

The Beaten Zone

By T.N.M. Mykytiuk
Licensing Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This book may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Forward Beaten Zone (noun) : the elliptical ground area struck by the fire of automatic weapons or by artillery projectiles http://www.merriam webster.com/dictionary/beatenzone.

The Beaten Zone is a work of fiction woven around some real events. As the military historians out there know, Operation Rosselsprung, the German attack on Drvar to capture Tito, actually occurred. I have based the social and political turmoil described in Drvar during the late 1990s, as the civil war ended, on my experiences in Bosnia. However, the characters in this story, other than historical figures like Tito, are all fictitious. As a writer, I have taken some liberties with geography and the location of "Tito's Cave" to tell this story as it should be told. The map of the Drvar region is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Map of the Drvar Region

Table of Contents

FORWARD

Map of the Drvar Region

CHAPTER ONE -Tito

CHAPTER TWO\- "Indiana Jones"

CHAPTER THREE-The Team Assembles

CHAPTER FOUR-"Another Fire!"

CHAPTER FIVE-Budapest

CHAPTER SIX-The Wolf Returns

CHAPTER SEVEN\- A Visit to the Deputy Mayor

CHAPTER EIGHT-Josep

CHAPTER NINE\- The Cave

CHAPTER TEN-Roll On 24

CHAPTER ELEVEN-Night Patrol

CHAPTER TWELVE-A Drink at the Café "Boom Boom"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN-Trapped!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN-The Mill

CHAPTER FIFTEEN-Rendezvous

CHAPTER SIXTEEN-Freedom

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN-An Ultimatum

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN-An Unexpected Visitor

CHAPTER NINETEEN-Chaos

CHAPTER TWENTY-The Chalice

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE\- Uneasy Partners

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO\- "The break"

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE-Success?

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR-Cross Roads

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chapter 1  
(May 1943)

The _Luftwaffe_ glider, buffeted by wind and prop wash, swayed like a long wooden kite tail as it cut through the sky. Lieutenant William Moltke stood, confident, in the narrow space behind the pilot, bracing himself against a bulkhead with his knees for balance. "Willie" was tall and lean, with sharp blue eyes set in refined Nordic features. A shock of blonde hair, covered by his paratroop helmet, completed the classic Aryan ideal.

"Equipment check!" he said, raising his voice above the groan of the Junkers 52 towing them toward their landing zone. A wave of movement surged through the ranks of camouflage-clad men lining the aircraft's interior as they tightened straps on combat harnesses, snapped ammunition pouches closed, and inspected assault rifles.

"Five minutes to zero hour!" He shouted to his platoon sergeant, Ernst Weber. The seasoned veteran of countless battles nodded back from his position in the rear of the glider. There was nothing more to say. The men were ready to go. The plan was set. Now, if they could just land, without anti-aircraft and small arms fire tearing them to pieces, they would be all right. Their fight was on the ground. It was their element. Ground meant a man could move or take cover, attack or defend, impose his will on the enemy. Until then, chance ruled. Their canvas and wooden albatross would plummet earthward, powerless, once cut loose from the workhorse keeping it aloft.

Moltke checked his own equipment. Two days earlier, he and his brother officers had been sitting in a briefing room at the Zagreb Aerodrome, listening with rapt attention as their battalion commander outlined his plan. The small Bosnian village of Drvar was the key to the fate of the partisan resistance in Yugoslavia. It housed the headquarters of Josep Brez Tito, the wily commander of the underground network of guerrillas and terrorists battling German efforts to seize the Balkans as a secure southern route to the sea. Troops of the 1st Airborne Regiment would swoop down in a pre-dawn attack and seize Drvar to capture or kill Tito, while armoured units attacked from Bos Grahovo in the south to cut off the partisan's escape routes. As part of Group "Panther", Moltke's objective was the cave burrowed deep in the rocky hills overlooking the village that Intelligence indicated was the site of Tito's command post and living quarters. During the final mission brief this morning, Willie's men received pictures of the Yugoslav General to aid in capturing him before he could escape in the confusion of battle.

The Junkers' throaty growl, changing pitch as it climbed, was replaced by the wind as the glider unhooked and drifted downward. Through the fish eye of a small port window, Moltke saw a green valley cut with a whiplash of road, and an orange parasol of tracer rounds rising up from the ground below.

They were ready. Word had come in the night; a dark figure, muffled knocks on the door, words with double meanings whispered in the darkness, and then the shadow was gone. The Germans, like all the conquering heroes before them, faced a legion of hostile eyes that watched the movement of troop vehicles with a guarded intensity, and sharp ears that listened for information to pass on to the partisan army; information that could be used against the iron fist gripping their land.

Inside the cave, two men worked in silence, checking pre-positioned explosive charges set in a narrow fissure along the roof, crimping primer cord, and connecting detonators.

"Hurry, Drago. I hear the planes. We don't have much time and we've already taken longer than we should have." The short stocky man checked a pocket watch with a cracked lens in the feeble, yellow light of lantern resting on a rock ledge. "It's almost morning. Those bastards will be jumping in pretty soon"

"Easy, Zadar, this sort of work takes time, skill. You should know. We don't want to do the German army any favors and finish ourselves off before they get a chance. Besides, I'm almost done. All we have to do now is hook up the electric firing point and we can bring down the whole mountain." Drago looked at his companion's face, a goblin in the lantern light, and laughed. "What's the matter, Zadar, do you want to live forever?" The tall, thin man's fingers moved with skill and confidence born of experience. They had done this many times before, preparing the cave housing Tito's headquarters for destruction if they had to withdraw back into the hills, and then defusing the detonators once the threat had passed. The cave ended in a subterranean passage underneath the mountains that formed Tito's escape route from the valley. The explosives would seal the tunnel behind him, cutting off any pursuit. "Maybe the general will blow the cave today, just for some fireworks to celebrate his birthday," said Drago.

"There'll be enough fireworks today from the Germans," Zadar replied. He took a last look at his watch, dropped it into the pocket of his trousers, and snuffed out the lantern.

A thin line of gray light seeped into the deep recess of the cavern as the pair of engineers moved forward. It was first light, and with it came the roar of aircraft, high above the village, mixed with chattering automatic weapons. The attack had begun. The headquarters within the cave sparked into life; staff officers crowded alongside wireless operators, scribbling notes on bits of paper, trying to patch the shreds of battle into a coherent picture from the radio traffic.

"Zadar," said Drago. "Go back to the main detonator. I'll meet you there. I'm going to go see what's going on outside. Don't blow the cave without me. Do you understand?"

Zadar threw his comrade a hasty glance, nodded, and scurried back into the darkness, re-lighting the lantern as he ran. The light bounced off the walls in an erratic strobe as he disappeared into the gloom. Drago hurried towards the entrance. The battle outside grew more frenzied, and shouts of men in combat joined the angry sputter of small arms fire.

Willie's mission had been a disaster. The guerrillas were waiting for them to fall into the trap and he and his men had obliged. Operational security was impossible in a country where anybody passing you in the street, or slouched over a vegetable stall in some filthy market, could be the enemy. Partisan guns had opened up as the gliders began their sharp arc towards the landing zones. Whistling burrs of lead had torn through the fuselage, spraying wood and metal splinters throughout the interior and ripping into the backs of troops lining the port side.

Moltke fell to the floor as the aircraft hit the ground and slid to a halt. The pilot was dead, killed by the stream of gunfire that had engulfed them on descent. Around him, men hurried through the fore and aft doors on both sides of the glider, fleeing the deadly target for the cover. Moltke jumped to his feet and flung himself through the nearest exit. He landed hard on the course meadow grass and tried to orient himself. The sun seeped over the ridge of hills to his front, revealing a small opening in the hillside. That was where they had to go! East! Soldiers spread out around him, crouching and kneeling, their MP 34s shuddering in their hands as they fired at flickers of muzzle flash ringing the valley. The staccato of machine pistols joined the heavier thud of the MG 42 machine gun.

They had to move forward, to the cave; otherwise, they would die here. Around him, amid the bitter reek of cordite, the rest of Group Panther swarmed towards their objectives, dull figures against a verdant landscape. "What madness, war," he thought. "One day, this slaughter will end, and on a warm summer evening, he will drink a cold beer on the veranda of a quiet Gasthaus, a beautiful woman by his side, safe from the random death that followed him on every mission...but not today. Today, he would greet the butcher once again, and shake that bastard reaper's cold hand."

Drago picked his way through the bramble and brush lining the pathway to the cave. Thorns tore at his skin, but he ignored them, concentrating on the thud of gunfire and sharp crack of grenades echoing along the valley. The gliders were scattered across the valley. Some pointed towards the cave; others had landed near the houses of the different allied missions fighting alongside the partisans, integrating their guerrilla battles into the overall war effort. It looked like the Yugoslavs were holding their own against the mottled figures spilling across the valley. Mortars burst among the scattering German troops, flattening small groups of men as they moved towards the cave. For a moment, he admired the courage and discipline of these tenacious men who fought hard for a battlefield they didn't want, in a land they despised; but only for a moment, and the feeling gave way to hatred surpassing all other emotions. "More troops, more foreigners, come to fill our graveyards and empty our cupboards," he thought. "May the devil take them all." He retraced his steps back to the cave. There was no way he would get through the valley alive. He'd hoped to reach the English special agent's house near the centre of the village and talk to the man about what lay hidden in the cave. They alone shared the secret.

The German paratroopers continued to gain ground despite fierce fire from the guerillas. Drago was certain they would destroy the cave today. Tito would not risk capture. The partisans' advantage of surprise had since been lost, reducing the fight to the basic tenets of warfare, man against man, courage against courage, and luck against luck. Drago raced up the path, slippery with morning dew. Tito would be on the front lines leading his troops. When the situation became too tenuous, he would remove himself to another safe haven in a different part of the country. The partisan army would follow. It would splinter away, reorganize, and continue the war. As long as the leader survived, the struggle survived.

As he reached the top, bullets shattered the rocks above him, showering him with rough shards of stone. He heard the thump of enemy mortar shells impacting nearby. The Germans were bringing down fire onto the cave, covering their approach with a blanket of high explosive and white phosphorus smoke. He jumped into a trench adjacent to the opening. Its occupants, a young girl named Rena and an old man he didn't recognize, were firing at the gray figures darting from cover to cover below. Rena greeted him as he tumbled in.

"Hey Drago, are you through playing with your dynamite, and ready to lend a hand out here?" she shouted. Rena was a slight girl of 17, reckless with youth, who joined the cause a year earlier. She was clad in the hodge-podge uniform of the resistance: Italian army tunic, German breeches, and boots, with an olive drab wedge cap, red star proudly displayed, perched on her head in a jaunty angle. Rena handled the radio traffic in the command post. It was unusual for her to be in combat.

"You are crazy to be enjoying this so much. Don't you know you can get killed playing this rough?" he said. "What's going on up here? Why aren't you inside at the radio?"

"Tito has come back here. We can hold the Germans for a while, but we received reports that some Panzer units are already moving up this way from Bos Grahovo in the south. If they link up with these paratroopers, we're done for. HQ is preparing to move. Every spare rifle is needed to defend the cave until the commander can escape."

If the General was withdrawing, Drago's place was at the firing point. He jumped from the trench as Rena and her companion fired streams of lead into the advancing enemy.

As Drago entered the tunnel he saw Tito, lean, calm, and confident, ever the leader, vanish into the depths of the cave accompanied by his protection party. He was about to follow when he was lifted off his feet and hurled to the ground, breathless. As he lay on his side gasping, the air around him filled with dust and acrid smoke. Zadar! The stupid bastard blew the demolitions without him. Tito would escape, but what of the Englishman's box, the box Drago had hidden deep in the cave, it contents more important even than Tito? The combat engineer rested his head on the cool earth. Pain burned down his thigh. He touched his upper leg, and his hand came away red. He lay on his back looking up at the deep blue sky auguring the warm spring day to come. The sky began to dissolve, evaporating into a pattern of blue dots like newsprint, the gaps between the dots growing larger and darker until all he saw was black.

Moltke's men pushed forward, scrambling for protection amid dips and folds in the wrinkled ground. If they made it to the tree line at the base of the hill, they could reach the cave under some cover. Weber had gotten the platoon mortar into action, and was laying down a veil of smoke to conceal their movement from the partisans' guns. Casualties were high. He had lost five men in the glider alone, and escaping the landing zone across an open field had cost another five. Some were dead. Others lay wounded, some trying to self-administer first aid, some hit too bad to care. The platoon couldn't do much for the casualties until the fire slackened. The faster they captured the cave, the sooner they could care for their comrades, living or dead. He looked around for his radioman and found him lying in a furrow of dirt, firing at flickers of muzzle flash above the tree line.

"Schulz!" He shouted to the soldier, who had stayed near his side since fleeing the deathtrap of the glider, "I need to send a report to company headquarters!" His voice strained above the stuttering machineguns.

"Yes, sir!" As the young man crawled towards him, Moltke heard a wet slap, like someone dropping a melon, and the soldier slumped forward, falling beside him. Moltke turned the prone body over.

"Dear Jesus!" He whispered. Half of his radioman's face was missing. The bullet had entered the back of his head, below the helmet, and had come out through his eye. Private Schulz had made his last transmission. Moltke pulled the radio off the dead soldier's back and slipped it over his shoulders. He looked at the hillside. The cave was a dark smudge against the black rock face. The smudge quivered and then closed like a toothless mouth as an explosion rumbled through the valley. His troops halted in their tracks, weapons poised, eyes wide with surprise. Surprise changed to shock as the partisans launched a sharp counter attack that turned Moltke's assault into a rout. Machineguns raked the platoon's flank, creating a lethal atmosphere of lead. Men flattened, trying to press ever deeper into the earth beneath their bellies. Grenades exploded amidst them, quick bright flashes shredding man and turf in a spurt of black smoke. Moltke's mouth was dry. Sweat leaked into his eyes and he pushed his helmet back on his forehead to get a wider view of the heights. There were partisans in the brush fringing the rock face; dark shapes crouched behind smoking rifles. He had to save his men. The guerrillas had destroyed the cave. There was nothing left to fight for today except, maybe, his life. He looked over to where Weber had set up the platoon mortars.

"Up there!" He shouted to Weber, pointing to the spot in the tree line where partisans darted within the brush. Weber nodded and gave new orders to the mortar crew. They shifted the tubes and began lobbing their bombs into the brush on Moltke's left. The mortars exploded in bright eruptions of hurtling dirt clumps. Bullets droned past him, furrowing the grass around him with a hollow, strumming sound, like a discordant guitar string. He was jarred sideways and his left arm blossomed with pain. Blood from a gunshot wound flooded his sleeve. He cradled his shattered limb in his lap, as the air shook with another mortar barrage from Weber's crews. Willie's eyes watered. Wood smoke! The brush was beginning to burn. Then Weber was bending over him, his voice faint above the kettledrum pounding in Willie's temples. "Sir, we've been ordered to fall back, to the cemetery at the centre of the village. We're dead if we stay!" Moltke nodded in acquiescence. Somebody, it seemed, was still in command. His hand throbbed but he cut through the pain and focused on the new orders. Weber began bandaging his wound with a field dressing.

"It's just a scratch, sir; you'll be raising a beer stein in no time." He handed Moltke his assault rifle. "Let's go! The brush fire will give us good cover to get the hell out of here!"

The graveyard lay at the height of the village. Its solid stone walls provided excellent protection. As part of _Rosselsprung_ , a Panzer unit from Bos Grahovo, south of Drvar, would arrive in the village within two hours of the airborne attack to link up with the paratroopers and close the trap. Now they would be coming to rescue the hunters from their intended prey. If the remnants of Task Force Panther could hold on until the reinforcements arrived, they just might escape with their lives.

Captain Strect, a company commander that Willie recognized, was rallying stragglers and organizing the position's defense, placing machine guns and troops. "Hey! Lieutenant, have your men cover north, between the large tree on the far hill and that barn on your right. Got that? Make sure you cover the alley behind the stables!"

Moltke passed his own orders on to Weber and crouched down below the wall. The position dominated all approaches to the cemetery, making it easy to defend. Small groups of survivors trickled in, mauled and bloodied, adding strength to the cemetery's ad hoc garrison. Willie began to shake, his body burning off the adrenalin that poured into his muscles during the earlier battle.

It was two hours since they had touched down in Drvar and now the attack was in tatters. Willie had lost half of his platoon in the morning's combat. He spoke with Strecht, trying to gauge what had happened in the valley. The other assault groups had levelled the English mission, he discovered, and burned the house harbouring the Russians. However, the partisans had driven them back, like Willie's platoon, to the refuge within the stone walls of the cemetery. Nobody had found Tito, dead or alive. The man, the spirit, had vanished. By Strecht's estimate, the Task Force had taken almost 60 percent casualties.

The survivors repelled a half dozen pitched attacks, before they heard the low grumble of tanks and half-tracks moving up from the south. Weary and dirty faces grinned with relief as Captain Strecht grabbed the radio and passed the coordinates of the cemetery to the commander of the Panzer Grenadier Company leading the formation.

Enemy fire slackened to random shots as the partisans began to slink away, melting into the countryside and their new rendezvous with Tito. Captain Strecht gathered the officers and briefed them on the next move. The troops from Bos Grahovo would cordon the village while the paratroopers searched house to house for cached weapons and guerrillas. The partisans traveled fast and light, so it was likely they would leave their wounded in the care of the villagers. There would be retribution.

Moltke's wound excluded him from the search. He gave orders to the ever-capable Weber and rested in the shade of an apple tree perched on a small hill surrounded by stone crosses and rock slabs. He watched a section of his men move out. They were good soldiers, all of them. Silently, he wished the patrol luck as they vanished among the first row of houses near the cemetery. Willie lit a cigarette and gazed towards the village. He had lost far too many good men today. Damn these mule-driving farmers who didn't know when they were beaten.

When the fighting started, Tibor's mother had sent him to hide in the stable. He had refused, arguing that he was a warrior like his father, and uncle. There would be plenty of time for a ten-year-old boy to fight in some other battle; she had countered. Until then, he was to do what she said. He climbed to the loft of the little shed, and watched the battle outside through a gap among the straw thatches. He waited for the explosions and shooting to end, and for his mother to come for him. Instead, his father had come to the stable, bringing his uncle Drago, blood streaming from his leg.

"Quick, Tibor, help me with your uncle!" The boy skipped down from the loft and propped himself under the wounded man's arm. Tibor was short for his age, but daily chores had given him a strength and resiliency beyond his years. "Slowly, boy, the man is hurt." Together they eased his uncle onto a pile of straw bundled on the floor. "Get some sheets," his father ordered, "from inside. Hurry!" The boy ran into the house. He snatched a sheet off his bed and returned to the stable. His father changed the dressing on his uncle's leg and tied a tourniquet. He injected a small sachet of clear liquid into the wounded man's arm. "Drago. Stay here until dark. Then we can move you out. Tibor will stay with you. If you need anything, he will help you. I'm going back to the line. Tibor, watch over him. He is a brave man." He turned and strode out of the small building. It was the last time Tibor saw his father.

The noise in the valley increased and the gunfire drew closer. Tibor resumed his vantage point as his uncle slept. He watched as German soldiers moved into the cemetery across the narrow track behind the stable, ducking below the stone wall and then popping up to fire at the men attacking them. He wondered if his father was part of the fight.

Tibor's uncle lay on the straw. He stirred, his face, contorted with pain, shiny with sweat. His breathing became more regular once the morphine Tibor's father had administered took effect. Tibor raced down the narrow ladder and knelt by the wounded man.

"Tibor," Drago whispered, "you have always been a good boy. Like my son, as well as your father's." The drug slurred his words. "There is something for you... in the cave. Take it if you can..., my godchild." He pulled a folded square of oilcloth from a vest pocket. It was a drawing of the valley with small dots and circles on it. The top margin of the page contained a series of measurements, or directions. "Here, boy... a treasure of kings. It's in the cave... the Englishman's box. Find him...Tell him."

Tibor looked at the scrap of cloth and laid it on the straw next to his uncle. "Uncle Drago, I will get you water. Rest. Father will come back soon." His uncle frightened him. What if he died? What would his father say? He had told the boy to look after him and Uncle Drago was a brave man, deserving Tibor's care. He heard soldiers moving along the hedgerow behind the stable and peered through a crack in the slat walls. He waited for the German paratroopers, distinctive in their speckled jump smocks to pass. Then he grabbed a metal cup from a shelf beside the door and darted outside. He had to hurry before the enemy returned.

From his vantage point, Moltke could see into the fields and farmyards below the cemetery. He noticed a boy emerge from a straw thatched barn and run to a well in the courtyard. The lad pulled on the rope hanging from the wooden frame with frantic hands, drawing a tin pail of water from the cool depth. Water sloshed over the bucket as he filled his cup, gleaming in the morning light. It was hot and Moltke's' mouth was dry. He had slept until the shifting sun stole the slice of shade provided by the apple tree. Now he sipped at his canteen, draining the last dregs, warm and tasteless. Willie rose, favoring his hand, and stepped over the stone wall. German tanks moved through the narrow streets, occasionally firing their main gun into a building before the infantry stormed in. Cradling his weapon in one arm, he crossed a narrow alley and entered the farmyard as the boy vanished into the barn with his liquid cargo. Moltke walked to the well and tried to draw the bucket with his good hand but the damp rope kept slipping. He needed the boy to help him. He looked around the little yard. It was deserted. With his machine pistol crooked in his arm, finger resting on the trigger-guard, he approached the house next to the barn. The area was quiet, but he had fought the partisans before. It was like trying to catch water in your hand. They were here and then gone, only to return and ambush the careless. He opened the door with the barrel of his weapon. The single room was empty. Bread crusts lay on the table, the remains of a hasty meal. The house looked occupied, but its inhabitants were absent. Partisans most likely, who had had fled with the rest, but what of the boy? The German officer stalked towards the stable. Blood stained the ground near the door. Grasping his weapon tighter, he moved inside.

The interior was cool, smelling of hay and manure. A man lay motionless on a pile of straw in the corner. His leg was swathed in a white sheet, stained to deep scarlet above the knee. Was he a wounded partisan? Willie's hands began to sweat. His parched mouth, thirst unquenched, grew dryer. A second glance at the man on the straw pile revealed eyes staring, lifeless, past the ceiling towards some far-off Valhalla. Moltke stooped over the corpse. The partisan had died of blood loss from a severe wound in his leg. A scrap of yellow oilcloth lay next to the dead man's hand with what appeared to be a rough pencil sketch of the village drawn across the centre. The upper left corner contained a series of notes. These appeared to be directions, or instructions, given the sequential nature. A large N in the top corner marked North and a series of arrows, looking like legs of a patrol route, pointed towards the location of the cave. It was a map. It looked like the layout of a minefield. Thinking it may have some tactical value he stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Now where was that damned boy? He needed some water.

There was a sudden rustling in the straw. For a moment, Moltke thought the corpse was coming back to life. The stalks parted revealing the small black dot of a sub-machine gun barrel. The boy's fingers trembled near the trigger guard and Moltke could smell the child's fear, a pungent mix of sweat and urine wafting towards him, above the pleasant odor of hay. His combat instincts screamed. The boy would not shoot him. He was too frightened, but if his grip slipped, he might put the whole magazine into Moltke by accident.

"Okay, little fellow, put the gun down. I won't hurt you. I only wanted some water. Is this your father?" He gestured at the body on its deathbed of straw. "I'm sorry for him, but war is like this." He spoke to the boy in soothing tones, as he used to talk to his sisters' children back in Germany. All the while, he kept the MP 34pointed towards the floor. The boy looked at him, two frightened eyes behind the dull, blunt barrel of the sub-machine gun. Tears slid down his cheeks in glistening tracks.

"Listen boy," Moltke continued, "go now while you can, before you end up like this one." He pointed at the figure lying in the straw. Did the boy understand? He doubted that the child spoke German. He tried some Serbo-Croatian he had learned, the words harsh and foreign, spitting them out of his mouth like broken glass. "Go, boy! Get out! Go home!" The small hands trembled and their grip weakened. The gun tumbled to the ground as Tibor pushed past the German officer through the door. Moltke watched him go. If only he, too, could run from the war. The cup lay on the ground next to the dead man. Willie drained it in a single swallow. He had to return to the rallying point in the cemetery. He had taken too many chances already and his unit, what was left of it, would soon be on the move. Tito had slipped through the noose once again, but the hunt would continue.

The village glowed like an ember beneath an indifferent moon, itself a faint smudge of light within the dark smear of smoke hanging the valley. The Germans and their Ustashe allies had completed the "liberation" of Drvar. They expressed their frustration in fighting the ghost that was the partisan army, fuelled by the heavy casualties suffered in the initial assault, by putting the village to torch. The Germans had taken their dead and left, after destroying the village. Tibor had heard the explosions that leveled the courthouse and the houses where the English and the Russian agents lived.

He stole through the ravine where he had hidden after running from the German officer, and returned to his father's farm. The house was still burning. Sparks loitered above the flames flickering within the blackened skeleton. The night was quiet save for the last pieces of timber snapping and popping among the burning ruin. It was cold and Tibor was hungry. He had only eaten a bit of bread and a sausage at lunchtime. He missed his mother and father. Had they escaped before the enemy burned the farm? What had happened to his uncle? He must have killed the German and escaped. There could be no doubt. His uncle was a partisan, a soldier, a hero.

Tears stung his eyes. What a baby he was. Little wonder he that had run from the German soldier. He should have stayed and shot him, as his uncle and father would have done, with his uncle's gun. He had left that to the enemy as well. He pounded a fist into his leg. No more tears. What would his uncle say if he came back and saw him crying?

He would go into the village and find someone who knew where his parents were. First, he needed to rest. Gripped by an almost paralyzing exhaustion, he lay on the grass and fell into a troubled sleep, as the very foundation of his young life smoldered around him.
Chapter 2  
(January 1997)

Sunlight seeped through the blind, stroking the musty green carpet with dusty fingers. Cole Samson hunched over the _Morning Gazette_ , sipping lukewarm coffee from a chipped ceramic mug, skimming through the international news. "Nigerian Rebels Kidnap White Earth Employees" read the headline. Samson had conducted the security threat analysis for White Earth Oil's operations in the fractured African state. The corporate executives, directing the company from the comfort and safety of oak-paneled offices, considered his concerns alarmist. His ass had been on the ground, checking out the situation first-hand. The rebels had better organization and arms than what CNN reported. Cole had recommended the company hire protection for their rig sites. Instead, they ignored him and terminated his contract. Maybe he shouldn't have left the army after all. No, not true, no matter how bad business was, it was still his and he answered to no man other than himself.

Tires crunched on the gravel outside. A car door slammed and the driver walked up the wooden steps leading to his office. It was a rapid click of high heels, not the usual Clydesdale thud of work boots. A woman? Coming here? That was unusual. The office fronted a marine salvage business that Cole operated in addition to his security consulting practice. His clients were invariably men. Women, it seemed, did not often suffer maritime catastrophes that required Cole's underwater skills.

The door opened with a faint scent of lilac and then she was standing in front of him. "Are you Cole Samson?" Her accent sounded British, with a subtle inflection that he could not place. "Mr. Cole Samson?" Cole nodded in reply.

"My name is Rena Moore. I work for Consolidated Insurance. He stood up, leaned his lithe, muscular form across the desk, and shook her hand. She sat down in the wooden chair opposite him without invitation. Consolidated Insurance; he had done some recovery work for them over the years.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Moore?"

"It's Rena, and you can help us both get rich." Cole studied his visitor. Her jet-black hair framed a face with high cheekbones and large cobalt eyes, reflecting a generous glint of humor, but also a trace of ice. Her lips were rich and full.

"Really? I've heard that before, and all it's got me was a few more scars and gray hair."

"I can't promise either, but if you are interested, I may have a proposition for you."

"Well," said Cole, "I rarely find myself propositioned by charming young ladies. Please proceed." She brushed a strand of hair back from her eyes with a slender white hand. No wedding ring, Samson noticed.

"Mr. Samson, my grandfather was part of the British Secret Service, a very clandestine organization, the Special Operations Executive."

"I've heard of it."

"Then you know the sort of things they got up to. He found himself in Yugoslavia during the Second World War, training Tito's partisan army. The usual spy sort of stuff, I imagine. He was a true romantic, my grandfather, a man looking for a cause to fight for and some adventure along the way." She paused. "He passed away a few months ago, naming me the executor of his will. While sifting through some documents locked away in a safety deposit box in a London bank, I found his journal. As you may know, some officers in the German high command had well-developed tastes for art. Many of the national treasures of countries they occupied ended up in private collections. That's where we come in to the picture. Besides an excellent read full of picaresque exploits, the journal provides the key to some Nazi treasure that didn't quite make it to the Nazis."

"We?" He looked at her with inquisitive green eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Samson, you and me, if you are interested."

"Please. Go on."

"Have you heard of the Chalice of St. Vladimir, The Redeemer? In the 14th century, Orthodox monks commissioned it to honour their patron, the Serbian Prince Vladimir Onuka. The prince was, by all accounts, a pious knight and champion of the church. He died of wounds sustained during the battle of Kosovo Polje in 1389 and was canonized a century after his death. The Chalice is a wonder of craftsmanship, created by the most celebrated goldsmith of the era, a veritable medieval Fabergé. It's said to have supernatural healing powers, and pilgrims who visited the saint's burial site at the monastery at Czerna Gora spoke of a holy luminescence, believed to be the spiritual residue of the warrior prince, emanating from the cup. Legend has it that if the Chalice was taken from the monastery, the "Redeemer" would return to avenge this sacrilege.

"The monks kept the Chalice in the chapel housing the prince's tomb. It remained undisturbed until the Second World War when the Germans burned the monastery to punish the holy brothers for aiding the partisans. The Chalice vanished from the annals of history in the ashes of the monastery. According to accounts by the holy brothers who survived the attack, it was taken by the Germans, along with anything else of value before the monastery was destroyed. Its whereabouts remain a mystery."

"Thanks for the history lesson. Where do I fit in to this?"

"I believe that I, with the help, of my dear grand-papa, may have solved the puzzle. I don't think it was ever spirited away by a collector. In fact, I don't think it ever left Yugoslavia. I know where it is and I need somebody to help me get it, somebody like you, Mr. Samson."

"And what will you do with it, assuming that you can get your hands on it?"

"I'm in the insurance business, Mr. Samson. Some of the people I deal with have varied interests. Some are collectors, who can appreciate the things they acquire; others are just too rich and buy things for the sake of having them."

"I see. So you find this national treasure belonging to a bunch of monks, monks who have been trying to find it for years, and then you sell it to the highest bidder?"

"That may be one option, but not mine. The monks have their eyes on Heaven, but they also know the value of insurance here on earth. The Chalice and some other church property were insured with Leeds of London in the 1930's. There is still a substantial amount offered for its return. Is that more to your liking? Think of it as a reward for a good deed."

"Rena. I think you have the wrong guy. I run a security business with some underwater salvage on the side. Somebody breaks into your business, you hire me to set up some cameras and a security system. If I'm really ambitious, I might get you a dog or two. Your boat sinks in the marina, you call me. You want to chase down Nazi plunder, you call Indiana Jones."

"I don't need Indiana Jones, I need Cole Samson!"

"Yeah, why?"

"I know how you do business, Mr. Samson. You have a penchant for this type of work, off the beaten path, shall we say. Your name has come up in the settlement of a number of maritime salvage claims. You often take the riskier assignments that others won't touch, and you haven't disappointed Consolidated yet." She took a three ring binder from her tote bag and placed it on his desk. "Here are some photocopied excerpts of my grandfather's journal from when he was with the partisans. That's where he met my grandmother, the other Rena Moore. I'm named after her. Read it for yourself. If you're still interested, give me a call. Here's my card."

"Don't wait up nights expecting the phone to ring."

"Oh, you'll call, Mr. Samson. As I said, you haven't disappointed Consolidated Insurance yet."

He left the binder unopened, almost unacknowledged, until after she left. He could still smell lilac. She was quite a woman, no doubt; lots of spirit but crazy as a shithouse rat. Chasing after national art treasures in Eastern Europe was not a rational act. If you weren't careful, you could end up in some dank jail cell until the next ice age. Mind you, he and his crew had taken worse risks. Bush wars in Africa don't attract the most genteel of folk, especially when they're trying to take down a rig, or sabotage a diamond mine. It was all a crapshoot, and sometimes the dice were loaded, often with a clip of AK 47 ammo. He poured another coffee and opened the binder. An article from The _Art Historian_ , dated October 1977 was paper-clipped to the inside cover.

"Missing for decades, the loss of the Chalice of Saint Vladimir remains one of the art world's many mysteries. Known equally well as the Redeemer, this wonder of medieval art vanished in the rapacity of World War II. The Chalice weathered three centuries of Balkan intrigue and warfare in the cloistered care of Orthodox monks from the monastery at Czerna Gora in the Yugoslav province of Bosnia-Herzegovina. The monastery was burned as a punitive measure by occupying German troops in the spring of 1943. It is believed that the Chalice was spared the fate of the monastery and survived the flames. Various sources suggest that it was looted from Yugoslavia by a senior Nazi as the spoils of war. Its worth lies in its rarity as one of the few remaining legacies of Hretz, the 15th century goldsmith inspired by the traditions of the Scythians. His mastery is evident in the elaborate relief and clever use of ivory miniatures depicting the life of St. Vladimir. Its value is estimated at two million pounds. The Metropolitan of the Orthodox Church in Belgrade has made several pleas to the art community for its return. He is still waiting. Fortunately, photographs of the Chalice exist allowing us a glimpse of this wondrous treasure denied to aficionados for the last 30 years..."

There was a series of black and white photographs attached with the article. A bearded monk in a dark cassock held an ornate wooden box lined with what appeared to be velvet. The Chalice lay cradled within. The graininess of the photo hid the more ornate details but gems and pearls, worked into the gilded surface, were visible. He looked at the photocopied pages of script opposite the article. The first page contained the heading _"Operational Journal of Captain Simon Moore, DSC, MM."_

"Let's see what old granddad has to say," Cole mused.

14 April 1943, Drvar, Bosnia-Herzegovina.

I went out with a patrol last night. These farmers and woodsmen turned soldiers are all good men. Each one did his part without exception. The Jerries were up to something nasty in the mountains. They burned down the monastery at Czerna Gora because the brothers supported the partisans. Nobody can remain above what is happening here.

The engineer Drago led the patrol. I have worked with him on other occasions. He is one of the most professional of the lot, clever, and eager to learn. I trust him implicitly. He is the closest friend I have here, except for Rena. The others respect me, but the circle remains closed. If you are not one of them, you never will be...

...It was a good night for operations. A late moonrise offered good cover for movement as the small band of men snaked across the rocky landscape. Partisan intelligence networks discovered a German supply route between the Garrison in the village of Bos Grahovo and a forward outpost in Czerna Gora, the Blue Mountain. The patrol's mission was to ambush a nightly replenishment convoy travelling between the two locations. It was to be a hit and run. Each time the partisans struck from nowhere, the enemy sent more and more men into the hills to find them, men intended for combat operations elsewhere.

The patrol arrived at its objective; a natural bottleneck along the supply route formed by the hills of a neighboring valley, and took up positions in a gully running perpendicular to the road. Their vantage point provided good fields of fire onto the kill zone and ready access to a dry streambed for escape.

Drago dispatched scouts in two groups of two, one to initiate early warning and a second for cut off. The remainder of the men waited under cover to form a firing line, while gunfire and explosions echoed across the hills, and a sinister orange glow spread across the horizon in the direction of Czerna Gora. Moments later, a fiery corona silhouetted the round dome of the monastery overlooking the village, visible from the top of the gulley where the patrol waited.

"The monks!" One of the men said. "They are attacking the holy brothers!" Some of the partisans wanted to investigate; however, Drago kept order, reminding them that their mission was the ambush, and, as soldiers, they would follow their orders. Reluctantly, they obeyed, vowing to avenge the churchmen who had helped the partisan cause with information and the occasional safe haven, watching in fury as the distant flames sank into darkness.

At 0210 hours, they heard a vehicle, its engine surging as it climbed the hills. The lead scouts gave a single flash from a red-lensed torch. There was the white flare of muzzle flash as the men opened fire, and then silence. They waited for the scout to signal the arrival of the rest of the convoy, but nothing came. A minute later two red flashes — "all clear"— blinked in the darkness. Drago and Simon crept forward to search the vehicle. It was a lone staff car and both men grew excited at the thought of capturing orders or messages sent between headquarters. The automobile had accelerated into a spin and landed upright in the ditch. The driver was slumped over the wheel, killed by the storm of bullets that perforated the engine cowling and windscreen. They pried the door open. There was an overwhelming smell of alcohol, above the gut smell of fresh death. The dead man clutched a bottle of vodka in a bloody fist. A haversack lay on the seat next to him. Simon grabbed it to examine later and continued to search the car. Neither he nor Drago found anything else. Simon was anxious explore the contents of the bag, hoping it would shed some light on the mystery of a drunken German soldier driving around alone in the night. He signaled Drago to withdraw.

They returned to the safety of the gully. There was no sign of any other vehicles, only a dull red blot in the direction of the monastery at Czerna Gora. They patrol had to move out now, or risk getting back after daylight, and their gunfire would have alerted any troops in the surrounding area. He put his hand on Drago's shoulder and whispered, "We should call the men in. The show's over for tonight. Let's get to a spot where we can see what this drunken Jerry gambled his life on." Drago nodded and vanished into the darkness. Simon crouched down, resting his rifle in the crook of his arm. The adrenalin high had passed and what lay ahead was the long slog back to Drvar.

Drago returned. "We are ready to move," he said. Simon stood and let the others pass, adopting the rear guard position in the patrol. The patrol stole away as silent as it arrived, leaving the car and its ill-fated driver for discovery by his comrades. This gruesome find would stoke the partisan mystique – killers who were everywhere and yet nowhere.

They stopped after an hour's march, the men forming a protective outward facing circle with Drago and Simon in the center. Simon opened the straps and reached inside the bag. He grasped what felt like large goblet or scepter wrapped in cloth, and drew it out. He laid the bundle on the ground and unfolded the layers of material. The two men peered at the object resting in the red circle of light from Simon's flashlight. It appeared to be a cup formed of pure gold. Rows of ivory, interspersed with diamonds, emeralds and rubies embossed its tooled sides.

Drago gasped. "My God, it's beautiful. What is it?"

Simon had studied art history at Oxford, and was familiar with many of the major religious pieces produced in the Middle Ages. "I'll be damned," he said, "it's the Chalice of St. Vladimir. It was entrusted to the religious order at Czerna Gora." The memory of the orange glow on the horizon returned. Simon snapped off the light and refolded the cloth. The Chalice held a magnificence that could turn men against each other. He looked around at the patrol. He trusted Drago, but he was unsure of the others. Did he really want to tempt this group of hard, violent men with the Chalice? They were dedicated to the cause, and fought well, but he could not deny his own flutter of excitement when he first saw the treasure in the haversack.

If the Chalice became common knowledge among the resistance, any one of the factions might try to seize it. It was an attractive prize to any cash-strapped commander, competing for allied resources and support. The partisans were a fractured group held together by Tito's charisma and leadership. As Simon and his colleagues discovered, the Yugoslav guerillas abounded with politics of Byzantine proportions: Royalist Chetniks at war with both the Germans and Tito's communists, and the communists waiting to pounce on the Chetniks once the last shot was fired at the Germans and their Croatian allies in the Pro-Nazi Ustashe. The Chalice would be another source of dissonance, at a time when the future of the Balkans teetered on a razor's edge. "Drago" he whispered, "we must tell nobody of this, not yet. Do you understand?"

Drago's amazement registered in his voice. "Why not, Simon? We have gained this wonderful thing. We will return it to the monks."

"Do you think anyone survived the attack on the monastery? You saw the flames. If anything, the Nazis are thorough."

"Then what do we do with it, turn it into HQ?"

"We must guard this with care, my friend. I am sure the Chetniks would want to lay their hands on this if they knew about it. We will end up fighting each other instead of the enemy. I can get it back to the UK. It will be safe in London, in a bank or museum, until it can be returned to the Church."

Drago hesitated. He too, understood the rifts in the resistance. "Yes, Simon. It will be our secret... for now." The men were getting restless. They had stayed too long for a mere navigational check.

"Agreed, Drago," said Simon. "Let's move." Drago tapped a prone figure on the shoulder, and then moved off. The others followed in single file, with Simon resuming his position in the rear.

They walked in silence, passing through sparse thickets hedging in dark fields. Swaths of earth, left fallow in the fall, were now gone to weed, the families who tilled them displaced by war. Simon pondered the night's events, his imagination filling in the missing pieces. The Chalice is looted from the monastery. A high-ranking officer puts it in his vehicle, perhaps as a gift for a member of Hitler's elite, or for himself. His driver, bolstered by liquor, steals what his alcohol-soaked brain recognizes as great wealth and treasure, makes off with the staff car and meets death in a bloody ambush. Simon accepted that he would never know the full details, but that didn't matter. What mattered was safeguarding the Chalice until he could get it back to England. He pushed the issue out of his mind and focused on the patrol. They were still a few miles from friendly lines and he could not risk daydreaming. He didn't want the night cut short by a German bullet through his head.

They neared Drvar, descending along terraced switchbacks leading to the valley floor and clumps of small white houses with red tiled roofs. The village lay shrouded in darkness; however, the homes showed signs of life, unlike the charred relics they had seen in areas under German control. Washing hung on lines, drying in the warm night air, and dogs growled and barked as they detected the patrol's approach. Eventually Drago stopped and motioned the others to halt. Each man dropped onto a knee, weapons ready. Drago moved forward and flicked his red light twice in rapid succession. A red light flashed three times in response. They were within friendly lines again, with any immediate danger behind them. Simon resisted the urge to relax. You could never relax. When you turned off you made fatal mistakes. He could relax after the war. The patrol dispersed in small groups once Drago dismissed the men. Simon and Drago made for HQ in the "Citadella", as the partisans referred to the cave, to debrief the officer on duty. Simon would then return to the stone house he shared with the rest of the British team, and file the same report with Major Whitley, the officer commanding the British liaison mission to the partisans. They walked in silence, a silence that Simon soon broke.

"Remember, Drago, nobody must know of our find. Not yet. I will have to send some messages to friends in the UK before it can be sent to safety."

"Not to worry, Simon. I told the men that all we found were some old requisition orders, and nothing of importance. They believed me. I'm an engineer, an officer, I wouldn't lie." There was bitterness in his voice Simon had seldom heard.

"We have all become somebody we never intended to be. We kill, we lie, and hopefully someday it will mean something."

"You are right, Simon. I'm very tired of this war. I would be happy to be working for a mining company once again. I thank you for what you are doing. It's important, getting the Chalice to safety. It is part of me, part of my country, my history. Sometimes we must rise above our desperation. Give it to me, Simon. I know where I can hide it. There are places in the cave that few know of." Simon stopped and looked at Drago. He hesitated. "It's your turn to trust me, Simon." Drago looked at him and smiled. "Do you trust me?" Simon looked into the eyes of his friend, a man with whom he had shared countless dangers. He smiled back.

"Of course I do, Drago." He handed him the haversack and they resumed their walk towards the cave in silence. The moon broke free from the clouds and took full reign of the sky. That same moon, Simon reflected, was shining down on his parents and sister sleeping under the threat of German bombers back in England. England... It seemed like his life before the war had been another life, somebody else's. His life had always been this war, and would always be this war. It would be these mountains and verdant valleys, these rough peasants he fought beside and their fierce, beautiful women. Women like Rena.

She had been amongst the first group he had trained upon his arrival. He had instructed her and about a dozen other women on the wireless radio set. She had laughed at his accent when he spoke Serbo-Croatian. Her sharp blue eyes and raven hair captivated him. She radiated confidence, and an earthy wildness in sharp contrasted to the demure, genteel young ladies he had known in his university days.

Rena had been the bold one, the one who made the first advance. He had been reluctant at first and she had laughed at his manners. "Hey English," she had said. "Look around you, there is a war here. We could be dead tomorrow and where would that leave us? Save the gentleman's ways for your English roses. Here in the trenches, we marry as we see fit. Besides, it's too cold at night to sleep alone." He had blushed and she had laughed out loud....

They passed through blackout curtains hanging at the GHQ entrance. Simon looked for Rena, but another girl was manning the radio. The duty officer was crouched over a battle map, squinting through the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke in the operations center.

"I'm reporting my patrol back in, all okay," said Drago.

The thin, pock-marked Captain drew on his cigarette, smoke curling around his head like horns.

"And how did you make out?" he asked.

"One dead German and that's it." Drago recounted the events of the night as the officer scrawled notes on a small pad of paper.

"And there was nothing in the car? No papers, maps, documents?"

"Old requisition forms, nothing of use," said Simon. The officer ignored his comment and kept his attention on Drago. Simon held his temper. He had made inroads into the partisans by going on operations with men like Drago, sharing their risks. Yet there were always bastards like this who considered him an interloper, an outsider. They felt they could do the job without the allies and resented their involvement.

"Maybe a deserter, who ran into some bad luck," Drago offered.

The Captain laughed and returned to his map. Drago and Simon turned to leave. "What's in the bag?" said the officer, still peering down at the map.

"Ammunition," replied Simon. "Need some? No, I suppose not, you never pry your ass out of that chair, do you?" The captain glared at him but said nothing. Drago shrugged.

"Simon," Drago said, "we are both tired. Get some sleep. I have more work to do, engineering work." He walked past the Duty Officer toward the dark recesses of the cave, haversack slung over one shoulder, rifle hanging on the other. Simon left for the British mission house with weary resignation. The Major, an exacting man with a relentless thirst for detail, would grill him extensively before he could tumble into bed.

They met at the Citadella the following afternoon. Drago wanted to show Simon where he had hidden the haversack. "It's best that you know as well. I may not come back from my next patrol." The pair retraced their steps of the night before, passing through the operations center without any interference from the Duty Officer. A young, cheerful Lieutenant, who merely looked up from the map board and nodded in greeting, had replaced the sallow spectre from the night before. Drago, along with a small cadre of "assistant" engineers, men without any formal training but experienced miners, was responsible for maintaining the demolitions wired into the walls of the Citadella. The cave was an extended tunnel leading through the base of the mountain into a valley on the far side. It was the general's egress route if the enemy forced him to evacuate from Drvar. Explosives would seal the passage once Tito escaped to prevent pursuit. Charges, connected by electric detonators and primer cord, dotted a fissure running along the roof. Because of the damp, the charges and connections were inspected every second day by Drago and his crew. He enjoyed free access throughout the restricted area.

Drago flicked on his flashlight as they moved deeper into the bowels of the cave. They passed cavities hollowed out from the sides of the tunnel, full of cases of ammunition and explosives. The partisans had been consolidating supplies over the past week, most from ambushed German convoys, but some dropped by Allied airlift. They were expecting a major German offensive based on information gathered by the cooks and stewards working in the enemies' kitchens and messes. These people were so invisible to their "superiors," that German soldiers and officers often talked too freely in their presence. The partisan intelligence network actively exploited this indiscretion.

The gloom thickened as the noise and activity of the headquarters receded behind them. Drago flashed his light alongside the walls of the cave as he tugged on random lengths of wire to test the strength of a connection. The small pool of light from Drago's flashlight revealed lengths of yellow detonation cord laced along the roof of the cave interspersed with bundles of TNT bored into the rock. "You see, Simon," Drago gestured with the light, "this is what I'm all about. I'm an engineer by choice, a soldier by necessity. For years, I worked in mines, blasting holes into the earth, leaving the madness of the world further and further behind. Now, no matter how deep I go, I can't escape it."

"Men like us, Drago, weren't meant to escape it. We must grab the madness with both hands and rid the world of it. This war will end someday with our victory, God willing, and I shall return to my country lanes and you, old devil, can go back to your mineshafts. Mind you, I think we may find peace just a bit too boring."

"Perhaps, Simon. We shall see." The tunnel narrowed and they stooped to avoid low hanging rock. "Not much farther." Drago stopped. He shone the light along the floor of the cave, illuminating three rocks stacked to form a small triangle. His hand groped along the surface of one of the tunnel walls. "Here,"Drago said. The cavity's mouth was above head height, and its angle rendered it invisible. Simon moved closer as Drago directed the light into the recess revealing a circular tunnel, sloping upward at a 45-degree angle towards a wider vault.

A wooden ammunition crate lay an arm's reach away down the length of the artery. "It was made by water, thousands of years ago," said Drago. "That's why the sides are so smooth." He spoke with pride, as though he himself had polished the rock walls. "There is another access from the surface, a narrow cleft I call the air vent. The Chalice is sealed away in that wooden box, the Englishman's Box."

"Do any of the others know of this spot?"

"No, Simon, only me. I'm the senior engineer, in charge of the demolitions. The others go where I tell them and do as I tell them. I found this by accident. If you don't know to look for it, it's invisible. Besides, it will only be here until you can arrange for its safe passage out of the country. What is your plan?"

"I'll send it out with the next Dakota that comes in. It will travel in a diplomatic pouch addressed to my sister who works in the War Office. She can be trusted, Drago. I'll give her instructions to store it in a safety deposit box in a bank outside of London; it's too risky in the city, with all the German bombing and such. The Chalice will be as safe as if it were in the Tower itself."

The Dakotas were the partisans' lifeline. Flown by the RAF and Commonwealth volunteers, the large lumbering aircraft landed on improvised landing strips in hay fields or snow packed plateaus. They evacuated the severely wounded for convalescence in Allied hospitals in the UK, and dropped off medical supplies, or Allied agents. With only a corridor of small brush fires to light the haphazard "runway", crews faced as much peril in landings as flying over enemy territory. The next flight in, to extract a handful of casualties, was expected in the next 72 hours.

Drago nodded his approval and reached into his jacket. "I have something for you." He handed Simon a rudimentary map of the cave drawn on a piece of oilcloth. The legend in the top corner listed directions to where they now stood. "If something happens to me, my friend, you must come for it alone." Simon folded the small square of cloth and tucked it in his shirt pocket. "There are only two copies," said Drago. "One you now have, and one I kept. There is also another way in, the "air vent." But it's very narrow and hard to access. It's best to follow the map."

"You are nothing if not careful, Drago. Let's go back. It's dark as a tomb down here and twice as dreary." Simon followed as Drago led the way back from the gloomy bowels of the cavern to the chatter and activity of the command post...

I was unable to report my discovery to Major Whitley upon my arrival. He was unexpectedly called to Belgrade to liaise with the Chetniks' leader, General Mihalovic. Churchill is losing faith in Mihalovic and now views Tito's communists as the only credible military arm worthy of Allied support. The Chetniks must enter the fight with more vigor or be replaced. SOE HQ sent Whitley to deliver the message. To my surprise, the Major had placed me in command of the British team, in absentia. Under these circumstances, I deemed it best to restrict knowledge of the Chalice to a need-to-know basis only. I'm confident that the major will support my plan to get it to England.

