The Old Bridge Page 11

  Johnson stood and shook hands. “Yes, good to meet you and thanks for taking the trouble to speak to me. I apologize for the intrusion. I’m a private war crimes investigator and if you don’t mind, there are a couple of things I’d just like to discuss. Nothing to worry about—I’m just hoping you might be able to help.”

  “That sounds intriguing,” Ana said. “I don’t exactly get many war crimes investigators trying to track me down. How can I help you?”

  “The reason I’m here is that someone who knows one of your old friends, Aisha Delić, pointed me in your direction,” Johnson said. He decided not to mention Filip’s name.

  “Aisha? I haven’t seen her in a long time. Why are you asking?”

  “To cut a long story short, I’m beginning a potential inquiry into Aisha’s former husband, Franjo. I guess you knew him, during the war?”

  Ana took a sharp intake of breath and folded her arms. “Yes, I knew him. An inquiry? Well, that’s probably long overdue, I’d say.”

  Johnson looked around. “Perhaps we should sit somewhere quieter. Then I can explain.”

  She nodded and indicated toward a quiet table against the wall at the back of the cocktail bar, suggesting they sit and talk over a drink.

  Johnson positioned himself against the wall so he had a view across the bar, and Ana sat opposite. She quickly scanned the cocktail list and ordered a mojito from the hovering waiter. Johnson settled for a gin and tonic.

  “Okay, tell me more,” Ana said.

  Johnson scratched his right ear. “I started looking into this only recently, after a tip-off. You may know that most of the major offenders from the war in these parts have been prosecuted, but some obviously got away.”

  Ana half laughed. “You’ve just worked that out, have you? And what’s the story with Franjo?”

  “Well, he seems to have vanished a long time ago. So I was trying to find Aisha in the hope that she would know where he is.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t waste your time. Aisha won’t know.”

  “But she might know something that can help—even if she’s not aware of it. That’s what I’d like to check out. Where is Aisha? Are you in contact with her?”

  “Not much. There’s the occasional email. I haven’t seen her for twenty years. She’s in the US. She went to St. Louis and is living in New York now. That’s the tragedy of Bosnia, of Yugoslavia, of the war—all the good people have gone.”

  “Hmm, it does seem to be a well-trodden path. Why do they leave?”

  Ana’s view was that most had been either driven out by rival ethnic groups, as Aisha had been, or left because they couldn’t stand living in a pressure cooker environment where they were defined by their religion or their ethnicity, like herself. That was what she and Aisha had in common—they were typical of Bosnian exiles from the 1990s, she said. Others left simply for economic reasons; the country had been wrecked by war and there were no jobs.

  Johnson studied Ana’s face. Filip was right, though she was in her late forties her face was unlined, and she was still beautiful.

  “Do you have an address for Aisha, or do you know where she works? Or could you give me an email address?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not sure. I’ll think about it.”

  Johnson suppressed a sigh. “Okay, it really would be extremely helpful if you could give me something so I can contact her. It’s only because I’m interested in justice for Franjo.”

  “I know that. Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

  Johnson decided to change tack. “So where did you end up, when you fled?”

  “London. I’m still there. I went to study architecture and worked as an architect for a while. I write books on the subject now, often from a historical angle, which is my other passion. That’s why I’ve visited here a few times recently. I’m doing a history of some of the famous bridges across the old Yugoslavia, obviously including the Stari Most here, and also the Mehmed Paša Sokolović Bridge over the Drina River in Višegrad, which you might have heard of. There was a novel about it; The Bridge On the Drina. They’re hundreds of years old, with big histories—very interesting.”

  Her words struck a chord with Johnson, who told her about his love of history and international relations and very briefly mentioned his career and family background and decision to become a freelancer after his wife had died.

  “I’d like to focus more on war crimes, if I can find the right jobs, which isn’t easy,” Johnson said. “For a long time, my passion for justice has kept me going—it’s why I love the war crimes work. It’s messy and gory but rewarding when you find someone who’s guilty as hell and has been on the run for decades.”

