The Rendition (21 page)

Although I wasn't close enough to see, I assumed he had the same glint in his eye. Once a psychopath, always a psychopath. I wondered whether I might have made a mistake coming to this place alone. Too late for that now.

The Assassin seemed to be in the middle of some kind of argument. He was exchanging comments with a woman at the next table. When she replied, the men all stopped talking.

I'd found out that this Quemal and Quemal the Assassin were one and the same—which was all I wanted to know. Now I was going to have to get out of this place. But how? If I turned around now and headed for the door, I might be calling unwelcome attention to myself.

I'd definitely walked right into it.

The Assassin stepped forward, reached over and slapped the woman.

There was a low rumble among his buddies. I assumed she'd insulted him, maybe questioned his manhood. Or told him the name Quemal the Assassin sounded more dumb than dangerous. Something else I'd learned during my tours in the Balkans was that people take offense very easily. In Kosovo, when I'd once made the mistake of addressing an Albanian Muslim in Serbo-Croatian, a couple of our GIs had to hold him down to prevent him from carving me into tiny pieces with his pigsticker.

After that altercation, I was known as “the guy who nearly started a third world war.”

Even from across the room I could smell the wariness. The way I figured, he'd murdered at least two people within the last couple of months—and most of the people around here would know that.

With The Assassin and me now within spitting distance of each
other, I was reminded that Sylvia, at the airport in Brooklyn, had promised me an opportunity to retaliate for the shellacking in Kosovo. Well, she'd been right. I might get that opportunity. But now all I was thinking about was Max's warning to stay out of this place—and how I could get away in one piece. But as long as Quemal remained occupied with his friends and I kept my back to him, the chances were good he wouldn't make me.

I'd stay cool, and when the opportunity presented itself, I'd quietly head for the door. No heroic stuff—like strolling over to Quemal and saying, “Remember me?” Or asking for my Leatherman back.

A minute later, the dancer ended her performance, removed her halter, jiggled two very nice tits at the audience, and flashed a smile. As the men yelled and pounded the tables, I wondered whether this might be the right moment to leave.

But the place suddenly went silent.

Someone had kicked open the door and, now, two men were clumping in. One of the newcomers stood at least six five, weighed three hundred pounds, had an enormous head of dark curly hair, was sporting a large gold earring, and wearing a knee-length white coat—and for obvious reasons was immediately the center of attention. He shouted something in Albanian. Then he picked up a chair and tossed it across one of the tables. After some more shouting, he grabbed a table and upended that.

This was definitely an individual who liked being in the spotlight—and who was unhappy about something.

One of the Dutch guys next to me uttered the Dutch equivalent of “What the fuck!”

The bartender headed out from behind the bar in the direction of the hubbub.

As the newcomer weaved through the big room toward the stage, he shoved aside some men who'd made the mistake of sitting at tables that were in his way. When one of them said something, the big guy turned around, pulled him up by his collar, then with his hand against the guy's face, shoved him into a tableful of women.

After that, everyone kept their distance.

A tall, skinny individual with blond curly hair, clearly the boss pimp, materialized from somewhere, and he and the newcomer began arguing. A minute later, the pimp was joined by Quemal and the bartender, and they began arguing with the big guy's partner. It was a real donnybrook. Everybody was shouting at everybody else.

When the newcomer kept pointing at the table with the four women at it, the boss would become even more excited. It didn't take a genius to know they were arguing about possession of one of the women, seemingly the same one Quemal had slapped around a moment before. She had brown hair to her shoulders, was wearing a low-cut dress, had a round face, and smooth olive skin. She had an innocent attractiveness that the other women in the place lacked. I had a feeling she wouldn't have it very long.

The first person to reach for a weapon was Quemal, who all of a sudden had a knife in his hand. He grabbed the arm of the woman and ripped her dress. A second later, he had her by her hair and was holding the blade to her throat.

The disagreement had escalated very quickly—and Quemal was behaving true to form.

