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

James’ jaw clenched shut. Now it all made sense. This assignment had never had anything to do with Kadrić. It was a small problem but for the time-sensitive nature of the kill. That’s why Blackwind had been hired.

“Well, Mr. Winchester, I think we should have a little talk before you go, no?” Plemenac crushed his cigarette underneath his shoe. “If you will excuse us, Mr. Heranda, for one moment.”

“Go. Then we have business to discuss.”

Plemenac gestured for James to follow.

James hesitated for a couple of seconds. He wanted more than anything to put an end to Plemenac now. Yet the sword of diplomatic immunity and a boss who would sell him out like a shot hung over him. He couldn’t do it, and Plemenac’s smug demeanour proved it.

He joined Plemenac and they began to walk towards the darkness. James pricked his ears up, searching for any sound that didn’t fit. They stepped beyond the lights of the street. Here the protruding wall known as Bijela Tabija overlooked the natural entrance to Sarajevo.

“What finally convinced you to leave?” asked Plemenac.

“Do you know why I even stayed?”

“You gave me a fair idea. Your strange Western philosophy of trying to solve the world’s problems.”

“Then that should tell you why.” James glanced from side to side. There were no signs in the overgrown grass, just the sound of traffic in the city below. “Heranda over there just justifies my decision.”

Plemenac pulled out a cigarette packet, Drinas, the cigarette brand smoked widely during the civil war. “We smoked a lot of these. You tried them?”

James nodded, hardly listening to the question. They had entered the fortress proper now. Most of it consisted of crumbling ruins. It formed a half-crescent moon shielding the sharp nose of the cliffside. He scanned the fortress. Former foundation holes left chasms eight foot deep.

“You think you are going to die here?” asked Plemenac. “No, no, I told you before. You fitted into the plan excellently. Despite everything you did, you have not changed anything. Killing you is unnecessary. You are a warrior.” Plemenac blew out a huge cigarette cloud and turned to enjoy the night at the end of the path. “It would be more hassle. A bigger problem to kill a Westerner. That’s why I will let you go.”

James ran his tongue along his teeth. It would be so easy to walk away now. So simple to leave Kemal to his rampage, allow Nazifa to fade away, and watch a country that wasn’t his own descend back into its usual nationalist squabbling.

“There will be a war,” Plemenac mused. “Centuries of hatred. Nothing you can do to stop it. Even if you did, you would only be postponing it.”

“Why did you kill Ratko?”

Plemenac turned. “Ratko Avdić? I thought you stopped working with him.”

“I did. He didn’t deserve to die that way. He didn’t deserve to die at all just for the sake of sending me a message.”

He grinned and held his arms out. “Come on, Mr. Winchester. It had nothing to do with you. Ratko’s death was not a message. It was the detonation. All part of the plan. Why would I need to send you a message when I can call you?”

James looked on at him in disgust.

“Listen to me, Mr. Winchester, do you know Kemal? Ratko’s father?”

“Of course.”

“The message was for him. How well do you know Kemal? Who is he?”

James thought about it. They’d spoken little about personal matters. Practically all their conversations revolved around business. Other than some miniscule knowledge about Kemal’s nationalism, he realised he barely knew him at all.

“Kemal is one of the leading Bosnian nationalists in this country. He is the…” Plemenac rubbed his chin. “The Sadik Kadrić of the Bosnian side, if you will.”

“No, that isn’t Kemal. He wouldn’t blow the country open, no matter how much he hates Serbians.”

“No? Did you never think about how he lives? He has no job. Yet he doesn’t live with his son. He is single. Yet he doesn’t live on the street.”

James shifted uncomfortably. He’d never thought about it before.

“He is a criminal. He knows the mafia. Why do you think he knows so many violent elements of the nationalist scene? It’s not because he loves football, I can tell you that. Kemal is known to every Serbian nationalist in the Balkans. He is our enemy. You tell me you saw me kill Kadrić. Was Kemal with you?”

“No, no he wasn’t.”

“Precisely, Mr. Winchester. For the same reason you would never find Kadrić walking the streets of Sarajevo. Kemal would have been killed if he entered Serbian territory.” Plemenac moved his cigarette to the side of his mouth, puffing away hands-free. He swept a hand across Sarajevo below. “What do you think Kemal is doing at this moment?”

“I know what you’re trying to say, but you’re wrong.” James took a step towards Plemenac. “You’re playing games with me. He’s a nationalist, yes, but he’s not like Kadrić.”

Plemenac flicked his eyebrows. “No? Think about it. Why would I have felt the need to kill Ratko? He is no threat to me. He was never more than a minor problem. This was part of the plan the whole time. To provoke Kemal means to provoke every Bosnian in Sarajevo. They will be preparing for war. Kemal was never your friend. You were a tool to him, as you were to me.”

James lashed out, thrusting his hands into Plemenac’s chest. The ambassador lost his balance and fell backwards. His expression of surprise came so suddenly he forgot to scream as he tripped over a boulder and tumbled into the night.

James’ eyes bulged as he watched the space where Plemenac had been. He heard every sickening slam of his body as