  Ana smiled, and her voice softened a little. “Actually, some of the research I’ve been doing on the destruction of the Stari Most might be very relevant to what you’re looking for—particularly in regards to Franjo Vuković. It’s surprising what you can find out by talking to people around here.”

  Johnson raised his eyebrows and glanced around. The cocktail bar was filling with hotel guests and tourists having predinner drinks. “Yes, please tell me whatever you think is relevant. I’d be interested to hear about anything that might help the case.”

  Ana leaned in closer to the table and he noticed her perfume for the first time, which he was certain was Opium, the same Yves Saint Laurent brand that Kathy had sometimes used. The smell alone triggered memories and emotions.

  Come on, focus on the job in hand, Johnson told himself.

  “You know the Old Bridge was destroyed by a tank that was firing from further down the river, in November ’93?” Ana said.

  Johnson nodded. “Yes, it made international headlines.”

  “Well, I’ve been doing some research into how that happened, because it was quite a mystery,” Ana said. “The international criminal tribunal in The Hague, the ICTY, got quite worked up about the bridge. It was a cultural treasure.”

  “Yes, I understand they haven’t pinned down who really gave the orders to destroy it; they’re blaming the Croat army commander, which is fair enough at the top level, but at the local level they don’t know.”

  Ana nodded. “You’ve done a little research yourself, then. Good, just listen to this. I’m a Croat, but when I lived here, a lot of my best friends were Muslims, and I saw things that upset me.”

  Johnson nodded.

  “There were three men in the tank,” Ana said. “All of them were doing exactly what they were told by a commander. Except until now, nobody has known who that commander was, or they haven’t wanted to say. The problem is that the soldiers in the tank are all dead now, as far as I can make out. But I’ve talked to a number of witnesses both in the army, the HVO, and in that area around Stotina Hill, where the tank was firing from, and there’s no doubt who the commander was. It was Franjo Vuković.”

  Johnson sipped his gin and tonic and leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “He was controlling the whole thing, standing next to the tank with a walkie-talkie, masterminding it like a circus ring leader. I’ve heard that from two people who saw it firsthand. You catch him, and you can pin the destruction of the bridge on him, as well as whatever killings, murders and whatever else he’s undoubtedly done.”

  Johnson drained his glass and put it down on the table. His adrenaline was kicking in. “Would you like another drink?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Sure, why not.”

  He signaled to a waiter and ordered two more drinks before turning back to Ana.

  He suddenly realized he was feeling quite light-headed. The barman had poured generous measures.

  “But that tank didn’t only destroy the bridge that day, it killed a number of people too,” he said.

  “Yes, exactly,” Ana said. “It was devastating. That’s why I want to tell the story about it, in my book.” She leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hands. “But enough about my sad country. I love it, but it depresses me sometimes. So tell me. How did you end up in
volved in this type of work as a freelancer?”

  Johnson took a deep breath. “You don’t need to know all that. It was a very long time ago.”

  “I’d like to,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  Normally Johnson was circumspect when discussing his background, particularly the CIA elements. But now, he felt an urge to tell Ana a little more.

  So he gave her the short, sanitized version about how he had joined the CIA and why he had left.

  In April 1988, he and Vic had been on a covert mission in Afghanistan out of their Islamabad station in Pakistan, dodging the occupying Russian forces for a meeting with a highly placed agent he had recruited, an Afghan mujahideen commander, in the city of Jalalabad, roughly forty-five miles over the border.

  Immediately after Johnson and his colleague had left, the agent was captured by the KGB and bundled away in a car, to a fate that Johnson assumed was predictably painful. Then, as Johnson and his colleague were returning to their car, a sniper on a rooftop had opened fire on them. Just in time, Johnson had shoved his friend into the shelter of a doorway, but not quickly enough to avoid a bullet that clipped Johnson’s right ear, leaving him with a nick at the top, an identification mark for life.

