The Wolf of Sarajevo by Matthew Palmer Page B

contact?”
    â€œHis name is Viktor Jovanovski.”
    â€œMacedonian?” Eric asked. In the former Yugosphere, the “ski” ending to a family name was usually either Macedonian or Bulgarian.
    â€œOn his father’s side. His mother was a Bosnian Serb and Viktor grew up in Zvornik. Dad was a small-time criminal, but his son made the big leagues, or at least triple-A ball. He was with the Scorpions during the war and made a small fortune smuggling cigarettes and gasoline. As a sideline, he also worked for me. Agency reporting indicates that he’s still a serious player in the black economy and that gives him a reason not to be happy about Marko Barcelona.”
    â€œNew guy muscling in on his territory?”
    â€œPretty much. These are apex predators. Their position depends as much on reputation as on capability. A mob boss like Viktor can’t be seen as being scared of a guy like Mali. Otherwise the pack will tear him to pieces.”
    â€œIt almost sounds like you feel bad for the guy.”
    â€œI don’t have an ounce of sympathy to spare for Viktor. But I need to understand him if I plan to use him.”
    â€œAnd what does he want from you? He made contact, no? And nothing’s for nothing in this part of the world.”
    â€œHe’s probably hoping that I can get a Reaper to drop a Hellfire on Mali’s house.”
    â€œIs he right?”
    Sarah laughed.
    â€œNot my department.”
    â€œWhat makes you think you can trust this guy?”
    â€œSelf-interest rightly understood.”
    â€œOkay, but I’m skeptical that your old friend Viktor has read much Tocqueville.”
    â€œHe may not recognize the line, but he’ll understand the concept. Believe me, if there’s anything Viktor knows, it’s what’s best for himself.”
    It was not a long distance to Zvornik as the crow flew. But they were not crows. Although the road was in decent shape on the relative scale used in judging Bosnia’s roads, it was circuitous, winding up and around the steep peaks of the Majevica mountain range. Spindly trees somehow clung to life on the nearly sheer black-rock cliff faces on either side of the narrow road. This was wild Bosnia, the old Balkans of bears and wolves and mountain clans that had refused to bend the knee to the Ottoman invaders. The high mountain passes had been tamed by brute-force Yugoslav engineering but never entirely subdued. Sarah drove the mountain road expertly, just on the edge of control, downshifting into the turns and steering the agile Peugeot around the occasional rockfall.
    Five kilometers before the border with Republika Srpska, Sarah pulled off the road, and Eric changed out the Peugeot’s Bosnian license plates for a set of Serbian plates from the trunk that began with the two-letter code used for cars registered in Mali Zvornik. The guards at the makeshift border crossing wore Scorpion patches on their uniforms. Zvornik was their home turf. Two bored-looking paramilitaries waved them through the checkpoint with only a quick glance at their license plates. It was not their job to harass the locals.
    Twenty minutes from the checkpoint, the road split. Sarah slowed to make the turn to Zvornik.
    â€œStop here,” Eric said impulsively.
    They were in a small village called Konjevići. There was no road sign, no store, no obvious reason to stop at this particular crossroads.
    â€œTurn right,” Eric said.
    â€œZvornik’s to the left.”
    â€œI know. I want to make a stop first.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHave you been back there since?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAre you ready?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œOkay. Let’s go.”
    The secondary road was rutted and washed out in places. The Peugeot was built for the autobahns and smooth tarmacs of Western Europe, and nearly bottomed out crossing a couple of deep gullies. Thirty minutes of hard