Page 40 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
“Ten minutes. Maybe.”
Adnan kept weaving in and out of lanes, and even ran a few yellow lights. Not being on the meter put a fire under his tail, which didn’t bother Jack at all.
He glanced back out the window and enjoyed the ride, absorbing as much detail as he could. There were plenty of small private shops and kiosks selling tobacco and convenience items but also chain shopping markets, department stores, and big banks, particularly foreign ones, as the taxi neared the city center. There were several mosques, their soaring minarets stabbing the skyline. He wasn’t used to being in a Muslim-majority city. But he also saw a fair number of churches, Catholic and Orthodox, and he’d read somewhere that the city still had a vibrant Jewish community. No wonder Sarajevo was referred to as the “Jerusalem of Europe.”
But there weren’t any soaring skyscrapers or super-wide boulevards in the oldest part of the historic city, nor any cranes or signs of new construction. Sarajevo felt like an old suit: well tailored and serviceable but worn and tired. No new construction meant nobody was planning for a bright and expansive future. Maybe the lack of it was partly a function of the city’s historical sensibilities, but more likely it meant this was a citywithout visionary leadership and, perhaps, without hope. Jack noticed as they crossed a bridge that the Miljacka River was barely a trickle in the wide, littered bed that marked the southern boundary of the Old Town.
Adnan turned and made his way to a narrow but unremarkable street flanked by low concrete buildings just tall enough to block the sun. Checking his Google Maps, he parked in front of a driveway leading to an alley, bordering a four-story apartment complex.
“Here we are,” Adnan said. “Twenty marks, please.”
Jack opened his wallet and pulled out his Visa card. Adnan frowned. “Cash is better.”
“Your website said you took Visa and MasterCard.”
“Sure, but cash is better.” Adnan saw the skeptical look in Jack’s eyes. “If you do not have the cash, I will take the card. But in my country, there’s a seventeen percent tax on credit cards, and a three percent fee, so I lose twenty percent if I take the card.”
Twenty percent?No wonder these guys were struggling. “No problem,” Jack said, and pulled out a twenty-mark bill and tossed him another ten for the tip—which, according to the travel guides, wasn’t necessary to do in this part of the world. But ten marks was about six bucks, and Jack figured Adnan was working his ass off just to keep his nose above water.
“Thank you!” Adnan reached for his door handle. “Let me get your bag.”
“Just pop the trunk, will you?”
“Yeah, sure.” Adnan shoved a business card into Jack’s hand. “You need a ride, you call Adnan, okay?”
Jack pocketed the card and grinned. “Who else would I call?”
“Oh, one more thing I should tell you. There is no water in Sarajevo from midnight to five in the morning.”
“Is there a water shortage?”
Adnan shook his head, grinning. “No, no water shortage.”
“Then why?”
Adnan shrugged. “Who knows? But plan accordingly.”
Jack pulled his bag out of the trunk, slammed the lid, and waved good-bye as Adnan pulled away. He turned into the alley and headed for his building. He hadn’t noticed the Audi sedan parked at the end of the street, let alone the man in the loose tie and rumpled suit intently marking Jack’s arrival, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have known the man’s name was Dragan Kolak.
22
NEAR TJENTIŠTE, REPUBLIKA SRPSKA, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
Tarik Brkic’s 4x4 Nissan quad pickup arrived at the camp at the end of the dusty road, his driver heading for the camouflaged storage facility. A bearded Tunisian raised a palm in half salute and smiled as the Chechen commander passed.
Brkic was pleased, despite the earlier call from Red Wing. The Tunisian was one of a group of eighteen jihadi fighters trained and equipped here in the last two months and heading out for Germany later tonight, soon to be replaced with fresh new recruits from Kosovo and Macedonia. The foundation was being laid for an independent Muslim state in the heart of Europe, guided only by sharia law, and beholden to no one but Allah himself.
But independence was not enough. Even Red Wing understood that. Such a state would pose too great a threat to the European powers, a humiliating reminder of the Islamic floodthat nearly swamped Europe centuries before. NATO would crush it at the first opportunity. How to protect such a state? That was where he and Red Wing differed.
As for the rest of Europe, hadn’t Islamic armies once invaded Spain and Portugal? France and Austria? Italy and Hungary? Bulgaria and Greece? Crete and Malta? Hadn’t Muslim fighters stormed the city gates of Constantinople, Athens, Moscow, Vienna, Lisbon, and Madrid?
Brkic believed with all of his heart that former Muslim lands would be Muslim again, and sharia would come to all of Europe, either through demographics or, sooner, by force of arms, which he preferred. As a prolific father and a ruthless fighter, he was proud that he had excelled at both.
The Nissan pulled up to the storage building and parked next to a Happy Times! tour van just as Emir stepped into view. Brkic grinned broadly and signaled for the driver to stop. He leaped out of the vehicle and embraced the smaller Bosniak in a bear hug. They were related by marriage and by blood, or at least the shedding of it.
“Emir! You bring good news?”
Emir smiled, almost shyly. “Good news, yes, but even more than that. Come.”