06 June 1944 Bari, Italy

We finally made it to Italy. Where do I begin? We had warning of the impending attack on Drvar through the partisan intelligence network but none of us expected the size and fury of the enemy assault. His capture would have destroyed the partisans. He is more than their leader; he has become their legend. It is the idea of Tito, more than the man, which binds them together. The first wave hit in the early morning of 25 May, Tito's birthday. His staff had planned a celebratory supper for that evening and he returned to Drvar from Bastasi the night before for the event...

A single Luftwaffe observation plane droned through the morning stillness. It circled Drvar and then banked away, heading south. A faint hum, growing louder, replaced the lone engine as the opening bombardment from a flight of Stukas passed over the village. Then came the paratroopers, almost a complete battalion, targeting the houses of the allied agents, and closing the routes out of Drvar, followed by a regiment of gliders dropped in for the main thrust against the Citadella.

Allied intelligence had warned Simon that the agents operating in Drvar were priority targets for the assault. In turn, he had relocated the British mission to the forest on the edge of Drvar, abandoning the building they had occupied since their initial arrival. The Germans would find an empty dwelling when they attacked. From the fringe of a copse of pine, a frustrated Simon watched the combat in the valley. The enemy's landing zone, teeming with camouflaged uniforms, separated Simon from the partisan positions near Tito's headquarters, and kept him out of the fight. All he could do was follow the battle on the partisan radio network and try to piece together the situation. German Glider troops were almost at the base of the cave. Then came the earthy rumble as part of the hillside collapsed, indicating that Tito had escaped, putting a mountain between him and his pursuers.

The radio crackled with chatter. The Luftwaffe bombing runs had alerted neighboring partisan brigades and they made for Drvar as quick as they could muster. As these reinforcements joined the battle, they overwhelmed the lightly armed German airborne troops, driving them back towards the walled cemetery at the centre of the village. Simon listened to the battle with nervous frustration, anxious about Rena. She would have been on duty in the cave at the time of the attack. He waited for a pause in the combat to make his way across the valley to the Citadella and join her. However, by mid-afternoon, he heard reports of armoured units coming from the enemy garrison at Banja Luka to relieve the beleaguered paratroopers. At this point, the exhausted partisans realized the battle was lost, despite their initial success. Trapped in Drvar, they would be no match for tanks and half-tracks. His stomach tightened when the skeleton command cell issued the code word for withdrawal. The guerrilla army was quitting the field to join Tito in the small logging village of Potoci, deep in the forests of Bosnia. Simon needed to find Rena before him and his team scattered into the woods. He would take her with them. He gave the word to start packing up, taking the mission essential radios, codes, and what few personal belongings his fellow agents had brought with them. His men, used to the gypsy life of the partisans, worked quickly and without complaint. They were young, and war was still an adventure. He took the most senior man, Davidson, aside. "I am going down to the cave. I need to link up with the command cell and determine the extent of the damage the partisans have suffered."

"Aye, skipper." Davison smiled. "I hope she's safe." Both men knew it would be weeks before they realized the full effect of the day's combat. And for the partisans, it did not matter. They would continue the struggle with whatever they had left.

"Thanks. If I'm not back within two hours, take the team to Potoci. I'll meet you there."

"Good luck," said Davidson as Simon melted into the tree line.

He found Rena in a makeshift first aid post near the cave, suffering a gunshot to her arm. Simon looked at her still form on a dingy gray blanket; her wound swaddled in blood soaked rags, and fought back stinging tears. She opened her eyes, and smiled at the crosscurrent of emotions on his face. "I'm OK, English. Don't worry about me." Her words were bold, but her pale features told another story. She would need rest, and penicillin to fight off the infection creeping into her system like an enemy scout. He would see to that once they arrived in Potoci. It would be a struggle for her to get there, but she was young and strong. The odds were in her favour.

He kissed her forehead. "That's the girl, you really gave them hell."

"That's all they deserved: Hell," she muttered weakly, and drifted away. The morphine was doing its work. Simon left her to rest and searched for Drago. He worried for his friend, but also wondered about the impact the detonations may have had on the crypt housing the Chalice. There was no sign of the engineer. His whereabouts, even among the other engineers, was unknown. This did not surprise Simon. In the chaos of combat, it was difficult to account for everybody. Drago was a survivor and Simon was confident they would meet at the rallying point in Potoci. He wondered about the Chalice. Would Drago bring it, or was it lost under tonnes of rock?

Despite her pain, Rena was able to walk and she and Simon joined the others melting into countryside. They dispersed through the mountains, moving in small groups to avoid detection. Their party consisted of Simon, Rena, and two others, both elderly men who had been part of the HQ staff. They rested during the day, moving only at night to hide from the prying eyes of enemy aircraft. The warm spring weather brought rain, and in the damp, Rena soon caught a fever. Their progress became a crawl, as her body rattled with bone shaking coughs. Simon urged their two companions to go on ahead, without them. The pair refused to leave.

"Brothers do not leave brothers, and little Rena fought well beside us. In the end, all we have is each other." Simon nodded. If Rena were to survive, she would need medical attention soon. Fortunately, the next day's march brought them to Potoci.

They found GHQ's new location in a former veterinary hospital. The staff was in a sombre mood. The attack on Drvar had been a major setback. The Germans had driven the partisan army from its securest enclave, and worse, it was clear how vulnerable Tito had been. He had been lucky that morning but it could not last. The Germans were closing the noose and Tito had to leave the Balkans. SOE had arranged to fly him to Italy, a few days after Simon and Rena arrived in Potoci.

Simon's fellow agents were ensconced in the mayor's house. They had set up a radio network and had passed word of the events in Drvar back to Control in Rome. Major Whitley had been KIA on his way back to Drvar, but Simon would not stay in command of the team of agents. He had new orders to return to Rome with Tito. He cursed the idea of leaving for Italy while the real fight was here, in the forests of Yugoslavia.

The only bright spot was that Rena was coming with him. The bone in her arm, fractured by the bullet, had healed crooked. It needed to be broken and reset. She required better treatment than the partisans' rudimentary medical facilities could provide. Together the pair waited in Potoci for the Dakota flight that would take them across the sea, hoping for news about Drago, news that never arrived.

They sat in a cafe overlooking the Adriatic, bright sunlight infusing the cobalt water, white stucco walls, and red tiled roofs of the village below, with richer, deeper hues. Simon squinted in the glare. He lit a cigarette, offering one to Rena. Her left arm remained tucked into an olive green sling but she had lost the pale, drained look of the ill. Simon had avoided discussing Drago and the events in Drvar until he was sure Rena was ready to relive those deadly hours. Looking at her across the small round table, sipping thick bittersweet espresso, he saw the confident, vibrant woman he had fallen in love with, not the sick convalescent he had tended for several weeks.

"So, after you were wounded you never saw Drago again?"

"No Simon, I did not. I heard him fire the demolitions," she continued, "and I was wounded soon after. It was very confusing, as you can understand. The Germans kept coming, and coming. They were close enough to see their faces, faces fixed with hate, faces without pity." She paused. "I spoke to him for a second, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the chaos of battle. As hard as it is, you must give up your friend...our friend. He is dead, Simon, I'm sure of it."

Simon knew she was right. If Drago had survived the battle, he would have rejoined the partisans by now, and they would have received some word of him.

"And you're sure the demolitions were fired?"

She looked at him, a flicker of anger in her eyes. "The explosion knocked me down, I was covered in dust."

"And the cave was sealed?"

"Yes, Simon. Tito passed through out lines. We knew it was time to withdraw, and the engineers did their duty."

Simon thought of the secret buried by Drago's explosives, the secret that he alone survived to keep.

...In the interests of maintaining cohesion amongst the partisans, I chose not to reveal the existence of the Chalice. There may be an opportunity to return to Drvar to determine if the Chalice is still accessible. Drago spoke of an air vent, connecting the surface to the cavity where he stored the treasure. This may still be intact. Until then it is best to leave it outside the reach of temptation.

Chapter 3

The phone rang, jarring him awake. Samson lay in bed, letting it ring until his answering machine kicked in. Persistent bastards, whoever they were.

"Cole Samson, it's a glorious morning. Call me. You know the number. It's Rena. Bye!" That damned woman! She didn't give up. He'd spent the previous evening reading through the documents she had left him. Her grandfather's story sounded legit but it was almost 50 years old. Was the Chalice in the hands of a private collector, melted into gold bars by some Fence, or buried under tons of stone in the 20th century's latest hellhole? Rena obviously believed it was still in Drvar. Maybe she had information that she hadn't shared with him during their meeting. Hell, if it didn't mean anything out of his pocket, maybe it was worth talking to Rena again, to see what she knew. He could feel the familiar thrill of the chase stirring in him, the hunger for adventure. He reached for the phone and dialed the number on her business card.

They met at the Blue Heron Grill, one of Samson's favorite haunts. The Grill reminded Cole of the type of place he imagined Hemingway or Henry Miller would have frequented. It had small booths for discreet conversation, and smelled of coffee and grease. The carpet had seen millions of feet over the years, but remained good enough for old China Joe, the owner who still used an abacus to tally the bills.

Rena was sitting at a table near a large window overlooking the sidewalk. She smiled when she saw him and stood up. For an awkward moment, Cole considered kissing her cheek; she was European, after all. She offered him her hand instead.

"If you say 'I told you so', I'm turning around and walking out of here right now."

"Cole! Great to see you too." She smiled. "This is quite the place."

"It takes time but the Heron grows on you." They ordered breakfast. He had the trucker special: three eggs, steak, potato logs and toast, washing the cholesterol nightmare down with a vanilla milkshake. Rena had an omelet, which she barely touched, and a cup of tea.

"Amazing. How can you can eat like that and remain as lean as you are?" She observed.

"Quick metabolism. Besides, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Coffee?" The waitress came by and filled his cup. She refused, sticking to her tea. "Your grandfather never did get back to Drvar, did he?"

"No. After Italy, they reassigned him to the Middle East. Neither he nor my grandmother ever returned to Yugoslavia."

"Did he tell anybody about the Chalice, after the war?" asked Cole.

"He may have. If he did, nothing came of it. You have to consider the political climate at the time. Berlin was a divided city, and communism became the new Bogeyman. The Allies were trying to bring Germany back into the world community, building a bulwark against the Soviets. They did not want embarrass post-war German governments with reports of stolen artifacts. And, by then, Tito's communists were deep in the enemy camp."

"And the monks themselves?"

"The order was in disarray, as you can imagine. Its leaders were running scared, first from the Nazis, and then the communists. They remained trapped in Belgrade, held in contempt by Tito's regime. Any overt contact between the monks and the West would have invited suspicion and further oppression. However, they continued to search for the Chalice. Discreet inquiries here and there. Given your questions, Cole, I believe my grandfather convinced you."

"Maybe, but what makes you think it's still there? 50 years is a long time."

"Cole, no doubt, you are very good at what you do, but I am equally as good at what I do. I have investigated this for some time and to my knowledge, which is extensive, the Chalice has not turned up in anybody's collection, nor has it made its way into the world of illegal art dealings. It has to be there. I'm willing to gamble my time and money on it. How much more convincing do you need?" She picked up a brown envelope lying beside her purse. "You'll want to see this. I had to be sure you were in before I let you see it."

"Who said I was in?"

"You're here, aren't you?" She said. He smiled and nodded. She slid a piece of paper out of the envelope.

"It's the map with directions to where the Chalice was cached. It was with the journal. The only other copy was with Drago, and he was never found."

"A treasure map. What's next, pirates?"

"I'm sure a man like you has had his share of pirates."

"Oh, you can never meet enough pirates."

"I think I'm sitting with one right now," said Rena. She smiled. They had developed an easy rapport over breakfast.

She handed him the paper and he studied the map. It was a photocopy, but Cole could see that the original reflected military precision, the kind of map an engineer would make. The legend was in Serbo-Croatian with an English translation printed above in a small neat hand.

"The actual map is in the safety deposit box in London, if you're wondering."

"Actually, yes, I was curious about the fate of the map mentioned by your grandfather," he said.

"So will you do the job?"

"Sure, I'm in. Just for the ride, if nothing else." They shook hands.

"Partners?" She asked.

"Partners. But you realize that I don't work alone. I have a team of specialists who I employ from time to time."

"I'm hiring you, Cole, and you bring what and whom you need. Cost is no object, within reason, of course."

"Of course." They discussed details of the job over two more cups of coffee and tea. Rena was using her personal savings to bankroll the scheme. In her mind, it was an investment. She would make it back a few times over if they were successful. She supplied the cash and he brought his skill and the risk he was assuming to the table. She was offering him $30,000 for a month's work, and $20,000 for each of his guys. Given the money that she was throwing around, Cole figured she had some backers, but didn't ask. His part of the job was clear. Whatever Rena was fronting was her business, as long as it didn't kill him or his guys, or put them in prison.

Cole emptied the last dregs of coffee from his cup. "We have a plan in the making. I still have to flesh out some details and talk to my guys. I'll keep in touch. It'll take about a month to set this up and then we launch. I'll send updates once we're on the ground."

"Oh, that won't be necessary, Cole. I'm coming with you. After all, I'm the major shareholder in this little enterprise."

"Why I am not surprised?" He said. He didn't protest. The thought of spending a month with Rena was not altogether unpleasant.

The team assembled in Cole's living room. The four had met in the jungles of Nicaragua and fought together in the deserts of Iraq. All were former Special Forces, men who soldiered beyond the wire, serving their nation in silent obscurity. Each left the military on their own terms, at different times, but they kept in contact, working together on jobs Cole arranged: close protection for VIPs, risk analysis for UN offices in different parts of the third world, security advisors for multinational companies. In between, they sometimes helped Cole with his marine salvage business, inherited from a boozy uncle who buried himself under a shroud of rum and coke.

They settled into the chairs and couches with the easy comfort of men who shared the camaraderie of war. They were close as brothers, friends in the truest meaning, each willing to risk his life for the others. There were no secrets between them.

"So, Skipper, what's the deal?" Harry Lawson was a large man. His 6 foot 2 frame, packed with muscle, lay sprawled across Cole's leather couch, legs dangling over the armrest. He had the reflexes of a cat and could spring into action in a flash, despite the casual indifference he affected.

"Well, Harry," said Cole, slapping the big man's booted feet, "if you get your dirty hooves off my couch, I'll tell you." Cole hadn't provided any details when he'd called them, preferring to discuss the matter face to face. That they had come without any explanation was a clear indication of their trust in Cole.

"A charming young lady has asked us to help her retrieve something her grandfather lost."

"It's always some charming young lady, isn't it, Cole?" said Harry.

"It's a curse, Harry, a curse. But forget about the charming young lady and listen up." Cole was their commander again, issuing orders to the team before a mission. The other two team members were Marty Hicks, an avid student of military history and part time teacher at a local college, and Max Johansen, who looked like one of Remington's cowboys. All were alert and focused, ready for combat as they listened to the details.

Cole outlined his meeting with Rena and showed them the photocopied pictures of the Chalice.

"Pretty fancy cup, Skipper," said Harry as he glanced at the photos.

"Hardly a cup, Harry, more a symbol of unity amongst the brothers and their church. Its loss has been felt for the better part of this century," Marty remarked.

"Thanks perfesser, now I don't need to go to college," said Harry. This exchange was typical of the banter characterizing Harry and Marty's relationship. At times, an outsider would think they were close to blows, but as the best of friends, each knew the other's limits.

"Can you even spell college?" Marty shot back. Despite his slight frame, Marty was as sinewy as a bullwhip. In addition to studying military history, he was also a martial arts expert. Many a loudmouth had made the mistake of underestimating the compact, balding man.

"The two of you can join the debating team later," said Cole, "let's focus on the business at hand, and with Rena, it's just that: business. First, we have to get in country. I suggest we drive from a bordering country like Hungary. We can fly in via Frankfurt and pick up a car or two in Budapest."

"We'll need two, Skipper, I need my space."

"Three actually, one for Harry's big ass," quipped Marty.

"And one for your big mouth," Harry replied.

"Cole, we just can't drive in there a bunch like tourists, can we?" said Max, spitting tobacco into a Styrofoam cup clutched in his hand.

"Roger, Max. That's why we travel as members of an aid agency. Hundreds of humanitarian organizations are trying to rebuild Bosnia. What's another non-registered charity organization added to the mix? We'll get some magnetic signs made up, slap them on the doors of our vehicles, and we're in business."

"Ok, Cole, I'll buy that, but what about visas, passports, small things like that?" said Max

"That's where Rena comes in. She can get that stuff for us."

"She sounds like a bit of a wheel. So what does she need with us?"

"The usual, Max, dear boy, the dirty work," said Marty.

"Exactly," said Cole. "But she's coming with us. So she may get her own hands dirty as well." The others looked at him with surprise. "As I said, with Rena we have to keep it all business. She's the majority shareholder in this venture, and she calls some of the shots. We'll have to look after her, but that's part of the job."

"It'll be nice to see a pretty face for a change instead of Marty's ugly mug."

"Thanks, Harry, very clever, that's up there with 'Oh yeah, big nose'," Marty said.

"Just how dirty will this work get?" said Max.

"It's a piece of cake, Max. We go into the town, stay for a few days. Check out the cave and see what, if anything, is still there, grab our cash and go. A little Balkan holiday," said Cole.

"Cole, I have been on a few 'holidays' with you so I have to ask, what about firepower? Are we taking any?" Max asked.

"We'll pick something up in Budapest. The black market is raging there and we should be able to get our hands on some Eastern Bloc models. I have some friends there. Still remember how to fire a Kalishnikov, Max?"

"Like I was born to it, Cole. I'll bring some medical supplies, just in case." Max was a trained medic, and, no stranger to trauma wounds, now worked as a paramedic. He was trying to finish a general science degree to get into the Faculty of Medicine at Memorial University. He was also a good man in a firefight.

"Good point, Max. I knew we kept you around for something," Cole said. Max's only reply was to spit another gob of tobacco into the already dangerously full cup.

Cole dropped into an easy chair. "None of you Sad Sacks have asked about payment. You guys working for charity now?"

"Hell, Cole," said Harry, "we're just in it for shits and giggles."

"How does $20,000 worth of shits and giggles each sound to you, plus a percentage of the reward from the insurance company?"

"Sounds mighty fine, Cole, mighty fine," said Marty. The others' silence indicated he spoke for them all. Cole knew they would have done it for nothing had he asked them.

They planned to leave for Budapest the following month. It would take a couple of weeks for Rena to get their travel documents in order, and for the others to prepare for the mission. Holiday time would need to be booked and shifts swapped, arrangements for looking after houses and apartments made. This had become routine for them.

"I'll be in touch," Cole said as they departed his apartment.
Chapter 4

The six-wheeled Grizzly rumbled through the deserted streets, the whine of its turbine engine rebounding from the storefronts and apartment walls as it pushed the armoured vehicle along. Corporal Johnson rubbed his stinging cheeks. Damn, the wind was cold tonight. His eyes watered from the chilled air rushing past him in the turret. He pulled the goggles perched on his forehead over his eyes, but they fogged up in seconds. Christ, what shit they had to put up with. The place was a ghost town at night. But somewhere out there, moving through darkened alleys, or crossing frozen fields, somebody was torching the vacant homes of refugee Serbs to prevent their return to Drvar under the NATO enforced peace. If you burn it, they will not come. He spoke into the plastic mike near his lips.

"Hey Wilkes, take us up to the hotel. We'll head up there for a smoke break, and a coffee."

"Roger," replied the driver, a scratchy voice amidst the perpetual static flowing across the radio network. Johnson turned round in the turret to pass his intentions to the four soldiers in the rear hatches, dark green Jack-in-the boxes armed with assault rifles. One of the troops was pointing toward a red smear blotting the darkened hills. Aww fuck! Another one! So much for his goddamned coffee and cigarette. He spoke into the mike again. "Three, this is three one Alpha, message, over..."

The fluorescent lights inside the Operations Room cast a harsh, antiseptic glare on the men standing near the radio. Captain John Zbignew, the company second-in-command, listened to the details broadcasted over the speaker. The fire had started in the stable attached to the house and spread to the remainder of the dwelling. By the time the patrol arrived, the roof was ablaze. The signaler near the radio scribbled on a foolscap pad, rushing to capture the broken phrases stuttering across the radio net with strained desperation.

"Roger, wait out three one alpha." He turned to the Captain, who was fishing through a cigarette package.

"Three one Alpha says house appears empty. But Johnson remembers the owner repairing the windows a few days ago."

"Right. Tell them to report the fire to the civilian police and continue with the patrol." He turned and left the austere room, and its smell of ozone and sweaty men, twirling a cigarette between his fingers. Behind him, disembodied voices hissed and crackled responding or offering to the signaler manning the command network. Their headquarters was located in the office of a former grain mill. The once Spartan and utilitarian atmosphere had acquired a military flavor, with maps of various parts of the company's area of operations taped to the walls, and a collection of helmets, assault rifles, and flak jackets that filled the room. Zbignew descended a very Stalin-esque stairwell, which creaked under his stocky frame, and ventured outside. The outer door opened on a narrow loading platform, giving the building the appearance of a train station. He stepped outside and lit his cigarette, inhaling cool February air tinged with a pungent trace of wood smoke. He was still in shirtsleeves, despite the evening chill. He rubbed his eyes, behind a set of thick framed glasses, and looked out beyond the camp walls. Strips of orange weaved along the hills. Farmers were burning last year's stubble in preparation of the spring sowing, lending the night a ominous quality.

Their rifle company had arrived in Drvar in December. The 120 soldiers were part of the NATO-led Stabilization Force. The Stabilization Force, SFOR, was in the Balkans to enforce the Dayton Peace Accord that ended the decade-long cruel and bloody Yugoslavian civil war. SFOR's mandate was to establish and maintain a secure environment throughout Bosnia. This, the world community believed, would foster conditions for economic development and encourage the thousands of refugees, scattered throughout Bosnia and greater Europe like shards of shrapnel, to return. The dynamics of war had created ethnic enclaves, solidified where there was strength in numbers. Those who lost homes in one part of the country took ownership of homes emptied by war in other parts, and nobody was keen to welcome the original owners back; in some areas, multinational corporations, aided by organized crime, bloomed, raping the countryside of natural resources in a greedy free for all. A new class of Bosnian wealth was evolving, characterized by armed thugs in expensive leather jackets with bad teeth, grinning behind the wheels of Mercedes Benzes and BMWs. These men had an interest in the status quo and SFOR did not fit their vision of the new Bosnia.

This was Captain John Zbignew's third tour to the Balkans. He had been there with the UN and twice with NATO, each time a different enemy and threat, yet each time the same enemy and threat. The good guys and the bad changed depending on where you stood. A few years ago, Serb troops had been shelling him and his men in their platoon house; now he had to protect Serb refugees trying to move back into the Croatian-controlled town of Drvar. The Serbs, who had long held the upper hand in the see-saw battle for Bosnia, were defeated during operation Storm, a well-planned, well-executed Croatian attack that broke the Serb grip on Bosnia. Allegedly, retired US military officers, working as civilian contractors with the tacit support of the American government, had aided the Croatian Army in the planning, and the training of their troops. The world, or at least the West, felt the Bosnian Serbs got what they deserved, so nobody looked too closely. Now NATO was picking up the pieces.

His smoke done, Zbignew retreated up the staircase to his office beside the radio room. The speakers were quiet now. It was close to midnight, and the "boys in the box", the signalers, were in the middle of a shift change. He listened indifferently as the corporals updated their replacements with reports of gunshots, the movements of suspect cars, and another house fire. His day, like most others, involved sifting through patrol reports and intelligence summaries, trying to piece the puzzle that was Drvar, and by extension, Bosnia together. He looked at the two Whirl boards on his desk, one marked Patrol Reports, the other INTSUM. He picked up the INTSUM folder.

INTSUM 050996

(DPRE) Displaced Persons (DPRE) returning to the Mokronoge (MOK) Valley South East of Drvar report efforts to intimidate them and prevent them from returning to their original homes. A group of four men in a white BMW (vehicle plate unknown) drove through the village telling the returnees to go back to Serbia. Their houses would burn to ground if they came back. United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) reps who organized the visit allege that one of the men was wearing a Croatian Army (HVO) uniform (unconfirmed. The vehicle left when an SFOR patrol passed though the village (reference patrol report 32A 05 Sept) and appeared to be heading back to Drvar. More DPRE visits are scheduled in the next two weeks. SFOR units are to be prepared to increase military presence in these locations.

(Economic) The area around the MOK Valley has been subject to unregulated logging operations by foreign lumber consortiums. Raw timber shipped to Europe is bypassing customs and tariffs owed to the new Bosnian government.

INTSUM 100996

(DPRE) Several houses in DRVAR burned to the ground in suspected acts of arson incited by DPRE visits. The burned houses were inspected by their owners during a UNHCR sponsored visit the previous day. Witnesses report a gray Mercedes with four male occupants in the location of the fires earlier that evening. SFOR Liaison Officers contacted The Civilian Police (CIVPOL) to verify the vehicle plate and registration. CIVPOL maintain that this is a police matter, and not an SFOR matter.

(CIVPOL) Efforts by CIVPOL to recruit Serb police in DRVAR have been largely unsuccessful due to discrimination and intimidation. The local force remains dominated by ethnic Croatian officers who are not sympathetic to Serb concerns. It is unlikely that CIVPOL will be able or willing to address the arson issue. Human Intelligence (HUMINT) sources support assessment that the individuals responsible for the acts of arson have tacit approval from CIVPOL.

(Economic)NGO reports from European Union observers indicate that logging around the MOK Valley is increasing in volume. Reports of refugees held as slave labour in the lumber camps remain unconfirmed.

INTSUM 110196

(Economic) As part of UN sponsored reconstruction programs, European firms are establishing offices in the town of Drvar. NGO representatives are concerned that the influence of foreign-owned business is growing stronger in the Drvar area. The senior representative of "Homes for All" reported that the firm Multivest is tied to the illegal logging activities in the MOK Valley. He stated that workers from the Multivest water bottling plant were driving logging trucks.

INTSUM 051296

(Military/political)UN High Commissioner for Refugees visited Drvar (01 December). She stated the HVO unit in Drvar is an obstacle to the return of displaced Serbs to the region. Their garrison was occupying state-owned apartments belonging to former residents of Drvar. The US State Department has since directed the HVO brigade to leave Drvar by 01 April 1997. US will fund the construction of barracks at Glamoc ranges to house them. Representatives of the Croatian National Party (HDK) have opposed this move arguing that NATO cannot provide security within the Drvar region, pointing to the high incidence of arson and intimidation as proof. Local party members may stage protests to prevent this move. The HZD see the HVO presence as key components to securing Drvar as part of their "Greater Croatia" strategy.

Done with the latest INSTUM, John picked up a collection of patrol reports.

Patrol Report 22A 05 Sept. Out 1100hrs/In 1600hrs

While on routine patrol along BLUE Route we received radio traffic indicating that a busload of DPRE had arrived at the MOK Valley. When we arrived on location to provide an SFOR presence, we identified a white car leaving the yard of one of the DPRE families. As the car passed us, one of the occupants, wearing a camouflage jacket, gave us the finger and shouted, "Fuck you NATO!" The owner of the house (Drago Milosevic) told our interpreter that the men in the white car were criminals who threatened to kill any refugee that returned.

Patrol Report C/S 22 07 Oct Out 0800hrs/In 1600hrs

This call sign escorted a DPRE visit to the MOK Valley. Protesters along the road leading into the valley blocked the two busloads of returnees. The leader used a loud hailer to tell the Serbs to go back to Serbia, and that this was no longer their home. Members of the crowd were holding HDK banners. The demonstration was peaceful until a white vehicle arrived (Plate number HV 106605). A man (6'2" dark complexion, short hair) got out, spoke to the leader of the protesters for a few minutes, and then left. As the car departed, the crowd grew more hostile. Some began hitting the sides of the buses with their banners and others threw rocks at the windshield of the lead bus. I dismounted my call sign to set up security around the bus. As the platoon deployed, the crowd dispersed to cars parked along the verge of the road. The leader of the mob was openly hostile. He accused NATO of protecting war criminals before he too left. The buses then proceeded to the village and completed the visit. The DPRE stayed for about two hours before getting back on the buses. There were no further incidents to report.

Patrol Report C/S 21 15 Dec Out 1200hrs/in 1600rs

This call sign provided over watch on political rally along Main Street of Drvar. Approx. 100 people in crowd. Protesters wanted to keep the HVO brigade in Drvar. They were hostile toward our patrol but did not get violent. The leader, a Mr. Jakobic, told us to "Fuck off, NATO. You are protecting war criminals." Several members of the crowd made throat-cutting motions toward the patrol and one man shouted, "The boss will fix you." A few men in US pattern combat jackets, favoured by local war vets, were present among the crowd, but there did not appear to be any HVO present. CIVPOL had situation under control. Protest lasted for about three hours and ended without any major incidents. Patrol returned to camp after protesters left.

Zbignew rubbed his eyes. The noise and activity of the day had tapered to a whisper. Muted static buzzed from the radios in the CP, and the dull, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall behind him, ratcheted through the quiet of his office, hoof beats racing toward dawn. Zbignew looked up at his watch; it was almost one o'clock. The devils in the details of these reports, it appeared, wore HVO uniforms, conducted illegal logging operations with foreign companies, and intimidated the former occupants of this area coming back to resettle; allegations, innuendo, disinformation, all one big mélange, contained within the cardboard cover of a Whirl board. Back home his family would be finishing supper and his kids getting ready for bed. And here he was thousands of miles and eight hours in the future away, trying to solve somebody else's problems. The room was colder, as the temperature dropped in pace with the night. It was time for bed.

He bid goodnight to the duty signaler and went down the stairwell. The night air still carried a husky scent of smoke. Was it farmers burning their field in preparation of a new planting season, or somebody burning houses to prevent the return of the displaced?

John met the company commander, Major Murphy, at lunch, joining the tall thin officer hunched over his yellow Melmac plate. Major Dan Murphy was much more than he seemed to be, he had a Master's degree in War Studies from the US army college in Leavenworth, and a black belt in Karate. John valued his common sense approach and contagious sense of humour.

"Well, John, it was a quiet meeting. The officials in this country seem bound to give you a history lesson every time you meet them. I had to sit through a very tragic rendition of how the deputy mayor had been forced to flee his home village of Knin because of the Serbs, and how he couldn't go back to visit his mother's grave. Jesus wept. It almost brought a tear to my eyes. Then he started feeding me some line of bullshit about how the Serbs were lighting the fires in Drvar to discredit the Croatians. He claimed the Serbs wanted to get rid of the HVO brigade so they could come take Drvar back by force. As he pointed out, only the HVO could guarantee the safety of the locals, not NATO. I almost laughed out loud. He warned me that even NATO troops were at risk from the wicked Serbs who might attack a SFOR patrol, just to frame the Croatians. I didn't think it was worth pointing out that most of the Serbs returning to Drvar were middle-aged farmers, and would have a hard time sneaking around Drvar unnoticed."

"So we're no further ahead on that end. I was hoping you might get some leads from the deputy mayor. Of the lot, he seems the most reasonable."

"Yes, but he is scared as well. The people behind all this must have a long reach. I'm sure his worship doesn't want his house reduced to cinders for helping out SFOR."

"And the fires will continue, and the State Department will pressure NATO to move the HVO, and we will keep driving around, trying to find the phantom arsonists of Drvar," said John.

Major Murphy nodded in agreement. "I spoke to the Battalion Intelligence Officer yesterday and he alluded to the "punishment battalions" rumored to have existed during the war. These guys did a lot of the ethnic cleansing. If these guys exist, some could be operating here in Drvar, either out of the HVO, or freelancing for the HDK and the gang."

"More conspiracy theories, from the master conspirator." John laughed. "I think the IO has read too many Tom Clancy novels."

"John." The OC looked squarely at him. "Nothing would surprise me. We'll be getting some help from the Brits. They are chopping a helo with Night Sun capability to us for the next three days. You know, the one with the super bright searchlights. We can tie it into our patrol schedule and maybe get a jump on these clowns playing firebug."

Costumed mummers roved the streets in packs of devils, gypsies and plaster saints. It was Carnival; however, the festive atmosphere of Rio de Janeiro was missing from this cool evening in Drvar. An SFOR patrol moved slowly down the street, ploughing through the watercolor twilight.

"It's like fricking Halloween," said Sergeant Taylor to his driver.

"Yeah, but it's all tricks and no treats in this shithole," said Corporal Jones, from the deep well of the driver's hatch. The words came over the internal communications system through a filter of wind and engine noise. "Damn right, Jonesy, damn right." The Grizzly turned down Main Street, its engine grunting as the armored vehicle accelerated down the broken stretch of pavement. A white car idled in front of the HDK office. Taylor made out the darkened forms of four men sitting inside. "Slow down," he ordered. They trundled past the car and the sergeant looked down at the license plate. It matched the number of a suspect vehicle that HQ was looking for. He flicked the switch on the intercom box in his hand. "Hey guys, that's one of the cars that the head shed is hot and horny over. Let's check these guys out. Jones, stop here, we're dismounting." The combat doors at the rear of the vehicle swung open and latched with a heavy iron clunk. Taylor took off his headset, grabbed his assault rifle and popped out of the crew commander hatch. The driver of the car opened his window. He thrust his hand out in the three-fingered salute of the Chetniks, and then lobbed a dark object towards the Grizzly. "Grenade!" came from the rear hatch. Taylor flattened himself against the turret as the car sped away. A sharp crack echoed through the street. "Holy Shit! Any casualties?" he shouted.

"All OK," said one of the soldiers behind him. He watched the twin taillights of the car speed up the switchback, leaving town. They would never catch them. He would just have to call this in.

"Are you sure they were Serbs?"

"No, I'm not sure. All I'm sure of is that they threw a grenade at me. You can see the damage to the side of my vehicle, and the punctured tire."

"All right, Sergeant, it's been a long night for you and your section. Get some sleep. We were lucky that nobody was hurt." Captain Zbignew dismissed Sergeant Taylor and returned to his office. Were the rules of the game changing? A direct attack on an SFOR patrol was a bold act. Bait a patrol and then strike. It was a dangerous tactic, and stupid. The troops could have lit those cowboys up, and they'd be lying in a morgue instead of racing around Drvar. The three-fingered salute was curious. John remembered the same Serbian victory salute from the early days of the Bosnian war, in 1993. Somebody wanted to draw them into the fight, but who?
Chapter 5

"Marty, did you know that Buda and Pest," Harry pronounced it as Pesh, "are two separate cities, divided by the Danube?" His large frame hunched over the steering wheel of the straining Skoda racing across the Chain Bridge that stretched across the river, anchored by the Guardian Lions sculpted into the abutments on either side. Cole navigated from the passenger's seat, with Marty crammed into the rear of the compact car. Max and Rena remained at the hotel, finishing the counterfeit aid agency signs for their vehicles.

"Yes," sighed Marty, "you already mentioned it at least a dozen times."

"Did you know?" Harry started and then laughed. "Marty, I don't think you appreciate the history that surrounds you in this wonderful city."

"Next left," said Cole. The road narrowed into a cobblestone alley, shimmering under the glow of the headlights. "Here it is. Shut her down."

"Ack, boss," replied Harry. They stopped in front of ancient gray, brick, two-story building. Generations had lived and died within its walls, and still it stood. A weathered wooden gate barred access to the courtyard inside. Next to the gate was a recessed doorway. The doorway stood in a shallow stairwell. "Harry, you stay in the car; Marty, you come up with me." Marty followed Cole to the doorway and waited as Cole made a call on his cell phone. "Karlos, we're outside." Footsteps padded down creaking stairs and a large man in a navy turtleneck sweater opened the door. His swept-back blond hair showed traces of gray in the dim light escaping from the doorway.

"Cole!" He grabbed Cole's hand with a firm grip. "Good to see you, my old friend," he said with a heavy East European accent. "Come in." Marty gave a thumbs up to Harry's dark figure stuffed in the driver's seat of the Skoda, and followed Cole up the stairs. They entered a small, flat.

"Home sweet home, Karlos?" said Cole. Oriental rugs covered the floor, and the few pieces of furniture in the main room were a rich cherry wood. Van Gogh prints covered the walls, but no pictures of family or friends smiled back from the end tables or bookshelf. It was the apartment of a man without roots.

"For now." Karlos motioned them towards the couch at the center of the room, and pulled a bottle of clear liquid from a dark wood cabinet along the wall. "Vodka," he said in answer to Marty's querying look. He filled three tumblers, placed them on the coffee table in front of his guests, and dropped into a leather easy chair. "Your health!" He toasted, taking a deep sip.

Cole joined him, the fiery liquid flowing through his body like acid. "Your health, indeed. Karlos, this is Marty, a friend."

"Of course he is." The big man laughed. "Or you would not have brought him. Marty, I too am a friend."

"It looks like Cole has a lot of friends," said Marty, sipping his drink.

"And some enemies," said Karlos. "And that's why you come to me, Cole. To help with the enemies, hey!"

"That's right, Karlos."

"And, I think I can help you. I have some packages available. Why do you want to go to Bosnia? There is nothing good there. It is what they call 'Bad Juju'."

"When was that ever a problem, Karlos?"

"True."

"We have some work there, a salvage op., of sorts."

"I don't need the details and I don't want the details. Everything you need is in here." They followed Karlos into the bedroom. A black duffle bag lay on the floor. Cole looked inside.

"Four AKs? Nice!"

"This is Eastern Europe. AK's are in vogue. There are also four Browning high-powers, eight magazines, 600 rounds of 5.54mm and 300rounds of 9mm. It's the best I could do at short notice."

"It will do fine, old chum," said Cole. "Let's get something to eat. I'm sure Harry is starving by now."

"So how do you know Cole?" said Marty. They sat around a table at the Black Cat Pub, the only "authentic" Irish pub, in downtown Budapest.

"How does anyone know Cole, my friend, through violence, death and destruction," replied Karlos, sipping his pint of Guinness.

"Karlos was Latvian Special Forces," said Cole. We met on a close protection job."

"Cole was hired to protect a Swiss business man and his family."

"From who?" said Harry. "I thought everybody liked chocolate and reliable watches."

"Yeah, that and ransom money," said Cole. "Karlos was part of my staff."

"The Latvians didn't pay as well," said Karlos.

A band moved onto a small stage in the corner of the pub and began setting up instruments and amplifiers. They were retro Beatles, right down to their haircuts. "These guys can sing all the songs, but they can't speak a word of English," said Karlos.

"Music is universal," Harry replied.

"Geez, listen to the philosopher king," said Marty. Harry threw a chicken bone at him. He was on his second plate of wings. "I don't think you fully appreciate what this city has to offer."

Marty made a wry face. "Watch with the bones, you'll stain my shirt."

They spent the reminder of the evening discussing their plan with Karlos, trusting an independent ear to identify any holes or weaknesses. Cole went through the chain of events that brought them to Europe, going back to his first meeting with Rena, to a soundtrack of vintage Beatle medleys.

"Hmm, buried treasure and buried secrets. Sounds like fun," said Karlos. "And this Rena, fascinating. I wish you the best. Just be careful, Bosnia can be a very bad place. But bad places are your specialty, aren't they Cole, that's why you need the weapons?"

"Better to have an AK and not need it, than to need an AK and not have it. We don't plan on shooting up the Bosnian countryside. I'd rather use my brains instead of a bullet, but not everybody sees it that way. Now, we need a way to stash these guns to get across the border, and that's where you come in, my friend."

"Way ahead of you, Cole," said Karlos, handing him a napkin with a scribbled address. "Meet me tomorrow at 10:00." The house lights flooded the now almost abandoned pub as the ersatz "Fab Four" packed up their instruments. Cole and the others bid Karlos good night.

An undercurrent of tension crackled through the hotel room. "So who is this Karlos, Cole? Can he be trusted?" asked Rena.

"He's a friend, and yes, otherwise he wouldn't be coming here," said Cole, a trace of anger in his voice. "We need his help. If you don't trust my judgment, then find yourself another Indiana Jones."

"Sorry, Cole. I'm new at this."

"We'll be fine, Rena. I trust him with my life."

Rena sighed. "That's good enough for me, Cole." She took a large envelope out of her backpack.

"Aerial photos of the site," she said.

"Pretty slick," said Harry. "I thought you were new at this."

"New, but not stupid," she said. Harry blushed.

"I don't believe I have ever seen you like that," said Marty. "You look like a beet."

"Shut up, Marty, or you'll look like you were beat." It was all Harry could muster.

"So what do we have here?" Cole, all business, brought their attention back to the pictures Rena laid out on the bed.

"Photo one, overview of Drvar."

"You are one resourceful lady, aren't you?" said Marty. Rena smiled.

"You would be surprised by what you can find on the Internet. The town is located in a valley. There are two main approaches to the town, one from the village of Bos Grahovo," She pointed at the hairpin switchback snaking down into the valley, "and the other from the Mokronoge Valley," and indicated a more gradual ascent on the other end of the urban area centered in the photograph. "This is where the cave is located." She pointed at the hillside in the black and white photo.

"What's that collection of buildings to the west?" said Cole, pointing at the jumble of structures at the base of the ridgeline.

"HVO logistic facility."

Max looked at Rena. "HVO?"

"Croatian Army," said Marty.

"You got to be shitting me," said Harry. "You mean there's an army base beside the place?" He rubbed the bristles of his cropped blond hair.

"A logistics facility," Rena repeated.

"It could just be a supply dump," said Cole. "Minimal manning at best. It depends on what they see as a threat. We'll have to build our recce plan around this. You aren't worried about a bunch of sock counters, are you Harry?"

"Just sock counters with guns." They all laughed.

"Photo two." The second black and white picture showed the hillside and part of the HVO facility. "The cave is somewhere along this slope." Rena indicated with a pencil. They looked for the dark smudge of an opening but nothing was visible. "We'll have to find it. I suspect it's within the fenced enclosure of the supply facility."

"Of course it is," said Harry.

"You aren't scared, are you Harry?" said Marty.

"Only thing that scares me is you covering my back, ya boob."

Cole pointed at the far end of the picture. "This looks all open. Rena, how current is this photo?"

"It's dated 1995, so only two years old. These open areas are probably fields."

"Good," said Cole. "No people or dogs to give us away if we approach from this side."

"Drvar is still a ghost town. Many of the houses are empty. Few of the Serbs who lived there before the war have come back," said Rena. "The Dayton Accord guarantees them the right to return to their former homes, but it's only paper, when it comes down to it. Many are afraid of the HVO, and of the criminals who control the town. The NATO troops in Drvar are there to provide the security the returnees need to come back."

"So we will be monkeying around in a potential battlefield between NATO and the HVO?"

"That's right, Harry," said Marty, "but don't worry, nobody will waste a round on you."

"I should be so lucky," grumbled Harry.

"Throw some organized crime and Balkan politics into the mix, Harry, and you have a perfect understanding of what's going on in Drvar," said Rena.

"That should cheer him up," said Max. "C'mon Harry, its chaos, the perfect environment for guys like us."

"I hear ya, baby," said Harry with a grin, "It's like the old days all over again."

"It's always the old days when we work with Cole," said Marty.

"You guys would expect nothing less," replied Cole. "What's the third photo?"

"It's a detailed picture of the logistics facility." The grainy image showed a collection of buildings, with a handful of cargo trucks parked along the front of what looked like a warehouse. A gray vein of road ran towards the edge of the picture. "This appears to be the only road into the place. It links up with one of the main roads back into the city." She pointed to photo one. "The military site is separated from the city proper by this little creek or canal that runs alongside the road."

"What's the little box there in the trees?" said Cole.

"Believe it or not, it's the frame from a German glider, left over from World War Two."

"So the Krauts were here back in dubya two as well," asked Harry. "How did they make out?"

"They landed in an ambush. Many died," said Rena. "My grandfather fought here during that battle." Harry was silent.

"Ah, but they were a bunch of chumps anyways," he said. Cole looked at his watch. "We have to get moving if we're going to meet Karlos."

The address was a non-descript building in the industrial area of the city. They had replaced the cramped Skoda with two leased Toyota Land Cruisers. An SUV was de rigueur for NGOs working in Bosnia, and anything less would not do. As they idled down the engines, the doors to the courtyard opened and Karlos motioned them inside, away from any curious public eyes. Scrap metal and rusty auto parts littered the courtyard. 45 gallon drums lining the walls added to the mechanical debris. The gate shut behind them as the big Latvian walked up to Cole's window. "Welcome to Karlos's Garage. Satisfaction guaranteed. I won it in a card game. The former owner was a very poor player. It's handy for moving merchandise."

"Yes," said Cole, "I'm sure the arms trade is still brisk." They parked the SUVs and Cole introduced Max and Rena.

"The most dangerous creature in the world, a beautiful woman," said Karlos.

"That's a question of judgment," said Rena.

"Beauty, or danger?" said Karlos.

"Both."

"OK, enough of the Harry met Sally," said Cole. "Let's get to work, we're burning daylight."Karlos opened a side door recessed along one of the walls and brought out a large toolbox. Under his supervision, they removed the back seats from each SUV, and then detached the rug floor covering. The team then placed a mix of weapons parts and ammunition into the recess of each vehicle frame beneath the rear passenger's feet. "When you break an AK down, it just fits," said the arms dealer. Karlos replaced the rugs and glued them down with rubber cement compound. "This is to hold it in place, yet give easy access," said Karlos. "When you come back, we'll glue it down properly before you return the vehicles to the rental company. You'll be back in the USA before they notice." They replaced the seats. Everything looked as it had before they had started.

"We have to ditch these guns before we come back," said Cole.

"That's the cost of doing business. No one can trace them back to me, but dispose of them permanently, if you have to get rid of them. I don't want any of those thugs in Bosnia using my stuff."

"Roger that, pal," said Cole. "Well, Karlos, I owe you one."

"No, Cole, I owe you. You saved my ass more times than I can remember."

"We'll see you in about a week, my friend," said Cole.

"Gentlemen, Rena." He kissed her hand.

"Charming fellow, isn't he?" said Rena, as the gate shut behind them.

"You don't know the half of it," said Cole, who had seen Karlos kill a man with his bare hands.

They returned to the hotel. Max and Rena had fashioned magnetic signs identifying the team as the Mustard Seeds Group. The Biblical reference was Max's suggestion. "I didn't know you were so religious," said Harry.

"We all find our way," answered Max. They attached the magnetic signs of their "organization" to the doors, making them Bona Fide aid workers and architects of humanitarian relief.

"I feel a bit guilty about this, Cole," said Rena, "masquerading as a charity. These groups do some very good work, for people who need it."

"They do indeed, Rena. We have no intent of bringing any relief agency into disrepute. It's only camouflage, to keep us below the wire."

Cole and Rena were in the first truck, Cole driving, Rena navigating. She demonstrated an extensive knowledge of Balkan geography, and Bosnian rules of the road, or lack thereof. At the border crossing a police officer wearing a wide blue cap waved them into a long line of traffic, gesturing with a hand held stop sign. The line moved at a glacial pace. "This is going to take a while," said Cole.

A short man in civilian dress waddled out of the kiosk at the center of the two traffic lanes. He made a show of checking the documents each driver presented to him as he trudged down the line. With each vehicle, he grew more irritated. Work had interfered with lunch and a smoke break. Damn these people anyways. Why didn't they just stay home?

After about 30 minutes, he finally got to Cole's window. "Passport?" he said. The metal smell of nicotine, soaked in day-old booze, wafted into the interior. They showed him their papers. He waved them on and moved past to Harry, Max and Marty in the second SUV. "I'll bet Harry'll love this guy," said Cole with a snicker. The customs official carried out the same ritual at Harry's window, glaring at Harry as if he was the devil incarnate. Eventually he moved on, bringing happiness and light to the traffic jam behind them.

A short distance past the border crossing, Cole pulled into an INA gas stations, ubiquitous throughout former Yugoslavia. Harry closed up behind him. Cole took out a set of compact Motorolas and handed one to Harry. "We'll keep in touch with these."

"Sure thing, boss man. What's the freq?"

"It's set, channel two."

"OK. So what was with the border guy? He was as friendly as a hangman."

"I call it post-Berlin Wall syndrome," Cole answered. "When the country was still communist, all these 'officials' ran the place. Any little bit of authority was exploited. These clowns still like to throw their weight around, where they can."

"I would have thrown his weight around, right into the pavement."

"You know, Har, you might have made a good customs officer."

"That's not fair Cole."

The pair of SUVs drove through pale winter sunlight. Shadows stretched beneath the hills rolling alongside the strip of battered highway. They followed roads built on the cross winds of invasion, retracing the footprints of empires long since turned to dust: Romans, Mongols, and Turks. The countryside, brown and dry, waited for spring. The team arrived in Drvar as night closed in around them. Their 4-runners rolled into the hotel parking lot, bouncing across the potholes and broken pavement. "So this is the place?" asked Cole.

"Yes," said Rena. "The Bastasi Hotel. It was the best place available. Before the war, Drvar's tourist trade thrived. Now there isn't much left to pick from."

Its builder had designed the Bastasi to look like a Swiss chalet, with a large gabled roof and gingerbread trims. The weathered wooden shingles gleamed like chrome in the moonlight. In the 1970s, the Yugoslav government had built the hotel as a tourist destination for party officials. However, it had become popular among the middle class trades men, and the _apparchniks_ , who did not enjoy the prospect of rubbing shoulders with the loud, fat, wives of welders and electricians, found sanctuaries in other parts of the workers' state bereft of the workers.

Cole looked at the two-story building, reeking of neglect. Figures moved around inside the dim lights within.

"At least there's a roof overhead. I've been in worse," he said.

"This is one of the better places. It's recommended for those doing business in the local area."

"They actually do business in this local area? With who? The whole country looks deserted."

"There is a lot of investment coming from Europe. The Bosnians are trying to rebuild their pre-war economy. For some, this screams of opportunity."

"You know quite a bit about this place, don't you?" asked Cole.

"This is where my roots are. It's where my grandmother came from. I'll check us in." Rena strode to the front door, as if she was heading to some Jamaican resort instead of a dreary Balkan hotel in the last gasps of winter. Cole walked over to the second SUV as Harry rolled his window down.

"I hope the restaurant is open," he said, gnawing on the remnants of a loaf of bread purchased in one of the towns they'd passed through. "I gotta hand it to these guys, they make great bread." Max was dozing in the back seat, and Marty slumped in the front, a cap pulled low over his eyes.

"We wouldn't know. Little Pig refused to share," Marty grumbled.

"Aw, c'mon you guys, I offered, you didn't want any so I couldn't let it go to waste."

"Let's unload the gear," said Cole. Max acted as a sentry while Cole, Marty and Harry lifted the interior rug in each vehicle and pulled out Karlos's small arsenal. Lights from a stray car moved through the valley below them, but the parking lot remained as dark as a coalmine. They transferred the guns to a black canvas duffle bag. Harry hoisted it over his shoulder, his seeming lack of effort belying the bags weight. Cole, Max and Marty followed Harry into the hotel with the remaining luggage.

