Page 110 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight

“Damn,” Jack whispered to himself as he powered off the TV and headed for the shower.

—

Jack left his apartment with the prestamped DHL envelope addressed to Detective Oblak and a list of touristy things he planned to do: art galleries, museums, and churches. He wanted to get a better feel for the city and the culture. He’d really fallen in love with the country and the people he’d met, but a profound sadness dogged him. This nation had a long and painful history, and, it seemed, a dim future, barring some unforeseen development. Strong-willed, hopeful, entrepreneurial types like Aida seemed few and far between. There was no lack of human or natural resources in this beautiful country. It seemed like the only thing keeping it down was a culture of despair.

Jack found the DHL drop-off, then started his tour, marking off each spot on his list as the morning progressed. After visiting the Sacred Heart Cathedral with the giant metallic statue of Pope John Paul II out front, his stomach grumbled and he found himself back at his favorite restaurant, downing another plate of fire-roastedcevapiand a bottle of sparkling water.

After finishing his meal, he checked his list, but he already knew what was next. The Galerija 11/07/95, with its permanent exhibit on the Srebrenica massacre, was the only stop he dreaded, thanks to Aida’s warning. He seriously considered skipping it and going on to the Sarajevo Brewery Museum, but he knew he could catch that later.

He checked his GPS on his phone with a sigh and headed for the dark soul of the Bosnian War.

—

The Srebrenica exhibit didn’t disappoint, if that was the right word.

Located inside a modern, minimalist gallery of light blond-wood floors and gray walls, it didn’t sit right with Jack. The rooms were uncluttered and antiseptic, but the subject matter was messy and dirty.

It reminded him of his visit to Dachau years before, a single, perfectly preserved barracks building standing on well-groomed grounds without a speck of trash or disorder. No grimy, black soot or flaky ash to mar the barracks, no blood-soaked rags dropped in piles around the compound. The German exhibitors had removed all evidence of trembling, urine-stained fear and the groaning despair that boiled up from the merciless ovens.

The Galerija exhibit’s most moving displays were the fifty-two-foot-long Wall of Death featuring the ages and names of the 8,372 men and boys killed by the Serbs, and the hundreds of haunting photos collected by the Association of Mothers of Srebrenica and Žepa.

Jack exited the Galerija utterly depressed. His soul thirsted for life the way a drunk craves a drink. He needed to see Aida. Now.

Before he lost his faith in the possibility of hope.

He turned the corner, heading for the exit, and saw a familiar pockmarked face.

Too bad.

—

A beefy man with bad acne scarring and a bandage across his broken nose blocked Jack’s way out of the museum.

“Višca, isn’t it?” Jack asked.

The man smiled beneath his broken Ray-Bans, Scotch-taped back together at the bridge. He was one of Kolak’s goons, the one that jumped him just outside this building a few days ago.

The one that Kolak warned would want to get his revenge.

“Kolak wants you,” the man grunted. “You come with me. Now.”

The man wasn’t exactly making a request. Jack weighed his options. Jack took him once before and could probably take him again. But the man’s shoulder holster bulging beneath his coat was persuasive.

“Okay, Chuckles. But you’re driving.”

Jack reached for his phone—a little too quickly, apparently. Višca tensed, ready to throw a punch or pull his weapon.

“Just need to call somebody.”

“No calls.”

Jack’s options hadn’t changed. He stopped reaching for his phone.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Kolak. Now.”

Jack shrugged.