The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) (22 page)

I wandered between markers, and paused, heart heavy, to sit at a small, central gazebo. Below, the city preened, glowing and, yes, beautiful in the morning light.

I sensed I was not alone. I turned. To my right, near a small copse of trees, a woman sat cross-legged by one of the graves. A thick curtain of brown hair, streaked with gray, hid her face.

But not from me.

“Mila?”

She raised her eyes. I braced for the scowl, but received a half-smile. “Are you following me?”

“No. Just needed a walk.”

I moved to her side and bent to read the name carved into the white stone: Yuri Radovic. “Your brother?”

She smoothed the grass with one palm.

“Bill was thinking I am blaming him for Yuri’s death. I do not. Human nature is to blame.”

I sat beside her.

“I know I come across as hard woman. Cynical. But I think seeing truth the only way to survive.”

I said nothing.

“I call my mother last night, to tell her Sasha is okay. You know what she say? ‘No thanks to you.’ And then she tells me all the ways I am failure as daughter, as mother. Back to her old ways. My mother, she finds answers in her imam, her new way of believing. But it only makes her more stiff. More angry.”

Mila traced the carved letters with one finger. “She was not always like this. But life makes her tired, wears her down, you know?”

“The war?”

“
Da,
of course, but before that, too. Her first husband, he is—how you say it? Light of living? She loves him very much.”

“The light of her life?”

“Yes—light of her life. He died of heart attack only three years after they get married. My mother is eighteen when married, but her husband is much older. Catholic Serb. War hero. He and his younger brother very successful, they have all the government contracts in the sixties. Exporting machinery. Importing goods for Tito. Then my mother’s husband dies and everything, gone! Twenty-one and widow with two babies—my half-brothers.” Mila made a face. “I’m sorry, I talk and talk. It is this place. Brings up so many memories.”

“No, it’s interesting. So when did you come along?”

“Irena, she moves back here, to Sarajevo. She is lucky, because many widows back then, no one wants them. But my father meets her at a lecture and that is it. My mother is the light of
his
life
.
They marry in 1970. Then she has me, and my baby brother, Yuri. Finally she is happy again. Because now she has Yuri. Things start to be okay. I finish school, study to become a doctor …” Her voice trailed off.

“What did your father do? For work, I mean.”

Mila’s eyes softened. “He is, sorry, was a professor, of religious studies. He loved his work very much. Always teaching forgiving, accepting different gods. This is why the Serbs send him to Omarska, I think.”

Omarska death camp. I had seen the pictures of its skeletal captives in one of my books.

A bird landed in the soft soil next to us. Pecked up a few morsels of something, and flew off again.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did your father survive?”

“No and yes. His spirit, it dies, but he came back after the war is over. His body dies last year. He is killed last year.” Her laugh was harsh. “My father survives Omarska. Then he is killed at home. Shot in the head.” She looked at me. “Murdered.”

“Oh, Mila.” I was too unsettled to say anything more. How much tragedy can one family experience?

But Mila had moved on. “You have any brothers or sisters, Tenzing?”

Usually I hedged at this question, but I had no defenses up. “A half-brother. Nawang.” I hadn’t thought about Nawang in years—it felt strange to say his name out loud.

“My mother has four children, but she only loves one. When he died, and then husband disappears, she gives up. Stops eating. Talking. Even washing. So you see,” Mila turned to me, “I cannot stay with Bill, then. I have to take care of my baby, and my mother!”

“What about the other two, your other brothers?”

“Half-brothers.” Her face grew grim. “Their father is Serb. What do you think?”

She stood up, brushing grass from the seat of her jeans. I followed suit. We stood side by side, gazing at the peaceful terra-cotta roofs and flowering gardens below.

“What about now? Do you ever see them? Your half-brothers?”

She stared at the view, as if memorizing every house. “You remember when I talk about bullies? The first time we meet?”

“I do.”

She turned to me. “I am talking about them, Zarko and Stojan.”

My blood ran ice-cold and I shivered, although the morning was already hot. I kept my voice casual. “Mila, can I ask you something? Irena’s first husband: What was his name?”

Her mouth twisted around the answer. “Stasic. Milo Stasic.”