Rena was in an animated conversation with the clerk behind the counter. A small white wood stove glowed in a dim corner of the lobby, its cheery flicker blunting the cold edge of night air that swept in behind them. A coal oil lamp on the clerk's counter burned with a subdued glow. The overall effect was warm and rustic, a sharp contrast to the sinister first impressions gleaned from the parking lot. Rena turned to them. "I have our keys here." She handed one to Cole, a second to Harry, and a third one to Max, who was billeting with Marty. Cole insisted that she get her own room, even though she had been willing to bunk with the team. "You men are all gentlemen. I don't think my reputation will suffer too much."

They took the keys and followed Rena towards a flight of narrow stairs near the counter. A handful of round tables and square-back chairs arranged along the front formed a small cafe. Cole noticed an elderly man sitting at one of the tables nursing a demitasse of thick Turkish coffee. "Evening," Cole said, catching the man's eye as he passed by the table.

"Good evening," he replied in accented English. It sounded German. He was likely one of the European businessmen Rena spoke of, looking for opportunities in Drvar, searching for his own hidden fortune. _Good luck, buddy_ , Cole thought. With a bit of their own luck, they had a week to check out the cave, retrieve the Chalice, if it remained in its original hiding place, and then vanish. Their cover story wouldn't last much beyond that. He thought of the businessman as he ascended the staircase. Was there enough luck in Drvar for everybody?
Chapter 6

Willie sipped his coffee and stared into the darkness beyond the window. Cold winter rain beaded on the glass, the kind he dreaded. Once the cold got into you, it stayed until springtime.

Inside the cafe, however, it was warm and comfortable. The coffee was dark, thick and sweet, but despite his time in the Balkans, he had never developed a taste for it. Much had changed since he had last been here, Drear had grown from a rustic village to a small town, but much had not: a sad testimony to the real conservatism of communism. Things would be changing soon, faster than anybody expected. Tito's death and the bloody madness that followed made sure of that. He swallowed some of the syrupy contents of the cup. Tea was much better, good English Earl Gray. The English made good tea; you had to give them that. They could also fight, as he knew firsthand. He looked at his reflection in the window. An old man peered back at him, a parody of the confident young warrior who had come to Drvar a lifetime ago. Yet, as the shadows flickered in the stove behind him, he glimpsed that young wolf in the eyes of the relic trapped in the window. The body ages, but the heart stays true. Life tried hard to dull those old memories, each day stealing the vividness. New trials, mundane concerns, and simple joys grew over the past, like scar tissue that did not fade but instead became part of you, as natural as skin. These memories stayed in the back of one's mind, like a storeroom, there if you cared to open the door and peer in, but best left closed. His war had been honorable, if not victorious. He had not served in any of the camps. Nobody wanted his head. The British officers who interviewed him before his discharge seemed almost sympathetic, treating him more like a comrade than defeated enemy. His generation was as much a victim of Hitler's delusions as the rest of the world. Then, as he stood in the rubble of a Berlin street, his gray army overcoat flapping in the cold fall wind, life began anew. Now here he was, fifty years later, searching for another chance to rescue that life. How would this campaign turn out?

The man he was waiting for arrived in a black Mercedes. He walked through the door, looking too big for the small lobby.

"Vigates," the stranger nodded to Willie. He was in his mid-20s, stocky, with a round head made rounder by close-cropped hair that swiveled on a short, powerful neck. The knuckles of his right hand had the four playing card suits tattooed across the top.

"Good evening," Willie replied. He shook the offered hand, applying a veneer of civility to the meeting. They were just grandfather and grandson, catching up on family news, not an aging businessman with arthritis in his bones, talking to a henchman working for the local crime boss. "Coffee?"

"No, thank you," said his visitor with unexpected politeness. "We should be going." He looked around the cafe."Is anybody coming with you?" The man spoke passable German. Like many Yugoslavs, he must have worked in Germany before the war, and acquired the language.

"No, I'm alone." Willie grinned, and the wolf that he glimpsed in the window was back, if only for a moment. "I'll follow you in my car." The thug, named Josep, Willie later found out, shrugged and headed for the door.

Willie followed the Mercedes as it threaded the dim, narrow, streets. They stopped once to let a NATO patrol cross an intersection in front of them. The troops in the back of the armoured vehicle, muffled up against the cool of the night, glanced at them with mild curiosity, before disappearing down a back alley in a puff of diesel exhaust. Josep stopped in front of a two-story house. A light burned on the upper level. He got out and swaggered up to Willie's window. "He's inside." He gestured with his thumb.

Willie followed the walkway leading to wooden a door almost lost in the shadows. He entered and found himself at the base of stairway.

"Come on up!" The voice was cheery, friendly, welcoming a guest who had traveled far. Willie's doubts resurfaced as he climbed the stairs, illuminated only by light spilling from the room at the top. Was he really prepared to go through with his plan? He had come to this strange and dangerous place because his lawyer, Fritz Waldheim, an old and trusted friend, had made this connection for Willie. How did Fritz, with his thick glasses and chubby little hands, know roughhewn gunman and bandits in the hinterlands? The answer was simple: Fritz, too, was a product of the war. He had been a soldier; he had lived through the reconstruction that followed the defeat, with its bitter taste of guilt and shame. Like Willie, he had survived and emerged from the post-war twilight, comfortable, wealthy even, with the past left behind, like a bad stretch of road. When Willie had approached him with his plans for expansion into the raw and still-bleeding economy of the Balkans, Fritz had not been surprised. It was as if he was expecting it. "I know some people that can help," he said, as they drank Schnapps in Waldheim's tidy, bourgeois Berlin office. "As you can appreciate, doing business there is not like doing business here. You need help, somebody who can introduce you to the men who run the place."

Willie had not told Fritz about his other interest, the real reason he was going to Drvar. That was his private demon.

He wondered if it had been a mistake to leave his Luger behind at the hotel. His best weapon had always been his wits, and it was no different now. Besides, what was he going to do, shoot them all like some American cowboy if he got into trouble? Men like Josep, young and rattler mean, would empty his magazine into him before he could draw the gun out of his coat.

Willie reached the top of the stairwell and entered the thick atmosphere of the room, heavy with the harsh smoke of Balkan cigarettes. A compact figure sat behind a table, playing solitaire. The remains of supper sat discarded on a plate beside him. A second man, who had been standing behind the owner of the voice, walked over and patted him down. _Thug number Two_. Willie was glad that he had left the Luger behind. His host laughed and spoke in fluent German. "We are old men, you and I, but I think we would both like to grow older, no? You can't be too careful in these sad times." His voice had the phlegmy rasp of a chain smoker.

"No offense taken," said Willie as he sat down.

The man behind the table held out his hand. "I'm Tibor. And you are Moltke?" Willie accepted the proffered hand.

"Please call me Willie."

Tibor continued. "You are a brave man to come out here yourself. I respect that. I think we may have some business that we can do together, Herr Moltke. You must think the same; otherwise, you would not be here."

"Yes. I believe in talking to a man face to face," said Willie. "I understand that if people need help getting started they come to you."

"Some people, not all. There are those who would rather see me fail in my efforts. But they are few." He looked at his henchman and said,"Slivo." Thug Number Two nodded and left, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of clear liquid and some glasses. Tibor poured out two drinks of slivovitz, the notorious plum brandy enjoyed throughout the Balkans. " _Zhivila!_ To life!" He raised his glass. Willie did the same and they both drank. The liquor was thick and sweet going down his throat, followed by a steady burn. This was no Schnapps in Fritz's office. "So please, Herr Moltke, explain your plan, and I will see how I can assist you in some way. You must want something very badly. Why else would a man like you, successful, wealthy, come all this way just to see me? I'm sure you have men to represent your interests. Why do I, a humble workingman, get the honor of this visit? Perhaps, your interests are not of the kind publicized in the financial papers." He smiled, and winked conspiratorially. "Sometimes, the gears need grease, no?"

Willie smiled back. "I need you to move the Croatian Army unit out of Drvar."

"Straight to the point. I like that, Herr Moltke. But the Serb army couldn't do that, what makes you think I can?"

"Because you are a man of...influence. It's not the entire HVO brigade that I'm concerned about, just the company in the supply dump, north of the city."

"The one near Tito's cave. The HVO use it to store ammunition."

"It's the compound I need, not the cave. I'm expanding my interests into the logging business."

Tibor laughed again. "Logging. Ah, poor Hrvastksa. Even the trees are not safe here. Now it makes sense, this whole thing. My German friend must remain above trying to influence the HVO and the politics of Hravastksa, or, at least, appear as such. You Germans tried that before, a long time ago, no? Too many eyes on the place now, especially your allies in NATO."

"Yes, something like that."

"You know, the Germans, they destroyed this country and many others."

"It was the Nazis," replied Willie. He sighed with resignation. "And it was long ago."

Tibor looked at him, his cold blue eyes cutting through the cigarette smoke that swirled around his face.

"Were you in the war?"

"Wasn't everybody our age?" Willie replied, with an underlying bitterness that surprised him. He was tired of apologizing for his past. He was tired of the judgments of men, no better than him, who had been on the "winning" side. Nor, did he want to hear another litany of the evils his nation had inflicted on the world. He had heard all the sermons.

"SS?"

" _Falshirmjagger_. A paratrooper."

Tibor's eyes flashed a trace of surprise. "So you know Drvar well? Many of your comrades died here."

"No," Willie lied. "I fought in Crete and Italy, not here."

"The SS killed my parents," said Tibor. A stony silence followed as both men stared at each other, their pasts flickering through their minds like old newsreels.

"They killed everybody's parents," Willie said. What in the hell was he doing, antagonizing a man who could have him killed with a nod to the impassive body guard sitting a discreet distance away from them? Tibor's eyes were two gun sights and his face an emotionless mask. Then the mask wrinkled around the eyes and he let out a huge laugh.

"You are a bastard, but I like you! More Slivo!" He poured two more drinks.

"I think we can work together on this to both our benefit," said Tibor, "I will speak to the Brigade Commander and he will move the company out of the compound. They will need someplace to go, but we will find something for them."

"And in return?" asked Willie

"In return, you will give me ten percent of the gross earnings from the logging company."

"Ten percent seems a bit high. I am not here for charity work. I need some something for my efforts."

Tibor's face returned to granite.

"It is the cost of doing business in Drvar, my friend. Take it or leave it."

"Agreed," Willie said, looking angry. He hoped his protest convinced Tibor that business was Willie's only concern in Drvar. Once he was done with the cave, he could end the charade and Tibor's ten percent would amount to nothing. Willie enjoyed a petty satisfaction in bluffing this arrogant, dangerous little man, powerful only within his little criminal fiefdom.

Tibor's humour returned and they closed the deal with another glass of Slivo. The liquor was beginning to affect Willie. Anymore and it would be a wild ride back to the hotel. Fortunately, Tibor ended the meeting with a handshake.

"Good night," said Tibor. "We shall talk again, sometime. I will visit the HVO tomorrow and it should not be long before the compound is empty."

"I'll be staying at the Bastasi hotel until I'm satisfied that all is in order."

"Enjoy your Balkan holiday. You should have come when the weather was better. Josep will make sure you get back safe."

"I don't like the heat," Willie replied as he left the room.

He followed the black Mercedes through a warren of backstreets, retracing the route they had taken earlier in the evening, until they reached the Bastasi hotel. The black car stopped and Willie drove past him, parking in front of the Chalet. He waved to Josep as the Mercedes shot out of the parking lot, fishtailing on the slippery road. The lights were still on in the cafe, and the same cheery fire burned in the stove. Willie was tired. He stood in the warm lobby, surrounded by the smell of coffee and wood smoke; the meeting with Tibor seemed surreal. But the buzzing in his head from the powerful plum brandy was very real. In the morning, he would call Fritz and have him send Willie's work crew down. Now that he had access to the cave and work could begin, he needed his own men, men he could trust. He was sure that Tibor would insist using some local hire, if only to keep an eye on his ten percent. No matter, Willie's men would only be here a short time and he was confident that they could maintain the logging façade for a few weeks.

As he climbed the stairs to his room, his stomach churned. It was more than the alcohol, he realized. The doubts from earlier in the evening returned. Was he too late? Had too many years passed for any secrets to stay buried? He had the advantage of the map, and he had come this far. He would not stop now. He had always pushed himself and that had been the key to his success. After the war, he had wandered penniless, in the rags of his uniform, through the streets of Berlin, looking for work, food, anything. Eventually he found it. He took a job as a carpenter's apprentice, soon mastering the trade. The reconstruction boom of the 1950s provided many opportunities for a man who was good with his hands and even better with his brains. From carpenter he evolved into contractor and businessman. Now here he was, stirring through the ashes of Bosnia's civil war, staying in a cheap hotel and making deals with gangsters. It was like a bad movie. He lay down on the hard, narrow bed, and was asleep in minutes.

Tibor sat at his desk, watching shadows from the flickering lantern dance across the wall. Despite Moltke's assurances, he was puzzled. Why would a comfortable businessman come all this way, _on his own_ , to set up a logging company? He could have sent an agent of his behalf. Perhaps he was the kind of man who preferred to do things himself, especially if they were not entirely legal. Tibor could respect and understand that. Whatever the reason, Tibor was going to take advantage of it. Money was flowing into Drvar from all sides. The international community was funding development and reconstruction, and it was Tibor's contractors doing most of the work. Humanitarian aid, generously donated by western nations, found its way into the black market, earning a respectable profit. Businessmen, like Moltke, hungry for the unfettered capitalism offered by Bosnia's unregulated economy, were harvesting the country's natural resources, sharing the wealth with those who gave them access, and he, Tibor, sat at the center of this web.

Illegal logging kept money in the hands of the few and discouraged refugees driven out of Drvar during the war from returning. Without work, there was no reason to come back to their shattered homes. It was better to start again somewhere else. The fewer returnees that came back, the less attention the world gave places like Drvar, and Tibor's illegal enterprises. But the altruism of the many European countries that sheltered most of the refugees from the war was fading. Now that a form of peace had settled on the Balkans, it was time to return them to their homes. Agencies like the UN High Commission for Refugees were organizing visits for displaced Bosnians. It was the first step to resettlement in their old villages. The first trips to Drvar had already occurred, bringing busloads of cautious, curious Serbs to view their old homes. This was bad for business and Tibor needed to put an end to this. Moreover, it was the only way to ensure peace. This is what the diplomats and politicians did not understand. The war had driven Muslim to Muslim, Croatian to Croatian and Serb to Serb. They were all in their proper places. Why try to return to the myth of Yugoslavia? It only caused unhappiness.

He would encourage Moltke to log the forests around the Serb villages, employing only Tibor's foresters, and deprive the refugees of any livelihood beside their meager farms. Eventually they would leave, or be burned out. In the end, he would win. He would see General Tocic tomorrow. They could move the logistics company into the old glass works near the Brigade headquarters. It was a good place for the soldiers anyway and, located in the centre of town, would cause more worry to the returnees. Moltke could have the compound, but Tibor had one more use for the cave before the German took it over. He would have to be quick. It wouldn't be long, maybe a few weeks, before Moltke set up his logging company.

Moltke's visit had dredged up memories of that violent morning, more than fifty years ago, when the German troops descended upon Drvar, their stubby gliders dropping like malevolent birds from the sky. He had been with his dying uncle in the stable on his father's farm. His uncle had told him of a treasure buried in the cave, in an "Englishman's box". He had a map for Tibor, but the young boy had been frightened away by an enemy soldier before his uncle could give it to him. When he returned his uncle was dead and the map was gone.

He had checked the cave several times since his return to Drvar, but each search had yielded nothing, no box nor any trace of hidden treasure; without the map, it was fruitless. The passage ended in a wall of rubble, debris from the explosion that collapsed the narrow tunnel, covering Tito's escape to the other side of the valley. It had led to a train track at one point, but the rails had long since been removed and the exit where Tito slipped out to safety grown over and forgotten.

Who had the Englishman been? He remembered the English agents that had worked with the partisans throughout the war. There was nothing linking them to his uncle, or any secret in Tito's cave.

The night of the attack on Drvar, as German troops departed the ruined village, leaving the bodies of both civilians and guerilla PWs slumped dead against the courthouse walls, Tibor found the partisans; or rather they found him, weeping beside the smoldering timbers of his home. The German reprisals in Drvar had been merciless and the executions many, Tibor's parents among them. Somebody, a stranger, took him by the shoulder with a gentle hand, rough with calluses. Tibor could only remember a bearded face, shadowed in the night, and the smell of tobacco and wet wool. The man had been very tall and he took Tibor by the hand and led him away as the tears spilled out.

He woke up in the partisan camp the next morning, and remained with them for the rest of the war. These men and women, dressed in a mix of German trousers, Italian tunics, and British boots, became his family. Tibor hauled ammunition, cooked meals, and carried messages until they deemed him capable enough to carry his own rifle and take part in combat. Each ambush was revenge for his parents, his uncle, his village. One death however, remained unrequited: the officer that had driven him from the stables. Tibor had run in fear, and the shame still burned inside him. If he had shown more courage, he might have saved his uncle. Now he carried the man's blood on his hands, and this burden would be part of him until he died.

Eventually, he found himself in Belgrade awaiting the arrival of the Western Allies. The partisans had liberated the old Kingdom. Yugoslavia was free to chart its own new destiny. But the killing didn't end with the war. Allied victory ushered in a new era of chaos and violence. The old wounds festered, as they always did, among the stubborn memories of those with scores to settle. The Chetniks and the communists, the Serbs and the Nazi-backed Ustashe, all threatened to turn the country into yet another battlefield. Tito ended that, suppressing the old poison of ethnic nationalism with his own brand of communism so ruthless that even the Soviets left him to himself. It needed to be that way, Tibor acknowledged. Under the flag of a new Yugoslavia, he had returned home...

(July 1945)

...His heart lightened as he stopped to gaze at the valley. He could have stayed in Belgrade, but there were too many communists in Belgrade. His war was over. He had fought for this, for the freedom to walk down this road with hope in his heart. Many of his friends had died for it. He shifted the weight of the rifle on his back and reached into his pocket for tobacco and some paper. He sat on the verge of the road savoring a cigarette and the view of the village below. Here and there, among the devastation of war, rebuilding was taking place. Smoke from cooking fires drifted up towards the blue canopy of sky. Children, only a few years younger than him, laughed and they played their games. Excitement about the future waiting for him, replaced old feelings of anger and revenge. From where he sat, he could see the ruins of his home, overgrown with wild patches of weed.

It took another hour to get to the valley floor. The villagers greeted him with the normal curiosity that accompanies a stranger. People looked out from doorways and smiled, watching him as he passed along the street.

"Tibor!" A man limped towards him. It was Anton Milac, his parents' neighbor. Anton embraced him, and suddenly Tibor felt his age. He had been ten when he left with the partisans three years ago. Outwardly, he was a boy of thirteen, but three years of war had robbed him of his youth.

Anton's strong arms around Tibor's shoulders reminded him of all he had lost. "Anton, you survived the war."

"Yes, Tibor, but I gave a bit of my foot to the fatherland. Help an old man make his way back home, would you?"

Tibor took the satchel that Anton was carrying and slung it on his back. Together they walked towards Anton's house. The satchel contained two loaves of fresh bread. Tibor realized that he had not eaten since morning and the smell of warm bread made his stomach rumble.

"Eat, eat," said Anton tearing a loaf in half and giving it to Tibor. "There is some cheese in the bottom as well, and when we get to my house, the wife will put on some kava. We can talk and be neighbors again." He fell silent for a moment. "Your parents did not survive..."

Tibor nodded. "I know. I have shed my tears for them. Life must begin anew."

"Wisdom from a boy!" Anton laughed. "It's good to see you, young one. It's been a while since you pinched the plums from my trees." Tibor laughed as he remembered those days. Anton looked old, but Tibor would have put him in his late forties given the age of his parents. Anton always seemed older as he chased Tibor out of his orchard with a stick. Now, deep lines creased his face and the hair that stuck out from under his cap had grayed. The war had taken its toll on everybody.

"You had some of the sweetest fruit on your trees."

"Yes, and you ate good plums that could have made good slivo." Tibor let Anton lead the way, pausing when the strain seemed too much for Anton's damaged leg. Drvar, it seemed, was coming back to life. The streets were clear of rubble, and the buildings, although pocked-marked with shrapnel and small arms fire, looked clean and tidy. Blankets covered empty windowpanes. Anton followed Tibor's gaze.

"People are coming back. Like you. I'm hoping to seed my field again. The orchards are still there, along with the weeds. The Germans couldn't beat them either." He laughed. "The new council is starting up brickworks as well. There will be work for those who want it, for those who want to stay." Tibor caught his look.

"Maybe there will be some work for me," Tibor said. Eventually they arrived at Anton's house. He pushed the battered gate open and they entered the sparse, rustic dwelling. A pot of hot water steamed on the wood stove.

Anton's wife was busy scrubbing the dirt from a pile of potatoes. "Halya, look what the wind blew into Drvar."

She embraced Tibor, holding him tight to her ample bosom, the stub of a cigarette stuck out of her lips. "Anton, I send you for bread, and you bring company," she laughed. "Ah, Tibor, look at you. You are a man. It's too bad I don't have a daughter to marry to you."

"Not even in the house one minute and already you are marrying him off. You women are all the same," grumbled Anton. "Put on some Kava. Tibor has come a long way. He needs to eat and rest. Tonight you will be our guest." They lunched on potatoes, bread and cheese, which Tibor ate with relish. The genuine affection pouring out of Halya and Anton made the simple meal even better. "We thought you had been killed also," said Halya. "We hid in the woods until the Germans left. When we returned, your house was in ashes, and you, your parents, everybody, gone. We didn't know that you joined the partisans. Anton did as well, but it was months after the attack." Halya explained as they ate.

"I wasn't with them long," said Anton. "A mine took off part of my foot. I would have been more burden than help to the resistance, so I came back here, to Halya." As they finished the meal, the unspoken question that Tibor anticipated for was voiced. "So what will you do now, Tibor?"

He looked at Anton. "I'm going to rebuild my parents' house and farm my father's fields. And I will help you with yours, Anton. You can give me plums in return." Anton said nothing but Tibor could see the gratitude in his eyes. Tibor was young and growing into a strong young man. Anton, with his bad leg, could not manage alone.

"You can stay here with us until your house is ready. It's decided," said Anton. "No discussion!

"Thank you," said Tibor.

After their meal, Tibor and Anton went to look at Tibor's former home. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he had lived in this little yard, helping his father as he chopped and stacked wood, herding their lone cow to pasture, and taking a lunch out to his father and uncle working the fields on the village edge. A profound loneliness gripped him. Someday, his son, in his daydreams he always had a son, would play in this same yard, and bring him out some lunch as he worked in the fields. He walked over to where the house had stood. A few charred timbers were all that remained.

"They are buried in the cemetery here. You should visit them." Tibor nodded. He waited for some emotion to seize him but nothing came. He had cried all his tears. He turned to Anton.

"I'll start with the stable first. Once it is done, I can live in there until winter, and by that time the house should be finished."

"A good idea. But do you know anything about building houses?"

"No, but how hard can it be?"

"Ah, to be young." Anton smiled at him. "Everything is so easy. I have a friend who is a carpenter. He will help us." Tibor looked at Anton with gratitude and affection.

"Good, that will leave me plenty of time to steal your plums."

The stable where his uncle had died was still standing. The roof had collapsed in a number of spots, but Tibor believed he could repair it. He walked to the doorway and looked inside. It was much as Tibor remembered it. The holes in the roof had caused some weathering but the damage was marginal. A good cleaning and a new roof, and Tibor could move in. The corner where his uncle had lain was empty. He felt a surge of familiar anger. How hard had his heart become, he wondered, that he could not cry for his parents, yet burn to avenge his uncle?

Throughout the spring, he and Anton labored to put in their crops. Morning and afternoon, they worked the fields, using Anton's draught horse and plow. Evenings were spent reconditioning the stable, to make Tibor more comfortable, and then starting the main house. By early summer, only the roof remained unfinished. Halya organized a work party of neighbors and friends to complete the job before harvest time.

The pot hissed in Halya's kitchen as she churned out cup after cup of kava to greet those who turned up on that warm August day. Work began during the cool of the morning, before the fiery Balkan sun rose over the mountains and made the men drip sweat. By noon, the rafters were up. They stopped for lunch, drinking cool well water from tin cups, and feasting on bread and roast lamb. Halya had been cooking it over hot coals all morning, turning it on a spit; the delicious smell was a pleasant backdrop to the construction effort. Then Nikla arrived.

Nikla was head of the local People's Committee. The Committees provided government within the territories liberated by the partisans. They were temporary bodies, in place until the country formed a new national government after ousting the Germans. In some areas, such as Drvar, they outlasted the war and became the de facto local government. Everybody knew Nikla. With his large frame and shrapnel-scarred face, he was an imposing figure as he held court in the municipal building. Officially, he was one vote among the ten members of the committee, but as the elected head, and renowned bully, he held sway over the complete organization. It seemed he was everywhere.

Nikla had fought for the partisans and had established a reputation as a fierce fighter, but a cruel man. He dominated the committee by fear. He was Nikla the Bastard to most. He had gained the position because he was a fanatical communist, and held it only through intimidation. Anton had pointed him out to Tibor a few weeks after Tibor's return. Tibor had taken no notice of him. He had his own concerns and plans and the People's Committee did not interest him.

The party atmosphere evaporated as Nikla walked through the gate. His presence silenced the chatter of friends and neighbours. They looked up from their meals with trepidation. Nothing good could come from a visit by the Bastard.

"It's good to see the people working," Nikla remarked, looking at Anton.

"Yes, many hands lighten the load," Anton replied. "We should have Tibor in his house by harvest."

"His house?"

"This was his parents' home. They gave their lives for the fatherland, and he is their son. Ownership is his."

"Anton," said Tibor, "let me speak. This was my father's farm, and his father before that. My uncle died in that stable, from wounds received defending Drvar. Our blood runs in the soil. This is what makes it mine."

Nikla scowled at him."Tell me, Tibor, why you don't come to the committee meetings and the village meetings? Are you not committed to the cause? Are you not a friend of the people? Are you a fascist?" He spat the last word out like a bad taste in his mouth. He glared at Tibor, his eyes a challenge. Tension rippled through the group. Nikla was accusing Tibor of treason. Tibor broke the explosive silence.

"I have fought the fascists. That speaks for itself."

"What do you, a boy, know of fighting?" He advanced towards Tibor, drawing up his full height. Nikla stood at six foot three, and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, all muscle and meanness. The talk was that he'd killed a man with his bare hands in Sarajevo. Tibor stood his ground, a short, sinewy, David facing an imposing Goliath. He still held the axe he had used to notch the rails that formed the rafters. Nikla paused and looked around. "The owners of this property are deceased. They have given their lives for the common good. It is only right that their land receives the same privilege! I'm claiming this land in the name of the People's Committee." He turned and glared at Tibor. Tibor remained motionless. His quiet reply carried a confidence beyond his years.

"Nikla, this land is mine." Nikla turned back to him, unaccustomed to public defiance. He took another step towards Tibor. Anton stepped in his way.

"Nikla, for God's sake, he is just a boy."

"A boy who needs a lesson in manners." A cord snapped in Nikla's brain as the blood lust grew. Tibor saw the look in his eyes. He had seen it before, in men half crazed from fighting, reduced to primal instincts, wanting only to kill and keep killing. The huge man knocked Anton over with a sweep of his arm and advanced on Tibor. A knife flashed in his hand. Tibor's axe swept upward, splitting Nikla's groin, blood spraying the ground in a macabre fan. The blade arced through the air a second time, separating Nikla's neck from his shoulder. He lurched forward and fell face down to the ground. The axe slid from Tibor's hands and fell to the dirt; his body began to quiver, burning off adrenaline.

Anton stood up, unsteady on his wounded leg. "The son of a bitch got what he deserved," he said, his voice loud enough for all to hear. "You were defending yourself, Tibor."

"But, Anton," said one of the men in the crowd, "what are you going to do? He had friends, powerful men."

"Who were his friends?" roared Anton "Nobody! He won't be missed. You saw what happened here today. He attacked Tibor and Tibor defended himself. Tell that to his powerful friends." Anton spit on the still body. "I will tell the committee myself."

And tell them he did. He argued Tibor's case as self-defence. The committee, freed from Nikla's stifling presence, and bowing to the crowd of witnesses who testified on Tibor's behalf, accepted Anton's argument. They buried Nikla and soon forgot him. Life moved on.

The People's Committee elected Anton as their head. He held office until Tibor succeeded him five years later. The Communist Party replaced the People's Committee, and Tibor, despite never professing communism, embraced the change. He was learning, making connections that would serve him later in life, and drawing his own conclusions about human nature. Slivo began to get the better of Anton, leaving Tibor to manage the farms. In the year of Tibor's thirtieth birthday, Anton succumbed to a heart attack, killed by drink. Halya followed soon after, dying of lung cancer from her single vice, tobacco. For the second time in his life, Tibor had lost his parents. Despite his personal misfortune, his standing within Drvar grew. He became the source of advice that others sought, the man to know if you wanted to get a start. Eventually, nothing happened in the community without his blessing or approval. This world collapsed with Tito's death and the turmoil that followed. The civil war, sparked by Slovenia's secession, and Europe's recognition of separate Balkan states like Croatia, turned the rubble of former Yugoslavia into ash.

Reluctantly, Tibor picked up arms again. The fighting was more brutal this time, almost medieval in its barbarity, and it leeched out the last bits of compassion within him. When it was over, he re-established his network, but black marketeering and extortion becoming his trade instead of business. Old neighbors and friends became enemies because they had been born to different churches. His parents' house, it seemed, would always be burning.

The logistics unit left the compound without fanfare. A NATO patrol escorted the convoy of trucks to their new home three kilometers away. As the exhaust vanished behind the last of them, Josep closed the hasp on a shiny new padlock, securing the chain snaked through the metal gate, and claimed the compound for Willie Moltke.
Chapter 7

"Something's going on," said Cole as he and Marty entered Rena's room. The team had been waiting for their arrival to plan their next move. Max and Cole had taken a drive to fuel up the SUVs and get a feel for the layout of the town in daylight. "We saw a convoy of HVO vehicles moving down the street towards the far end of town. We traced them back and they were coming from the logistics dump. It looks like they're abandoning it."

"Well, that's good news for us," said Rena. "Now we can get in and have a look around without any interference."

"Maybe, maybe not. We saw a guy in a black Mercedes locking the place up. He wasn't your average farmer, if you know what I mean. I've seen his kind before. Hired muscle."

"So the local mafia is grabbing the cave. Do you think they know what's inside?" asked Marty.

"I don't know," replied Cole. He looked at Rena. "Well?"

"There's no way they could know. We're the only ones who have my grandfather's journal. And without the map, it would be impossible."

"I think it's time we did some humanitarian work," said Cole. "Rena, you speak the language. Take Max and see if you can talk to the guys running the town, the mayor or somebody, and hang out in one of the cafes for a while, listen to the gossip. The rest of us are going to pay a visit to the NATO camp and introduce ourselves."

"I hope they have good chow," said Harry. "I'm growing tired of fried cheese."

"Geez, you wouldn't have known that at lunch today, the way you tucked into it. You must have eaten half a dairy barn," Marty baited Harry.

"Yeah, whatever," said Harry, tossing him the universal one-fingered salute.

"Let's move," said Cole, "and Rena, be careful."

"Don't worry; I've got Max to cover my back."

The municipal office was a gray, square, functional, two-story walk up, looking very government, and in its day, very communist. Inside, a large lady with hennaed hair met Rena and Max. She glared at Rena from behind the reception desk. Rena wasn't sure if it was a mistrust of foreigners, or the woman's displeasure with having to expend effort to deal with a visitor.

" _Dovijanja_ , good day," said Rena, "we are with the Mustard Seed Group. I would like to talk to the mayor about redevelopment and reconstruction here in Drvar. Our organization is looking to build houses for returning displaced persons." The woman looked at her with contempt.

"The mayor is not here, only the deputy mayor."

"Well then, can I see the deputy mayor?"

"Do you have an appointment?" Henna Hair remarked smugly, knowing that Rena did not. _Post-Berlin wall syndrome._

Rena smiled. "Maybe he could fit me in?"

"He is very busy."

"Nonsense." Rena looked behind her, where the voice had come from. A short, dark-complexioned man had walked in through the entrance. He smiled at Rena and held his hand out to Max. "Dragen Durago, Deputy Mayor. Pleased to meet you, Miss..?"

"Rena," she said. "And this is my associate Max." Max followed the conversation. The whole team had been trying to learn bits of Serbo-Croatian on the way down, and they had been very adept. Their ability surprised Rena. "Tricks of the trade." Cole had told her when she mentioned it.

"Coffee," Dragen said imperiously to Henna Hair, as he ushered Rena and Max into his office. The office also served as the council chamber, and he motioned them to two chairs as he sat down at the head of the long table filling the room. The interior was cool and both Rena and Max kept their jackets on. "We do not have any power to heat the building and I have yet to light the stove. The two of you are most welcome here," he continued, "you come at a time when we need help. This poor country has suffered greatly and now we have a chance to rebuild what we have lost. It is a shame you did not come here ten years ago to see it before it was destroyed."

"Yes, it's very sad, but hopefully we can put the past behind, and start again, like it was in the old days, neighbors being neighbors, not Serbs, or Croats, or Muslims."

"I'm afraid that we shall never return to that. The idea of Yugoslavia has been dead for years. We have gone too far down this road of civil war. I know you look at me, and you wonder how this could have happened, how we went from Serbs marrying Croatians, and living in peace with Muslim friends, to killing each other. We wonder ourselves sometimes. When the war started, things changed. If a Serb or a Muslim in a village in the Krajina killed your cousin, then you no longer see your Serbian or Muslim neighbor the same way. Then you hear of camps ...atrocities. The rift gets larger, the anger and hatred grows, until you kill your neighbour because his kind has destroyed away everything you value. Now you see why we cannot go back. Maybe, God willing, our grandchildren, or their children. But we cannot. We need fences, and soldiers between us."

A knock interrupted them. The surly receptionist brought in a tray of cups and a small coffee pot. The strong coffee smelled warm and inviting, given the chill in the council room. She laid a plate of biscuits alongside the coffee service. Max took one out of politeness, _probably dusted with arsenic by the sunny receptionist_ , he thought, after the deputy mayor had poured him his coffee. He left Rena to converse with the official while he listed intently, testing his rudimentary grasp of the language.

"And you will find these larger problems reflected within this little town. Even I cannot visit the village where I was born, where I buried my mother and father. The Serbs control it and they will not let me return. So I make my home here, and I make space for all those like me, who have nowhere to return. So you can see the difficulty we face."

"We are here to help everybody, no matter who they are," Rena replied.

"I can understand that. You have the best intentions, but you have come at a difficult time. The mood in Drvar is not very friendly to outsiders, or to returnees. There has been trouble with the refugee visits."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Peaceful protests, demonstrations, some rock throwing, and in the most extreme circumstances, arson."

"Arson?"

"Yes, there have been some terrible fires lately. The houses of many of the displaced, who come back for a visit, hoping to move back to their old homes, suddenly find their homes destroyed. Somebody is setting fire to them. It is quite a tragedy."

"What have the police done?"

"What can the police do? They are afraid for their lives as well."

"And NATO?"

"Even less. They are here to deal with the HVO, not civilian policing. They patrol the streets, but they cannot understand what is going on here. This is our politics."

"So who is responsible for this?"

The deputy mayor smiled. "Nobody knows, but if you ask me it is the Serbs."

"Why would the Serbs want to burn down their homes?"

"To draw worldwide attention to their problems. To blame the HVO and the Croatians, force them to leave so the Serbs can take over Drvar again. It's an old trick." Dragen's eyes flashed. "What do you think you will accomplish here? Even though you can speak our language, you are still an outsider. What will you do here?

"Build homes for people who need them, Serb, Croat, or Muslim."

Dragen softened. "I wish you the best. But you have to understand what lies ahead for you. I'm old enough to remember what it was like before the war. My heart cries for those days. But it weeps less and less now."

Rena thanked him for the coffee and told the deputy mayor that they had to meet their colleagues at the UNHCR office. The silent hostility from the receptionist trailed behind them as they left.

"They aren't much for customer service, are they?" said Max as they left the office.

"No, I would say not," Rena laughed.

"The deputy mayor is a bit of a drama queen."

"I'm afraid that he is right, though," said Rena. She knew how deep hatred could run among the Yugoslavs, remembering the attitudes of her grandmother's friends among London's expatriate community. "This place could explode at any moment. These are desperate people, coming out of the shadow of a vicious civil war. They have a deep sense of their history, and the rights and wrongs of hundreds of years ago are as fresh as if they happened last week."

"It's always the same," said Max. "These countries would be great if it weren't for the people."

"You have seen this before, haven't you?" said Rena sadly.

"Yeah, too many times. The story never changes, just the faces and the landscape. Maybe we don't have it all figured out in the US but it's a damned sight better than a lot of places."

"Yes, you just have to keep it that way."

"Well, the way I see it, as long as everybody has a big screen TV and a new Ford parked outside, they're happy and won't monkey around with shit like this."

The street seemed strangely quiet, as though the inhabitants of Drvar were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. A few idlers, all men, filled the cafe across the street, and they watched Max and Rena with mild curiosity. Reconstruction and aid had brought many foreigners to their land, driving expensive vehicles, and spending money chasing noble ideas. Some of the men glanced at Rena admiringly. "Let's head back to the hotel," she said, "and check if Cole and the others are back. They'll certainly be interested in what we found out."

They pulled away from the curb and traveled down the broken asphalt street, cratered by war and neglect. Max glanced in the mirror.

"We're being followed. See the black Mercedes in the mirror? Whoever it is, they aren't very good. You can spot them a mile away." Rena glanced into the side mirror and spotted the tail. She was glad to have Max with her. The time she had spent with Cole and his team had given her a good appreciation of their abilities. She knew she was safe, and had made the right choice in picking Cole and his men to help her with this venture. That somebody in the town was interested in them was a bad sign. Drvar was a dangerous place, and, after talking to the deputy mayor, she realized it was much more dangerous than she had expected.

"Let's go to the UNHCR office. I don't trust the deputy mayor. If he put the tail on us, we should keep to our story."

"Your wish is my command," replied Max.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number. Tibor answered after a few rings. "So, what do you have for me?"

"The woman was in here a few minutes ago. She was talking about rebuilding houses for returning refugees. I tried to scare her off. But it's hard to tell. You know how these people are. They think that with good intentions, they are invincible."

"The last thing we need is somebody building houses here in Drvar for the displaced. There are plenty of homes for them in the Krajina. Josep is watching her and the men who are with her. Maybe they will need a bit more persuasion to leave, like the others. It was good of you to call me." Tibor hung up.

Dragen sighed. First, it was the communists, and now it was Tibor and his crowd. There was always somebody making people bend to their will, making life uncomfortable for everybody else with their schemes and their madness. If he had not called him, Dragen knew he would get a visit from one of Tibor's men, asking questions and making threats. Tibor ran the place and he was a monster. But, Dragen reflected, he was their monster, and in a world of monsters, that made a difference.
Chapter 8

It was like every military camp he'd experienced. Soldiers, looking bored, manned the entrance. A machine gun covered the main road in, the dark needle of its barrel jutting out of a sandbagged bunker, and Cole bet there were gun positions covering the back and any other approaches to the base. The NATO flag, a white four-pointed star on a blue background, flew from a metal pole alongside the sentry hut that controlled access to the camp. They drove through a tight chicane of gravel filled, 45-gallon drums designed to protect the gate from being rammed by a vehicle. These were standard precautions intended to minimize the impact of a terrorist attack against the facility. The camp was located in an old flourmill. Although situated in a valley, the site's size and wide, paved area selection offered an administrative ease that favoured its selection. . The location made defence against an attack difficult. Cole absorbed these details within the few minutes it took to reach the camp's main gate. A row of razor wire stretched across the road like a malevolent slinky stopped them at the entrance. A soldier approached them from the sentry hut. His had his weapon slung over his shoulder and he carried a clipboard. The other soldiers in the hut looked intently at Cole as he got out of the vehicle. Their weapons remained cradled in their arms, but Cole could see that they were ready to react if need be. The soldier with the clipboard wrote down the license plate of the SUV. "So what's your business here?"

"I'm with an aid agency. We are looking to fix the houses of the returning refugees," said Cole. "I'd like to talk to your commander to get an idea of the security situation, and just to introduce myself and my team. It's nice to see a friendly face now and again."

The soldier looked at him with indifference that in no way resembled a friendly face. "Uh huh." Cole could sympathize; the young man was in a volatile land, trying to complete a convoluted and difficult mission, where "victory" was hard, if not impossible, to define. "OK. Just hang on. I'll have to call the duty officer." He returned to the sentry hut and Cole heard the rasp of a Motorola radio. Moments later, the soldier came out.

"The DO will be here in a few minutes. I need the names of everybody with you." Cole complied and showed him his driver's license as well, appearing even more eager to cooperate with the gate commander's requests. He struck up a conversation with the soldier while they waited for the Duty Officer to arrive.

"So how's the tour going?"

"It's been crazy these last few days. We're having problems with the local bad boys. They're causing a lot of shit and pissing our guys off."

"Oh yeah, what's happened?"

"Grenade attack on one of our patrols. Some small arms fire. We have been lucky so far. Nobody has been hurt."

"Who's busting your balls?"

"That's the wildest part about it," said the soldier. "It's the guys we're trying to protect, the Serbs."

"That seems a bit odd. Why would they be doing that?"

"Who knows? This place is a nut house." He looked at Cole with suspicion, suggesting that anybody who had spent any time in the Balkans knew it was a nut house and didn't need an explanation. A tall, lanky lieutenant strolled up to them and interrupted the conversation. He had a pistol strapped to his hip, and a carried a Motorola in his hand.

"Hi, Lieutenant Dave Boyne," he said, introducing himself.

"Cole Samson."

"I'll take you up to the command post. You can talk to the second-in-command, Captain Zbignew. The OC is out right now. The Captain can fill you in the situation in town. Your guys can go up to the mess hall and grab a bite, if they like." Harry's face brightened behind the windshield of the SUV. "Visitor parking is further down. Corporal McKinley," he said to the gate commander, "have one of your men guide the vehicle into camp and show them where to park. After that would you please take them to the kitchen?"

"Sir." The corporal acknowledged and went over to speak with Harry. Cole followed the young officer as he strode off toward the center of the camp towards what appeared to be a warehouse for storing the flour that the mill produced. Antennas and radio masts stuck out of the roof. Sandbags filled the windows, and a network of telephone lines ran along the gutter. A set of steps brought them to the old loading dock and they entered the building through a battered wooden door; more stairs inside led to a second level. Signs, posted around the stairwell stated, "Unauthorized entry prohibited." "The CP's up here." Dan gestured with his Motorola. Cole followed him up to the operations center on the second floor. The muted squawk of radio traffic mingled with voices in a room at the end of a short hall. A small office opened to Cole's left and the duty officer motioned for him to enter. A large man with bright red hair greeted Cole. "John Zbignew. I'm the second in command of the company here in Drvar, and I'm also the operations officer."

"Pleased to meet you. I suppose Dave has told you why I'm here."

"Yes. You'll need to register the names of your team and your office location with our ops center. It's part of our plan to protect foreign nationals if the threat level rises." Cole nodded in acknowledgement. He did not intend to give any information to these guys. With Karlos's packages, they could look after themselves.

"Speaking of the threat level, what is going on in town?"

"It's a long complicated story. Here's the reader's digest version." He walked over to a map taped to the wall and beckoned Cole to follow.

"The Dayton Accord that ended the Balkan war, for now, included freedom of movement throughout Bosnia and the right of the displaced to return to their homes. The world is desperately trying to resettle these people, especially as many of them have taken refuge in Western Europe. A lot of countries were glad to take them in during the war, but now they want to send them home before they become permanent residents. The UNHCR organizes return visits for these displaced people. It's a measured approach. They can see the state of the old homestead, gauge the political climate, and decide if it's worth coming back to their old life, or not. But the community doesn't welcome the returnees. The locals hold demonstrations and protests, and there is a darker side to it. Some eager firebug is running around town torching houses the day after these returnees visit. Worse yet, an old couple were determined to spend the night in their old house. One of our patrols noticed the house was on fire and saw the two lying inside. The patrol risked their skins to get in and rescue them, only to find out that somebody had shot them long before the blaze started. Both executed, shot in the head. The culprits wanted it to look like they died in the fire. As it was, the house eventually burned to the ground, destroying all the evidence. We expected a reaction to these visits, but nothing along these lines. But, it's the Balkans. The place is like an onion, layer upon layer of lies and intrigue. And that's just the start. There are some strong supporters of the Hravatska Demokratska Koalcia, the Croation Democratic Coalition, HDK for short, in Drvar. It's the political movement that talks of a Greater Croatia, and makes no secret of their intent to keep the Serbs out. These guys are behind the protests and demonstrations. The mayor is head of the organization here.

"What about the army?"

"The HVO? It's hard to say. They appear to distance themselves from the HDK but clearly, they are not sympathetic to the returnees. They fought for this ground and don't want to see it handed back to the Serbs. That said, we haven't been able to link them to anything, yet."

"I saw a convoy of them moving down the road yesterday. They were headed into town."

"Yes. The HVO are consolidating their troops near their HQ. That was their logistic company. We had no prior notice about that. I suspect it was the US State Department's dong. They've had ties to the HVO ever since they started the Train and Assist program."

"What's Train and Assist?"

"It's an initiative designed to build up the HVO as a buffer to the JNA, the old Yugoslavian National Army, which is mostly Serb."

"So what does Train and Assist do?"

"Exactly that. They provide low-level military training to the HVO troops, boot camp, tactics, shooting, and stuff like that, and the US government bought them M-16 rifles, ammo, and uniforms."

"So the move into town was part of this?"

"I expect so. The US state department doesn't inform us of their decisions. After all, we are only responsible for the security of the region. Irony intended. All we see is the occasional black limousine with a VIP escort roll through town to the brigade HQ, and then things happen. But that's not the real problem in Drvar," Zbignew continued. "We've seen a reaction to our presence lately. We have had a few attacks on some of our patrols. It looks like the locals are taking it up a notch. Nobody had been hurt, yet, but if this keeps up, there may be some dead shit-disturbers in town."

"Who wants you out? Don't most people see you as a way of keeping order, and allowing them to get back their lives?"

"It depends which side of the fence you're on. If this was your home, before the war drove you away, then yeah, you want NATO around. If your agenda differs from the Dayton Accord, then NATO is another obstacle to your endgame. The real power here is with the mob, organized crime, the gangbangers." Now Drvar made sense to Cole. It was the old tragic story: in the anarchy of civil war, authority crumbled and criminals and warlords filled the vacuum.

"So you guys have an idea who the top dog is?" asked Cole.

"We're working on it." John's tone was noncommittal and Cole believed that he was holding something back. In a place like Drvar, trust took time to develop. "So what's your story?"

"Our organization, the Mustard Seed Group, will rebuild homes destroyed during the war to help folks come home, like Dayton promised."

"That sounds good, but, some advice: most of the folks here haven't read the Dayton Accord. They may not be as understanding."

"We can appreciate that. That's why we're doing a recce first, to determine the scope of the problem. Our head office in Frankfurt will decide whether we invest any effort into this place. There has to be some prospect of success."

John laughed wryly. "That's why we're all here, to ensure some prospect of success. Good luck to you. Be sure to register you contact details with the Duty Officer, in case we need to evacuate you. Things could get very ugly out there."

"Thanks. We'll check in once we set up our office. For now we're at the Bastasi Hotel."

"Another thing," said John, "any information you pick up about what's going on in town would be appreciated. Sometimes people are more comfortable talking to an aid worker than a soldier. Keep your ears open." Cole assured him that he would. He had what he needed. The HVO were moving out of the logistics compound as part of a larger plan. It would make getting into the cave easier now. But with the state department snooping around, things were a bit riskier. He had to get back to the hotel for a quick war council with Rena and plan their next steps.

John offered to escort him to the mess so he could get Harry and Marty. They walked through a maze of rooms and doorways. The warehouse was now a tent city. Troops lay on field cots, sleeping, reading magazines, talking, or cleaning kit; scenes Cole had seen hundreds of times all over the globe.

He smelled the fried grease from the kitchen as they walked through yet another doorway into the dining area. Rows of tables flanked by folding chairs had been set up with military regimentation. Soldiers and civilians were scattered throughout, eating off plastic Melmac plates, drinking coffee from a variety of personalized mugs, or playing cards. He saw Harry and Marty in the back at a table to themselves. He turned and shook John's hand. "Thanks for your help and the information. We'll be sure to register with you once we're settled."

"It's the wise thing to do. Otherwise your ass will be in the wind if the balloon goes up." John nodded goodbye, and left Cole to join his team.

Harry looked up. "Hey Cole, they got some decent chow, and a gym. We should come here more often."

"Don't get too attached, Harry. We need to stay away from this place. We'll get too much attention. I could spot you guys a mile away. You don't look like the typical aid worker. These guys aren't stupid and the whole works will unravel if they see too much of us. We get this job done and get out ASAP." He told them about the conversation he'd had upstairs as they walked back to the SUV.

"So the US Government is involved in this whole mess too. It figures," said Marty.

"Yep, and the last thing we need is for some of its finest citizens to be caught with some Nazi loot," said Cole.

As he walked back to his office, John Zbignew was making his own deductions after meeting with Cole. Samson was nothing like other NGO staff he had seen in Drvar. He listened too much, and spoke too little. The guy was cut from a different cloth to be sure. He was probably from the US State Department, here to watch the guys who trained the HVO. Samson looked military in bearing, as did his companions. The one guy was built like a brick shithouse. If he was here to hand out candy and build houses, then John was a monkey's uncle, and there were no simians in his family tree. Well, he would be keeping his eye on Mr. Cole Samson and company, yes sir.

Cole and his men left the camp behind them and turned up the road towards the Bastasi hotel. Cole's cell phone jingled in his pocket. It was Rena. "Cole, just to let you know, somebody is a bit too interested in what we're doing here. A black Mercedes is tailing Max and me. It's been following us since we left the mayor's office."

"Right. Make your way back to the hotel. We'll set up a little surprise for your friend." He turned to Harry. "Find a side road." A track leading away from the narrow pavement appeared on their left. Harry did a neat three-point turn and backed down the track. Cole spoke to Rena. "Tell Max that we're in position. Where are you?"

"We're coming up to the road to the hotel." The Bastasi was located on the outskirts of town, at the end of a picturesque road that followed the valley floor. There was only one way in.

"Ok, we see you," Cole answered as Max and Rena's white SUV appeared along the faded pavement. The black Mercedes trailed behind them. "We got your tail too. Tell Max we're going to box him in on my call." He could hear Rena passing on his instructions. Max would know instantly what Cole had in mind. The team had worked together long enough to need little direction. Everything was a drill.

Max began to speed up along the road. If the tail kept pace it would give him less time to anticipate what was about to happen. The SUV flashed across their front with the black Mercedes a few seconds behind. "Now!" Cole shouted into the phone. The lead SUV braked and drifted sideways across the road, leaving no room for the Mercedes to pass. It skidded to a halt with a frantic screech of tires. Harry gunned the engine and spun out onto the road, turning sharply and cutting off any escape from the rear.

