19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter nineteen
Noble sat behind the wheel of his rental, watching the front of the hotel where Bill and Milena had last been seen.
The sky overhead was a black vault dotted with stars.
A pale yellow sickle skipped in and out of fleecy clouds.
Noble chose a parallel spot against the curb, in a pool of shadow between arc sodium street lamps, away from the moonlight.
Bill Handley’s stack of papers lay in the seat next to him.
A delivery vehicle farting diesel rumbled past on the boulevard.
Noble reached for a coffee cup on the dash.
Steam from the hot black coffee left a foggy smudge on the windshield.
Finding a decent cup of joe had proven far more difficult than it should in what was supposed to be a major metropolitan city.
He’d gone to four different places. The first three had coffee but didn’t have to-go cups.
Apparently, Serbians believed in sitting down to drink their coffee.
The idea of taking it with them seemed to be a foreign concept.
Noble shook his head.
Scratch Belgrade off his list of potential retirement spots.
He sipped, replaced the cup on the dash, and reached for Bill’s stack of intelligence.
Noble had already been through the collection once.
It was a seemingly random assortment of newspaper clippings, pages from interagency intel reports, articles written by Milena Kova? about the Kosovo war, and a list of names, several of which had been crossed off.
All neatly arranged. Only problem was, none of the information seemed connected.
Noble briefly entertained the idea that Bill Handley had started to lose his marbles.
It had happened before. The intelligence business is a tough line of work.
It takes a mentally tough person to stay in the game.
At some point you realize you are keeping secrets from everybody, including yourself.
Not everybody can handle the stress that comes from a life in counter-intelligence. Some people snap.
CIA maintained a privately run retirement community in Arizona for intelligence officers who lose their marbles. Former CIA officers who get old and senile, and can’t be trusted not to run off at the mouth, get packed off to Arizona.
By all accounts it was a very nice place to live.
At least, that’s what Noble had heard anyway.
He’d already privately made up his mind that if he ever started to lose it, he was going to climb aboard the Yeoman, haul up anchor, and sail wherever the winds took him, until the old ship when down, and Noble would go right down with it.
All that said, Bill Handley did not seem to be a man losing touch with reality. He wasn’t at the age where that normally occurred, not yet anyway. And his wife Milena, judging by her writing, seemed in perfect mental condition.
Which left only one other alternative.
The couple returned to Serbia under the pretense of a second honeymoon in order to investigate something. Only question was, what? What were they onto? Noble flipped through the pages again in search of a connection.
The newspaper clippings were about a former Colonel from Kosovo who died in prison while serving time for war crimes, along with a military doctor who had been recently paroled.
Her articles mostly detailed the aftermath of the Kosovo war, along the restructuring of the Serbian government, and hit pieces on various Serbian political leaders who Milena Kova? obviously did not like very much.
It obviously all had meaning to Bill and Milena.
Noble set the stack aside and returned his attention to the hotel.
He’d already called Burke to deliver the bad news.
Bill and Milena actually were missing, no doubt about that, and in this business missing usually meant dead.
Or rolled up by a rival intelligence outfit. Noble didn’t know which was worse.
Burke tried to hide his feelings, but Noble could hear the worry in his voice. He’d promised Burke he’d stay on the trail. That meant interrogating Xanders. The hotel clerk obviously knew more than he was willing to say.
Which is why Noble sat in the dark, waiting.
Confronting Xanders in the hotel was pointless. He’d deny he knew anything, ask Noble to leave, and if he refused, Xanders would call the cops. Better by far to follow him when he left and confront him in a location more to Noble’s advantage.
The phone buzzed. He reached for it. He didn’t need to look at the caller ID. Only one person had this number.
“What’s up, Burke?”
“You sitting on the hotel?”
“Yup.”
“Got Handley’s pages with you?
“Right here next to me.”
“Read off that list of names in Bill’s collection of papers.”
Noble started through the list, butchering the pronunciation in the process.
He didn’t get far when Burke stopped him.
