Chapter Four
It was always possible that I would walk up to his door and find it open, no one observing the area and be able to slip inside and see what there was to see. This was pretty damn unlikely though. I had no issues with a spot of breaking and entering but wanted to avoid arousing suspicion so this was a last resort. Finally, I didn’t know anything aside from the address. HANNA’s accommodation in Pristina was on Dragodan Hill, in an area now referred to as Arberia. His house however, wasn’t on the grounds of the US Embassy in Arberia. The Embassy was actually a bit further up on top of the hill from HANNA’s address. The street and number put it about midway down, in an area which I knew meant it could be a house but was most likely part of one, the upper or lower floor with the landlord living in the remaining space. If he’d been in a flat in an apartment block the issue would be different but since he had lived in this area, there was a distinct possibility that he’d have someone else living in the same building who would notice my arrival and who would need an explanation for my presence. I’d need to form a pretext for my interest and presence, status for action which would be acceptable without raising suspicions. I decided that a variation on the theme I’d used with the talkative cabbie would work.
As I munched my way through the pizza and finished a second Efes, I mentally reviewed what the DIA files had mentioned about HANNA. He’d been working under a cover as a public information officer (PIO) and lived in USG supplied accommodation here in the Arberia section of Pristina. His personal details were not given so I had no idea if he was married, divorced or played for the other team. I was fairly sure he would be unaccompanied on this tour as he was living on the local economy which would have meant exposing any accompanying family members to risk which wasn’t the norm for under cover operators, NOC or otherwise. I had only the address for his house, no key or official sanction for going there but I figured I would see what the layout was on a walk by and determine from that the best approach to getting inside. As I mentioned before, you don’t know what you’ll see until you actually look and anything which might shed some light would be helpful. I didn’t expect to find a notebook filled with classified information or anything else unprofessional but seeing how he lived might give me texture which was useful. Right now, I knew very little and there were a lot of things which could be important in context that I was missing. Seeing how and where he lived, getting a feel for his lifestyle and personality and perhaps finding some information which, although not significant at the time, would turn out to connect the dots later was the objective. It was, admittedly, a long shot but since I had time, due diligence would require me to at least take a run at the place.
Finishing my dinner, I paid the bill and walked out of Pinocchio. I turned left, uphill slightly and away from Ahmet Krasniqi, the main road that ran up the side of Dragodan Hill. There was a narrow staircase running up the hill with stops at the streets which formed a sort of terrace up its face. Once I reached the stairs I dropped down two streets and then headed back toward the main drag before reaching the house where HANNA had lived. This neighborhood was a decent one, most houses had only small waist high walls in front and the grounds were neat and well-tended. The house HANNA had occupied was a two story with a large carved wooden door in a tiny garden two steps below street level. It looked like the typical arrangement with a common entry way that then divided inside to separate apartments. I glanced around and noticed a woman approaching from the downhill slope of the road. She would certainly catch the eye even if I wasn’t scanning for people in my vicinity. Long jet black hair worn loose and cascading down her back framed a heart shaped face just the right side of beautiful. Her black pants, black silk shirt, matching bolo jacket and heavy silver earrings combined with black heels by someone whose name was no doubt a fashion standard made the impression of well to do and stylish youth. She was in her middle twenties, put together like God’s own ecdysiast, very much on display but discretely and with good taste. Think of a taller Selma Hayek and you’d be pretty close. All in all she would normally draw a second look and her walk and body language said she knew it and simply accepted it as her due. I noted all this in a quick scan that jumped into a more serious evaluation when I saw she was looking directly at me, making eye contact and slowing as she came closer to where I had paused.
I smiled and nodded politely, waiting for her to pass but she stopped a few feet away and looked me over with a sort of polite but puzzled frown.
“Hi,” she said in slightly accented English. “Do you speak English?”
Well, that part worked anyway, I thought. She couldn’t tell from looking at me if I was American, European or what. English being the lingua franca of the area it was a reasonable opener. I decided to act the part of the typical guy, somewhat overwhelmed by her and a bit off balance because of it. Less memorable, something she was used to and would dismiss without thought after I wandered off down the street.