Josep saw a second white SUV appear behind him. What the hell were these guys up to? He had been lucky enough to avoid smashing into the rear end of the crazy bastards. His heart pounded. He was blocked front and rear and could not get around without driving into the fields along the road. Going off the pavement would finish the Mercedes. They had boxed him in. Two men approached from behind, with a third remaining at the vehicle. The driver of the front vehicle was walking towards him, cautiously. The driver's door flew open and a large hand pulled him out by his jacket collar. A second hand flashed to his rear and his pistol, tucked into the waistband of his pants, was gone. He sagged in the grip of the powerful man who held him. Like any bully, when confronted with a show of strength, Josep would back down and slink away. However, there was no slinking away now.

"OK, Buddy, what's your story?" said the big man who had grabbed him. Josep knew some English, mostly from watching HBO, but he chose to remain silent.

"Get Rena," said Cole. The big man let him go and Josep leaned against the car to steady himself. His legs quivered inside his jeans. He became the picture of bruised dignity as Rena approached him.

"What's this all about?" he said, trying to sound angry; but the tremble in his voice betrayed him.

"I was about to ask you the same question," said Rena.

"Who are you and why were you following us?"

Josep relaxed. They had his pistol, but everybody seemed calm, although the big guy still scowled at him.

"My name is Kovich," said Josep, using one of many aliases. "I wanted to speak to you, to see if you needed accommodation. I have a house in town and I know that foreigners often need a place to stay while they do their good work here," he added ingratiatingly. Inside Josep burned. They had humbled him like a dog, in front of this woman. These bastards would pay. The woman translated to the compact, muscular, man with brown hair, clearly the leader, but Josep couldn't hear the conversation. The big man just glared at him. "But if you don't want my house, I will go," he said.

"You aren't going anywhere yet," said the leader.

"You can't keep me here. I will go to the police!" His breath was hot and rank in Rena's face. The big man grabbed his collar once again and shook him. The leader waved Josep's pistol at his face.

"What's this for?" she asked.

"Protection. Drvar can be a dangerous place, as you can tell."

"We'll keep this for our own protection," said the leader. "Now you get in your car and leave. Tell whomever you work for that our business is not with him, and he would do best not to be too curious. Remember, it kills cats. If we see you hanging around here, we will need to have another chat. " Rena translated, and Josep's glare required no interpretation. He got back into the Mercedes and waved angrily at the Land Cruiser blocking the path behind him. Marty straightened out the SUV and the Mercedes accelerated past him with a snort of exhaust.

"Looks like you made a new friend Cole" said Harry as they watched the Mercedes disappear among the overgrown fields and thickets lining the road. "I still think we should have roughed him up a bit."

"You might get your chance yet, Harry," said Cole. "I hope we don't see him again, but I bet we will." He recounted his conversation with John Zbignew for Rena and Max's sake.

"And, thanks to our pal in the black Mercedes, we have to move even faster. Our cover is thin as it is, and won't last too long now that we've got the local mafia checking us out. We need to get a look into the cave within the next few days."

"Local mafia. You mean the guy in the Mercedes?" asked Rena.

"Exactly," replied Cole. "Who else would be bombing around like he owns the place, and packing a 9mm? You hired us, Rena, because you wanted the job done fast and clean. Well, that's what we aim to do. Ok, let's mount up." Cole sent Max and Rena ahead to the hotel, promising to meet them within the hour. He wanted a look at the now empty compound before he returned to the Bastasi.

The SUV trundled down the potholed road towards the abandoned logistic dump. The asphalt was dotted with mortar splash. In some places, square segments were missing. Dirt now filled these gaps, but the regular pattern of the breaks made the original intent all too clear.

"Looks like this road was mined at one time," said Marty. "Small wonder that the war is still fresh in everybody's minds here in town."

"Let's hope they didn't leave any behind, otherwise we'll be flying back to the hotel," said Harry, as he swerved around the narrow slits in the pavement. They had the road to themselves. Few people ventured out this way as the road ended in a dead end past the compound. Shadows lengthened as the early winter evening crept nearer. Dead vegetation covered the fields laid out along the narrow strip of pavement, the farmers who ploughed them dead or exiled to another part of the country. An anaemic sun added a sepia glow to the picture of abandonment and despair, as it burned faint in the gray sky.

"Last one out, shut off the lights," Marty uttered. They drove past the entrance. The gate was open and they could see two vehicles parked inside. One was a gray BMW and the other was the black Mercedes.

"Hey Cole, looks like our friend gets around," said Harry. The driver of the Mercedes was talking to a tall elderly man. The two men in the compound had their backs to them as the studied the collection of buildings that previously housed the logistic unit. Cole recognized his companion. "It's the guy from the hotel, when we came in the other night. He was having a coffee in the cafe," said Cole.

"So what's he doing here?' said Marty.

"Go and ask him," prompted Harry. "I'm sure he will be happy to reveal his dirty scheme to you. Why wouldn't he? You have an honest face."

"This from a face that would scare a blind man," replied Marty, scowling.

"He's tied to something in this town," said Cole. "Otherwise he wouldn't be rubbing shoulders with the mob. His poking around this compound doesn't help us. This whole thing is getting very dodgy." They turned around at the end of the road and traveled back down the route. Cole and his team scanned the ground around the site with practiced attention. The smallest detail could mean the difference between mission success or mission failure. Cole noted the field approaching the site from the west and the dimensions of the chain link fence enclosing the compound. The site backed on to the high range of hills that ringed Drvar. Somewhere in those hills behind the office, buildings and warehouse lay the mystery that lured them to this strange and subtly sinister land, hidden away for the last fifty years, a long time. A military presence on this site meant troops would have scoured every aspect of the place, as part of their duties, or just out of sheer boredom. But they had signed on with Rena, and she believed. His team would give her their best, despite the odds.

The fence was about eight feet high. Neglected and ignored by the soldiers who had garrisoned the compound, gaps were evident between the chain link and the ground as the fence sagged forward in places. The gaps were large enough for a man to squeeze through. The fence closed off a three-sided perimeter, with the two ends running towards the hillside. It would be easy enough to approach from the open field, west of the compound and get in under the fence. With the site freshly abandoned, it would be easy to infiltrate, search the cave using Rena's map, and slip out without detection. They would do it tonight. A night's work and they would be on their way back to Budapest and home. Cole felt a twinge of regret. It would mean saying goodbye to Rena.

Cole had Marty take digital photos as they rolled by, trying to fix the layout of the site and the position of the cave. Cole noticed a dark line in the hill behind the compound. Bingo! He pointed it out to Marty. "Got it," Marty replied as the digital camera clicked, simulating a shutter.

"Ok, back to the Ranch." Cole directed. The ride back to the Bastasi was quiet. Cole, deep in thought, was planning the night's action and Harry and Marty both knew it was pointless to talk to him when he got to this stage. They would get the details soon enough.

The usual collection of NGO vehicles were scattered around the hotel's gravel parking lot. International aid workers were the only people staying at the Bastasi nowadays. The halcyon era of tourist travel was a memory now. The vehicles, however, never seemed to move and it appeared that most of the aid was delivered in the hotel's cafe. Guests, waiting on supper, filled the small dining area. They were mostly European. Representatives of the Red Cross, Medecins Sans Frontières, and other agencies sipped dark Turkish coffee and chewed overcooked cutlets. A few looked up at as Cole and his friends passed through to the stairs, but nobody spoke to them. They were still too new and, as Americans, the Europeans viewed them with distrust, suspecting some secret agenda.

Max was waiting inside Cole's room, pouring over the satellite photos laid out on the table. "We got some shots of the ground to go along with those," said Cole as he tossed Max the digital camera. "Have a look."

Max looked through the images. "Seems pretty simple. You could drive a tank through these holes in the fence, nothing worth stealing in that log unit, I suppose."

"Yeah, who would want another rifle and a thousand rounds? It would clash with the RPG in the bedroom," said Harry.

"I'll get Rena," said Cole. He walked down the hallway to Rena's room and knocked. Rena invited him in. She was coming out of the bathroom as he entered, clad only in a bra and panties.

"I just had a shower," she explained.

"I'm sorry to intrude," replied Cole. "I'll let you get dressed."

"Oh, don't be such a Boy Scout, Cole. I'm perfectly decent, and my honor has not been compromised because you saw me in my knickers." She tugged on some pants and slipped on a sweater. For a moment, their eyes met. _Perfectly decent, was she? Well, she was perfect_ , he thought, remembering the alabaster skin, and the tight, athletic body. Yes, he would regret parting company with Rena when this was over.
Chapter 9

He stood at the opening, staring into the darkness. Committed, he crossed the threshold into the gloom. The wind swirling around the edge embraced him, like the arm of a corpse, in an icy "hail, fellow, well met." Willie snapped on a flashlight. The thin beam of light illuminated a low arch of roof, about ten feet high. It was bigger than he had imagined. He turned and looked out into the valley. Too many good men died in the madness of that long ago morning, fighting to capture the spot where he now stood. He walked into the inky interior, picking his way through piles of empty ammunition cans, metal strapping, and wooden pallets littering the floor. The cave sloped downwards as it narrowed. Debris on the ground turned into jumbled rock and he stepped around pumpkin-sized boulders. The HVO had not used this part of the cave for storage. Despite the litter, the ground behind him had been free of rubble. Now he was walking through a scree field. The roof dropped to head height and he crouched as he moved forward, until a pile of sand and gravel stopped him. He had reached the end. There were no signs of digging. His pulse raced. The Chalice might still lay undisturbed behind a curtain of rock. He had no way of gauging the depth of the rubble blocking his way. It could take some work to tunnel through pile of stone and sand in front of him, but he was close.

He reached into his pocket and brought out the map to check it yet again. He had carried the scrap of oilcloth with him during the desperate days following the war, ink fading, folds tearing, sensing, but not knowing its value. It was important; otherwise, the dying man he had taken it from would not have been studying it with his last breath. Beyond that, it was a mystery.

As his business prospered, the secret behind the map lost its hold on him. He tucked it away with the few mementoes he kept from the war. The conundrum of the map became a novelty, an interesting hobby, but nothing more. He spoke to collectors and visited libraries looking for some key to the treasure hidden in the small nondescript town of Drvar. He discovered the story of the Chalice by accident. A dealer had referred him to an aging monk from Belgrade who had fled Tito's communist regime. Rasputin, they called him, the mad monk. He had taken refuge in Berlin and, after the rigorous discipline of the monastic life, had thrown himself headlong into the epicurean delights of the world. He was an acknowledged master on religious art, often consulted by dealers and museums for his expertise, despite his penchant for young men and designer drugs.

They met in Rasputin's apartment, a train wreck of religious icons and modern art. Despite his sins of the flesh, the defrocked brother had not completely divested himself of his previous life and remained caught in an anguished struggle between the sacred and profane. The monk's houseboy served coffee, dark and thick.

"So, my friend, you are interested in Balkan art?"

"Yes, I'm always looking for works that inspire me," said Willie.

"Inspiration comes in many forms." Rasputin smiled, eying his young servant. "But it is only a select few who can enjoy this inspiration. You won't find many of the great works of the Balkans in galleries or museums. Private collectors hoard them, as is the case with so much art. There are works that the world will not see, because selfish men prefer to gaze upon these marvels in private, drawing more satisfaction from knowing they alone have this wonder, than from the magnificence of the piece itself. Are you one of these men, Herr Moltke?" The dissipated monk looked at Willie through bloodshot eyes astride a nose traced with spider veins.

"Let's just say that I have an interest in certain works that you may be aware of."

"Indeed. Well, based on what you told me on the telephone, I have done some research into your interests. Several items fall into the category you described." Suffering from the previous night's excesses, Rasputin beckoned for more coffee. "As you know, the Nazis were voracious in their theft of art work, and anything of remote value was taken from churches, galleries and monasteries. The region in question was home to a monastic order dating back to feudal times. The brothers at Czerna Gora venerated St. Vladimir the Redeemer. They were the guardians of the Chalice of the saint, a remarkable example of gold work. The devout believe the saint used it for communion after the battle of Kosovo Polje. But this is incorrect, for the Prince Vladimir died before the Chalice was completed. You are familiar enough with Balkan history to understand the significance of the battle of Kosovo Polje, are you not?" Willie murmured in assent. From his own research, he recalled that the battle had pitted the cream of Slavic chivalry against the Ottoman Empire. The defeat of Serbian knights by the Turks in 1389, close to modern day Pristina, turned Serbia into a vassal state and established an Islamic foothold in the Balkans. This pivotal moment inspired Serbian nationalist sentiment throughout the 19th century and Slobodan Milosevic invoked its emotive power to promote Serbian hegemony during the breakup of Yugoslavia.

"The monastery was burned to the ground by the Germans during WWII, and the Chalice vanished from the public eye. It is likely that the Germans took the Chalice from the monastery before torching it. From then on, its location has remained a mystery." The old debauché went on to describe several other pieces, ranging from oil paintings to sculpture, sharing a similar fate. Willie listened with feigned interest. His attention kept returning to the Chalice. The artifact came closest to matching the rude sketch, a goblet of some sort with small dark circles, possibly representing inlaid jewels, scribbled on the map, almost as an afterthought. The monastery at Czerna Gora was about forty kilometers from Drvar. If somebody had hidden the Chalice in the cave at some point, how did it get there? That was another mystery, but no matter how it had made its way to Tito's cave, Willie felt certain that this was the treasure waiting at the end of the map.

That had been two years ago and Willie's world had been much different then. His business was well established and, while cautious, he was not averse to seizing opportunities when they presented themselves. Acting on a tip from a friend at his club, he invested in a Canadian gold mining company. The shares grew in value, almost exponentially. People were becoming millionaires overnight. Willie, seduced by the siren call of greed, and needing some capital, sank money from his business's operating funds into the venture. It was only supposed to be for the short term. He planned to wait a few days, flip the stock, and replace the funds, minus the tidy profit it earned.

He was having his morning coffee in his study when the news broke. The huge gold field in Indonesia touted by the company turned out to be an elaborate fraud. Willie's shares were worthless. Despite the charm of a warm spring morning, he sank into the dark swells of depression and his coffee turned to bile. It would take a month or so before anybody noticed the missing funds. Then loan payments would forfeit, and the company would collapse. The banks would sell off his life's work in little pieces, leaving him penniless. Bitter memories of poverty resurfaced. Willie, gripped by cold and desperation, trudging the bombed out streets of Berlin, belly aching with hunger, looking for work along with the other zombies casting hopeless, vacant looks, their souls more dead than alive. He could never return to that. He could never face the shame of telling his wife and family. He had been reckless, stupid, no better than some gin soaked gambler, betting the milk money on dice. With trembling hands, he unlocked the drawer that held the Luger he had carried as an officer. The map, carefully folded, lay on top of the walnut pistol case, an omen. Beside it was Rasputin's business card.

There was a new houseboy, and Rasputin looked closer to death than ever, but he remembered Willie and their conversation.

"How much is the Chalice worth?" Willie asked. Rasputin looked curious. He wet his thick lips with his tongue, but did not ask the question that was waiting in his eyes.

"That would depend. Public auction would be impossible due to the historical significance of the work. Private auction, I would estimate about one million pounds, or more."

The dealer was silent for a moment.

"There are ways, if you know the right people," he answered. Willie nodded.

He estimated the distance from the mouth of the cave to the Chalice's hiding place to be about three hundred meters. It was two hundred and ninety meters to the wall of rubble blocking the interior. That meant his men had to tunnel through ten or twenty meters of debris to get to the other side. His crew would cut through that with ease in a few days. Within two weeks he could be back in Germany, the gaping hole in his ledger filled, and his life back to normal.

He had financed this venture by cashing in a collection of bonds, the last of his personal savings. His men were to arrive a week after him, giving him time to reconnoiter the cave. He had told them that the job involved a few small construction projects. Mining through a rock wall with hand tools would be a surprise, but they would do it. These were hand-picked men who had been with his company for years, solid and reliable. With the help of a few healthy bonuses, he could rely on them to keep quiet about the job. His foreman, Walter, would see to that.

As he stood in the small circle of light from his flashlight, a faint breeze tickled his face. Encouraged, he studied the mound of scree and rock, looking for a gap or fissure in the debris that opened to the passage on the other side of the barrier.The distant surge of an engine interrupted his search. He hurried back to the mouth of the cave.

Josep steered lazily into the compound. The German's car was visible in front of the long narrow building that had housed the unit HQ. He stopped alongside the BMW. Where was the old bastard? As he stepped out of the car, pulling his black leather slicker close to cut the wind, he saw Moltke walking towards him. He was coming from the HVO ammo dump in the old cave. Dammit, why was the geezer prowling around in places he didn't belong? Tibor would not be happy. He didn't want anybody snooping in there until the operation was complete. Josep wondered what attraction lay in an empty hole in the ground. Just because that old bugger Tito had slept in it one night, it had become a goddam shrine.

" _Dovijannia_! 'Good day.' Out for a walk? It's good for you, this fresh air. But I have something else that's good for you, too."

"What's that?" asked Willie. The only thing good at this moment would be a lightning bolt that reduced Josep to sizzling ash. Willie had hoped his deal with Tibor would remain simple. He was relying on the man's greed to deliver what he promised and then walk away. Now, he sensed complications with Josep's visit.

"Tibor will provide you with good workmen for your business. He understands how hard it is to get good, reliable help nowadays." Willie stiffened. So that was Tibor's angle.

"I have some of my own crew coming in a few days. So I'm not quite sure if I will need anybody else."

"Ah, but these men know the countryside, the people, they can be very valuable. And helping them will give you and your business a good name. That is very important in business, no?"

"I'll think about it." He moved past Josep towards his car.

Josep stopped him. "I don't think this is negotiable." A white SUV drove past the gate. It travelled to the end of the road and then turned around. Willie noticed Josep's face darken with anger.

"Friends of yours?" he asked.

"Fucking Americans," Josep replied. The driver of the SUV waved, and Josep responded by giving him the finger. Willie filed a mental note. Somehow, these Americans had gotten under the skin of Tibor and his gang. They could be useful if Tibor started to tighten the screws too much.

"I didn't know there were Americans here."

"Yes, the meddling bastards are involved in some kind of charity work." Josep stopped. His anger had exposed a vulnerability to the German. He had given something away for nothing; this was an unpardonable sin in Tibor's eyes. He had been careless, and Tibor did not pay him to be careless. Tibor would be crazy with rage if he found out. The old man was getting worse as the drink began to carry him away. The mornings when Tibor glared at Josep and the others through a haze of cigarette smoke, irritable and petulant, grumbling like an old lady, grew more and more frequent. But they couldn't leave him. They had been little more than kids fighting in yet another Yugoslav war, when he took them under his wing. The cagey old partisan knew how to keep them alive in combat. He taught them the basics, tactics, how to spring an ambush, how to keep your smokes dry and, thanks to him, they all lived through it, with scars to prove it. Now Tibor's "boys" formed his inner circle, and it was Josep, always Tibor's favorite, who sat at his right hand. Josep, who would someday take over the wide network of influence, graft, and crime that Tibor controlled. But Josep still had much to learn from his mentor. Tibor was a survivor, he had been one since his days in the old communist party, and in the aftermath of the civil war, he remained one still, thriving on the chaos around him. Now Josep honed this same instinct at the feet of his master.

"I'm sure that Tibor has my best interests in mind," said Willie. "And I'm equally sure that I could use some local expertise to get my venture started. You're a very convincing negotiator." The sarcasm was lost on Josep and instead he smiled at the praise.

"You should be careful walking around this place. You never know what they may have left behind. Our men will clean it up for you; make it safe for your workers. And you should stay out of the old cave. It's dangerous. There is nothing of interest in there. Tito left long ago."

Willie's face reddened. "Yes, I noticed it, and I took a quick look," said Willie. "But caves are nasty places, best left alone."

"Yes, best left alone." Josep smiled, but tombstones flickered in his eyes.

"Sound advice," Willie replied nonchalantly. "You know what curiosity did to the cat." He smiled back, with a look as cold as liquid nitrogen, and Josep saw remnants of the wolf lurking inside Willie, beneath his dignified, urbane facade. He lost his brash confidence, but soon regained it, reminding himself that this was just a tired old man, no threat to him or Tibor.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, my young friend," said Willie, "I must be going. I'm sure that Tibor will get back to me with the details. My foreman will be here in a few days and we can start hiring."

"Even better, Mr. Moltke, we'll send some men to clean the place up before your people arrive."

"Oh?" Willie didn't want to appear too reluctant, afraid he might draw more unwanted interest from Tibor and his collection of criminals. He suspected that Tibor took a percentage of his men's wages in exchange for getting them employment. No unions here.

He looked back at Josep, and nodded. "Perhaps that would be a good idea. Thank you." He turned and walked away. The wind was colder now, as the sun dropped towards the horizon. The moon was already up, pinning a navy sky to the glittering edge of heaven. Willie drove out of the compound and turned down the pitted track that passed for a road. His mind raced like the BMW's engine. He would have to change his plans, and speed things up before Tibor's "goodwill" prevented any chance of finding the Chalice. This problem was not insurmountable. When you swam with sharks, you had to expect the odd bite or two.

As he passed through the dark, empty streets, Willie noticed a Multivest Corporation sign fixed on an old glass factory in the heart of Drvar. The site, damaged during the war, now had several office trailers, sitting like Lego blocks, among the shattered workshops. Willie wondered who was behind Multivest. He imagined that they too, had required Tibor's consent to operate in Drvar. He wondered how extensive Tibor's network was. Fritz had given him Tibor's name and Willie had not asked any questions. But, if Fritz knew of him, the man's reach extended beyond this humble little town.

The true owners of Multivest had covered their tracks well. Any business that involved Tibor was outside the law. Fortunately, for corporations like Multivest, the law was still struggling in this nascent state so recently wracked by war.

Willie nosed the gray BMW into the Hotel's parking lot, steering around mammoth potholes. He reflected on Josep's reaction in the compound. There was something about these Americans that bothered Josep, and by extension, Tibor. Perhaps it was time to introduce himself to his fellow guests.

He went up to his room, after exchanging polite banalities with the desk clerk, and opened up a sleek black brief case containing a satellite phone, courtesy of his company, now facing corporate doom. A few minutes later, the system identified a satellite and Willie put his call though. His foreman, Walter, answered with his usual boisterous beer hall manner. "Hello boss, how are things in that old shithole Bosnia?" Willie had not hired Walter for his tact. But he was a natural leader, and could get the best out of any crew that worked for him. At times Willie believed that Walter could actually get blood from a stone.

"I've run into a few problems down here. We need to modify our plans."

"Say the word, boss, and it will be done."

"I need you and a small crew out here as fast as you can travel. Our planned timelines won't work. There are some difficulties with the locals."

"I understand." Walter would come prepared for the concerns implied in Willie's words.

"And one more thing, Walter. Could you check on an aid agency for me? I need the details on the Mustard Seed group," he said, recalling the logo on the side of Cole's SUV. "It's American. Their people are working here in Drvar and I want to know more about them. They may be of help to us. Call me when you have something." He rang off. His stomach growled. He threw his overcoat on the bed and ventured downstairs to the cafe.

Josep watched Moltke's tail lights vanish. His thin leather jacket did little to keep out the weather, but it was his style. One did not look cool in a fur cap and overcoat. He made a call on his cell phone, the wind biting into his hands, and watched, shivering, as several trucks lumbered through the gate. The drivers had been waiting for Josep's cue. It took them less than hour to unload their cargo and store it in the cave. Josep smiled as the men worked. Everything was falling into place.

He checked his watch. It was almost six o'clock. In an hour, it would be dark and he could get to work. He traveled around the back lanes looking for houses marked with Chetnik graffiti by his men. These were the houses owned by Serbs, the same Serbs who were planning to come back to Drvar and take over again. He singled out one at the end of a street, standing apart from its neighbours. After midnight, when the NATO patrols were less frequent, he would return to the lonely house and break in, if he had to. He would make a small pile of kindling and set a candle in the midst. It would take an hour for the candle to burn down. By the time the house was ablaze, Josep would be back at Tibor's or the Cafe Boom, Boom, and another Serb house would burn. The NATO patrols would scurry around, increasing their presence until they too lost interest but each fire was a dire message to those Serbs with the nerves to think about coming back _: stay away or get burned out_!

That was for later this evening. Now it was time for some sleep, then supper and Slivo at the Boom, Boom, and, afterwards, maybe a visit to Mila, the pretty redhead who served drinks at the Cafe. Thinking these happy thoughts, Josep, thug first class, whistled happily, as he drove towards the center of town.
Chapter 10

The white SUVs bounced to a stop. "Hey, that looks like the gray BMW that was parked in the HVO compound, the one next to our pal's black Mercedes," said Harry. "Whoever the guy is, he must be staying here too."

"You're on the money, Harry," said Cole. "Curiouser, and curiouser."

"The plates are European, German," offered Rena. "It could be somebody from Multivest, judging from the signs at the old glass factory; they are setting up shop here."

"Whoever he is, he was in the compound, with our rude young friend from this afternoon. This could mean another problem for us," said Marty.

"We just have to be careful and quick," said Cole. "And we'll be out of here before these guys can blink. Unless they know about what's in the cave as well." Cole looked at Rena.

"Impossible!" she replied. "Only my grandfather and his friend knew about the Chalice. Drago died during the war. That leaves my grandfather. Nobody outside our family was ever told about it."

"All right," said Cole. "Either way, we better get moving on this job. My spider sense is starting to tingle. This town feels like a tinderbox, just waiting for a match. I don't want to be here when it blows."

"Amen to that," said Harry. They went inside. The wood stove was glowing and the inviting scent of roast meat escaped from a hidden kitchen.

"Mmmm,"said Harry, "just smell that, supper time."

"For once I agree with the walking stomach. I'm hungry," said Marty. They made their way to the small collection of tables near the bar. The cafe was empty except for the elderly, distinguished man Cole recognized from the compound. Here was the owner of the BMW. The remains of a stringy piece of chicken and some fried potatoes loitered in his plate. They sat down at the two remaining tables. The waiter, who also tended bar and ran the front desk, acknowledged them with a nod and wiped his hands on a towel. He picked up a writing pad and glided to their side.

"I'll have the chicken and the veal," said Harry. The waiter raised an eyebrow.

"Both? Two meals?" He asked in halting English.

"Yes, both, two meals," Henry replied. The waiter smiled, amused by Harry's struggling attempt to speak some Serbo-Croatian. The others passed on their orders to the man, and he retreated to the kitchen with the same fluidity as he arrived. "No doubt to prepare the food," thought Cole, who made sure to leave a healthy tip to this jack-of-all-trades.

"You have made a better choice than I," the BMW owner said to Cole. "The chicken was made of rubber, and the potatoes of clay. I think I will try the veal next time."

"Well, I'm sure there are still plenty of tires left in the kitchen."

"Indeed. But, I have been very rude. Allow me to introduce myself. Herr William Moltke."

"Cole Samson, and this is Rena, Marty, Max and Harry," said Cole, introducing the others at the table.

Willie looked at Rena. "Charmed to meet such an elegant lady." Rena blushed. He then nodded to the others "Gentlemen." There was a brief pause and then he said, "Judging from your accents, you are not from Europe." He looked at Cole. He seemed friendly enough, but looking into those eyes was like facing a searchlight.

"No, we four are from America, and young Rena here is from England."

"Ah, two very wonderful countries. So what brings you to this humble little town, so far from home?" He spoke English well, cultured, and slightly accented.

"Our agency is here to help rebuild houses destroyed by the war, so people can return home, resettle, and start again," said Cole. "What about you?"

"I have come for less altruistic reasons. I'm starting a lumber business here, but it will employ many locals, and that too will help these people. I believe you Americans understand the benefits of free enterprise."

"Are you here alone?" asked Rena.

"Yes," replied Moltke.

"Aren't you concerned about your safety?" asked Marty.

Willie turned to him "What is there to fear in this pleasant little town?" A faint smile crossed his lips. "Is something that I should be afraid of?"

"No, it's just you're a long way from home, living in the wild, wild, west and you are on your own," said Marty.

"I understand your concern, my young friend, but do not worry for me. I have some colleagues arriving early next week, to begin setting up the mill. They will keep me company, and there is always safety in numbers, as you know." He gestured at their group and smiled his little smile again. "And what type of aid do you provide?"

"Building material and expertise. Reconstruction is done by the former residents, it helps with their self-respect, these are a proud people, who do not like charity," answered Rena, parroting the fictitious details of their cover story with a sincerity that would make the devil blush.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance with my lumber mill," said Willie.

"That would be wonderful," Rena said. "Any help would be appreciated. We don't have the monopoly on goodwill."

"I expect that local support is vital to your plans.

Have you met Josep, the young man with the black Mercedes? He has been very helpful in showing me around." Willie watched their faces for a reaction.

"Oh, that punk," said Harry. "Is that his name, Josep? And all along I thought it was Asshole."

"You will have to excuse Harry, sometimes he gets carried away," said Cole. "Harry's just upset because this fellow Josep cut us off on the road this afternoon, in town. It's over now. No hard feelings, right Har?"

Harry turned his attention to the bartender-cum-waiter. "Hey, do you have any Budweiser?" he asked. The man said nothing, shaking his head from side to side. "I didn't think so."

"So where will you be setting up your mill?" asked Rena.

"In the old HVO compound. It has the space and infrastructure that I need."

"When will it be up and running?" said Rena.

"It will take a few weeks to assemble the right machinery, but I should be in business by the end of the month."

"Perhaps we can stop by some time, to see how you can help us. Maybe you can donate some lumber," Rena said, smiling sweetly. That smile that could raise the pulse of a rock, Cole mused, and Willie was no exception.

"This may seem rude," said Willie "but I did not take you for aid workers."

"Oh," said Cole. "What, then?"

Willie laughed. "You look like the other American fellows who are here to train the HVO. You have the same appearance."

"Well, ex-soldiers often find this line of work somewhat satisfying. We used to be soldiers, but that's long past us now, ain't it boys? And of course, Rena is just wonderful company." The others nodded, and Rena blushed.

"Yes, I figured as much. You looked like soldiers. You wouldn't know it to look at these ancient bones, but I too was a young soldier at one time. A long time ago"

"Oh, yeah?" asked Harry, genuinely interested. "Which army?"

Willie smiled. "I'm German, after all."

"Oh, yeah, right," said Harry. "Well, you win some, and you lose some. Another drink all around? Garçon!" Harry looked over at the bartender and waved his hand in a circle.

"Thank you, but I must refuse your gracious offer. I have imposed far too much this evening. It was pleasure to meet you. Please contact me if you think I can help in any way." He handed a slim white card to Cole with " _W. Moltke_ " inscribed in gothic lettering, beneath the wings of the Prussian two-headed eagle. There was a phone number below the name.

"Take this," said Rena, "if you want some more dinner company. I'm sure we would be glad to oblige." She handed him a slip of paper. "It's my cell number."

"Hey," said Harry, smiling, "I've known you for weeks and you never gave _me_ your number."

"I guess I'm just luckier than you, my friend," Willie replied, patting Harry on the shoulder. "Well, good night to you all." He got up and gave them an exaggerated nod, almost a bow, draped his overcoat on his arm, and walked towards the stairwell.

Willie was satisfied with his reconnaissance. Samson and his friends looked like trouble if you got on their bad side. They could be the perfect foil against Tibor if he needed it, especially the big, loud one. It was always good to have some insurance. He whistled as he climbed the stairs.

Cole gestured towards Willie's departing figure. "He's another reason we have to get in that cave and look around, sooner rather than later. The place is becoming too popular for its own good."

"Yeah, it's a goddam tourist destination," observed Marty.

"Well, now we know what Moltke's connection is with the compound," said Rena. "I think we should take him up on his offer of a visit."

"There was something about the guy," said Cole. "I got the impression that he was fishing, checking us out. Maybe I'm just being cautious, but the lower profile we keep, the better. We're going to have to get in that cave tomorrow night and get the job done."

"Roger that, boss, so what's our next move?" asked Harry.

"Well, if I'm not mistaken, it's dinner," said Cole as the waiter/bartender/chef rolled a trolley towards their table. He made a show of taking their plates off the silver serving tray and laying them in front to them, pouring each a glass of water after he had set down their meals. He pulled a bottle of red wine out of an ice bucket.

"Compleemants of the hahz," he said in butchered English, and unscrewed the cap with a flourish. There wasn't much by way of presentation to recommend the meal and the fare looked very Eastern Block. Perestroika, it seemed, had not made it to the kitchen. All the side dishes consisted of potatoes, and each meal looked uncomfortably identical: veal or chicken, swimming in thin, greasy gravy. But the big loaves of crusty white bread were delicious and they all ate with relish. Cole hadn't realized how hungry he was, and judging by the others, they shared his appetite. It was always the same: get something in your belly when you could, and run on pure adrenalin when you had to. Max poured out the wine and offered a toast.

"Fortune favors the bold," he said and they raised their glasses.

"But often", replied Cole, "the bold make their own fortune."

"To fortunes, then!" said Marty and they all drank.

As the waiter cleared the dishes, Cole said, "We'll meet in my room in ten minutes."

"What, no dessert?" said Harry, with disappointment.

"You're already sweet enough, you big lug," quipped Marty, pinching Harry's cheek.

"Bugger off, Marty, you almost make me lose my appetite."

Cole returned to his room. He laid out Rena's maps and satellite photos on the bed, orienting the photos to the maps to provide an instant reference for the observer. Cole knew his men. They had an uncanny sense for ground, were experts at dead reckoning, and couldn't get lost if they tried.

He placed his equipment on the top of a small desk tucked into the corner of the room. He was well-prepared, with night vision goggles, a small Maglite with red lens, black wool knit watch cap, gloves and a lightweight fleece. He added a small first aid pack, compact but carrying the essentials, including morphine. He removed the magazine from an AK47, and cleared the action, confirming that it was empty. He put it on the desk, placing the thirty-round magazine next to it. The assault rifle lay there, dark and lethal, brooding. He also had a 9mm Browning in a shoulder holster, small, and deadly as an ex-wife with a lawyer.

There was a knock. "Cole, it's Rena, can I come in?"

He unlocked the door. Rena entered, dressed in a short black cotton hoody and black jeans. She wore a pair of hiking boots.

"And where are you planning to go?" asked Cole

"Same place you are," she said. "Remember, I'm part of the team as well." Her eyes strayed to the weapons on the desk.

"Will it be dangerous?" she whispered.

"It shouldn't be too bad. Ideally, the place is empty. We scale or breach the fence, in which case you may have to buy Mr. Moltke a new one, get into the cave and give the air vent a good look. If the map is accurate, we should be out of there in no time, Chalice in hand."

"Do you really think it will be that easy?"

"No. There are always complications. You can plan for everything, except the things you can't plan for."

"Cole... I just wanted to thank you again for helping me."

"It's business, Rena, pure and simple. But it's business that me and the boys are good at."

"Is that all it is, business?" she said.

Cole looked into the dark Atlantic of her eyes.

"Yes," he lied. "It's just business." Rena smiled. The flicker of emotion in his face betrayed him. _She'd bet he was a lousy poker player_.

"Right, then let's shake on it." She took Cole's hand.

He felt the smooth warmth of her palm, and imagined it touching his cheek. There was another knock at the door and Harry, Marty and Max were crowding into the room.

They stood around the maps and pictures, soldiers gathered around their commander, waiting for orders, as they had done hundreds of times before.

Cole pointed out the salient terrain features, the mountain range and the open field beside the compound. He identified each of the buildings in the compound and indicated where the fence line ran with his finger.

"Somewhere on this hillside is the airshaft that Rena's grandfather mentions in the diary. I expect the cave to have collapsed at some point, and, if Drago was any good at his job, the access from ground level is also blocked. Based on the distances in the map, the air vent, or shaft, if it's not filled in by now, will be about here." He indicated a spot on the hillside with a pencil, drawing a small circle on the photograph. "Max, you and I will be dropped off here, on the edge of the field." He drew another circle. "We'll cross over to the rear of the fence near the cave and scale the hill. Harry, Marty, and Rena, you're going to wait in the SUV and provide early warning. I want you in this vantage point here." Cole pointed to a spot in the tree line that gave them a wide-angle view of the compound. "You should be able to see both the road leading into the site, and the field behind us. If things get hot, let us know by radio. The airshaft is about three hundred and fifty meters from the mouth of the cave. We should find the Chalice hidden in a hole at the end of the shaft, about a man's height from the ground. Between erosion and time, I expect this access may have grown over, or collapsed; after all, it has been almost fifty years. This may just be a recce tonight. We may have to come back later on prepared to do some spade work."

"Wouldn't it be better if I went to the cave with you?" asked Rena. "I know the map inside and out."

"Too risky, boss lady. This is what you hired us for." Cole's voice softened. "We'll be in radio contact. If we find anything we'll sing out over the Motorola."

Rena was silent but her downcast expression betrayed her disappointment.

"We leave tonight at 2300 hours. This should put Max and me at the cave about 0100hours. I expect it will take a few hours to do a thorough search. However, whether we find the Chalice tonight or not, we have to be out by first light. We don't want to face any questions that NGOs planning reconstruction can't answer." The throaty growl of an armored vehicle rolling into the hotel parking lot interrupted Cole and he went to the window. Headlights glared in the twilight below.

"It's a NATO patrol. I'll go down and see what's going on." Cole left the room and slipped down the stairwell.

Through the glass doors of the hotel, he could see a group of soldiers standing near the olive drab vehicle with its dark green swathes of camouflage, their outlines blurred by evening shadow. He stepped through the entrance and walked towards the group. As he got closer, he recognized the young Duty Officer from the NATO camp.

"Hi LT. What's' up?"

"Hey, Mr. Samson. How are you doing? Are you staying here?"

"Yes, for now," replied Cole. "Busy tonight?"

"Surge operations. It's a show of force. We got a little problem with arson in town. The op will run until morning."

"Oh, well, good hunting. I hope you guys can make a difference in this place."

"Thanks. We do what we can. In the end, it's up to these people to decide if they want peace or not. I think they have hated for so long, they can't imagine a time without it."

Cole bid the young platoon commander good night and returned to his room. The others looked up eagerly as he entered.

"So boss, what's going down?" asked Harry.

"A surge of NATO patrols. They're going to saturate the town with troops. They'll be everywhere. It's too risky to try a recce tonight. There's a good chance we could get compromised at the cave."

"Damnation," said Marty. "So now what?

"You know the drill, Marty. ROLL UP 24," said Cole using the code word that meant postponing a mission for twenty-four hours. They were all used to this. In an operation, so many things could go wrong: the compromise of a secure source on the objective, the inability to ID a target, or just to sync operations with other units. Yet, it was as frustrating now as it was the first time the team experienced it. Cole felt it as well. He knew what his guys needed.

"It's still early. Why don't you guys go out to the local watering hole tonight, the Cafe Boob, or whatever it's called? Maybe you can get a better feel for what's going on."

"What about keeping a low profile? Won't we draw attention to ourselves?" asked Max.

"I've never known NGOs who shied away from a bar," said Cole. "Just take it easy, we don't want too much attention."

"No problem," replied Harry, "just the right amount of attention."

"I think I'll go with them, Cole," said Rena. "If you boys don't mind the company? I speak the language, and lips get loose when the liquor flows."

"In vino veritas," said Marty.

"Oh, listen to the perfessor," groaned Harry.

"Piss off, Harry," said Marty, grinning back.
Chapter 11

"This man Zoltan is such a fool," thought Tibor, as he listened to the ranting on the other end of the phone. Zoltan, regional party secretary for the HDK and responsible for the party's fortunes in Drvar, reminded Tibor of a ferret, with close-set black eyes and small teeth, and a fat ferret at that.

"Zoltan, you worry needlessly, there is no way they could trace this back to you or the party executive."

"And what of NATO?" queried the frantic voice on the other end. _And what of NATO?_ Tibor reflected on the troops he saw looking out of the big green armored vehicles that trundled by and blocked traffic. They were the same as all the other troops who had come to the Balkans throughout history: bored, indifferent, and scared. Bosnia was just another screwed up shit hole. "Cyprus without the sun" they called it. NATO's interest was perception and as long as it looked like they were making progress, that they provided security for the people of Bosnia, then they and their commanders in Brussels were satisfied. It had been the same with the Germans and the Italians. The foreign occupiers never had the country in their grip, and they never would. Only the Yugoslavs could govern Yugoslavia, and even they had torn it apart.

"Don't worry about NATO. We are running rings around them. They don't know the people or the land. They just drive around and ask questions, wasting petrol." He paused. "There is another visit scheduled for this week." Tibor knew that this would get Zoltan's heart rate up even higher.

"What, more refugees! This has to end now!"

Tibor smiled as he slowly reeled his catch in. "Yes, and that's what we are trying to do. We need to be bold, take drastic measures if we are to have an effect. You know this, Zoltan. We have spoken of this." The party secretary was silent, thinking the plan over yet again, no doubt. If only he would make a decision and stick to it. One day it was black, and the next it was white for Zoltan.

"We have to act now, before it's too late." Tibor prodded. "The international community is looking at us. Drvar is in the world's newspapers. It's a test of the Dayton Accord. If we don't act soon, we will lose everything we shed so much blood and tears for. Remember the boys we have lost," Tibor added. Zoltan was a fool, but he was also a nationalist.

"And if we wait?"

"Then you wait forever. Already the UN is saying they want the Army units out of Drvar, want them somewhere in the mountains where they can't influence what happens in the town. If we lose the Brigade, we lose everything we've gained. The Serbs will return without fail. They will have nothing to fear. And we will slip away into the Bosnia federation with no chance of joining Harvatska." Tibor waited for his words to sink in. They had formed the HDK as a secessionist party in Bosnia, aligned with the hard line nationalists in Croatia. They envisioned a strong, unified Croatia, which included regions of Bosnia populated by Croats. What they failed to achieve by bullets, they now hoped to acquire politically. A large enough Croatian footprint in Bosnia could spark a referendum to free them from the newly minted Bosnian federation in favor of Croatia. That meant no Serbs to spoil the vote. To Tibor, the solution was clear. There were thousands of abandoned Croatian and Muslim homes in Serb controlled territory. Let them have those. Let Bosnia takes its natural shape with Serbs living with Serbs, Croatians with Croatians and Muslims with Muslims. The old Yugoslavia was gone. "We need to create a situation that justifies keeping the Brigade in Drvar," said Tibor. "We need to demonstrate that NATO alone cannot guarantee our security or provide stability, that we Croatians need our own protection, our own army here."

"And you think your scheme will accomplish this?" queried Zoltan.

Tibor grimaced. He was the king of plans, the planner of plans. How he suffered at the hands of this oaf! Sometimes it was much easier to solve problems with a Kalishnikov. Once the situation in Drvar had been resolved, he would turn his attention to replacing Zoltan. Maybe, if things went bad, Tibor could link the whole thing to Zoltan, ensuring his removal, and opening the way for Tibor to fill the vacuum. He paused and lit a cigarette, coughing slightly.

"I have already set the events in motion."

"Without the committee's approval?" Zoltan stammered. Tibor could imagine Zoltan's jowly face, florid with indignation. Maybe the secretary would die of a heart attack during the conversation. They would find him, slumped over his desk, clutching the phone. But Tibor was never that lucky.

"Don't worry yourself. It was my doing. I'll take responsibility for it, if it becomes a problem. But it will not become a problem, at least not for us. The trucks are due in tonight. They will be delivering everything we need to bring the situation to head. NATO won't know who their enemies are after Drvar explodes in their face. Besides, if I waited for the committee, we would see the second coming of the savior before a decision was reached." Tibor laughed as he imagined Zotan's red face and pudgy jowls getting even redder. "Don't worry, I tell you." He peered out the window through a veil of cigarette smoke, looking for Josep. Tibor had summoned him to receive his orders for tonight. If this went off well, it would secure Josep's future as his successor. Tibor was starting to feel his age. How many wars had he seen, how many friends killed, how many futures never fulfilled? This was a job for young men, not for him. Perhaps, once they were all part of Haravatska again, he would step down, give Josep the headache. He heard an engine and headlights flickered in the darkness outside. A car door slammed, and then Josep's heavy footfall thudded up the steps.

"There's work to do, Zoltan, so I will say good night. Sleep well. It will turn out all right." He didn't wait for Zoltan's response to his reassurances and placed the phone into its cradle.

"So?" Tibor queried, as Josep entered the room.

"Done. NATO troops are stumbling over each other to find the arsonist. They have no idea what they are looking for, as always. It's almost too easy."

"Do not underestimate them, Josep. It may be at your peril. Now, sit down and pay attention to what I am about to tell you, our night is not yet over." He looked at his young protégé and smiled.

Captain Zbignew stared at the fire as the remnants of the roof collapsed in a geyser of flame. The heat stung his cheeks, and he stepped back, drawing some relief from the cool night air. This was yet another one, another house up in flames, and a company group of soldiers unable to prevent it.

"No signs of anybody moving around, or vehicles?" John said to the sergeant standing at his side. The man's patrol had noticed the flames, but it was too late to save the house by the time they arrived. He had radioed the command post and established a cordon to control access to the scene. The streets, however, were deserted. There were no curious onlookers, or gaping bystanders. Fear kept the town's residents inside, huddled around their wood stoves, the fires burning within a comfort, not a weapon.

"No, nothing," said the sergeant. "The ground is too hard for footprints, and the lane is paved, so there's no tire tracks either. Another victim of the phantom arsonist. Maybe it's just some kid with matches, thinking it's a big joke."

"I don't think so," replied John. The houses that had burned belonged to Serbian owners, no others. Gazing at the glowing pile that once was someone's home; he knew that another displaced family would not return. Burned out and scared off, they would tell their friends and their neighbors who also had fled, and the fear would grow, spreading like the grass fires the farmers here used to prepare their fields for spring planting. The resolution to return would waver, and "freedom of movement", a foundation of the Dayton Accord, would remain merely words in yet another empty peace treaty littering the history of the Balkans. In the end, the bastards who lit the matches, who did the ethnic cleansing, who committed the war crimes, would win.

Besides the arson, there were other worrisome events taking place in the company's area of operations. Yesterday afternoon, a patrol had encountered a group of police in the neighboring Mok Valley who claimed Serbs ambushed them. There were bullets holes in the rear fenders of the cramped Yugo squad car, but fortunately, no injuries. The patrol located a handful of AK47 casings about fifty meters from the road. The attack was almost point blank, and yet the CIVPOL officers claimed they hadn't seen their assailant. Their police report stated that they had been attacked by Serbs who were coming back to see their homes. The story had more holes than the Yugo's fenders. First, where would Serb refugees returning on a UN sponsored visit get an AK; second, why did the police, all combat veterans, fail to respond in the typical "shoot first, question later" approach they so casually applied. As callous as the thought was, John knew a dead man could tell a few tales.

John was convinced that this involved the shadowy Tibor. The man, whoever he was, was like a malevolent spider, spinning his web around Drvar." _Eeny, meany, miney moe, catch a Tibor by the toe and if he hollers? Would they let him go?" Yes, they probably would. He likely had the police under control as well._

The fire had burned down now. Subtle and muted flames trailed along the busted rafters as a funnel of sparks drifted upward, disappearing in the cold darkness. You could never underestimate the hatred these people had for each other. He had served in Bosnia as part of the United Nations Protection Force during the early days of the war in 1992. He recalled a time when his HQ ordered his platoon to check out a Muslim village that JNA troops had cleared. They'd arrived to an empty landscape of buildings punctured by tank fire and streets littered with debris, shimmering in the July heat. A strong smell of rot emanated from one of the houses. He walked through the tidy little garden at the front, his anxiety growing as the stink got heavier. He was afraid of what he would find inside the neat, whitewashed house, pocked marked with bullet holes. He'd gripped his assault rifle tighter, ready to react as he entered the dwelling. The door, smashed open, hung on a single remaining hinge. The front room was empty, but a frantic buzzing droned from a back room. The stench had been overwhelming and surrounded him like a physical presence. He'd looked through the archway separating the two rooms. The carcass of a cow, two neat bullet holes in its skull, its hide a black coat of flies, lay bloating on the soiled tile floor. He relaxed. It wasn't the pile of bodies he had expected. The cow had been the most valuable possession of this family, and somebody had gone through the trouble to bring it inside, to defile the home, and then slay it, adding that extra bit of vindictiveness. On his way out, he stepped over the remnants of a shattered life: picture albums strewn in a wide fan, a single shoe, smashed plates and glassware, scattered spoons.

As he entered the street, a red Lada had stopped beside him. Two large blonde men, dressed in civilian shirts and camouflage pants, had gotten out. They looked like brothers. Both carried AKs. "Muslimana," they said, gesturing around the empty village. Then one slid his finger across his neck and grinned. Their hatred was almost tangible. They climbed back into the car, springs screaming under their combined weight, and drove off. As a final insult to the vanquished, they had tied a long string of Muslim prayer beads to the rear hitch and were dragging them through the dirt.

Now, five years later, it still carried on. He walked back to his jeep and sat in the passenger seat.

"Once around the park and then home for tea, James," he said to Corporal Esty, his driver

"Aye aye, Cap'n," replied Esty,"steady as she goes." He put the jeep into gear and eased towards the road, slowing to a crawl as he passed the outer cordon of troops stamping their feet against the frozen ground to keep warm. Eventually a military firefighter would arrive and conduct a rudimentary investigation, with arson a foregone conclusion.

"And another one bites the dust," said Esty as he picked up speed.

"So it would seem. Not a very nice neighborhood. I bet you could pick up some of these places cheap," said John. He enjoyed that easy familiarity with his driver that came from spending long hours in a vehicle together.

"Let's take a drive around town and see what's happening," said John. Corporal Esty had done a number of patrols with Captain Zbignew and had committed most of the routes to memory. They drove in silence, each scanning the darkness, pondering the secrets hidden in those quiet fields and silent houses. They found themselves traveling down the main street. The narrow asphalt strip was empty. A small dust devil twisted past them, skittering scraps of newspaper along deserted buildings awash in the soft amber glow of a parade of streetlights. Unlike the outer villages, the town had electricity but the lighting was muted and pale, running on an irregular power flow from an overtaxed generator station.

The jeep's headlights skimmed along the shop windows as they traveled down the street. The only sign of life was the collection of cars ringing the Cafe Boom Boom in helter-skelter fashion, the most prominent being the black Mercedes parked close to the door.

John brooded on the puzzle that was Drvar. Reports of the house fires, and the insurgent activities against the police and his own patrols had made it as far as Supreme Allied Commander Europe, SACEUR. Drvar was definitely under the microscope. Added to mix was the UN's concern that the presence of the HVO brigade discouraged more displaced Serbs and Muslims from resettling in the area. The US State Department was planning to build them a new barracks but the location was in dispute. The Croatians wanted it in the town; everybody else wanted it out at Glamoc ranges, contained in the mountains one hundred kilometers away. From the Croat's perspective, they had fought and died for this chunk of land; their blood was in the soil, their bones in the earth. They would not give it up lightly, and they distrusted NATO to guarantee their interests, which often diverged from the larger world community and the spirit of the Dayton Accord. The looming train wreck meant increased pressure to stabilize the situation in Drvar, pressure soon felt by the NATO troops garrisoned in the defunct flourmill on the edge of town.

