14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter fourteen
Captain Valmir Zeqiri watched the Surgeon work through a double layer of plastic sheeting. The thick protective layers made it difficult to see. Everything behind the second layer was fuzzy and indistinct, haloed with light by buzzing overhead fluorescents.
Doctor Arben Kadare held a test tube up to the light, cocked his head to the left, and gently tapped the end of the tube with one gloved hand, before carefully placing the tube back into the rack and turning his attention to a centrifuge.
The machine finished its cycle and spun down with a soft mechanical whir.
Kadare opened the lid, slowly removed another vial and inserted the glass tube under a microscope.
The makeshift virology laboratory was built inside a six thousand square foot warehouse in the Palilula district of Belgrade, on the grounds of a former automobile factory that had once produced the legendary Yugo.
The complex had been abandoned for decades, left to rot after the company went bankrupt, and nature had been slowly reclaiming it ever since.
Weeds pushed up through cracked concrete floors.
Rust bled down the corrugated metal walls in long orange streaks.
Giant production halls stood empty and dark, their broken windows staring out like hollow eye sockets.
It was the kind of place no one came looking, and that suited Captain Zeqiri just fine.
Most of the lab equipment had been bought on the black market, with money from illegal narcotics.
The rest had been stolen in daring raids by Zeqiri and his team of commandos.
Solar panels covered the roof of the warehouse, but sunlight alone was not enough to power the lab, so a diesel generator ran around the clock.
Captain Zeqiri could hear the incessant grumble of the old diesel from outside.
It occasionally burped and hiccupped. Every time it did, the overheads in the laboratory dimmed.
The captain made a mental note to send one of his men to check on it.
A power failure at the wrong moment could set back the mission by months. It might even destroy the work.
The thought of starting again, from scratch, was almost more than Zeqiri could bare. The idea alone was exhausting. Nothing could go wrong. Not now. Not when they were so close. Which is why Zeqiri’s news was so urgent.
Urgent enough to interrupt Kadare while he worked?
Captain Zeqiri thought so.
The former military commander was fifty-three with thinning hair, dark eyes and a salt and pepper beard.
A roadmap of deep-set wrinkles made him look older than his fifty-three years.
He felt older too. His shoulders, once ramrod straight, had started to sag over the last decade, and his gut started to bulge over his belt.
His days in uniform were long behind him.
Now Zeqiri wore a black turtleneck tucked into grey trousers.
He rapped a hand against thick plastic sheeting until the noise finally broke through the doctor’s concentration.
Kadare glanced up with an annoyed expression, held up a finger, and returned his attention to the microscope.
While the doctor worked, Captain Zeqiri went to Sergeant Besnik, who leaned against a rusty I-beam with a Kalashnikov rifle strapped across his chest. Besnik had a hand-rolled cigarette stuck behind one ear. Scarred hands cradled the rifle with casual familiarity.
Zeqiri and Besnik had fought side by side during the war.
They’d wadded through blood and guts, and done what needed to be done.
In war, sometimes that meant doing things that would keep you awake at night.
It was a sacrifice all soldiers made. And yet, the civilian world rarely recognized the sacrifice of soldiers on the battlefield.
Soldiers who died got nice little memorials and flags waved in their honor.
But soldiers who lived, got dragged into courts and tried for war crimes.
Just the thought left a taste like battery acid on Zeqiri’s tongue. He asked, “How are the prisoners?”
“Quiet.”
Zeqiri thrust a chin at the doctor. “How long since he ate or drank anything?”
“It’s been at least forty-eight hours since he slept,” Sergeant Besnik said. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and offered it to his captain.
Zeqiri waved it away. “See to it he takes a break soon. He needs rest and food. We can’t afford any mistakes. Not now. And send someone to check on the generator.”
The lights in the lab gave another flicker.
Zeqiri said, “If it goes out it will cost us dearly.”
“Every time those lights dim, my guts tie up in knots,” Sergeant Besnik admitted. “I’ll see to it personally.”
“Good man.”
Doctor Kadare stripped out of his protective gown, pulled off his gloves, and slipped through an opening in the plastic sheeting. He made sure the gap was closed tight behind him before stepping through the second layer.
Close to three decades imprisoned in the Hague had been hard on Doctor Arben Kadare.
He was not the man Zeqiri remembered. He had shrunken in on himself.
His bald head thrust out terminating in an oversized nose, and his chest sunk in, giving him the appearance of a large vulture.
He had deep set eyes that rarely blinked and fleshy lips turned down at the corners.
His arms and legs were impossibly thin. Skeletal fingers flicked at the end of his long hands.
“You know I don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working. ”
Zeqiri crossed the warehouse. “My men tell me it’s been days since you rested, Doctor.”
“Your men exaggerate.” His voice was a fragile croak.
“At the very least, you must eat and drink, Doctor,” said Zeqiri. “We need you at your best.”
The doctor made a derisive note at the back of his scrawny neck. “I had ample time to eat and rest in prison, Captain. Now I must work. What’s so important that you interrupted me?”
“We may have a problem,” Zeqiri said. “One of my contacts messaged me. Someone, an American, went to the hotel where Milena Kova? and her husband were staying. He asked about them.”
“You assured me you left no evidence.” Doctor Kadare twisted his boney fingers together.
“We didn’t.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The American has a picture of Milena Kova?,” Zeqiri said. He hesitated a moment before adding, “And I’m in it.”
Kadare’s bushy white brows pinched down over his hooked nose. “How did that happen?”
“I don’t know, Doctor.”
“That could be disastrous.”
“I’ll deal with the American,” Zeqiri said. “Want me to bring him back here? He could be another test subject.”
Kadare shook his bald head. “No. I have all the subjects I need, but find out what he knows.”
Captain Zeqiri nodded.
“Leave one of your men in case I need anything,” the doctor said.
“I’ll leave Sergeant Besnik here with you. He’s a capable man. He was just about to check on the generator.”
Besnik stepped forward. “Anything you need, Doctor?”
The doctor considered that question. “Something to eat.” The way he said it made it sound like food was an inconvenience. He added, “And some peace and quiet.”
“What would you like to eat? I could get you—”
“It doesn’t matter, Sergeant,” Kadare snapped. “Just make it quick, man. I want to get back to work. I need to check the decay rate on my samples.”