The big man stopped talking in mid-sentence, believing like everyone else in the place that the woman's throat was about to be slit. He hadn't expected that, and suddenly, he and his buddy appeared to be outgunned by Quemal, the boss pimp, and the bartender. Then the pimp gave the word, and Quemal cut through the woman's bra, exposing her breasts. When the newcomer stepped forward and threw a punch at Quemal, he responded by slashing him with a rapid movement of his blade.

Suddenly, there was blood all over, and the big guy was holding his blood-soaked right arm and screaming in pain. I doubted he'd be wearing the white coat again.

When the bartender pushed the woman to the floor and held her down, she didn't try to get up.

For a long minute, the big man stood holding his arm, making threats and pointing toward the woman. Although he wanted her to
come with him, it was clear that with the bartender holding her down she wasn't moving.

Then with Quemal's knife only inches from his face, he took a couple of steps backward—you could sense it was all over. Although the newcomer kept talking, blood was dripping from his arm, and it was obvious he'd be wiser going to see a doctor than mixing it up any further—at least not at this moment.

At the door, when he shouted something, I had an idea this battle was going to be continued at some future time, and that's what he was telling Quemal.

With the big guy and his buddy gone, the bartender hauled the woman to her feet and, as she tried to keep her breasts covered with what was left of her dress, he dragged her behind him toward the rear. I had an idea she'd made the mistake of expressing a preference for working somewhere else and was in for a beating, very likely from Quemal.

I assumed that would keep him busy for a while.

Within minutes, the place was humming again, and something approximating music was blaring from the loudspeaker. A blonde in a bikini took her place on the stage and was bending over and displaying her very round rear end. It was as if nothing had happened.

With Quemal the Assassin occupied with other matters, I decided this might be a good moment to have a quick look around. I drifted over to the table occupied by the four women. I'd become curious, wondering what the argument was about.

“Guten Abend.”

The only one to respond was a tall brunette. In a Slavic accent, she asked me how I was feeling. I told her “amorous,” and she said that was how she was feeling too. When I suggested we spend some time together, she pointed toward a hard-looking individual two tables away who'd been watching us out of the corner of his eye while pretending to talk with his friends.

Since the brunette spoke reasonably good German, I'd be able to pump her. When I asked her name, she said, “I'm Tania.”

Her boss said “
bëj dashuri
,” which I recalled as Albanian for “make love,” and he said it was going to cost me 250 euros for a half hour of Tania's time. After forking over the money, I walked upstairs with Tania to a room that was furnished with a chest of drawers, a night table, a chair, and a bed. Although the bed was made, the bedclothes didn't appear to have been recently laundered.

After drawing the curtain across the room's one window, Tania immediately
began unbuttoning her blouse. In her business, time is money. As she unself-consciously peeled off her clothes, I asked where she was from.

“From Kosovo.” When I asked which city, she said, “Dakovica.” I nodded, recalling a small, impoverished place with muddy streets that I'd once driven through and was glad to leave.

Tania had jet-black, shoulder-length hair, smooth white skin, a narrow face, and high forehead. As she removed her brassiere, I saw her tits were on the small side, but round and firm—and I couldn't help wondering how long she'd been in this business. Under other circumstances, I might have become interested.

As she stepped out of her skirt and I slowly undid a couple of my own buttons, I asked casually, “Who was the man who caused all the fuss?”

“Oh, that's Sedfrit. He says that Adem owes him money. He was here yesterday too.” She shrugged, continued to undress.

When I said “Sedfrit?” she nodded. “Sedfrit Sulja.”

I assumed Sedfrit Sulja ran his own brothel. “Sedfrit sold the girl to Adem? Is that it? The nice-looking girl? And now he wants his money for her?”

When Tania nodded to me to remove some clothes, I slowly began unlacing my shoes. Still trying to be casual, I asked about the men who chased Sedfrit out of the club.

“Adem is in charge. The man with the bleached hair. He comes from Pristina.”