"Somebody in this town knows what's going on. We should just lock the place down," said Corporal Esty. "Nobody in or out for a few weeks, tighten the screws, I bet we would find these guys."

"Funny you should mention that. Our Company Commander feels the same way. He and I paid a visit to the mayor and his pals this morning." John laughed as he recounted the meeting.

They'd arrived at the municipal office at 10 o'clock. John had invited himself along, hoping to meet some of the key players in the town and get a feel for what was going on in this embattled community and where the mysterious Tibor fit into the puzzle. As the Company second in command, his job was to coordinate company operations and keep the command post running. The only time he ventured out was on his night patrols, when the opportunities for meeting the mayor or senior officers in the HVO brigade were slim. Anita, the Major's interpreter, accompanied them. She was clad in a military uniform but wearing a brassard identifying her as a civilian non-combatant.

A sour-faced secretary had ushered them into the conference room and promptly departed to brew up a pot of Kava. The deputy mayor was waiting for them.

"Unfortunately, the mayor cannot make it. He is not feeling well," he said. In the spirit of the peace accord, the UN had set up a power sharing agreement. Elections for the positions of mayor and deputy mayor were open to all voters, including those displaced from their original homes in the area. This predominantly Serb electorate had voted for one of their own, with the runner up, a local Croat, appointed the deputy in an act of appeasement. The mayor was only a figurehead, as the majority of the municipal council, as well as the staff, was Croatian, and paid little heed to him, deferring to the deputy instead. Still, John reflected, the mayor had some spine to him, to keep turning up and working with people who would have slit his throat a few years earlier. The room contained a long table in the center surrounded by chairs and little else. A picture of Franjo Tudjman, the president of Croatia, adorned one of the walls, next to an old picture of Tito. John wondered what the mayor thought of that, on the occasions when he did show up.

A sallow man with greasy black hair and an unkempt mustache sat across from the deputy. "The chief of police," the deputy mayor said with a wave in his direction. He didn't offer a name, only the title. The chief smiled, a nasty yellow leer, and leaned back into his chair. He took a pistol out of his pocket and made a show of placing it on the table in front of him. _So this is how it starts,_ thought John, and made an equal show of placing his rifle on the table. He kept his Browning snug in the holster at his hip, within easy reach. It was all posturing. Who was the biggest dog, and who could thump loudest on their chests. The major made an equally ostentatious show in his greeting the deputy mayor.

"So good to see you! And how are you, my friend?" He boomed, pumping his hand and slapping him on the back, as though they were all old school mates. He gave a brief nod to the chief, and sat down opposite the policeman. Major Murphy introduced John, who joined him on his side of the table. He was here to listen, and feel the vibe of the two locals as they chatted with his commander.

There was a knock on the door and the hostile secretary entered, carrying a tray of cups, spoons, and sugar. She poured the coffee into small white cups and then departed like a storm cloud, returning with a plate of biscuits. As the door shut behind her, the deputy mayor took a biscuit and slurped his coffee. The chief of police lit a cigarette and glared at John and the major though a veil of acrid smoke. The deputy mayor began to cough. "The deputy is allergic to smoke," volunteered Anita, after a quick parlance with the distressed man. He smiled apologetically and coughed again. This didn't seem to concern the chief, who made no move to douse his lit smoke. From the nicotine stains on his fingers, John took him for a two-pack-a-day man at least.

Anita was there to translate the conversation. Interpreting was no easy task. She had to convert Serbo-Croat to English almost instantaneously to keep pace with the conversation, as well as convey the sentiments expressed by each speaker through intonation and emphasis.

"I hope we can still continue," stated Major Murphy with concern.

"Yes. It is nothing," gasped the deputy mayor.

Dan put on his war face and his tone took on a serious, official note. "We have a problem here in Drvar, as you well know. There have been house fires and attacks on some of my patrols."

"And some of my police patrols," the chief added, with a hard edge of indignation.

"Yes, and some of the police patrols as well. The situation is becoming worse instead of better," said Dan, to mollify the visibly agitated chief.

"It's the Serbs, the visitors, causing these problems," stated the deputy.

"I find that hard to believe," said Dan. "How could these people get access to weapons, and move around the local area undetected? When they do come, they are chaperoned by representatives from the UN, and escorted by my troops."

"Then who can it be?" asked the chief smugly.

"That's what we should be asking you, you're Chief of Police."

"I don't have enough police to patrol the town. We can't be everywhere." The police man reddened with embarrassment and anger.

Dan became more conciliatory. "I can appreciate that you are doing everything you can. Perhaps we can do some joint patrols together." Dan threw this out to placate the chief, but John knew he didn't intend to pursue it. SFOR had conducted Joint NATO and police patrols before, but many of the civilian officers were like the chief. They lacked formal police training and occupied positions of authority because they had been hard and vicious fighters during the war. Unfortunately, this breed did not make professional, disciplined peace officers. They would refuse to get out of their cars if it was too cold and, at police checkpoints, conduct only partial vehicle searches because it was too time-consuming, or worse, just wave their cronies through.

"What sort of intelligence do you have on criminal elements operating in the region? Could this be linked to organized crime?" said Dan.

"There is nothing like that here," said the chief. "We would know about it."

Dan and John both suppressed a laugh. The intelligence reports they received from NATO analysts in Zagreb linked a variety of criminal activities to Drvar, ranging from drugs to illegal logging. Some of this, they suspected, had foreign connections. Illegal logging, cutting timber without official permits, was an extremely lucrative process. Harvested lumber found its way to the rest of Europe without any tax or export duties. The new Bosnian Federation government was losing millions in revenue as the old growth forests of Bosnia were mowed down and vanished on the decks of heavily laden logging trucks slipping unregulated across the border. The challenge lay in tying this economic piracy to individuals or corporations with lawyer-proof evidence.

"I guess the police are doing a good job," Dan said, wondering if his subtle sarcasm would survive translation. Judging from the chief's glare, it had.

"What about the investment coming into town, the foreign business men, Multivest, how do they feel about the unrest in Drvar? It can't be good for business."

The deputy mayor answered, with a glance at the chief. "Multivest Corporation is seeking aid in establishing local businesses here. They are trying to jump start the local economy, and give some degree of prosperity to those here who have suffered so much."

"How noble," Dan replied. He suspected that Multivest Corporation was running an extensive illegal logging operation in Bosnia. Its convoluted ownership, possibly Finnish, or maybe French, or even Saudi (those same analysts in Zagreb could never agree), made its origins difficult to track, but the shadowy corporation seemed to be springing up everywhere. Rumours abounded that they used slave labor camps up in the mountains to harvest their timber.

"What about the HVO? Any rogue elements that could be trying to stir things up?"

The deputy mayor responded. "What would they have to gain? The war is over, they achieved their goals. Now they remain in Drvar to protect us."

"I thought that was our job," said Dan.

"How can you even begin to understand the situation here? You come for six months and then go, replaced by somebody else. You did not spill your blood for this land." The deputy mayor was winding up to deliver yet another history lesson and political berating. Dan produced a cigar from an inner pocket of his combat jacket, and rolled it between his fingers. Seconds later, he flicked open a Zippo lighter, rolling the striker with his thumb. A jet of flame enveloped the cigar, and Dan expelled a large cloud of blue smoke from his lips. The deputy mayor coughed, and stopped in mid-diatribe. The chief of police grinned cruelly as Dan offered him the lighter and he added to the noxious haze polluting the room with his third, pungent, eastern-bloc cigarette.

The deputy mayor's eyes watered and his nose began to run. He was done. The room was silent for a few moments. Dan exhaled on the cigar. "I believe people know more that they are willing to say. However, let me be clear. My men are at risk, and the success of our mission is in jeopardy. Make no mistake, if somebody wants to draw us into a fight, they will regret it. There is more at stake here than just Drvar. The Dayton Peace Accord is still fragile and instability here can jeopardize it elsewhere. It's not going to collapse on my watch." As if on cue, the room shook with a deep vibration, conversation stopped as the throaty roar of diesel engines, and the mechanical squeak of tracked vehicles flooded the council chamber. A troop of M109s, self-propelled artillery pieces, idled past the municipal office, bringing local traffic to a halt as they maneuvered down the narrow street. This overt show of force had been coordinated with battery commander before the meeting to send a message: _don't screw with NATO, we mean business._

As the rumble faded, Dan stood up. "Gentlemen, I'm sure we can work together on these issues. Perhaps we can meet again next week and see if we have made any progress." He shook hands with the deputy, and nodded to the chief. John and Anita trailed behind him as he strode from the room.

Once they were outside, Dan threw the cigar into the gutter. "Filthy weed," he said, and they laughed all the way back to the jeep.

..." You should have seen their faces when the Arty went by," said John, "It was priceless."

Corporal Esty laughed. Then he turned serious. "I think somebody is following us."

John glanced into the mirror and noticed distant headlights. "Let's head back to base and see what happens." They turned down a side road, leaving the muted street lights behind them. The jeep's headlamps cut sharp cones through the cocoon of darkness around them. The road they made a wide sweep around the town, curving back towards their garrison in the flourmill. Their tail carried on down the main street, slowed, and then picked up speed, vanishing in the night like a shark looking for fresh prey.
Chapter 12

The blue neon sign advertising the Cafe Boom Boom flashed weakly through the gloom in a feeble struggle against the grim post-war depression gripping the town. Located in the cellar of an apartment building that had, at one time, housed the families of the town's communist leadership, it was now the hangout for local toughs and lads who passed their time playing pool and drinking Slivo. Zena, a gold-toothed harpy in her fifties, ran the Boom Boom along with her hard and scarred husband, Bobo. They employed the best-looking local girls to wait tables and prostitutes from Zagreb to entertain guests, looking for more than a drink, in the flats above.

A ghetto blaster, angled on the far corner of the bar, was churning out a mélange of contemporary English and Bosnian rock and roll songs. The Clash was deliberating whether to stay or go, as Harry, Rena, Max, and Marty walked into the dim room. The murmur of voices, barely discernible above the sounds of electric guitars, trapped within cassette player's plastic confines, stopped. Foreigners no longer held any novelty in Drvar. The plethora of UN representatives and NGOs working in the town since the war's end had long since worn out the mystiques of the internationals. Now they were just part of the local color, like mortar-splashed streets and bullet pocked walls. But a beautiful woman was always worthy of attention. A roomful of eyes followed Rena as she walked across the room. She was wearing a short black leather jacket, a red top, and black jeans that accentuated her slim figure. Max, Harry, and Marty were dressed in their usual garb of Gore-Tex jackets, jeans and approach boots. All three of them wore ball caps. It was the unofficial uniform of their trade. Rena ignored the stares and sat down. She chose a table in the corner, masked by shadow. When Harry and the others joined her, the crowd's collective interest faded.

"So what's your poison?" Harry asked Rena.

"They used to make great beer in Yugoslavia, before the war," she replied, "or so I'm told. I'll have a beer."

"Good idea," said Marty.

"Beers all around then?" asked Harry, and Max nodded. "Roger, I'm on my way." He stood up and walked over to the counter centered on the back wall of the room. The cafe was small, and the thirty or so patrons had long exceeded the maximum fire rating capacity. A row of fluorescent lights, flickering spasmodically over the top of the bar, lit the room. Groups of young men sat around the small cafe tables. They sipped dark black coffee and shot glasses of clear liquid. Many of the youths were clad in long leather trench coats and black turtleneck sweaters. The red faces and animated conversation suggested an advanced level of intoxication. They were at the point of being dangerous. A middle-aged man sat alone, reading a newspaper in the dim light. It was a copy of the _Mostovi_ , the UN-sponsored newsletter that trumpeted the progress Bosnia was making towards peace. The product, published in Sarajevo, contained glossy photos of NGOs and feel-good stories about how the country was rebuilding, and formed part of a larger information operation to capture the hearts and minds of the Bosnians. Unfortunately, the slant was largely pro-Muslim, serving only to alienate and anger the two other cultures sharing the Federation.

Harry walked over to the bar where Bobo was changing the cassette. A rockified Bosnian folk song sprang out of the speaker in a rush of drums and mandolins. The crowd cheered Bobo's choice and many began to sing along. Cans and bottles of beer, advertising the breadth of the Boom Boom's selection, were arranged on a shelf behind the counter where Bobo stood, wiping his hands on a dingy apron. Harry pointed to a large brown bottle labeled "Pevo." It looked like beer. "Four, please," he said, raising four fingers. Bobo reached down under the bar, and drew out four dark bottles. He placed them on a tray along with four glasses. Harry handed him a fist of notes. He had no idea how much the dinars, the small billed currency of Croatia, in his hand were worth. Bobo smiled a crocodile grin, separated some notes from the rest, and stuffed the remaining bills into the top pocket of Harry's coat with two calloused, knobby fingers. He dismissed Harry with a wink and turned his attention back to the cassette player, whistling along with the melody.

Harry returned to the table and they poured the amber liquid into their glasses. They sipped their drinks in silence, watching the crowd. Some of the youths grew more boisterous as the girls arrived with their drinks. The barmaids were dressed to show off their charms: low-cut blouses, short skirts, and tall leather boots; their easy banter with the clientele suggested an understanding of the ways of drunken young men. One blade, bolder than his fellows, pinched rump of a leggy blond. He and his friends roared with laughter, cut short by the arrival of Zena, a fearsome apparition, dressed in black and adorned with enough bangles and rings to stock a jewellery store. She pulled the man's ear, to the greater delight of his friends, and then scolded him as though he were an errant child. His face darkened a shade redder beneath its boozy glow and he returned to his drink, the picture of humility.

"What was that about?" asked Max

"I could only catch a bit of it," said Rena, "but it sounded like the old mama-san didn't want any bruises on the merchandise. And if the young chap wanted more than a look, it would cost him."

"Ah. I see," said Marty. "Working girls."

"Yes," replied Rena. "It seems everything is for sale in Drvar."

The man reading the _Mostovi_ glanced over at them. Max leaned towards Harry."The guy with the paper keeps staring at us."

"Oh?" said Harry. He looked over and the man smiled. Harry waved him over to the table.

"Rena, ask him to join us. We'll find out what he's after." The man acknowledge Harry's wave and picked up his glass before Rena could speak. He moved towards them, leaving the newspaper on the table. Rena invited him to sit down in Serbo-Croatian.

"It is OK, I speak English," he said, pulling an empty chair from the table he had just left. Harry introduced the small group.

"Milos Petrovich," their guest replied, shaking hands with all of them. His glass was empty and Harry filled it with beer. The man looked at him appreciatively.

"Milos, where did you learn to speak English?" asked Marty.

"In the United States. You are Americans, no?"

"Except for me," said Rena. "I'm British."

"When were you in the US?" asked Max.

"I worked there for many years, as a draftsman. I even became a citizen." He reached into his pocket and fished out small folder. "See, I have a passport." He handed it to Harry, who looked at it briefly and then passed it back.

"So what are you doing here?" said Marty.

"I returned during the war. It was my duty. My mother was Croatian, my father a Serb. I came to fight the Muslims."

Marty looked at him incredulously. "You mean you willingly left the US to become part of this madness, after you had escaped?"

"Is there no madness in the USA?" He smiled. "It's hard to understand, but this is my country."

"Or what's left of it," added Harry

"America is your country," said Marty, "You lived there, you were a citizen, you have a passport."

"And, someday I will return," replied Milos, "when things are finished here."

"It's not that simple, Mr. Petrovich,"said Marty. "I think you have to decide where your loyalties lie. Once you pass by Miss Liberty, you leave your old life behind. My parents were immigrants from Holland. That is what they did. There is no looking back."

"But what did America do to stop this?" asked Milos. "For years they let us kill each other, saying it was a European problem. Because there was no oil in Bosnia, we were left to solve things ourselves."

"You could have stopped at any time," argued Marty. "Despite what you may think, you're all the same people. Muslim, Serb, Croat, separated in the cradle by history, but all brothers nonetheless."

Petrovich's face reddened. "You don't understand. And you can't understand, unless you are from here. Don't be too quick to judge me."

"I can understand that as an American citizen, this was not your war," said Marty. "The horror and tragedy that happened here, the war crimes, how do you face yourself?"

"What happened here was war," said Petrovich."War is not a game. In war, we do things that both God and man turn their back on. I had a duty to come back, to defend my people, at any cost." Rena remained silent, pondering Petrovich's words. It was the same old, bitter argument that she had heard among her grandmother's friends.

"Well," said Marty. "If you believe in your cause so strongly, and you can sleep soundly at night, in this country you fought for, give me your passport, there is no turning back now. Close the escape hatch."

Milos smiled. "I'm afraid that I cannot do that." He quickly tucked the passport back into his pocket, afraid that Marty might snatch it from his hand and shred it before his eyes.

"I didn't think you could," replied Marty, staring hard at the man.

"However," said Milos," I sat with you for another reason. Not to argue, although Yugoslavs love to argue, but, despite your misgivings," he looked at Marty, "to give you a word of advice."

"Advice?" said Rena. "What sort of advice?"

"Advice that you should take." He smiled. "Drvar is a very dangerous place. There are people here with certain agendas. They would rather see this place erupt into flames again, than enjoy the benefits of peace."

"Why?" asked Rena.

"Because they thrive amidst the chaos, but also, they seek a different future for Bosnia. Not the future that the international community envisions for it."

"What do they want?"

"It's a complicated business, but simply put, they want to sabotage the Dayton Accord. It is an obstacle to them because it guarantees Bosnia's current borders, and blunts their nationalistic ambitions."

"Do they want to start the war all over again?"

"They are still fighting the war, but by other means, through violence and instability, undermining efforts towards a long-standing peace and defying NATO and international community."

"Isn't this sort of thing that caused the war in the first place?" asked Marty.

"Yes," said Milos, "and I fear it will lead to yet another. NATO's credibility is at stake. It must succeed, at any cost; otherwise, its entire future is in question. If NATO gets drawn into the conflict, and starts taking sides, then I believe the Russians will also get involved."

"Geez," said Harry. "This could lead to world war three."

Milos smiled glumly. "Others have put forward that same hypothesis."

"Surely, this movement understands this?" asked Rena

"They are so blinded by their cause that they fail to appreciate the long term effects – a typically Balkan attitude."

"So who are these people, here in Drvar?" asked Rena.

"The people who make things happen in this town. The local government, the HVO, some foreign businesses, they are all tied to this in some way. But one man, above all, calls the shots. A man named Tibor. He is nowhere, yet everywhere, an unseen force."

"How do you know all this?" asked Harry.

"I know the men who work for him," answered Milos. "We fought together during the war. These are the men behind the fires and the attacks. They do the devil's handiwork for the devil himself, Tibor."

"Why don't you go to the police?" asked Marty.

"They are in this as well; nobody holds a position of authority without Tibor's blessing."

"And NATO?"

"If I would speak to the soldiers in the NATO camp, or one of their patrols, my life would be worthless. Tibor would find out. He always does."

"So why tell us?" asked Rena.

"I saw your vehicles in town today with your sign, The Mustard Seed Group. I hear that you have come to help rebuild. You are good people, helping your neighbors, and those who cannot help themselves." Rena looked slightly embarrassed. Their ruse had clearly convinced the local rumour network Milos had tapped into.

Milos patted the shirt pocket with the passport. "One good turn deserves another. They are planning something big, and I don't think you would want to be here when it happens. The storm will catch you like everybody else when Drvar explodes. Consider this repayment of a debt. The US sheltered me when I needed it. Now I can return the favor. And these men, they insult everything I fought for. They continue to tear this country to pieces. This is how I fight them, by trying to keep the good moving forward. Every time you or your colleagues succeed, is a strike against these men. You see," he looked at Marty, "I am not the monster you think I am." Marty only shrugged.

"Cole would want to know all about this," said Harry.

"Cole?" inquired Milos.

"Another friend," said Harry. "Just like us."

"I'll call him," said Marty. "If you're willing to stay, you may like to speak to our friend. I'm sure he'd like to talk to you."

"In that case, I will wait." Milos looked at his watch. "But not for too long." He glanced around the cafe. Something had made him uneasy. "Ask your friend to hurry."

Cole had remained at the Bastasi, forgoing the Boom Boom. There were times, he knew, when the guys had to go off without him. They needed to unwind without the boss being there. They were good friends, and had shared many a beer. But when they took a job, they expected that Cole would be in charge. He always had been. His role as leader, unofficial but accepted by everybody on the team, meant that there were times when he had to maintain a degree of separation. And now he needed some solace to think through their plan. The encounter with the gangster tough guy, as well as the NATO surge, provided unexpected setbacks. Plans only got you so far, and then you had to think on your feet.

He was surprised that Rena had wanted to go to the club with the guys, and he asked himself whether he was a bit disappointed. But she could speak the local lingo and without her, who knew what the team would get up to? Still, he would have enjoyed her company tonight.

He put Rena out of his mind and focused on the satellite photos. Shadows made it hard to identify any depression that could indicate the air vent. According to Rena's map, the cut was about four hundred meters into the cave. He looked at the scale of the photographs and used his index finger to measure the distance from the entrance to where the passage could be. It was just a flat surface of vegetation. The chances of seeing the vent in the photo were slim, but this would give him a place to start looking once he was on the ground. He cross-referenced the location against a topographic map and wrote down the coordinates.

Moltke's interest in the HVO compound troubled him. However, with the HVO leaving, the likelihood of getting in undetected had increased significantly. Now it was just a question of time. They had to get in before Moltke's crew showed up to open the mill. Cole assessed that they had a few days at most, and the window was quickly closing.

The jazzy ring tone of his cell phone broke his concentration. He suspected trouble. The guys were probably at the police station, thrown in cells for mixing it up with some smart ass down at the bar. So much for Rena's tempering effect. He answered. It was Max, calling from the Boom Boom. They were all OK, but they had met somebody that Cole would be interested in talking to. Max told him about Milos and his comments regarding about the sinister undercurrent swirling below the surface of the town.

"There's more at stake here than the Chalice, Cole. Milos is willing to wait, but not for long. Something's bothering him, he's as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs," said Max.

"Ok, I'm on my way." Cole disconnected, grabbed his coat and headed downstairs. The team had taken a single vehicle into town. Cole hopped into the other SUV and within minutes, he was rolling down the dark narrow lanes towards the faint glow at the center of town. Despite what the young officer leading the NATO patrol had told him, the roads were deserted. _Surging in some other part of their Area of Operations, no doubt,_ thought Cole. He recalled the map he had glimpsed in the command post. The unit's boundaries stretched out for almost sixty kilometers. It was large area for a hundred men to patrol on a steady basis. They couldn't be everywhere.

He traveled down the main street. A lone jeep with NATO markings vanished around a corner ahead of him. At least one patrol was around. Cole saw the neon sign of the Boom Boom Cafe and wheeled into the parking lot, pulling up next to the other SUV. The cafe was in the cellar of the building. Faint strains of music seeped from under the door as he descended to the bottom of the stairwell. He entered into the dimly lit room, and found Max waiting near the doorway.

"Over here, Cole." Max led him to the table where Harry, Rena, and Marty were sitting with the man Cole assumed was Milos. Cole guessed his age at about fifty. The lean face, with crowfeet etched around the eyes, was marked with experience of the harsher side of life. His hair was light brown, thinning on the top but not yet gray. He stood up when Cole arrived and they shook hands.

"Cole Samson."

"Milos."

"So, Milos," said Cole, sitting down next to their guest, "you think we're in danger."

Milos smiled. "Straight to the point, hey. You would make a poor Yugoslav, Mr. Samson. But, yes, I do. And I was saying that to your friends. I believe that we will see much more trouble here in this wretched town." The door opened with a draft of cold air. A group of men at one of the tables called out greetings to the newcomer. Milos paled and Cole glanced at the man who had just entered. He wore a long black leather coat, the kind associated with the Gestapo in old war movies. One could imagine him striding across the cement floor of an interrogation room, cigarette holder, held carelessly between thumb and index finger, ready to inflict pain and fear with cold deliberation. It was the punk from the other afternoon, the man that Moltke had called Josep.

Josep walked over to the revelers and slapped hands all around, like some hip hop rapper. The _boys in the hood_ , thought Cole, only this hood was miles away from the gangbanger culture that spawned these sentiments. "The power of MTV," he mused. Milos got up and buttoned his coat with trembling fingers. "It's time I was going," he said. Josep's arrival had upset the man. It was clear that Milos was keen to leave before Josep noticed him. He moved past Cole and slipped out the door like a shadow.

Josep sat down with the others and Bobo brought him a beer. Even the hulking bartender was diffident around Josep. _Must be a bit of a bad ass_ , thought Cole. But he hadn't been that tough this afternoon, when he was facing Harry. A typical bully whose balls dropped off when faced with somebody bigger and meaner than him. "Whatever spooked our friend, I believe, it was tied to that fellow Josep," said Cole. "He took off like we were lepers the minute our old friend Josep came in."

"What do you think about what Milos said, Cole?" asked Rena. "That group he was talking about could shatter any hope for peace in this battered country."

"I wish I could have talked to him. In a place like this, powerful men think they are laws unto themselves. It's the same old story played out across dozens of brush fire wars and conflicts around the world. It hasn't changed since day one, only now the killers use assault rifles instead of flint-tipped spears, or a piece of bone. I'm not sure there's much that _we_ can do about it. Without any proof, it's just speculation. Besides, our priority is the Chalice."

"Cole," said Rena, "if we can prevent more violence and bloodshed, we owe it to these people." Her face twisted with emotion, reminding Cole that this was where her roots were. She considered herself British, but part of her heart was with these people, people she had never met, nor ever would.

"I'll talk to John Zbignew, the officer who runs operations for the company garrisoned here in Drvar," said Cole. "I'll tell him about the conspiracy Milos mentioned. They're the ones who need to deal with it. In the meantime, it might be a good idea to keep an eye on our pal, Mister Black Trench Coat, and see what he gets up to. Maybe he's the thread we need to pull to unravel this scheme." He reflected on Moltke's meeting with Josep at the mill. How did the German figure into all this? Was he part of this scheme, or just a dupe?

Harry got up to get a few more drinks. Josep saw him and scowled. He said something to his cronies at the table, and they all laughed. Harry ignored them and returned with several beer bottles dangling from the fingers of his large hands. He had to circumnavigate one of the girls prowling the bar who brushed up against him, looking to ply her trade. A storm cloud passed over Josep's face and Cole sensed trouble. But Josep returned to the story he was telling his friends and Harry seemed forgotten.

Cole observed the young men sitting around the table with Josep. They laughed and drank, all seemed in good spirits, but there was a hardness about them, a suggestion of cruelty and violence. It was the way their eyes remained cold and distant, despite the toothy crocodile grins flashing across their faces. Cole had seen that look before, in his own eyes. They waved the girls away, drained their glasses to the dregs, and butted out their cigarettes, preparing to leave.

"Let's go back to the cars," he said. "I think our boys will be off soon. Let's see how Josep and his pals spend their evenings. It may give us some indication of what's going on around here." The team left their drinks on the table and exited the club. Josep frowned as he watched them leave.

"Harry, you, Max, and Marty take one vehicle, and Rena and I will go in the other." He gave Harry a small hand-held personal family radio. "Use the Motorola to stay in contact, channel two."

They started the SUVs and Cole spoke to Harry over the radio. "Let's move off a bit and pick them up about a block away from here. It'll be tough to stay undetected; there are no other cars to blend into. Go lights out." Cole knew it was risky, but the low volume of traffic on the roads at night would minimize the risk of an accident. Harry acknowledged and the white SUVs moved out of the parking lot. A short distance down the street, they concealed both vehicles in a narrow lane way between two gray, featureless apartment blocks. From their vantage point, they could see the parking lot of the Boom Boom. Josep and his gang could not leave unnoticed.

A narrow strip of light shot out from the stairwell, and then faded. Figures gathered in the parking lot and Cole could make out the sheen of Josep's jacket. There were five other men with him. They spoke momentarily and then got into separate cars. Two accompanied Josep into the black Mercedes and the other three climbed into a Pajero. Headlights flickered and both vehicles exited the parking lot towards the direction of the main street.

"They're on the move," said Cole and eased the SUV out of the alley, Harry following behind him.

Their quarry snaked through the narrow streets towards the outskirts of Drvar, heading in the direction of the recently abandoned HVO base near the cave. Whatever nastiness Josep was planning, the abandoned camp was part of it.

Cole dropped back and increased the distance between him and the Pajero trailing the Mercedes. The moon had yet to rise, and the darkness gave Cole good cover in the blacked-out SUV. He could see the shape of road in the shadows cast by the lights of the vehicles in front. Josep and his men turned down the dead-end road leading to the former military base. Several deserted houses, their windows and doors hidden in shadow, lined the road like a row of skulls. Cole pulled into one of the yards and killed the Toyota's engine. Harry pulled up alongside and did likewise. The night was silent except for the tinking of metal contracting as the motors cooled.

They watched the Mercedes and the Pajero pass through the gate and park, still idling in the driveway. In the dim glow of the headlights, blurred shapes moved in the direction of the cave and then returned; carrying what appeared to be boxes or containers of some type.

"What are they doing?" Harry asked, his voice edged in radio static.

"It looks like they're getting something out of the cave," Cole whispered back into the handset. "Whatever it is, it looks heavy." A rifle barrel glinted in the arms of one of the figures moving around the Pajero."It looks like they're armed," Cole whispered into the radio. The weight of the pistol in his jacket pocket was reassuring. If there was going to be trouble, he was ready.

"Ack," Harry replied. "I brought some of my own heat as well."

Cole grinned. You could always count on his guys to be prepared. But what he didn't want was a Wild West shootout. They were here watch what was going on, and report it to Captain Zbignew at the grain mill. This was NATO's fight, after all. All Cole wanted was a good look inside the cave. "Be careful with that trigger finger, Harry," said Cole, "You don't want to hurt anybody."

"Oh yes, I do," said Harry. "I would like to lay a hurting on our pal Josep. But I'll behave...for now."

The crate disappeared into the back of the Pajero and Cole heard the dull thump of the SUV's rear door slam shut. The men gathered around the black Mercedes and Josep spoke to them. The orange dots of their ever-present cigarettes bobbed around like fireflies. _They'll bury these guys with a smoke between their fingers,_ thought Cole.

The group broke up and returned to their vehicles. The Pajero swung through the gate and barreled up the road towards them, ahead of the Mercedes. Cole and Harry had tucked the SUVs up alongside the house, hiding them from the road. The night's rich darkness made them invisible to the men in the Pajero. Josep stopped at the gate to snap the lock shut, and then raced by, chasing the Pajero.

"Harry, you guys pick them up and stay on them. I'm going to take a quick look inside the cave to see what those fine fellows were loading."

"Roger," Harry affirmed through the radio. The second SUV started up and darted back to the pavement, fishtailing across the soft dirt of the farmyard before disappearing in the wake of the Mercedes.

"So, are we finally going to get inside?" asked Rena. Her voice quavered with excitement.

"Not we, me. I don't have any idea what those guys were packing out of the cave. Nothing good, I'll bet. I'm just going to take a quick look. Consider it a pre-recce. I don't have half of the stuff we need to do a proper search. Plus, we don't know how much time we have. Wherever the Wild Bunch went, they could be back in no time. You'll be safer in the truck. If something happens, I want you to start this thing up, go back to the hotel, and call Harry. Here's the radio."

She grabbed his hand and squeezed lightly. "Be careful, Cole." The concern in her voice pleased him.

"I'm all about careful, Rena. I wouldn't have lived this long if I wasn't." Cole slipped out of the cab and into the night. He felt comfortable in the dark, protected. It was a false comfort, given the night vision equipment available now, yet it was still comfort. As a boy, he had always been afraid of the dark. Running home from his friends' houses after dinner, as the shadows stretched and the sky darkened, he would pelt down the back alley behind his house, racing to get home before it got dark enough for the vampires and werewolves to come out. It was the result of a steady diet of _Weird Tales_ comic books and late night horror movies viewed with his two older brothers. He would lie in front of the TV on his stomach, munching through a bowl of popcorn as his brothers laughed about how corny the special effects were. Cole smiled at the recollection. Now he was a creature of the night and there were those who ran from him.

Harry trailed the two vehicles, relying on the drivers in front of him to illuminate the road. Without warning, they swerved on to the verge. Harry backed off the gas. He was far enough back to avoid detection, but he coasted through a narrow break in the hedgerow paralleling the asphalt to make sure. Car doors slammed as the men spilled from the vehicles in front of him. One figure moved forward, walking down the road. A second came towards them. _Had they been bumped?_ Harry put his hand on the key, ready to start the SUV and drop it into reverse. The man stopped. He lit a smoke, unhitched his pants and relieved himself along the road. He zipped up, but remained in place, smoking. The man appeared to be some sort of sentry.

Harry whispered into the radio. "They've stopped and it looks like they're putting something on the road." There was no response.

"Cole, come in." Then he heard Rena's voice.

"Cole's still down in the compound."

"Right. Hang tight, boss lady. We'll check this out."

He turned down the volume on the small handset and stuffed it in his pocket. "Ok, boys, let's see what shenanigans these clowns are up to." Harry stepped out of the Toyota, followed by Max and Marty. They moved forward along the shallow ditch on the left side of the road until they hit an empty creek bed angling away from them. A large culvert passed beneath the road, part of the drainage system that fed the creek during spring run-off. Their position gave them full view of the group of men clustered around the Pajero. Harry motioned to the ditch. Max and Marty instantly understood. They shared an almost telepathic bond with each other, developed from years of working together as a small team. They crouched low, keeping out of site of the sentry. The man slouched, hands in his pockets, staring down at the pavement, more bored than alert. _Just some hired muscle,_ thought Harry, _not a professional_. In a low spot along the road, two men were laying square objects in depressions cut into the center of the pavement, while a third held a flashlight. They scraped some dirt away from their diggings and then returned to the Pajero. Josep whistled and the sentry jogged back to join the others. Harry could hear the slap of his shoes along the asphalt as he passed their hiding spot.

In the distance, a set of headlights moved down the road. Josep and the others rushed to the idling cars. Engines raced, and gravel sprayed from the rear tires as they cut hard U-turns and fish-hooked back the way they had come, surging past the culvert in a torrent of noise and exhaust. "They're in a hurry," said Marty.

The approaching lights were closer now. Harry realized what Josep and his cronies had been doing. "We've got to stop that car. They mined the road!" shouted Harry, as he scrambled up the embankment.

Both John and Corporal Esty were silent, each wrapped in the comfortable solitude of their own thoughts. John daydreamed about his upcoming leave. Three weeks, back at home with the kids and Andrea. He felt guilty, because he hadn't called them for a while. The fires and sabotage around Drvar had pre-occupied him, and it seemed that every time he went down to the welfare phones, none were available. He'd get them some presents in Frankfurt, at the airport.

The flash of light didn't make sense. It came from beneath them and to the left. There was a ringing in John's ears and he couldn't breathe, the cab was a vacuum. The front of the jeep reared up, driving his head into the roof, and then came crashing down facing the wrong direction. John felt the vehicle rolling down a steep incline. _Why didn't Corporal Esty brake?_ The jeep jarred to a halt, impacting something solid. A kaleidoscope of stars exploded across his vision and then faded into darkness.

Harry, Marty, and Max watched the jeep lift off the asphalt, spin in the air, and vanish into the opposite ditch. A half-second later, they were thrown back by the shockwave, landing on the hard dirt of the shoulder, ears ringing, their eyes blinded by the sudden flash of light.

"Is everybody OK?" yelled Max, above the bells hammering in his ears.

Yeah, I think so," said Harry, after a pause to catch his breath. "Marty?"

"Good to go, just a few scrapes and scratches, and a great big crack in my ass," replied Marty, weakly. He stood up on wobbly legs. "We only caught a corner off the blast, unlike those guys down there." He gestured towards the smoldering jeep. Licks of flame curled out from beneath the under-carriage. "Harry, for Chrissake, it's going to catch fire!"

They ran forward. A tardy moon nudged up past the hills ringing the valley, revealing two occupants slumped in their seats. Max did a quick pulse check. "They're still alive." Harry grabbed a fire extinguisher strapped into a bracket near the rear fender. He smothered the flames with a white jet of chemical spray and threw the empty canister into the back seat. The pungent scent of cordite laced the air like sinister perfume.

"They need help now!" said Max. Unbidden, Marty ran back down the road to get the first aid pack placed in the back of the SUV. He returned moments later, skidding down the side of the ditch like the hunchback of Notre Dame, the large bundle strapped to his back. Marty slung his burden to the ground and Max burrowed into the top compartment. He could do almost everything but open-heart surgery with the items he had packed in his medical kit.

"We can't move them," Max said. "They could have spinal injuries. We'll just have to stabilize them here." He started to do a quick check on the driver, sweeping his body for open lacerations, front and back. The soldier had a huge cut on his forehead, and had his lips split open by the steering wheel. He would need some stitches but he was still alive. The explosion had burned the clothing and skin to the driver's legs in places.

Harry did similar triage on the passenger. "It's a good thing they were wearing flak jackets," he said. "It protected them from most of the blast." Blood streaked the officer's face like war paint, and his nose was a swollen wedge of pink clay.

"Harry, they need to be taken back to a medical center," said Max. Harry nodded and spoke into the PRS.

"Rena, do you copy?" There was no response. He tried again and the radio remained silent save for the quiet whisper of static. Wherever Rena was, she was not answering the radio. Harry's combat skills started to buzz. It wasn't like Rena to leave the Land Cruiser without the radio. Harry had a feeling that things were about to get much worse.

"How long can they last?" asked Harry.

"They're alive, for now. I can't do a thorough check out here in the dark, in the middle of a goddam ditch. There's still the risk of internal injuries, or wounds that I can't see. The sooner they're treated by a doctor the better. They'll freeze out here."

"Right," Harry replied. He could feel the cold breeze nipping at his ears. "But we can't take them in. We'll be tied up for hours explaining what happened and why we were out here, plus I can't get Cole or Rena on the radio. I think they may be in trouble." He paused. They didn't have time to spare, but two lives lay in the balance. He took out his cell phone and dialed the number to the command post at the NATO camp. It rang through to the duty officer.

"DO, Lieutenant Bell, speaking."

"All right, just listen to me. It's important."

"Who the hell is this?" demanded the DO. "If this is some shithouse joke, I'm going to kick your ass!"

"Reel your neck in, tiger," said Harry. "This is about two of your guys. There's been an accident in the following location." He passed on a six-figure map grid reference point. It was second nature for Harry to carry a map in his pocket. He had developed the habit over numerous operations. "Two of your men have been injured. They're OK for now, but they'll need some medical attention."

"OK, who the hell is this?" Exasperation filled the young officer's voice.

"I'm...a friend. The vehicle call sign is Two Nine Alpha," said Harry, looking at the white stenciling along the base of the windscreen. "It's in the ditch along the north side the road. Hurry up, before it's too late."

"All right, let me confirm the grid." Harry could detect a note of urgency in the young man's questions. Harry gave him the coordinates a second time.

"I'm rerouting one of our patrols. Stay with the casualties until they arrive."

"What's the ETA?"

"About fifteen minutes."

"We'll stay for ten." He ended the call without waiting for a response. Cole could look after himself, Harry reasoned, but could Rena?

From where they stood, they would see, or more likely hear, one of the six-wheeled armored vehicles coming up the road from either direction in sufficient time to leave the scene. He remembered the mines. "Max, stay with those two. Marty, c'mon with me." There was a ragged hole in the road where the mine had detonated. A few feet away, a second and, further down, a third mine, had been placed in square depressions cut into the road. Harry flicked on a small Maglite he took from his pocket and aimed it at the dark objects. He could make out the plastic casing with three round pressure plates counter sunk in the surface. These were anti-tank mines. The one the jeep hit must have been anti-pers. Otherwise, the damage would have been greater, and the hole in the road larger. Josep and his boys liked a bit of variety to spice up the evening. He touched the smooth sides of the mine. Like most men trained to work in the dark, he could see as well with his fingers as his eyes. He traced the curved bottom and did not feel any wires or secondary explosives. There was no sign of any anti-lifting devices. Often sappers would set mines to explode if someone tampered with them. Either Josep's guys lacked the expertise, or the time, to add this additional threat. He could hear the muffled roar of a diesel engine growing louder. Lights flickered along the road, blinking in and out, as the vehicle was lost among the twists and turns in the road.

"Harry, they're coming." Marty's voice was hoarse and muted. Harry reached into the first hole and lifted. _I have the rest of my life to hope my hunch was right._ The mine was heavy, much heavier than it looked, as the plastic casing was full of explosive. He lifted it out and put it on the road. He repeated the procedure with the second mine.

Marty checked the road up and down for about fifty feet. "No signs of anymore of them," he said, returning from his sweep.

Harry nodded as he unscrewed the detonators from the pressure plates and put them in his pocket. Without the detonators to set them off the mines were just big green doorstops, full of inert explosive. "All right, guys," said Harry, "mount up and let's roll. That patrol will be here any minute." They clambered aboard the Toyota and drove off.

"We'll beat it back to the RV point and wait for Cole," said Harry.

Josep waited, toying with the rosary dangling from his rear view mirror. He couldn't see the ambush site from where he had pulled off the road, but it didn't matter. He would hear it well enough. The first explosion went off, a sharp crack like sound of somebody stacking lumber. "A few dead NATO soldiers," he gloated. Ten minutes later he heard a second NATO patrol approaching. _Their quick reaction force was very prompt,_ he thought. He had gambled that the explosion would draw other patrols who, distracted by the dead or injured, would blunder over the two anti-tank mines, generating more carnage and mayhem. _Welcome to the war, you NATO bastards. You should have stayed home._ A white flash racing down the road towards him broke his reverie. The lights were off but he could discern the bulk of a Toyota Land Cruiser barreling down the narrow road. Those damned Americans! What the hell were they doing out here? What arrogant bastards, those Americans. Why couldn't that country keep its nose out of Bosnia's affairs? Instead, they send these goddam spooks to spy and meddle.

He saw the spotlight of the Grizzly flash over the scene of the mine strike, a brilliant glow on the other side of the hill. He waited for the second blast. Five minutes ticked off his watch and it was still silent. Then it struck him: the white SUV that raced past his hiding spot. They would have passed by the scene of the explosion, if they came this way. Had the Americans discovered and removed or disarmed the mines? _Damn them!_ He would have to wait until tomorrow, when he could speak to his spies among the cleaning ladies at the NATO camp, to find out how successful his ambush had been.

Infuriated, he dropped the car in gear, and swung back onto the main road in a sharp arc, the black Mercedes swaying to one side as he almost overshot the asphalt. His cell phone began to ring. He snatched it out of his pocket. It was Yuri, the leader of the group in the Pajero.

"We were heading back when we saw a truck parked behind some buildings. It belonged to those American swine. We found a little treat inside – the girl. The snooty bitch was alone. But her friends must be out there somewhere, maybe snooping around the old HVO base."

"Where's the girl now?"

"We got her. She's in the car."

Josep smiled an evil smile, and flexed his tattooed knuckles along the steering wheel. Maybe tonight wasn't a complete failure. "Good, take her to Tibor's, but first check out the site to make sure it's clear. We don't need anybody discovering what's in the cave. That would blow Tibor's plans wide open, and then, God help us all. And Yuri, her friends are on their way to you. I saw them, and they were in a hurry." He told him about the mines, the foiled ambush, and his suspicions regarding the Americans from the Mustard Seed Group.

"Aid workers, my ass. The spooks are returning for the girl. Give them a little surprise party when they arrive." He chortled. "I'll meet you at the boss's place, when you're done." He disconnected. Ah, this plum had fallen right into his hand. Now he would see what these Yanks were up to. The girl would talk. He would make sure of that. And what could her friends do? Risk exposing themselves and admit that they were conducting covert operations here in Bosnia? No, there would be quiet negotiations, some big ransom money, _he hoped for a decent cut from Tibor_ , and then the CIA flunkies would slink away in disgrace. And there would still be plenty of time for some fun with the girl before they had to give her back.

Cole crossed the empty field, skirting the hedgerows that lined the road. The frozen furrows rippling across the dark surface proved that a farmer had tilled it at one time, reducing the risk of encountering an unmarked minefield. Still, he treaded carefully, looking for unusual disturbances in the dirt. Josep didn't leave any men behind in the compound and Cole doubted that any electronic surveillance measures were in place.

He reached the wire fence. It was about eight feet high, crowned with a coil of razor wire. He moved parallel to the fence, until he reached the point where it made a right angle and ran along the base of the hill behind the compound. Neglected for years, the fence sagged in places, separated from the metal posts that held it up. Cole found a gap and slipped through, but left the wire spread apart if had to escape in a hurry. He was confident the hole would remain undetected. There was no roving patrol, no security picket, no cameras, just the night. The offices and outbuildings remained dark and silent as made his way towards the cave. The yard was empty. The newly risen moon floated behind his shoulder, an unwitting conspirator, and in its pale light, Cole could see the cave's opening, a dark shade against the dull mass of the hill. He reached it, his heart pounding with excitement. What was in there? Was it Rena's grandfather's treasure, or something else? What had Josep and his men loaded in their cars?

He slipped into the gloom and snapped on the Maglite he carried in his pocket. He saw the tracks Josep and his men had left in the dust, and beyond that, long green boxes stacked in two uneven rows. Cole examined the wooden crates, looking at the stenciling on the sides. It was in Cyrillic but the markings were unmistakable. They contained different calibers of small arms ammunition, grenades, RPGs, and mortar rounds, and others contained assault rifles, AK47's. In one, he identified a 120mm mortar tube, all with the stamp of the JNA, the defunct Yugoslavian National Army. They had stashed away a goddamned arsenal in here. Were Josep and his pals running guns? That was the most plausible explanation. Cole took a hasty mental inventory of the cache. He would pass this on to the NATO troops so they could keep these weapons out of the hands of drug runners, or "revolutionaries" bent on war and more anguish in some other despairing country.

He moved past the boxes, deeper into the cave, looking for any features he might recognize from the map, or Captain Moore's journal. His search ended in a pile of rocks that blocked any access to the cavity where Drago had hidden the Chalice. Rena would be disappointed, but he had expected something like this, given the years that had passed since her grandfather had been here. They would have to find the airshaft from the top and see if they could get in through there.

He snapped off the flashlight to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He didn't want to alert anybody on the outside as he moved towards the entrance. Seconds later, he could distinguish the mouth the cave as a long slit of moonlight and he stepped off, skirting around the ammunition and weapons crates.

Cole froze when he heard car engines. Headlights flashed around the compound, illuminating the space outside the cave. The metal thud of car doors slamming and snatches of conversation drifted towards him. They were back! Cole ducked behind the ammo boxes and waited.

Harry sped along the narrow strip of road, headlight son to make better speed. As he came up to the farmhouse where they had left Cole and Rena, he doused the lights, braking and skidding into the turn while expertly handling the large SUV. Marty had taken the AKs out of the canvas bag and was fitting magazines into the upper receivers.

"Lock and load baby," said Marty. Harry nodded. Something had happened to Rena and Cole, and if there was any trouble, Harry was going to give the bad guys a face full in return. As they spun into the yard, he saw the other Toyota, tucked into the belt of shadow along the lee of the farmhouse wall. He skidded to a halt just as the first burst of tracers rounds flashed overhead.

"Son of a bitch!" Max yelled as he slammed into the front seat. "Give a guy some warning!"

"That enough warning for you?" shouted Harry as a second burst sent dirt and gravel flying into the side panels of their SUV. Harry jammed the Toyota in reverse and shot back out on to the road. They needed to find some cover.

"Did anybody see the muzzle flashes?" Harry asked.

"They came from behind the house," said Max. Harry backed the Toyota into the low ground of the far ditch. They dropped out of the SUV, on their bellies, and leopard-crawled forward to the verge of the road. They scanned the dark patches of shadow pooling around the empty farmhouse, looking for their attackers. Harry saw a flicker of movement, the glint of a gun barrel, and then a flash, like a camera. The pavement in front of them erupted in a spray of pebbles and asphalt. "They got our position," he hissed to the others.

"It's a good thing they're lousy shots," whispered Marty. "Otherwise, they would have nailed us."

"I couldn't see Rena in the Toyota," said Max, "or Cole."

"We'll figure that out after we deal with these clowns. We need to get outta here," said Harry. A familiar tension was growing inside him, the adrenalin build up before combat. He had to check himself. He wasn't at war with these fools, and no cover story, no matter how elaborate, would explain away a group of aid workers, armed with assault rifles, brewing up a bunch of local thugs. Rena's treasure hunt would turn into a hasty escape across the border. How did he get into these jams? Man, where was Cole? He was the cool head to figure these things out. He heard the excited breathing of his friends, as they lay next to him on the cold, dry grass of the ditch. They were experiencing the same physical reaction, their bodies ramping up for the fight. Marty let out two shots, aiming high, and firing at the wall above the spot where their assailants crouched. If the ambushers realized their targets were armed, maybe they would back off. The shadows remained motionless. Moments later, they heard gravel crunching to their left. _They were flanking them!_ Harry's mind raced. The gunshots were bound to attract a NATO patrol and troops would arrive any moment. But would it be soon enough? Where were Cole and Rena?

A shape flashed in the dark, crossing the road above them, as more fire ripped up the ground around them. "Damn it, better to be tried by twelve, than carried by six," said Marty. He fired a burst at the silhouette's legs; the man yelped in pain, and turned back, running with a limping gait to the cover of the farmhouse. Whoever was out there, they had lost their stomach for the fight.

Harry looked down the length of road to the distant compound. The Pajero, parked in the center, illuminated the hillside with its high-beams. There was no sign of Josep's Mercedes. Figures darted in and out of the headlights like actors spotlighted in some impromptu revue. He heard a shot and the Pajero raced forward towards the fence.

Cole crept forward, edging to the mouth of the cave. He heard shooting in the distance close to Rena's location. Had Josep and his pals discovered Rena and the SUV? _But why the shots?_ Rena had been unarmed. Two more shots echoed across the compound, followed by the drumbeat of an automatic weapon. The men from the Pajero were looking off in the distance, puzzled by the gunfire. Cole had to get back to Rena, to ensure she was safe. The Chalice would have to wait.

The hole in the wire was about two hundred meters away. A good runner could cover that in seconds. He darted out of the cave hugging the shadows, gambling on the men's distraction to give him an advantage. Nobody noticed him slip out and glide along the hill, twenty meters, than a hundred, and then one-fifty. The Pajero raced towards him! There were shouts of alarm, and more gunshots. He could hear the crack as bullets buzzed past him, hitting the ground with a dull thud. His heart pounded, pushing blood into his pumping legs, filling his ears with the roar of his pulse. Now the fence was in sight and he darted through the hole as the vehicle skidded to a stop behind him. Cole dodged behind the hedgerow into the safety of the night. He slowed, to get his breathing under control, and jogged across the field towards the spot where he had left Rena with the Toyota. As he approached, he noticed the flat roof of a SUV jutting out of the ditch with three prone figures lying alongside. He recognized the profiles. It was Harry, Marty, and Max.

