Chapter 2: police
The buzz of the fluorescent light was the loudest sound in the room. It flickered once, casting a stutter-shadow across the tired face of the officer behind the desk. He hung up the phone and gestured with his chin toward a narrow staircase. “Second floor. Last door on the left.”
“Thank you,” Vanja said. Her voice sounded cool, detached, even to her own ears. The stairs were concrete, worn smooth in the center, the metal handrail cold and gritty under her palm. Each step echoed. She was hyper-aware of the sway of her hips, the click of her boots on the stone. She straightened her back, pulling the professional cloak tighter around herself.
The hallway upstairs was dim, lined with pebbled glass doors, some with names stencilled in black, most blank. Muffled voices, the scrape of a chair, a short, harsh laugh bled through the walls. The air up here was different—more concentrated. Less public fear, more private power. And old cigarette smoke, deep in the plaster.
The last door on the left was slightly ajar. No name. She raised a hand, hesitated for a single heartbeat, then knocked twice, firm.
“Enter.”
She pushed the door open.
Captain Marko Stojanovic’s office was Spartan. A grey metal desk, scarred and clean. Two filing cabinets. A single map of the municipality pinned to the wall, annotated with dense, precise markings in red and blue. No family photos. No personal effects. The only hints of the man were a heavy glass ashtray holding three dead butts, and a well-worn leather pistol holster hanging from a coat stand in the corner.
He was not at the desk. He stood by the single, grimy window, his back to her, a broad silhouette against the pale, diffuse light. He was looking out, though the view was just the muddy courtyard below and the wall of another building. He didn’t turn.
“Close the door.”
She did, the click of the latch final. The room shrank. She could smell him now—the same tobacco, wool, gun oil, but also the faint, clean scent of soap. He was bigger here, in this confined space. The width of his shoulders strained the fabric of his uniform shirt. He finally turned.
His face was all hard lines in the grey light. The cold blue eyes took her in, from her severe hair to her practical boots, and did not react. He moved to his desk, the movement fluid and contained, and sat. He did not offer her a chair.
“Vanja Vranic.” He stated her name as a fact, not a greeting. He opened a plain manila folder on his desk. Her Swiss passport lay atop a single blank sheet of paper. “You are registered as staying at…” he glanced down, though she was certain he’d memorized the address, “…Bulevar Kralja Petra I, number 47. Apartment 4.”
“That’s correct.”
“That is a Pendic property.”
A statement. A trap. She kept her face neutral. “A family friend. My godfather holds a key. He offered it to me.” This wasn’t technically false, though the safe with its gold bars held a different truth.
“Mitar Pendic.” Stojanovic’s lip quirked, not quite a smile. “A respected businessman. A loyal Serb.” He let that hang, watching her. “It is good you have such friends. It provides… context.”
He was connecting dots, building her profile. Swiss, of Serbian origin, but with powerful local Serbian ties. A contradiction that could be read as cover, or as complexity.
“You stated your purpose is journalism.” He leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight. His gaze was unwavering. “What is your specific topic? The weather? The economic situation?”
She met his eyes. “The human situation, Captain. Everyday life.”
“There is no ‘everyday life’ here,” he said flatly. “There is order, and there are those who seek to destroy it. Which do you find more interesting?”
“I find people interesting,” she parried, keeping her tone light, almost academic. “How they adapt. How they endure.”
“Endurance.” He repeated the word as if it were a foreign currency. He picked up a pen, tapping it lightly on the blank paper. “You are young. Educated. From a wealthy country. You speak our language without an accent. You could be doing many things. Yet you choose to come here, to ‘endure’ for a story.” He put the pen down. “Why?”
It was the question she couldn’t answer truthfully. I didn’t choose. I was thrown. Instead, she offered a sliver of reality. “Perhaps I am tired of writing about things that don’t matter. Perhaps I want to understand where my… where people like me come from.”
“‘People like you,’” he echoed softly. His eyes traced the line of her cheekbone, the set of her mouth, searching for the undisclosed mix. “And what are you, exactly?”
“A journalist,” she said firmly, a wall going up.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The tap of a typewriter came faintly from down the hall. He stood up abruptly, the movement making her flinch internally. He walked to the window again, his hands clasped behind his back. “This is not a place for understanding, Miss Vranic. It is a place for obedience. Your curiosity is a luxury. And luxuries are dangerous. They make people careless.” He turned, his face in shadow. “I am responsible for the security of this sector. For my men. A careless person, a luxury, becomes a problem. A vulnerability.”
