Lespasse and Brocco, the soldiers, younger, driven by their passion for the hunt;
Leonora Tesla, by her passion to rid the world of sorrow, a passion that made the otherwise-common woman beautiful;
And the elder, Harold Middleton, a stranger to passion and driven by…well, even he couldn’t say what. The intelligence officer who never seemed to be able to process the HUMINT on himself.
Unarmed — at least as far as the ICTY and local law enforcement knew — they managed to track down several of Rugova’s henchmen and, through them, finally the man himself, who was living in a shockingly opulent townhouse in Nice, France, under a false identity. The arrangement was that, for ethical reasons, the Volunteers’ job was solely to provide the tribunal with intelligence and contacts; the SFOR, the UN’s Stabilization Force — the military operation in charge of apprehending former Yugoslav war criminals — and local police, to the extent they were cooperative, would be the arresting agents.
In 2002, working on pristine data provided by Middleton and his crew, UN and French troops raided the townhouse and arrested Rugova.
Tribunal trials are interminable, but three years later he was convicted for crimes that occurred at St. Sophia. He was appealing his conviction while living in what was, in Middleton’s opinion, a far-too-pleasant detention center in The Hague.
Middleton could still picture the swarthy man at trial, ruggedly handsome, confident and indignant, swearing that he’d never committed genocide or ethnic cleansing. He admitted he was a soldier but said that what happened at St. Sophia was merely an “isolated incident” in an unfortunate war. Middleton told this to the inspector.
“Isolated incident,” Padlo whispered.
“It makes the horror far worse, don’t you think? Phrasing it so antiseptically.”
“I do, yes.” Another draw on the cigarette.
Middleton wished that he had a candy bar, his secret passion.
Padlo then asked, “I’m curious about one thing — was Rugova acting on anyone else’s orders, do you think? Was there someone he reported to?”
Middleton’s attention coalesced instantly at this question. “Why do you ask that?” he asked sharply.
“Was he?”
The American debated and decided to continue to cooperate. For the moment. “When we were hunting for him we heard rumors that he was backed by someone. It made sense. His KLA outfit had the best weapons of any unit in the country, even better than some of the regular Serbian troops. They were the best trained, and they could hire pilots for helicopter extractions. That was unheard of in Kosovo. There were rumors of large amounts of cash. And he didn’t seem to take orders from any of the known KLA senior commanders. But we had only one clue that there was somebody behind him. A message had been left for him about a bank deposit. It was hidden in a copy of Goethe’s Faust we found in an apartment in Eze.”
“Any leads?”
“We thought possibly British or American. Maybe Canadian. Some of the phrasing in the note suggested it.”
“No idea of his name?”
“No. We gave him a nickname, after the book — Faust.”
“A deal with the devil. Are you still searching for this man?”
“Me? No. My group disbanded. The Tribunal’s still in force and the prosecutors and EUFOR might be looking for him but I doubt it. Rugova’s in jail, some of his associates too. There are bigger fish to fry. You know that expression?”
“No, but I understand.” Padlo crushed out another cigarette. “You’re young. Why did you quit this job? The work seems important.”
“Young?” Middleton smiled. Then it faded. He said only, “Events intervened.”
“Another dispassionate phrase, that one. ‘Events intervened.’”
Middleton looked down.
“An unnecessary comment on my part. Forgive me. I owe you answers and you’ll now understand why I asked what I did.” He hit a button on his phone and spoke in Polish. Middleton knew enough to understand he was asking for some photographs.
Padlo disconnected and said, “In investigating the murder of the piano tuner I learned that you were probably the last person — well, second last — to see him alive. Your name and hotel phone number were in his address book for that day. I ran your name through Interpol and our other databases and found about your involvement with the tribunals. There was a brief reference to Agim Rugova, but a cross-reference in Interpol as well, which had been added only late yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes. Rugova died yesterday. The apparent cause of death was poisoning.”
Middleton felt his heart pound. Why hadn’t anyone called? Then he realized that he was no longer connected with the ICTY and that it had been years since St. Sophia was on anyone’s radar screen.
An isolated incident…
“This morning I called the prison and learned that Rugova had approached a guard several weeks ago about bribing his way out of prison. He offered a huge amount of money. ‘Where would he, an impoverished war criminal, get such funds?’ the guard asked. He said his wife could get the amount he named — one hundred thousand euros. The guard reported the matter and there it rested. But then, four days ago, Rugova had a visitor — a man with a fake name and fake ID, as it turned out. After he leaves Rugova falls ill and yesterday dies of poison. The police go the wife’s house to inform her and find she’s been dead for several days. She was stabbed.”
Dead…Middleton felt a fierce urge to call Leonora and tell her.
“When I learned of your connection with the piano tuner and the death on the same day of the war criminal you’d had arrested, I had sent to me a prison security camera picture of the probable murderer. I showed the picture to a witness we located who saw the likely suspect leaving the Old Market Square recital hall last night.”
“It’s the same man?”
“She said with certainty that it was.” Padlo indulged again and lit a Sobieski. “You seem to be the hub of this strange wheel, Mr. Middleton. A man kills Rugova and his wife and then tortures and kills a man you’ve just met with. So, now, you and I are entwined in this matter.”
It was then that a young uniformed officer arrived carrying an envelope. He placed it on the inspector’s desk.
“Dzenkuje,” Padlo said.
The aide nodded and, after glancing at the American, vanished.
The inspector handed the photos to Middleton, who looked down at them. “Oh, my God.” He sucked cigarette-smoke-tainted air deep into his lungs.
“What?” Padlo asked, seeing his reaction. “Was he someone you know from your investigation of Rugova?”
The American looked up. “This man…He was sitting next to me at Krakow airport. He was taking my flight to Paris.” The man in the ugly checked jacket.
“No! Are you certain?”
“Yes. He must’ve killed Henryk to find out where I was going.”
And in a shocking instant it was clear. Someone — this man or Faust, or perhaps he was Faust — was after Middleton and the other Volunteers.
Why? For revenge? Did he fear something? Was there some other reason? And why would he kill Rugova?
The American jabbed his finger at the phone. “Did he get on the flight to Paris? Has it landed? Find out now.”
Padlo’s tongue touched the corner of his mouth. He lifted the receiver and spoke in such rapid Polish that Middleton couldn’t follow the conversation.
Finally the inspector hung up. “Yes, it’s landed and everyone has disembarked. Other than you everyone with a boarding pass was on the flight. But after that? They don’t know. They’ll check the flight manifest against passport control at De Gaulle — if he left the airport. And outgoing flight manifests in case he continued in transit.”