The Pajero darted out of the compound and rocketed up the road towards them. Cole dropped to the ground. The vehicle stopped, as the two men who had laid the ambush sprang out of the ditch into the backseat, and then accelerated past Harry's position, vanishing in the darkness.

Cole called out. "Harry!"

"Cole! You made it!" Harry stood up as Cole moved towards him. The big man crushed him in a bear hug. "Am, I glad to see you!" Marty and Max, rubbing gravel off their clothes, joined them.

"Where's Rena?" said Cole.

Harry hesitated. "When we got here, the Toyota was empty. We were hoping she was with you!"

"Negative. I left her back here." They rushed over to the second Toyota. Cole opened the driver's door. In the interior light, he could see the Motorola lying on the floor. Max and Marty joined them.

"They got Rena," said Cole. "We have to find that Pajero."

"Where do you think she is?" asked Harry. Cole noted the concern in his voice. Rena had become part of the team, and you looked after your own.

"Wherever that bastard Josep hangs out. After tonight, I'm sure he'll have some large question marks over his head, hopefully large enough to keep Rena alive until we can find her. I had a look inside the cave. It's collapsed midway, so I couldn't find any leads to the Chalice. But I found something else: enough guns and ammo to outfit a small army."

"There's more to this, Cole," said Harry. "We watched these badasses mine one of the roads tonight and take out a NATO patrol. It must be tied in to what our friend from the club, Milos, warned us about."

"Then we better find Rena sooner rather than later," said Cole.

"Our needle could be anywhere in this crazy haystack," said Marty. "Where do we start, where do we find Josep?"

"I don't know," said Cole, "but I know who does. Let's pay a visit to Herr Moltke."
Chapter 13

Rena sat in the middle of the back seat, nauseated by the plum brandy reek from the two men flanking her. One was snoring quietly. Her second captor sighed, lit a cigarette, and gazed out at the passing darkness.

She cursed herself for her carelessness. The radio had distracted her, as she anxiously waited for word from Harry, worrying about Cole, oblivious to her surroundings. Without warning, the door was yanked open, and the icy steel of a pistol barrel jabbed into her neck. An acne-scarred face leered at her in the quick blink of the SUV's interior light as a rough hand grabbed her arm and pulled her from the vehicle. The man's small, pig-like eyes were glassy with drink, his breath heavy with alcohol. The door slammed shut and her captor threw her off her feet onto hard earth. She did not resist. That was what he wanted, an opportunity to give her a slap or a punch, any chance to inflict some pain. He jerked her upright.

"Easy on her, Yuri," said a second shadow."Josep wouldn't want her too bruised up."

"Shut up. Josep will have to be satisfied with what's left, after I am through." The words chilled her and she staggered on trembling legs.

"Brave guy when Josep's not here." Rena heard the sneer in the first man's voice. Yuri ignored him, but the mention of his boss blunted his cockiness somewhat.

"Get moving, you Pommy bitch." Yuri said, pushing her forward with a kick to her buttocks. Rena choked down the pain. "Get in the car!" he ordered. "I know that you understand me. You speak Croatian." She could feel the hard tip of the pistol poking her ribs. He would shoot her without a thought, no different from a stray dog. She began to cry. This venture had been foolhardy from the start, and now she was in the hands of these monsters.

"Quit your crying." Yuri laughed. "We're all friends here, or don't you like us?" He laughed again at his own humor. He pushed her into the back seat, sandwiching her against another passenger who was waiting within. The man's stony shoulder and pitiless killer's face told her there was no escape. Yuri's companion, who had cautioned him about Josep, sat in the front next to the driver. Yuri remained outside, talking on his cell phone. He wrenched open the door and ordered the others to come out, but the driver remained behind the wheel, sullen and silent. Yuri gestured and spoke rapidly, but too quiet, for Rena to make out his words. The two men walked back towards the Toyota, vanishing in the darkness. Yuri climbed in next to her, gave an order to the driver, and they sped off towards the compound.

The car stopped at the entrance. The driver got out and unlocked the padlocked gate, swinging it open on squeaking hinges, and then drove through, following the narrow gravel track leading toward the cluster of dark, silent buildings. Yuri produced a bottle of clear liquid.

"Drink?" he asked. Rena refused. "Don't be so shy," he said and pushed the bottle towards her. She pushed it back. "Stupid woman," he said and took a deep swallow from the bottle. "You don't know what's good for you." He tucked the bottle back into his coat.

They parked and both men got out. They scanned the hillside in the light from the headlamps. They were looking for Cole. Despite her own fears, her stomach churned, thinking of the danger waiting for him. Could she warn him? Rena grasped the door handle. How far would she get far before they dropped her with a bullet in her back? Her hand slipped off the handle back into her lap.

She heard an echoing crack, followed by another, and then the stutter of an automatic weapon. Yuri and the driver stared off in the direction of the shots. Rena caught a glimpse of movement near the cave. It was Cole! He moved along the base of the hill and disappeared into the shadows. The driver shouted and gestured towards the hill. Yuri took aim with the pistol and fired. Both men jumped into the car. The engine raced and they charged towards the darting figure, trying to run him down. Cole was too quick. He reached the fence and vanished. The Pajero braked without warning, throwing Rena forward, slamming her arm against the front seat.

"Where is that motherfucker?" shouted Yuri. He reached back and grabbed Rena by the hair. "Where is your friend? Where is the bastard?" His fist cocked back, and Rena braced for the blow. Before it landed, Yuri's cell phone rang, playing the Rolling Stones' _Sympathy for the Devil_. He reached into his coat pocket.

"Whore!" He glared at Rena as he flicked open the phone's receiver. It was Josep."We have the girl with us and we are trying to track her boyfriend down," Yuri said in fawning tones. "He was snooping around the cave, but we'll get him, boss. He can't hide from us."

"Bullshit, Yuri. I can tell from your voice that you lost him, but no matter, forget about him," Josep ordered. "He will come to us, now that we have the girl. You need to disappear. NATO will be there any moment now. Even they can't ignore all that gunfire. What about the second American car, was the ambush successful?"

"I don't know. I left them in position as you said. I heard their shots, but we went after the bastard monkeying around in the cave."

"Somebody was shooting back. Check it out, and then meet me at Tibor's. Make it quick. I'm sure he'll want to have a chat with the young lady, and when he's done, it's our turn." Yuri looked over at Rena, and licked his lips. He laughed a raspy laugh.

"Yes, our turn," he repeated. He put the phone away and leaned forward to talk to the driver. "Go back to where we left the boys. We'll pick them up and head to Tibor's." The driver nodded and turned the Pajero towards the gate.

"What about the Yank?"

"Don't worry about him. Josep has it under control." They sped down the road, slowing as they reached the spot where they had found Rena.

"Careful, now," said Yuri. "We don't know where her friends are." He had hoped to find a bullet-riddled Toyota and some dead Americans, but the road was empty. Two men crouching along the shoulder appeared in the headlights, waving. They clambered into the car. One sat down heavily near Rena, pressing her into Yuri's side.

The other joined the driver in front. "Let's go, for chrissake," he panted, "before they nail us, they're hiding across the road!" The car accelerated and Yuri glimpsed the second SUV concealed in the low ground of the ditch. He braced for a spray of bullets, that didn't come, and they shot past to safety.

"So? What happened, how did you fools screw up this time?" said Yuri, fond of shifting blame to anyone but himself.

"They outgunned us," said the man in the front. "We didn't stand a chance."

"The bastards shot me!" moaned the big man sandwiching Rena into Yuri's side. "My leg is bleeding. It was your goddamned friends," he said, scowling at Rena. "They ruined my good pants." He placed his AK between his legs. Rena could smell the sharp scent of cordite. Yuri flicked a lighter and looked at the wounded man's leg.

"You'll live, Peko," said Yuri. "You were shot because you were careless. You had the jump on them; they turned it around on you!"

"We hit them as soon as they arrived. But I didn't expect them to be armed. Where did they get the guns, you bitch?" His voice was surprisingly calm for a man freshly wounded in a gun battle. Rena attributed it to Slivo.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered.

Yuri leaned over. "Of course you do. And we'll find out everything soon enough. So what happened to them, the Yanks, Peko? Did you hit any?"

"Devil knows. But if we didn't, we gave them a good scare. They'll think twice before they stick their nose in our business again, I'll bet"

"No, Peko," said Yuri. "They will come again, and they will be more careful. But we have the girl, so the cards are in our hands, isn't that right sweetie?" He stroked Rena's cheek. She cringed and pulled her head away.

"Oh, you're tough one aren't you?" He appeared more relaxed now, less violent and unpredictable, willing to talk.

"So where are we going?" she asked.

"How do you know our language?" Yuri asked, ignoring her question.

"My grandmother was Croatian. I learned it from her."

"And you came back to the old country, to help the peasants, the backward cousins," he said. "You people have no idea what you are doing. You have no idea of how things are here. You come from your fancy homes, you drive your fancy cars, smell like perfume. You come here with soft hands. Do you think that we cannot get on without your charity? We have looked after ourselves through the war. We can do so now."

"The Mustard Seed Group's mission is to help with the reconstruction of Drvar. The people here can't do it alone. They need the Internationals."

Yuri snorted a laugh. "People! You mean the Serbs? In Serbian territory, they are driving the Croatians out. We won't let them get away with that here. Let them go back to Pale, and Banja Luka. Leave this place to us. They have no business here, but enough of this fairy tale. You and your friends are far too nosy for aid workers." He smiled ominously, a smile with too many spaces in it. "We're going to see the boss. You can tell him your lies. I'm sure he'll find it all very entertaining."

Yuri ended the conversation by lighting another cigarette. Rena's thoughts raced. Cole had gotten away, but what about Harry and the others? Were they lying wounded in the ditch, gunned down by these killers? Gunfire had driven Peko and his partner off before they had completed the ambush. That meant that someone in the team had survived the attack. She choked back a sob. If Harry, Max, or Marty had been hurt or killed, she was to blame. Images of their bleeding bodies, eyes staring lifeless at the stars, raced through her mind in a grisly slide show. She cursed the Chalice, and her bloody grandfather's journal. She couldn't let Cole and the others risk their lives for her. She had to escape.

The Pajero entered the edge of the town and threaded its way through deserted streets and alleys, past houses, dark and silent. No lights peeped out through windows shades, no comforting signs of life, or hope. Her fate was no concern to those who slumbered on behind the quiet walls, their dreams filled with their own despair. The momentum of the night's events had pushed her, like a twig in a strong current. There was no cavalry to save her. Cole and the others, if they were still alive, would find a cold, clueless trail that ended...where? With her dumped in a shallow pit, lost like thousands of others souls in this land drained of compassion by years of hatred, and death? Panic surged through her like an electric shock.

The car stopped in front of a two-story house next to Josep's Mercedes, parked along the curb. Yuri slapped Peko on the shoulder. "Wake up." He pulled Rena out of the SUV. A narrow lane ran at a right angle to the street, disappearing in a maze of houses and shrubbery. If she could get to the alley, she might have a chance. She could melt into the urban clutter of Drvar, make her way back to the hotel and call Cole, tell him she was OK, keep him safe. With Peko's leg wound, he wouldn't be running anywhere and if she surprised Yuri, she might get a decent lead on him in his half-drunk state. It was time to act. If she thought too much, she would freeze. She raked Yuri's face with her nails and broke free of his grasp. She turned and ran... right into Peko's chest. The impact winded her and she fell to the ground. Yuri grabbed her hair and yanked her upright. Tears streamed down her faced, and she felt a stinging slap across the lips.

"You goddamned whore! I should kill you now!" Yuri's eyes blazed as he rubbed three red welts along his cheek. He turned her around and pushed her up against the side of the car, jerking back her hands and tying them with a rough length of rope a limping Peko pulled out of the trunk. "No more stupid tricks!" Yuri whispered. The driver and the man in front of the car got out. They laughed at Yuri's discomfort.

"You have such a way with the ladies, Yuri," said the driver. Yuri dismissed him with a one-fingered salute.

He marched Rena up the stairs, his hand on her back propelling her forward, occasionally straying down to her rump. Peko hobbled behind them, leaving the other two men below with the Pajero. Yuri signaled for him to stay and watch the door. Peko grumbled about the cold and his wound, but Yuri ignored him.

An atmosphere of stale sweat, kerosene fumes, and cigarette smoke greeted her at the doorway at the top of the stairs. Her mouth was bleeding where Yuri had hit her, salty on her tongue, and her bottom lip was numb and swollen from the blow. The camp lantern in the room was blinding after the gloom of the stairwell.

Rena stumbled, as Yuri shoved her forward into the light. She regained her balance and glanced around the room. An old man with a thin face stared at her from behind a desk. It was a handsome face, dignified in age with fine features, but the eyes, harsh as a desert, robbed it of any sympathy.

"Tibor, we caught her near the compound. She and her friends were snooping around." Yuri spoke quickly, like a child with a good report card, looking for praise. A cigarette smoldered in a dirty ashtray on the desk, wreathing Tibor's face in an evil veil.

Tibor nodded at Yuri. "Yes, Josep told me. Well?" He looked at Rena. "Why were you trespassing on private property?" He asked in heavily accented English. Rena remained silent. He nodded and Rena groaned as Yuri delivered a quick punch into her back. "My dear girl. We really don't want to hurt you, or at least I don't, but Yuri, he enjoys it. Save us all the trouble. Tell me what business you had in the HVO compound."

"I was looking for a place to store our humanitarian aid. We need a large, secure area for our building supplies. I spoke to Mr. Moltke, the man leasing the compound. He said we could use part of the space. I was checking to see if it met our needs."

"A bit late for this type of survey, no?"

"We work long days, and have to make the best use of our time."

Tibor rolled his eyes. "Come on, girl, don't play foolish games. Yuri is charming compared to me, when I am angry. Who are you?"

"My name is Rena Moore. I'm a British citizen. I work for the Mustard Seed Group. What business do you have holding me against my will? This is kidnapping. My friends will report this to the police."

"You have no idea how things are done here. I'm the police, I'm the mayor...I'm the founder of the feast. If people in this town need something, they come to me. They know that they can trust me. I'm the difference between life and death in this town." The light from the lantern danced across his face, creating deep shadows in the hollows of his eyes, like the empty sockets of a skull. His voice was calm. It was a voice of conviction, rich with a confidence that did not need anger to make its point. "Now, the truth, Ms Moore. Why are you spying on us? Who sent you?" Rena remained silent, staring down at the floor. She could not meet the cruel gaze of his eyes. She would drown in them, lose herself, and reveal everything. Yuri shuffled his feet behind her and she braced for another punch. Her legs were starting to weaken. How long could she keep this up? The lantern, hissing on the table, projected their exaggerated shadows on the wall, one standing, one sitting, one powerful, one defeated, like an eerie pantomime from hell. She began to tremble.

"Who are your friends?" The interrogation continued. "They appear very well prepared for humanitarian aid workers. In fact, they seem more like soldiers. Are they CIA? Why were you poking around the HVO base? What are you looking for? Who are you working for?" The questions ripped across the room like machine gun fire. The old man nodded again, almost imperceptibly. Yuri leered. He reached across the desk and picked up the cigarette from its makeshift ashtray. The end glowed like an orange eye. He blew on it and it flared up between his two fingers. "One thing about pretty girls, Yuri, is that they like to remain pretty," said Tibor. Yuri nodded and brought the burning ember towards Rena's face. His eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure, anticipating Rena's scream. Rena's mind reeled. The room grew dimmer and the man behind the desk faded into a gray fog. His voice grew fainter, as though it was coming from the bottom of a deep well. Rena felt buoyant. An iris of darkness surrounded the silhouette speaking to her, growing wider and wider. She slumped forward into the deep black pit.

A garble of white noise filled her ears. The garble turned into voices, distant and muffled, like the sound of a television coming from another room. She opened her eyes. She was sitting in a chair across from the desk. Tibor was still there, looking at her intently. The nightmare returned, but this was no dream where she could shut her eyes and then wake up in her bed, warm and safe. Yuri hulked beside, her. The man she knew as Josep had joined them and stood next to the man behind the desk.

"Did you have a good nap, my lovely?" asked Josep. His black leather overcoat shone in the dim light like snakeskin.

The old man spoke again. "The time for lies is over, young lady. What were you looking for? Tell us and we will let you walk out of here. If don't cooperate, well... things may not go so well. We will start with you and then move on to your friends. Do you want their lives in your hands? If they suffer, it will be because you were stubborn. You are not protecting them. You are making it worse. Now, we know you aren't who you say you are. What was so important that you would come here and risk your life? I hope it's worth it, whatever it is. I ask you again, who are you working for? The US State Department? They are on our side anyway. They arm the HVO to fight the Serbs. They train our men. So you see we are on the same side. We are allies. But maybe you don't work for the US. Then who do you work for? Are you with Interpol?" He paused. "My patience is wearing thin." Yuri slapped her face, leaving red stamps across her cheeks. "If you don't talk soon, I'm going to give you to Yuri."

Tears trickled down Rena's face. How could she protect Cole and the team? The thought of them gave her a surge of strength. She had to tell this horrid old man something, and it needed to be convincing. Her mind churned, thinking about everything she read in the papers concerning Bosnia, or glimpsed on the news as well-groomed anchors delivered the latest serving of tragedy and despair. That was it! She almost smiled.

"I'm a journalist. I work for the BBC. I came here to do a story on illegal logging activities in Bosnia. I knew a foreign businessman was leasing the compound. I was looking for a story." She was amazed at how quick the lie slipped off her tongue. Maybe she had some of the right stuff after all. But would her inquisitor believe it?

"Hmm. OK. We are making progress. I told you Yuri was a charmer. Who are the men working with you, the Americans?"

"I hired them to help me. Driving, photography, protection."

"Well, they did a great job," Josep snickered. He cracked his tattooed knuckles.

"So they are soldiers of fortune?" asked Tibor, ignoring Josep.

"No, they're just freelancers, blokes who work the international journalist circuit." Rena answered.

Tibor paused, deliberating. "Take her to the mill," he said after a moment. "We'll need to round up her friends as well, to get to the bottom of this." He gave her an appraising glance. "I wonder how important you are to them. Do you think money can buy loyalty, young lady? We shall see." He waved her away. Yuri pulled her upright by her arms. The cord dug into her hands and she clenched her fingers to keep the blood moving. The tips tingled as circulation returned.

"Move!" Yuri pushed her forward into the dark tunnel of the stairwell and they descended into the shadows.

"Josep, go with them. She and her mercenary friends will be useful later, when the world needs somebody to blame for the sad events that occurred in Drvar. Keep Yuri away. I don't want anything to happen to her, yet." Josep looked disappointed. "She'll be the bait for the others. They will come for her and this is what you will do...."

Josep departed after receiving his latest orders. He smiled as he put the Mercedes in gear; the old man was still as sharp and cagey as ever.

Tibor, alone now, gazed at the lantern sputtering on his desk, thinking about the girl. The English were so self-possessed, so confident, and so foolish. There had been English officers working among the partisans. He remembered how they parachuted into the country, the modulating drone of the Dakotas getting louder, signal fires hurriedly lit to guide the aircraft in, and a rustle of silk as they landed in the drop zone. The agents had arranged for ammunition, and medical supplies, even evacuation of the wounded. He had seen the British officers from a distance. They were figures from a different world that conferred with men like Tito, not common soldiers like himself. Some of them trained the radio operators to use the wireless sets and others to use special weapons. , but they had never selected Tibor for that. They had been brave men and good fighters, risking their lives for a partisan cause that was not their own. And this silly girl was following in their tracks, championing another cause that was not her own. What was it about the British that they had to stick their noses everywhere? She would have done better to stay home.

The girl was lying. Reluctantly, Josep had informed Tibor about the failed ambush. Journalists didn't carry automatic weapons. These men were something else, and the girl must be a front, part of their cover story. She was no agent. He assumed that the one in the compound, the American that Josep and those other fools had allowed to escape, must have seen what was in the cave. He needed to sideline these nosy Yanks before they could jeopardize his master plan. Arms caches stashed around Drvar would catch the interest of NATO command in Brussels, and the place would be flooded with soldiers, tripping over each other, scouring the town, setting up checkpoints, looking for the big score. Such unwelcome attention would impact Tibor's operations. He would have to go to ground for a while, until the NATO commanders got bored and left, and going to ground was bad for business.

He thought about Rena again, with a pang of regret. He wasn't too old, yet, to appreciate a pretty face and a swing of a hip. But Tibor had never shied away from making the hard choices needed to survive.

The attack on the NATO camp had to occur within 24 hours. Josep needed to move the arms cache before the Americans alerted NATO. As the old adage went, dead men told no tales and Tibor would implicate the girl and her mercenary friends, after they had been disposed of, in aiding the Serb "terrorists." It was always this way. He had to outwit the others to stay in front of the pack. He saw how Josep looked at him. When would he think that Tibor was old enough, feeble enough to take on? If Josep were patient, he would get everything in the end. But Josep wasn't patient, this Tibor knew. He lit a cigarette with a wooden match, which he preferred to lighters, and he watched the flame scrawl towards his fingers, until he dropped the blackened stem onto the floor. How nice it would be to be sitting in Halva's kitchen again, coffee boiling on the stove and his only worry the kind of weather the wind would bring to his crops. That peace was only a memory. Life had taken him far away from that kitchen, and he couldn't go back.

The room was growing colder. His hands burned with arthritis, and the aching ghosts of old wounds returned. He turned down the lantern and went to the bedroom adjacent to his office where a second wood stove burned. Josep had stoked it before he left and Tibor embraced the warmth. He sat down on the small cot that was his bed. Maybe he should turn everything over to Josep now and retire. And then what, take up fishing? He undressed and climbed under the covers. Maybe tonight he would be free of nightmares. Maybe tonight, God would forgive him and bless him with good dreams. But the truth of it was that God was nowhere to be seen. A man had only his two hands, and Tibor's hands would steer his destiny, and if he could, he would steer the destiny of his country, his dear Croatia, the land that he had been fighting for his entire life. He would honor his ancestors, those grim men buried on the hillside cemeteries beneath crosses of stone and wood.

They checked the SUV in the muted glow of a flashlight. Their ambushers had missed the Toyota during the haphazard firefight. "Not a scratch, they just chopped up the dirt a bit," observed Max.

"We better get out asses out of here, ASAP. Those shots will be drawing a crowd," said Harry.

"Right you are, big fella," Cole replied. "Plus, the longer we stay here, the colder Rena's trail gets."

They clambered into the two Land Cruisers, Cole and Marty in one, and Harry and Max in the other. Cole glanced at the luminescent dial on his watch. It was 01:30 AM. Moltke was likely asleep by now, so it was a good bet they would find him in his room at the Bastasi. The German had some connection to Josep and the network he worked for. Josep was the clue. If they could find him, they would find Rena. Was Moltke part of Josep's crime ring? He was, if he knew about the weapons in the cave. Or was he being duped as well? Cole would find out. The old fellow would talk one way or another; Cole would make certain of that. The prospect of bullying an old man bothered him, but Rena's life hung in the balance.

He would pass the information on the arms cache to John, the Captain at the NATO camp. After all, that was their job, to police this wild country. But the guys in the white hats always needed some help, and a bit of luck. Cole would give them some of both, but only after they had Rena. Backing Josep and his mob into a corner too soon would be dangerous. They might act in desperation, and desperate acts were often bloody acts.

The dark countryside flashed by in the periphery of the Land Cruiser's headlights, an inkblot image of light and shadow. They barreled down deserted roads, racing past barren homes and farms, emptied through violence fueled by a common history of hatred. Marty spoke. "So, what do you think, Cole, how much time does Rena have?"

Cole hesitated. He was thinking similar thoughts. "That's a tough call. They didn't kill her on the spot, so that's in our favor. But I really don't know. The sooner we can find this Joseph, the better out chances of finding Rena in one piece."

"So you think that old Kraut knows something about this?" asked Harry

"Maybe. I'm not sure he's linked to Rena's disappearance, but I bet he knows where Josep's lair is, and more importantly, who Josep's boss is."

"Yeah, I call him on that as well. This Josep guy seems more like the hired muscle rather than the brains behind this organization."

"He's cunning, and that makes him deadly, Marty. There was enough ammo in that cave to equip a rifle company. Somebody needs it. And our friends in the compound didn't seem too happy to see any of us. They tried to kill me, and you guys could have been going home in bags as well."

"That's where those clowns we followed tonight got the mines. It could be their warehouse."

"The way it was laid out, it seemed like an ammo dump before an attack. You know, bomb the boys up and then over the top. The HVO must have left it when they moved out. If they're involved in this as well, it's bigger than just some thugs running guns."

"Maybe it's part of the big plan the guy back at the bar was talking about," said Marty.

Cole had similar misgivings. A picture was forming in his mind since he discovered the munitions in the cave, a picture of the Balkans plunged once again into war, by nationalist zealots. It was sheer madness, but madness was a constant companion in Bosnia.

"That's why we've got to find Rena before this place explodes. Moltke is a gamble, but right now, he's the best option we've got." They turned down the road leading to the Bastasi. The lights in the cafe were on, but the windows were empty. The handful of locals that occupied the cafe during the supper hour had long since gone, and the paying guests tucked away in their beds, oblivious to danger around them. Two large transport trucks hulked in the parking lot. Each bore the logo of the two-headed Prussian eagle. Both vehicles had German plates, the GE exhibited in bold black and white alongside a string of numbers.

"It looks like Moltke has some company," observed Marty. "I guess he's getting ready to set up shop."

"Yeah, maybe he's just in the lumber business after all. Let's find out," replied Cole. The second SUV parked beside them, and Max and Harry jumped out, silent as cats.

They walked towards the entrance of the Hotel. Cole pushed on the heavy wooden door. It moved on well-oiled hinges, uttering a slight squeal. The lobby smelled of old cigarettes, leather, and coffee, a scent that had become as familiar as home. A faint light came from the room behind the bar where the bartender-concierge-night watchman slept, idly snoring and farting in his slumber. They moved through the empty cafe towards the stairs. The upper level contained ten rooms, and they had five. Moltke was in room number six, across from Cole. The remaining rooms were empty as the hotel saw few guests, other than day visits to the cafe, at this time of year. The German would be alone. Where were the drivers and crew of the trucks? If they were in the rooms adjacent to Moltke's, things could get complicated. A midnight punch-up with Moltke's hired hands would only slow things down, and put Rena further out of their grasp.

The stairwell was empty, lit only by a single bare bulb protruding from the wall at the top. Cole could hear the faint hum of a generator hidden in the depths of the building. It was the single source of power for the hotel. The government had yet to rebuild the electrical grid, destroyed during the war, beyond the outskirts of Drvar. They moved forward in a patrol formation, Cole at point, Max and Marty covering left and right, and Harry in the rear. Despite their safe and comfortable surroundings, these skills had become as automatic as breathing when they were on the job. They paused at the foot of the stairs.

"Harry and I will go in. Max, you and Marty watch the doors. I don't know where the drivers of those trucks are, but they must be close." Cole whispered his orders and the others nodded their understanding-no noise, no violence, if they could avoid it.

They reached the second level. A large brass number marked each door. Cole listened . All was silent inside number six. He tried the tarnished knob and pushed. It turned but the door stayed firm. The locks were of the old skeleton key variety. Security in the Bastasi was clearly not a concern. He raised his hand, motioning them to stop. He darted across the hallway to his own room and emerged with his "hooligan" kit, a collection of burglary tools and a small crowbar for jimmying doors if picking the lock failed. He took out a short rod of about eight inches and fitted it into the keyhole. He lined up the tumblers and the mechanism spun with a metallic clack. Cole tucked the kit into his jacket pocket. Fingers crossed, Moltke was a heavy sleeper. The door swung open and he and Harry swept into the inner darkness. The air had the sharp chemical scent of Deep Heat ointment tinged with the faint aroma of cologne. Moltke lay on the bed, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep. Marty and Max took their posts outside as Cole closed the door with an audible click that sounded like thunder in the still room. Cole reached along the wall for the light switch. He wondered if the surprise might be too much for the old man. But he wanted him off balance and rattled. A degree of shock might loosen Moltke's tongue. He felt the metal plate, just as the bedside lamp flashed into light and he found himself looking down the black hole of a Luger.

"Shame on you, Mr. Samson. I didn't figure you for a thief. It's not very sporting to prey on the old and infirm."Moltke was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had kicked off the covers, pistol trained on Cole's heart. Harry grunted in astonishment.

"Good evening, Mr. Moltke. You are mistaken. We didn't have robbery on our mind," said Cole, blinking against the brightness.

"Really? Then what you did have on your mind?" He tapped on the wall beside the bed. A rap from the other room answered back. Cole heard a door open and then a muffled thud. Moltke stared at Cole. "Tell your men to come inside and join the party," he ordered. Cole nodded to Harry. Harry opened the door.

"Max, Marty, the jig's up."

"Ah, too bad," said Marty "But what do we do with this?" They held a man up by the arms. A small trickle of blood trailed down his forehead. "Does he belong to you?" Marty asked, staring at Moltke through the doorway.

"Looks like a draw," said Cole. "So let's put the gun away. We didn't come here to harm you. I need some information, information that could save the life of our friend."Moltke nodded, and lowered the pistol.

"That's my foreman you have there. Is he all right?" The short stocky man shrugged himself free of Max and Marty, his face red with anger.

"These bastards got the jump on me, boss. Otherwise they'd be lying on the floor," he sputtered in German. Moltke nodded sympathetically. Walter was his old self, as irascible as ever.

"Yes, he's all right," said Moltke, reverting to English. "Come in and sit down, all of you." They moved into the room. Max and Marty stood by the doorway, while Walter plunked himself down on the bed next to Moltke, rubbing his scalp, and scowling at Marty.

"You seem quite well armed for an honest businessman," said Cole.

Moltke laughed. "Try and find an honest businessman. After forty years in this business, you would know why I carry a pistol. But no matter. Where is the charming young lady?"

"That's what we need to find out," answered Cole. "And I think you can help us."

"Me? How?"

"Josep. Who is he and where can I find him?" said Cole.

This was the opportunity Moltke wanted, to distract Tibor with the Americans, leaving him free to focus on the cave without intrusions. Moltke's lips pursed, as though he had tasted something bad. "This is no confessional." He gestured at the room around him. "But if your friend is in danger...I know him only through my connections here. I need what you would call a fixer, and he works for the man who runs this town. A man called Tibor. Tibor is the fixer and Josep is his right hand. Together they hold this town and a good part of this region in their grip. Nothing happens here without Tibor's permission, especially if it doesn't serve Tibor's ends."

"And what would those ends be?" said Cole.

"What men like Tibor always want, money, power. Honestly, I don't really know. I just know that Tibor controls Drvar, and if you need something done, he's the man to see."

"So he set you up with the HVO compound, and the logging interests?"

"He did indeed."

"And did he set you up with the weapons and ammunition sitting in Tito's old cave?"

"What are talking about?" Moltke's surprise seemed genuine. He was wearing a set of flannel pajamas and a silk dressing gown, the Luger weighing down one of the pockets. He tugged the dressing gown tighter around himself, as though chilled by Cole's words.

"I was there tonight," said Cole. "There's a large weapons cache hidden inside, small arms, mortar tubes and bombs, RPG's. And you know nothing about it?"

"No, Mr. Samson, I don't. I should be asking you what you were doing trespassing on my property, but I know that you are not aid workers. I did some research on the Mustard Seed Group. It doesn't exist. I can only imagine what your motives are. Places like Bosnia draw men like you. War is your element and I'm sure your government has some strategic interest in Drvar, such as targeting the HVO compound for your bombers, or some other mischief. But I can tell you, I visited the cave this morning and it was empty."

"It was your buddy Josep who dropped that stash in there," said Harry. "We followed him and his crew from the Boom Boom, and they led us straight to the cave. They were involved in ambushing a NATO patrol with a bunch of mines."

"And then your friends tried to kill us," said Marty. "But fortunately, they were lousy shots."

Moltke fixed Marty with an icy stare. "Make no mistake, young man, they are not my friends. Josep is an intermediary, nothing more, an errand boy. My interests in this are purely commercial. I can tell you where to look for him. But as you know, you can find him yourself down at the Boom Boom Cafe. However, if Rena's life is at stake, I will give you the address of Tibor's house. It's where we meet to discuss our business, and Josep is normally there." He reached for a small notebook, scrawled out the house number, and handed the sheet to Cole. "It's the largest house on the street. These men are cutthroats, so you should be cautious in how you deal with them."

"That's what's bothering me, Herr Moltke. Why is a big deal businessman consorting with pirates like Tibor and Josep?" asked Cole. "You could send an employee to handle this? Why take the risk?"

Moltke dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. "You have your secrets, and I have mine," he replied. "You're wasting time. Find your charming companion Rena, before any harm comes to her. Tell me, why do you think Josep is hiding guns in the cave?"

"Given the arsenal I saw, I think he's planning some type of terrorist attack. We need to alert the NATO troops before it's too late."

"Find Rena. Leave NATO to me. I will tell them," said Moltke.

Cole nodded in assent. As he moved towards the door, his phone rang. Cole stopped in surprise. He looked at the number and flipped the phone open. "Samson." He paused and looked at the others. "Well, what do you know, it's Rena."
Chapter 14

She moved in a trance of fear and despair, as they dragged her to the SUV. Yuri held her arm; his fierce grip, biting into her bicep. Tibor's comments about rounding up Cole and the team had shattered her. Her friends would come for her, Cole would come for her, and they would be walking right into a trap.

The cold night air stung her throbbing lip, but the sharp stab of pain cut through her fugue and helped her focus on her situation. Yuri stopped short of the car and kicked her legs apart into a wide stance. She almost stumbled but he held her steady. She refused to show any more discomfort, if only to deny Yuri the satisfaction of seeing her pain. The bastard enjoyed it too much and that was the only resistance left to her. She felt his hands sweeping the contours of her body as he patted her down, groping her breasts and her inner thighs. He moved on to her pockets, stopping when he felt the hard square of her cell phone. He reached in and took it. "You don't mind?" He smirked and placed it in his pocket. Peko had abandoned his post by the door for the warmth of the idling car, and he, the driver, and his fellow ambusher snored within. Yuri pulled open the doors and shoved Peko and his comrade. "Get up you lazy bastards, go home! We don't need you anymore tonight." The men awoke, and looked at Yuri with surprise.

"You want me to walk home?" said Peko. "I was shot in the leg!"

"That will teach you to be stupid. Now get out! I have business with Josep, and if I am late..."He drew a finger across his throat. The two men moved stiffly, shivering as they left the cozy interior of the Pajero.

"You're a real son of bitch, Yuri," said Peko, limping away with the aid of his friend.

"How do you know, Peko?" said Yuri. "You never met my mother." Peko gave him the finger, but Yuri ignored him.

He turned his attention to Rena. "Get in," he ordered. He shoved Rena into the back seat and then dropped himself beside her.

"Where are we going?" asked the driver, rubbing his eyes.

"To the mill," said Yuri. "We'll find her a cozy spot until Tibor decides what to do with her."

Rena listened carefully. Once she was at the mill, perhaps another escape attempt would be possible. She had to keep her bearings and track the direction they were taking her. The town was in a narrow valley with two switchbacks leading out of either end. One led southeast, to the Mokronoge Valley, the other south to the village of Bos Grahovo. Depending on which route they took, she would have a general idea of where they were heading. _Concentrate. Remember every twist and turn so you can get back here_. The car started to climb toward the hills overlooking the Mokronoge Valley. They traveled in silence. Occasionally, Rena looked over at her captor. He was so silent, was he sleeping? She began to slide towards the opposite side of the seat, feeling for the handle, but her bound hands were numb and clumsy. "Be careful, sweetheart," said Yuri, wrenching her back to the middle of the seat. "You don't want to fall out and get hurt." He laughed. The car continued along the whiplash of road, now descending into the valley. There was flash of headlights in the rear window. Somebody was coming up behind them! Was it Cole and the team? She felt a fleeting moment of triumph as the distance between the two vehicles closed. But it was Josep's Mercedes that shot past them into the darkness, the red pinpricks of his taillights wagging to and fro as he raced around the curves up ahead.

"Motherfucker," said the driver, "he scared the shit out of me."

"That's Josep for you," said Yuri. "He scares the shit out of everybody." They followed in the darkness, passing through the Mokronoge Valley and starting to rise again. The moonlit farmland grew crowded with shrubs and trees until massive pines surrounded them. The further she got from Drvar, the less chance Cole had of finding her. Gripped by fear of whatever lay ahead in the clutches of Yuri and Josep, she began to cry.

"Dry your eyes, bitch," said Yuri. "Crying won't help you, but some of this might." He leered in the darkness as he pawed her breast.

A flashlight flared up ahead. A man in dark knit watch cap and wool overcoat stood in the middle of the road, an AK slung over his shoulder. The Pajero rolled to a stop and the driver lowered the window. The sentry peered inside, staring at Rena and then Yuri. He smirked, stepped back, and waved them forward with the flashlight.

They followed a dirt track through the forest, bouncing and sliding along deep ruts. A clearing appeared in the headlights with several wood and tin sheds arrayed barracks-style along one end.

The Pajero drove up to a plywood building with a tin roof and parked next to Josep's Mercedes. They had blacked out structure's windows with dark curtains, as though the occupants were guarding against a World War II air raid.

"OK, bitch, move that little ass of yours," said Yuri, grabbing her by the arm and tugging her out of the vehicle. He pushed on the plywood door and pulled Rena through the opening.

Josep sat at a table crowded with a kettle, a few cups, and some dirty plates. A white metal wood stove, ubiquitous to the Balkans, glowed in the corner, trying to generate some cheer, but failing. "Good evening once again, dear Rena." Josep seemed fresh and alert, despite the late hour. Rena did not reply. The adrenalin high of the past few hours was beginning to fade, leaving a clinging weariness. Rena was falling asleep on her feet, engulfed by emotional and physical exhaustion. "Did the cat get your tongue," asked Josep, "or was it Yuri?" He laughed. "Never mind. Enough small talk. I need your help for a few moments and then we can show you to your room. I'm sure you will find it to your liking." He laughed again, and Rena noticed the drug-induced glint of his eyes. He gestured for Yuri to untie Rena's hands. She flexed her fingers, trying to get the blood back into her numb digits.

"Why should I help you?" she asked.

"Why indeed?"Josep nodded and Yuri left the room. He returned a few moments later leading a little girl by the hand. The girl's eyes were puffy from sleep, but full of terror.

"Come here, sweetie, come to uncle," said Josep, in his best cotton candy voice. Yuri nudged the girl forward around the table to Josep's side. Josep picked her up and cradled her on his knee. "This is Sophia. Her father... works here. She is a little angel, isn't she?" Rena looked at the child. She clutched a worn, stuffed toy rabbit to her chest. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Josep's voice adopted an executioner's edge. "She will sleep with the angels, if you don't cooperate." An evil looking hunting knife appeared in his tattooed hand. Rena looked at him in horror.

"She's just a little girl!"

"What's one more added to list," Josep replied. "My debt is already too large for St. Peter. He won't be letting me past the pearly gates anytime soon."Josep, hopped up on drugs, was unpredictable, and capable of cutting the girl's throat.

"OK, what do you need? I'll do it, just let the girl go."

He chuckled, an evil, deranged sound. "So predictable. Call your friends and tell them you are alive and well, and that they must follow my instructions to the letter, otherwise you die."

"What if they don't?"

"They will do it. Your boy scouts are as predictable as you are. They won't turn their back on you. They lack the steel needed for that. Now, do your part." He tossed her cell phone to her. Yuri had taken it from his pocket and placed it on the desk when he brought Sophia forward. Rena picked it up and dialed Cole's number.

"Rena?" The sound of Cole's voice comforted her. It was so strong and confident. He would get her out of this, if anybody could.

"Cole. I'm OK. I'm all right." She choked back her tears. "But they want you to do something for them. I don't know what it is." Josep reached out for the phone. "Josep will tell you." Josep took the phone and pushed Sophia off his lap. He nudged her towards Yuri, who took her by the hand and led her out. Rena wondered what kind of work her father did. From what Rena had seen, the camp was just a collection of austere buildings, much like the one they were in now. Signs of industry were absent: no equipment, no materials, just empty space.

Josep took the phone. "Hello, Mr. Samson. You bastards shot one of my men, and I'm pissed off. I'm even more pissed off that you are meddling in matters that don't concern you." His English was accented. "So now, to keep you from meddling any further, I need you out of the way. If you want to see your little bit of tail again, you will follow my instructions to the letter. OK? Good. You and your men are to take the road out of Drvar towards the Mok valley. Travel down that road for ten kilometers until you see a burned out church. Park there and wait. A car will meet you and you will follow it to our location. I don't need to tell you come unarmed. Any double-cross and your girlfriend dies, but before that, I will give her to Yuri. She has made quite an impression on him and he will make her suffer. You know how you always hurt the ones you love." A nasty laugh ripped from his lips. "You have one hour to be at the rendezvous. I want you here by first light. Do you understand? Good. I knew that you were not a stupid man, Mr. Samson, well at least, not too stupid. You should have stayed in the US drinking Budweiser." He snapped the phone shut and put it in his pocket. "Now, my dear, we shall deal with you. Yuri, show her to her room. Put her in number one with the others."

"Right, boss. Let's go, sweetheart." He gestured towards the door. Rena led the way out. Concern about Cole replaced her thoughts of escape. Josep had the upper hand now. _Would he have killed the little girl? Yes_ thought Rena, He was capable of anything, and during the war in Bosnia men like Josep found their place. They had free reign to unleash the animal savagery inside them. They had the made the war, it had not made them.

There was a faint glow on the horizon. Rena had lost track of time during the night. Judging from the light, it was about an hour until morning. She could scarcely believe that a few hours earlier she had been safe in her room at the Bastasi hotel, excited about this adventure. She followed Yuri. In the dim light, he looked more like a pig than ever. They walked towards the first building standing in a row of three. There were no windows. A large padlock locked the plywood door. Yuri produced a set of keys from his pocket, opened the lock and removed it from the hasp. He pushed the door open. "Get inside."

The opening shut behind her, leaving her in darkness. She heard Yuri secure the lock and then she was alone in the gloom.
Chapter 15

Cole looked at the anxious faces around the room. "She's OK, for now. Josep has her and he wants to meet. He's set up an RV and we have to be there in an hour." He paused as Max, Marty, and Harry jumped to their feet. "And Harry, we leave the guns behind." Harry nodded.

"We don't need guns to smash these punks," Harry replied. Cole looked at the grim face, and he pitied Josep and anybody else who got in Harry's way.

"Right, let's move," said Cole. "And good night, once again, Mr. Moltke. Tell the Captain at the NATO camp about the ammo cache. He'll sort it out."

Willie waved from the bed. "I will. Good luck and Godspeed," he said as they disappeared into the hallway. His mind was spinning. Whatever that bastard Tibor was up to, Willie would deal with him and the weapons alone. Outside involvement would only jeopardize his search for the Chalice. "Walter, we'll handle this ourselves, NATO be damned. We can sort Samson and his friends out later if they don't like it."

"Whatever you want, boss. I'm sure the boys can handle themselves." Willie's foreman replied.

"We need to act quickly. Get the men up, go to the cave and grab those weapons. I'm going to call on our friend Tibor." He reached into the pocket of the dressing gown and hefted the butt of the Luger. The wolf was back.

"He told me to follow the main road leading north from Drvar." Cole guided Harry as they raced along. The SUV wound through the empty countryside, chasing the narrow black strip of road as it twisted through the Mokronoge Valley. The first watercolor rays of morning leaked over the mountaintops, revealing a landscape of barren fields and abandoned houses. Frost covered the ground in a thin sheet of crystal. The loneliness of empty countryside pressed down on Cole. It was like a giant cemetery, quiet and dead.

Harry watched the odometer tick away on the dash. "We're close to six miles, now Cole. The RV should be coming up soon," he said. They crested a hill and the Byzantine dome, which Marty called onion tops, of an orthodox church rose up on the right-hand side of the road.

"There it is," said Cole. "That's the RV point." Black stains jetted upward from the windows and the missing door revealed a jumble of burned rafters within. A faded yellow Yugo lurked beside it. Even places of worship, protected by the rules of armed conflict, became targets in this latest Balkan war.

They rolled to a stop next to the Yugo. A man emerged from the passenger seat and waited for them. He pointed a large pistol towards the Land Cruiser's windshield, gesturing for Cole and the others to get out. He searched them and then spoke to the driver of the Yugo, waving his hand at Cole and the others, intimating that they get back into the Toyota. The gunman joined them, sitting behind the driver's seat where he could keep an eye on Harry, who glared at him from behind the wheel. The Yugo started up with a belch of black smoke, and then headed back toward the road.

"Drive," said the man. He reminded Cole of a pig, with his small narrow eyes and bulbous nose. The scent of day-old booze wafted off him like radiation.

Harry followed the Yugo down the main road. They entered a thick pine forest and then turned down a narrow dirt track, scarred with ruts. The compact car struggled down the makeshift road, bouncing from rut to rut, slamming down in places with teeth-rattling violence. Cole was glad to be in the SUV with Harry, who handled the road with ease. Their passenger held the pistol on his lap; his eyes narrow with animal cunning. Marty and Max looked at him with borderline amusement. They could have easily overpowered him, and wrestled the pistol from his grasp. But they needed to find Rena, and these men were taking them to her.

Mercifully, for the driver of the Yugo, the road flattened out and they came to a chain pulled taut across two gateposts. A figure, dressed in a long olive drab overcoat, scurried from the woods. The man unhooked one end of the chain, dropping it to the ground, and they passed through. Cole noticed a wire fence running along both sides of the road. Periodically, a red triangle embedded with a skull and cross bones fluttered along the wire like party streamers. These were land-mined areas. Cole wondered if they were leftovers from the war, or recently laid. He recalled the ordnance from the cave. In this postwar landscape littered with the legacy of combat, it would be easy for Josep to get access to weapons and explosives. There were no rules or regulations to govern them, nor would the police enforce these rules if they existed. That was NATO's job, and NATO was busy looking for needles in haystacks. It was the same in every conflict. There may not be food, or clean drinking water, but there were always plenty of guns, mines, grenades, and RPG's.

The road led them in the middle of some type of camp surrounded by a high fence surmounted with a nasty coil of razor wire.

"Welcome to Stalag 13," said Marty.

"No talk!" yelled Yuri, waving the pistol at Marty.

They followed the Yugo until it stopped near a smaller building, set adjacent to the others. The driver of the Yugo stepped out and aimed his AK at the SUV. Yuri opened his door and stepped out, motioning to Cole and the others to follow.

"Where's Rena?" asked Cole. Yuri looked at him.

"No Engleesh," he said. The door of building opened and Josep stepped out. He smiled at Cole, a poison Chicklet smile of brown, nicotine-stained teeth.

"Welcome to the Mill, Mr. Samson. I think you know my friend here." He pulled Milos, the man from the cafe, out through the opening. Bruises covered Milos's pale face, and a dry crust of blood pooled beneath his nose. He wobbled in front of Josep, trying to stand on unsteady legs. "Milos talks a great deal, Mr. Samson. Often, he says too much. He just can't seem to keep to himself. Not a good habit in a place like this. Sometimes he talks to the wrong people. He shouldn't have talked to you, and you wouldn't be in this trouble."

"Cut the bullshit, Josep. Where's Rena? We met our end, we're here. Let's see her, show us that she's OK."

"In good time, Samson. Let me remind you that you are in no position to give orders. And let me also remind you that we don't piss around." He pulled a pistol out of his pocket and pushed it up behind Milos' back. The shot echoed off the cluster of shacks, as the bullet blew Milos' heart out of his chest. He slumped forward, falling face down onto the ground. "We don't piss around," said Josep quietly.

Rena stood by the door. Soft rustling and quiet groans filled the darkness behind her. She wasn't alone. She choked down a wave of panic and let her eyes adjust to the dim light seeping in through cracks in the walls. Rows of mattresses crowded with sleeping figures covered the floor. A single stove burned in the centre of the room. The woman tending the fire approached her. She looked about fifty, but she could have been younger. Shadows drew dark lines across her face. She was taller than Rena, and broader. Close up, Rena could see dark brown hair tied up with a kerchief. She took Rena's hands in her own. They were rough and calloused, hands used to doing hard physical work.

"Welcome. I'm Luba." Her voice was soft and motherly, and Rena could feel compassion in her touch. She felt she could trust this woman.

"I'm Rena," she replied as Luba took her shoulder and guided her to the stove.

"Get warm, child, you are shaking like a leaf." The sleepers were beginning to stir on the floor. They woke and stretched, pulling the covers around their shoulders. Rena recognized the little girl from Josep's office. She snuggled close to her mother, still half asleep. The room resembled a large dormitory. Along the back, shelves were stacked with cups and plates. Personal items lay strewn along the floor next to the makeshift beds.

"Luba, what is this place?" Rena asked. Luba poured her a hot cup of tea from the kettle boiling on the stove.

"Hell," she said and then laughed bitterly. "But it was supposed to be heaven. They call it the Mill, but Gulag would be a better name. We are all prisoners of that bastard Josep. In about one hour's time, trucks will arrive. All the young women and the men in the other billets will climb aboard and go to the woods to cut timber. They will work all day and return here, exhausted. And they will receive nothing."

"What do you mean, Luba?" asked Rena

"We're slaves, Rena, trapped here, forced to work for Josep and his devils. And our only pay is that we are fed and kept alive, barely, to keep working the forests. These women here and their husbands in the other buildings, that is their daily fate."

Rena was appalled. "How can this happen? What about the NATO troops, or the police?"

"NATO does not patrol this far, and the Mill's location is a well-guarded secret. The police are a joke. They eat at the trough like all the rest."

"How did you get here?" Rena asked.

"We were lured by promise of work and good pay, only to find ourselves trapped."

"Have you tried to escape?"

Luba laughed. "You saw the men at the gate. They are armed; we are not. Josep has promised to let us go once we have harvested all the good timber, but none of us believes him. We just keep going deeper and deeper into the mountains. When the women go out, I'm left here with their children. That is Josep's way to ensure that they will return and not escape in the woods. Still, there are those who try, and they die in their tracks. The men who oversee the work are well armed, and they have no heart. My husband and I returned from Germany to start our lives again after the war. We were desperate for work and we heard talk of good wages logging. We came, and now I'm trapped here, a warden to a group of children. It's because of this." She raised her arm. In the dim light, Rena had not noticed the cruel twist to Luba's limb where the fracture had healed improperly. "And I have it good compared to the poor souls who go out each day."

"Where is your husband?"

"Dead. He died in a logging accident a few months ago, the same accident that ruined my arm."

"How long have you been here?"

"Almost a year now. I have nowhere else to go, even if they let me leave." The women on the floor began to rustle. Some looked over at Rena and Luba with sleepy eyes, but said nothing. To them, Rena was just another unfortunate, lured into their nightmare. The children started to gather around Luba. She rose and retrieved a loaf of bread from one of the shelves, favouring her crippled arm. She cut small pieces from the hard, crusty loaf, and doled them out into the little hands that tugged at her coat. Some scurried back to their mothers, darting back under the blankets to eat their bread in comfort. The curious remained, staring at Rena.

