MOSTAR, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
24 DECEMBER 2005
ANNA ROSEN was on a morning flight from Zagreb to Mostar while her daughter, unbeknownst to her, met with Marin Katich. Having booked an exit row, she found herself seated next to a Franciscan nun. It turned out that the Croatian-born nun had lived for many years in Canada and spoke perfect English; like the majority of the passengers, she was on her way to join a pilgrimage to Medjugorje.
‘I have been there,’ said Anna. ‘A long time ago now, in 1992.’
‘A bad time,’ said the nun.
‘For many people,’ said Anna. ‘Me included.’
‘And you go back now?’ asked the nun. ‘To see the Virgin? She can provide great comfort.’
‘Perhaps not so much to people of my faith,’ said Anna. ‘Although, she did give birth to the world’s most famous Jew.’
The nun nodded and closed her eyes. Anna, seeing that she was clutching her rosary, turned away and picked up her book again, an old classic by Ivo Andric. Eventually she became aware that the nun had re-opened her eyes.
‘You weren’t praying for me, were you?’ Anna asked.
‘Yes,’ said the nun. ‘That your pain should be relieved.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘It is.’
‘Well, thank you,’ said Anna. ‘You know I’ve never really had a proper chat with a nun. What do I call you?’
‘You can call me sister.’
‘That works for me, sister,’ said Anna. ‘That’s what I’ve been calling my women friends since I was seventeen—that or comrade.’
‘I prefer sister,’ said the nun.
‘Okay, so I’ve seen you pray to God. But I don’t think you rely entirely on her protection,’ said Anna, pointing to the sealed emergency handle above the door that was almost beside them.
The nun responded with a smile, her pretty, plump face framed by her white veil. ‘Because I chose the exit row?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Anna and at that moment the plane hit a pocket of turbulence, as if to rebuke her insolence.
‘We are all in her hands, my dear,’ said the nun. ‘But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take sensible precautions.’
•
After a bumpy ride, the plane hit the deck hard and rolled to a stop in front of the terminal. Through the window, Anna saw a hokey, old-fashioned sign, ‘MOSTAR AIRPORT’, screwed on to the front of a single-storey cement building. It reminded her of airports in regional Australia—simple, functional and low security.
She passed quickly through Immigration, her passport stamped by a woman who never looked up, then she went to wait at the sole baggage carousel. The pilgrims gathered in nationality groups to wait for their luggage, while the nuns joined up with others from their particular orders, and Anna heard a babble of French, Italian and Spanish as they hauled their bags off the carousel. When she’d retrieved her Briggs & Riley, she waved goodbye to the exit row nun and made her way to the public section of the terminal.
At the front of a small crowd, Anna saw the veteran journalist Adin Genjac just as he shouted her name and started limping fast towards her on his stiff leg. She had spoken to him recently, but they hadn’t seen each other for thirteen years.
He was still a bear of a man and the rolling gait seemed to emphasise his girth. His thin hair, now almost white, was pulled back from his brown face in a long ponytail. He wore a padded Israeli military jacket over a khaki T-shirt; a red pack of American cigarettes, most likely counterfeit, poked out from its top pocket.
He hugged her hard and kissed her forehead.
‘Welcome back!’ he cried as he pulled her away from a column of pilgrims lugging their chattels towards a waiting bus. ‘You have to admire these Catholics. This is some money-spinner. Ninety per cent of the tourists flying in here head straight for “Apparition Hill”, all because a few silly peasant girls got some bad LSD in 1981.’
‘Maybe you should go see if the Blessed Virgin can fix your leg,’ said Anna, and he let out a boisterous laugh.
‘I’m too old for virgins, Anna,’ he cried. ‘But I do think my people should get in on this action. We should forge a document saying the prophet, peace be upon him, once came to Mostar for a sabbatical. Stand back and wait for the stampede.’
‘Careful, brother,’ she said. ‘You’ll end up with a fatwa on your head.’
Genjac’s expressive face darkened, and she saw it was still a perfect barometer for his changing moods. ‘Anna,’ he said taking her arm and leaning in closer. ‘We have bigger problems than an imaginary fatwa. Come, come, we must go. Ena is waiting outside.’
He led her to a boxy monster in the airport pick-up zone. Anna recognised it as a special Land Rover, one of those vehicles that rich media companies once used to transport their journalists and crews during the war, often with a security consultant sitting up front.
