Page 62 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
There was a gallery of old men sitting on benches close to the action, smoking and kibitzing as a thirtysomething guy in a sport coat lifted a pawn and took out the horse-headed knight of a silver-haired gent in a red-and-gold Adidas tracksuit, much to the gallery’s delight. Jack shook his head. From where he sat, the move seemed a strategic blunder.
Keeping one eye on the spirited game, Jack began smiling and dialing in his hunt for the next Aida. He felt like a retiree playing nickel slots in Vegas, certain the next pull of the handle would hit the jackpot.
Four calls in, that certainty began to fade.
His fifth call went straight to voice mail, and, according to his map, her place of business was just a few minutes away on foot. Abiding by his new search protocol, Jack decided to head over there. It also gave him an excuse to see some more of the Old Town.
He passed a large metal statue of a naked male figure on a pedestal in the middle of a small rose garden, in full sight of a towering, onion-domed Orthodox church. The figure looked like he was doing pull-ups on the shattered longitudinal axis of an open globe. His face pointed to the sky, but his polished bronze Johnson headed in the other direction. Jack read the inscription: “Multicultural Man Builds the World.” Jack shook his head. He wasn’t into modern art.
Jack walked east on the narrow pedestrian lane past the Orthodox church, then turned left for half a block until he bumped into the wider pedestrian street, Ferhadija. It was lined on either side with restaurants and shops, with quite a few wares on tables and stands along the walkway. Jack wandered along with the crowds of tourists, stopping occasionally to inspect a few places, half looking for presents for his mother and younger siblings, half conducting an SDR—surveillance detection route. Kolak had said he wouldn’t put a tail on him, but Jack wasn’t exactly the trusting type. The incident with the Romanian woman still had him on edge as well.
Most of the wares Jack found in the shops were touristyknickknacks: gauzy scarves, bronze teapots, postcards, beaded purses. He checked the labels, expecting to seeMADE IN CHINAstamped everywhere, but in this part of the world, Turkey had the corner on cheap stuff.
A few minutes later he found himself back at the fountain on the corner of the Gazi Husrev-beg Mosque, where people were still lapping up the cool water with their cupped hands. There were more hijabs and fully covered women here, and bearded men in traditional garb, than he’d seen anywhere else in the city.
He walked past the open gate of the mosque grounds and caught a glance of men and women segregated on either side of the elevated, rug-covered porch, praying on the outside. Still others in the courtyard were washing their feet before putting their shoes in the tall cubbies farther up. Clearly there were more tourists than worshippers entering the compound. A large knot of Russians wearing earphones listened to their guide yammering into a microphone, leading them through the gate. Jack followed them in.
The same smooth, tightly fitted stones on the walkway led him into the wide but modest courtyard. As a Catholic, Jack wasn’t completely sure how he felt about this place. The men and women praying up front seemed sincere enough, and God alone knew when Jack had last been in a church to pray.
On the other hand, he thought about the long and troubled history between his faith and theirs, a history too often characterized by blood and death. The European Crusades were a counterattack against the invading Islamic armies that swept throughout the Middle East and deep into the heart of Europe.
But that was ancient history, as a sign nailed to a tree in the courtyard confirmed. The sign displayed a stylized drone with a red slash through it, wordlessly proclaiming: “No drones.”
Jack smiled at the anachronism and headed back out of the gate toward his destination.
32
Jack crossed through the pigeon-jammed and tourist-crowded square of the Sebilj, an eighteenth-century wooden fountain, beautifully carved and topped with a metal dome like a mosque. He waited at the light for the sea of cars and buses to pass before crossing the street and back out into the bustling part of town. He walked past eclectic styles of buildings: some Western European–inspired, others more Mediterranean, and still others unremarkably modern and utilitarian. Sadly, most were marred by graffiti.
He followed his Google Maps directions until he reached a bus-wide alley and turned in, walking past a few storefronts and restaurants to a courtyard and the glass doors of the building he was searching for: the Happy Times! Balkan Tours office.
A bell hanging on the door tinkled as Jack entered the tiny lobby. A young woman with dirty-blond hair stood behind the counter, glasses perched on her nose. She glanced up from a book she was reading at the sound of the bell.
Could it be her?
“Dober dan,”the woman said. Smile lines radiated against her soft brown eyes.
Nope. Not her.
“Are you here for the two-o’clock tour?” she asked.
“Afraid not. I’m here to see Aida Curic.”
The woman frowned. “I’m sorry. She is not here at the moment.”
“Is there a way I can reach her? It’s important.”
Her frown hardened. “Excuse me, please.”
The woman disappeared behind a closed door and shut it behind her. Jack heard muffled voices. A moment later, it swung open and a man appeared. He was short and athletically built, with sparkling, dark eyes and an infectious, bearded smile.
“May I help you, sir?” Emir asked.
“I’m looking for Aida Curic.”
“She is not here at the moment. Is there something I can help you with? Arrange a private tour, perhaps?”
“No, nothing like that. I’d just like to speak with her.”
