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

Kemal turned the keys in the ignition. The Fiesta coughed and spluttered before going dead again. He tried it twice more and the car kept up its campaign of civil disobedience. An awkward silence followed before Kemal sighed and turned back to James with an embarrassed glow in his cheeks.

"So sorry. She is old. A push should make her work."

Nobody said anything until it became apparent Kemal wanted his passengers to do the pushing. James and Sinclair disentangled themselves from the cramped car and emerged into the freezing air again.

"You've got to be kidding me," James muttered to Sinclair as they took up their positions at the back. "This Ratko better be worth meeting."

"You really are a barbarian." Sinclair smiled. "This is a cultural experience."

"It's a stingy experience. Cars are hardly that expensive. I was barely out of school when this car was made."

"You ready?" Kemal called out of the window.

"We are," replied Sinclair.

James and Sinclair started to push the car along the street. The snow and ice made the road slick and the Fiesta soon started to roll. The two of them huffed and puffed to bring it up to speed. The car traversed a hundred metres before the engine sprang into life.

"Perfect!" Kemal called from the window. "A Serbian would have called a taxi."

"So would an Englishman," James said under his breath.

The Fiesta's exhaust belched out brown-black smoke. They climbed back inside, and Kemal revved the car, the Fiesta growling obediently.

"We go to Gorczany Street. It's not far. Some minutes from the old town. I must apologise for my English. It's not so good, but my son, Ratko, he was in Germany. He knows German and English."

"You must be very proud," said Sinclair.

Kemal shook his head in despair. "Ratko is smart with books, but he is stupid with life. Very, very stupid."

Kemal drove them along the winding course of the river. They passed countless Bosniaks with their dark winter coats buttoned up to their chins, their heads down, a vain defence against the vicious wind charging through the valley that was home to Sarajevo.

Gorczany Street consisted of two uniform lines of post-war buildings. These concrete slabs with their square windowpanes added to the gloom of the Bosnian winter. There were no tree-lined boulevards, like those lining the river. Many of the homes looked abandoned, with graffiti scrolled across the walls by untrained hands. James noted the poorly drawn swastika in black paint next to a set of steps leading up to a dented front door. The late-afternoon lights burning in the windows made the street seem like the last vestiges of a world in colour.

"We are here. Now you will meet my son, Ratko.” Kemal brought the car to a gentle halt and turned off the ignition. "I hope he can help you, though."

The three men ascended the concrete steps leading up to a black front door. 64 Gorczany Street was one of the few buildings without any graffiti. James observed a simple metal sign next to the doorbell reading “The White Rose.”

"The White Rose?" James said aloud.

"My son." Kemal rang the doorbell.

It took a minute for the door to open. The man who answered was little more than a twig, yet his stance exuded a sense of confidence of a man twice his size.

"Ratko, I bring friends for you," said Kemal.

Ratko inspected them up and down. James saw the suspicion in his face. He said nothing but looked to his father. The two men exchanged words in Bosnian. The atmosphere between father and son felt frostier than the encroaching winter.

"Please," said Ratko. "Come in. I apologise for not welcoming you, but these are dangerous times. My father and I have differing views on a lot of issues."

James nodded. "We'll never ask for something you can't give."

"Ratko Avdić." He stood aside from the door and shook each of their hands as they entered.

As Ratko closed the door behind his guests, his thick-rimmed glasses immediately steamed up. He removed and cleaned them with the bottom of his tight pink shirt. James saw little resemblance in father and son.

Their footsteps echoed against the hallway's high ceiling. Terracotta tiles decorated the floor of the hallway and a long staircase with black metal bannisters led to the upper levels. James took in the warm air, soothing to his tingling face as Sinclair took care of the introductions.

"My name is Sinclair Wood, and this is my associate James Winchester. We are here to work. If you don't feel comfortable consorting with the likes of us, we will understand and take our leave."

Ratko replaced his glasses and shrugged. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with listening. I should welcome you to the headquarters of the White Rose. We are an organisation dedicated to securing Bosnia's future through peaceful means."

"Peaceful means?" said James.

"Non-violent. We never use violence in our official activities. I'm not sure if my father told you, but I'm a pacifist. I don't believe that violence solves anything in the long-term. Bosnia is like it is today because of violence. The current situation is unsustainable, but violence will not bring about positive change."

James bit his tongue and fought back the urge to begin verbally jousting with Ratko.

"We respect your position, even if we don't necessarily agree with it," said Sinclair diplomatically. "And I must say your English is impressive. You sound like a native speaker."

Ratko grinned. "Apart from the accent. Please, come inside."

He bustled past them and led them into a large sitting room. A fireplace formed the focal point of the room, the grate hidden by a dark iron fireguard stamped with vines and flowers. The sofas and armchairs stuck out against a room inundated with papers, books, and three computers. On one of them a Bosnian news channel played on mute. The room resembled the