outside Ringen’s mall as usual. It was midnight. They took Mrado’s new car, a Porsche Carrera. Looked funny-Mrado had to fold himself in half to slide in behind the wheel. Nenad climbed into the passenger seat.
He drove toward Nasbypark, Radovan’s home. They were arriving unannounced.
Mrado felt naked without Ratko.
Nenad and he were constantly discussing what was on their minds.
Nenad’d just talked to JW: “We’re all set to go, but there’s a risk that Rado’ll get cold feet after what we’re about to tell him. Choose to reroute the shipment somewhat. Not much we can do about that except be flexible.”
Mrado was massaging the knuckles on one hand, driving in silence.
Nenad said, “Why’re you so quiet? We’re not going some fucking funeral. This is a big day. New Year’s Eve.”
“Nenad, you’re my friend. You know me. I’ve worked for Radovan for over ten years. Before that, it was him and me under Jokso. I fought in the same platoon as Radovan. Lived in the same bunker outside Srebrenica for five weeks under massive fire. Today I’m gonna present him with my betrayal. You think I’m happy?”
“I understand. But you didn’t start this. Radovan humiliated you first. Without reason. That’s not how you treat a brother in arms. After all we’ve done for him. All those years, sacrifices, risks.”
“He hasn’t treated me like a brother in arms.”
“Exactly. He hasn’t treated you with the dignity you deserve. My grandfather told me a story from the war, the Second World War, I mean. Did I tell you the one about the fast?”
Mrado shook his head.
“Granddad fought with the partisans. In the winter of 1942, he was taken prisoner by Ustasa. Sent to a German POW camp outside Kragujevac. Conditions were miserable. They didn’t get any food, were beaten every day, didn’t see their families. They suffered from diseases-pneumonia, typhus, and tuberculosis. Dropped like flies. But Granddad was tough. Refused to give up. Spring came and Easter was approaching. Granddad and a couple of other prisoners decided to celebrate Easter the proper way. You know, Serbian Orthodox, with a fast. They worked in some kind of tire factory. From seven in the morning until midnight, with a little meal in the middle of the day, usually. A German prison guard found out they were fasting and weren’t eating meat, eggs, or milk that day in order to remember the suffering of Jesus. He sought out the camp warden and got permission to order extra food. On the floor, inside the factory where Granddad was working as a slave, the guard set out a feast-ham, sausages, pork chops, liver, fish, cheese, eggs. Granddad was skeletal and starved even before the fast. He was, like, suffering from scurvy, was losing teeth like a six-year-old. The guard yelled at them, ‘Whoever eats doesn’t have to work all week.’ Imagine the temptation, to get to eat themselves full for once. Get to rest. But they’d promised to uphold the Orthodox fast. The guard tried to drag them to the table and force them to eat. One man was too weak to fight. The guard wrestled him to the ground. Pinned his hands back somehow and forced his mouth open. That’s when Granddad intervened. He hit the German over the head with an iron rod.”
Mrado interrupted Nenad’s tale. “Well done.”
“Yes, the guard collapsed. As a kid, I always asked Granddad how he’d dared. Know what he said?”
“No. I haven’t heard this story before.”
“This is what he said: ‘I’m not a believer, and I’m not religious. But dignity, Nenad, Serbian dignity. The guard was stepping on that man’s honor and therefore also on mine. I didn’t do it for Jesus; I did it for honor.’ He had to pay, Granddad, for what he’d done. I remember how his arms were crooked when I was little. But nothing could bother him. He knew he had his dignity intact.”
Mrado understood. Knew Nenad was right. Dignity trumped everything. Radovan’d stepped on Mrado.
Mrado had to retaliate.
There was no way back.
They were heading into war.
Only one of them could emerge victorious.
Mrado checked a final time. The gun was in his inner pocket.
They passed Djursholm. Almost there.
Nasbypark was as peaceful as ever.
He parked the Porsche far from Radovan’s house.
They tightened the Velcro straps on their bulletproof vests. Double-checked the ammo in their weapons.
Walked solemnly up to the house.
It was as dark as it could get outside in June-not very.
Radovan ought to be home. They knew their former boss. Every other Thursday night, the old guy played poker with his gambler gang: Goran, Berra K., and a couple of other silver-haired spenders. Mrado thought, I’ve never been invited.
The game was usually over by half past twelve. Rado always went home after.
He should be inside the house now.
Mrado and Nenad walked up the gravel path toward the front door. A spotlight came on automatically.
Before they had time to ring the bell, the door slid open.
Stefanovic stood in the opening, with one hand inside his jacket.
He spoke slowly, clear emphasis in the Serbian, “What are you doing here at this time of night?”
Mrado replied, “We’re here to see Rado. He’s usually home about now. It’s important.”
Stefanovic, electrified. In front of him: the two men Rado’d decided to demote. Lethal. One: assassin, debt collector, human murder machine. The other: cocaine magnate, smuggler, pimp king with a penchant for violence.
The air was thick with explosive energy. One spark and everything could go off.
“I think Radovan’s gone to bed. I’m sorry. How about you call tomorrow?”
“No. He will see us now.”
Stefanovic closed the door. Mrado and Nenad remained outside. Looked for movements in the windows.
Three minutes passed.
They understood that Rado understood. He would never dare let them into his house. How could he know that they hadn’t come to pop him?
Stefanovic came back out.
“He has agreed to meet with you. Please follow me.”
Stefanovic guided them in front of him toward the garage-smart. He saw them, but they had to twist their necks to see him. He opened the garage door. Mrado looked in. It was dark in there. Mrado glimpsed a Saab and Rado’s Lexus, as well as a Jaguar, a motorcycle, and the Range Rover that’d picked Mrado up for the meeting in the ski-jump tower three months ago.
Stefanovic asked them to wait. Possibly, he’d have time to shoot one of them, but not both.
“Stay here. I’ll get Radovan.”
They remained standing in the garage. The door was still open. Mrado heard a sound and knew what it was-Nenad’d pulled his gun out of his inner pocket.
Mrado followed suit.
He heard the door to the house open and slam shut.
They couldn’t see anyone, only heard Stefanovic’s voice. “Okay, we want you to put your weapons away. Cross your arms in front of your chests. We’ll come out soon. Thought it’d be best you have your little chat with Radovan in the garage. You know, his daughter is sleeping in the house and we don’t want to disturb her.”
Mrado kept his grip on his gun. “Forget about it. Nothing’s gonna go down unconditionally anymore. Radovan needs to have his arms visible at his sides when he comes out of the shadows. It’s simple. The mug on the one whose arms aren’t by his side is gonna look like it’s been in a colander.”
Mrado heard Radovan laugh from the shadows. At least the old guy had his humor intact.
He emerged. Arms hanging. Brave.
Radovan face-to-face with his rebellious ex-minions.
Mrado followed suit.
Stefanovic appeared. Arms straight down.
Nenad did the same.
Four men in a luxury garage. Staring at one another.
