The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) (20 page)

Bill moved to her side.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Train station,” Bill said.

“Want company?” I asked. “You know, just in case?”

Mila’s and Bill’s expressions were matched portraits of resistance. I got the message.

C
HAPTER
18

I stretched out on top of the big, soft comforter and tried to nap, but sleep wasn’t happening. I pushed upright and shoved some pillows behind my back.

Meditation wasn’t happening either.

I pulled out my tourist guide to Sarajevo and located my hotel and the train station.

A nice, brisk walk was just the thing to cure my insomnia.

My phone suddenly, inexplicably, decided to work, and a series of beeps and buzzes let me know I had lots of messages and texts.

Eight, to be precise, and all from Martha. The final text summed up her concerns nicely:
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? CALL ME
!!!

I calculated the time difference. Four
P.M.
here meant 8
A.M.
there. Nobody calls a person that early. It’s uncivilized.

I adapted my route to the train station to include the ancient, bustling marketplace, and was glad I did. The area was closed off to cars, and I shared damp cobblestone streets with a fascinating mix of people and architecture. The fastest way to get the feel of a new place is to take a nice long stroll and observe the expressions of your fellow pedestrians. Doesn’t work in Los Angeles, of course—nobody walks—but the wide, busy walkways of Stari Grad were perfect for taking the pulse of the local populace. I expected to find “earnest, stressed, and careworn.” Instead, I found everything: young, old, eager, exhausted, weighed down by shopping bags, and holding out beggar’s cups. Two old men in berets moved life-size chess pieces around a giant board. A child and her grandmother scattered breadcrumbs inside a flapping swirl of hungry pigeons, next to an antiquated wooden fountain sporting a round cap of green copper. Couples pushing baby carriages, and men, as well as women, in business attire. I noted two or three women in headscarves, and one in a somber black burka, a pair of elegant shoes peeking out from under the hem. None of the women were dressed like Mila’s mother Irena, though, with that odd combination of headscarf and monk-like tunic.

And everywhere I looked, magnificent places of worship from every conceivable tradition: chapels; temples; here a looming Gothic cathedral of white stone, with twin bell towers and a statue of a human God pointing to His heart; there a gracious mosque with an ornate urn-shaped fountain and a facade decorated in glorious blues and reds.

I’d always wanted to go to Jerusalem. Stari Grad felt like its Balkan twin.

I checked my map and left Old Town, following the river for about a mile. At one point my route took me across Latin Bridge, where Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s assassination sparked the First World War. I touched the stone, feeling into the arched spans of history, expecting the dark weight of shame. I sensed, instead, a kind of faded resignation.

The Sarajevo train station was a looming curve of glass and brick that overlooked a wide courtyard that was divided into huge decorative squares of pavement. A man bent over the rim of a large, circular fountain, drinking from one of several stone fish-heads spouting water into its center. My throat was dry, but I took a pass.

The spacious, sleek station offered another homage to thirst, this one a gigantic mural of a dehydrated cartoon train sucking Coca-Cola out of a straw. I settled for a bottle of water from one of the kiosks lining the perimeter of the main floor. There were maybe 50 or so people milling about, but no sign of Bill or Mila.

I located the arrivals board, and saw that a train from Dubrovnik had just pulled in. There were no other imminent arrivals. Hopefully, Sasha hadn’t come at an earlier time. I noted the number and rode an escalator down to the tracks. A train sat about a hundred meters ahead of me. I ducked behind a pillar and studied the clump of people gathered by the track. It wasn’t hard to spot Mila and Bill—they stood half a head taller than anyone else in the throng. They were peering at the steady stream of disembarking passengers, by now slowed to a trickle.

Something caught my eye. A man, leaning against another pillar scarcely ten feet in front of me. He held his phone aloft, and I was close enough to see Mila and Bill’s tiny heads captured on his screen. I grabbed my own phone and clicked. I only caught the back of his head. A greasy black ponytail hung down his back like a limp rope. He was wiry in build, and three or four inches shorter than me, which meant he was short.

I scrunched my head into my shoulders, lowered my eyes, and walked swiftly toward Bill and Mila, hoping to catch a closer glimpse as I moved past the other guy. A quick glance told me he was in his late twenties, or maybe older. Hard to tell. His sharp features were already grooved with deep-cut lines. Twelve feet beyond, I bent over, pretending to tie my shoelace, and noted the gun-like bulge in his right pocket.

