Casca 44: Balkan Mercenary Page 2

  Lonjic nodded. He quickly reeled off a list of names of men he wanted on the job. Men he’d either met or had learned of through word of mouth, and most he believed were in Europe at that moment. There might be one or two elsewhere of course, as was always the case. “I’ll sleep on it and tomorrow you’ll have my reply. How fast do you want this job done?”

  Desk Man glanced at Bibovic. “Ten days, no more. We have reason to believe Vardaric will be ready with his gang of thugs and murderers by then. He’ll be most likely taken by road to Eastern Slavonia.”

  Lonjic’s ears pricked up. “Mmm? Maybe a route he’s taking might be of use.”

  “Road ambush?” Mandaric smiled wolfishly.

  Lonjic shrugged. “Gotta consider it.” He scratched his jaw. “Why not Arkan? He’s just as bad, according to what I’ve heard about him.”

  Bibovic shook his head. “Too high profile. The UN know where he is and you’d not get anywhere near him. Vardaric is another matter. He’s a junior and by killing him it’ll tell the Serbs we’re not prepared to sit by and watch them slaughter our people.”

  Lonjic stood up. “Gentlemen. Do I return here?”

  Desk Man shook his head. “Contact the number in those papers. Destroy them once you have read them and committed them to memory. We don’t want anyone else coming across them, I’m sure you understand.”

  The Eternal mercenary nodded, shook hands with the four and left.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The new day dawned bright. Lonjic sat up in his hotel bed and yawned, stretching his limbs. It had been a memorable night. He glanced to his left at the sleeping form of Krista and smiled in memory. They had made love frantically in the heat of the night, two people making the most of the moment. Carpe diem, he mused, thinking of his native language as he often did. She, for the specter of war horrified her and she didn’t know whether a Yugoslav bomber would bury her under a mountain of rubble the next day or not, and he because he knew he would soon be living the grim reality of a mission filled with shooting, explosions, brutal hand to hand combat or any one of a dozen situations that may or may not occur.

  She was athletic and imaginative. He didn’t know much about her; they had shared one drink before she had asked to be taken to his hotel room where she had practically jumped him. They both had known what the other had wanted, and they gave the other that freely.

  Now she lay there sated, sleeping. He gently stroked her back and shoulder. Such a beautiful woman, soft, smooth skin. Ah, the pleasures of a woman. He got up and dressed quickly. Before he left he bent down and kissed her neck, eliciting a soft moan from her. He didn’t think he’d see her again, regretfully, but he guessed she’d rather it be that way. Lonjic was not the type to settle down to a life of domestic bliss. He’d done that a few times but since he couldn’t age it always ended sadly – and sometimes badly.

  Yu Li.

  The Chinese girl he’d saved from a Cambodian hell back in ’76. They had settled down in the Cameron Highlands of Thailand and Lonjic – then known as Casey Romain – had enjoyed a few years of bliss with her. His mercenary company had guarded the compound in the mountains, and for a while all had gone smoothly. Until some corrupt minister in the Thai government had sold out, that was. 1985 it had been. The attack had been brutal. He still didn’t know on whose behalf it had been ordered, but Vardaric had led the group who had hit them suddenly, using every kind of military hardware available.

  The house had been blown apart, Yu Li amongst it, and Casey had been knocked out in the explosion, being hurled through the air to land in a ditch and thus out of sight of the soldiers attacking. The firefight had been short and sharp and at the end of it nobody had remained. The attackers had even lined up all the bodies for Vardaric to shoot them through the head, smiling as he had done so. Yu Li’s small broken form had been amongst those.

  Casey had crawled away, half conscious, vowing revenge. He’d memorized those in charge and had made a promise to hunt them down. Three had died the following two years and Vardaric cornered in Panama during the Noriega thing, but the shit had escaped.

  Now, two years later, he had the chance to finally get even. All that remained after Vardaric was the pimp of a politician in Thailand, but he was well protected. No matter, he had time to get him and he would. He needed to know who it was who had given the order, and why. Vardaric would have probably known the identity of the paymaster, so perhaps he could get the info out of him before he ripped his guts out all over the Balkans.

