Avenger

‘Dad’s coming,’ muttered the detective.

‘You were with a group of ten others. All in uniform. All armed. Who were they?’

Milan Rajak was beaded with sweat and looked as if he was going to burst into tears. The Tracker judged this to be a young man with serious nerve problems.

‘You are English? But you are not Press. What are you doing here? Why you persecute me? I know nothing.’

There was a screech of car tyres outside the house, running feet up the steps from the pavement. Mrs Rajak held the door open and her husband charged in. He appeared at the door of the sitting room, rattled and angry. A generation older than his son, he did not speak English. Instead, he shouted in Serbo-Croat.

‘He asks what you are doing in his house, why you harass his son,’ said Stojic.

‘I am not harassing,’ said the Tracker calmly. ‘I am simply asking. What was this young man doing eight weeks ago in Banja Luka and who were the men with him?’

Stojic translated. Rajak senior began shouting.

‘He says,’ explained Stojic, ‘that his son knows nothing and was not there. He has been here all summer and if you do not leave his house he will call the police. Personally, I think we should leave. This is a powerful man.’

‘OK,’ said the Tracker. ‘One last question.’

At his request, the former Director of Special Forces, who now ran Hazard Management, had had a very discreet lunch with a contact in the Secret Intelligence Service. The Head of the Balkans Desk had been as helpful as he was allowed.

‘Were those men Zoran’s Wolves? Was the man who slapped you around Zoran Zilic himself?’

Stojic had translated more than half before he could stop himself. Milan understood it all in English. The effect was in two parts. For several seconds there was a stunned, glacial silence. The second part was like an exploding grenade.

Mrs Rajak emitted a single scream and ran from the room. Her son slumped in a chair, put his head in his hands and started to shake. The father went from white to puce, pointed at the door and started shouting a single word which Gracey presumed to mean ‘out’. Stojic headed for the door. The Tracker followed.

As he passed the shaking young man he stooped and slipped a card into his top jacket pocket.

‘If you ever change your mind,’ he murmured. ‘Call me. Or write. I’ll come.’

There was a strained silence in the car back to the airport. Dragan Stojic clearly felt he had earned every dime of his thousand dollars. As they drew up at international departures he spoke across the car roof at the departing Englishman.

‘If you ever come back to Belgrade, my friend, I advise you not to mention that name. Not even in jest. Especially not in jest. Today’s events never took place.’

Within forty-eight hours the Tracker had completed and filed his report to Stephen Edmond, along with his list of expenses. The final paragraphs read:

I fear I have to admit that the events that led to your grandson’s death, the manner of that death or the resting place of the body will probably never be illuminated. And I would be raising false hopes if I said I thought there was a chance that your grandson was still alive. For the present and the foreseeable future the only judgement has to be: missing presumed killed.

I do not believe that he and the Bosnian accompanying him crashed off some road in the area and into a ravine. Every possible such road has been personally searched. Nor do I believe the Bosnian murdered him for the truck or the money belt or both.

I believe they inadvertently drove into harm’s way and were murdered by person or persons unknown. There is a likelihood that these persons were a band of Serbian paramilitary criminals believed to have been in the general area. But without evidence, identification, a confession or court testimony, there is no possibility of charges being brought.

It is with deepest regret that I have to impart this news to you, but I believe it to be almost certainly the truth.

I have the honour to remain, Sir,

Your obedient servant,

Philip Gracey.

It was 22 July 1995.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Lawyer

The main reason Calvin Dexter decided to leave the army was one he did not explain because he did not want to be mocked. He had decided he wanted to go to college, get a degree and become a lawyer.