‘You like it?’ asked Genjac as he threw Anna’s gear into the back. ‘It’s a Defender 110. I bought it from CBS when they packed up and left.’ He bashed the machine’s flank with his fist. ‘Armoured chassis, bulletproof windows, 4.2 litre V8.’
‘You think we’re going to need all that?’ said Anna.
‘Ha ha ha, maybe,’ he said. ‘You sit up front with Ena. I stretch my leg in back.’
Anna climbed up into the passenger seat and found Genjac’s daughter gamely gripping the monster’s steering wheel. She guessed Ena must be about the same age as Rachel. Sometime during the last thirteen years, she had taken to wearing a hijab. Her face, framed by the silk garment, was still luminously beautiful. Anna had a fleeting thought about the nun and what it was about women’s hair that required it to be hidden.
‘It’s good to see you again, Ena,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ said Ena, giving her a tight smile.
Genjac leant over from the back seat. ‘I don’t get around too good anymore,’ he said. ‘In this past week, I sent Ena far and wide for you, searching for the men we talked about. I have not heard from any of them for years.’
During the long wait to get permission to see Marin Katich, Anna had trawled back through her files and found the list of names that Adin Genjac, from his hospital bed in 1992, had pressed into her hand. It was a list of the Muslim fighters under the command of General Cvrčak whom he trusted.
She had found the old Bosnian still working as a journalist in Mostar, and hired him to try to locate these men, whom she reasoned would be witnesses to the events set out in the indictment. Only yesterday Genjac had called her back with a simple message: Come as soon as you can. The expression on Genjac’s face now told her she had been right to move quickly.
‘Ena has found much information,’ he said. ‘These things I did not think it safe to talk about on phone. Tell her what you found, daughter.’
Ena nodded and turned to Anna, unsmiling, earnest.
‘The list Adin gave you—the six men he knew and trusted in Cvrčak’s militia—here it is.’ Ena handed Anna a sheet of paper. ‘All of them survived the war, but five of them have died in the past six months. I have set it out in order.’
Anna looked at the list and read through it:
Anna looked up at Ena. ‘This reads like a hit list.’
‘In each case, the investigating police were suspicious,’ said Ena. ‘But they found no evidence. In the case of Osmanovic, the first killing, there were no witnesses to the accident; it happened late at night. Silajdic was found by his girlfriend. I spoke to her and she swears that he never used heroin. Osman Dedic had a criminal record, so police easily concluded he was killed by a rival. Zukic was in Hvar with his wife and two children. He went out to meet someone for a drink one night and never returned. His wife does not know who he went to meet or why. Barisa Halimovic was found by his son; he had divorced five years earlier and was living alone, but his son had no idea that he was suicidal. He had seemed happy two days earlier.’
Genjac reached over from the back seat and took the list from Anna’s hands. ‘In each case, the police thought they were looking at a one-off incident,’ he said. ‘The detectives in Mostar had no reason to talk to detectives in Sarajevo—or Tusla or Hvar. They seem like isolated incidents unless you put the names together with the list that I gave you. That makes me a link between them, but I know I did not organise the deaths of these men. So who did? Someone who is trying to erase evidence from the past. This man, Marin Katich, who we once knew as Cvrčak, he might have a motive if these men could be witnesses against him, but he is in a prison where all communications are monitored. How could he orchestrate five killings in different places?’
‘Impossible,’ said Anna. ‘But I think this does explain why the indictment against Katich, or Cvrčak rather, remained sealed. If the investigators knew that men from the possible witness list were dying mysteriously, they would have a real reason to suppress it until they knew what was going on.’
‘It’s unlikely, yes, but not impossible,’ said Genjac. ‘Can you be sure this Katich is not killing these men?’
Anna thought about it and shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t make sense, Adin. I was looking for these men to see if they might be witnesses for him. The person with the biggest motive is the man who took command in Ljubuski after Katich was shot, General Jure Rebic. It was Rebic who told me that Katich was dead. I just learned in Zagreb that Rebic is now the head of a crime syndicate.’
‘Yes, it does all point to Rebic,’ said Genjac. ‘And if that is right, this list could get us killed. I am worried for Ena.’
‘Stop, Father,’ said Ena sharply. ‘I was careful only to speak to relatives of the men. I know the police are corrupt. I stayed away from them.’
