Warriors (9781101621189) Read online

  “Yes?” the voice said.

  “Stefan, this is Viktor.”

  “Ah, good morning, Lieutenant.” Stefan coughed, cleared his throat, and asked, “What time is it?”

  “Nearly noon, you drunk. And I am not a lieutenant anymore. Have you considered my proposal?” The conversation’s start troubled Dušic. His friend Stefan had once been a good soldier. But now Dušic wondered if drink and age had dulled the man’s reflexes and clouded his judgment.

  “Viktor,” Stefan said, “I admire your vision. But I do not know if you’ll find enough people. A lot of the former officers feel lucky not to have been arrested and sent to The Hague. They don’t want to take chances now.”

  Weaklings, Dušic thought. They had once sworn an oath to Republika Srpska. But now they just wanted to lie low, work their meaningless jobs, and bang their wives. Dušic knew why they’d lost their nerve. Their commander, the great General Ratko Mladic, had faced a war crimes trial after eluding capture for fifteen years. Their president, the poet politician Radovan Karadžic, had suffered a similar fate. And the head of the Yugoslav Republic, Slobodan Miloševic, had died in prison. The meddling nations did not pursue those of lower rank, at least not yet. But warriors should not live in fear. Warriors should make their enemies live in fear.

  “The brothers’ hesitation disappoints me,” Dušic said.

  “Perhaps we will find more willing hands among veterans of the Volunteer Guard.”

  Dušic thought for a moment. “You may be right,” he said. He preferred professionals—trained officers, disciplined sergeants. Some of those Serb Volunteer Guard men, Arkan’s Tigers and other militias, had been little more than criminals in uniform. But what they’d lacked in smarts, they’d made up for in zeal. Dušic would consider his friend’s suggestion. A commander must make do with the tools available.

  “Then there is the question of funding,” Stefan said. “I imagine you could bankroll the initial mission with what you have in your pocket right now. But the remainder of the campaign could exhaust even your deep accounts.”

  Dušic chuckled. “Don’t worry about that, my friend,” he said. “I have arranged a stream of income that will cover our needs.”

  “Ah, yes, Viktor. You always excelled at logistics. May I ask how you did it?”

  Dušic wanted to tell him all the details. But Stefan had no operational need to know. And this was not a secure phone connection. In Dušic’s line of work, one did not profit by making sloppy mistakes. So he said only, “Let me worry about that.”

  “So I shall, Viktor. I will rest easily with that matter in your hands. You are a fighter with the heart of a comptroller.”

  No, Dušic thought, I am a fighter with the heart of a poet. But he took his friend’s compliment in the intended spirit.

  “So will you talk to some of the old Volunteer Guards?” Dušic asked.

  “Of course. If I find some who are willing, how many do you want?”

  “Three or four,” Dušic said. Though he planned on arming and leading many more men later, he needed only a few for the initial mission. They had to be absolutely trustworthy. Men who would carry a secret to their graves.

  At least he could trust his old friend Stefan, as long as the man remained sober. Their association went back to the early days of the Bosnian War.

  Dušic remembered one day in 1995 when Stefan had demonstrated his worth. Dušic’s platoon patrolled around the region of Mount Javor to make sure all the UN observers had retreated. His thirty men climbed a wooded hill and emerged at the edge of an open but unplanted field. Grass and wild clover sprouted where Dušic would have expected wheat or corn. That fallow field could mean that the farmer had become a good Muslim in the only way possible—by becoming a dead Muslim. Or it could mean the field was mined. Dušic elected to take his men around the field.

  He motioned to one of his sergeants, ordered the man to walk point along the tree line. The rest of the platoon followed until they came to a narrow garden planted in peas and lettuce. Beyond the garden lay a bombed-out home, its tiled roof blown open by a mortar round or tank shell.

  The cultivated garden seemed a safe avenue, so the Serb soldiers walked along its rows. The men scanned left and right, held their weapons at the ready. Dušic walked a few paces behind the sergeant on point, the rich, loamy soil sticking to his boots. When they came within two hundred meters of the house, Dušic heard the supersonic crack of a high-velocity bullet. The sergeant dropped to his knees as if to rest. Then he fell forward, flat on his face, rifle still clutched underneath him. Blood gushed from the exit wound in his back, spattered the black loam and the green leaves of lettuce.