I was planning a reverse cruise for closer study, when Mila’s voice rang out.

“Sasha!”

Farther up ahead, a tall young man stepped into Mila’s fierce hug, while Bill rocked awkwardly on his heels beside them. Jet lag must have taken over, because I found myself glancing behind to see if my sharp-faced spy was capturing the meeting with his phone. I broke a cardinal rule of surveillance.

I made eye contact.

Shit.

He jerked his phone aside, shot me a look of undiluted aggression, and bolted, heading for the escalators. Instinct took over. I tore after him.

My flying tackle brought us both down with a hard thud. He wriggled out from under me, and I grabbed a handful of greasy ponytail. He howled with pain, pulling away from me hard, and I felt like I had a mad dog on a leash. Shouts broke out around us. He twisted his head and tried to bite my wrist.

“Cut it out!” I yelled. His other hand went for the gun pocket, but I pinned his wrist to his side. A security guard ran up, pulling his gun. I had my guy in a viselike grip and was trying to wrest the phone out of his hand as he wriggled and squirmed. The situation was spinning out of control. I didn’t want to let him go, but I also didn’t want to explain to the local security why I had one of Sarajevo’s fine citizens in a chokehold. Flashing my California private detective license wasn’t likely to help.

Extreme times call for extreme versions of the truth. I pointed and bellowed, “HELP! THE PHONE!” Who was I to argue if the security guard mistakenly thought the man had stolen my cell phone? I tightened my throttlehold and the guard wrested the phone from his fist. I let go. “Thank you!” I panted, holding out my hand. He gave it over, triumphant. “
Dobro!
Good!” he said.

The “thief” began spouting off at the guard, and I took off running. The up escalator was broken, but I sprinted the motionless steps, two at a time. Bill was waiting at the top, Sasha and Mila behind him.

“What the fuck are you up to now, Ten? Are you trying to get us all arrested?”

Mila’s eyes flashed with fury, while Sasha settled for mildly belligerent. For the first time, I noticed that he had a companion, a slender waif hiding behind him, with haunted eyes.

Terrible eyes.

I felt sure those eyes had witnessed awful things.

“Outside. Hurry!” I pushed past them and quickly walked across the expansive waiting room. I exited the doors that led to the main street, as opposed to the open courtyard. I slowed to a less obvious pace, and worked my way along several blocks until I came to a major intersection. Only then did I stop and look behind me. Bill arrived first, then Mila. Sasha and the girl were a few yards behind them. She clutched Sasha’s upper arm with both hands.

I pulled them into a huddle. “Sorry. A guy was photographing you. I got his phone, but it was getting a little tricky back there.”

Sasha’s body came to full alert. He spoke for the first time. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Sasha, Sasha Radovic, and this is Belma.” His English was excellent. At the sound of her name, Belma ducked behind Sasha.

“Let’s get out of here.” I flagged down a cab, Sarajevo Taxi 377. I opened the front passenger door and flashed a nice blue bill.

“Hotel Europe.” My circular motion included the others. “Can you take all of us?”

“
Da.
”

I climbed into the front. The other four squeezed into the back. Fifteen minutes later we were safely back inside Bill’s suite, and I could lower my shoulders.

Belma stared at the elegant sitting room. She whispered a few words.

Sasha smiled. “She says she must be dreaming.”

I felt glad. Those haunted eyes deserved to see something besides suffering.

Bill reached for the phone.

“No,” Sasha said. “Give it to me.” I made a gut decision, and handed the phone to Sasha. He moved to the sofa to sit, Belma glued to his side. He started to scroll through the photographs. Across the room, Bill retreated into sullen silence.

“Not good.”

“What is it?” Bill said. We both moved close to take a look.

“Look at this.” Sasha flicked through a series of photos. Bill and Mila greeting Sasha at the train, Mila hugging Sasha, Sasha frowning at Bill, several shots of Belma clutching Sasha’s arm. The final photograph grabbed my attention for a different reason. Not only had the man obviously made me as a fellow spy instantly, the angle of the image he captured of me, bending over to tie my shoelaces, visibly proved I both was, and seemed to somehow suddenly own, a monumental ass.

