One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [161]
His first thought was that he had already been tracked and was now on the verge of getting captured. Frozen in place for a second, the panic rising, he debated whether he should simply keep riding. He was broken out of his thoughts by someone else trying to exit.
Speaking in English, Bakr asked, “Why’re all the policemen here?”
The Bosniak smiled and said, “Big ceremony today. It’s the fifteenth anniversary of the Markale massacres during the war. They’re just here to keep the peace.”
Hoping the relief didn’t show on his face, Bakr exited with the man, asking what the massacre was about.
“During the siege here the Serbians launched three separate mortar attacks on the Markale Market right up the road there. Killed a lot of people. They’re putting up a memorial today. Something more formal than a Sarajevo Rose.”
Bakr thanked the man and moved on. He hadn’t known the name of the market but had read about the actions there, as well as the siege itself, in his research earlier. The Markale was the largest outdoor market in Sarajevo, and the attacks had killed hundreds of civilians who were simply trying to survive. He knew a “Sarajevo Rose” was the impact of the mortars themselves, now filled in with red paint and left as they were the day they were fired as a reminder of the callous act. Ultimately it had convinced the Western world to intervene in the bloody conflict.
It disgusted Bakr that the Muslims here would turn to the West as their savior, going so far as to put up a monument commemorating their weakness. Maybe if they didn’t act so much like the infidel, they wouldn’t have needed the help of the infidel.
He walked through the old section of the city and entered into the close-packed neighborhoods to the north. Using Juka’s directions, he approached what he thought was the safe house. It was hard to tell, since all the buildings looked the same, but this was the only house with a large concrete planter in the front yard, looking like a horse trough filled with dirt. Juka said it had been put up after a mortar round had landed in the street, but that it now served to keep people away from the front of the house. He could always call the number Juka had given him for the clean safe house somewhere nearby, but preferred to use that as a last resort.
Bakr glanced around, seeing nothing more than a couple of pedestrians walking away from him and a woman beating a rug on an upstairs balcony down the street. He went around the left side of the house and jumped the waist-high concrete wall of the courtyard. He moved to the northeast corner and squatted down. Looking closely at the ground, he searched for a length of twine coming out of the neglected patch of flower garden. Pulling gently, he followed it for a foot and a half, eventually pulling up a key. He smiled. He had the right house.
Bakr unlocked the back door and swung it open without going inside. He stood and listened for thirty seconds. Hearing nothing, he walked slowly into the house, smelling the musty, cloying odor of a space rarely used. He searched throughout the downstairs and upstairs, slowly walking and listening for anyone or anything. Eventually he was satisfied that the house was empty.
He moved to the front and peeked out the window, getting a clear view up and down the street. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. The woman continued beating her rug, dust swirling around her head, giving her a halo in the afternoon light, but nothing else was moving. He found the basement door and went downstairs, fumbling a second before finding a light. He took a moment to let his eyes get used to the dazzle.
Against the back wall, stacked from the dank floor to within a foot of the ceiling, were enough explosives to take out an entire city block. He saw blasting caps,