  Breathing in deeply, he left the room with his meager belongings. That was all he was now, living lightly, staying out of the spotlight as much as he could, but the Croats had known where to find him. Probably because he was in Australia and there were a huge number of Croats there. He bet it was Marko Godan, a fellow merc he’d struck up a friendship with in Melbourne. Godan was often away on missions; he needed it, the guy had a phenomenal ability to drink away all his earnings in next to no time, yet seemingly never suffered. Lonjic grinned as he waited in the foyer of the nondescript hotel to hand in his key. Godan would be the perfect man for this job, provided he wasn’t busy elsewhere.

  After handing his key over and advising the concierge that a young lady was still in his room, he walked out into the harsh light of the Zagreb summer. He put on his glasses and looked for a taxi. He wondered if whoever had ordered his elimination was an aggrieved ex-opponent, someone who wanted him out of the way, or maybe the damned Brotherhood. Maybe it was them – but he had no idea at present.

  The number he’d telephoned last night at the bar had told him the address to go to so he directed the taxi driver to the corner of the road and left to walk the final hundred meters. Getting out of a taxi right outside your destination wasn’t that bright. He had the uneasy feeling he was under surveillance. Maybe it was true, or maybe it was his heightened sense of paranoia after the destruction of what he’d built up in Thailand during the years he’d been there.

  The address was down a narrow alleyway and he walked down it with his senses on full alert – who knew when some assailant might decide to strike? At the end was a gate with a pulley and a bell on the end so he rang it. After a few moments an old man appeared with his face a wreath of wrinkles. “Who is it and what is your business?”

  “I’m Lonjic, here to see Mr. Kadlecs.”

  “Ah, the man who’ll hunt down the filthy Chetniks. Excellent! Come in!”

  Lonjic surmised this was a veteran of the Second World War, a particularly brutal conflict in Yugoslavia. Germans against Yugoslavs, Ustasha against Chetnik, Partisans and who knows what else. All these resentments had been bottled up by Tito after the end of the war, but now the cork was out and it was all spilling out. It was going to be a nasty, nasty war.

  Lonjic followed the old man along a filthy corridor and up a rickety set of wooden stairs. Through another door into a hallway that smelt of damp and boiled cabbage and contained ripped linoleum and worn floorboards. Another set of stairs, up a large stairwell that told Lonjic of a much better time, probably in the reign of the Habsburgs, then along a landing to a shut door.

  A man in a leather coat and sporting a black beret, smoking a black cheroot, sat in a worn chair outside this door, and he got to his feet, cradling what looked like an AK-47. He gave Lonjic a careful appraisal with coal-black eyes. The old man motioned for the door to be opened and the gunman obeyed, still carefully sizing up Lonjic. The Eternal Mercenary returned the look, not wishing to think him as being submissive or weak. If the Croat had tried anything, then he’d’ve ripped the AK out of his hands and beaten him with it a little.

  The room was carpeted with a rug that had seen better days about thirty years previously. The room was heavy with cigarette smoke and two men stood as he entered. One was Desk Man from the previous day. He nodded. “Welcome again, Mr. Lonjic. I see you’ve agreed to accept the mission. Good. Please, may I introduce Adriaan van der Klopp?”

  “God dag Meenheer van der Klopp,” Lonjic swi
tched to fluent Dutch.

  “You speak my language?” van der Klopp said, surprised.

  “Amongst many others,” Lonjic admitted. It didn’t hurt to tell them he was an intelligent man. It always helped. “What is your purpose here – UN? EU?”

  “Ah,” the Dutchman smiled in embarrassment. “Ostensibly EU. Really I’m the UN advisor.”

  “I thought the UN were persona non grata in Croatia?” Another chance to use Latin.

  Desk Man – Mr. Kadlecs – chuckled. “That was for the benefit of the others in that room. Let’s be honest here, shall we? The UN approves of the taking out of this vile creature Vardaric. The UN knows of your – ah – intention of revenge on this man, so they told me how to contact you.”

  “If you know that, then do you know why I’m after him?” Lonjic asked, his heart beating faster.

  “Thailand? Yes.” Van der Klopp nodded. “A bad business.”

  “Then you know who ordered the attack?”