“Dejan Pavlovi?. That name popped. I’ve been going back through Bill’s service during the Kosovo War.
I haven’t got access to CIA’s records, so I’m relying on my own set of notes which aren’t exactly thorough, but I found Dejan Pavlovi?. ”
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Noble said.
“Dejan Pavlovi? was an ICTY investigator.”
Noble made a note at the back of his throat. “Just for fun, pretend I don’t know what an ICTY investigator is.”
“Young pup,” Burke commented. “Still wet behind the ears. It stands for the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia.”
“Try saying that five times real fast.” Noble reached for his coffee.
“It was a UN war crimes court based in the Hague. They prosecuted several high-ranking military leaders and politicians who committed human rights violations in the Balkan wars.”
“What’s Dejan Pavlovi?’s connection to Bill Handley?”
“During the Kosovo War, Bill rang the alarm bells in Washington about war crimes committed by the Albanians. At the time, no one in Washington was particularly interested in hearing what Bill had to say, least of all the CIA or the White House.”
“Because?”
“The President, in all his infinite wisdom, had decided to back the Albanians,” Burke explained.
“You know how it is; every war has to seem cut and dry in the media talking points. The American government wants the average voter to think wars are black and white. These are the good guys. Those are the bad guys.”
“It rarely ever works out that way.” Noble balanced the coffee cup on the dash. “The Albanians weren’t the beleaguered peace-loving victims the President and the media made them out to be?”
“Hardly,” Burke said. “They gave every bit as good as they got and committed atrocities of their own. Bill didn’t like what he was seeing. When CIA ignored his reports, and Washington made it clear they didn’t care, Bill started feeding information to a journalist.”
“Let me guess,” Noble said. “A good looking blonde named Milena Kova??”
“You’re a sharp boy. Straight to the head of the class. Milena, a Serb, was one of the few journalists willing to tell the truth about the Balkan wars. Her hard-hitting stories forced the Hague to levy charges against both sides.”
Noble said, “I’m starting to get a picture. Milena’s journalism points the finger at Albanian war criminals and Dejan Pavlovi? is assigned to investigate.”
“And he finds Milena was telling the truth,” Burke said.
“Lot of Albanian military leaders had to be locked up for war crimes. American papers did their best to downplay that part because they don’t want the tax payer to think we backed the wrong side, but it’s pretty common knowledge in the Balkans.
No one came out of that conflict clean.”
“No one ever does,” Noble said.
“One of the Albanians who went to prison was Major Agim Hoxha.”
“Bless you,” Noble said and reached for a pen. He wanted to make a note. “Is agmahocka one name, or first and last?”
“First and last.” Burke chuckled. “Major Hoxha was head of an Albanian military unit responsible for large scale ethnic cleansings. Nasty stuff. He went to prison for life and died behind bars several months ago. Guess who served directly under Hoxha?”
“Captain Valmir Zeqiri,” Noble said. “Guy from the photograph.”
“Correct.”
“And now Bill and Milena are missing,” Noble murmured, more to himself than Burke.
“It’s not looking good,” Burke said.
“Got an address for or phone number for…” He checked the notes he’d scribbled. “The ICTY investigator? Dejan Pavlovi??”
“Already tried his phone,” Burke said. “No answer, but I’ve got an address for you. Lives just outside Belgrade.”
Noble started the rental and shifted into drive. “I’m on my way.”
“Must be getting late over there,” Burke said.
“Means I’m more likely to find Dejan Pavlovi? at home.” Noble swung out away from the curb.
“Hey, be careful.”
“You worried about me?” Noble asked. “I’m touched.”
“I’m worried about my insurance rates,” Burke countered. “New employee gets killed on his first assignment and my premiums are gonna sky rocket.”
“You’re all heart,” Noble said. “I’ll call you when I get to Dejan Pavlovi?’s place.”
He hung up the phone and tossed it in the passenger seat, then reached for the coffee before it could go sliding off the dash. Several car lengths back, a dark sedan eased out into traffic.