Interdiction (A James Winchester Thriller Book 3) (James Winchester Series), James Samuel [book recommendations TXT] 📗

follow through on that promise. Gallagher had been holding that phantom carrot in front of him for years. If anything, the risk increased with every assignment, without the appropriate increase in pay.

"Good. Then, lastly, I want to talk to you about a more delicate matter. I hope you will keep this aspect of the conversation between us."

"What is it?"

"Wood. I'm concerned for his well-being. As of late, he seems to have lost much of his enthusiasm for the job. Going through the motions, I think would be fair to say. I know my contact with him is limited, but that is why I ask you to help me. Have you noticed any change in him?"

James slumped back on the bench and thought about it. From the moment they landed in Sarajevo, he'd wondered what ailed Sinclair. They enjoyed a close relationship, but they never spoke about what was going on inside each other's heads. It was an unspoken contract between them, despite their friendship.

"I think something may be on his mind, but he never said anything. In any case, it's not our place. As long as he does his job and does it to the standard we expect, that's all that really matters to us, right?"

"Yes and no," said Gallagher. "We may not enjoy a positive working relationship but let me tell you something. I'm an old man, and I've worked with a lot of individuals over the years. When you ignore someone's mental state because they continue to perform, you do so at your peril. One day, they might explode. It has happened countless times before."

"Maybe you're right, but it's still not our place to make him talk if something is bothering him."

"I am not asking you to do anything of the sort. What I am asking from one human to another is to keep me updated. If anything seems out of place from this point on, I want you to tell me. This is not about his position; this is about caring for another human being, do you understand?"

James nodded, even though he knew Gallagher couldn't see him. "Okay. For Sinclair, I'll tell you if I notice anything."

"Thank you, Winchester. I'll be in touch."

He put the phone down and held it in his palm for a moment. Gallagher had sounded almost like he cared about someone other than himself for a moment. He shuddered at the thought of Gallagher showing any warmth.

"What's wrong, James?" asked Nazifa. "You look worried."

"No, no, it's nothing like that. Just work, that's all. Sorry, you know I'm not allowed to talk about the people I work for. It's confidential."

"It's okay," Nazifa said cheerily. "Come, drink with me."

Chapter Twenty

Banja Luka, Bosanska Krajina, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Kadrić strolled down Trg Srpskih Junaka in the heart of the capital of Republika Srpska. Davor and Krsto flanked him on either side, saying nothing, as per usual. A rare day of sunshine burned down upon them, eviscerating the winter frosts and melting the dirty snow at the sides of the roads. He shuddered at the warmth of the winter sun on the back of his neck. It felt like progress. It felt like a light at the end of the tunnel.

He approached the old Banja Luka railway station. The long building painted a pale yellow and white once served as the transport hub during the days of Tito's Yugoslavia. Today, local officials had turned it into a modern art museum. Kadrić stopped to glance at the sign denoting a Damien Hirst exhibition.

"You know him?" Kadrić said to Davor and Krsto.

The two men shook their heads and shrugged.

"One of the most famous artists of the modern age. British. You never saw the pickled shark?"

Davor and Krsto looked thoroughly confused by Kadrić's choice of subject. No, these men were from a tiny village in the historical province of Slavonia to the north. Today, the people of these villages still worked the land as their ancestors had dating all the way back to the time of Ancient Rome. They cared little for the world beyond their borders. Only the war had stirred Davor and Krsto from their destinies of work and toil.

"It's okay. They will be replicas of the real thing. Too famous for us. Look, it's nearly empty."

There were no lines of frantic modern art fans waiting to get into the exhibition. Banja Luka's museums only offered replicas. No Western museum would take the risk of sending their most prized pieces to what they saw as an unstable backwater. Only the occupiers based out of Sarajevo were entitled to that, he reflected bitterly.

Kadrić stepped through the double doors of the former train station. His bodyguards knew their roles. Davor would remain outside, whilst Krsto wandered around the museum in case of threats. The Damien Hirst exhibition took up half of the museum, with the other half dedicated to the moon landings and moonrocks that had been harvested by NASA. Due to the lack of interest, the museum didn't charge anyone for entry. Only a single security guard sat in one corner engrossed in his phone. He barely raised his head upon Kadrić's entry.

Kadrić walked through the Damien Hirst exhibition until he came to a room dedicated to a documentary on the artist. The commentators spoke in English, with Serbian subtitles flashing across the bottom of the screen. The man he came to meet, Ambassador Vojo Plemenac, dressed in business casual attire, sat on one of the seats watching the screen.

Perching next to Plemenac, the ambassador kept his eyes on the screen for a few moments, waiting for the signal.

"Is there anyone else here?" asked Vojo Plemenac.

"Only the security guard in the front. My two bodyguards are here. One of them is outside the front door and the other one is... looking at the exhibitions."

"Good," said Plemenac. "You have nothing