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

"Nothing yet. More than likely, you will have to rely on Darko Borisov. He knows more about these people than anyone still alive. Shame Kadrić died really, I imagine he would know a lot of people who could help you."

James noted Sinclair no longer referred to the mission with 'us'.

"I think this could take weeks, maybe even months to resolve. The issue is not finding him. We know where he is. All you have to do is go to the embassy. The difficulty is killing him in a way that makes it look like an accident."

"Sometimes I wonder whether Gallagher’s fears exaggerated." James perched himself on the high-backed kitchen chair. "I could shoot him and deal with the consequences."

"No, you bloody well couldn't," Sinclair warned. "You said you wanted to stay here to make a difference. Well, killing an ambassador will lead to war the next day. Diplomatic immunity is about the only thing that's respected by all nations. Both sides would blame each other, and Serbia would be well within its rights to make demands. Bosnia would refuse those demands, naturally, to avoid humiliation. The response would, then, be war, and Serbia would be within its rights to declare it."

"You really know a lot about this, don't you?"

"I'm in intelligence. I need to know these things."

"Okay, okay, it was just an idea. I'm trying to stop a war, not start one."

"Good. You would be playing into their hands if you went to the embassy and shot Plemenac."

The doorbell rang. It reverberated through the house.

"I thought you said you ordered the pizza five minutes ago?"

"I did." Sinclair threw his chair out. "Maybe someone else cancelled theirs so they sent it here instead?"

James followed Sinclair into the hallway. His skin crawled with little electric shocks. Every instinct told him this wasn't a pizza. Sinclair removed the phone next to the front door. When he glanced at the camera feed, he went pale.

"Well? Who is it?"

Sinclair's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "It's Plemenac."

"What?"

"He's at the front door. Now."

James' mind raced. Could it be a trap? Was Plemenac simply that arrogant? Half torn between grabbing his gun and pressing the button to open the door, he froze.

Sinclair didn't speak into the mouthpiece. He pressed the button. A loud buzz indicated the front door unlocking itself.

"He's by himself. Nobody else came in with him."

James had mere seconds to come up with a plan. If he shot him now, could he hide the body? Nobody would ever know. Someone like Kemal or Ismet probably had the means and contacts to get rid of a body in Bosnia with no traces.

"Let me do the talking," said Sinclair. “Now stay calm.”

He wrenched open the front door. James peered over the intelligence agent's shoulders. This wasn't a dream. Plemenac stood at the threshold of their hotel suite, alone and unguarded. He had a thin smile on his face, the few wrinkles he had hanging with no tension.

"What are you doing here?" said James.

"I believe we have a few issues to discuss. I'm sorry I didn't call in advance. Ah, but I have a gift for you both." Plemenac showed them the bottle of rakija. "One of the finest brands you will find in Serbia or Bosnia. You have done well, and this is my gift to you."

Sinclair moved aside as Plemenac entered their suite.

"Thank you," Sinclair said, taking it without looking at the label. "I apologise but this has all come as a surprise. A lot of things have happened since we last met each other. How did you know where to find us?"

Plemenac smiled and tapped the side of his nose. "I have my means." He rubbed his hands together. "So good to get out of the cold. The winter is only going to get worse from here, I'm afraid. It makes one glad to be an ambassador. May I sit down?"

"Yes, of course." Sinclair gestured to the living room. "First room on your left."

James was so dumbstruck by the scene unfolding before him he couldn't even speak. He just stood rooted to the floor as Plemenac entered the living room and sat on their sofa. He crossed one leg over the other and glanced at the pictures of Bosnia and the bookshelf filled with travel guides and airport paperbacks.

"I suppose you two are wondering why I came here at all," Plemenac started after they'd both settled onto chairs.

"It had crossed our minds," said James.

"Well, as you both know, Sadik Kadrić is dead. Your contract has been fulfilled. It also brings peace, for a time, to Bosnia. He was a dangerous man with great plans. Did you know we were only weeks from Kadrić and his men beginning his march?"

"Oh, cut the crap, Plemenac, I know it was you. You murdered Kadrić."

Plemenac looked surprised. "Excuse me?"

"I was there that night. You stabbed him in the throat with your pen, at the fortress in Belgrade. I saw everything."

Plemenac's easy expression faded for a moment, and then he burst into laughter. His laughter came thick and hollow without a hint of warmth. It echoed through the hotel room like an unwelcome gust of wind.

"Then you are welcome," said Plemenac. "Very welcome. So, you were there to make your move at the same time? I suppose I saved you the trouble."

Nobody else laughed.

"Very well. What is it you want from me? I see you are still in Bosnia."

"Why kill Kadrić?" asked Sinclair.

"Oh, quite simple. He is a little man. A very little man." He held up two fingers. "A big fish in a small pond, as you English like to say. He was nowhere near as important to the cause of Bosnian-Serbs as he liked to believe. Kadrić served his purpose. Unfortunately, he