Badger Games (37 page)

Porter seemed to buy it, especially when Cook returned with the news that Ostropaki's contact was an emergency-room technician at the hospital. Porter was disgusted. He had wasted his day, and his men. “What do you want to do with him?” he asked the colonel.

“I'd like to talk to him some more, see what he knows. He might have some useful information about other people we're interested in, people who also disappeared during the NATO bombing. But I think it would have to be in a more congenial setting. If by chance he comes out with something of interest, I'll let you know, of course. In the meantime, perhaps you could run a record check on this ex-surgeon fellow who works at the hospital. Doctors have been known to have drug associations. If that proves questionable, we know where Ostropaki is.”

Porter muttered something derisive and said, “Yeah, take him away. I'll get a release for his car. Don't forget to call. You owe us one.”

The colonel ushered Ostropaki out of the precinct station. It had helped that Ostropaki's rental car had been clean. To Kravfurt, he said, “Theo can take me back to the airport. I'd like to chat with him about his experiences.”

Kravfurt said, “Fine. Don't forget me, Colonel. This looked like a good thing.”

The colonel assured him that he appreciated being called and said Max could expect to hear from him before long. As soon as Kravfurt had gone and they were driving away, the colonel said to Ostropaki, “Was that you who called?”

“It was a friend of mine. I told him to ask for Kravfurt, because he was with you in Athens, that time.”

“So, Theo,” the colonel said, as they drove toward La Guardia, “how did you manage not to get killed? I thought the Zivkovic people were on to you.”

“Oh, they were. The minute I returned to Belgrade, I was arrested. Vjelko was behind it. He was tight with the regime. They were all in the drug trade. They kept me in a rather nasty jail, questioned me about Franko. But I had nothing to tell them.”

The colonel could tell from his reticence that it had been a painful and humiliating experience, not to say potentially fatal. It was clear that Ostropaki was not eager to talk about it, but it was necessary. The colonel pressed him. The story was a depressingly familiar one of beatings, threats, torture, and terror. Of particular interest was the degree of cooperation between an outright gangster like Zivkovic and the highest reaches of the regime, including the police.

“Finally, they put me in a camp,” Ostropaki said. “I thought they would kill me there. They killed so many. Sometimes, one of Vjelko's men would come to question me again. One of them, a very bad man named Bazok, was especially crude. He asked me about Franko—did I know him? I didn't know who he was talking about, I said.

“I think because I was a foreigner it saved me. At last, one of my old construction customers in Belgrade, a friend of mine, heard I was there and began to ask questions. He was important to the government. They drove me into Kosovo in the middle of the night, pushed me out of the car, and told me to start walking. I thought they would shoot me, but they didn't. I was telling the truth about the refugees, you know.”

“It sounded authentic, anyway,” the colonel said. They found a spot in the US Airways parking lot at La Guardia and walked to the terminal. “Why did you go to such lengths to contact me?”

“Colonel, I am worried about you. I was coming to the United States, anyway, and I thought it would be a good opportunity to meet with you.”

“You're worried about me? Why didn't you just call me?”

“I didn't think it would be wise. I'll explain. You remember that we talked once about the difficulties you had with getting your country to carry through on their drug policies? Yes? I thought you were trying to recruit me.”

“Well, as to that … ,” the colonel said, hesitating. “But I did recruit you, on the Franko operation.”

“Yes, but you insisted we keep the Franko connection to ourselves,” Ostropaki said. “I don't accuse you! You were right to do so, as events proved. The effect was the same. It was better that I not know too much. Do you think we could stop for some coffee? Or are you in a hurry?”

“I have all the time you need,” the colonel said. They bought coffee at a food stand.

“Last week an American woman came to see me, in Tirana,” Ostropaki said. “I had seen her before. She was with some US AID officials then. This time she came alone. She asked me questions about my involvement with the DEA. I didn't know what to say. She showed me a picture of you. I admitted that I had met you, in Athens. I told her that you had asked me some general questions about Serbia, where I had been, what I had seen.”

