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

Ratko raised a hand to silence Sinclair. "That's not the worst part. The real power in this country is the High Representative. This is a foreigner appointed by Europe. They are the ultimate authority here. Originally, it was designed to oversee the transition to democracy and peace, but today they are still here. That's the great flaw of this country."

"On that," Kemal stepped forward and perched himself on the arm of the sofa. "We agree. Even our flag is not ours. The West made us have it. This is not the flag of Bosnia. It is trash."

Ratko nodded. "That's what you need to know about Bosnia and Herzegovina."

James' head began to spin at the sheer amount of information Ratko had communicated. For all his jobs, he'd never heard anything like Bosnia’s political system. It made no logical sense to him and magnified the ethnic divisions that remained in the country.

Sinclair's head bobbed along like he'd understood every word. "The war ended a generation ago and the country remains in the transition period, then?"

"Worse than that. We have never been closer to civil war than we are now. Kadrić and other Bosnian-Serb nationalists want a war either for independence or to join Serbia. These attacks are not done out of hatred. They're part of a strategy to drive each entity further apart. The goal is war. War, war, and more war."

"Pah, let them go to war." Kemal spat out the words with venom. "We will destroy them. I will grind my boot into their throats. I might be old, but I can still fight."

"That is not the way," said Ratko.

Kemal switched to Bosnian again and father and son exchanged heated words. Their voices rose an additional decibel with every sentence. Kemal’s face glowed red with frustration.

"This is not our fight." James' voice rose above the din. "We didn't come here to listen to the both of you argue over the future of Bosnia. I don't mean to be rude, but our time here is limited. Our priority is Kadrić and nothing more."

"Shut up," Sinclair mouthed at James.

The outburst stopped the two Bosnians in their tracks. They shared looks of anger, but no more Bosnian passed through their lips.

"You're right," said Ratko. "This is not your fight. I've been trying to find out more about Kadrić since the murder. We know that he's strengthening his links with various mafia groups in the Balkans. The Russian, the Croatian, and, of course, the Serbian. We also think that he may even be taking orders directly from Belgrade. On that, though, it's nothing more than a rumour."

"You need support," Kemal's deep voice boomed above his gentler son's. "You must know one thing about Bosnia. Politics is everything. I can introduce you to a good friend of mine. Ismet Ćatić. We fought in the war together."

"How can he help us?" James asked.

"He is big man of Horde Sla. The fans of FK Sarajevo." Kemal paused. "Football. Ismet knows many people. He meets them, he fights against them. See if he helps you. I take you to him tomorrow."

James looked to Sinclair for an answer. He was the hitman not the intelligence of the operation.

"If you believe he may be able to bring us closer to Kadrić, it would be well worth our time," said Sinclair.

Kemal shoved a meaty hand into his pocket and took out an old Nokia phone from the early 2000s.  He brought the phone close to his face and began pressing buttons, his face screwed up in deep concentration.

"Here is Ismet. You like him very much." Kemal offered the phone to James.

The phone showed a low-quality photo of Kemal and another man sitting in a bar together. Ismet's expression settled somewhere between a smile and a scowl.  What stood out to James were those eyes. Bright green and piercing, set into a skull that resembled something like a Great Ape. James didn't need to ask what sort of man he was. He'd been around them all his life.

James passed the phone to Sinclair with a nod. If nothing else, they were about to meet a man who spoke their language.

Chapter Five

The smog enveloped Sarajevo in a depressing gloom as it lingered into the following afternoon. The poisonous smell of exhaust fumes and factory chimneys triggered thousands of wet coughs across the city. Melting snow at the side of the road left a dirty slurry coating the paths and roads. James tugged his scarf up over his mouth as he met Kemal in his old Ford outside the Hotel Old Town.

"Where is your friend, Sinclair?" Kemal almost looked disappointed. "He sick?"

"No." James climbed into the car. "This is just not his area of expertise."

Kemal hadn't dared switch the engine off. He shifted the abused car into first gear with a meaty hand and pulled away from the curb. The Ford spluttered and belched a cloud of black exhaust fumes as they joined the main road that followed along the river. He took out a soft package of cigarettes and offered one to James, which he took.

"Drinas. Very important in Bosnia. We smoke these during the war. They have never changed."

James lit the cigarette and took in a long drag. He felt the tar coating his throat. "They're strong."

"Very strong. Very strong." He shook a clenched fist. "Like Bosnia."

"So," James started. "How can Ismet help us?"

"You know Horde Sla?"

James shook his head. "Is this a political group?"

"No, they are Horde Sla. Hordes of Evil in your language. To the very last day of my life, only Sarajevo, this is what they say."

"You'll have to explain, I'm afraid."

"Ismet is the leader of Horde Sla. The supporter’s group of FK Sarajevo, Bosnian football team. Oh, you should see how they fight. Real Bosnian warriors. On Saturday, you