  Van der Klopp stared at Lonjic through his rimless round glasses but said nothing.

  “What do you know that you’re not saying?” Lonjic demanded, his temper rising. Damn these politicians and their stupid games!

  “We know of your past names, Mr. Romain, or Mr. Romero, or Mr. Lonjic. Whatever identity you use, we know. It’s fairly impossible for anyone these days to be hidden for long, especially someone such as yourself and the work you do. You know too many people, that’s a fact, and one or two have contacts into the intelligence community. It’s all just a case of cross-checking. So, to this mission. We know you have a special reason to hunt down this Vardaric, so we point you in his direction and hope you do the job. The world community can do without that sort of man.”

  “A pox on you – tell me who ordered the attack on my people in Thailand.”

  Van der Klopp shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s classified. Vardaric is enough, surely.”

  “The hell it is – I want the abortion who ordered and paid for it.”

  The Dutchman took off his glasses and wiped them with a cloth. “I’m sorry but I can’t tell you.” He didn’t sound apologetic. “This is a UN matter and you’d be best advised to stay away from that line of enquiry – or you may find yourself in the cross-sights of a professional.”

  “Is that a warning?”

  “A piece of friendly advice, Lonjic. Now, please, shall we keep to the subject, that of eliminating Vardaric and his unholy band of armed thugs?”

  Lonjic glared at van der Klopp, then turned to Kadlecs. “So what is it you can tell me?”

  “He is shortly to be sent to the Vukovar region to begin ethnic cleansing. The JNA and the Serb militia don’t get involved in that; Serbia’s leaders send Arkan or Vardaric or one of the armed bands of irregulars to do the dirty work. There are plenty of old grudges to settle going back decades. We need to send a clear message that we won’t stand for it. So – we intend sending you and your band into Eastern Slavonia to intercept him. The situation is fluid there; Serb and JNA forces are surrounding Vukovar and clearing out the surrounding villages. They intend turning the area into a totally Serb populated one so they can claim it is part of Greater Serbia.”

  “Yes, this I know. Look, I’ll need maps, intelligence, movements, names, people I can contact locally, plus a group of men I can trust. I’ll need tough men on this one, people who know the area or the language and customs. I gave you five names yesterday. I think I’ll need eight or nine altogether.”

  “I was thinking of that sort of number. We have been contacting your mercenaries in Europe over the past few hours, and so far six have arrived and are in the Excelsior Hotel across the main road from here. You might be pleased at our efficiency.”

  “Is Marko Godan amongst them?”

  “No – he wasn’t amongst your list of names you asked us for yesterday.”

  Lonjic nodded. “I knew him in Australia. Croatian. Was away somewhere when I left three days ago.”

  “Oh, he is in Africa,” van der Klopp said. “You need him?”

  Lonjic nodded. “Someone I can trust. Is he available?”

  “I can arrange it. Worry not. So – you’ll need another, what, two or three?”

  “If the men in the hotel pass muster, then yes. Can you get any more?”

  The Dutchman nodded. “I’ll have them sent directly to General Mandaric’s camp.”

  “Very well.” Lonjic looked at Kadlecs. “When can I meet these six men?”

  “Immediately. You’ll speak to them on the route to the army camp. We have transport standing by. I will have documentation waiting for you at the camp, too. General Mandaric will assign a liaison officer to you to keep open lines of communication between yourself and me here in Zagreb. The UN approves of the mission; it’s just down to details now. We want this man killed. We want to send a clear message to Milosovic that he cannot slaughter our civilians without a response.”

  Lonjic stood and straightened his jacket. “Then I’ll bid you two goodbye.” He glared one last time at van der Klopp. “You’d best not be involved with what happened in the Cameron Highlands, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  Van der Klopp smiled thinly. “Don’t be foolish; in any event, you’d never find me.”

  “Don’t count on that, Meenheer. You’re not the only one here who has friends in high places. And don’t think of betraying me – the last lot who did ended up in body bags.”

  After he had left, van der Klopp looked at Kadlecs. “You sure he’s the right man for this job?”

  “Absolutely. He’s got an impressive track record. Oh, and he generally carries out his promises, so don’t irritate him, please.”