“Um…sure. A little French too. Most of us Canadians do. Unless we’re French speakers of course, then it’s sort of the reverse…” I let my babble trail off in a good imitation of a guy feeling out of his depth and nervous in her presence. Her response was a smile that said she recognized the symptoms and wasn’t inclined to push it.
“OK, good. I guess I don’t mean to be rude but you are standing in front of my house?”
She gestured to the house where HANNA had lived, her expression one of polite inquiry. This could be either good or bad but I was stuck in it now so I went with the story I’d prepared.
“Oh, you live here too? I...um…I was dropping by to visit my friend George. We’re colleagues, well, at least we’re in the same business. I’m a reporter and he’s a public affairs officer. But then I guess you know that if you’re his…um…landlord…?”
I let my run on stream of nervous consciousness trail away as she reacted visibly and with shock to the mention of HANNA’s first name. Her eyes widened, she half raised a hand to her chest and then dropped it and looked away over my left shoulder at the sky. She blinked rapidly and then looked back at me.
“No. I’m not…I mean I wasn’t his landlord. I was his girlfriend.”
Her voice died away softly on the last part and she dropped her gaze downwards to the cobblestone street. I gave it a two beat to simulate dawning comprehension and then replied in my best imitation of awkward volubility.
“His girlfriend? Oh, right, sorry. George didn’t mention you…um…not that he should have of course or that he wouldn’t but…wait…you said was. Oh….OH. And here I am in the way when you have things to talk to him about.”
I moved sideways, away from the gate as I spoke, adding an apology for blocking her way. She remained in place, started to shake her head and suddenly burst into tears. She turned slightly away, dug in a small tote or whatever one calls those tiny purses, and came up with a large square of silk into which she buried her face. Her shoulders shook as she took several deep shuddering breaths and wiped at her eyes. I remained in awkward mode, fidgeting slightly as if uncertain what to do. After a moment she finished drying her eyes and gave me a wan smile. Her makeup remained intact, only slightly the worse for wear, a sign of both quality and the ability to put it on properly.
“I am sorry. You misunderstood. I have not had a quarrel with George. He is dead. Eight days ago now. I am sorry to tell you if you were not knowing.”
“Dead?” I put the shock of the pampered middle class into my voice. Death really only happens elsewhere and to folks you don’t know. I mean at least until you are old, right?
“He’s dead? Like in an accident or…oh, I am sorry, I apologize. Here I am dragging it all up again. Please…um…”
I let my voice trail off again as she once more buried herself in her handkerchief. This time she regained control much more quickly. I had just raised my hand as if to give her shoulder a consoling pat when she looked up again and shook her head.
“No need to apologize. I am guessing you did not know, yes? And
here I am crying in the street like a foolish country girl.” She gestured toward the house. “Will you come in if you wish? I can tell you what I know and to be honest it will be nice to speak to someone. I cannot do so at work or here.”
As she spoke she dug into the tote and removed a set of keys. She also looked up and waved to indicate our surroundings when she mentioned not being able to speak “here”. I was slightly hesitant. My first thought was that this was a good way to get a look inside and perhaps some details of HANNA’s life. My second was that if this chick was his girlfriend then I’d have a harder time convincing her I was an old buddy. Maybe tone it down to business acquaintance just in town and looking him up per a standing invitation. That should work unless he was the sort who never brought work home. That seemed unlikely if he was posing as a PIO. They tend to be a sociable lot and one selects cover based upon what one can most naturally pull off. Odds were HANNA had been a social type as well. In any case, I decided to go for it and see what I could learn.
I followed her the six or so feet through the little garden and waited while she unlocked the door. She smiled back apologetically once she entered and motioned for me to come in. I noticed that she scanned the street as I passed and before she shut the door, which she quickly locked. The foyer into which we’d entered was small with a set of stairs to our immediate right winding to the upper level and a door directly opposite the entry door. This she unlocked, walking deeper into the apartment and not looking back to see if I followed. I noticed she didn’t remove her shoes upon entry, something not necessarily indicative of her ethnicity but still a hint. She confirmed this when she turned as I closed the door and held out her hand.