  “You were lucky, then, and you saved your friend’s life, too,” Ana said.

  “Kind of lucky.”

  Johnson opted not to tell Ana that they had ended up in a firefight with the gunman in an old building, during the course of which he had shot the guy dead, causing a huge diplomatic upset.

  Indeed, the head office at Langley had been furious, partly because he had lost a valuable agent and partly because Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence agency found out and demanded to know why the CIA was recruiting its own agents in Afghanistan, rather than sticking to protocol and working through them, as had been agreed.

  “It was a difficult time, made worse because I didn’t get on with my boss,” Johnson told Ana.

  Ana inclined her head in a certain way. “It all sounds quite sensitive. I won’t ask any more questions.”

  “That’s probably wise,” Johnson said. “There’s obviously more to it, but I can’t go into detail about it, although much of it’s been declassified since.”

  The reality was that the incident had been the latest in a series of clashes between Johnson and Watson, who banned Johnson from any further cross-border work and told him he had been “working asshole-fashion.”

  But both Johnson and Vic had been convinced they had run that Jalalabad operation perfectly. They were utterly certain they weren’t under surveillance when they went into the meeting, and the agent was also certain.

  Vic and Johnson logically concluded that there was a mole inside the Islamabad CIA station who had leaked details of the meeting to the KGB. But Johnson never did find out who it was.

  He and Vic suspected that Watson might even have been the mole, although there was no actual proof, and Johnson had rarely discussed it since. Even though Johnson was no longer with the CIA, it wouldn’t be wise to accuse a sitting desk chief in the CIA of treason.

  Ana sipped her drink and leaned back.

  “But you didn’t leave after that Jalalabad incident?” she asked.

  “No, I left the next year.”

  Johnson again left unspoken the details about his brief affair with Jayne—which Watson subsequently found out about. The upshot was that Johnson was recalled from Islamabad back to Langley in early September 1990. He packed his bags two days later, just after his thirty-second birthday.

  “So was leaving the CIA a good or bad thing?”

  “Not sure,” Johnson said. “But in the end, I enjoyed my next job, hunting Nazis, much more. Less deception, fewer egos to battle with, more passion, and more satisfaction. And from there, I started my own investigations business when I relocated, which is why I’m now working on this job.”

  “Good experience for this project, then,” Ana said.

  “Yes, definitely.” Johnson mentioned that he his colleague, Jayne, was with him in Mostar and was helping him out, but said nothing of their history.

  Half an hour later, after finishing the second round of drinks, Johnson said goodbye to Ana, who said she was tired. But she did give him her phone number and email, and also promised to send Aisha’s details too.

  By that stage Johnson felt thoroughly invigorated. It was partly due to the alcohol, and partly due to the information she had given him about Aisha, Franjo, the tank, and the bridge. Things were gradually starting to unfold, he felt.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wednesday, July 11, 2012

  Mostar

  After leaving the Hotel Pellegrino bar, Johnson stood outside and checked up and down the road. It was deserted. The floodlit outline of the Stari Most was reflected almost perfectly in the slow-moving waters of the Neretva below.

  It was dark now but still warm, and the twinkling lights of the cafés, bars and hotels lining both banks of the river seemed to beckon him.

  He sent a text to Jayne and Filip to say he had finished with Ana Dukić and to ask whether they wanted to meet him for a few glasses to celebrate Jayne’s birthday.

  A reply came back immediately from Jayne. Thanks, but changed my mind. Feeling really tired. Can we do it tomorrow instead?

  There was no reply from Filip.

  So Johnson sat on a bench outside the hotel and called his children, suddenly wishing they were there with him to see this historic part of Europe, so different from Maine. He spent the first twenty minutes catching up on Peter’s chances of being selected for the district basketball team at the weekend trials, and then he had a discussion with Carrie about a party she wanted to attend that Friday that Amy was unsure about. In the end, he agreed she could go, to squeals of delight.