"So these children belong to the women kept here?"

"Yes," replied Luba. "Some have lost their parents through accidents out in the woods. They don't stay long. Josep takes them to the Red Cross and dumps them there. No need to feed hungry mouths that give back nothing in return. The workers there see him as some kind of saint, rescuing the orphans." She spat on the ground. "Others have only their mothers left. Fathers killed by accidents like my husband. A log falling off a truck crushed him. He pushed me out of the way, saving me, except for my arm." She paused. "The women without husbands are preyed upon by the likes of Yuri and the other guards. They take them when they please, some of the married ones too." Anger flashed across her face. "You have met Yuri?"

"Yes." Rena replied with contempt. "The one who looks like a pig?"

Luba laughed, and the children huddling up against her smiled. "The very same," she said. "But who are you? You are not from here. Why did Josep bring you here? You aren't going out to work in the forest. You wouldn't last a day. You are too thin and pretty for that."

Rena looked at the motherly face. "I don't really know," she said. "I think he needs me and my friends out of the way for a while."

"Where are your friends?"

"They are on their way here."

"To help you?"

"Perhaps. But Josep believes they are falling into a trap he has set, using me as the bait. I think he may be surprised."

"Child, once they are here, anything can happen to them. This place does not exist. If you vanish, what will happen? Your government will launch an investigation with the local police and the results will be missing persons. And you will be at Josep's mercy."

"You haven't met my friends," answered Rena, thinking about Cole and the team. "They are very resourceful."

"They will need to be, to get the better of that murderer."

Luba poured out another cup of tea. The room had grown lighter with the morning sun. Despite the absence of windows, light filtered through cracks around the doors and the joints of the walls. Rena counted twenty women in the building, and about eight children. The women were all awake now, gathering cups and plates for breakfast. Some came by the stove for the tea Luba had prepared. They nodded at Rena, but said nothing. Others sliced pieces from the few loaves of bread on the shelves. Their faces were brown from wind and sun, and their hands red and calloused. A few packed cups and plates into small bags in preparation for the day's work. There was none of the chatter one expected in this type of communal setting. These vapid creatures were empty shells, drained of all life. Some still managed meager smiles for their children as they dressed them. Only Luba projected any semblance of spirit. She was undoubtedly a survivor. Rena was appalled that a place like this could exist in the same era as satellite communications and the Internet. Anger flared in her, anger at Josep for sucking the life from these women, anger at the fate to which he had condemned their children, and anger at her own helplessness. She wanted him dead. The realization shocked her. But Josep was evil, and evil had to be crushed if good was to have any chance. She was determined to help these people if she could she get herself out of this. The tea warmed her, and in the stove's pleasant glow, Rena felt herself spiraling into drowsiness. Luba was talking to her, but her voice grew fainter.

"You had better rest now." Luba motioned to her cot, near the stove and Rena eagerly accepted it. She lay down and quickly slid into sleep.

Rena was jolted awake by a dull thump outside. The women inside rushed to the door, trying to peer through the cracks around the frame. Those pressed up against the door provided commentary to the rest. "It's Josep, he's shot somebody!" Rena's heart leaped. She jumped to her feet and joined the crowd at the door. "There are some others, as well, they look like Americans."

"Is there a man with brown hair, wearing a black jacket?" Rena asked. The women looked at her. The one closest to the door, a young girl with pale blue eyes and red hair beckoned her closer.

"Are they your friends?" She made way for Rena, giving her space to look through the crack. She saw Josep standing in the doorway of the hut where they met when she arrived. A crumpled form lay on the ground at his feet, floating in a dark red sea. Cole, Harry, Max, and Marty were standing opposite Josep. _They were still alive!_ She waited for the shots that would cut down Cole and the team. But they didn't come. Yuri looked over at the door and began walking towards it.

"What are you lazy whores looking at?" He pounded on the wall. The women retreated into the center of the room, pulling Rena back with them.

"You don't want them angry," the girl with the pale eyes whispered to Rena. "They will come in and beat us all." Rena caught a fleeting glimpse of Cole and the team held at gunpoint by Yuri and another man.
Chapter 16

"Now you and your men will go with Yuri, and no tricks," said Josep. Yuri jabbed a rifle barrel in Harry's back for emphasis.

"No. Not until we see Rena," said Cole. Josep looked at him in astonishment. He had just killed a man in front of this interloper and the Yank still had the balls to challenge him. Josep clenched the pistol in his hand. Tibor intended for these meddlers to die in a firefight between Serb terrorists and the Croatian police after an "attack" on the HVO barracks. "We can link them to the "Chetniks" operating in our area and threatening the Croatian citizens here," Tibor had said. "There is nothing better to get people on your side than a common foe. And some dead Yankee mercenaries killed while aiding subversives threatening the Dayton Accord, a peace settlement that the US helped broker, will embarrass the Americans and mute their criticism of our referendum to join Croatia. But first we strike at the NATO camp, so we can draw the HVO out."

He would kill Samson himself, when Tibor gave the word, and he would enjoy it. A crooked smile appeared on his face. "Get the girl."

Yuri slung the AK and scuttled over to one of the huts. He opened the lock and disappeared into the doorway. Cole heard a slap and a cry. He tensed. A tearful Rena appeared in the doorway, her face marked red from the violence of Yuri's hand.

"Rena, Are you Ok?" Cole shouted. She nodded briefly. Yuri pushed her back through the opening and relocked the thin plywood door.

"That guy's mine," Harry whispered.

"So, tough guy," said Cole "now what?" Josep was looking at Harry. He stepped down and stood in front of him. The pistol lashed down in an arc, striking Harry's jaw.

"That was for the other day, you bastard," said Josep.

Harry chuckled. "Is that your best, punk? You and your friends are hard when it comes to slapping around girls. Drop the gun, bad ass, and let's see how you make out." Josep did not reply. He glared at Harry. Harry met his gaze, and Josep turned away.

"Are you done with the dramatics?" Cole asked Josep. "It's getting a bit old."

Josep's complexion reddened. "I should kill you now," he said.

"Then get on with it," said Marty, "you're starting to bore us."

"I don't think Josep is going to shoot us, at least not yet. What's the deal, Josep? Why does your boss want us alive? We know about what's in the cave. What's next, Josep? More mine strikes, ambushes, or are you finally moving into the big league? That was a lot of ammo kicking around."

"Don't be a bigger fool than you already are, Samson. Do you think I would tell you everything, spill all the beans, as you Americans say? That only happens in the movies." He paused. "I'm looking forward to pulling the trigger on your pretty boy face when the time comes."

"By now NATO is probably moving on the cave. They will find your little stash and it will end before it even starts," said Cole.

Josep smiled. "Come on now, Mr. Samson, you're bluffing. We have people watching the NATO camp. There has been no movement, yet. Besides, in a few hours, all NATO will find is an empty cave." He nodded to Yuri. "Take them away. We'll deal with them later." Yuri and the driver of the Yugo escorted them towards the barrack next to the shack where Rena was imprisoned. As they walked towards the row of huts, three trucks with squat green cabs bounced into the compound and rattled to a stop. They had been military at one time, but now fuzzy dice dangled from rear view mirrors and garish curtains decorated the back windows. The drivers got out and dropped the tailgates.

"I wonder what this is all about?" said Harry. A purple bruise was forming where Josep had hit him.

"You OK?" Cole asked.

"From that little love tap? No problem. You should see the other guy...in a few hours."

"Quiet. No talking." Yuri shouted in his limited English. He prodded Cole with the rifle barrel for emphasis. Then he smiled his usual leer. "It work time." He gestured towards the shacks with his head. The drivers unlocked the hasps of the locks and pushed open the doors. Women filed out from the hut in front of them and shuffled past them as rows of men streamed from the other two huts. The group marched resignedly towards the trucks. Some glanced at Cole with mild interest, faces reflecting the haggard emaciation of the malnourished. They walked like condemned men on their way to execution. The group mounted the truck decks and the drivers slammed the tailgates shut. The trucks made a large arc and left the camp with their human cargo.

Cole looked at the others. Questions brimmed in their eyes. They herded them towards the last hut. Yuri unlocked the door, motioning them inside.

"C'mon guys, let's go in and see who's home," said Cole. _A mistake on Josep's part. They should have separated the, but he wasn't going to point that out to the clown with the AK._ The others followed him in. Yuri slammed the door with extra malice and they were alone with the feral smell of sweat and damp clothing. Mattresses and blankets covered the floor. There were no windows, but gaps in the wall let in ample ambient light.

"Whoo, ripe in here" said Marty.

Harry scanned the doorway. "It's a wooden frame, but the hinges are on the outside. At least they were smart enough for that."

"Look for other openings," said Cole. "I can't believe a clapboard shack like this doesn't have some other way out. From the looks of it, a good sneeze would blow it over. Max, take the left, and Marty the right. Harry, you keep checking around the doorway." They glided along the length of the walls, sweeping the sides with their hands, looking for weak points.

"I bet we could just knock out one of these panels," said Max, tapping the wall. "They're just nails and wood."

"It might come to that," Cole replied, "but they have armed men outside. Remember our escort, the guy who looked like a pig? Even those bozos could get a lucky shot, if they knew where we were breaking out. We'll have to be careful."

"What kind of place is this, anyway?" asked Harry.

"It looks like some kind of concentration camp," said Marty, "but for what, and where did they take those people?"

"I think it's a labor camp of some kind," answered Cole.

"There are a few mysteries here Cole. Why didn't Josep try anything on us, for one?" said Max. "Why hold us here? Why not get rid of us?"

"Christ Max, what's your hurry?" asked Harry. "You got some kind of suicide wish or something?"

"Bugger off, Harry. We've all been here before, and we always survived. This time is no exception. These boys aren't even the B team, they look more like the C team."

"Yeah, but they can be vicious," said Marty. "This was a pretty nasty little war they fought."

"We called Josep's bluff after he killed Milos," said Cole. "The guy's a psychopath. He wanted to shoot us too, but he didn't. I think they need us for something and it's tied to that bundle of guns and ammo stashed out in that cave. Josep and his goons may be second rate, but whoever the brains behind this outfit is, this Tibor, who Milos spoke about, he has a plan. He's not as sloppy as the others. We just have to figure out what that plan is before Josep gets his way and tries to ice us."

"Tibor just can't get good help," laughed Marty. "Maybe he could hire us."

"Looking for work, are you?" asked Harry. "Well, why not bust your ass and find us a way out of here. Clowns or not, we're the ones locked in this stink hole, and they're the guys with guns." They covered the length of the room, side-stepping the bedrolls and personal effects scattered on the floor. "I wonder if there is anything to eat in here?" said Harry. "I didn't have any breakfast."

"They missed this when Dopey searched me," said Marty He pulled a chocolate bar from his coat pocket and tossed it at Harry. "Here, quit your crying."

"I knew there was a reason I brought you along," said Harry, unwrapping the bar and taking a bite. "Anybody else want some?" It was soldier's etiquette. You always shared what little you had with your guys.

"Not me," said Max. "I'm going to call up room service."

"Get me some Eggs Benedict, would you?" said Marty. Cole listened to the idle banter. It was a sign of their confidence. They would find a way out of this. It was just a matter of time. But how much time did they have before Josep returned and made good on his threats? They had to rescue Rena, get back to Drvar and prevent whatever madness Josep and Tibor were up to. Josep's comment about no movement at the NATO camp was troubling. If it was true, what had happened to Moltke? Maybe the NATO troops were in the planning stages. Launching an operation took time. But they should have sent out a reconnaissance element. It would be easy enough to cordon off the area and then go in. Max was right; the place was full of mysteries.

Max probed around one of the corners. "Hey Cole, there's a crack here that gives us a good view of the compound and the other buildings. It looks like our good friend is leaving." Cole joined Max and they both peered through the space between the boards as Josep's black Mercedes disappeared down the trail. "Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it's off to work he goes," said Max.

"The place looks empty," said Cole. "Wait. Look at that. It's a roving patrol." They watched two men moving along the security fence. The pair stopped and one lit a cigarette. He used it to light one for his partner.

"Well," said Max, "they're out there, but they don't look too sharp."

"They're used to guarding the zombies in this camp," said Cole. "Those guys who trudged past us this morning didn't look like they have much fight in them. Max, time the patrol, see how long it takes them to make a circuit. Look for any secondary patrols. It looks like the perimeter is guarded but there doesn't seem to be much here in the compound. Once we're out of here, we make for the NATO camp, pass on what we know and leave it to them."

"Do we forget about the Chalice?" asked Max

"We'll take a stab at it one more time, although it will depend on Rena. I don't think abduction by a bunch of gangbangers matches her Monday to Friday routine. But knowing her, I can't see her leaving without looking into that cave."

"I'm not keen to let these punks win," said Harry. "Besides, I owe Josep some payback," he added, rubbing his cheek.

"Our focus is Rena, and then the Chalice, big fella. Not revenge."

"Yeah, but if he gets in my way..."

"He's all yours, old chum," said Cole. "Now we just get comfortable until Max can tell us how long of a window we have."

"Still no sign of the patrol," Max answered.

"Harry, you and Marty work on one of the wooden panels so we can break out as soon as the guards have moved past," directed Cole.

"The sooner we're in fresh air, the better. Man, this place is making me gag," said Harry. The room stank of unwashed bodies, emanating from the bedrolls and clothes drying along the walls.

"Don't be such a little girl, princess," said Marty.

"You're no perfume bottle yourself."

"First Josep gets it, and then you," said Harry.

"Oohhhh, I'm scared," replied Marty.

The entire team, Cole had long since acknowledged, were addicted to danger. They needed the adrenalin rush missing from everyday life. None of them had married or settled down. Despite a string of relationships they all remained alone, unfettered, looking for the next adventure. None of them wanted to give that up. A day would come when reflexes would not be fast enough, a target would blur in the gun sight, or maybe an old injury would become too painful, and they would have to pass on the next mission, whatever it was. The ride would be over.

"All right, you gasbag," Harry waved to Marty, "let's go to work." He produced a small, coiled wire from his pocket and crouched down next to where Max kept watch. It was small enough that Yuri had missed it when he patted Harry down. Harry inserted the wire through one of the cracks in the wooden slates and began to saw. The wire bit through the wood with ease. Soon he had cut three sides of a square hole. "And we deliver the coup de grace once our friends in the foot patrol go by," he said.

He sat down on the floor beside the hole. "These guys are something else. I mean, look at this place." He made a broad sweep with his hand. "Slave labor in this day and age. How can they get away with it? With NATO just down the road. Sheesh."

"There's no law here, Harry," said Marty. "Like all the other places we've been. We didn't mix with the best company in Iraq, or South America. You should get out more."

"Yeah, I guess I'm just a naïve shut-in. But it still pisses me off that are such bastards around. Keeps us in work, though."

"Yep," said Max, "the world will always need guys like us. Besides, what else would you do?" Max looked through the slit. "I see the patrol, Cole."

"Same guys?" asked Cole

"Yes," answered Max. "I recognize the blue and white sweater the one was wearing."

"Good, so that gives us about twenty minutes. And that means the perimeter can't be that big. When we bust out, Harry and I will go for Rena. Max, you and Marty see about wheels, and anybody else who might get in the way."

"So bare hands against AKs?" asked Harry.

"Don't like the odds, Harry?" said Marty.

"Yeah, doesn't seem sporting. I think they should get a few more guys to even things up."

"The patrol's gone," said Max.

"Right, let's move," directed Cole. Harry slipped his saw back into the hole. The thin wire cut through the remaining section without difficulty, leaving a small pile of sawdust on the floor. He pulled the square inwards and stepped back. "Ladies first," he said to Marty.

"Beauty before age," Marty replied, ducking through the hole.

"More like shit before the shovel," said Harry, following him out. Max was next, with Cole leaving last. He pulled the square piece back into place behind him. The patrol would find it soon enough, but no point giving them any help. He wondered how the residents of the barracks would react to it. Maybe there would be a mass break out, but he doubted it. Fear made the strongest prison walls. Max and Marty moved off towards Josep's office. Harry and Cole moved from hut to hut, using the buildings for cover until they reached the barrack holding Rena. They crept along the wall towards the front. So far, the compound remained empty. Max and Marty reached the small cabin where Josep had shot Milos down. A dark red smudge stained the frozen ground at the foot of the stairs leading to the door.

Their SUV remained where they had left it next to the battered Yugo. They waited until Max and Marty were outside the door, and then Harry and Cole slipped along the wall, through the band of shadow formed by the hut.

Harry got to the front. He wrapped the thin cord around the hasp of the lock and, in a few seconds, cut through the metal. He caught the lock before it fell and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He gave Cole the thumbs up signal. Cole pushed on the door and peered inside. "Rena?"

She was lying on a mattress next to the stove. A stocky woman sat on a chair next to her, talking to a group of small children. "Cole!" Rena jumped to her feet and ran towards him in relief. "I'm so glad to see you." She held him tight.

"It's OK," said Cole. "We're getting out of here." He moved her towards the door.

"Wait." She turned and spoke to woman in Serbo-Croatian. The children huddled behind their protectress, staring at Cole and Harry with wide eyes. Rena turned to Cole. "It's terrible. Josep and those men, they're holding these people as prisoners, using them as slave labor to log the forests, imprisoning families, children."

"We figured that," said Cole. "They locked us up in the men's quarters. So it's logging, is it?"

"Yes," Rena replied. "They hold their children hostage, and keep the workers under armed guard."

"These guys are a bunch of real peaches," said Harry. "Not the sort featured in the tourist brochures."

"Cole," Rena whispered. "We've got to help them."

Cole looked at her. "Rena, we need to get back to town and report all this to the authorities."

"What authorities, the police? They will do nothing. And NATO... their hands will be tied. Please, Cole." She shuddered, thinking about Josep and the little girl the night before, the dull metal blade, and the fear in the child's eyes.

Cole hesitated. He looked at the row of small desperate faces "What about the Chalice?"

"Chalice be damned," said Rena, her eyes blazing, "this is more important."

"All right, Rena," said Cole. "You're the boss, after all. But we have to move quickly." Rena spoke to Luba and she nodded.

"She can show us where the trucks took them."

"What about the children?" Cole asked. Luba listened as Rena translated Cole's comments. She spoke to one of the older girls, about ten years of age, and put her fingers to her lips, making a "keep it a secret" motion. The girl smiled.

"They will stay here and bar the door from the inside." She held up a piece of wood with some nails tacked into it. "Sometimes Yuri and the others are just too much. We pay for it though, afterwards." Luba told the girl to let no one in but her.

"We will come back and get them when the others are freed," said Rena. Luba donned a jacket and wool cap. She was ready.

Cole peered out. The compound was still empty. Harry ran over to the SUV and reached under the dash for the ignition wires. The engine came to life.

"Let's move!" Cole shouted and led them to the Toyota, Rena and Luba clambering into through the rear passenger seats.

Marty and Max waited outside Josep's office hut's door. Inside, Yuri tipped the clear glass bottle and filled a small shot glass. He raised it, and toasted his companion, the squat, dark-complexioned man who had driven the Yugo. Yuri didn't know him well. He was new to the gang. He seemed stupid and didn't believe much of what Yuri told him about his time in the war. The motherfucker was jealous, thought Yuri. He'd probably run off to Germany instead of staying and fighting. The thought made Yuri mad. "Another drink," he insisted. "Let's drink to the heroes of Hrvatska." They poured two more drinks, raised the glasses and tipped them back. Yuri slammed his glass down.

"How about we drink to traitors, and cowards," he said, glaring at the man. _This fellow really was a peasant_ , thought Yuri, looking at the man's simple features. He didn't even own a decent coat. What a bastard.

"I don't drink to traitors," the driver replied, glaring at Yuri. _What an insolent prick_ , thought Yuri, having the nerve to deny it.

"Why not, short memory?"

The man looked at him with contempt. "What are you saying to me? Are you calling me a traitor, a coward?" He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a forearm mottled with dark red scars. "This came from a Serb machine gun."

Yuri looked closely, disappointed that he could no longer bait the man. "No matter, brother, Zhivila!" He tossed back another drink. They heard an engine start. Both men looked at each other and grabbed their Kalishnikovs. They stood up on unsteady legs and ran to the door, flinging it open.

The bastard Americans were trying to escape. Yuri took aim at the big one who was sitting in the driver's seat. As he leaned out of the doorway, something hit him in the face. He dropped the rifle and grabbed his nose. Blood poured out in thick strings, mingling with the tears draining from his eyes. A second blow struck and the floor leaped up at him, connecting him in the cheek. He laid still, fireflies dancing around him in the darkness.

The driver watched Yuri drop in stunned shock. Then a small man with a mustache appeared at his side and rammed him in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. He dropped to his knees, gasping for air. His AK was in the hands of his assailant and the rifle butt swept down into his face. He heard his jaw breaking before joining Yuri on the floor.

"Better call 911, buddy, looks like you've fallen and you can't get up." Max cradled the AK in his arm and then grabbed Yuri's AK, lying next to his prone figure. He gave Yuri a quick frisk, finding the handgun tucked into his belt. Max checked the weapons. Each contained a full magazine. He tossed one of the AKs to Marty. "Now we're armed and dangerous." The two men joined Cole and the others at the SUV.

"Ok Harry, let's motor," said Cole as Max and Marty jumped into the back seat alongside Rena and Luba. Marty passed the pistol up to Cole.

"Here you go, boss, a little souvenir."

"Thanks," said Cole. "I always wanted one of these." The Toyota sped down the track, bouncing from rut to rut.

"Hang on!" yelled Harry as they weaved around the bigger holes. The Toyota's suspension groaned as the big 4X4 motored its way down the narrow dirt road.

"Harry, make sure you stay on the track!" shouted Cole, "there are some nasty surprises in the woods." Cole could see the dark green tilt-rods of anti-tank mines rising above the undergrowth.

"Gotcha," Harry replied. The chain gate came to view, and the sentry ran towards them. He paused and then dropped to his knee, taking aim with the rifle. He fired a short burst at the vehicle but the moving SUV was too difficult of a target to hit. The rounds went wide, rattling through the trees. Cole opened his window and returned fire. He aimed low, and a large clod of dirt showered the sentry. The man dropped to the ground in shock, as they swept by to the gate.

"I got him covered!" yelled Max. Cole jumped out and released the chain. It dropped from the posts with a metal clack, and the SUV raced through. Harry slammed on the brakes and skidded sideways. Cole leaped back into the passenger's seat, and Harry floored it, bullying the horsepower from the laboring engine. They shot on to the main road and sped down the pavement.

Max scanned the rear window. "I don't see anybody following us, yet," he said. As they raced along, Cole updated Max and Marty on the new plan. They were going to aid the workers from the camp, and put a crimp in Josep's illicit operation.

"Let's go get the bastards," said Marty. Cole laughed. When it came right down to it, they all loved a fight.

"Rena, ask Luba where to go from here." Rena translated Cole's request and Luba responded with a stream of Croatian.

"She said to keep driving, and look for a track that runs off to the left." Luba tugged at her arm. "There! We passed it!"

Harry hit the brakes and spun the SUV around. The Land Cruiser snaked forward, the wheel spinning in Harry's hands. He followed the wheel ruts made by the trucks that traveled the road earlier. The frozen ground had since turned to mush in the morning sun and the SUV slipped down the track, startling the birds dotting the trees along the edge. Luba spoke to Rena, gesturing with her hands.

"Cole, we're getting close to the drop off. Luba says it's just up ahead. It's where they leave the trucks when they go into the forest. She says they usually keep a guard behind with the trucks." Through Rena, Luba explained that sectors were assigned to the work crews and methodically logged before moving on to the next spot. There were usually three or four armed guards, watching the men primarily. The children, held hostage in the barracks, kept most of the women from running off. As they cut the timber, transport trucks arrived to claim the logs. Once loaded, the trucks departed for the borders. The daily pickup occurred in the late afternoon.

Harry backed in behind a clump of bush, facing the track for a quick getaway.

"Max, you stay with Rena and Luba. They've been through enough. Harry, Marty, and I are going to go forward. If we're not back in an hour, go back to Drvar, and find Captain Zbignew. Give him the low down."

"Cole..." Rena squeezed his arm, her warning and her concern unspoken.

"Let's go," said Cole. They skirted through the trees, following the low ground as it swept around the base of the hill. After moving about one hundred meters, Cole signaled a stop. He motioned to Marty, who slowly moved through the trees to the top of the hill. The periodic crash and thump of falling trees rose above the chainsaws buzzing through the forest like a nest of angry wasps.

Marty moved to the crest, taking care to avoid exposing his silhouette. In the hollow below, the drivers stood in a small group near the front of the nearest truck, talking and smoking cigarettes. Marty slipped back down to the others.

"They're all near the trucks, on the other side of the hill. Doesn't look like they're expecting anything."

"How many?" asked Cole.

"It's only the three drivers."

"OK, here's the plan..."

The big man walked from the trees towards them. He wasn't dressed like the men from the camp. The three drivers looked at him. What the hell was this guy doing out here? Bobic, the senior driver, moved towards the cab of his truck, where his AK lay on the seat. The big man's hand was a blur, and Bobic was stuck between the eyes by a stone the size of a small apple. He looked straight ahead, for a few seconds, and then dropped to his knees. He tried to put his hands out to keep from falling but they wouldn't respond and he pitched forward into the dirt.

The other two drivers stood paralyzed with shock. One was about to turn and run back to his truck and grab his rifle, but paused when he heard a metallic click, the sound of a safety catch being released. Then the cold steel of a pistol barrel jabbed him in the neck. He glanced sideways into a set of hard green eyes. The man had come from nowhere along the side of the truck. Another man flitted around the back of the second truck, pushing the third driver to the ground and putting his foot on the man's back.

"Harry, see if you can find something to tie these guys up with," said Cole. Harry looked through the cabs of the trucks. He found the two AKs and stripped them of their slings.

"This will work," he said approaching the man under Marty's foot. The driver looked up and started to squirm, fearing the worse. Marty delivered a well-placed kick to the man's ribs and he collapsed to the ground in a winded heap, struggling no longer.

Cole stood by his captive with the pistol still at his neck. He motioned to him to get down on his knees. Cole could smell the sweaty stink of fear coming off the man.

"C'mon, get down!" He shouted and the man dropped, tears spilling from his face. Cole looked at him with contempt: another bully, brave around the weak and the helpless, but a coward at the moment of truth.

Harry moved quickly, binding the men's hands to their feet. He checked the one he had hit with the rock. A purple, plum-sized welt had formed on his forehead, but he was still breathing.

"How is he?" asked Cole.

"Still alive, but he's going to need an aspirin when he comes to." Harry pulled out the man's bootlaces and used them to secure his hands and feet.

"You're pretty good with a rock, Harry," said Cole.

"Yeah, I used to play football in college."

"Was that Barber College?" volunteered Marty.

"Aw shaddap, dumbass!"

"If you ladies are through gossiping," said Cole, "let's find the other guards and get this done. We didn't leave Max with much of a window, and I don't want to be walking back to town, as much as I like the exercise." They moved towards the rasping chainsaws. Using the bush for cover, they followed the dirt track leading deeper into the forest. The trail wove through a series of small hills. The sound of the saws increased in pitch, mixed with shouts and crashing timber over the next rise. The tops of large pines, saplings when Hitler invaded Poland, toppled to the ground like tripped-up giants. Groups of men and women de-limbed them where they fell, knocking off the branches with flashing axes. Others dragged the logs into a pile, thirty men pulling on long cables wrapped around the tree's girth. They pulled the logs into a row, and then rolled them into a tighter pile with their hands. Cole identified the guards, strutting amidst the desperate tableaux, their rifles cradled in their arms. One chewed a piece of bread as half-starved men wrapped cables around the trunk of a freshly fallen tree. The air was awash with the festive smell of pine and the vulgar tang of chainsaw exhaust.

Crews had recently logged the area, and the cropped stumps provided little cover, making it difficult to approach unobserved. The guard finished his snack and scratched his ear. He turned and started towards the spot where Cole crouched in the underbrush. Behind him, Harry and Marty hugged the ground. The guard kept coming. Had they been seen? The man's pace didn't change, nor did he give any alarm. His path veered to the right and he moved at an angle to Cole and the team, heading towards a small hollow. He stopped and propped his rifle up against a tree. He pulled down his pants and squatted on the ground. Marty was on him in a flash. He pushed his chest and the guard, now off balance, fell backward to the cold dirt. Marty stood over him, pointing his rifle at his heart. He motioned for the man to stand up. "Pull your pants up or you'll catch cold." Cole and Harry joined them. Cole sized up the guard glaring petulantly at Marty as he buttoned his trousers. They were of equal height.

"Take off your sweater and cap." Cole explained what he wanted with gestures. The guard complied; regretting the danger, his straining bowels had put him in as he shivered in the cool air. Cole put on the sweater and the man's wool knit cap. He pulled it down close to his brows.

"How do I look?" he said.

"Like a guy trying to disguise himself as somebody he isn't," answered Marty. "But you'll pass at a distance."

"Right. Be ready to react when I give you the nod."

"Good to go," said Marty. Harry used the man's belt to fasten his hands to one of the smaller trees in the hollow. He put his finger to his lips, and made a cutting motion across his throat. The meaning was clear to the guard. Cole moved back up the hill, instructing Harry and Marty to remain out of site behind him. At the crest, he waved his arms towards the other two guards beckoning them to him. Cole waved more frantically, gesturing at something behind him. One of the guards shouted to Cole, looking at him quizzically. Cole ignored him and pointed his rifle towards the parked trucks to his rear. The man moved forward, hesitated, and then dropped to one knee, firing. Cole dived to cover as the rounds thudded into the earth, spraying large clumps of dirt. The man's partner joined in the gunfight, sending a steam of bullets ploughing into the hill sheltering Cole. Amidst the rattle of gunfire, Harry and Max leopard crawled up beside Cole.

Cole didn't want to kill the two guards. They were just hired muscle, mean but stupid. He wanted to save his killing for men like Josep. The AK jumped in his hands as he fired a burst over the head of the kneeling men. Harry and Marty joined him, their rounds sending splinters flying as they sawed through a clump of deadfall nearby. The gunshots silenced the chainsaws as men and women ran for protection, huddling behind stumps or crouching behind logs. Others ducked into small depressions in the earth. Years of war had heightened their survival instincts and they knew what to do under fire.

"Harry, keep their heads down," said Cole. "Marty and I will take them from the left flank." Harry nodded and sent a few well aimed shots ripping through the air above the two men. They remained glued to the ground, firing an occasional desperate shot in Harry's direction.

Cole and Marty scuttled along the edge of the clearing, moving from stump to stump for concealment. Now Cole could see the two men where they lay in full-length view. It would be easy to fire a burst that would rip through them, and end this. Reluctantly, Cole took aim. Before he could fire, he noticed a lone figure scurrying over the top of the log pile behind the pair. The man looked like a walking scarecrow, his thin, gangly form, smothered in a bundle of clothing. He held an axe in his hand. Cole watched as the apparition jumped down behind the pinned down guards. Surprised, they turned to face this new threat as their attacker reversed the axe in his hand and swung it in a wide arc, connecting with the side of the closest guard's head. The gunman's weapon fell from senseless hands as he dropped like one of the many logs in the pile behind him. His partner hesitated, and received an axe handle across the forehead for his inaction. The ragtag woodsman waved at Harry, and then shouted in Croatian. One by one, and in small groups, people came out of hiding, looking around tentatively, ready to scatter at the first sign of danger.

The man with the axe gestured at Cole and Marty, inviting them to him. Cole and Marty stood up but remained still, unsure of his intentions. He walked towards Cole. Almost imperceptibly, Marty lifted the barrel of his rifle to cover his approach. Groups of workers whispered among themselves, looking at Cole and Marty curiously, anxiously. The smile on the man's face betrayed no menace. He threw the axe on to the ground, and spoke rapidly. The meaning was clear. He was thanking Cole for his help. He came forward and embraced Cole, then Marty. Marty recoiled, daunted by their ally's musky aroma of sweat and gasoline.

Harry was moving down the slope now. Rena, Max, and Luba trailed behind him. Rena saw Cole and raced towards him. "We heard the shooting!" she said.

"So you ran down here into the thick of things," Cole said, frowning at Max.

"We met up with Harry, and he told us what happened. We knew it was safe to come forward," Max replied sheepishly. Luba moved amongst the crowd gathering around the team. Some were laughing; others were quiet, wondering what was next, expecting more guards to come and punish them for what Cole and the others had done. One woman approached Cole and shouted angrily, fear filling her weather-beaten face. Luba intervened, and the woman moved to the rear of the throng, casting a baleful glare at Cole as she departed.

"What's going on?" asked Cole.

"She was afraid of what Josep will do to take his revenge upon all of them. It happened in the past. Beatings, and killings," answered Rena. "Luba explained that you came to free them. But old fears run deep. These people will never be the same."

"No, I suppose not," said Cole. "I'd say she is entitled to her fear and doubt."

The man who had wielded the axe introduced himself as Peter. He embraced Harry, and Max, and spoke rapidly.

"He said you are angels, sent to help them. A miracle," explained Rena. Cole smiled at him.

"Nope, we're just men, men who could help, and did. But he helped himself, and the others, by having the courage to act." Peter smiled and nodded after Rena translated. "Now what?" said Cole. "Do these folks have somewhere to go?" Rena spoke to the crowd and Peter answered. The mantle of leadership had fallen to him through his actions, and he seemed more than capable.

Rena translated. "They will go back for the children and then they will head west to Split on the Dalmatian Coast, to the Red Cross camp. They should be safe there, and the children will get the care that they need.

"They will use the trucks," Rena continued. "The drivers won't need them. There are many roads to the coast so they can avoid Josep and the rest of his gang in Drvar."

Peter turned and addressed the group. As he spoke, Cole watched the faces gazing at him, first in bewilderment, then understanding, and then relief for most. The woman who had accosted Cole at the start frowned at him. _There were always the skeptics_.

They gathered up their tools, axes, and chainsaws, and started moving towards the transport trucks. They walked briskly, hope rekindled in them. Maybe life could start again after this dreary captivity.

"What about the guards on the perimeter of the camp?" asked Harry. "Somebody still has to take them out." Peter looked at the AK in Harry's hand, and then glanced up at him. Harry understood. He nodded and passed Peter the rifle. Marty passed him his as well. And Cole gave him Yuri's pistol. Peter selected two others from the group and called them forward. He gave them the rifles, keeping the pistol for himself.

"We can deal with the rest of them now," he explained through Rena. "You've given us this chance. Now we can look after ourselves. We're men, too."

Cole nodded. "Good luck," he said. Peter shook his hand. His eyes blazed with new purpose in his thin wind burned face. Luba stood next to Peter, silent and proud. It looked to Cole that Peter would have some help leading his flock, of the female kind. The group walked to the trucks, Peter at the head like a bedraggled Moses, taking his people out of the desert.

The drivers were lying face down near the transport trucks. They looked at the mob with alarm. Peter and the others ignored them. The women moved forward and the men helped them on to the decks before joining them. Then they pushed the drivers on, like logs themselves, swearing and spitting, until a few well-placed punches persuaded them to behave. The guards too were loaded without ceremony, and placed at the feet of the passengers in the back. They cowered amongst them, all their menace gone, as they lay at the mercy of their former captives. After a quick embrace with Rena, Luba joined Peter in the cab of one of the trucks. She waved as the olive drab Cabover sputtered to life, coughing up a phlegm of exhaust fumes. The other trucks started in the same palsy fashion and they pulled out in convoy, passing Cole and the team with a flurry of waves and best wishes from the crowds in the back.

The trucks lurched up the track with a sigh of springs, vanishing behind a curtain of trees. "Ok, folks, we got work to do," said Cole, walking to the SUV. "Mount up!"

"Do you think they'll be OK?" said Rena. Cole reflected on Peter's calm determination and confidence when he handed over the weapons to his comrades.

"Yes... I think they will," he replied. "Now let's go save the world and find your buried treasure while we're at it."
Chapter 17

It didn't make sense. John looked at the reports a third time, thinking that he had missed something. The pain from his nose had crept into his forehead, bringing along a kettledrum to liven up the party. He supposed he was fortunate, to walk away with only broken nose and some bruises. His driver, Corporal Esty, had not been as lucky. The blast had broken his back in two places. His injuries were severe enough to see him evacuated to the NATO hospital in Landstahl, Germany.

The reports came from a number of verified human intelligence, HUMINT, sources. These were paid informants, often locals, who provided a continuous stream of information to the intelligence hierarchy, who mulled it over, scratched their beards, and then sent it back down as refined intelligence product. But the value of the product rested on the quality of information going in, and John knew that when it came to paying for information, people would say anything, just to keep the payments coming. That's why they had to verify it against a number of different sources. What the _kafe klatch_ crowd were saying ran counter to his understanding of what was happening around him. Were his instincts wrong? He certainly had not anticipated the attack on himself and Corporal Esty.

It looked like Dravr was the target of some type of major operation, a violent response against the Croats in retaliation for repressing the Serbs in the area. There were reports of night letters, warning citizens to leave what was Serbian land, or face retaliation. The letters bore the unmistakable symbol of the old Chetniks: four Cyrillic S's embossed in each corner of a cross running down the center. It was a symbol that went back to the partisan resistance of WWII.

The Intelligence assessment indicated that Serb infiltrators were moving into Drvar. Once they had assembled sufficient numbers, they planned to attack government buildings and officials and then engage in a spate of ethnic cleansing aimed at the Croatians who had migrated to the area after signature of the Dayton Accord. He looked at his watch. It was 0950 hours. The Commander of the HVO Brigade had demanded a meeting with the OC to discuss the security situation in Drvar. He and his entourage of gunmen, sycophants and red necks were due to at 1000 hours. John planned to meet them and escort them to the conference room they had built inside one of the old grain storage bays.

The green plastic phone on his desk buzzed and a small red light next to the receiver flashed red, like a warning beacon. "They're here," said the sergeant, calling from the guardhouse. Early. They were trying to win the first hand in the game. Well, better that than late. He strapped on his pistol and put on his beret. The pistol was part of the game, as well. He was safe in a camp surrounded by armed soldiers, but in the testosterone-rich society of post-war Bosnia, guns were a sign of authority and credibility. Men only spoke to men with guns. Men with guns were clearly in charge. It was an attitude that explained the propensity towards violence so common in the Balkans.

John descended the rickety stairs to ground level and walked the one hundred metres to the candy-striped traffic barrier set behind a chicane of gravel-filled Hesco bastion and vicious-looking "Dragons' teeth," laid out to puncture the tires of any vehicle trying to ram the gate. The soldiers on duty had directed the general's staff car, a sleek black Praedo, into the vehicle-parking bay. The general's driver, a large, desperate-looking brigand with a mangled ear and a screaming tight buzz cut, glared from behind the windscreen. The general stood apart from the group clustered around the Sergeant. General Tocic was a tall, lean, whipcord of a man with distinguished, aristocratic features. A scar running from his chin to the top of his cheek, courtesy of a Serb RPG that had almost killed him, marred his patrician looks. He had been a schoolteacher before the war and spoke fluent English, when he deigned to talk to John at all. He reserved his time for the Battle Group's CO located one hundred kilometers away in Bihac or, when it suited his purposes, like today, to the OC. Kovac, his Adjutant, a thin, greasy-looking man, who suffered from acute dandruff, was arguing with the guard about surrendering their weapons to the duty section. The camp policy prohibited non-NATO entrants from carrying weapons, due, in part, to the risk of an accidental discharge. NATO troops cleared their weapons on entry, but there was no standard amongst the local HVO and police. Guests turned in their pistols and rifles on arrival and received them upon departure. Handing over his side arms was too great an indignity for Tocic to suffer. Kovac was arguing hotly in Serbo-Croat as the duty language assistant, clad in a military uniform with a large NATO-non-combatant flash on her shoulder, translated his invective to the sergeant in charge of the gate guard. The NCO smiled and insisted that it was camp policy, enjoying Kovac's distress.

John approached the group and gave Tocic a curt salute. Tocic nodded back. Kovac saw John and became the very picture of wounded dignity.

"Is this how you greet your guests?" he said through the interpreter. "What kind of army is this? You know who the general is, this soldier knows who the general is, and still you treat us like criminals. This man commands a brigade. He is a war hero. I'm a senior officer." Kovac held the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, but John could not bear to address him with the normal military courtesy of "Sir".

"It's for your own safety, Kovac. What if somebody's gun went off and hit the general? It would be catastrophic."

"The general has seen many bullets in his time. It's not a big deal."

"It would be if it hit him in the head." The general turned red. John had angered him, but he let Kovac deal with the situation.

"If we need to surrender our pistols, then we will not enter the camp."

"I see. Well, you wanted the meeting. We can hold it out here if you like."

"Don't be ridiculous, Captain." Kovac's contempt was not lost in the translation. John's head hurt and he was tired of these games. It was better to mollify Kovac and get the meeting over with. After all, they did have to patrol the town and the soldiers from the Brigade had remained neutral to this point. They could make things difficult for NATO force if they wanted to. John turned to the sergeant. "It's OK, Sergeant Wilson. I'll take responsibility for these men and their pistols. Just make sure they unload first." Kovac looked at John and he and the general begrudgingly removed their magazines and put them in their pockets. They cleared the pistols' actions, pointing the weapons at the sandbagged unloading bay. It was designed to absorb any erring rounds resulting from a faulty unload drill. Satisfied that the pistols were safe, they returned them to their holsters. "Would you like a coffee?" John asked. It was the usual ritual. Offering some hospitality took the sting out of what was clearly an insult to Kovac and Tocic. It was a balance that John maintained with Kovac. Despite the rank differences, Kovac was John's opposite number in the HVO Brigade, and John had to deal with him on a regular basis.

"So how is your nose?" Kovac asked through the interpreter.

"Better now, but still a bit sore."

"You had some bad luck. Sometimes mines get moved onto the road by rainfall, or landslides." John chose not to mention that his mine strike occurred on a level stretch of road, nor had there been any rain for weeks. He wondered what Kovac knew about the mine strike and planned to work it out of him. But Kovac, like most eastern bloc officers, was an excellent intelligence gatherer and knew how to protect information. The two of them had often dueled in this fashion. John almost liked him in a way. But every time he thought that Kovac possessed the qualities of decent human being, the officer said something so outrageous or so offensive that any hope of his joining the human race was lost.

John escorted them through the rabbit warren of rooms and hallways leading to the conference room. The troops occupying the granary had built much of this infrastructure. They had sectioned off what had been a large open storehouse, into an eating mess, sleeping quarters and offices. Canvas tenting covered all the rooms to protect against the ubiquitous pigeons feeding on the grain residue trapped along the ledges in the building. John ushered them into the conference room and offered them chairs along the long wood table that filled most of the narrow space. The comforting smell of fresh brewed coffee drifted up from the electric urn bubbling on a side table. It was Danish coffee, not the Tar Sands goo served in the mess. A plate of fresh cinnamon buns lay next to the urn, protected by cellophane wrap. This was the doing of the local women hired to work in the kitchens and as cleaning staff. John was amazed at how NATO was creating a new class of wealth in Bosnia. The minimum wage these people earned gave them more daily take home pay than the local doctors. As a result, they viciously guarded their jobs. This, however, did not stop them from spying on the troops and passing information back to the shadowy figures running the town.

John placed the plate of pastries on the table between his two guests. As he poured out three cups of coffee, the company commander arrived.

"Ah, Major Murphy" said Tocic. "How are you, Dan?"

"Good as always, sir and, as always, a pleasure to see you gentlemen." For security reasons, they had left the Language Assistant outside as Tocic could easily communicate in English. John knew that Kovac, while claiming otherwise, could understand English, even if he did not speak it well. Dan shook hands with both and sat down opposite Tocic. Kovac had taken a bun and was gnawing on it assiduously with his bad teeth. White flecks covered his shoulders and danced in his greasy black hair. After the preliminary courteous remarks about each other's health, the general jumped to the heart of the matter. If anything, Tocic was a direct, often blunt, man.

"I'm worried, major, about this town and the safety of its people."

"Well sir, we share that same concern with you. And as you know, we have a mandate to protect the people and encourage a safe and secure environment for them."

"Yes, I have heard the words before. But I don't think they have any meaning."

"That's a harsh judgment. Are you casting doubts on the professionalism and integrity of my troops and me?" Murphy dropped the "sir."

Tocic smiled slightly. "That is not exactly what I meant. But if you look at the growing incidents of arson and violence, your own officer was attacked," he gestured at John, "clearly something is not right. Threatening night letters dropped at the doors of honest citizens, shots fired at policemen, NATO soldiers targeted... how can you say that you have established and maintained a secure environment? It's not a question of integrity, but rather of numbers. You don't have enough soldiers to be everywhere."

"And you do?" remarked Dan, tersely.

"I have a brigade." Tocic replied. The general had left the books and chalk boards far behind. This man was a cool, confident, military officer, John observed.

"A fine lecture, sir, but some of these issues are police matters, not military matters. Have you visited the Chief of Police with this? Have you made him aware of your concerns?" Major Murphy asked. Tocic said nothing. His silence implied that these were not police matters. They were very clearly military matters. Kovac's eyes darted back and forth between the general and the OC. He chomped on a second bun, watching the exchange like a tennis match. John detected a flicker of triumph in those cunning eyes.

"One week, Major Dan," said Tocic. "You have one week to resolve this."

"Or else what?"

Tocic sipped his coffee, and Kovac chewed his bun. An uncomfortable pause hung in the air like a broken promise.

"Or else I will take matters in my own hands," said Tocic. "I will introduce measures to ensure the safety of the people of this town."

"That would be a violation of the Dayton Accord."

"Dayton can go to hell!" Tocic remarked. "Dayton is doing nothing for the people of this town. It provides nothing for the families of the men who died fighting for this soil."

"You'd risk starting the war again? Widening it to include NATO?"

Tocic's eyes narrowed. He peered at Dan from behind the yellow Melmac cup John had given him. His handsome features gelled into an inscrutable poker face. "Do you honestly think NATO will go to war for Drvar? This is the Balkans remember, the quintessential quagmire. The lessons of history are not lost on the men in Brussels. And the Serbs have been defeated during Operation Storm, when we recaptured this part of Bosnia. NATO would not dare, and the Serbs cannot dare."

Dan looked at him. "You realize that in one week, the largest UNHCR resettlement of Serb refugees is due to return to Drvar and reoccupy their homes?"

"Thanks for the coffee, Dan." Tocic stood up, ignoring the major's comment. John rose in order to show him out. Kovac was close behind the general. He stuffed a third bun into his pocket and followed the general to the door. Dan nodded a curt farewell to Tocic.

"John, when you have escorted these gentlemen to the gate, would you please join me in my office?" said a solemn Major Murphy.

The major's office was a small room accessed through an improvised plywood door with "OC" stenciled across the top in black letters. Everything was plywood, John thought, walls, doors, ceilings, but it was better than living in a slit trench. Dan sat behind the six-foot folding table that served as his desk. Behind him, maps of the company area of operations, as well as a larger map of Bosnia, broken down into coalition areas designated by a festive mix of colors, covered one wall. In the corner lay a camp cot covered with a rumpled sleeping bag. A stack of books, mostly military history, lay piled alongside.

"Things don't look good, John. The UNHCR has made Drvar a focal point for the success of Dayton, Supreme Allied Commander Europe is keeping a close eye on the situation, and success in Drvar could lead to success in other areas of Bosnia, and by extension success for NATO. Everybody needs this run smooth. With Tocic's troops out there in force, what do you think will happen? Those buses turning up will be empty. What Serb in his right mind is going to come back to a town patrolled by HVO soldiers? The whole thing will fall flat on its face. And Tocic was right about calling NATO's bluff. I can't see us going to war over this. Yeah, there will be some harsh language and maybe some sanctions, but as long as certain European countries support Croatia because they do good business, there will never be any consensus or action. And that bastard knows it."

John sat down on the camp bed. "I was thinking about the intelligence reports that I briefed you on yesterday, during that little tête a tête."

"The reports that suggested a significant event taking place in Drvar at some point, targeting the Croatians, revenge, and all that?"

"The very same. They didn't make sense at first. I didn't think the Cetniks could do anything in this area. They needed balls as big as Zeppelins to come here and tackle the Croats with an HVO Brigade sitting on top of the place."

"OK then, how are they getting away with the isolated attacks we have had on our patrols, on the local cops, on you for chrissake? How does a bunch of Cetniks get in under our noses, wreak havoc and then vanish like ghosts? Maybe we should let Tocic take the place over."

"Maybe they aren't Cetniks at all; maybe it's somebody wanting us to think it's the Cetniks."

"So the HVO have an excuse to move in and keep the Serb refugees out," said Dan. He allowed himself a smile.

"The penny dropped with Tocic and Kovac coming here today."

"A goddamned epiphany! So what can we do about it?"

"The reports mentioned weapons, ammunition, mines." John paused, thinking about the incident with Corporal Esty, "and heavier stuff. It's being smuggled into town or through town somehow. If we can break that ring, it's a start."

"Cut off the supply!"

John nodded. "That might be enough to keep Tocic from acting. He would have a hard time justifying his troops on the streets if we demonstrate that we're keeping a tight grip on things. The HVO are part of the Train and Equip program. The Croatians and the Muslims were beefed up by the state department to counter the Serbs and fight them to a stalemate. Tocic has to tread lighter than he makes out; otherwise, he risks losing funding and support from the T and E. I think we would have a good case to keep his troops in Barracks."

"I'll buy that. First, we have to nail this smuggling network. Any ideas?"

"I'm going to adjust the patrol schedules. We'll watch the usual suspects, our local bad boys, and develop traffic patterns. We also need look in places where weapons could be stashed-empty farm houses, abandoned buildings, culverts. Maybe we can get some helo overflights or even satellite surveillance from our friends in Brussels. And I have a hunch that our friend, the shadowy Tibor, is involved in this somehow. I can't see the HVO acting alone."

"What makes you say that?"

"This is the Balkans. Nothing is as simple as it seems. These people invented the word "conspiracy."

"How did we ever get involved in this country in the first place?" said Dan.

"No good deed goes unpunished," said John. He walked over to the map. "If we can tip that that first domino, we can unravel Tibor's whole network."

"John. If anybody can crack this, it's you."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss." John left Dan's office hoping the OC's faith in him wasn't misplaced. Now, what he needed most was a bit of luck.
Chapter 18

Moltke steered the gray BMW through the empty streets. He could feel the comfortable weight of the Luger in his jacket pocket. It had a perfect heft to it. It felt, efficient, effective, and capable. Willie was acting on instinct now. He had sent Walter to the compound to get rid of the weapons while he confronted Tibor.