  “Sniper!” Dušic shouted.

  His men rushed to cover. Dušic dived for the scant protection of furrows. Some of his men took positions in the woods to the side of the garden.

  The sniper’s weapon boomed again, and a soldier behind Dušic screamed. The sniper, that Muslim piece of excrement, had set a trap. The Turk had known the minefield would channel any patrol right into his sights.

  Some of Dušic’s men—the ones among the trees—opened up on full automatic. Under the shield of that covering fire, Dušic and the rest of the soldiers still in the garden rose to their feet and sprinted for the forest. They left the two wounded troops where they’d been shot: to treat them now would amount to suicide.

  Dušic slid onto the carpet of pine needles inside the woods. Beside him, one of his soldiers fired burst after burst into the house.

  “Did you get him?” Dušic asked.

  “No, sir,” the soldier said. “I can see his head and part of his weapon, but the distance is too great, and he ducks when I fire.”

  “Listen, everyone,” Dušic said. “Cease fire.” Dušic thought for a moment. His men had handled this ambush well, thanks to his quick-thinking NCOs. Otherwise, his youngest troops, mere fuzz-faced razvodniks, would have died where they stood, pissing their pants. He called on his best NCO. “Stefan,” he whispered, “get up here.”

  Dušic’s own sniper came forward in a crouch. Stefan carried an M48 Mauser equipped with a ZRAK scope. Dušic had offered to get the man a more modern weapon than that bolt-action relic, but Stefan said he needed no higher rate of fire; one bullet at a time would suffice.

  “Viktor,” Stefan said as he kneeled beside Dušic. First names between officers and sergeants did not accord with Yugoslav military tradition, but Stefan had earned enough respect that Dušic permitted it. Dušic would have slapped any other enlisted man who dared call him Viktor.

  “You know what to do, my friend,” Dušic whispered. Then he hissed, “Five of you, retreat farther into the woods, and make some noise doing it. Let that Muslim think we’re leaving.” As the men began to move, Dušic shouted, “Fall back!”

  A few of the soldiers crawled several meters away, cracking twigs and kicking their boots against the trunks of trees. “Good,” Dušic whispered, “good.”

  “You are one crafty bastard,” Stefan said.

  “Flatter me later,” Dušic muttered. “Now kill that son of a whore.”

  Stefan adjusted the windage knob on his scope, regarded the house, settled into a prone position. Old M48s like Stefan’s weapon were common as dirt. Dušic’s mind strayed for just an instant—maybe after the war he could sell those things to sportsmen. Then he chided himself: Pay attention. An officer must command at every moment.

  But at this moment, Stefan needed little by way of command. He watched through his scope with what seemed to Dušic a preternatural patience, like a cat waiting to strike, motionless but for the flick of its tail—waiting, waiting for the rat.

  And the rat took the bait. The Turk sniper peered from the broken lumber of a shattered upper floor. A splintered plank hid the Turk’s left shoulder and part of his head. The rat exposed only part of his face. Enough for Stefan. He pressed the trigger
.

  The M48 slammed, rocked Stefan’s upper body with recoil. Dušic saw the briefest spray of red as the eight-millimeter bullet found its target. The Turkish rat dropped.

  “Bravo,” Dušic said.

  “Wait,” Stefan said, almost as if he were giving the orders. But Dušic knew he was right. No way to know how many enemy were in the house. Stefan opened the bolt on the M48, ejected the empty brass, and loaded another round.

  No sound came from the house for several minutes. Dušic considered what to do next. He needed to know if more enemy remained inside. Normally, officers did not make targets of themselves, but enough of Dušic’s men had suffered wounds already. And his men would trust him more if they saw him display courage. Dušic rose to his feet.

  “Viktor,” Stefan whispered, “do not—”

  “I know you will cover me,” Dušic said. He stepped into the open, walked toward the house. Held his breath, watched the home for movement. Listened for a shot. Nothing happened.