  After he had hung up, Johnson decided he would have a couple of drinks. In this mood, he didn’t feel like going back to Muslibegovic House just yet.

  Johnson checked carefully behind him a few times as he walked southward along Braće Fejića Street, but there was no sign of anyone following. He then continued onto Kujundžiluk, near to the Old Bridge again. Now all the tourists were out in droves, shopping, eating, and drinking.

  He stopped outside a place that was sunk deep into the cliff face, the Ali Baba. Long Turkish sofas, drapes, and soft chairs were hidden under a rock overhang and surrounded by walls, with a semicircular bar in the center.

  Johnson battled his way to the bar and bought a beer, then went up a short flight of stone stairs to the dimly lit rear, where he sat on a stool and surveyed the clientele.

  The evening was getting into full swing. Drunken couples kissed in dark corners, men argued, tourists took blurry photographs, and two old men played chess and chain-smoked. It was an ideal spot for an hour of people-watching.

  Johnson drank his beer quickly and ordered another, by now feeling as mellow as he had ever been since arriving in Dubrovnik almost a week earlier, despite the events on the Old Bridge that day.

  People were dancing in the center area and Carly Rae Jepsen’s song “Call Me Maybe” blasted out from the speakers around the inside of the cave. A group in their twenties standing near the bar sang along, loudly and utterly out of tune, and then joined in the dancing.

  A woman in a black dress sat on the stool right next to Johnson and sipped her drink, moving her bare shoulders slightly in time to the music. She caught his eye, then smiled. Her curly dark hair fell over her face and she brushed it back with a hand.

  “Great music here,” she said in accented English. “You British, American?”

  “Yes, American,” Johnson replied. “How can you tell?”

  “I can always tell.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “I’m a Mostar girl, a Bosnian Croat,” she said, “although I’ve spent more time away than here. I worked in the UK for a while, in Edinburgh and London, then France, and then came back. Mostar used to be a tough place, but I love it now. Are you a tourist or here for
work?”

  “A bit of both,” Johnson said. “Mainly work. What’s your name?”

  “Katarina, although you can call me Kate, as everyone did in London.” Johnson nodded and introduced himself.

  They chatted about London for a few minutes, then Katarina finished her drink. “You like another beer or a spirit?” she asked Johnson.

  “I was planning to go, actually,” Johnson said.

  “Oh, don’t, we just started chatting. Go on, have a drink,” she insisted.

  I really should stop drinking and go back to the hotel, Johnson thought.

  But instead, Johnson found himself looking at Katarina and saying, “Oh, all right, I’ll just stay for one drink . . . yes, rum and coke, please.”

  Johnson watched Katarina with renewed attention while she was in line at the bar. She was slim and tanned, good-looking, and probably in her mid-thirties, he guessed.

  She came back and handed Johnson his drink.

  Johnson took out his pack of cigarettes and offered one to Katarina, who accepted. He took one out himself, and lit first hers, then his own.

  They smoked without speaking for a few minutes. The intake of nicotine made him feel a little sharper.

  “So,” he finally said. “Do you like the new Mostar?”

  “Yes, I do. This place is much happier than it used to be,” Katarina said. “During the war and for a few years afterward it was miserable. The thugs were in charge. A lot of the war criminals were caught, but there’s still many just walking around. Most people could name one or two who escaped justice, on both sides of the river, Croat and Muslim.”

  “Yes, so I hear,” Johnson said as he sipped his rum. “That’s part of my job actually, to track down war criminals, it’s why I’m here.”

  “Really? Are you investigating anything particular?”

  “Oh, you know, large-scale killings, brutalities, and the like. The ones responsible have disappeared, nobody knows where they are, so it’s my job to find a way.”

  “Who’s on your list? It’s a small city. I might know them.”