He drove past the walled cemetery at the center of the town. It was here that they had made their final stand, where the survivors of that terrible day had assembled; waiting for rescue by the mechanized brigade that eventually arrived. He thought about the men he had lost, and the events of that day. His memories of those sad and dangerous years of the war seemed to get fresher over the years. Dreams brought him back to battlefields he had long since left. A few days earlier, he had visited the cemetery. Walking among the strange-looking crosses, vivid images of soldiers crouched low in firing positions along the field stone wall returned, he heard the snap of bullets hitting the rocks and the bumblebee drone of ricochets. He stopped and touched a spot where gunfire had scarred the mortar. Somebody had defended from here. If one were to dig down a few inches into the turf, they might find brass casings from the man's weapon. He rubbed his arm. Arthritis had settled in over the years, like an unwelcome relative, and his old wounds ached in the cold damp weather. A few days after the battle, his arm became infected and the Wehrmacht reassigned him to the Divisional headquarters staff to heal. It was several months before he returned to the front lines, and his paratroopers.

There had been a well nearby. He had drunk from it after the fight in the cemetery. And there had been the stable where he encountered the boy tending to the dead man with the map. What had happened to the boy, he wondered? Was he still alive, he would be an old man as well by now, or had he died in the retaliation that followed the failed raid on Drvar? How had the partisan acquired the map? Had he known about the Chalice?

He retraced the route he had first taken to Tibor's house. His hand slipped down into the pocket that held the Luger. That vicious bastard Josep was likely to be standing guard around the old man, so Willie wouldn't be able to slip in without notice. However, he needed to cut a deal with Tibor and keep him out of the cave. Walter and his men should have loaded the weapons on the trucks by now. They were his bargaining chip. How would Tibor react when Willie confronted him about the weapons? Anger? Willie had the Luger, if it came to that. Denial? Difficult if Willie had the weapons. He wondered what Tibor's intentions were. How could he convince Tibor to leave the compound alone, to give it to Willie on his terms, without giving the Chalice away?

Willie sighed. They were two worn out old men. It took one to know one. Moreover, he could hear the weariness hiding behind the edge in Tibor's voice. How old could Tibor be? It was hard to gauge. Life was not kind to men here. It added the years on quickly.

The wise thing to do, the right thing to do was to pass the information on to NATO, as he had promised Samson. But it was also impossible, unless he wanted to see everything he had worked for crumble to dust. NATO would seal the cave off, they would station a patrol in the compound and any hope of unfettered access would vanish. He didn't want to consider his options if his bid for the Chalice failed. He was cornered, and now he was going to visit a gangster. He was a damned fool. But he couldn't deny the pleasant excitement that hummed through every fiber of his body. He felt alive, for the first time in a very long time. What would his grandchildren say if they could see their poppy barreling through the dismal streets of this forlorn Bosnian town with a pistol in his pocket? The boys would probably think it was cool. But it wouldn't be too cool if Josep or another of Tibor's hired guns shot him.

He felt a twinge of guilt over lying to the American. He hoped that Samson and his friends, the dark-haired girl especially, would be all right. But they were no longer his concern. His concern was Tibor. The house was up ahead. He pulled the Mercedes over and took a deep breath to steady himself.

Josep arrived at the house and tromped up the stairs, hoping his footfalls would rouse Tibor. He did not enjoy waking the old man. Tibor was always cranky in the morning and one was more apt to receive a stream of abuse than a good morning salutation. He was pleased to find Tibor up, sitting on his bed with the blanket over his shoulders. Josep walked over to the stove and stirred up the embers. He fed a few sticks of kindling into the stove before he filled the coffee pot with water and put it to boil. "So, it's done. We locked the Yankees up at the lumber mill. The fools actually came to rescue their little British tart."

"What did you expect? That they would just leave her. That's not how boy scouts work. You know that. That's what makes them so damn dangerous. I warned you not to underestimate them."

"Then let me go and finish them off. Get rid of them for good."

"Don't get side tracked. Think about checkmate, Josep, not just the pawns. We've already discussed this. We dispose of them when I say, and not before." He coughed, his narrow shoulders shuddering under the dingy blanket draped over his back. "Now," he said, red faced ,"are we ready?"

"I need some time to get the men together." He called a number on his cell phone. He frowned, puzzled. "That pig Yuri isn't answering his phone. He's probably pissed, or dipping his wick in one of the girls at the camp. That son of a bitch! He needs a good lesson, that one. Time to clip the little pig's wings."

Tibor remained silent, pinning Josep to the wall with eyes like two steel rods. Tibor did not accept excuses, just results.

"I'll get the others," said Josep, quickly. "It will happen as you ordered." Tibor merely nodded as Josep hurried from the room.

Willie ducked behind his BMW as Tibor's door opened. A pale, frowning Josep jumped into the black Mercedes and peeled away without a look in Willie's direction. The old paratrooper relaxed. Josep was gone, but there could be more of his kind inside. Willie moved closer, cautiously, but no brass-knuckled, leather-clad thugs, popped out from the weathered entrance like deviant jack-in-the boxes. The early morning stillness remained undisturbed.

He tried the door; it opened silently. A chair scraped along the second floor above him. Spurred on by dark excitement, Moltke crept up the stairwell, treading softly on the creaking wooden boards. He silently crested the stairs. The familiar hallway channeled him towards Tibor's office. Now, there was nowhere to go but forward. He caressed the Luger in his pocket. Would the world miss one more mobster? No. However, Tibor's gang would, and that would shorten the few years remaining to Willie. There could be no violence, he reasoned, just business. He could buy Tibor off. The pistol was a last resort he decided, as he stood in the doorway of Tibor's office. He looked in.

Tibor sat on the end of a camp bed with a blanket draped over his back, sipping coffee. He scraped his nails with a narrow Hitler Youth dagger. He had found it after an ambush, in the belt of a dead enemy. It was one of the few trophies' he kept from that war. A cigarette burned in a small tinfoil cup on the stove, its smoke drifting upward like the thoughts of a distracted man. He looked up as Willie entered with shocked surprise, but his face twisted into a sardonic grin.

"So, it's you. You're up early. Couldn't sleep?" Tibor coughed loudly. He took a deep drag from the cigarette and it seemed to settle him.

Willie gazed at the frail figure on the camp cot, the pale skin, thin blue veined arms, and the death rattle lurking in his lungs. The crime boss looked weak and vulnerable, his aura of power stripped away by age and sickness. Willie surged with renewed confidence. "No, you and your crew, Tibor, are keeping me up nights. You're getting in my way. My men found something in Tito's cave."

"Really, what was it, a pot of gold?" Tibor laughed the raspy laugh of a lifetime smoker. He remained hard and defiant.

"We were not so fortunate." Willie replied. "In fact it was a cache of weapons. Old JNA war stock. I wonder where that may have come from?"

"That was a logistic compound. The Brigade used it to store their weapons and ammunition. That's what the cave was for."

"And they just forgot it when they left."

"You know how some people are. They would forget their heads if they weren't tied on." Tiber answered derisively.

"What sort of fool do you take me for, Tibor?" said Willie. "You stand to lose a lot of money with these foolish games."

"What kind of fool? The usual greedy, bottom line, kind, who will sacrifice his very soul to for a larger profit margin." Willie blanched. He gripped the Luger and stared at Tibor in deadly anger.

"Sit down, I merely joke with you. If you want some coffee, it's on the stove."

"I didn't come here for coffee, Tibor."

"Then what the hell did you come here for?" Tibor snarled. "You trespass into my house, creeping around like a ghost! I should just shoot you where you stand for having the nerve to come here like this. And what the hell do you care about that goddamned cave? You have the compound. That's all you need for your business. I delivered that to you. Did you forget that?"

"And I delivered a handsome payment to you. Did you forget that?" Tibor noticed that Willie's right hand stayed in the pocket of his jacket. In Tibor's experience, there were only a few reasons why men kept their hands in their pockets. Was this soft spoken businessman actually carrying a gun? Tibor didn't want to find out the hard way.

"So, there are guns in the cave," said Tibor, adopting a conciliatory tone. "It was just a temporary measure. They'll be gone soon."

"They're gone now. I sent my men to pick them up. They should be loaded on my trucks by now. All I have to do is send my trucks down to the NATO camp in Drvar to solve my problem. In fact, I would receive NATO's kindest thanks."

Tibor's face reddened. This bastard was upsetting everything. Where was Josep? Did he get there in time to prevent this debacle, or was Moltke bluffing? "So what do you want? Money?" Tibor asked tentatively.

"I want no part of selling guns to criminals and terrorists," Moltke. "I'm no death merchant. Find some other place to stash your merchandise."

Tibor was relieved. The German believed he was just a gunrunner. He could still prevent disaster.

"You mean freedom fighters and revolutionaries." Tibor snickered. "We are both men of business. We can deal. I'll leave the compound, _and the cave_ , to you in return for my guns. I can use other storehouses. As I said, it was temporary. No need to get excited."

"What guarantee do I have?"

"My word," said Tibor. "What more do you need? Let me shake the lily-white hand of an...honest... businessman."

Willie ignored the pale blue veined claw that emerged from under the blanket, along with the insult.

"If, you aren't straight with me Tibor, I'll give you up to NATO."

Tibor's eyes narrowed into angry slits

Willie paused. Had he gone too far? This man could have him killed with the wave of a hand. Tibor's slight had angered him, made him impetuous, careless. He gripped the Luger for reassurance.

The phone on Tibor's desk rang. Its jingling burr ricocheted around the still room, slicing through the tension building between the two men. Tibor looked at the bulge in Moltke's jacket pocket. "If I don't answer, they will come here," said Tibor, "to see if I'm all right." Willie nodded.

It was Josep. "Tibor, we have a problem here. The guns are gone; they've been loaded on trucks belonging to the German lumber company."

"And where are the trucks?"

"They're here, in the compound. But they won't unload them."

"Have your men arrived?"

"They are on the way, but still no word from that bastard Yuri. He is dead when I see him. We need those guns now, if we are going to attack the NATO camp."

"Don't worry, Josep. I think we can get this resolved in time. I'm talking to Mr. Moltke now."

There was stunned pause on the other end of the line. Tibor continued, "Wait for my instructions." He put the receiver back in its cradle. "It would seem that there is a little disagreement between our employees."
Chapter 19

"Get the fuck out of my way, you bastard!" The man was a statue, glaring at Josep in stony silence. Josep raised his hand to strike and the impassive figure stepped back, readjusting his grip on the shovel held loosely in his hands, so he could swing it like an axe and cleave Josep's head in two. Josep paused. These goddamn guys were like robots. He waved his hand at the man's face in a gesture of disgust and turned his back to him.

When he had arrived at the compound, he found the gates unlocked and open. Two trucks, with Moltke's business logo, the Prussian eagle, blocked the mouth of the cave and several men in gray overalls were busy loading Josep's contraband guns and ammunition. Enraged, he confronted the squat, husky foreman directing the men's efforts.

"Who the hell do you think you are here? What the hell do you think you are doing! Get out now before I make you sorry you ever passed through those gates." Josep sputtered in impeccable German. He had worked in East Germany before the war, as an apprentice electrician. He would have made a fine tradesman if the structured, artificial state of Yugoslavia hadn't come apart at the seams.

"Back off, or you're the one who's going to regret passing through those gates," said Walter. His head still ached from his earlier run in with Marty, not to mention his pride, and he was in no mood for the ranting of some irritating loudmouth.

"Do you know who I am?" Josep shouted.

"No, and I don't really give a shit. Now get in your car and go back to the pig farm you came from," replied Walter.

"Let me warn you, friend, it would be wiser to watch your mouth."

"Listen,'friend', you don't scare me. I have faced better men than you." Walter held the shovel across his barrel chest, muscles bulging under the gray cloth of his overalls. Josep contemplated pulling out the pistol tucked into his rear waistband and blowing the foreman's head off. But he didn't know if any of the others were armed. Alone he was vulnerable. When his men arrived, he would show this box head a thing or two. _However, the bastards had better hurry_.

"These guns belong to me," he said.

"Then why are they on Mr. Moltke's property? He gave us the orders to remove them. And it's his orders we follow."

Josep debated calling Tibor, reflecting on their earlier conversation. This was yet another problem he couldn't solve, and Tibor would think him a fool, unworthy of his legacy. But without the weapons, the plan was impossible. The old man was obsessed with "greater Croatia" and would stop at nothing to further the cause. Josep's failure would eclipse his explanations, and there were others, he knew, waiting for the opportunity to step in and replace him as Tibor's trusted lieutenant. Josep would be lucky to escape with his life.

Reluctantly he punched in the familiar number. Tibor answered after a few rings. He was with Moltke now; they would soon fix the problem. Tibor's voice was calm and reassuring but he offered no details. A shocked Josep listened to the line go dead. What were the two men doing together? Had Tibor told him everything about the plan, or was the old man keeping some secrets? To hell with this! If Tibor was holding out on him...did he not deserve Tibor's trust? He had been with Tibor for years and had always been loyal. And now? Whatever the old thief was up to, Josep would root it out, whether Tibor wanted him to or not. Maybe it was time to "retire" Tibor. The thought gave him grim satisfaction.

Moltke's sweating men paused near the trucks, after hoisting up the last crate of mortar ammunition. Two men secured the tailgate while another covered the load with a heavy canvas tarpaulin. Despite Tibor's reassurances, Josep had to act now, before they took the trucks away. He would handle this himself; he couldn't wait for Tibor. The attack on the NATO camp was set for dawn and the sun was already glowing behind the mountains. Time was slipping away.

The assault would reveal just how vulnerable and ineffective the western troops were in providing security to the region. If they couldn't protect themselves, how could they protect the people of Drvar from rogue Chetnick terrorists?

NATO had put their camp in the old flour mill because it offered large, solid buildings for shelter and billeting, and plenty of paved areas for parking. It was perfect for an administrative camp, but it sat in the base of a low valley surrounded by hills and was not a place to fight from. From Josep's spies among the camp work staff, he knew that ridgelines overlooking the camp were free of surveillance. These unprotected approaches provided the perfect opportunity to set up a mortar tube and fire several rounds into the centre. Followed by a few bursts of machine gun fire from different directions, the place would be in chaos. There would be dead and injured to deal with and, before the soldiers inside the wire could react, the mortar tube would vanish into the trunk of a car and Josep and his men would disappear; "shoot and scoot."

It worked for the IRA and it would work for them. First, he needed the weapons and ammunition sitting on the decks of Moltke's trucks. He approached Walter once again. Where bluster hadn't worked, perhaps honey might. He dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, putting his arm around the man's shoulder.

"Listen, my friend, we can work this out, you know. How much do you want for the weapons? We will pay you a percentage of what we get for them. Nobody needs to know. This could just be between you and me. What do you say?" Josep smiled his warmest used car salesman smile.

"Keep your money," Walter replied, with a trace of disgust. "If our boss tells us to take the guns, we take the guns, if he says return them, we return them. We have nothing more to discuss." He shrugged the arm off his shoulder.

Three cars passed through the gates of the compound, in convoy, and parked near the office building. Men spilled out of the vehicles, clad in makeshift uniforms of combat clothing, wool sweaters, and hoodies. Their one common feature was the hard look on their faces. These men had business to do. Josep smiled. The odds had changed. No longer was he at the mercy of this smug little bastard and his work crew. His men had arrived and the tables had turned.

"So I have nothing to say about that, do I? Well, we'll see."

Walters's confidence faded when the cavalry arrived, but only momentarily. As the rag, tag militia descended upon them, Moltke's men reached for shovels and pick handles lying on the truck beds. They had anticipated trouble. A look of grim determination formed on Walter's face. Josep waved at the group of men approaching him.

"Everything is on the trucks," he shouted. The men looked puzzled. "These bastards were trying to take it!" Josep's men broke into smaller groups and swarmed the flatbeds. They were fifteen in total. The German crew numbered ten from what Josep could see, unless there were more inside the cave. He had the advantage. Walter glanced towards the trucks. His men, alert, stood ready for a fight. Before he could take a step, Josep struck him across the back of his head with his pistol butt. Walter fell to one knee, fighting unconsciousness. Josep delivered a second blow and the foreman dropped to the ground, senseless. Spurred by his attack on Walter, Josep's enforcers charged the gray-clad workmen, killing on their minds.
Chapter 20

The Toyota crested the hills overlooking Drvar as the morning sun flowed over the town, forming deep grooves of shadow among empty doorways and silent alleys.

"So where to now, Cole?" asked Harry.

"I want to check the cave," said Rena, "and then leave this horrible place."

"After what you went through, are you sure?" Cole asked. "We could drop you at the hotel. One of the guys will stay with you, while we do a sweep of the cave. We know that they put the Chalice into the vault near the airshaft. There aren't many options. We look and then we go."

"No, Cole, I started all this. I have to be part of the ending. Please. I'm all right, really. Now that we're together, I feel safe. If the Chalice is still in the cave, the map will tell us where to find it. As you said, there aren't many options. It's the airshaft and that's it. Let's do it.

"You're the boss, Rena, after all, and we'll give your grandfather and Consolidated Insurance their due. To the Bat Cave, Harry."

"Roger that," said Harry, accelerating the Toyota around the switchbacks ribboning down into the sleeping town.

They descended into deserted streets. Late night revelers had packed the party up, and the early risers were still in their beds. It was that transition period between night and day, when life pauses. The road to the compound branched out from the outskirts of Drvar running along the edge of the ancient, weather worn mountain range that hemmed the valley floor. A thin gray track, barely visible, splintered away from the road and ascended the ridgeline, losing itself amidst the faded shrubbery and dry, frozen earth, steaming in the warming sun.

"There, Harry," said Cole, pointing to the intersection of the path and the main road. "We're going to have come at the cave from the back. That means we tab over this side of the mountain and stay away from the main compound."

"Right, Cole." He braked to a halt near the faint edge of the trail, a mere set of wheel rut vanishing in patches of withered vegetation.

"What the hell?" said Harry. From their vantage point, they could see down into part of the compound. Figures in patchwork uniforms of military and civilian clothing grappled with men in gray coveralls around a pair of Moltke's transports.

"Quite the party down there," said Harry. The Prussian eagle on the door panels soared above the melee. "It looks like Moltke's guys are mixing it up with some of the local boys."

"Moltke is part of this too," said Max. "Why else would his crew be messing around near the cave?"

"It must be about the weapons. I doubt if Moltke contacted the troops at the NATO camp," replied Cole. "But it looks like things are going sour for him."

"So what do we do now?" asked Harry. "Wait until they kill each other and then go down there, step over their corpses, and search for the Chalice at our leisure?"

Cole answered. "This is an opportunity. While they take turns filling each other in, we can get into the backside of the cave without being spotted."

"Yeah, a punch in the face is quite distracting," said Harry.

"OK. Now we split up. Marty and I will check the cave, Harry, Rena, and Max you go into town. Get to the NATO camp. See the second in command, John, the captain, and tell him what's going on. He can put an end to whatever shenanigans Josep and Tibor are up to."

"Cole, I want to come into the cave with you. I need to," said Rena. Cole knew that arguing was pointless at this stage. He looked at her. After the events of this morning, he wanted her close to him. She looked beautiful, despite her ordeal of the last twenty-four hours. Her violet eyes were a deeper blue against pale ivory of her face.

"Do we know where the airshaft is?" asked Marty

"I GPS'd it based on the satellite photos and where I estimated it to be from the description in Rena's grandfather's journal. If we're lucky, and those bozos true to form, they never searched the truck." Cole reached inside the glove box and pulled out a small Magellan GPS. "And voila!"

"What if the shaft collapsed when they blew the cave during Tito's escape?" said Max.

"According to my grandfather, the cave was more of a tunnel," said Rena. "Tito followed it until he reached the surface, someplace along this ridgeline. The egress was near a rail line that ran along the back of this spur. A train was waiting to take him to the village of Potoci. That's how he evaded the SS paratroopers who attacked his HQ."

"It would be impossible to find the exit now, with all this undergrowth. And the rail line has since been ripped up," said Cole."But I believe the air vent is still open. When I was in the cave during your little shoot-out with Josep's pals, I could feel air moving near the pile of rubble at the back of the cave. I figure the vent is about three hundred feet away from the entrance. If we're the only ones with access to the journal, we're the only ones who know about the vent, and, in that case, the odds are good that the Chalice may still be in the cave." Cole looked at Rena, and she nodded.

"There was only one copy of the journal and my grandfather safeguarded it with his life. He hoped to come back and retrieve the Chalice at some point after the war, but it was impossible. Yugoslavia was a communist country, and my grandfather a senior officer in MI5.By the time Yugoslavia fell apart, he was too ill to travel."

"But it's still guesswork," observed Marty.

"Educated guesswork. Now move your ass, you got work to do", said Harry. Cole, Rena and Marty slipped out of the SUV into the underbrush covering the downward slope of the hill. Harry waited until they vanished into the shrubbery, and then he and Max sped away to the NATO Garrison in Drvar.

Josep's head was ringing. He couldn't place the tune, but it was catchy. The glancing blow that he had fended off must have affected him more than he thought. He shook his head, but the ringing continued. It was coming from his jacket. He reached in the pocket and looked at the number. It was Yuri. Now the son of a bitch called. Before Josep could answer, a team of Walter's men renewed their attack on him. A pick handle across the wrist sent his Glock flying. He rolled on his feet and planted his fist into the wet pulp of his assailant's mouth. His knuckles dug into teeth that shattered with the impact. The pickaxe handle dropped from nerveless hands as the man crumpled into a gray heap. He drove his knee into the groin of the second man, who toppled with a groan. Josep moved on to the next group. All around him, his men struggled with groups of Moltke's men. Spades and wooden bats struck home with wet thuds, as various participants in the brawl dropped to the ground. He was in his element and he basked in the adrenalin rush of violence. It seemed he was only happy when he inflicting pain of someone. He felt arms around his back and a thumb was in his mouth, twisting his head around. He bit down hard and the man behind him screamed. Josep stepped back and drove his elbow into the man's solar plexus. The grip relaxed and the arms slipped off Josep's back. On the deck of one of the trucks, some of Moltke's men were removing the canvas tarp from the crates of assault rifles and ammunition stacked in square piles on the truck bed.

"They're going for the guns!" Josep shouted as he ran towards the truck, scooping down to retrieve his pistol from the dirt.

Moltke dialed Walters's cell phone again, receiving the same monotonous ring tone as on two earlier attempts.

"That's odd," said Willie, "Walter always answers." He wanted to get word to his crew to leave the weapons cache and turn the guns over to Josep. There was something wrong. Walter would never miss a call and he often berated his men about responsibility and responsiveness. Something had happened at the compound, and Willie suspected that it involved Tibor's number two, Josep.

"Get dressed," said Moltke."You're coming with me."

"Since when do you give the orders here?" said Tibor. "Since I brought this," Willie, replied, brandishing the Luger.

Tibor looked at Moltke. "Falshirmjager," he muttered, and reached for his trousers.

They sped towards the abandoned HVO logistic compound, Willie driving as Tibor smoked indolently, reflecting on their uneasy partnership based largely on the pistol in Willie's pocket.

"Josep will do as he is told. You worry needlessly. My authority is without question. It's just business, after all."

Tibor's assurances fell on deaf ears. Willie knew what would convince Josep-the Luger barrel pointed in Tibor's back. He had to anticipate Tibor's move and stay one play ahead. The attack on Drvar had been code-named operation _Rosselsprung,_ "Knight's Move". After all those years, here he was again, playing a very different game of chess with the devil himself.
Chapter 21

They pushed through shrubbery, brambles and twigs poking at shins and eyes as Cole lead them towards the air vent. Periodically, he glanced at the olive drab GPS in his hand. The LCD arrow in the center of the square lens bobbed back and forth, but remained true on their direction of travel. The distance slowly counted off until they were within a few meters of the position fixed inside the Garmin.

Cole stopped. "It's here, split up and look around." The trio moved in ever widening circles, looking for a divot in the ground, or hole in the undergrowth. They could hear the brawl in the compound below them. As long as the shouts and cries continued, Cole was sure they would remain undetected.

Marty stumbled. "Damnation!" His face split into a large grin. "Well, what do you know." He kicked the scrub, pushing brambles and dry grass away. At his feet, lay a crevice about three feet long and two feet wide. It entered the ground on an oblique angle, beneath a ragged edge of rock. The opening lay hidden in the cleft of the outcrop.

"If your grandfather's journal is right, Rena, the Chalice is hidden beneath us." Cole dropped down to his knees and swung his legs into the hole. "Keep your fingers crossed," he said as he vanished into the gap.

Cole braced himself against the sides of the tunnel with his feet and skidded downwards under control. The tunnel began to bend and he pushed himself along on his buttocks, scraping through the gravel. It was like crawling down a sewer pipe. The small patch of light above him was all that kept a clawing, claustrophobic feeling at bay. He wondered how Rena would react to it.

The hard surface ended and his feet were hanging in mid-air. He was in the vault. How far was the drop? He dug his fingers into the rock searching for grip until his fingertips felt a slight ridge, just large enough to grab. He lowered his body down, hoping his feet would make contact with something solid, soon. He touched ground and released his grip. In the sparse gray light filtering down from the surface, he found himself in the middle of a small, low-ceilinged cavern.

"Cole, are you all right?" Marty called down.

"Yeah, I'm OK." He felt his way around the edges of the chamber, trying to get a sense of the size and shape in the gloom.

"We're coming down." A light shower of gravel dusted Cole as first Rena, and then Marty entered the tunnel. Rena uttered a muffled scream as she fell that last few feet. Cole caught her by her waist and lowered her down. As he held her, he could smell the faint lilac of her perfume. She felt good in his arms.

"Thanks. I wasn't expecting that last drop." She lingered in his arms for a moment longer and then Cole let her go. Marty arrived with a tumble and a curse. Cole switched on the mini Maglite and the bright spot of light revealed curved walls and a low ceiling. Rena touched the side. "It's so smooth," she said.

"It was formed by water," Cole answered. "Years of rain and melt, swirling down the tunnel and wearing at the edges."

"So, this is it, the vault that Grandfather mentioned. The Chalice, it must be here!" exclaimed Rena. Her hands trembled with excitement.

"Let's get at it. Rena, check that side," Cole waved the light in her direction, "and Marty, you have that side." He propped the light up in the middle of the chamber on a pile of stones. They began to feel their way around, looking for the strongbox where Captain Simon Moore had hidden the Chalice almost fifty years ago.

"Cole! Bring the light. I think I've found something." Marty's voice echoed off the walls as Cole grabbed the flashlight as Rena rushed towards Marty, stumbling on the uneven ground.
Chapter 22

It had been an eventful morning. A patrol had discovered three truckloads of refugees traveling along a side road south of Drvar. The group included several families, and a large collection of single men, two of which were suffering from gunshot wounds and in need of medical treatment. Eight others, prisoners of some sort, had their wrists bound and had been violently beaten. One of Josep's cronies was among them, a person of interest named Yuri, unconscious with a head injury. John had dispatched an ambulance with an armed escort and the senior interpreter to get to the bottom of this bizarre discovery. There was no indication of where they had come from. There had not been any scheduled UN visits in that area, and the trucks they were traveling in belonged to a foreign logging interest called Multivest. John drank yet another coffee, stoking the nuclear furnace smoldering in his stomach and pondered, for the third time, having another cigarette. Self-discipline prevailed and he returned to the operations room instead of following the well-worn trail down the stairs to the smoking point.

"Sir, there are two guys at the gate, Yanks, who want to see you. They have some information to pass on, very urgent," said one of the radiomen. "Should I have them brought up here?"

"No," said John, "I'll go talk to them." He turned and made for the stairwell. Americans? It must be the crew headed by that guy Samson. Whatever they wanted to discuss, John sensed that it was important.

His visitors were standing by the duty sergeant, their muddied SUV pulled off to the side in the visitor's park.

It was the big guy, Harry, and the one with the mustache who looked like a cowboy, Max, John remembered.

"Gentlemen, what can I do for you?" John asked as he arrived at the gate.

"Is there someplace where we can talk, someplace a bit more private?" asked Harry. "You may want to keep a close hold on what we're about to tell you."

"Yes," John answered, "follow me." He led them back to the command post in silence, stopping only at the operations room to sign Harry and Max in before they stepped into John's adjacent office. Photographs of key players in Drvar, public officials, businessmen, suspected criminals, plastered one wall. John was working on a link analysis to determine how each fit into the conundrum that was Drvar. Josep's picture was located near the top. A map of the company's area of operations and the larger NATO mission covered the opposite wall. John sat behind a small desk covered with papers and a few dirty coffee cups. He motioned for Max and Harry to take the two spare chairs lined up in front of the desk.

"So what's going down?" John asked, once the others had settled.

"In the course of our travels," Harry began in his most official tone, "we discovered a significant weapons cache located within the cave behind the abandoned HVO site."

"In your travels?" John replied, but he was cut short by a look from Harry that said, don't even bother asking.

"Could it have been surplus war stock, abandoned by the logistics unit when they left?" said John. Was it serviceable?"

"What we are going to tell you is in confidence," said Max. "By the way, how's the nose?"

John looked at him. "It's fine. It's a good thing that we were helped by some friends that night." John fixed him with a knowing look.

"Yes, a good thing," said Max. "The weapons are in perfect condition, and there is a lot of mortar ammunition and some RPGs, enough nasty bits to do some damage if somebody were so inclined. We suspect that you or some other principles players in Drvar could be targeted for a significant terrorist attack." He related their chance meeting with Milos in the Boom Boom cafe. "The guy just wanted to warn us." Max paused, reflecting on Milo's brutal death in the lumber camp. Bringing up the events of the morning would require more explanation, which would take time, time that they did not have with Cole, Marty and Rena out there alone. Once this was over, they would have another sit down with the captain and give him all the bitter details. Justice would have to wait.

John trusted these men. Whatever they were up to in Drvar, they seemed to be on the right side, his side, and this was the breakthrough he needed after General Tocic's visit a few days earlier. How Kovac would burn when John reported the seizure of a weapon's cache at their next meeting. This rocket would go straight up that weaselly bastard's ass, and John could hardly wait.

"We believe that man, Josep," Max pointed at John's wall, "is directly involved."

"That's Josep Peci. So far, I had him pegged as a player running drugs and extortion here in Drvar. I didn't connect him to anything political, nothing like terrorist activity. He is more than capable, though, if the price is right, I imagine. But what's his game plan?"

"We don't know that. Not with any certainty," said Harry, "but whatever Josep's motivation, the hardware in the cave is real. We saw them getting ready to move the stuff this morning. It's still there but won't be for long. You boys have to end this before it begins. You read me?"

"Loud and clear," John replied, "thanks for this. We'll act on it ASAP." He walked into the operations center next door and spoke to the radiomen. "Get me the quick Reaction Force commander. Tell him to hurry." He returned to his place behind the desk. "Now you fellows wouldn't know anything about three truckloads of refugees passing though my Area of Operations, with some roughed-up tough guys under heel?"

Harry looked at John. "That's a story for another day. We have to get rolling." Harry had given John all he needed. NATO would come across the altercation between Moltke's and Tibor's men and John could piece it together on his own. Now Harry wanted to get back and meet Cole before the first of the NATO troops arrived and closed off the area. "You'll figure it out." He tapped John on the shoulder with his huge palm.

"So you're aid workers, huh?" said John.

"Yep," replied Max, "just a bunch of do-gooders."

John sighed and pondered having yet another cigarette, to really make his guts hurt, _no pain, no gain_. Instead, he went into the radio room and arranged for an escort to guide Harry and Max back to the main gate.

"And get a hold of Major Murphy soonest," he said to one of the radio operators. "We've got work to do."
Chapter 23

Cole and Rena ran to where Marty crouched in the rubble, sweeping gravel away from a rectangular object jutting from the ground. Marty wiped off a layer of dust, exposing a faint olive drab surface, weathered almost gray.

"Cole," whispered Rena, scarcely breathing, "this must be it."

"There's only one way to find out," he answered. Together he and Marty began to dig the box out of the dirt with their hands. Seasons of rain and thaw had trapped the locker in thick bed of silt and mud. The exposed wooden side panel was cracked, damaged either by the explosion that sealed off Tito's escape route, or by the rockslide that followed. Evidence of the blast, sharp rocks and small boulders busted from the vault's low ceiling, lay all around them.

Within minutes, they uncovered the complete outline of the box. Cole ran his fingers along the top looking for a seal or lip on the lid. He could feel a slight flare to the wood near the top. He pried up, but the lid would not move. He found a wedge shaped piece of granite in the dirt by his knees. "Adapt, improvise, overcome." He jammed the makeshift blade into the narrow crack and twisted. The wood gave a few inches. He pushed the stone in deeper and levered it up against the side of the box until the cover popped off with a raspy squeal. A swathe of green felt lay inside, dirty and soiled by decades of grime seeping in through the cracked side panel. Cole lifted the bundle from its wooden cocoon. It was satisfyingly heavy. He laid it on the ground and removed the material. The flashlight trembled in Rena's hand as she cast the beam over his shoulder on to the object. There, in the light, lay the most exquisite piece of gold work that Cole had ever seen. It was about a foot long, contoured with delicate curves that flared out into a wide graceful base. The cup was inlaid with ivory scrimshaw interspersed with sapphires and rubies glowing in the half-light. The Chalice gleamed, giving of an effervescent glow. In the eldritch light that seemed to emanate from the artifact, Cole almost believed the mythological powers attributed to the Chalice. It could well have contained St Vladimir's soul.

"Behold," said Marty with overdone dramatic flair, "the Chalice of St. Vladimir, the Redeemer."

"Amen, brother," whispered Cole. Rena gazed at the wonder in Cole's hand. Her quest was over. Here it was at last; the treasure that her grandfather and his friend had rescued from the Nazis only to be lost in an anonymous crypt under the mountains of Bosnia. She knelt next to Cole and touched the Chalice, her hand resting on his.

"My God," she said, "it's beautiful. I can't believe it's real. It seems like a mirage. I'm afraid it will vanish before my eyes."

"It's real all right," said Cole, "and we had better get this thing out of here. We've pushed our luck beyond anything we could have hoped for. Let's get back and link up with Max and Harry," he paused. "Rena, your grandfather was right after all. It's been here these many years, waiting." Rena remained silent, contemplating her grandfather when he had been the young, strong man, in the faded black and white photos her grandmother cherished.

Cole rewrapped the Chalice in the moldering green rag and tucked it into his jacket. "Back to the airshaft. Rena, you first. I don't like how the rocks are shifting underfoot. The explosives must have weakened it." Cole lifted Rena into the tunnel above them.

Jammed in the rocks beneath him, a stick of Drago's TNT, left unblown by a failed blasting cap for almost half a century, lay honeycombed in a dangerous sweat of nitroglycerine. Loosened by Marty's digging in the cavern above, the highly unstable ordnance dropped to the hard surface of the main passageway below, finishing the job the partisan engineer had started so long ago.

The ground shuddered and a dull thud rocked Cole's eardrums. The rock beneath his feet gave way and he plunged into darkness. He hit the ground hard, winded, and lay gasping on a bed of sharp stone until he recovered. In the dusty haze lingering around him, he could make out the strong box, and his Maglite next to it, shining stubbornly. The heavy bundle of the Chalice remained folded in his coat.

"Rena, Marty?" he croaked, dust clogging his throat. There was no answer, save for the ringing in his ears. A thin glaze of dirt and gravel lacquered his companions' prone forms. He stood up, swaying, the buzz in his head louder now, and stumbled over to Rena. She was breathing. Marty sat up, stunned, trying to gauge his surroundings. Cole looked past him towards a distant patch of daylight. He could hear faint shouts and cries from the tumult in the compound.

They drove into chaos. Willie gaped in astonishment as Josep threw one of his men to the ground and began to kick him savagely. Ragtag soldiers crowded his two transport trucks mixing in a violent dance with men clad in the field gray coveralls of Moltke's company. Bodies lay strewn along the ground, some still, others crawling away in evident pain, trying to escape the madness around them.

"What in God's name are they doing?" Willie shouted. Tibor, equally unsettled, looked on in shocked silence. He had expected to find Willie's men swapping the weapons with Josep's crew, not a bloody brawl. Any hope of staging an attack on the NATO camp that morning had vanished. He would have to resolve this mess and then get word to Tocic. The Kingpin of Drvar smashed his fist against the dash in frustration.

Willie ploughed into the center of the throng, horn blaring. He skidded to a halt near Josep, narrowly missing Tibor's second in command, and scrambled from the BMW. Josep, deep in berserker rage, rushed at Willie, murder clouding his blood-spattered face. He stopped, as Tibor emerged from the passenger's seat, white with fury.

"Enough, all of you!" shouted Willie, aiming the Luger squarely at Josep's chest. Throughout the compound struggling figures paused, uncertain how this new drama would unfold.

Josep looked at Tibor in confusion, awaiting orders. The ruthless crime boss, unshaven, clad in a rumpled shirt and old corduroy jacket, posed a less than commanding figure, yet his authority was without question. He was about to speak, but was silenced by a black spear of smoke jetting from the entrance of the cave. A split second later, a concussive shock wave, hard on the heels of a sharp crack, rolled over them.

"Now what?" roared Tibor.

"Something exploded in the cave," said Willie, running towards the opening in panic. Tibor and Josep followed, along with a mix of Willie's men, and Josep's irregulars. This new curiosity had taken the fight out of all of them.

The air was thick with cordite-laced dust but he could see dim figures stirring in the acrid haze. Willie halted in astonishment. It was the Americans, and the British girl, standing amidst a pile of rubble.

"Samson... What on earth?" Moltke stammered in disbelief.

Tibor glared at Josep. Locked up in the forestry camp, my ass! Shoot these saboteurs," he snapped. The morning had been a catastrophe. Josep, that impetuous bastard, had failed him and he had grown tired of this lunatic German. He wanted blood, and anybody's would do. Josep stood motionless, empty handed; his Glock lost a second time during the pitched battle with Moltke's men.

"I'll decide who does the shooting here," said Moltke. "I have the pistol." There were too many questions around this American, the façade of the phony charity, the military demeanor of his companions; and now, here he was, inexplicably, in the bowels of Tito's cave. Did he know about the Chalice? Willie wanted some answers.

Josep noticed the bulge in Cole's jacket. The man was concealing something."He still has explosives on him, under his coat!"

"What are you hiding, Mr. Samson?" said Moltke, the dark eye of the Luger swung toward Cole. "Take it out... slowly."

Cole withdrew the cloth covered object. The felt rag slipped off, revealing the Chalice's full magnificence. He glanced at Rena and Marty. They had come so far, only to lose the prize in the end. She was emotionless, in shock from her fall, but Marty's eyes blazed in anger at both Josep, in his torn and bloody shirt, and the dapper Moltke in his expensive overcoat.

"By all that's holy...you found it," Willie whispered, amazed.

"What are you talking about?" snapped Tibor.

"It's the Chalice of St Vladimir, the Redeemer," said Cole. "It belonged to the monks from the monastery at Czerna Gora."

"The one burned by German soldiers during the second war?" said Tibor, his impatience transformed to interest.

"The very same," Cole replied. "It was hidden in Tito's cave by the partisans, during World War Two, and now it can be returned to the Church."

"Logging be damned, so this is what you were after, Herr Moltke," said Tibor as he took a step towards Cole, reaching for the Chalice.

"Stop," said Willie. He trained the Lugar towards Josep and Tibor."The Chalice will leave with me."

Tibor's mind raced. The Chalice of St Vladimir! As a child, he had heard the legends of the Chalice, about its remarkable beauty, and mystical power. It had been the pride of the region.

He stared at the broken wooden crate near Samson's feet. The Englishman's box! So this was his dying uncle's treasure. Somehow, the partisans, his uncle among them, had rescued the Chalice when the monastery burned and brought it to back to Drvar in secret. Tibor had never heard it mentioned during his time with Tito's army.

How had Moltke known of it? Drago's map! A German officer with an injured arm had taken it. The paratrooper had also killed his wounded uncle, Tibor recalled bitterly, and he had been there, in his father's stables, when it happened, a ten-year old boy, too afraid to move. Tibor studied Willie's face. The aristocratic features, now lined with age, the blonde hair, turned thin and gray, age had transformed him, but the cold blue eyes that had taken Tibor's measure a lifetime ago remained the same. The man standing beside him had been that young German officer.

"So this is what lay at the end of my uncle's map. The map that you stole from him, after you killed him," Tibor said.

Willie blanched. He drifted back to the stable fifty years ago, when he was a nineteen-year-old lieutenant. He recalled the dead man on the makeshift bed, and the boy. The boy! Had that been Tibor?

"I didn't kill your uncle, Tibor" Willie replied sadly. "He was dead when I found him."

"That map was destined for me, Falshemjager" said Tibor, choking back his rage.

"No matter now," said Willie.

"You have my uncle's blood on your hand, Nazi," said Tibor. "By my honour, he will be avenged."

"Blood? Whose hands are clean? Yours? Theirs? Willie gestured at Cole. "That was a long time past. What you forget, Tibor, is that I have the gun, and now the Chalice, and you have nothing."

"The Chalice belongs to the brothers from Czerna Gora, and nobody else," said Rena. "Its historical value alone outweighs what it will fetch on the auction circuit."

Willie looked at her. "I see you've found your charming friend, Samson. Well done. My dear, I know exactly how much it will fetch at auction."

"You think you can just walk out of here with the Chalice?" said Cole. "How far do you think you'll get before Tibor's goons run you down?"

"They will never know about it. Caves are very dangerous places, Mr. Samson, especially caves full of ammunition. Sometime the explosive grows unstable; there are accidents, maybe an explosion, a cave in. That is what I will report to NATO after my men discover the cache left behind by the HVO. If anybody finds what's left of you, your deaths will be as great a mystery as the Chalice. Pity it has to end like this, Samson. I was almost growing fond of you Americans, and your British girlfriend." He spoke in German to one his men who had trailed the group into the cave. The man nodded and scurried out. Josep chased after him, but Moltke put a shot into the ground at his feet. "Stay where you are, you animal!" Moltke, snarled. "Or the next one goes into your boss." Josep stopped, quivering in surprise and rage.

The loud whoop of a police siren barreled down the length of the cave, followed by the amplified voice of the NATO language assistant. "Put down your weapons. You are in NATO enforced security zone. I repeat, put down your weapons, and remain still." The message was repeated in German.

Cole watched in silence as Tibor jumped towards Willie. A jet of flame shot from the Luger as Tibor toppled on top of the old paratrooper. Cole saw the quicksilver glint of a knife blade and then both men were still. Josep took a single look at the prostrate figure of his boss amidst an ever widening pool of scarlet, and fled back up the passageway, hoping to escape the NATO cordon.

As he emerged from the cave, a convoy of armored vehicles moved down the road towards the compound, the lead elements already blocking the entrance. Infantry soldiers dismounted and dropped into fire positions, taking aim at the men surrounding Moltke's trucks.

One of the Josep's men, standing on the back of a truck, panicked and fired at a group of soldiers moving towards him. The response was swift and deadly, as several rifles returned fire.

"No!" yelled Josep as the rounds plunged into the ammo boxes on the back deck. A bright red blob appeared on the shooter's chest as he spun backwards, landing in a crumpled pile on the ground. The truck erupted in a fireball, engulfing Josep as he turned to escape.

Inside the cave, the searing wind knocked Cole off his feet. Rena and Marty lay behind him, Marty shielding Rena from the blast with his back. He gave Cole the thumbs up. They were both OK. Cole ran to where Tibor, neck bleeding, lay across Willie, still clutching the Hitler Youth dagger he had driven into Moltke's heart.

"Marty, stay with them and do what you can. They need medical attention and there's got to be a doctor with those troops!"

Cole rushed out into the daylight. A pall of black, oily smoke stretched across the compound and the heat from the burning truck stung Cole's cheeks. Scores of NATO troops swarmed through the gates, rounding up the shocked survivors of the blast, and rendering first aid where necessary.

A camouflaged patterned jeep drove up, with Captain Zbignew, a bandage across his nose, in the passenger seat. Harry and Max followed behind in the Toyota.

John looked around in amazement. He noticed Cole and walked towards him. "Samson, what the hell is going on here? I need some answers."

"Yep, we owe you that, John, and I think we owe you our lives as well. It's a good thing you turned up when you did. That was quite an entrance but could you be a bit more subtle next time?"

"We need a medic," said Cole. "There are some men inside the cave that need to be looked at."

John spoke into his Motorola and within a few seconds, a soldier with a Red Cross armband jogged up, laden under a heavy medical pack. Cole led them down the shaft to where Tibor and Willie lay. Marty shook his head as they approached; it was too late. The medic did a cursory examination of the men, and then turned to John. "Sir, both of these men are dead."

"I recognize the fellow on the bottom," said John, "he's that European businessman, Mr. Willie Moltke, the head of the German logging interest planned for Drvar. But who's the other guy?"

"That's the man they brought me to," said Rena, "after they kidnapped me. All the others, Josep included, seemed afraid of him." She trembled.

"I suspect that's Tibor," Cole answered. "He was the boss of the organized crime ring here in Drvar, amongst other things. I believe he had links to the HVO and the local politicos. From the sounds of it, he had an old score to settle with Willie. Only these two really know what was behind it. I have my suspicions, but they don't matter now. Their business is finally finished, I'd say."

The captain was silent for a moment, deep in thought. "Let's have a coffee, and a little chat about what went on here today. Relief workers, my ass," John said as he walked back to the jeep. "Meet me at the camp. I don't need to have my troops hold you in custody, do I?" He hopped back into the jeep and drove off without waiting for an answer.

"I don't know about you guys, but I could use some breakfast," said Harry.
Chapter 24

The waiter brought them their coffee. Rena basked in the sunlight pouring through the hotel dining room windows and the appetizing aroma of espresso and croissants. Below her, the Danube flowed through a fairytale landscape of spires and domes, splitting Budapest in two. The nightmare events of the past week were behind her, shed like dirty clothes. _This is what Cole's life is like_ , she thought, this shifting between worlds of violence and danger, and the normal 9 to 5 of people enjoying a good breakfast in an opulent hotel. It wasn't a transition she could easily make. She still had nightmares featuring Josep and Yuri, and the carnage in the HVO compound that ended the quest for the Chalice.

"I spoke to my supervisor about an hour ago," said Rena. "Consolidated will be forwarding a cheque to you, but it will pass through an intermediary. The discovery of the Chalice and its return to the holy order is still very sensitive. The Metropolitan has yet to determine how and when they will re-introduce it to the world. But your part is done, Cole, you and the guys can look forward to a well-deserved rest, and a very generous payout for your efforts."

"What about you?" asked Cole. He gazed at her over the rim of his cup.

"It wasn't the reward that I was after. Consider the Chalice part of my legacy as well. About a month before he died, my grandfather called me. He wanted to see me. I had always reminded him of my grandmother, my namesake, and I was his favorite of the grandchildren. I thought it was Poppy just wanting to visit. We knew he was ill.

When I arrived, he was in a very somber mood. That was a bit unusual, because he was always so cheerful, making us kids laugh with his tales about our parents and his colorful friends. But that day, it was clear that something was troubling him. He had never really spoken about his exploits in the war. I hadn't even known about the existence of his journals up to that point. My grandmother may have, but she was probably the only one.

"He was sitting by the fire, wrapped up against the chill, looking very frail. Next to him, on a side table, was a shoebox of old photographs, mostly of him as a young man when he was an operative of the SOE. Over a glass of port, he showed me the pictures, talking about the friends he had made and lost across various theaters of war. He had had several lifetimes of adventure, enough for any man, I'll wager. Then he told me about the Chalice. He asked me to find it, and get it back to the brothers from Czerna Gora. It was a piece of unfinished business that still haunted him. He had made a promise to his friend, long since dead, and it was a promise unfulfilled. He felt it was an honor due the men he had fought beside during those bitter days in Yugoslavia. He felt obligated to give that piece of their history back to them. He gave me money to launch the expedition. He was very insistent, and wanted it done immediately. I attributed this urgency to Poppy trying to settle his accounts before he passed on, but there was more to it.

"Even in retirement he still maintained a network of informants, mostly retired operatives, just to track the Chalice. One of these, he only referred to his code name, Rasputin, some kind of art dealer I think, indicated that an interested party had been asking about the Chalice, what was it worth to the right buyer if it was found, was anybody interested? And so on. We know now that Rasputin was talking about Moltke. These inquiries were the catalyst for my grandfather. He was afraid that somebody else would find the Chalice.

"I had your name from working with Consolidated. So I came to you. I knew I could rely on you, Indiana Jones. Who else would have had the presence of mind to stash the Chalice in his coat after falling ten feet on to a pile of rocks?"

Cole smiled. "Moltke was right, caves are dangerous places. It turns out that some old explosives were responsible for our little accident underground. According to Harry, they heard the explosion in the camp, and John thought the whole works was going up. NATO needed the evidence intact and that put a spring in their step. Harry said the captain passed them enroute, even with their head start, and a good thing too. We were lucky the troops arrived when they did, although I still wonder if Moltke had the heart to go through with killing us."

"Luck, or fate?" said Rena.

"I'm more inclined to towards luck than destiny."

"So it was just bad luck that brought Tibor and Moltke together, to die at each other's hands, after all those years?" Rena smiled.

"What else?"

"You're forgetting the legend of Prince Vladimir, guardian of the Chalice."

Cole toyed with his coffee spoon. "I don't believe in ghosts, life is spooky enough without them." They laughed together.

"Do you think John believed us, about being journalists," said Rena "and how we got involved in the whole mess in the first place?"

"No, John's no fool. However, it doesn't matter; we got the Chalice out of the country. He was looking for an explanation, and we gave him one. There was enough truth in what we told him to tie things together quite nicely. Busting the ammo cache was the boost that NATO needed to consolidate their grip on Drvar. I think he was satisfied with that and was happy to leave us out of the official picture."

"What do you think will happen in Drvar now, without Tibor?"

Cole paused. "There will always be somebody to take Tibor's place. Josep is dead, so there may be hope for the place after all. There was an interesting article in the paper today," Cole continued. "It looks like Multivest Corporation is being investigated by the United Nations concerning illegal logging operations in Bosnia. It mentioned allegations of slave labor camps and bribery of government officials. Their stock is dropping like a stone on the world exchanges. Nobody wants any connection to them, even though their lawyers have argued that the activities in Bosnia were the actions of local managers, without the knowledge, or the complicity of the company directors. Looks like those bastards are washed up."

He checked his watch. "I have to meet Harry and the guys in about ten minutes. Our flight leaves in two hours. They spent most of last night with Karlos, tidying things up with the vehicles. I think they are ready to get back. Are you sure you will be OK?"

"Yes, the Chalice is in the hands of a security agency. It should be safe there." She looked at Cole. "Do you think you will get to London any time soon?"

"It depends. If a beautiful lady walks through my door with some crazy story about buried treasure in the tower of London, I may just have to take her up on it."

"If you do, give me a call. I think I would like that."

"I think I would like that too," he said.

Epilogue

The bus rolled down the winding road into the village cradled between vermillion hills. It halted with a gassy squeak as the driver set the air break. The UNHCR rep stood at the front, near the door. He raised his hands for silence. "You have one hour to look around. Remember, it's just a preliminary visit," he said. "There will be more time later."

Children had thrown stones at the bus as they drove through Drvar, but there was none of the intimidation experienced by earlier visitors. The people in town seemed indifferent, if not friendly. The first man off the bus blinked in the bright sun light. He could smell fresh grass, and the subtle hint of wild flowers. Spring had returned to the valley.

About the Author

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