Anna felt a shudder run through her body. ‘Ena, I’m so sorry I got you into this.’
‘You could not have known what I would find.’
‘This started as your story, Anna,’ said Genjac. ‘But now it is ours. These were men that I knew in the war. Good men. This Rebic is an evil and dangerous creature. I have been making my own inquires about him, carefully, with trusted contacts. He has been almost invisible for years, gathering money and power. They tell me that in this past year—especially in Split, where he has two casinos, but also in Ljubuski, where he has a villa and a winery—he has come out more into the open. He is making himself a public figure, donating to charities, to churches, to schools and to local politicians. The rumour is that he will run for president in the next Croatian elections.’
Anna considered this information. Jasna Perak must have known that, but she hadn’t mentioned it.
‘The last man on the list, Amir Ramic,’ she said. ‘Have you found him?’
‘We have,’ said Genjac. ‘He is in a safe place. You will meet him today, but we have to go somewhere before that. Ena, we should move.’
Ena started the powerful engine and it rumbled ominously. When she put it in gear and pushed into the street, its roar was deafening. It was obvious to Anna the muffler was shot.
‘Sounds like a tank!’ she shouted to Ena, whose face, framed by the elegant black hijab, was beaming.
‘This is every girl’s dream,’ said Ena. ‘To drive a tank.’
•
It was a cold day, darkened by clouds that flattened the impact of Mostar’s sixteenth-century Turkish architecture. Ena drove them through the old town skirting the tourist zone along the Neretva River, and stopped near a small mosque. Genjac explained that its dome and the tall needle of a minaret had been destroyed during the war and rebuilt, just as the old bridge had been.
Genjac gestured to an entrance in the stone wall. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We are expected.’
They removed their shoes by the fountain in the courtyard.
‘There’s no need to cover your head,’ said Ena. ‘The imam is not conservative.’
Anna was puzzled as to why they were here, but asked no questions—her hosts clearly had a plan. She followed father and daughter into the mosque. The floor was covered in carpets and prayer rugs; a solitary worshipper was on his knees, bent forwards in prostration. The interior of the mosque was white and simple, lit by a great wheel-shaped chandelier beneath the high dome, and largely unadorned except for some finely painted trees and decorative work above the doors and windows.
They were met by an older man, a solemn fellow who led them out the back into another courtyard and across it to a separate stone building.
‘This is the old madrassa,’ said Genjac as they were ushered into a large room with cushions set around the edges.
A dozen men came into the room, each greeting Genjac but ignoring his daughter. Among them was an imam in black robes whom the others treated with great deference. His dome-shaped black turban was wrapped with cloth bands of the purest white. The face beneath it was grim and deeply lined. He had dark eyes and a short black beard.
The imam gave Anna a thin smile when Genjac introduced her, then gestured towards the cushions and said in English, ‘Please sit.’
The men took their places around the room, leaving empty the three cushions facing the imam. As Anna sat in pride of place, flanked by Genjac and Ena, several men entered carrying copper trays on which sat white ceramic cups.
Anna smelled the rich Bosnian coffee before she saw it. A steaming cup was placed in front of each of them; beside each cup was a piece of Turkish delight, an ashtray, three cigarettes and a small box of matches. Most of the men lit up immediately and began sipping their coffee. Genjac followed suit, but Anna noticed Ena did not touch the cigarettes and so she left hers alone.
At some signal missed by Anna, the imam began to speak. He briefly addressed the room, then he turned to Anna and spoke to her directly:
‘Adin came to me seeking help and I have agreed to take the man Amir Ramic under my protection. I know that his life is in danger because of what he knows and that five other men have already been killed. I have spoken to Ramic and I understand that he does have information that puts a very bad light on the Croat, Jure Rebic. This puts us in a difficult position. We do not wish to do anything which could again inflame the tensions between our people. Croats and Muslims now live peacefully in Mostar—not in harmony, not in happiness, but at least in peace. If handled badly, the information Ramic has could cause the old tensions to boil up again. For that reason, I considered keeping Ramic from you and allowing these terrible secrets to remain buried. I thought deeply about this, and I thought about those men already murdered because of what they knew. My conscience will not let me remain silent—the souls of those men, and many more, cry out for justice.’
Anna nodded, looking at him through the blue veil of smoke that now filled the room. She was about to respond when Ena put a hand lightly on her arm. She said nothing, and the imam began speaking again.
