Page 38 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
“You are a great patriot, and a servant of the Most High.”
Brkic found that in life it often wasn’t possible to be both.
“His will be done.”
21
SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
Jack powered up his cell phone as the airport bus shuttled from the plane toward the small, dated terminal, an unpretentious glass-and-concrete building surrounded by low hills dotted with houses and pine-covered mountains beyond.
No point in wasting time, he thought. He scrolled through the list of names Gavin had sent him. A list of eleven blond, blue-eyed women in their twenties birth-named Aida Curic, all living in Sarajevo. Gavin even included photos from driver’s licenses or other official documents, along with their contact information, but with the caveat that the Bosnian databases he found weren’t always up-to-date and might not be completely reliable.
At least it was a good start, and with any luck, one of these women would be the adult version of the young girl in his mother’s cherished memory. He actually looked forward to delivering his mother’s letter to this woman, though she hadforbidden him to read it in advance. She didn’t say, however, that he couldn’t hang around to see the woman’s response. Jack knew his mother, and whatever she wrote would bless this Aida Curic person down to her toenails.
He owed his mother a lot—well, everything, actually—and she never asked anything of him, so, in a way, this was a blessing to him as well. The smile he’d see on her face when she got the good news and the “Nice job, son” he’d get would be worth whatever minor hassles he was going to face over the next few days. He just hoped this Aida person appreciated the gift his mother had given her and would somehow reciprocate, even if it was just a letter in response.
Jack fetched his one piece of slightly oversized luggage from baggage claim and passed easily through a largely disinterested passport check, then snagged a wad of local currency at an ATM in the lobby: Bosnian convertible marks, aka BAM.
Jack turned around and saw a twentysomething guy in a worn polo shirt and jeans, holding a handwritten sign that readJACK RYANand scanning the lobby. They locked eyes and the driver smiled broadly.
“Mr. Ryan?”
“Jack, please.” Jack stuck out his hand and the man shook it enthusiastically. “You are?”
“Adnan.”
“Great to meet you, Adnan. Ready to roll?”
“Let me get your bag,” Adnan said, reaching for the handle, but Jack waved him off.
“I got it, no sweat.” He knew the man was angling for a tip, but Jack was always a good tipper and, like his dad, he didn’t care for people making a fuss over him, whatever the reason.
“Okay,” the driver said, nodding and pointing at the sliding-glass-door exit. The two of them headed out into the surprising heat of a bright September afternoon. Jack read online that it was always better to arrange for a cab or car service in advance. The locals often jacked up the price if you just showed up. This way, the price was set and not negotiable, and the driver knew where to go in advance, which, in this case, was an address for an Airbnb that Jack had found near the Stari Grad—the Old Town. After a change of clothes into something cooler, he’d start his search for Aida Curic, and maybe try to find a place that sold thiscevapistuff he’d heard so much about.
Adnan popped the trunk on a slightly worse-for-wear silver Toyota sedan and Jack tossed his roller into it. Adnan’s front passenger seat was crowded with boxes of used business books in German and Serbo-Croatian, along with a few English-language thrillers, so Jack climbed into the backseat.
Adnan threaded his way through Sarajevo’s busy streets, crowded with mostly late-model cars, crammed public buses, and at least one Tito-era trolley car straight off the set ofDoctor Zhivago. Like most urban centers these days, Sarajevo had a lot of trash on the ground and graffiti sprayed on the walls, Jack saw. Had it not been for the street signs, Jack might have thought he was in a working-class suburb of Rome or Paris.
“American, yes?” Adnan asked in a thick accent. He glanced at Jack in his rearview mirror.
“That obvious?”
“Your e-mail address tell me this.” A battered Mercedes sedan stopped short in front of them as he spoke, his eyes on Jack in the rearview. But somehow Adnan sensed the trouble; he blasted his horn and swerved into another lane to avoid a collision.
“First time in Bosnia, Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you think?”
“So far, so good.” Jack was grateful for the air conditioner even though it clearly needed a shot of Freon.
Adnan smiled broadly. “It’s a beautiful country, with beautiful women and the best food. Yes, very beautiful.”
“Can’t wait to find out,” Jack said, suddenly realizing his faux pas. “The food, I mean. I hear the thing to get iscevapi.”
“Yes, it’s the best. We are famous for it. And cheap. The food here is very good prices for you Americans.”
