collection of blood samples from Kosovan refugees. He'd been planning on an early night but instead he decided to drive out to the Butterfly. As it wasn't approved he doubted that Dragan would take him.
He put a photograph of Nicole into his jacket pocket and went down to where he'd parked his four-wheel-drive, then had second thoughts. It wouldn't be a good move to leave the vehicle with its diplomatic plates and International War-dead Commission logo parked outside a brothel.
He walked to the main road and flagged down a taxi. He told the driver where he wanted to go and they headed out of the city and up into the mountains.
The Butterfly was at the edge of the village, in a new building, by the look of it, or one that had been substantially rebuilt after the war. There was parking for two dozen vehicles, but only five cars were there, all Volkswagens.
Solomon asked the driver if he'd wait for him, but the man shook his head and held out his hand for the fare. Solomon paid him, got out, and stood looking at the house as the taxi drove away. He was already regretting not using his own car. He'd just have to hope he could phone for a taxi from the bar when he was ready to go home.
He walked up to the front door and raised his hand to knock, but the door opened before he could do so and two men staggered out, smelling of whisky and Turkish cigarettes. They grinned amiably at Solomon and staggered towards one of the Volkswagens. Solomon walked into the bar.
The management hadn't chosen its name at random: it had a butterfly theme with framed photographs of different species on the wall and paper butterflies hanging from the ceiling, their wings wafting in the cigarette smoke. The whole ground floor of the house was open plan, with small wicker sofas facing each other across wicker and glass coffee tables. On each table there were large ashtrays in the shape of butterflies.
A teenage waiter with a pencil-thin moustache and a ponytail came over carrying a metal tray and showed Solomon to an empty sofa. He ordered a Heineken.
“Do you want a girl?” asked the waiter in Bosnian, and jerked his head at half a dozen dancers who were sitting on stools at a bar that ran the length of the room. They were wearing wraparound silk dressing-gowns of various colours with butterfly motifs on the back. They all swivelled to face him, smiling brightly. One allowed her dressing-gown to fall open, revealing a white bikini. Two more girls were dancing around a silver pole on an oval podium in the centre of the bar. They also beamed at Solomon and one jiggled her breasts in his direction.
“Maybe in a while,” he said.
He settled back and looked around the room. The girls at the bar swivelled so that their backs were to him. Four big men, in leather jackets with bottles of Sarajevsko in front of them, were sitting by the door. They had all turned to look at him. He nodded a greeting and one raised his beer bottle, smiling with cold eyes. Security, no doubt.
There were two dozen customers, most of them sitting next to girls, and almost everyone was smoking.
Solomon lit a Marlboro. The waiter returned with his beer and a glass bowl of salted peanuts. Solomon indicated the girls at the bar.
“Do any of them speak Bosnian?” he asked.
“Sure,” said the waiter, scratching at his moustache.
“But you don't have to talk to them to have sex with them. See the one with the long blonde hair?”
“She speaks Bosnian?”
The waiter grinned.
“No, but she does anything you want.” He leaned close to Solomon.
“I mean anything. You can hurt her if she wants. She loves it. Begs for more.”
“I want a girl who speaks Bosnian,” said Solomon, fighting an urge to punch him.
“There aren't any Bosnian girls working here,” he said.
“We have girls from Latvia and the Ukraine.”
“I don't care where she's from,” said Solomon, 'but I want a girl who can speak Bosnian. Or, better still, English."
The waiter pointed at a
He put a photograph of Nicole into his jacket pocket and went down to where he'd parked his four-wheel-drive, then had second thoughts. It wouldn't be a good move to leave the vehicle with its diplomatic plates and International War-dead Commission logo parked outside a brothel.
He walked to the main road and flagged down a taxi. He told the driver where he wanted to go and they headed out of the city and up into the mountains.
The Butterfly was at the edge of the village, in a new building, by the look of it, or one that had been substantially rebuilt after the war. There was parking for two dozen vehicles, but only five cars were there, all Volkswagens.
Solomon asked the driver if he'd wait for him, but the man shook his head and held out his hand for the fare. Solomon paid him, got out, and stood looking at the house as the taxi drove away. He was already regretting not using his own car. He'd just have to hope he could phone for a taxi from the bar when he was ready to go home.
He walked up to the front door and raised his hand to knock, but the door opened before he could do so and two men staggered out, smelling of whisky and Turkish cigarettes. They grinned amiably at Solomon and staggered towards one of the Volkswagens. Solomon walked into the bar.
The management hadn't chosen its name at random: it had a butterfly theme with framed photographs of different species on the wall and paper butterflies hanging from the ceiling, their wings wafting in the cigarette smoke. The whole ground floor of the house was open plan, with small wicker sofas facing each other across wicker and glass coffee tables. On each table there were large ashtrays in the shape of butterflies.
A teenage waiter with a pencil-thin moustache and a ponytail came over carrying a metal tray and showed Solomon to an empty sofa. He ordered a Heineken.
“Do you want a girl?” asked the waiter in Bosnian, and jerked his head at half a dozen dancers who were sitting on stools at a bar that ran the length of the room. They were wearing wraparound silk dressing-gowns of various colours with butterfly motifs on the back. They all swivelled to face him, smiling brightly. One allowed her dressing-gown to fall open, revealing a white bikini. Two more girls were dancing around a silver pole on an oval podium in the centre of the bar. They also beamed at Solomon and one jiggled her breasts in his direction.
“Maybe in a while,” he said.
He settled back and looked around the room. The girls at the bar swivelled so that their backs were to him. Four big men, in leather jackets with bottles of Sarajevsko in front of them, were sitting by the door. They had all turned to look at him. He nodded a greeting and one raised his beer bottle, smiling with cold eyes. Security, no doubt.
There were two dozen customers, most of them sitting next to girls, and almost everyone was smoking.
Solomon lit a Marlboro. The waiter returned with his beer and a glass bowl of salted peanuts. Solomon indicated the girls at the bar.
“Do any of them speak Bosnian?” he asked.
“Sure,” said the waiter, scratching at his moustache.
“But you don't have to talk to them to have sex with them. See the one with the long blonde hair?”
“She speaks Bosnian?”
The waiter grinned.
“No, but she does anything you want.” He leaned close to Solomon.
“I mean anything. You can hurt her if she wants. She loves it. Begs for more.”
“I want a girl who speaks Bosnian,” said Solomon, fighting an urge to punch him.
“There aren't any Bosnian girls working here,” he said.
“We have girls from Latvia and the Ukraine.”
“I don't care where she's from,” said Solomon, 'but I want a girl who can speak Bosnian. Or, better still, English."
The waiter pointed at a
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