The Last Witness Read online

  On the wanted lists of Interpol, and every country in the European Union, the role Boris Arkov played in the roster of crimes committed during the Yugoslav war in the 1990s on behalf of his father’s criminal enterprise was staggering: torture, ethnic cleansing, robbery, sexual violence, drug smuggling, kidnapping, murder.

  When the war finally ended, the mafia’s coffers bulged with an amassed fortune that Interpol estimated at more than $5 billion from their brutal wartime escapades.

  Soon, a rash of dangerous shoot-outs, bombings, and violent killings erupted on Belgrade’s streets between the crime families, often because of disagreements over the division of the spoils of battle.

  When the new prime minister Zoran Dindic threatened all-out war against organized crime and the mafia assassinated him, a crackdown followed.

  But in reality it changed nothing, except make crime chiefs, still flush with war profits, decide it was time to expand. As one mafia clan boss put it: Serbia had become a pond too small for so many crocodiles.

  The United States, South America, Europe, Scandinavia, and Australia very quickly became part of the international expansion plan—outposts in an empire that was fast on its way to rivaling the Cosa Nostra and the Russian mafia in its brutality, daring, and organization.

  These foreign outposts, with ties back to the Balkan region, also became safe havens for gangsters still wanted for war crimes. With the help of new documents, backgrounds, and sometimes plastic surgery, they could begin new lives among their own clans on foreign soil, the codes of kanun and besa keeping them safe from prosecution.

  By noon that day when Boris Arkov’s plane touched down at Nikola Tesla Airport in Belgrade, where legally he was still a wanted man, he passed through immigration with his Austrian passport without a second glance from the border security official. Outside Arrivals he was met by two bodyguards, a pair of muscled thugs who escorted him to a waiting Merc.

  One of them stashed Arkov’s overnight bag in the trunk, and when he was comfortably settled in the limo’s rear, Arkov stretched his legs, exhausted after the eight-hour flight spent clutching his locked briefcase. It would be a quick turnaround. He would fly back the next day.

  “You had a good flight, Boris?” one of the men asked.

  Arkov rubbed his eyes. “Lousy. I didn’t sleep a wink. How’s my old man?”

  “Looking forward to seeing you.”

  As the limo began to drive beyond Belgrade and toward Novi Sad, Arkov allowed himself to relax in his plush leather seat, but he kept the precious briefcase clasped to his side, aware of its secret contents.

  He yawned, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes.

  “Good. Nobody wake me until we get there.”

  19

  * * *

  NEW YORK

  3 A.M.

  Rain drenched the window as Carla sat in her study.

  Two weeks passed, in which she lost all track of time.

  It was as if she went through a complete shutdown. Overwhelmed by bouts of fear and rage and crying, she felt unable to function.

  At times she felt as if she were standing on the edge of an abyss and about to fall in. Even the simplest things, like taking a bath or driving her car or opening mail, felt impossible. She didn’t eat, and hardly slept.

  On the third day Baize came to visit when her calls went unanswered. Concerned by Carla’s appearance, she moved in. Cooking for her, taking care of her.

  She visited Dr. Leon every second day.

  On her fifth visit she said, “There’s something I don’t understand.”

  “Tell me.”

  “All these memories have begun to come back to me, but I still can’t remember what happened in Shavik’s office.”

  “You’ve tried to recall?”

  “I’ve struggled many times.”

  “As I said before, it’s confusing. But shame may have something to do with it.”

  “Shame?”

  “When victims are badly abused, they often feel shame. If the feeling is very powerful, the mind can bury it so deep it’s almost impossible to recall. That applies if anything happened to you that was deeply and emotionally disturbing, The mind goes into complete and total denial.”

  Dr. Leon sat forward, making a steeple of his fingers. “What about your escape?”

  “It’s—it’s a kind of fog.”

  “Try to explain.”

  “I seem to recall being woken early in the morning by my mother. It was still dark. Armed soldiers were evacuating our building. There was an air of panic. All the mothers were wrapping themselves and their children up as warmly as they could. It was cold outside. I . . . I . . .”

  “Go on,” Leon prompted gently.

  “I helped wrap up Luka. He was shivering from the fever. My mother carried him in her arms and fled with us away from the soldiers, along some corridors to an empty part of the building.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “No, an older woman accompanied us, I think.”

  “The woman named Alma?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Please, continue.”

  “It’s starting to come back. I remember the sounds of shelling and gunfire getting closer. Explosions shook the ground. I . . . I seem to remember my mother handing us over to Alma’s care and then leaving. She wanted us to hide and then try to escape to the front lines.”

  “Hide where?”

  “In some kind of storeroom where we once had to gather bags of laundry belonging to the guards. I think it was a janitor’s closet. Yes, that’s it. I remember the look on my mother’s face as she left us.”

  “Left you?”

  “Shavik and his men were gathering everyone together. For some reason my mother had to join the other prisoners. But she was desperate for Luka and I not to be rounded up.” Carla paused.

