Page 51 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
The boy stood frozen in place, trembling. His terrified face grew brighter in the rising yellow light of a roaring fire far behind Brkic’s shoulder.
But it was the scream of the burning horse that made the boy suddenly gasp.
The flickering catchlight of the fire danced in the boy’s dark eyes in the clear German optics of the Chechen’s rifle. A muffled pop and the spray of black blood behind the child’s head ended his terror. His body crumbled to the ground like a puppet when its strings are cut, crunching in the pine needles where it fell, as the first of his men thundered up behind him.
“Who was that?” one of them asked.
“Time to go,” was all Brkic said.
Ten minutes later they were in their vehicles and far away, long before the fire would even be noticed or reported.
Red Wing had called for sharper measures, Brkic thought, as they sped along the two-lane road. Tonight they had delivered,with evidence left behind to spread the tale of Croatian crimes, written in blood and lead.
And the corpse of a nameless boy.
Brkic prayed his parents would find him before the rats did.
Inshallah.
26
SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
After his embarrassing first attempt at finding his mother’s Aida Curic, Jack decided to try working the phones harder and avoiding personal contact. He came to realize that if a Bosnian appeared out of nowhere and walked into his office at Hendley Associates and asked if he was Jack Ryan, he’d be suspicious as hell.
Before he went to bed, he dove into his first three calls. They were nearly as awkward as the encounter earlier in the evening had been, but he played the bumbling American role pretty well, apologizing after every question and acknowledging that what he was doing was strange. All three calls were strikeouts, but he was encouraged. He showered and hit the sack early, determined to make a day of it tomorrow.
—
After a cup of steaming-hot Jocko White Tea, he made his first two phone calls for the day. They went faster and felt less awkward than the previous ones, and also resulted in two more names getting crossed off the list.
Six down, five to go.
He popped on the news and caught the local weather. Cool this morning, but it was going to be another warm and perfect day. No point in staying cooped up in the apartment. He decided he could make his calls from a breakfast joint just as well.
He’d noticed the day before that he was the only guy on the street wearing shorts. He wondered if that was a cultural thing or even a taboo. But then again, it was brisk this morning, so pants made sense and it made him look just a little more professional.
He found a TripAdvisor review for a place on the edge of the Old Town and dropped in. The small restaurant was crowded with people grabbing coffee and pastries to go. Jack spotted a seat by the window and beelined for it.
He took the advice of one of the TripAdvisor commenters and ordered a Bosnian coffee and a crunchy chocolate-hazelnut pastry called apita. The doughnut-shaped pastry was phyllo dough, and the dense, gooey filling tasted like Nutella.
Full of fat, sugar, and countless carbs, the flaky pastry might have been the best damn thing he’d ever eaten.
Knowing he’d have to run at least an extra ten miles next week to burn off the additional calories, he passed on getting a secondpitaand instead ordered another cup of dark, richBosnian coffee, smoother and less harsh than a full espresso, and sweetened with two small sugar cubes, Bosnian style.
Fortified with sugar and caffeine and happy to people-watch through the big picture window, Jack began his next round of calls.
The next Aida, number seven, was a harried bank clerk who assured him in no uncertain terms he had the wrong person, and number eight’s mother informed him her daughter had immigrated to Australia two weeks ago. But he sounded like a nice man, she said, and she had a lovely daughter named Amina, who worked as a bookkeeper, and perhaps he would like to meet her?
Number nine was unemployed and living at home with her parents, and, unfortunately, she wasn’t the one he was looking for, either, she said in the form of an apology.
The tenth call was not only nice but sympathetic and, even though she wasn’t the woman he was looking for, offered her services to help him in his search. Jack thanked her but politely declined.
One Aida left.
Despite his failure so far, he was encouraged. Nearly everyone he spoke with this morning was not only nice but even understanding. He picked up the phone and dialed the number, but it went straight to voice mail in Bosanski. He hated leaving voice mails in his own language, let alone with such a strange request, so he hung up. He double-checked the address of her employment and discovered she worked in a bookstore just a few blocks away.
Jack paid his bill and tip with cash and headed out the door. Within twenty feet, he was out of the pedestrian part of the Old Town and walking down one of the main thoroughfaresbisecting the capital city, Maršala Tita—Marshal Tito Street. Bustling with traffic and pedestrians, it felt like a downtown street of any large American city, except for the minarets in the distance and the noticeable lack of skyscrapers.