  When Dušic made it halfway across the garden, he knew the threat had passed. “Medics,” he called, “take care of those men.”

  “Yes, sir!” came shouts from the woods. Two soldiers ran from the trees to their fallen comrades. The medics reported that both of the wounded had died. Dušic felt fury rise within him. Two Serb lives taken by this Turk.

  Inside the house, upstairs, Dušic and Stefan found the Turk. He lay on his back, most of his face blown away. Blood spatter ran from the wall, and a pool of red crept across the wooden floor. The Muslim’s eyes stared at the ceiling. Dušic wondered why the bullet hadn’t simply taken off the rat’s head. But then he realized the Turk must have turned his face at the instant Stefan fired. The bullet had ripped away his cheeks and jaws, left the brain intact. A gurgling sound came from what remained of the palate and throat. Breathing.

  “Damn your Ottoman mother,” Dušic said. “You are still alive.”

  Dušic drew his CZ 99, aimed the handgun. Started to pull the trigger, but decided to enjoy the moment for just another few seconds. Savor the vengeance.

  “Your friends at the United Nations have declared this a safe area,” Dušic said. “Did that scrap of paper in New York protect you, Turk? Do you feel safe now?”

  The bloody mess at Dušic’s feet gurgled again. Dušic fired. Brains spattered his boots.

  • • •

  ALL THAT HAD TAKEN PLACE nearly twenty years ago, but Dušic remembered the events as if they had just happened. He saw the glory of his youth as a promise unfulfilled. He and his people had been traveling a brilliant path to the future, but outside intervention had denied them their destiny.

  After Dušic hung up the phone, he told Milica he would be out for a while. He took the elevator down to street level, found his blue Aventador in the garage. Dušic raised the driver’s-side door, lowered himself into the leather seat, pulled the door closed. In his forties now, he remained agile, able to climb into the low-slung vehicle comfortably. During his war years he had escaped injury, fortunately, and he knew the tasks ahead of him might require personal strength and endurance.

  He placed the key fob in the ignition, raised the cover for the start button on the center console. Dušic pressed the button, and the V12 behind him rumbled to life. He pulled out of the garage, drove through the city, and headed west to Nikola Tesla Airport. When he arrived, he saw the tail fin of the Antonov An-124 looming above the cargo terminal, just as expected. Originally designed to project Soviet military power, now many of the huge Antonov cargo jets flew for civilian operators. Dušic maintained a contract with this particular company, with deals to fly his AK-47s, RPG-7s, and crates of land mines wherever needed. All transactions completely aboveboard and known to the authorities. The people who ran these freight carriers always complained about fuel prices, and those Cossacks used that as an excuse to charge exorbitant fees. But they paid their aircrews like peasants, and that gave Dušic the leverage he needed to ship certain products off the books. A little supplemental pay got him a little supplemental cargo.

  Dušic found the Antonov’s captain, Dmitri, smoking an American cigarette, watching the ground crew unload his aircraft. An overhead crane built into the An-124’s cargo compartment lifted the pallets.

  “Did your trip go as planned, my friend?” Dušic asked.

  Dmitri took a drag on his Pall Mall, nodded, exhaled through his nostrils. The captain looked tired. His face bristled with black and gray stubble, and the skin sagged under his eyes. An oversize flight suit hung from his thin frame, the fabric rumpled and marred with coffee stains.

  “It did,” Dmitri said. “We began our day in Dubai, and we made a stop in Kuwait. Then we picked up your cargo at Manas. We got into Kyrgyzstan just ahead of a storm. The packing material is as you described.”

  “Excellent.” Dušic reached into the inside pocket of his H. Huntsman coat, extracted an envelope, handed it to Dmitri. The pay did not cover flying; the Antonov had been scheduled to land in Manas anyway. The money paid for the ongoing operation: offloading some of the cargo and swapping out the packing material. Dušic watched the crane lower a pallet onto a flatbed truck. A crewman started the truck and drove it into a warehouse. Dmitri took a final drag on his smoke, then flicked away the butt as if something disgusted him.

  “You don’t approve of this business, Dmitri,” Dušic said, “yet you profit from it.”

