‘Army?’
‘Heavens no. Journalist. Doing a series of articles about aid agencies. You’ll take a drink with me?’
Dusko helped himself to his own best brandy.
‘I would like to be journalist. One day. Travel. See the world.’
‘Why not? Get some experience on the local paper, then go to the big city. That’s what I did.’
The barman shrugged in resignation.
‘Here? Banja Luka? No paper.’
‘So try Sarajevo. Even Belgrade. You’re a Serb. You can get out of here. The war won’t last for ever.’
‘To get out of here costs money. No job, no money. No money, no travel, no job.’
‘Ah yes, money, always a problem. Or maybe not.’
The Englishman produced a wad of US dollars, all hundred bills, and counted them onto the bar.
‘I am old-fashioned,’ he said. ‘I believe people should help each other. It makes life easier, more pleasant. Will you help me, Dusko?’
The barman was staring at the thousand dollars a few inches from his fingertips. He could not take his eyes off them. He dropped his voice to a whisper.
‘What you want? What do you do here? You not reporter.’
‘Well, I am in a way. I ask questions. But I am a rich asker of questions. Do you want to be rich like me, Dusko?’
‘What you want?’ repeated the barman. He flicked a glance towards the other drinkers, who were staring at the pair of them.
‘You’ve seen a hundred-dollar bill before. Last May. The fifteenth, wasn’t it? A young soldier tried to settle the bar bill with it. Started one hell of a row. My friend Lasse was here. He told me. Explain to me exactly what happened and why.’
‘Not here. Not now,’ hissed the frightened Serb. One of the men from the tables was up and walking towards the bar. A wiping cloth flicked expertly down over the money. ‘Bar close at ten. You come back.’
At half past ten, with the bar closed and locked, the two men sat in a booth in half-darkness and talked.
‘They were not the Yugoslav Army, not soldiers,’ said the barman. ‘Paramilitary people. Bad people. They stay three days. Best rooms, best food, much drink. They leave but not pay.’
‘One of them tried to pay you.’
‘True. Only one. He was good kid. Different from others. I don’t know what he was doing with them. He had education. The rest were gangsters. Gutter people.’
‘You didn’t object to them not paying for three days’ stay?’
‘Object? Object? What I say? These animals have guns. They kill, even fellow Serbs. They all killers.’
‘So when the nice kid tried to pay you, who was the one who slapped him around?’
He could feel the Serb tense rigid in the gloom.
‘No idea. He was boss man, group leader. But no name. They just call him Chief.’
‘All these paramilitaries have names, Dusko. Arkan and his Tigers. Frankie’s Boys. They like to be famous. They boast of their names.’
‘Not this one. I swear.’
The Tracker knew it was a lie. Whoever he was, the freelance killer inspired a sweat-clammy measure of fear among his fellow Serbs.