was the only way in or out. I saw the man halfway across the street and moving with a purpose directly toward our restaurant.
“He’s coming in. Hide your face.”
Jennifer picked up a menu and pretended to read it. I did the same, but my angle was horrible. At least Jennifer had her back to the guy. I was facing the entrance with the small menu the only thing hiding my features. I heard the front door open and tried to become invisible. I waited for some indication that he had walked deeper into the restaurant but heard nothing.
“Shit! We’re burned! We need to stop him before he gets to his buddy!”
I raced past a group of startled patrons and flew out the door. I ran as hard as I could, slowly closing the distance. I saw him look back, fear etched into his face. He put on a final burst of speed, taking the steps to the hostel three at a time. He blasted through the front door, bowling over a couple at the entrance.
I came through the entrance right behind him, in time to see him fling open a stairwell door. I followed, a flight-and-half of stairs behind, then narrowed it to one flight. I heard him open the door above me. I reached the fourth floor and exited the stairwell, catching a glimpse of a man entering a room midway down the hall. I had no idea if it was the terrorist or not, but had no other options. I took off at a dead sprint.
I reached the door just as it was slammed shut, jamming my foot in the opening and letting it bounce harmlessly against the sole of my boot. Drawing back, I threw my full weight against the door, causing it to explode inward, flinging whoever was behind it against the wall.
I followed the open door into the room and recognized the terrorist on the floor. I reached out to grab him, but he scrambled away, putting the bed between us.
For a split second, we just stared at each other in a standoff, both of us panting. I saw the look of fear on his face turn to determination. I moved into a fighting crouch, preparing for the assault that was coming.
It never came.
Instead he shouted, “
Before I could assimilate what had happened, I heard someone else at the door and whirled around, seeing Jennifer, out of breath from her run. She looked around the empty room, then at me.
“Where’d he go?”
82
Bakr exited the back of a pickup at the end of a rutted dirt drive leading to a crumbling two-story farmhouse. He thanked the driver for the lift, staring at the house as the man drove away. The people here and in the surrounding hills existed at the poverty level, barely scraping a living out of the hardscrabble ground. The residence was built entirely of stone and had been frequently patched with homemade masonry, with the residue of a past fire visible. Moving listlessly about in a pen next to the farmhouse were a couple of skinny goats and a small flock of chickens, all digging in the dirt to find a bit of greenery that had long since been eaten.
It had taken Bakr the better part of the day to track down Juka’s residence, and he still wasn’t sure this was it. Before walking up to the house, Bakr reviewed in his mind the tale he would spin to obtain Juka’s help. Bakr had learned of Juka’s existence through a Chechen who had come to Iraq to glean IED techniques that he could take back to his fight against the Russian invaders of his homeland.
Bakr knew that Juka was a supporter of Muslim causes, but not because of the religion. That just happened to be the common denominator between himself and others like him. Before the summer of 1995, it was unlikely that Juka had even considered his religion as something that defined him. In July of that year, the Serbian army had surrounded Juka’s town of Srebrenica and set about on an orgy of violence, wantonly killing men, raping women, and burning everything touched by a Muslim hand.
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. Covered in Cyrillic lettering on the outside, it was small, with the receiver about half the size of a pack of cigarettes, and the transmitter slightly larger than a baby dill pickle. It was a state-of-the-art device used to clandestinely fire explosives from a distance. How Juka had ended up with it was anybody’s guess.
While Bakr was happy with the option to remotely fire the weapon from up to two hundred meters away, he knew the detonator’s true benefits lay in its channel-hopping capability and the fact that it used a separate signal
