flat, so some smart young man at Langley decided we should purchase it ourselves for three. A PR coup. We buy ourselves the glory of an arrest and once again point out the UN's incompetence." She shrugged. "Five or three--either way, you're a millionaire."
"What do we know about him?"
"He wouldn't tell us anything, but Langley figured it out. Dusan Maskovic, a Sarajevo Serb who joined the militias in the early days. He's part of the entourage that's been hiding the big ones in the Republika Srpska hills. Two weeks ago, he left their employ and contacted the UN
Human Rights office in Sarajevo. Apparently, they get people like him every day. So little Dusan put in a call to our embassy in Vienna and found a sympathetic ear."
"Why not just take care of it there? In Sarajevo?" The traffic moved steadily forward, and they passed shops with flowers and international newspapers. "He didn't want to collect in Bosnia. Didn't even want it set up through the Sarajevo embassy. And he didn't want anyone stationed in the ex-Yugoslav republics involved."
"He's no fool."
"From what we figure, he got hold of a boat in Croatia and was going to wait in the Adriatic until 7:00 P.M . on Saturday. Then he could slip in, make the trade, and slip out again before he'd have to register with the harbormaster."
"I see," Charles said, because despite his returning stomach cramps he finally had enough information to picture the various players and the ways they connected.
"Want me to take care of the room?"
"Let's check the dock first."
Portoroz's main harbor lay at the midpoint of the bay; behind it sat the sixties architecture of the Hotel Slovenia, its name written in light blue against white concrete, a surf motif. They parked off the main road and wandered around shops selling model sailboats and T-shirts with PORTOROZ and I LOVE SLOVENIA and MY PARENTS WENT TO SLOVENIA AND
ALL I GOT . . . scribbled across them. Sandaled families sucking ice cream cones and cigarettes wandered leisurely past. Behind the shops lay a row of small piers full of vacation boats.
"Which one?" asked Charles.
"Forty-seven."
He led the way, hands in his pockets, as if he and his lady-friend were enjoying the view and the hot sun. The crews and captains on the motorand sailboats paid them no attention. It was nearly noon, time for siestas and drink. Germans and Slovenes dozed on their hot decks, and the only voices they heard were from children who couldn't fall asleep. Forty-seven was empty, but at forty-nine a humble yacht with an Italian flag was tied up. On its deck, a heavy woman was trying to peel a sausage.
"Buon giorno!" said Charles.
The woman inclined her head politely.
Charles's Italian was only passable, so he asked Angela to find out when the woman had arrived in Portoroz. Angela launched into a machine-gun Roman-Italian that sounded like a blast of insults, but the sausage woman smiled and waved her hands as she threw the insults back. It ended with Angela waving a "Grazie mille."
Charles waved, too, then leaned close to Angela as they walked away.
"Well?"
"She got here Saturday night. There was a motorboat beside theirs--
dirty, she tells me--but it left soon after they arrived. She guesses around seven thirty, eight."
After a couple more steps, Angela realized Charles had stopped somewhere behind her. His hands were on his hips as he stared at the empty spot with a small placard marked "47."
"How clean do you think that water is?"
"I've seen worse."
Charles handed over his jacket, then unbuttoned his shirt as he kicked off his shoes.
"You're not," said Angela.
"If the trade happened at all, then it probably didn't go well. If it led to a fight, something might have dropped in here."
"Or," said Angela, "if Dusan's smart, he took Frank's body out into the Adriatic and dropped him overboard."
Charles wanted to tell her that he'd already ruled Dusan Maskovic out as a murderer--there was nothing for Dusan to gain by killing a man who was
"What do we know about him?"
"He wouldn't tell us anything, but Langley figured it out. Dusan Maskovic, a Sarajevo Serb who joined the militias in the early days. He's part of the entourage that's been hiding the big ones in the Republika Srpska hills. Two weeks ago, he left their employ and contacted the UN
Human Rights office in Sarajevo. Apparently, they get people like him every day. So little Dusan put in a call to our embassy in Vienna and found a sympathetic ear."
"Why not just take care of it there? In Sarajevo?" The traffic moved steadily forward, and they passed shops with flowers and international newspapers. "He didn't want to collect in Bosnia. Didn't even want it set up through the Sarajevo embassy. And he didn't want anyone stationed in the ex-Yugoslav republics involved."
"He's no fool."
"From what we figure, he got hold of a boat in Croatia and was going to wait in the Adriatic until 7:00 P.M . on Saturday. Then he could slip in, make the trade, and slip out again before he'd have to register with the harbormaster."
"I see," Charles said, because despite his returning stomach cramps he finally had enough information to picture the various players and the ways they connected.
"Want me to take care of the room?"
"Let's check the dock first."
Portoroz's main harbor lay at the midpoint of the bay; behind it sat the sixties architecture of the Hotel Slovenia, its name written in light blue against white concrete, a surf motif. They parked off the main road and wandered around shops selling model sailboats and T-shirts with PORTOROZ and I LOVE SLOVENIA and MY PARENTS WENT TO SLOVENIA AND
ALL I GOT . . . scribbled across them. Sandaled families sucking ice cream cones and cigarettes wandered leisurely past. Behind the shops lay a row of small piers full of vacation boats.
"Which one?" asked Charles.
"Forty-seven."
He led the way, hands in his pockets, as if he and his lady-friend were enjoying the view and the hot sun. The crews and captains on the motorand sailboats paid them no attention. It was nearly noon, time for siestas and drink. Germans and Slovenes dozed on their hot decks, and the only voices they heard were from children who couldn't fall asleep. Forty-seven was empty, but at forty-nine a humble yacht with an Italian flag was tied up. On its deck, a heavy woman was trying to peel a sausage.
"Buon giorno!" said Charles.
The woman inclined her head politely.
Charles's Italian was only passable, so he asked Angela to find out when the woman had arrived in Portoroz. Angela launched into a machine-gun Roman-Italian that sounded like a blast of insults, but the sausage woman smiled and waved her hands as she threw the insults back. It ended with Angela waving a "Grazie mille."
Charles waved, too, then leaned close to Angela as they walked away.
"Well?"
"She got here Saturday night. There was a motorboat beside theirs--
dirty, she tells me--but it left soon after they arrived. She guesses around seven thirty, eight."
After a couple more steps, Angela realized Charles had stopped somewhere behind her. His hands were on his hips as he stared at the empty spot with a small placard marked "47."
"How clean do you think that water is?"
"I've seen worse."
Charles handed over his jacket, then unbuttoned his shirt as he kicked off his shoes.
"You're not," said Angela.
"If the trade happened at all, then it probably didn't go well. If it led to a fight, something might have dropped in here."
"Or," said Angela, "if Dusan's smart, he took Frank's body out into the Adriatic and dropped him overboard."
Charles wanted to tell her that he'd already ruled Dusan Maskovic out as a murderer--there was nothing for Dusan to gain by killing a man who was
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