Page 24 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
“I need to scan these. It will take a few minutes.”
Emir swallowed his panic. The two Greek passports were good enough for the lax border controls he frequented in the region, but they almost certainly wouldn’t pass a computer check. He had to do something.
“Sir, I noticed you were making notes about my van.”
“Oh, yes. That. I found several problems. Your left headlight isn’t properly aligned, and your right rear tire is nearly bald, a clear safety violation.” He referred back to his clipboard. “I’m tempted to impound your van for violation of the commercial vehicle standards.”
“You must be kidding,” Emir blurted out. The man had spoken enough to reveal he was a Serb, probably from Pale, judging by the accent. It angered him. At least the two of them were speaking in Bosanski, the Serbo-Croatian language spoken throughout the region. Otherwise his passengers might have become alarmed, especially the two Greeks, and he couldn’t be sure what they might do next.
“I think I’m going to issue you a personal citation as well. Two months of driver education, and a citation for careless operation of a commercial vehicle.”
“That’s a four-hundred-mark fine.” About two hundred euros, Emir quickly calculated. A lot of money.
“So you do know the law?” The Serb officer allowed himself a grin.
Emir reached for his wallet. “Of course, I understand. But you know, I’ve been on the road for the last three days and I haven’t had a chance to inspect the vehicle.”
Emir knew that cops in this part of the world were grossly underpaid, and like almost everybody else in Bosnia, his salary probably couldn’t keep up with the rising cost of living. So copslike him found other sources of income, including shaking down drivers desperate to be somewhere else. Corruption was corroding everything in Bosnia these days. It was more than annoying, but it was the cost of doing business. Soon that would change, Emir reminded himself. And he would remember this man when it did.
Emir pulled out a neatly folded wad of two hundred Bosnian convertible marks, the local currency. “I’ll be sure to take care of all of those things as soon as I get back to Sarajevo.” He slipped the folded cash to the officer. The Serb took the money without even looking at it and pocketed it while still staring at his clipboard. “Well, yes, I understand how it is. I’m not a harsh man. Just trying to keep the law, yes?” He glanced up at Emir.
“Yes, of course,” Emir said, offering a smile. “It’s very late. Perhaps we can leave now?”
The border policeman frowned. “Not just yet. I must first scan these passports.” He pointed toward a cinder-block building behind him and the door marked “WC.”
“There is a public restroom if your passengers have the need. I’ll be right back.”
The Serb turned on his heel and headed for his tiny tollbooth with the large glass window. He wasn’t in any hurry, making a big show of taking his time, Emir noticed.
Bastard.
As soon as the Serb had turned his back, Emir snatched up his phone and hit the speed dial.
“What’s the problem?” asked one of the two Greeks sitting in the back. The Syrian’s English was good, better than the Chechen’s.
“No problem,” Emir said, lying. Walib’s nerves were frayed. Emir couldn’t blame him after the harrowing week the twodefectors had spent crammed into the backs of trucks and the trunks of cars crossing borders from Turkey to here, with rumors of Russian Spetsnaz in hot pursuit. It would be fatal to both men if the SVR—the Russian version of the CIA—were somehow alerted to their location tonight. Worse, the mission would fail, especially without the Syrian missile officer.
Emir watched the Serb slow-walking toward the booth, flipping through the passports as he went. No one was picking up on the other end of Emir’s call.
Emir touched his waistband, feeling for the small-caliber pistol he kept in a banded polyester holster. Killing the Serb wasn’t the best option. But letting the Serb scan the passports into the Interpol I-24/7 database clearly wasn’t an option at all.
And failing this mission was impossible.
“I’ll be right back.” Emir climbed out of the van and headed for the tollbooth, trying to decide what he would do with the Americans and Germans after he killed the Serb, but three steps from his van his eye caught sight of a pair of speeding high beams curving in a violent arc onto the far side of the trestle bridge.
The bouncing high beams also caught the Serb’s eye from behind the glass, causing him to glance up as he prepared to scan the first German passport.
The four-door Fiat sedan skidded to a halt on the asphalt in front of the customs booth. A bald man dressed in shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops jumped out, not even bothering to shut off the engine. He jogged over to the door of the booth and rattled the locked handle until the aggravated Serb reluctantly stood and opened it.
Emir suddenly recognized the other man as the border agent who should have been there in the first place. Emir approachedthe booth cautiously, uncertain as to what was unfolding in the blur of wildly gesticulating hands and muffled voices shouting behind the glass. By the time he arrived at the front of the booth the voices had lowered and the gestures were calmer. Emir relaxed a little. This was the time-honored ritual of negotiation, Bosnian style.
The Serb officer shrugged hugely and the Bosniak’s head waved back and forth for emphasis. The Serb glanced at the ceiling and the Bosniak checked his watch. The Serb took his seat and lit a cigarette from the pack on his desk, clouding the cramped booth with blue smoke on the first exhale. Then he slid the lighter and pack across the desk and the Bosniak snagged one for himself and lit up as well, signaling the end of the negotiation.
The Bosniak came out of the booth with a wide smile plastered across his unshaven face, the cigarette dangling from his lips and the stack of passports in his hand.
“Emir, it’s good to see you.”
Emir smiled but lowered his voice. “Where the hell were you?”
