Page 72 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
“Owning your own business is difficult, I imagine.”
“It is, but I’m not afraid of hard work. Besides, it gives mefinancial independence.” She shot him a sly glance. “No need to rely on a man to put a roof over my head.”
“When did you start the company?”
“I didn’t. The company was my father’s. I was studying to become a medical doctor when he died, so I inherited it.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. He was a good man.”
“Tell me about your refugee center.”
“We just opened it last year. In a poor country like Bosnia, people resent refugees taking up scarce resources, even Muslim refugees.”
“Why? Bosnia is Muslim majority.”
“Yes, but it’s also majority unemployed, or nearly so. Another legacy of the war. Here we are.”
They stood in front of the corner fountain at the Gazi Husrev-beg Mosque, which Jack had seen twice before. As usual, people were drinking from the flowing spigot. Along with throngs of tourists shuffling by, there were more traditionally dressed Muslim men and women. One of the women was completely covered, exposing only her wide, dark eyes, which stole a glance at Aida.
“I didn’t realize there were so many people of fundamentalist faith here,” Jack whispered, not wanting to offend.
“Those are mostly visitors from Muslim countries. We are becoming quite a tourist destination for them.”
Jack glanced up at the skyline. The secular buildings in this part of town were two or three stories at most. But from where he stood he saw three towering minarets: the one here at the fountain, and two others, denoting the locations of other mosques in the area. From what he’d seen so far, Sarajevoappeared to be a secular Western city. But there were so many historically significant Muslim sites in such a close area, Jack could see why people of strong Islamic faith would be drawn here.
“So, fundamentalism isn’t a big deal in your country?” Jack asked.
“It’s definitely growing, but most Muslims are like me. Islam is more of an expression of our culture and our identity, not a daily religious practice.”
“Same with a lot of Catholics in America,” Jack said, referring to himself.
Aida nodded at the streaming fountain water. “The tradition is that if you drink from the fountain, you will someday come back to Sarajevo. And the water is delicious.”
Jack took the cue and waited behind a bearded middle-aged man in a skullcap before lapping up a few quick sips of the surprisingly cold and refreshing water.
Aida was clearly pleased by the gesture. “Would you like to go inside?”
“I already stopped in.”
“Then let’s keep going.”
They strolled west along the wide, paved walkway of Ferhadija that Jack had traversed a couple times before, but Aida pointed out the best shops, and places of historical interest, which he had missed entirely.
What really intrigued him, though, was the number of smiles and waves and friendly nods that came Aida’s way as they walked. It seemed like everybody knew her, including the ones with the obviously forced gestures. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn she was the mayor of Sarajevo, or at least this part of it.
Aida pointed out the directional arrows in the pavement stones as they stepped over them, indicating that they were leaving the Turkish side of the city and stepping into the Hapsburg side, the part of Sarajevo built during the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The old-world charm of the Ottoman side of the city suddenly gave way to more modern façades of glass and concrete, many of them large foreign banks and chain stores. It felt like they’d passed from one world to another in just a few steps.
“The one thing I haven’t seen in this city are babies or little kids in strollers. Well, except for the tourists.”
“An interesting observation, Jack. You’re exactly right. Like the rest of Europe, our demographic profile is collapsing. There’s an old saying: ‘Where there is no hope, there are no children.’”
“Why isn’t there any hope?”
“Here we are,” Aida said.
They’d stopped in front of a Swiss chain clothing store.