“I am Billjana Popovic. Everyone calls me Billi, please you do so too. Come sit and please give me a moment to fix…” Here she gestured to her face and then hurried out of the room down a short hallway. The apartment seemed to consist of this room, a nicely furnished living room, open plan kitchen and a bedroom or two and bath down the hallway. The living room rear wall consisted of floor to ceiling windows with walk out French doors and a small patio and carefully manicured lawn edged with flowers, some fruit trees and small bushes. There were new appliances in the kitchen and everything was modern, clean and upscale. Not a bad place to lay one’s head. The area had been largely Serbian before the war, hence the small walls or none at all and the name Billi had given me was also Serbian. That was rare in Pristina where the few remaining Serbs lived in an enclave guarded by international military units and travelled only when heavily escorted. Especially with the recent tensions at the border, a Serb wandering through the streets was at real risk.
When I’d first been to Kosovo, locals had told me they could identify a Serb or Albanian by sight. I had been skeptical but after a year of immersion I was also able to do so. Of course, this applied primarily to the men. The women, of whatever ethnic background, all dressed in the same fashions, wore the same hairstyles and generally were more sophisticated than the men, whose clinging to ethnic roots was often a point of pride. Not that the women didn’t as well. Some of the most vicious people on both sides were female. It was just that international fashion and gender impulses worked on them differently and the result was a similarity that made visual identification difficult. If a Serbian woman also spoke good Albanian then she might get away with being in Pristina if she was careful and had good luck. Still it was a considerable risk as the minority who’d attack her just because of her ethnicity would be supported by the majority who’d turn a blind eye once they realized a Serb was on the receiving end of the rape, robbery or murder. Add in the intimidation factor always present when violent crime occurs and Billi was walking a tightrope above a very long drop indeed. Having a boyfriend who was employed by the US Embassy would help some but her wary appraisal of the street outside made more sense to me now.
As I made this reappraisal, I wandered around the living room looking at the décor. One picture in a silver frame caught my eye. It was of Billi and a Caucasian man, arms around each other and smiling for the camera. The background showed the inside of a local nightclub and the shot was obviously candid. The male was about forty, carried about thirty extra pounds and wore Buddy Holly glasses. He had the look of a former geek who’d figured out how to hang with the cool kids by being funny and smarter than they were. I suspected that this was HANNA but since neither the DIA file nor the crime scene photos had included a picture I wasn’t sure. I was still holding the picture when Billi walked back into the room. She stopped next to me and looked over my shoulder at the picture.
“That was just a month ago on George’s birthday,” she said. “He had such a good time. He told me later that it was the best birthday of his life.”
Her voice was steady now and under control. She sounded a bit wistful but also purposeful. Turning from me she stepped into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of wine from the rack.
“Would you care for a drink?”
“Sure. I mean, yes if you’re having some. I…un…wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble,” I replied. I was back in “out of his league and knowing it” guy mode and her answering smile was warm with acknowledgement of my plight and without any of the overtones of prideful arrogance I’ve seen in this type of situation before. I was starting to like this girl a little which made warning bells go off. The issue was simple. While I’m not the Elephant Man, I’m not Brad Pitt either. And in my line of work, the honey trap is the oldest con in the game. So if an attractive female roughly half my age suddenly shows interest in me or otherwise gives off the “I’m available if you’re up for it” signals, the red lights go on in mission control and I have to evaluate why. Depending upon the circumstances it may not be a big deal. The real issue is that any female interest has to be weighed, evaluated and carefully considered as a potential trap regardless of one’s status. The bad guys love to run this play because, like all actions that manipulate basic human instincts, it works more often than not. Thinking I’m just the ticket she needs and letting my ego run the show is a good way to wind up dead ahead of schedule. It’s too easy to get taken by hormones and blinded by something other than science. In this case I was fairly sure this was simply her personality. She seemed like a genuinely nice girl, open and friendly but then again I was something quite different from what I appeared to be. My cautious reaction to attraction had never steered me wrong before. It might make relationships and casual hookups more difficult for an operator but it has also kept me around to fail at them until I finally get one right, if I ever do. So I smiled shyly, acknowledged the message from mission control and accepted the glass of red wine she offered. She moved to the living room and sat on the sofa; I took a chair nearby, sipped my wine and waited for her to begin.