  “If fools inhale that poison or inject it into their veins,” the captain said, “I care not.”

  “I do not mean to chide you, Captain. I dislike this product as well. I have never traded it before. But it provides a means to an end.”

  Inside the warehouse, the ground crew repackaged the opium, bundled it into plastic wrap, and bound it with tape. Then they boxed the contraband in pasteboard cartons and loaded it onto another truck. Finally, the men used foam pellets and newspaper to pad the cargo of electronic gear. The electronics would fly on to Frankfurt, and the opium would wind up on the streets of Paris and London, Brussels and Berlin. Maybe even New York and Los Angeles. Dušic hoped so, anyway, but where dealers sold to final customers was not his problem. He did not dirty his hands with such matters.

  “Take care that you get it all,” Dušic ordered. He could not tolerate stupid mistakes.

  “Yes, sir,” a crewman answered.

  Rumor had it, Dušic knew, that he’d eliminated employees and contractors who displeased him. The tales exaggerated the numbers, but he did nothing to discourage the stories. They helped motivate the lazy, speed up the tardy. His clients respected ruthlessness and efficiency, so Dušic made those qualities part of his brand.

  As he watched the ground crew finish their work, one of his cell phones chimed. It was the throwaway phone that he’d purchased on a pay-per-call contract under a false name. He glanced at the number; the call came from a contact in Kyrgyzstan. This annoyed him; he had told that moron to ring him only for emergencies. Dušic wanted to keep his digital footprint as small as possible. He flipped open the phone.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Lieutenant Dušic, we have a problem,” the caller said. “One of our planes has crashed.” The caller described how the Afghan C-27 had burst into flames when it tried to land at Manas.

  Dušic said nothing, simply let the information sink in. Burned with silent rage. He wanted to kill the fools who’d failed him, but they were already dead. Temper would not serve him well now, anyway. He needed a clear mind. The accident could have ripple effects, unpredictable consequences. It might threaten the operational security of his mission.

  “Lieutenant,” the caller said, “are you there?”

  “I heard you, idiot.” Dušic clapped the phone closed. He needed to think. And he wished his helpers wouldn’t call him by his old rank. He was making decisions far above that grade now.

  Less than a half hour later, Dušic accelerated down Kralja Mil
ana, using the paddle shifters behind his steering wheel. When he turned onto Kralja Petra, he found what he had come to see—the Patriarchate of the Serbian Orthodox Church. Constructed in the 1930s, the Patriarchate building hardly ranked as the most ancient site in the history of Dušic’s religion. But the structure had become one of the most important. Soon the Patriarchate would host the Holy Assembly of Bishops. Dušic often came here to reflect. As he drove by, he regarded the portico and the columns, and he considered the treasures in the library and museum. The church had never played a big role in his life, but now it played a big role in his plans.

  He drummed his fingers on the wheel, let those plans sink into his subconscious. Brilliant ideas needed time to distill. Sometimes he woke in the night as he thought of a detail he had overlooked, and he would pen a note, printing neat figures in Serbian Cyrillic.

  With much on his mind, Dušic turned the corner, weaved through central Belgrade, and once again drove down Kralja Milana. He stopped at Pionirski Park and shut down the Aventador, though he did not get out. He only stared at the trees, thinking. Though he never doubted the rightness of his cause, sometimes he had second thoughts about his opening tactic. If all the details came to light, some people would never understand. The mission must take place under strict and permanent secrecy.

  Genius, he considered, was a curse. How much more simply he could have lived as a common farmer, or perhaps a gunsmith. Better yet, a poet, concerned only with advancing the literature of his nation. But those given rare vision, the ability to take the long view, must not waste it. He found no time to write poetry now, but he could take inspiration from poems. In his briefcase on the passenger seat, he carried one of his favorite works, The Mountain Wreath. A play written in epic verse, penned in the nineteenth century by the Montenegrin prince-bishop Petar II Petrovic-Njegoš, who dreamed of liberating all his people from the Turks. Dušic turned to one of his favorite verses, in which the character Bishop Danilo speaks of Muslims:

  Besides Asia, where their nest is hidden,