  “My mother looked so desolate. So pained. As if she’d never see us again.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. It’s all foggy after that.”

  Dr. Leon moved behind his desk and opened the black box file from which he’d taken the diary. “The woman named Alma Dragovich mentioned in the journal. Do you remember anything about her?”

  “Sort of, I think, but she’s still a blur.”

  “An Alma Dragovich was mentioned in an interview in the New York Times about the Bosnian rape camps. I read the interview with interest, knowing your past. Apart from you, apparently she’s the only survivor of the Devil’s Hill.”

  From the box file, Dr. Leon took out a clipping of the article and handed it across.

  “I figured there might be a reasonable chance it was the same Alma Dragovich. Maybe if you tried to find the journalist who wrote the story you could locate her, and she could help you. Assuming of course she’s still alive?”

  • • •

  Carla took the newspaper clipping home.

  There was no photograph of Alma Dragovich, just a shot of a camp with barbed wire and behind it, starved-looking women and children, with despair on their faces.

  The article was written by a journalist named Max Shine and headed, “Rape Camps Horror: 20 years on, the survivors still live through hell.”

  The story focused on the brutality and inhuman conditions the women and children prisoners suffered in the Serb rape camps. How suicides and mental illness was high among survivors. There wasn’t too much written about Alma Dragovich, except that she was the sole known survivor of the Devil’s Hill, a notorious rape camp, and that her mental health was affected because of her ordeal. She claimed to have been raped and abused by the camp guards.

  Carla called the New York Times and asked for Max Shine.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Shine’s in Chicago, working on a story.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Try Monday.”

  • • •

  It was the end of the second week and she felt some sort of normality return.

  With it came a
n insatiable need to know about her parents, their experiences, and her own secret life.

  A quick search on the Internet revealed that the lead agency dealing with missing victims of the war was the International Commission of Missing Persons, based in Sarajevo. Despite Baize’s assurance that she provided a sample of Carla’s DNA, Carla wanted to check for herself.

  She verified the agencies’ opening hours. Sarajevo was six hours ahead. She called, and got through to an English-speaking woman on duty, who sounded busy.

  “You say you’re looking for missing relatives?”

  “My parents and young brother.” She did her best to explain, keeping it as simple as she could, explaining that Baize had already provided Carla’s DNA sample years before.

  The woman said sympathetically, “If they were still alive, they probably would have been located by now. But you never know, people slip though the net, and family members who were thought to have been victims have turned up alive even decades after the war.”

  The woman sighed. “However, I’m afraid we’re still finding victims’ graves fairly often, even after all these years. In fact, I know a mass grave was discovered not so long ago near Omarska that our forensics people are still working on.”

  “Can you check for me, please?”

  “Of course. May I have all the details?”

  Carla told her everything she knew, including Luka’s full name and date of birth. “Do you think there’s any hope I’ll ever find out what happened to my family?”

  “I really can’t say. But it’ll be worth me double-checking if they were dealt with by the other agencies at the time, like the UN or the Red Cross or Red Crescent, especially regarding your young brother.”

  “Why?”

  “There were considerable numbers of orphans who managed to survive. Some were found adoptive homes, or were placed with relatives willing to take them. Others, the ones whose minds were badly affected by the war, or who were badly wounded, are often still in state homes, or those run by religious and charities. Let me see if I can find anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It may take a little, we’re very busy right now, but I’ll get back to you.”

  • • •

  On Monday she called the New York Times again. She asked for Max Shine and was put through. A man’s gruff voice said, “Shine.”

  “Mr. Shine, my name is Carla Joran.” She decided not to use her married name. Shine may have heard about Jan’s death and she wanted to avoid discussing that topic with a journalist. “I’m calling about an article you wrote.”

  “Yeah? Which one. I’ve written lots.”

  “The one about the survivors of the women’s rape camps, twenty years on. You mentioned a woman named Alma Dragovich. I’d like to talk with you about her.”

  There was a pause, as if the guy was mulling it over. “Yeah? What for?”

  “I was a child prisoner in the Devil’s Hill camp, Mr. Shine. I knew Alma Dragovich there. I want to contact her.”

  There was another silence, longer this time. “Where are you calling me from?”

  “Long Island.”

  “You know the New York Times Building on Eighth Avenue?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a café called the Coffee Pot not too far away; maybe you could meet me there at five o’clock?”

  20

  * * *

  NEW YORK

  5 P.M.

  Carla felt tired as she waited at a table in the Coffee Pot drinking cinnamon tea.

  She placed a hand on her stomach.

  The signs of pregnancy were all there.

  Her breasts felt tender. She experienced morning sickness most days, and it felt like a hangover.

  She told her gyno about her symptoms when she visited him that morning for a checkup.

  “It’s all normal,” he assured her. “It could be worse. No dizziness? No cramping?”

  “A few twinges.”

  “They may get worse.” He smiled. “All part of the joy of childbearing.”