Billi and I talked for a while, long enough for afternoon to turn into full evening. Our conversation started with her asking how I knew George and my explanation that I was a freelance journalist from Canada (Toronto if that matters…Go Maple Leafs). I expanded a bit to include being here to cover the border issues as well as some background pieces on the struggles of the new state. She accepted this as normal which was not surprising given the number of hacks of all types doing the same thing. I had been a cop a long time ago before moving on to more vigorous confrontations with evil and I fell back into the easy elicitation rhythms used with victims and witnesses. This required a sort of unpressured interest, unobtrusive questions and the creation of a feeling that what they have to say is the most important thing you would hear all day. Sometimes it was. People respond well to this and a calculated display of empathy helps smooth things along. I had been good at this back in the day, mainly because I genuinely felt for the victims with whom I spoke, and I was still good from using these skills in other forums. I drew Billi out, let her set the pace and topic but also gave her the opportunity to paint for me a clear picture of her life with HANNA or at least the idealized version she had created as a memory. My displayed persona became more relaxed as we
ll which made sense as I was presumably being drawn into her story and thus losing a bit of my own self-consciousness. Keeping all the strands together and coordinated is tough but any undercover cop does the same under much higher levels of stress and greater danger. It’s not something you can learn any other way than by doing and I was thankful for my age and experience as I balanced my presentation with the need to learn specifics.
Her story was fairly ordinary for the time and place. She worked in a section of the UN devoted to gender issues and had meet George professionally. They had then met again at a party held by the US Embassy and finally had begun seeing each other socially after running into each other at a café at the bottom of Dragodan Hill. It turned out that both frequented that café and George apparently decided to go for it and ask her out. A month later she had moved in. He certainly wasn’t a catch back home but here, where misogyny ruled, anyone who treated a woman like something other than a second class citizen and who held an American passport to boot was an excellent option. A lot of diplomatic and other Foreign Service types who couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse at home with a fist full of Benjamins suddenly find they are God’s Gift to Women when they hit the Third World. The honey trap works so frequently with so many of them simply because they know this is a limited time offer based upon where they come from. Of course, the honey trap is usually just marriage and a green card but you only have to look at the diplomatic types who have foreign born brides and factor in their level of attractiveness and desirability at home to see how often that occurs. Not to say true love doesn’t also make its appearance, it can and does. One of my best friends met his wife while deployed and they are one of the most successful married couples I know. But it’s far more often a case of a guy who couldn’t rate anywhere else getting the best he can while the girl takes what she can get in exchange for the security that goes with the geek. Sad and maybe harsh but that’s the way the world works. This looked like being another example of local girl wants out and takes a presentable, kind American who she knows will give her everything for fear of losing her to a better looking/wealthier/younger guy if he doesn’t.
Can’t blame her or him, really.