Both our phones buzzed at once. Bill was calling me at the same time as Sasha was calling his mother.

“Where are you? Sasha’s come up with a plan,” Bill said. He was letting his son take the wheel. I hoped that was wise.

Mila’s terrified look said otherwise.

“So Audrey and I will go back to Dubrovnik with you, Ten, if that’s okay,” Sasha explained. “My mother will keep Belma with her.”

I looked over at Bill, who was keeping very quiet. He shifted his weight, trying not to sound too resentful. “I’m to stay put here and figure out what to do with the three girls once you bring the sisters back.
If
you bring them back.”

Sasha had been emphatic about leaving Bill out of this. I sympathized. I was no stranger to struggles between sons and fathers. Maybe it was a sign of immaturity, but I had a much easier time understanding things from Sasha’s perspective than from Bill’s.

“How do you plan on the three of us getting there?” I asked.

Everyone looked at Sasha. Sasha shrugged. “Not sure. Train, I guess. Though they may still be watching the station. Why?”

“I have an idea,” I said.

Petar picked us up in his own car, a slightly dinged-up but serviceable Hyundai station wagon, burgundy, with a topcoat of grime. Perfect for surveillance, actually.

His gap-toothed grin flashed even wider when I handed over a carton of his favorite smokes.

“Thanks, Monkevic. But you still pay me for drive, yes?” Sasha and Audrey climbed into the back, and I sat up front with Petar and his overflowing ashtray. I wanted to mine him for a little more information. I just hoped Sasha and Audrey would be tired enough to doze off. I didn’t want them listening in.

We set off around two in the afternoon. My tourism book estimated the drive from Sarajevo to Dubrovnik at four hours. Knowing Petar’s skills, I subtracted an hour, which would get us there before sunset.

Soon we had left all traces of urban sprawl behind us and were climbing and descending a narrow mountain road marked by hair-raising views, scarily slender bridges, and tunnels gouged through unreceptive terrain. Petar chain-smoked as he adeptly hugged the thin strip of asphalt, occasionally laying on his horn to force an oncoming car to give way. I was very glad he was driving. Give me an L.A. freeway over one-lane mountain deathtraps any day.

Sasha and Audrey chatted quietly. I stared at the blur of scenery until finally the backseat was silent.

Petar cleared his throat. “That boy. He your friend you come to visit?”

“Not exactly.”

He nodded, as if he already knew.

“Petar,” I said, “we’re not going to Dubrovnik to sunbathe on the beach.”

He nodded again.

“Someone there needs our help. Two someones, in fact. You don’t need to get involved, but I wanted you to know.”

“What kind of trouble these people in?”

“Girls. Two young girls.” I stepped across the line between like and trust. “Human trafficking kind of trouble.”

His response surprised me. “Monkevic, what you do? You monk, like father?”

“No. Actually, I used to be a police officer, but I left the force three years ago. Now I’m a private detective.”

He slapped his thigh. “Ha! I know this! We are brothers! Me, too, I used to be
policija.
” He laughed at my look of surprise. “
Da!
Police, like you! Six years ago, I leave. Not enough money for raising my daughters.” He corrected himself. “Not enough pay. Plenty, how you say it, money under table.”

“Right.”

“Driving taxi okay. But sometimes I miss excitement. I like when heart go
bang bang,
like bullet, you know?”

“I do know. So, you’re okay with this, with what we’re doing here?”

“How old these girls?”

“Eleven and twelve.”

“Mine? Ten and twelve,” he said. “Yes, Monkevic. I am okay with this. Today is good day.”

Over the course of several roller-coaster turns and tunnels, he told me about his daughters, and I told him about my cat.

“You have woman?”

I thought about Julie. “Not really, not at the moment. I did have one once, but she left.”

He grunted. “Good woman important, Monkevic.”

I brought our conversation back to trafficking. I now had a link, however unlikely, between Milo Stasic’s newly renamed Van Nuys company, Agvan Supply, and Sasha Radovic. But I didn’t know where Bosnia fit in.

“Have you heard anything about using the Internet for illegal trafficking in this country? Not the regular Internet, but a hidden one? A dark web?”

“I not hear of this dark web.”

