3 JANUARY 2006
THE MAN BENDING OVER the rifle stood up quickly. Pulling the weapon back through the window, he laid it on the floor. It was clean and untraceable; he left it where it sat. He pocketed the shell.
He left the attic, went quickly down two steep flights of stairs and out the back door. His car was a block away; he climbed in and drove fast to another neighbourhood. He peeled off the surgical gloves, pulled out his phone and sent a simple text.
•
Jasna Perak was sitting by Rachel Rosen’s bed, listening as another officer questioned her about Jure Rebic. Then her phone pinged.
‘Excuse me, honey,’ she said. She left the room and walked down the corridor to an empty waiting room. She sat down and pulled out her phone. She opened her messages and read:
It is done.
Jasna sighed, thinking for a moment of the young woman down the corridor in the hospital bed. How sad that she would soon get the news that her father was dead. What a pity it could not have ended differently, but the half-blood had always been a threat to the homeland. Old Franjo knew that when he ordered his assassination the first time. Imagine a resurrected General Cvrčak returning to Bosnia now as a hero to remind the world of Croatia’s crimes against Muslims. What damage could he have done to their European ambitions? History was a weapon. It needed to be managed with extreme care. She was proud that they trusted her to do that. So much needed to be forgotten for the country to move on.
Jasna went rummaging through her handbag. She pulled out a plastic bag of loose cigarettes and tipped a few onto the coffee table. She picked out the straightest one and lit it with a plastic lighter. She was exhaling a stream of blue smoke when a nurse walked into the room.
‘No smoking,’ said the nurse, pointing to a prominent sign. ‘You must put that out.’
Jasna dropped the cigarette into a half-full plastic coffee cup. She looked up and saw the nurse was still watching.
‘Fascist!’ she said.