This was the genuine Balkan reserve, the colonel thought. Perhaps it was too much to call it paranoia. “Why didn't you tell her about working for us?”

“She didn't offer anything,” Ostropaki said simply. “She didn't even say she was with the DEA. She never mentioned any specific operations—not a word about Franko, at first. Just asked if I had supplied information or had otherwise assisted the DEA in Serbia. So how could I think that she knew anything, or that I should share
what I knew? Besides, she seemed interested in something else. She showed me a photograph of Franko, taken in Kosovo, it appeared. Did I know this man? I told her I didn't know him. She asked me if I had ever heard of an American agent named Franko Bradovic. From a village named Tsamet, in the mountains. I told her I had driven through Tsamet, once, but I didn't know this man. Finally, she asked me if I'd ever heard anything about an inner group, within the DEA. Whether you had mentioned such a group.”

“What kind of group?” the colonel asked. “Some ultrasecret agency? A special task force, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Ostropaki said. He pushed his coffee away with distaste. “That was the sort of thing I asked her. But she said, no, it was not an official group. It was independent agents who had, perhaps, agreed to assist each other in extralegal activities. She didn't elaborate.”

“Aha!” the colonel said. “Corrupt agents, working with the smugglers, eh?”

“That's what I assumed,” Ostropaki said. He looked quite neutral, but a little self-conscious.

“Well, there are such agents, as we all know,” the colonel said. “It's a major problem in drug enforcement. More so than in any other aspect of criminal law—not just undercover agents, but administrators, even prosecutors and judges. It's the money that's involved … so much money. But you're well aware of this; we've discussed it.”

“But to have these suspicions raised in the same breath as your name!” Ostropaki said. “It's outrageous. After all we did, with Franko. Oh, Colonel, that was a beautiful thing. Poor Franko. I felt so bad.”

“Ah, I wanted to ask you about Franko,” the colonel said. “What did you hear about him?”

“Don't you know?” Ostropaki was saddened to have to tell him that he had heard, from one of his torturers, the monster Bazok,
that they had captured Franko. “They lie, of course,” he said, “pretending to know more than they do. But it seems they knew some things about Franko that I didn't. He was captured with some KLA terrorists, they said. He had resisted their persuasion for a long time, but eventually he told them everything. That's how they discovered my perfidy.

“I insisted that I didn't know the man, but this Bazok, he said he knew all about our collaboration. Well, that's how they talk, of course. But I understood, from what Bazok said, that Franko didn't get out. This Bazok, even after what I had seen and been through, he made my hair stand on end, describing some of the things that Franko had endured. Still, you know … why did they continue to be so interested?”

“I see what you mean,” the colonel said. “If they had gotten so much information … but I dare say, the rationale given was that they must verify one prisoner's confessions with another's.”

“Precisely. But I must ask you, Colonel … please forgive me … but is there anything to this woman's suspicions? I'm sorry—I'm a man of the world, you understand, a skeptic but not a cynic.” He looked the colonel directly in the eyes.

“None whatsoever,” the colonel said simply. “Quite the reverse.”

“I didn't believe it for a second,” Ostropaki said. “But I felt that I must hear it from you. Franko affected me very much, you see. He was a good man, a decent man. That is why I contacted you about him. I felt that he was exactly the sort of man you were thinking about, when we spoke in Athens. An idealist. But in this world, in war, especially in the Balkans, an idealist is just … what is the idiom, ‘a fish in a barrel'?”

“That's … that's close enough,” the colonel said. “Tell me, what else did this woman have to say about Franko?”

“Nothing. She had the snapshot, but that was all.”

“So you didn't get the impression that she actually knew anything about him, beyond a name?” the colonel said.

Ostropaki shrugged. “It didn't seem so.”

“And what was her name?” the colonel asked.

“Sanders. A tall, slim young woman, with frizzy reddish hair. She seemed quite capable. Very efficient, cold. You see why I was worried. I thought I must tell you as soon as I had the opportunity, but privately. So, as there was a task to be done here, I took the chance of being arrested.”