“These guys do all their business online. Even use cyber currency for payment. Computer bytes, instead of dollars, or marks. Cyber-criminals.”

“I not hear of this,” he repeated. “But I believe. In our country, police system have many levels, many … compartment?”

“Departments.”

“
Da.
Part of bullshit reform. One keeping borders safe, another for if you rob bank or shoot wife. One for politicians to keep job and”—Petar made a rude gesture—“screw the people. But new department is SIPA.” He pronounced it see-pa. “For big investigation. SIPA very important. Many targets. Organized crime, terrorists. International activity. Also, this trafficking.”

“Like the FBI and Homeland Security, combined.”

“
Da.
But when they make SIPA, they make stupid mistake. They give SIPA trafficking, and give cyber-crime to other department.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Now SIPA told to get traffickers, but not allowed to look on Internet. Like fisherman using net with huge tear in middle!”

Talk about a loophole, and a business opportunity for the cyber-criminally inclined.

Petar, upset, stubbed out one cigarette and lit another. “Now you see why I quit, Monkevic? At least when I drive taxi, every job I start, I know I can finish.”

Thanks to a monster one-lane traffic jam, caused by an overturned truck full of Croatian goats headed for market, we entered the medieval town of Dubrovnik around 7
P.M.
, well past dusk. The city was set in a curved, rugged coastline like a gem in a jagged tiara. The Adriatic Sea was ink black, but in the morning it would be the purest shade of aquamarine.

Petar found us a cheap hotel near the harbor area known as Gruz. “Holiday Hotel cousin,” he joked, but the shabby exterior, at least, was easier on the eye.

Sasha and Audrey bent and stretched by the car, working out the kinks. I handed Sasha some cash. I’d replenished my supply from an ATM next to the marketplace fountain this morning.

“I have money,” Sasha said stiffly.

More like Audrey has money,
I thought. What I said was: “Relax. This is to pay for me, okay? Go on inside and make sure they have rooms available. I need to square things up with Petar.” I’d actually paid him hours ago, but they didn’t know that.

Audrey and Sasha disappeared inside. I turned to Petar.

“I need a gun,” I said.

C
HAPTER
21

My room was squeaky clean, and tiny. One small, firm bed; a wooden chair; and a bathroom the size of a broom closet. The Tibetan lama in me felt right at home. A special feature did give me pause—on top of the dresser was a rodent trap, along with instructions in three languages on how to set it. With harbors come rats. A small package of mini-marshmallows served as bait. I’d stayed in some pretty exotic places, but this was the first one that came with a mousetrap as an amenity.

I lay down fully clothed. Next thing I knew, my phone was buzzing insistently.

“I find gun,” Petar said. “Meet me outside in one hour.”

I’d slept hard. I checked the time: 8:30.

Rested, with teeth freshly brushed and hair damp from a hot shower, I left my little room with body and mind finally located in the same general region. Good thing, if I was about to become armed and dangerous.

Sasha and Audrey’s room was next door. Sasha still had custody of the phone, and I asked to see it. I recognized the type from my police work with gangbangers. A throwaway; prepaid, disposable, and cheap.

“No tracking device, at least,” I said.

“You’re sure?” Sasha asked.

“Positive. Have you decided which number we should call?”

Sasha nodded. “Of the two that came up the most, only one is a Dubrovnik exchange.”

“Good. Sasha, you’re the closest thing we have to a native. How do you feel about making the call?”

He swallowed, glancing at Audrey. “Sure. But, you know, language may not be a problem. Most of these guys speak English as well as I do. But if you think it’s better, I mean, what do you think, Audrey?”

Sasha was stalling, which told me he was too nervous to make the call, and too proud to admit it. I tried to address both issues.

“Good point,” I said while reaching for the phone. “I’ll call. We’ll know right away if they speak English. If they don’t, you take over.”

I speed-dialed the top contender and activated the speaker. We listened to three rings.

“Yah.”

Serbian, Croatian, Russian, take your pick.

“Hello. I have the telephone that belonged to a man at the Sarajevo train station yesterday. Do you understand me?”

Silence, then: “Yah. Yes.”

“I need those two girls. How much?” If this operation was run on cyber-fuel, the middlemen didn’t see a lot of actual cash in their pockets. Or so I hoped.