Page 20 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
The night air cooled a little, but not too much, and the breeze off the mountain carried the sharp, sweet tang of the whispering pines. It was fall but not yet cool, the summer warmth lingering like a lonely cousin in the small, rocky valley. The inky black sky shimmered with stars bright in their courses.
It was the first September the four teenagers hadn’t been in school, and none of them were going to college this year. The boys—fraternal twins—were heading for Split to work in an uncle’s restaurant on the Adriatic coast in two days. Like other ethnic Croats in Bosnia, all four of them had relatives in the country of Croatia to the west, where there was more work to be had, though mostly for the tourist industry. It was long, grueling labor, but better than no work at all, and the new American tourists tipped like drunken sailors, unlike the Germans.
The girls were planning on leaving, too, as soon as theycould find something, somewhere—anywhere. They had their feelers out, but nearly half of all Bosnians were unemployed, and good, steady work with a decent paycheck was scarce, especially in the countryside. The taller girl was good with numbers but shy, and the fine-boned brunette spoke passable French. They were heading to Sarajevo at the end of the week to start their search.
But all of that was for later. The four of them had spent the last two days hiking in the hills and swimming in the Lukoc River, roasting river trout on open fires and drinking sweet summer wine, cheaper and better than weed, which was harder to come by, too expensive, and still illegal in Bosnia.
Tonight was their last night together and they turned in early to their respective tents, summer lovers soon separated, probably forever. They each finally fell asleep, spent and sated, the smell of salty sweat and campfire smoke in their nightclothes. Their deep, rhythmic breathing wasn’t disturbed by the crunch of pine needles beneath eight pairs of heavy boots, and the tall girl woke only when she heard the muffled scream of her friend in the dark, followed by the zip of a blade shearing through her tent wall.
—
The camouflaged men hid their faces behind balaclavas. One of them, the unit commander, stood back in the shadows, his milky left eye glistening in the moonlight, watching the other men bind and gag the four teenagers. They tied the boys to the trees and forced them to watch the gang rape of the two girls, then forced the girls to watch them beat the boys with batons until their bones cracked, before raping them with the same heavy instruments.
The four broken bodies were tossed facedown onto the pine needles, whimpering and faint. Two men stepped forward, put heavy knees in the center of the boys’ backs, pulled their heads up by the hair, and slit their throats.
The last thing the brunette remembered before she passed out was a rasping whisper in her ear.
“Croatia for Croats, Bosnia for Serbs.”
—
On a bridge six kilometers north of the campsite, the man with the milky eye was dressed in civilian clothes again, as was his driver, their camouflage gear carefully packed and hidden in the back of the unmarked panel van beneath a stack of boxes.
His burner phone signal had just one bar, but that was enough to call the local police. He reported that he had heard screams in the woods west of Citluk, and hung up before he could answer any further questions, then pulled the battery and pocketed it before tossing the remainder of the burner phone into the river below. He signaled the driver to head for home, careful to keep within the speed limit.
With any luck, the police would respond quickly. Violent crime was virtually unknown in the area, and cops didn’t have much to do, especially this time of night.
The milky-eyed man couldn’t take the chance that the girls might die from their injuries or exposure before they were found, or that somehow they might fatally harm themselves trying to get back to human habitation. They might even be tempted to commit suicide after such humiliation.
No, that wasn’t acceptable at all. The plan required them to survive. He was confident the police would arrive in time, andthe girls would be found, and their stories told so that the whole country would know what had happened to them tonight and, more important, who had done it.
The man with the milky eye had no regrets about the suffering of the two girls, even though he had three daughters of his own about that same age.
After all, what he had done was for them.
12
LJUBLJANA, SLOVENIA
Jack had spent eight days on his ass, his nose buried in financials and spreadsheets, three days longer than he’d planned. That would cut his search time in Sarajevo down to just three days, but he thought that might be enough. Gavin had generated a list of potential Aida Curices, including those who had married and changed their names. Sorting by age and other factors had shortened the list considerably. Tracking them down wouldn’t be a big deal.
Jack’s office window overlooked the parking lot and another glass-and-steel building in the Technology Park, each of the last eight days marred by dark clouds and rain. Struna offered to take him on a walking tour of the small but charming Old Town, where cars weren’t permitted, but he confessed it was mostly restaurants, bars, and small retail shops, so Jack politely passed. He’d rather spend the time finishing up his work as fastas he could, but he would allow himself one day to tour the Julian Alps with Struna, hoping that the weather would break by then.
He woke up sorely disappointed. It was still raining.
The night before, Struna took him to Pop’s Place in the Old Town because Jack was craving an American-style burger and, frankly, so was Struna. The place was hopping with locals and tourists, with a friendly and animated staff. He and Struna sat at a communal table next to a quiet Belgian couple and a group of rowdy Aussies. The huge selection of local craft beers was amazing and tasty, especially the Bevog Ond smoked porter, an Austrian brew. The grass-fed Slovenian beef burgers were pretty damn good, too.
“You did a great job for us, Jack,” Struna said, his red-rimmed eyes smiling, as he hoisted an oatmeal stout.
“You’re gonna be a billionaire,” Jack said, toasting his friend. “But you better get some shut-eye. You look pretty beat.”
“No rest for the wicked, right?” Struna smiled and finished his beer, then paid the tab, and the two of them headed for Jack’s hotel.
Jack was hardly surprised when his phone rang at five-thirty that morning. Struna’s clogged voice apologized. His wife and kids were sick and he wouldn’t be able to take Jack to the mountains. Besides, it was still raining.
“But if you still want to go, you can take my car. I preprogrammed the GPS for you last night and left a guidebook on the front seat.”
“If you don’t mind, sure.”
