He sighed, then asked in a weary but pleasant tone, “You can at least disclose the next link up from you. Your supplier. One name only.”
Hrnic said nothing.
“So this is our fine network of undercover men,” Vlado said. “Tell me, having met two of you so far today, are all of you so reluctant to ask questions of your sources, so timid about repeating names of anyone except the recently dead? Are you always rewarded for finding out so little so late?”
“The only way to learn things is to stay quiet,” Hrnic said sternly. “To not ask questions. That’s when things begin to spill out, only when they think you couldn’t care less.”
“And I guess it’s only when they want to grumble about something trivial like the chief of the Interior police being marked for death when they decide to tell you and everyone else about it.”
Hrnic set his mouth in a hard, firm line. Vlado snapped up the white bundle of meat from the counter and dropped it into his zippered briefcase.
“Thanks for the meat,” he said breezily, then strolled away.
He’d walked about thirty feet when the butcher called out.
“Wait,” Hrnic shouted.
Vlado stopped, turning slowly. Perhaps Hrnic was going to ask for the meat back, but Vlado would be damned if he’d return it. There had to be some price for insolence to the police. Besides, he was hungry.
But Hrnic seemed anything but angry. He was grinning, almost wildly, a leering banner of malicious joy.
“You wish to be introduced to the next step up in my ‘chain of command?’ Very well, then. You shall meet him.” He pulled off his grimy apron and tossed it onto a scale. “Mind the counter,” he snapped to his daughter; then he strode past Vlado with the resolve of a man on a mission.
“Follow me,” he said, not turning his head as he passed. “You’ll have your meeting, all right.”
They walked two blocks up a steep hill at a brisk pace, Hrnic panting like an old steam engine that had suddenly found its rhythm after years of disuse. Then they headed down a narrow side street where three young boys kicked a scuffed soccer ball across the cobbles through melting patches of ice. A toothless beggar kneeling in a doorway rose uncertainly to his feet. Seeming to recognize Hrnic, he held out a hand beseechingly.
Hrnic ignored him, striding briskly on without a word until they reached a dented steel doorway halfway up the block. “Wait here,” he said over his shoulder before disappearing inside.
A few moments later he reappeared, calmer now, almost smug in the way he looked Vlado squarely in the eye, as if daring him to turn back now, as if he’d had this scene dreamed up from the very beginning.
“He will see you now,” Hrnic announced with the flourish of a concierge.
Vlado followed him through the door, where a raw, elemental stench nearly knocked him to the floor. This must be their slaughterhouse, for the air reeked of fresh blood. It was the smell of life draining away by the drop, of fluids already rotting as they fall, the essence of animal panic lingering in the air like a ghost. This must be what made the animals bleat before they even saw the glint of a blade, or felt the first jab of metal sliding into their flesh.
They climbed two flights of stairs in the dark, the smell growing stronger as they rose. Then Hrnic shoved Vlado through an open doorway, where two bearded men in faded camouflage jackets frisked him roughly.
“Sit behind the desk and turn your chair to the wall,” one ordered gruffly, and when Vlado hesitated the man picked up a Kalashnikov from a chair and poked it in Vlado’s side.
“Get moving.”
Vlado sat in a creaking office chair, swiveling himself around to face the wall. What had this place once been? A hole for bureaucrats? The business office of some sweatshop? The whole scene seemed mildly absurd, given what he’d seen so far of the two so-called undercover men. He felt more like an errant schoolboy awaiting punishment than someone in trouble with the mob. He wondered just how far they would choose to push their authority with a policeman. Perhaps even they’d be angrier at Hrnic, for bringing him here at all.
Vlado looked over his shoulder, trying to get a better feel for the room.
“You are not to turn your head unless told to do so,” the man with the gun said. Vlado did as he was told without replying, and for a minute or so everyone was still, obviously waiting for someone to arrive. Vlado didn’t know whether Hrnic had left or not, but as the seconds passed he grew fidgety, already impatient with this low-budget attempt at intimidation.
Then, a scuffling of feet as men rose to attention, and the approach of a heavy-booted tread from the hallway. A stern but controlled voice announced, “So this is our Mr. Petric?”
The tone awakened Vlado. This was not the uncertain voice of an amateur. The steps crossed the floor, stopping just behind Vlado.
“And if you please, Mr. Petric, you will not turn your head throughout our conversation unless you wish to end up on the heap with the goats and sheep down the hall.”
A gun barrel shoved firmly into Vlado’s neck, an uncomfortable prod of cool metal. Vlado could hear a crackle of static from a handheld phone-a Motorola, everyone called them-the membership badge of any ranking mob functionary. The phones worked no better than any other part of the local phone system. Their value was for status as much as for communication. In a cafe it was amazing how quickly the service of a sullen waiter improved when a customer pulled a Motorola from his bag.
From the other side of the wall facing Vlado there was suddenly a wild thrashing, a long, high squeal, then the clatter and drumming of hooves before the squeal abruptly turned ragged and guttural, drowning on itself. Gradually it subsided, followed by the noise of a bulky load being heaved upon the floor. Then the muffled scrape and glide of blades easing beneath fur and flesh, or so it sounded to Vlado.
“An unplanned but worthy object lesson,” the voice behind Vlado said. “Perhaps you will keep it in mind throughout our little chat. I am told that you wished to meet me.” The voice took on a trace of amusement. “That you might even be eager to ask me a few questions.”
Vlado said nothing.
“Well, do you or don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“The questions you can forget. All of them. Because I’ll tell you the only answer you need to hear. Especially if you’ve come to ask about Esmir Vitas. And when I’m finished, your path up the chain of command will be at an end as well, unless you wish to feel more of this,” he shoved the gun barrel a little deeper into Vlado’s neck, “only with more of a bite next time.”
Vlado keenly felt his frailness, his recent loss of weight, as if his spine might bend and break with an ounce more of pressure.
“Vitas was scum, do you understand me? A self-righteous little prick who fancied himself a competitor. But he was unworthy competition. So, ultimately, a far worthier competitor killed him. Not me, you understand. Not that I couldn’t have managed it, if I’d wanted. Which should tell you how much help you’ll get from your ministry if you choose to pursue the question of my indentity or my whereabouts any further beyond this meeting. Understood?”
He again pressed forward with the barrel of the gun. Vlado wet his lips to speak, but he was too slow.
“So you understand the way things will work from now on, yes?”
“Yes.”
Let’s get this over with, he thought. These people had long ago stopped being amusing. Hrnic could have his damn meat back as well. Just deliver him from this stench, this pressure at the base of his neck.
“Then you will be moving on now, with your eyes closed and your hands behind your head until you are out of this building. And if anyone in this room ever sees you on this street again, they will kill you on the spot, then flay you to pieces for the rats. Understood?”