24. Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter twenty-four
The dark sedan with the tinted windows slid to a halt in front on Dejan Pavlovi?’s farmhouse.
The car sat idle for a long moment, then the engine turned off and the sudden quiet felt unnerving.
Noble stood at the low gate in the waist-high stone wall.
If the newcomer was unfriendly, and Noble had every reason to believe this would be an unfriendly encounter, the wall would stop a few bullets at the very least.
Noble’s rental sat parked against the curb, thirty feet away, door still open. It was maddeningly close and yet might as well have been on the other side of the city.
He put his hands on the stone wall and waited.
The doors of the sedan opened. Two men in button down shirts and ties climbed out. Both had short cropped hair and cheap sports coats. The ensemble screamed law enforcement. Cops the world over have adopted the bad haircut and cheap suit look.
Noble was already mentally preparing his excuses. They couldn’t prove he had illegally entered the property. They couldn’t prove that, right? He went through a mental checklist. He hadn’t left any prints inside, maybe some dirt from the bottoms of his shoes, but that was all.
The dishrag! The dishrag was still in his pocket.
As long as the cops didn’t make him turn out his pockets, he could claim he was an old friend of Dejan Pavlovi?, and that he’d simply rung the bell. He didn’t get an answer.
Of course, the cops in Serbia, might very well make him turn out his pockets, in which case he’d have a very hard time explaining how he came to be in possession of Dejan Pavlovi?’s dishrag. In America, citizens had protection from unlawful search and seizure. In other countries, not so much.
The pair of cops stopped on the other side of the low wall, propped their fists on their hips and started to question Noble in Serbian. Might as well have been ancient Sumerian.
Noble shrugged. “Sorry, fellas. I don’t speak a lick of Serbian. English?”
Had he spoken fluid Serbian, he still would have claimed ignorance.
“You are American?” The bigger of the two asked. He had bushy sideburns that went halfway down his cheeks and a patch of hair on his chin with a little silver streak. Dark eyes raked Noble up and down.
“That’s right.” Noble showed a mouthful of teeth with his smile and put on his best tourist act. “First time in Belgrade. Really beautiful country. Lots of friendly people.”
He stepped through the gate, stuck out a hand, and didn’t wait. He reached for Sideburn’s meaty paw and gave it the American squeeze. “Jake Goodman. Nice to meet ya. Nice to be here. And you are?”
The smaller of the two officers looked at the house and then back at Noble. He had a bad comb-over that might have hidden his balding pate a few years ago, but now it was a losing battle. “What are you doing here, sir?”
“Taking in the sights,” Noble told him. “Seeing the world. Got laid off my factory job back in the States. Worked for that welder’s outfit nearly a decade and they laid me off without so much as a ‘thanks for all your years of service’.
Can you believe it? So I told myself, it’s high time I go see the world. ” He spread his hands. “And here I am.”
“I meant what are you doing here.” The officer pointed and added, “in the middle of the night.”
“Just trying to catch up with an old friend. I think this is the right address. Tried the bell, but nobody’s home.”
“The bell?” Sideburn’s brows knotted together over his hooked nose.
“Yeah, you know. The bell.” Noble mimicked pressing a doorbell. “Ding-dong.”
Too late he wondered if they even had doorbells in Serbia. He didn’t recall seeing one. Doorbells are a distinctly first world technology. Building houses is expensive enough without the added extravagance of an electric bell. In most countries people just knock.
“The buzzer,” the shorter officer said.
“But like I said,” Noble hooked a thumb over his shoulder, “nobody home.”
He tried to step past Sideburns and found his path blocked.
The officer thrust his chin at the house. “You know this man?”
“Sure. Old friends.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jonah Walzinger,” Noble lied, reaching for the first name that popped into his head. He didn’t know if the name sounded even vaguely Serbian and didn’t care.
Both cops frowned. Sideburns took Noble by the elbow. Comb-over motioned for Noble to follow. He started up the walk and repeated himself, “Please tell us what you are doing here, sir.”
“I just told you, I’m an American and I’m visiting a friend. Maybe I got the wrong address.”
“If you do not tell us who you are and what you are doing here,” said Sideburns, “We will be forced to detain and question you, sir.”
“I already told you who I was,” Noble said. “And what I was doing here. Hey, I’m not sure I like the way you’re treating me. I think I’d like to speak to somebody at the American embassy.”
They stepped onto the porch. Comb-over tried the knob without bothering to knock. Noble’s expression hardened.
The door swung in to reveal Dejan Pavlovi?’s dark living room. Both cops—were they cops?—hardly glanced in the house before turning back to Noble. Comb-over said, “Did you check in with the embassy when you arrived in the country, sir.”
“Of course,” Noble lied.
It was Comb-over’s turn to show a mouthful of teeth. His were crooked and yellow. “Please tell us who you are and what you are doing here, sir.”
“Who are you guys?” Noble asked.
“We will ask the questions,” Sideburns said and steered Noble back down the path toward their car.
“Where are you taking me?”
Comb-over said, “If you will not answer our questions here, we are forced to take you into the station for questioning, sir.”
They flanked him, one on each arm, fingers gripping hard against his biceps.
If Noble tried to make a move, they’d know.
Sideburns was taller and doing his best to lift Noble up off the ground.
Comb-over wasn’t that tall and did not have the strength, which forced Noble to do an awkward sort of one-legged skip along the weed-choked path.
He protested every step of the way, keeping up the American tourist act.
Comb-over reached for the back door of the sedan.
Sideburns said, “Into the car please, sir.”
“Hey you guys can’t do this to me,” Noble said. “I’m an American. I have rights, ya know.”
His heart migrated up into his throat as they manhandled him into the backseat.
Gut instinct told him these two weren’t cops.
He had no chance to escape; they knew how to handle a subject.
Sideburns kept a grip on Noble’s elbows while Comb-over forced his head down.
A cracked leather seat groaned under his weight and the cloying stink of lamb and garlic made his eyes water.
If Noble tried to fight his way free now, he’d take a beating.
Worse, suppose these two were actual cops?
On the other hand, if they weren’t cops… well, then he was in serious trouble.
Stay calm, Noble told himself. Remember your training and look for an opening.
Comb-over climbed into the passenger side and turned to look over the seat at Noble, as if he were trying to decode some mystery.
Sideburns piled into the driver’s seat, started the car and a moment later they were rumbling down the gravel lane.
Sideburns took several sharp switchbacks and passed the turn that would have taken them into the city.