The First Casualty by Gregg Loomis Page A

shades of white on a canvas. The tones varied only from the gray shadow of passing clouds to a blinding white that gave back the glare of the sun. Far different from the seascapes of Isola d’Ischia and the Channel Islands that had occupied his brush for the last few years. Probably wouldn’t work, he decided. The acrylics with which he painted gave depth to colors of the sea and land, the greens, the blues. A nearly monochromatic scene such as that outside the window would suggest a medium such as watercolor.
    Natalia pressed a gloved finger against the window, pointing. “You have heard of Medvednica?”
    Jason admitted he had not.
    â€œVery famous ski resort, one of the best in the world. It is on the other side of that mountain range there.”
    Jason doubted Med . . . Med-whatever . . . He doubted it was either famous or competed easily with Saint-Moritz or Garmisch-­Partenkirchen or Kitzbühel or, for that matter, Aspen. He also knew better than to question a matter of national pride.
    She took his silence as assent. “Do you ski?”
    The question brought of a picture of Laurin sluicing between moguls, her laughter echoing through the snow-burdened trees along Jackson Hole’s black diamond slopes. Snow like he was looking at frequently­ recalled the memory. “Not in a long time.”
    She seemed to consider this for a moment. “The family you are looking for, what is their name?”
    He almost blurted it out before, “Name?”
    He was stalling, trying to think of a common Balkan name. He had known a number of them during the 1992–1995 Operation Deliberate Force in which U.S. military joined the United Nations in ending ethnic warfare. He certainly wasn’t going to tell a near stranger where he was going. That was a mistake few people in this business had the chance to repeat.
    â€œName, you know, how is your relative called?”
    â€œDragan Horuat.”
    It was the name of a Serb Jason’s Delta Force unit had captured and interrogated. The man was suspected of setting fire to Moslem homes with the occupants still inside. Jason recalled the man had both the face and the soul of a rat.
    â€œDragan Horuat,” Natalia repeated as though tasting the sound. “I do not know the name.”
    â€œShould you?”
    She shrugged. “In Croatia, as in many parts of what was Yugoslavia, the intermarriage of few families has led to many common names. I . . .”
    She was interrupted by the conductor, a silver-haired man in a navy blue uniform with brilliantly polished brass buttons and that round pillbox with a brim, the cap peculiar to railroad conductors. After each stop, he had walked the aisle checking and punching tickets. Every time, he had carefully inspected Jason and Natalia’s as if the destinations printed on them might have changed. This had to be the fourth or fifth time he had been by. But, as Jason well knew, whether in the United States, Croatia, or Outer Mongolia, nothing is more important to a functionary than his function.
    Jason turned to watch the man walk the length of the car, now empty of other passengers. Inside his pocket, his iPhone vibrated.
    He stood. “Excuse me . . .”
    She gave him a bewildered look.
    He shrugged “Too much coffee, waiting for the train, I guess.”
    She smiled indulgently. “The ručak dama , lunch lady, should be passing through. Should I get you something if you’re not here to choose for yourself?”
    Jason hadn’t thought of food. He hadn’t eaten since a quick, cold croissant washed down with bitter coffee at Charles de Gaulle. He was suddenly ravenous.
    â€œSure. What do they have, sandwiches and stuff?”
    â€œLunch is the main Croatian meal, so she should also be selling something more substantial, too, sarma , cabbage rolls stuffed with meat, mlinci , baked noodles, pizza, stuff like that.”
    He was edging toward the end of the car.