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

"So, that's how he became an ambassador?"

"Yes, yes, very smart man, but the mafia helped him lots. I helped him too. I am the best friend you could have in Bosnia." Addy glanced at Kemal. "Well, apart from him, of course. Kemal is a good man. A good man but a bad businessman, eh."

James cleared his throat before the glaring Kemal throttled Addy. "And we were looking to get to know him better. Would you know anything about where he is or whether we could set up a meeting? Just give him Kemal's name. We wouldn't want to make him nervous around a foreigner he doesn't know, would we?"

"Anything you say, my friend. Anything you say. I call him for you now. I will meet him soon."

Addy tucked the bag underneath his arm and left his beer where it was. He scuttled towards the bar’s backroom like a rat who had stolen away a piece of rotting meat.

Kemal shook his head. "I told you he was trash."

Chapter Fifty-Four

A black car with tinted windows cruised to a halt on Gorczany Street. Plemenac dawdled for a moment as he looked over the social media posts of the White Rose. Since the killings had escalated across the country, the White Rose had managed to gain some traction. Followers left hundreds of comments on these posts, some going viral and trending across the online world.

He locked his phone and contemplated what it meant for a moment. The hatred springing up between Bosnians and Serbians was good. The White Rose's position that it was an inside conspiracy to play two sides against each other was a hazard. Dangerous for him and his plans. He needed Bosnians and Serbs to continue butting heads, as they had done for so long.

Plemenac stepped out of the car into the night. Things were quiet, but not too quiet. He saw two men standing outside the headquarters of the White Rose, their faces in the misty light staring back at him. They weren't a threat to him. They feared him.

He strode towards them without breaking eye contact. "Good evening, how are you both?"

Short yet meaty, he could tell they were no more than mere thugs beholden only to the highest bidder.

"What do you want?" said the man who looked like a weasel.

Plemenac held his tongue at the man’s rudeness and took a deep breath. "Okay,” he said, “I'm not a man who likes long and pointless conversations. I have business with Ratko Avdić. Private business. You two are guarding him, yes?"

"Yeah," the second man said.

Plemenac cut him off by raising his hand. "You have a choice. Either I give each of you five hundred American dollars to return to your homes, or I'm going to shoot you now, right here. How much does Ratko mean to you both?"

The two men looked at each other dumbstruck.

Plemenac's hand reached for his weapon.

"Okay," said the weasel.

"Excellent." A man of his word, Plemenac withdrew the stack of hundred-dollar bills he'd prepared earlier and held them out. "Now, go."

The weasel snatched the bounty from his hand, and they scurried away in the opposite direction. Their heads remained down, the collars of their coats up. Plemenac would bill the Serbian embassy for his expenses later.

Plemenac hopped up the steps of the house and pressed his finger on the bell. Clearing his throat, he watched as his breath crystallised in the air. The light in the hallway turned on and Ratko answered the door. He had bags under his eyes, and the bruises of his previous beating from Kadrić's men had yet to heal.

"Good evening, Mr. Avdić. I would like to speak with you privately. Would you mind?"

Ratko looked him up and down, the distrust evident in his eyes. He began to close the door. "No, no, I don't think so."

Plemenac delivered a pump kick to the door. It flew backwards. Ratko lost his grip and retreated into the hallway and disappeared into a room.

Plemenac closed the door behind him. After sliding the lock shut with a damning bang, he began the hunt for his quarry. It reminded him of Srebrenica. Oh, how they ran and hid. No matter how long they fled, the result remained the same, and the result would be the same tonight.

Another set of footsteps slapped across the tiled floor. Ratko flew out of the room with a large carving knife.

"Get out of my house!" Ratko yelled. "I'll do it. I’ll cut your throat!"

"Oh, please, do we have to play this ridiculous game? Plemenac unveiled the pistol from his pocket and levelled it at him. "Besides, you are a well-known pacifist, and I know you do not have the capacity to hurt a fly. Now, put the knife down."

Ratko's whole body reverberated with anger. Slowly he lowered the knife to his side. "What do you want, Plemenac?"

Plemenac raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Someone has been doing their research. You know who I am. Correct me if I'm wrong, but if I recall correctly, you were working with the foreigners against Sadik Kadrić, yes?"

"They have nothing to do with this organisation."

Plemenac gestured to the sitting room across the hall. "Well, let's stop with this uncivilised behaviour and have a little talk."

Ratko never let go of the carving knife as he trudged into the living room. Plemenac watched for any twitch of his arm. A known pacifist could do extraordinary things when his life was under threat.

"Your hospitality is appalling," Plemenac commented. "You have no idea why I came or what I want to say to you yet."

"Fuck you."

Plemenac raised his eyebrows as he stood over the repaired coffee table. He sat after Ratko did, leaving his weapon on the table in