Avenger

His London office had advised there was one private detective agency in Belgrade, headed up by a former senior police officer whom they had used before. He had endowed his agency with the not too original name of Chandler, and it was easy to find.

"I need," the Tracker told the investigator, Dragan Stojic, "to trace a young guy for whom I have no name but only the number of his state ID card."

Stojic grunted. "What did he do?"

"Nothing, so far as I know. He saw something. Maybe. Maybe not."

"That's it. A name?"

"Then I would like to talk to him. I have no car and no mastery of Serbo-Croat. He may speak English. Maybe not."

Stojic grunted again. It appeared to be his speciality. He had apparently read every Philip Marlowe novel and seen every movie. He was trying to be Robert Mitchum in *The Big Sleep*, but at five feet, four inches and bald, he was not quite there.

"My termsÉ" he began.

The Tracker eased another ten one-hundred-dollar bills across the desk. "I need your undivided attention," he murmured.

Stojic was entranced. The line could have come straight from *Farewell, My Lovely*.

"You got it," he said.

To give credit where credit is due, the dumpy ex-inspector did not waste time. Belching black smoke, his Yugo sedan, with the Tracker in the passenger seat, took them across town to the district of Konjarnik where the corner of Ljermontova Street is occupied by the police headquarters of Belgrade. It was, and remains, a big, ugly block in brown and yellow, like a huge, angular hornet on its side.

"You'd better stay here," said Stojic. He was gone half an hour and must have shared some conviviality with an old colleague, for there was the plummy odour of slivovitz on his breath. But he had a slip of paper.

"That card belongs to Milan Rajak, aged twenty-four. Listed as a law student. Father a lawyer, successful, upper-middle-class family. Are you sure you've got the right man?"

"Unless he has a doppelganger, he and his ID card bearing his photograph were in Banja Luka two months ago."

"What the hell would he be doing there?"

"He was in uniform. In a bar."

Stojic thought back to the file he had been shown but not allowed to copy.

"He did his National Military Service. All young Yugoslavs, aged eighteen through twenty-one, have to do that."

"Combat soldier?"

"No. Signal Corps. Radio operator."

"Never saw combat. Might have wished he had. Might have joined a group going into Bosnia to fight for the Serbian cause. A deluded volunteer? Possible?"

Stojic shrugged.

"Possible. But these paramilitaries are scumbags. Gangsters all. What would this law student be doing with them?"

"Summer vacation?" asked the Tracker.

"But which group? Shall we ask him?"

Stojic consulted his piece of paper. "Address in Senjak, not half an hour away."

"Then let's go."

They found the address without trouble, a solid, middle-class villa on Istarska Street. Years serving Marshal Tito and now Slobodan Milosevic had done Mr. Rajak Sr. no harm at all. A pale and nervous-looking woman in her forties, but looking older, answered the door.

There was an interchange in Serbo-Croat.

" Milan 's mother," said Stojic. "Yes, he's in. What do you want? she asks."

"To talk to him. An interview. For the British press."

Clearly bewildered, Mrs. Rajak let them in and called to her son. Then she showed them into the sitting room. There were sounds of feet on the stairs and a young man appeared in the hall. He had a whispered conversation with his mother and came in. His air was perplexed, worried, almost fearful. The Tracker gave him his friendliest smile and shook hands. The door was still an inch open. Mrs. Rajak was on the phone speaking rapidly.

Stojic shot the Englishman a warning glance, as if to say, "Whatever you want, keep it short. The artillery is on its way."

The Englishman held out the notepad from the bar in the north. The two remaining sheets on it were headed Hotel Bosna. He flicked the cardboard over and showed Milan Rajak the seven numbers and two initials.

"It was very decent of you to settle the bill, Milan. The barman was grateful. Unfortunately the check bounced."

"No. Not possible. It was clÉ" He stopped and went white as a sheet.

"No one is blaming you for anything, Milan. So just tell me; what were you doing in Banja Luka?"

"Visiting."

"Friends?"

"Yes."

"In camouflage? Milan, it's a war zone. What happened that day two months ago?"

"I don't know what you mean." Then he broke into Serbo-Croat, and the Tracker lost him. He raised an eyebrow at Stojic.

"Dad's coming," muttered the detective.

"You were with a group of ten others. All in uniform. All armed. Who were they?"

Milan Rajak was beaded with sweat and looked as if he was going to burst into tears. The Tracker judged this to be a young man with serious nerve problems.

"You are English? But you are not press. What are you doing here? Why you persecute me? I know nothing."

There was a screech of car tires outside the house, ru

"He asks what you are doing in his house, why you harass his son," said Stojic.

"I am not harassing," said the Tracker calmly, "I am simply asking. What was this young man doing eight weeks ago in Banja Luka, and who were the men with him?"

Stojic translated. Rajak Senior began shouting.

"He says," explained Stojic, "that his son knows nothing and was not there. He has been here all summer, and if you do not leave his house he will call the police. Personally, I think we should leave. This is a powerful man."

"OK," said the Tracker. "One last question."

(At his request, the former director of Special Forces, who now ran Hazard Management, had had a very discreet lunch with a contact in the Secret Intelligence Service. The head of the Balkans Desk had been as helpful as he was allowed.)

"Were those men Zoran's Wolves? Was the man who slapped you around Zoran Zilic himself?"

Stojic had translated more than half before he could stop himself. Milan understood it all in English. The effect was in two parts. For several seconds there was a stu

Mrs. Rajak emitted a single scream and ran from the room. Her son slumped in a chair, put his head in his hands, and started to shake. The father went from white to puce, pointed at the door, and started shouting a single word, which Gracey presumed meant "Out." Stojic headed for the door. The Tracker followed.

As he passed the shaking young man, he stooped and Slipped a card into his top jacket pocket. "If you ever change Your mind," he murmured, "call me. Or write. I'll come."

There was a strained silence in the car back to the airport. Dragan Stojic clearly felt he had earned every dime of his thousand dollars. As they drew up at International Departures he spoke across the car roof at the departing Englishman.

"If you ever come back to Belgrade, my friend, I advise you not to mention that name. Not even in jest. Especially not in jest. Today's events never took place."

Within forty-eight hours the Tracker had completed and filed his report to Stephen Edmond, along with his list of expenses. The final paragraphs read: *I fear I have to admit that the events that led to your grandson's death, the ma