‘From you I will require an undertaking. If Amir Ramic is ever to give evidence on these matters to the tribunal in The Hague, his life will be in serious danger. He will need the strictest conditions of anonymity, and he and his family will need to be relocated and put under protection. If you can guarantee that, I will release him to go there. If not, he will remain under my care and my protection. Do you agree?’
‘Imam,’ she began. ‘Let me first say thank you for your deep thought on this matter. I can’t speak for the Tribunal, but I can go and make your case to them and explain that these are the only circumstances under which Mr Ramic would agree to come and give evidence. But I will need more to make that case. If I can meet him and speak to him confidentially, to hear what his evidence is, then my argument will be immeasurably stronger. And if it is as persuasive as you seem to believe, then I can’t imagine that the Tribunal would not grant him its protection.’
‘Yes,’ said the imam. ‘I anticipated this would be your answer and we are prepared to take you to him, but you must submit to being blindfolded for the journey. I am sorry that this condition is necessary. It is not that we do not trust you. The precaution is for your own protection as much as his.’
‘I understand,’ said Anna. ‘And agree.’
‘Very well,’ said the imam. ‘Arrangements have been made. There is no more to say. This is a dangerous path that we have chosen. We hope that no more blood will be spilt, inshallah.’
With that, the imam rose to his feet and left the room. Most of the men followed him, but two remained, and after a brief consultation with them Genjac turned to Anna.
‘There is a van waiting out back,’ he said. ‘Ena will go with you. I have more business with the imam, so I will wait here for you both to return.’
‘Thank you, Adin,’ she said.
‘You handled that well, Anna,’ he said. ‘Now we must pray for the best.’
‘You do that for me, will you?’ she said.
•
Anna and Ena were put into the windowless cabin of a delivery van. One of the men wrapped dark cloths around each of their heads and sat with them in the back for the journey. Anna lost track of the time, but guessed they must have travelled for at least an hour before they reached their destination.
The van stopped; she heard the scrape and creak of heavy gates opening. She heard the driver climb back in and edge the vehicle forwards. He stopped again and she heard the gates close behind them. Only then did the silent man beside them remove the blindfolds. She climbed from the van and saw that they were in the interior courtyard of a walled Ottoman house.
The two guards left Anna and Ena in the courtyard and tramped up the wooden staircase to a room off the second-floor balcony. Anna looked back at the large wooden gate behind them: it could have withstood a besieging force, and perhaps it once had. There were tall arches around the interior of the courtyard. A group of women around a long table were making something, which they placed on steel trays and slid into a wood-fired oven.
‘They are making burek,’ said Ena. ‘I hope perhaps for our lunch.’
Anna heard a noise and walked over to a straw-filled room under one of the arches. When her eyes adjusted, she saw that an old woman was rocking a baby in a painted wooden cradle. She rocked it in a fast motion, which produced an eerie creaking rhythm: Cree-crak, cree-crak, cree-crak. The old woman offered no greeting and stared implacably at Anna, her narrow face and mouth set in lines of disapproval. Cree-crak, cree-crak.
Eventually their two guards returned and took Anna and Ena upstairs to a dimly lit room set up like the one in the madrassa, with carpets on the floor and cushions around the edge. A middle-aged man wearing a cheap black suit was brought into the room by the guards. He sat on a cushion and Anna saw his fear-ravaged expression, his trembling hands. Ena said something to him, and he turned to Anna.
‘I am Amir Ramic. I speak some good English.’
Anna carefully spelt out the deal she had made with the imam, Ena intervening from time to time to translate. Once she was sure Ramic had understood her, Anna said that she would need to take back to The Hague some evidence that he truly warranted being put into their witness-protection program. The man simply nodded and reached into the pocket of his coat. He produced a photograph and held it out to her with trembling fingers.
Anna rose and took the photograph. She carried it to a window to examine it in the light. The moment she realised what she was looking at, her own hand began to tremble.
Ena came close and they stared at it in silence. It was a full-length portrait of a man in camouflage uniform. Behind him were destroyed buildings. His face was fixed in a hideous grin and he was holding something up in his right hand. It was a severed head, unmistakably that of an Orthodox priest. The bearded face, its eyes screwed shut at the moment of death, was being raised in the air by a fistful of long black hair. The triumphant uniformed man, also unmistakably, was Jure Rebic.