  She took her hand away from her stomach as a beefy man with bald, shaved head came into the café.

  The place was busy but he spotted her seated alone and came over. “Carla Joran?”

  “Yes.”

  He thrust out a hand as he sat, his blue eyes sparking with curiosity. “Max Shine.”

  “I’m trying to find Alma Dragovich, Mr. Shine.”

  “So you said. I wondered if I heard it right when you mentioned you knew her in the camp. I thought she was the only survivor of the Devil’s Hill.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Shine’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah? I heard that camp was pretty bad.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  He reached for a notebook in his pocket. “I covered the rape camps and the siege of Sarajevo. I’ve been back many times. It’s never been determined what became of the other inmates, but there are suspicions they were all executed.”

  Carla said nothing.

  “Care to tell me more? It sounds to me like maybe you’ve got a story to tell, Carla?”

  “No, please, I’m not here to give an interview. I just need to get in touch with Alma.”

  “People need to hear those stories of what went on.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Shine, I’m not up to that right now. If at some time in the future I change my mind, I promise you’ll be the first journalist I’ll call. Can you put me in touch with Alma?”

  He sat back, stretching his hands behind his bald head. “I’d hoped she could tell me a lot more about her experiences but in the end she kind of clammed up. She really didn’t say too much.”

  “Can you help me? Where does she live? Did she return to Sarajevo?”

  Shine saw the pleading in her eyes, and sat forward, put away his notebook. “I’ll need to make a call first and get back to you. See if I can give you a contact phone number.”

  “For Alma?”

  “For her son. He’s a U.S. citizen. She came to live with him in New Jersey.”

  • • •

  Carla didn’t notice the stocky man who tailed her to the café.

  He sat at a table drinking a latte, a newspaper open in front of him.

  He glanced up now and then, observing them both, a pair of earphones stuck in his ears, the wires connected to his cell phone.

  When they left, he didn’t tail Carla, but followed Shine instead, tailing him as he walked back to the New York Times Building on Eight Avenue.

  21

  * * *

  That night, unable to sleep, Carla stared at her laptop open in front of her. She watched the videos on YouTube: of young men diving off the famous rebuilt bridge at Mostar.

  She saw the narrow cobbled streets where her father and mother had once walked, and the Turkish coffeehouses and bazaars.

  But it was the grim images of the Serb death camps that affected her most. Disturbing photographs of emaciated inmates; gangling bodies that looked like victims in Nazi concentration camps.

  Every face looked spiritless and terrified. She saw the human cost of war: gruesome photos of dead and tortured men, women, and children; they turned her stomach.

  She read about the country’s history and the root causes of the conflict. How for centuries ethnic and religious differences sparked intermittent orgies of violence, most recently during World War II. How Croats and Bosniaks sided with the Nazis who invaded Yugoslavia, a betrayal that cost the lives of an estimated half a million Serbs, some of them in Croat concentration camps, where they were subjected to barbarism even worse than the Nazis.

  From among the Bosnian population Muslim divisions of the SS were recruited; they persecuted the Serbs, who dominated the region for centuries.

  Old rivalries, ethnic hatreds, and the settling of scores kept spilling over into later generations in a cycle of violence that seemed unbreakable.

  When she couldn’t stomach any more images she read everything she could find on the Internet
about the Serb mafia’s participation in the Yugoslav wars.

  The Omarska camp where her father was held was a vast human coop, an airless prison where thousands of men and youths were crammed for twenty-four hours a day, living and dying in their own filth.

  Many inmates perished from poor health or went mad; those who lost their mind were usually taken away and shot, their bodies disposed of in the many iron ore mines nearby.

  Prisoners were given three minutes each day to run from their quarters to a food station where they were given boiling hot, watery bean soup—often too hot to consume—and one loaf of bread between eight prisoners. Anyone who didn’t complete their meal in three minutes was descended upon by packs of guards and beaten mercilessly or killed.

  A favorite pastime of the guards was to bludgeon prisoners to death with sledgehammers, killing one first with a blow to the head, then forcing another prisoner to lie on the dead one, then crushing his spine with blows from the hammer until he died. In this way, they built up “piles” of corpses.

  Carla shuddered.

  Her father must have endured such horror every day.

  It turned her stomach.

  • • •

  The Devil’s Hill camp near Omarska was only one of dozens of places where an orgy of persecution was carried out against women and children: up to sixty thousand women, young girls, and children had been raped during the wars.

  Apart from the pleasure of the guards, rapes were meant to degrade, humiliate, and intimidate.

  Women who survived the camps were often unable to reclaim their marriages because of their trauma, and ended up divorced from their husbands. Other women committed suicide.

  Some guards were later prosecuted, but a significant number managed to evade prison. Others were allowed serve out sentences in comfortable European prisons.

  More than two million civilians were displaced during the wars, the greatest number since the Holocaust and World War II.

  When she could read no more, Carla slammed shut her laptop.

  • • •

  She felt incensed.