One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [137]
Bakr knew he would need to play on Juka’s emotion of Muslim unity, steering clear of any mention of Al Qaeda and the Great Satan. Far from wanting to harm the United States, Juka actually liked America, since it was American airpower, under the guise of NATO, that had come screaming in to punish the Serbians when the truth of Srebrenica reached the world. It disgusted Bakr, but he was sure that Juka didn’t hold America to blame. Because of this, Juka would have to be handled carefully.
Bakr rapped on the rough-hewn door, hearing movement on the other side.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
Bakr was unsure about the man before him. His face held deep wrinkles, made more pronounced by the dirt ground into the crevices, his eyes sunken with large black circles underneath. The age fit, but Bakr had expected more of a sense of purpose, a little more fire in the person he was seeking. What he saw was a man stooped by a lifetime of eking out a living from the ground, not a man steeled by a lifetime of fighting.
“Yes, I’m looking for a Bosnian named Juka. I’m on my way to Chechnya, and I was told by a friend that he may be able to help me.”
Bakr watched the man go through a small transformation. He straightened up, giving Bakr a penetrating stare with pale blue eyes, apparently measuring his mettle with the gaze alone. He leaned against the doorjamb, now projecting a sense of confidence where before there had only been defeat.
“Really? And what would this friend’s name be?”
“Milan Petrovic. He knew I was coming this way, and asked for me to pick up some things for him en route to Chechnya. Things that a Bosnian named Juka Merdanovic could provide.”
The man stepped away from the door, holding his arm open in a gesture of welcome. “I am Juka. I’m at the service of any man befriended by Milan. Come inside and tell me how I may help.”
AN HOUR LATER, Bakr stepped out of Juka’s decrepit Lada in front of his hotel in downtown Tuzla, carrying a small wooden box, a gift from Juka.
“Milan will be forever grateful for your attention to his wishes,” Bakr said.
Juka waved his hands, washing away the compliment. “I’m the one who will forever be grateful to Milan. I owe him my life. Beyond that, he’s taking up arms to protect his people. Helping you help him is a small measure, and I’m glad to do it.”
Juka leaned over to the open window.
“If you have any trouble finding the house, or getting in, call this number.”
He handed Bakr a scrap of paper with a Bosnian international number written on it.
“The phone is located in a clean house near the one with the supplies you need. Nobody will answer, but the messages are checked every day. Don’t say who you are. Just tell them what you need. It’ll be provided.”
Bakr took the number and waved good-bye, watching the Lada jerk forward, belching smoke. Juka had served his purpose. He had given him the location of a safe house on the northern side of Sarajevo. Inside this house were all the necessary components to fabricate any type of explosive device he desired. Bakr hadn’t needed to prove his Chechnya credentials or state his requirements at all. Juka had taken it on faith that he was there on behalf of Milan, and had stated that Bakr could take anything he wished from the house. At one point in the conversation, while describing the inventory of the house, he stood up.
“I have just the thing for you. Something special that I don’t keep in the house in Sarajevo. In fact, it’s the only one I have ever seen.”
Leaving Bakr alone in the rustic den, he rummaged around in a hall closet, returning with a wooden box. Inside was a wireless remote detonation device.