  Van der Klopp got his cloth out again, but this time to wipe a suddenly damp forehead.

  Lonjic meanwhile had crossed the road to the Excelsior, a Victorian-fronted building of seven floors that had been around for a long time and was showing signs of traffic pollution. The blackened surfaces in the stonework where the acanthus leaves and other ornate decorations adorned the façade was testimony of that. Lonjic paid little attention to this; he’d seen these on many previous occasions and since he was no architect nor an aficionado of architecture, this meant little to him. After all, being immortal and having lived through two thousand years of building styles and trends tended to make him blasé about that sort of thing.

  He was met in the foyer by a nondescript man in a grey suit. “Mr. Lonjic?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m Druzic. I’m your go-between. Anything you need, just ask me and I’ll arrange it. You’ll be keen to meet your team? Follow me.” The athletic man led him to the elevator and they took it to the fifth floor. A left turn, and then another, and they were walking down a long corridor. Outside room 507 a man was seated, reading the Zagreb paper Večernji list. He spotted their approach and stood, a pistol-sized bulge under his left armpit. He had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  Druzic waved him to relax. The guard nodded and resumed his reading after sitting back down, but he gave Lonjic a very careful look before relaxing. Lonjic gave him one long look before following Druzic into the suite, for that was what it was. Three rooms. In the main room were six men who had come to their feet, alert, at the opening of the door.

  Good reflexes. Lonjic approved. He cast his look around the six. He knew two by sight. Druzic waved at the men. “Mr. Lonjic, these are your team. Get acquainted. I’ll be outside.”

  After he left Lonjic nodded towards a dark haired dark complexioned man with big muscles. “Toloba.”

  Jerzy Toloba grunted. “Lonjic, is it now? Very well. Good to see you’re leading this team. I was told it was a good one, now I believe them.” Toloba was a Czech from the Tatra Mountains, ex-Czech secret service. He’d jumped ship when the iron curtain fell and went self-employed. Lonjic didn’t ask about his former life with the Czech Secret Service, the StB – it was probably best, given some of the things they’d done. How Toloba dealt wit
h it was his own affair – perhaps he didn’t care.

  Lonjic grunted and turned to the other man he knew. Rene de Klerk was a Belgian explosives expert, hailing from the northern part of the country, Antwerp or somewhere close. He didn’t ever say. He had formerly been in the petroleum business until some accident somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico when an oil platform had gone up. Fortunately no real serious environmental fallout had occurred but de Klerk had decided it prudent to make himself scarce. His expertise had come in use plenty of times since. Lonjic had never worked with the man but knew him by sight, having bumped into him on a couple of occasions in drinking holes in the merc hotspots around the world. Bangkok, Mombasa, Caracas. The usual places.

  They exchanged nods of recognition but left it at that for the moment. The other four he didn’t know personally, having only known of them by reputation, so he asked them to introduce themselves.

  A big burly bearded blond man from Sweden spoke first. He was Lars Linderroth, from Orebro. He was a radio expert, and a driver. He said he could drive any vehicle given a few minutes behind the wheel. Had worked on jobs in Chile, Nicaragua, Estonia and Afghanistan. Lonjic felt good about Linderroth; he supposed it was because of his memories of Glam and a few others from that part of the world he’d befriended in his time.

  There was a Nigerian who called himself Baja. Big, black and with that ready toothy smile of friendship Lonjic knew all too well. It could just as quickly turn. Baja was from Lagos and had made a name for himself contract killing amongst the disparate squabbling groups that seemed to spring up in the central area, until he tired of the whole mess and went international. He was a killer, pure and simple. His main choice of weapon was a rather wicked looking machete, almost like a Gurkha kukri. Baja said he could take a man’s head off with one blow. The Eternal Mercenary believed him.

  Silvino Mendez hailed from Argentina. He had been one of the doomed Argentinian force on the Falklands back in ’82 when the British had landed and retaken the islands in a short, sharp and ruthless campaign. Mendez had deserted, disgusted with the complete shambles the Argentinian army had been in, and turned to mercenary work. The only stipulation he had was that he would never work for a British cause; he had lost a brother at Goose Green to the Royal Marine Commandos.