Of course, I knew HANNA was more than just an overweight guy on the cusp of middle age with a decent salary and pension who could trade on that to get the trophy wife life seemed to have thrown in his lap. I figured he was stringing her along, playing his persona for the bennies while he was here and when he left she’d most likely be back to square one. That happens too and I’ve never much cared for the guys who thought this was righteous. I will do and have done a lot of bad things, generally to bad people, but I try to draw the line at abusing the trust and hopes of the innocent. I didn’t know and couldn’t tell if HANNA saw her as another layer to his cover or actually meant to keep her in his life with all the attendant clearance issues that would bring. In any case, hearing her discuss their time together gave me a better feel for how he had presented himself always bearing in mind that she was not merely reciting history but actively constructing memories by speaking with me. I don’t mean she was making stuff up per se, merely that she was using me as a sounding board for the way she would remember this in the future. We all construct and modify memory to an extent and talking to others helps reinforce and solidify what we want to remember and, more importantly how we want to remember. Billi was doing this now, something she as a Serb and an outsider in her own country couldn’t do with pretty much anyone else she knew. I was a convenient outlet for her, someone she could use to alleviate the emotional and mental pressure and let her construct the memory she wanted of her time with HANNA. Knowing this I let her ramble where she would, only dropping in a question here or there when it made sense or allowed me to learn a bit more without being obvious.
I learnt a few important things as well as a lot of trivia. HANNA apparently worked from home a lot, spending very little time on the grounds of the US Embassy. He was frequently out and about meeting with people and spreading the USG point of view, something that naturally brought him into contact with a lot of folks of all political persuasions. Billi mentioned several times that HANNA had expressed sympathy with the Serbian situation in Kosovo and especially that of the ordinary Serb who seemed to be more political football than person to either Belgrade, Brussels or Washington. This may have been calculated on his part but could have equally been genuine. He worked hard and was apparently seen as a fair representative of USG opinion, one willing to hear out another side and try to find common ground. Good traits for someone who is in the business of spotting and developing agents so I wasn’t surprised to hear he exhibited these traits in his cover job. My ears perked up a bit when she mentioned that he had started going out later at night to meet some of his friends. This wasn’t for the usual parties and social gatherings beloved of the diplomatic set but more typical Balkan male behavior. It had only started in the last few months, a period of time which corresponded to the recruitment and meetings with Gashi. His name came up in a do you know so and so bit of conversation. This was the second useful item of information. Apparently he worked at the Ministry of the Interior and had met HANNA through a collaborative effort to explain the decision to turn the border crossing checkpoints over to Kosovo. Billi wasn’t too sure of his actual position, only that he was well connected in the Thaci administration and, being a young guy, liked to party.
I got the impression that HANNA had been acting normal, working hard and, aside from his occasional night out with the boys, behaving as an attentive boyfriend. The one thing which did catch me off guard was her statement that HANNA had been driving her car the night he was killed. The vehicle’s registration details were somewhere in the report but I hadn’t remembered the name. I’d check but was sure she was telling the truth. It was apparently the first time he had done so and at her urging as she wanted to be supportive of his time with the guys. I got the sense that she felt very bad about this, most likely because it hadn’t worked out well and also because she had some serious questions about what he was doing in a lover’s lane with another guy late at night. She veered around the subject and I left it alone as well. I knew the real reason and asking a beautiful woman if perhaps she just couldn’t compete with what to her way of thinking was a perversion would be insulting.
Our conversation wound down and I made excuses for needing to go as well as for staying so late. Billi didn’t seem to mind and asked me to please call her sometime if I was in town long. The little alarm went off again but I smiled as if unable to believe my luck and quickly took her number on the notepad I kept in my jacket pocket. Billi didn’t ask for my number, something I had halfway expected, and I “forgot” to give it to her, something social ineptness would hopefully explain. I didn’t want to give out the local number I was using with KVSPARROW to anyone who didn’t need it. I wasn’t sure if Billi would be useful again but if it turned out she could be I now had a way to contact her. I stumbled my way through a goodbye and then headed down the street on foot saying I would find a cab at the stand at the bottom of the hill.
The cabs were there and I took one to the bus station. Getting out there I hung about as if waiting for someone. This allowed me to check for anyone who might have followed me from Arberia. I saw no indications of such and there was little chance of it but a sort of low key paranoia is a healthy thing when operating. As I drifted around the station I made a call on my new cell phone to a friend of mine from my tour here years ago. I explained that I was working, needed to meet and we agreed on a little café across the street from the statue of Skanderbeg. One of the reasons I was asked to take this assignment was that I had a support network here and it seemed high time to activate it.