That figured. Pristina is the capital of Kosovo. Adem would be connected to the trafficking ring. It was likely that money from an operation like this would find its way back to Kosovo, first to one of the front organizations, and then to the KLA. Max had said the Munich police had wanted to close this place, but couldn't. The K Klub was being protected by someone in the German government. Interesting.

Tania frowned. I'd only unbuttoned my shirt. “Why are you not undressing?”

“And the others?”

I watched as, wearing only her panties, she carefully folded her skirt over the back of the room's one chair. She had long athletic legs, the kind of legs I always find sexy. “Quemal and Iaon. Iaon is the bartender.”

When I removed my shirt, Tania seemed to relax. She smiled, placed her arms around my neck, and we sat down together on the bed. I was able to keep my knife out of sight. Reminding myself that I was here on business, I fought against an urge to give her a squeeze.

“And where does Iaon come from?”

“He's from Romania. No more questions. Aren't you ready? Are you shy?”

Raising her legs, she slipped off her panties, placed her hands on my shoulders and knelt on the bed. Below her navel was a small spray of brown curls. How do I get into these situations?

The German word for shy is s
chüchtern.
I shrugged, said that shyness has never been a problem.

The truth was, I had other things on my mind. “Is Quemal from Kosovo?” I asked.

“Some men”—Tania smiled—”
schüchtern.
They like to do it with clothes on.”

I could have told Tania I wasn't interested in other men's hang-ups.

With Tania's arms still around my neck and her lips only inches from mine, I continued to ask questions, I said, “Is Quemal with the Kosovo Liberation Army?”

Tania looked alarmed when I asked that question—and I realized I'd pushed the envelope a little too hard. Then her hand felt the KABAR. Her eyes widened.

“Why you have knife? Why asking so many questions?” She slid away. This place was definitely connected to the KLA in some way. I'd rung some alarm bells and made her suspicious.

“Are you policeman?”

I held her next to me on the bed. Her nakedness increased her sense of vulnerability, and I decided to make the most of that. Maybe I wasn't behaving like a perfect gentleman, but I had to get something back for my 250 euros—even if it was only information.

When she said, “I don't understand,” I said, “Maybe we can talk for a while.”

“What about?”

Tania was just one of the thousands of naïve young women who take the bait—who, believing they will find work and better lives in western Europe, leave villages and towns in countries like Romania, Kosovo, Bulgaria, Moldova. In most cases, they pay dearly for their sense of enterprise and adventure. They are trafficked into brothels, often turned into drug addicts and exploited by international rings, many of them run by Albanian thugs—some with ties to the Kosovo Liberation Army.

These are some of the wonderful consequences that followed from the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Where's the Cold War now that we need it?

“About Quemal.”

“Why you want to know about Quemal?”

I said, “Who was the man who was killed?” When she frowned, I said, “Someone was killed two weeks ago. His name was Nicola Muzaci. Why?”

“You policeman?”

“Just tell me, Tania.”

She fought to get loose, tossed a quick glance in the direction of the chair with her clothes on it. “I must go now.” When she tried to push away and stand up, I held her down on the bed, kept her from moving.

“I want answers, Tania.”

She was squirming and kicking, but it wasn't doing any good. I had her pinned.

I said, “You won't be leaving until you answer my questions.”

“What questions?”

“Muzaci, the man who was killed, had been in Afghanistan. Am I correct?” When I squeezed her arm, she nodded. I said, “What did he say happened in Afghanistan?” When she hesitated, I said, “What did Muzaci say, Tania?”

She shrugged.

“What did he say, Tania?” I could see fear in her eyes.

“That it was a betrayal. I don't know anything more.” Abruptly, she rolled over, and struggled to pull away. I loosened my hold, allowing her to stand up and dart across the room. “I have to go.”

I followed her, moving diagonally toward the door. “I won't let you go until you tell me. How did they break the
besa
? What was the betrayal?”