avdić sat on a long red leather sofa with a coffee in front of him. The giant of a man had a huge ape-like skull. The light reflected off the top of his bald dome as his ‘Balkan belly’ pushed against the table.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Avdić,” said Sinclair. “Sinclair Wood. James Winchester.”

Kemal’s half-empty cup wobbled as he stood to greet them. “Mr. Sinclair and Mr. James, good to meet you.”

James started having flashbacks to Cambodia, where the locals insisted on putting mister in front of their first names.

“Sorry we’re late. You should have mentioned that you wanted to meet here earlier,” Sinclair said with a genial smile as he shook hands.

“No, no, I should have told you. My fault entirely. James, is it?”

James clasped the Bosnian’s hand. “Yes, Kemal.”

“Good, good. Please, sit. I get you coffee. Our coffee is the best. The best in the world.”

James sat in the metal chair bolted into the floor without mentioning his uneasy relationship with coffee. Kemal simply called out in his native language and indicated two more coffees with his fingers.

“Welcome to Bosnia.” Kemal resumed his seat. “You should have come in summer. Sarajevo is very beautiful. Now you come in the middle of winter.”

“Oh, trust us, we had no choice in the matter,” James piped