“It was a smart thing to do, but risky.” The colonel glanced at his watch. It was after four. His flight would not leave before seven. In Montana, it would be two in the afternoon.

“This Ms. Sanders,” the colonel said, “she has worked for the DEA, in the past. But I believe she transferred to another agency. What agency did she say she worked for?”

Ostropaki looked thoughtful. “She never really said,” he replied. “She showed me some identification, with a picture, and I think—foolishly it now seems—that I took it to be … well, I'm not sure what I thought. Some U.S. agency. You have so many, with different initials. I'm sorry.”

“This was last week,” the colonel said. “Did she seem to know that you were coming to the States?”

“No. But it was not a secret,” Ostropaki said.

“How long will you remain in the U.S.?” the colonel asked.

“Until the end of the week,” Ostropaki said. “I have to see about some refugees, provide the documentation they need to stay in this country. Here, let me give you my telephone number.”

They exchanged numbers, and the colonel promised to call him before he left and, if possible, to return to New York to see him. He was very grateful to Ostropaki, he told him, and delighted
that he had survived. They had feared that he was dead. It was possible that they could work together sometime in the future. But for now—the colonel glanced at his watch—he had to run to catch the shuttle.

He did not catch the shuttle. Anyway, it wouldn't leave for a couple of hours. But he had to get free of Ostropaki. Instead he went to the operations office, identified himself, and was allowed to use a private telephone. He tried Jammie's cell-phone number. There was no response—“The party you are trying to reach is either out of range or otherwise unavailable,” said the voice. He really wanted to contact Joe Service, but, of course, Joe had not provided him with any contact number.

He called the DDO's office and, luckily, caught him before he left for the day. “You were right, sir,” he reported. “We may have to give Ostropaki a medal.” He went on to explain what had happened, but he left out any mention of Ostropaki's need to contact him, attributing the false betrayal to a rival, as he had with the NYPD. Nor did he mention Jammie Sanders.

“I just wanted to let you know right away, sir,” Tucker said. “I'll have a full report for you, but I've been talking to one of my people, and it looks like I might not get back to Washington this evening.”

The DDO said that was fine, the report could wait. He was obviously pleased.

Next the colonel called Agnes and asked her to run down, if she could, a phone number for Frank Oberavich. While that was in progress, he called Dinah Schwind, in Seattle.

“When you suggested Jamala Sanders for the Butte job,” the colonel asked her, “was that your suggestion, or hers?”

“I didn't suggest her,” Schwind protested. “
You
suggested her. Oh, you mean when I told her about the situation? Mmmm, let me think. I guess … well, you could say that she volunteered. Why? What's happened? Is Joe—”

The colonel cut her off. “Did she ever approach you about the L—about the group? Not by name, necessarily, but about groups like that?”

Dinah had to think. “I'm not sure,” she said. “It was a topic of conversation between us, from … oh, way back. You know, when agents are grumbling about the bureaucracy, the politics…. But if the question is did she ever inquire about my knowledge of the existence of any such group? No, I don't recall her doing that. When I broached the idea, though, she jumped right on it. I told you that.”

Tucker quickly briefed Schwind on his meeting and conversation with Ostropaki. “Which raises the question,” he said, “what does she want with Joe?”

“Joe?” Dinah said. “Don't you mean Franko?”

“Well, maybe it's two questions,” the colonel said. “I was looking at the files on that operation this morning, and I don't recollect any indication that she knew about Ostropaki. She could have. But she worked only on the receiving end of his intelligence.”

He felt insecure about this telephone conversation, so he didn't say what he was thinking: his impression was that Jammie hadn't heard about Franko before she was recruited for this present mission. But Kravfurt seemed to know about Franko, and Sanders had worked with Kravfurt…. Only, what would she have heard beyond the name? Franko was ostensibly a straightforward, unnamed DEA asset, controlled by Ostropaki. It was impossible to know what the extent of scuttlebutt might be among agents.