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

"I'm sorry, but the White Rose is active in a lot of areas. This is not just about nationalism but about poverty and basic rights for all," said Ratko. "We have a lot of support from students and many Bosnians abroad. It's where most of our funding comes from."

Kemal lingered at the doorway with a scowl on his face. He made a comment in his native Bosnian, which received little more than a glance from his son.

He gestured to the chairs and said, "Please, sit." Ratko proved himself a gracious host despite the shabby furnishings.

James eased himself onto the dark grey sofa. He felt the wooden frame below probing into his rear. Ratko perched himself on the edge of the opposite sofa, while Kemal seemed content to lean against the wall with his arms folded.

"Sorry it's not more comfortable," Ratko said to James. "This is the best I can offer, I'm afraid. All our donations are used to raise awareness of our campaigns and to martial support in Sarajevo and the rest of the country. This fireplace has been broken since I moved in."

Sinclair raised a polite smile. "You seem to be rather plugged in to everything that happens in this country. We understand you are a pacifist, but what we need from you is information. We haven't been in this country 24 hours, so we need to know about the situation and what we should be aware of."

"Is this a political matter?" Ratko sent a look towards his father. “I won’t involve myself in violence.”

"It's a business matter," Sinclair confirmed.

“Business?”

“For the good of Bosnia. No violence,” he lied.

Ratko nodded. "Okay, I’ll take you at your word. How can I help?"

"We need to find a certain man who we are looking to bring to justice. Sadik Kadrić. A Serbian nationalist. Do you know him?"

Ratko nodded sadly. "He's been involved in many murders throughout the Federation. Lately, they're linking him with the murder of a soldier, Benjamin Alić, and his family. Whether he was involved directly, or whether it was simply committed on his orders, we don't know."

"How do you know this murder was linked to Kadrić?" asked James.

"A flag pin from Republika Srpska was left behind at the murder scene." Ratko glanced up at the computer. "Here, look."

Every eye in the room turned to the computer screen. A reporter with a five o'clock shadow stood at the end of the driveway of an ordinary looking two-storey home surrounded by overgrown trees. A motionless police officer guarded the police tape with his arms clasped behind his back.

"It's all in Bosnian, of course, but that was where it happened. On the outskirts of the city." The shot changed to a studio as a newscaster in a red dress and an urgent expression spoke. A picture of a small flag pin appeared on the screen in the red, white, and blue of Republika Srpska. "It wasn't dropped there by accident and the soldier was a pure-blooded Bosnian. It was left there to send a message." Ratko turned away from the silent news report. "Kadrić is extremely active in nationalist circles and it's well-known he's willing to kill for his cause."

James focused his gaze on Ratko. The young Bosnian had an expression of sadness carved into his features, as if the killing of the stranger had wounded him personally.

"I might be wrong," Ratko continued. "But unless a group we're not aware of committed this dreadful act, we can be pretty sure this is Kadrić."

"And where would we find Kadrić?" said James.

"Srpska, naturally."

James shrugged. "Any idea where?"

"Republika Srpska makes up just under half of the entire country. Srpska is where the Bosnian-Serbs live, but men like Kadrić are often on the move. He’s been sighted in the Federation and in Herzegovina, where most of the Croats live. You would need to tread carefully."

James nodded. "Shouldn't be too difficult. We're not here to get involved in your politics."

"Everything you do here is linked to the politics," Ratko snapped. He left his seat and moved to the window. Lifting out a large, framed map from behind some cardboard boxes, he offered it to his father, who stood it between the two sofas like a makeshift easel. "This is Bosnia and Herzegovina." He traced the borders of the country. "This is the country you see on any map in the world."

"Okay."

"These are the real borders of this country." He traced his fingers along two jagged lines in turn, pointing out the various ethnic groups making up the country. "You can't do anything here without some understanding of how the country works. This might be Europe, but it’s still dangerous."

"Alright, alright, but give us an introduction. We don't have time to spend months studying it. Give us a crash course in it."

Ratko sighed and took the map out of Kemal's hands.

"All you need to know is that Srpska is the home of criminals and murderers. They are Serbian, they are all the same," said Kemal. "Dogs. All of them."

"Oh, father," Ratko sighed.

"What did I say? Smart with books, stupid in life. And he wants to hold hands with them and sing for peace. Go, my son. Tell them of our politics. Then the men can do business while the boys speak."

Ratko frowned but resumed his seat on the sofa. "The political system of Bosnia is broken because it was designed as a temporary system to be used after the war. Unfortunately, when everyone forgot about Bosnia nobody bothered to change this system. We have three presidents: a Bosnian, a Serbian, and a Croatian. They share the presidency for four years, with each ruling for eight months at a time. During that time, each president steals from the two others. And on and on it goes."

"That's