Page 49 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
He passed by the wall of the Gazi Husrev-beg Mosque with a fountain on the corner where passersby stooped to drink water from a spigot with their cupped hands. Google Maps steered him left, and three minutes later he stood in front of a wrought-iron archway opening into a small courtyard between two buildings with wood tables and bench seating jammed with diners. Small, clear electric lights hung from the branches of trees overhanging the courtyard. Bosnian folk music played on the outdoor speakers, but it could hardly be heard over the laughter and loud, friendly banter of people having a good time.
There wasn’t a breeze of any sort, and Jack felt a small trickle of sweat sliding down his spine as he stood there searching for a place to sit. The tables were crowded with plates of delicious-looking food and glasses full of wine and beer, and quite a few cigarettes. It was a good vibe and obviously a popular place.
He glanced through the open door of the air-conditioned restaurant interior and saw a standing-room-only crowd inside and no empty tables or even a space to stand at the busy bar. Even if Aida was in there, he wouldn’t have the chance to talk to her.
“You want table? Over there,” a waitress said, nodding her ponytailed brunette head toward an empty two-seater in the back of the courtyard while she balanced plates of lamb kebabs and fish. Her left ear was pierced with at least ten small hoops, and tiny blue star tattoos were clustered on her neck.
“Great, thanks. Is Aida Curic here?” Jack asked, but the waitress had turned her back to him and was delivering food to an eager table of hungry young Germans.
Jack made his way carefully through the choreographed chaos of flying waitresses, harried busboys, and shuffling tourists passing in and out of the restaurant. He kept his eye peeled for a pretty blonde with blue eyes. He assumed Aida was a waitress, but maybe she was a cook or tended the bar. Gavin’s notes weren’t that specific. He figured he’d order food and try again to ask whoever his waitress was about her after he ate. It was still early and he couldn’t imagine this Curic woman would bail out of her shift before the dinner crowd got rolling and the tips started dropping, especially if she was a server.
Jack wedged past a bench with a fat Spaniard bulging into the walkway on one side and the gangly legs of a couple tall Finns on the other, then excused himself past three plus-sized womenbefore dropping into the seat behind the small open table he was aiming for. He picked up the menu that was thankfully in English as well as a few other languages, and scanned the selections.
Where the hell was thecevapi?
The waitress with the ponytail and the fishing tackle on her ear carried bottles of beer wedged between her fingers, dropping them off along the way before reaching Jack’s remote location.
“You decide?” she asked with a harried smile.
“Nocevapi?”
“Not here. Cevabdžinica Petica Ferhatovic is best.”
Jack assumed that was the name of another restaurant. He’d figure it out later. “What’s good here?”
“Bosnian Pot. It’s a kind of soup. Very local.”
“Sounds good. And your best local beer, too. Please.”
“Okay,” she said as she snatched up his menu and scampered off.
Jack kept scanning the courtyard while waiting for his order, hoping to catch sight of Aida. He was too far back on the patio to see inside the restaurant. A few minutes later, a giant bowl of soup and a cold bottle of Sarajevska beer arrived. He dug into his bowl greedily, savoring the lean, spicy beef that practically melted in his mouth, along with the soft wedges of potato, sweet onions, and crunchy vegetables in the rich, red broth. It was really more like a stew than a soup. He washed it down with the smooth, drinkable lager that tasted especially good and even a little sweet chasing the soup’s mild spices.
By the time he spooned up the last bite of soup his waitress had reappeared with another beer in her hand.
“How’d you know?” Jack asked.
She smiled, her eyes flashing with just a little bit more than professional interest. “You have the look.”
“What look is that? A dumb American?”
“No, just thirsty.” She set the beer down on the table. “Anything else you want, thirsty American?”
“Yeah, maybe you can help me. Is Aida Curic here tonight?”
Her interested smile suddenly faded. “Yes.”
“Do you mind asking her to come over here?”
“She’s busy.”
“It’s important.”
She shrugged, resigned to her disappointment and clearly annoyed. “I will tell her.”
Jack watched her bobbing ponytail disappear into the restaurant. A minute later, a pretty, young blonde appeared, followed by a man with a close-shaved head and a serious addiction to weightlifting and, quite possibly, steroids, to judge from the unnatural shape of his upper body.
The blonde approached his table. The man stood behind her, glowering at Jack over her shoulder. A few heads turned to watch the show unfolding.