Bill lightly punched my arm. “You’re a menace,” he said, “but I’m glad you followed us. Even though I told you not to.” A hint of amusement. Bill and I had a long history of me leaping headlong into actions he’d specifically warned me against. Some traditions have sticking power.

“Sasha, can you check recent calls and see if you spot anything?” I asked.

Sasha started to tap and scroll. Belma tucked her legs under her on the sofa. She nestled her slight body into Sasha, as if seeking shelter from a dangerous world.

“How old is she?” I asked.

“Uh, thirteen,” Sasha said, distracted.

Thirteen years old.

Mila was on her own phone by the bedroom area, arguing with someone in a low, angry voice. As far as I could tell, Mila’s emotions ranged from annoyed to really annoyed.

“Almost all the calls go to either Dubrovnik, over on the coast, or to Kosovo,” Sasha said.

At the word “Dubrovnik,” the girl hissed, her body shrinking into itself. Sasha murmured to her, his voice low. She relaxed a little.

“Belma’s from Kosovo,” he said. “It’s a major supplier for human trafficking. Dubrovnik’s the port most traffickers use from there. Belma arrived two weeks ago. That’s how long it takes to desensitize the girls.”

“Desensitize?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

“Make them compliant,” Sasha explained, his voice tight. “It’s like brainwashing, only with their bodies. That’s where we found her, in Dubrovnik, about to be shipped across to Italy.”

“Italy?”
Every answer led to more disbelief on my part.

Sasha shrugged. “Yeah, well, who’s to say where she would have ended up eventually?”

“How was she taken?”

“She wasn’t. She was sold, along with her two younger sisters.” He darted a look his mother’s way, but Mila was still on the phone, listening now, her brow furrowed. “To a couple of guys with ties to an international syndicate.”

Two younger sisters, and she was 13. I couldn’t wrap my mind around any of this. “But who sold them?”

Sasha’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Her mother.”

The air deadened, flattening the room.
Those eyes.

I had to ask. “Does she know?”

Sasha shook his head. “No, and I hope she never will. She’s clinging to a pretty thin lifeline as it is.”

“How do they make the transfer without the girls knowing they got sold?” Bill asked. His eyes flicked over to Belma. “Can she understand … ?”

“Don’t worry. She doesn’t speak any English,” Sasha said. “I’m not an idiot.”

Bill opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“They grabbed the girls off the street on the way into town.” Sasha directed his words at me. “The mother sent the three of them to the market to buy food. Belma’s one of eight sisters.”

Mila ended her call and joined us.

“Who was that?” Sasha said.

“Your grandmother,” Mila answered. “She ask me to bring you and the girl to meet her imam. She says he knows how to fix all this. I say no. She screamed at me. Always the same with her and me.”

Sasha glanced down at Belma. She had fallen into a light sleep. He gently extricated his body from hers. He found an extra blanket in the closet, draped it over her body, and motioned us to the bedroom area, across the room.

Mila lowered her voice. “How this girl becomes your charge?” I heard concern. I also heard, “Son, have you lost your mind?”

Sasha turned to me once again. He seemed to be avoiding both parents. “When I was a little boy I often brought home strays. Dogs. Cats. Once a wounded crow. They caused my mother endless trouble. She thinks I’ve graduated to human strays. Like it’s a progressive disease or something.”

Bill jumped in to defend Mila. “It’s a reasonable assumption, Sasha.”

Mila touched Bill’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Sasha shot Mila a look. “No, it’s not. It’s none of his business.”

Bill’s second chance at life was looking pretty thorny right now. I thought of Maude’s disappointed wail, just the other day, based on unrealistic expectations:
But in my mind, he bringed me something!
In Bill’s mind, Sasha wanted a father.

I changed the subject. “So Sasha, how did you get from California to here, exactly?”

Sasha looked at me, as if seeing me for the first time.

“I’m sorry. And who are you,
exactly?”

Mila jumped in. “He is detective, from Los Angeles. I ask him to help find you, when you disappear and we think you are there.”

Bill held off adding the obvious, his and my connection. I think Sasha had him a little cowed.