She understood then. She wasn’t just a potential spy to him. She was a variable. An unpredictable element in his tightly controlled equation. Her connection to Pendic might give her some protection, but it also made her a potential weapon—if someone wanted to pressure Mitar, what better way than through his visiting ‘godchild’?
“I have no intention of being careless, Captain,” she said, and meant it.
“Intentions are like smoke.” He walked back to the desk, looming over it. “I will be direct. You will provide me, each Friday, with a summary of your activities. Who you speak to. Where you go. You will not approach restricted areas—military installations, police checkpoints other than your assigned entry, communications buildings. You will not conduct interviews without prior notification to this office. Is this clear?”
It was a leash, shorter and tighter than the one she’d imagined. She felt a hot spark of defiance. “And if I am speaking to a shopkeeper? Or a woman at the market? Must I report that too?”
“If it is for your ‘story,’ yes.” His voice held no room for negotiation. “This is not a request. It is a condition of your continued presence here. A condition for your safety.”
The threat was velvet-wrapped, but the iron was plain. Comply, or face consequences. Her Swiss passport was not a shield here; it was a provocation.
She swallowed, the professional mask firmly in place. “I understand.”
“Good.” He glanced at his watch, a heavy, utilitarian thing on his wrist. The meeting was over. He had asserted control. Yet, he didn’t move to dismiss her. He studied her again, that same calculating dissection. “It is getting late. The streets are not safe for a woman alone after dark. Especially a woman who… stands out.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s a short walk.”
“Come,” he said, the word leaving no room for argument. He took his coat from the stand, shrugging into it with a efficient twist of his shoulders. He lifted the leather holster, buckling it over the coat with practiced ease. The worn grip of the pistol was a dark, serious shape against his hip. “I will take you home.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the drafty office went through her. “There’s no need, Captain. Really.”
He was already at the door, holding it open. The hallway light framed him from behind, casting his face into deeper shadow. “It is not a discussion,” he said, his tone final. Then he walked out, his boots ringing on the concrete floor, not looking back to see if she followed.
The assumption of obedience was absolute.
Vanja stood for a second in the silent office, her heart pounding. This was worse than an interrogation. This was custodianship. He was marking her, not just as a person of interest, but as a responsibility—or a possession. To refuse would be an act of open rebellion now. She had no choice.
She followed.
He didn’t speak as they descended the stairs, didn’t acknowledge the surprised glance from the officer at the front desk. He pushed the heavy main door open, holding it for her. The outside air was a slap of cold dampness.
His vehicle was not a patrol car. It was a dirty, boxy Russian-made Niva, painted a non-descript grey. He unlocked the passenger door, again holding it open with a silent, implacable expectation.
She got in. The interior smelled strongly of him—tobacco, leather, his cologne. The seats were new vinyl. He closed her door with a solid thunk, walked around, and slid behind the wheel. The engine coughed to life.
They drove in silence. The grim streets of Podujevo passed by the fogged window. He drove with a relaxed, confident aggression, one large hand on the wheel. He didn’t look at her. His profile was stark in the gloom: the strong line of his nose, the set of his jaw. He was intensely, unnervingly handsome, and the sheer physicality of him, trapped with her in the small space, was a potent distraction. It felt deliberate, a form of psychological dominance.
“Turn left here,” she said quietly, as they neared the boulevard.
“I know the address,” he replied, his eyes on the road.
Of course he did. He stopped the Niva in front of the looming concrete block, right at the mouth of the dim entryway. He left the engine running.
She reached for the door handle. “Thank you for the ride, Captain.”
“The conditions,” he said, still not looking at her. “They start now. You will report to the station Friday. By 5 PM.”
It was a dismissal. She stepped out into the cold, the weight of his gaze finally on her back as she walked toward the archway. She didn’t look back. She heard the engine rev, a low growl, and the tires crunched on the grit as he pulled away.
Only when she was inside the marble stairwell, the heavy outer door closed behind her, did she let out a shaking breath. She climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, her legs feeling unsteady.
Unlocking the apartment door, she stepped into the profound, dusty silence. She leaned against the closed door, the polished wood cool against her forehead.
He had taken her home. He now knew exactly where she lived. He had laid down the law. And he had done it all with the chilling, handsome efficiency of a man who was used to being obeyed, who saw the world in terms of control and threat.
She was in his territory. And he was watching.
The opulent, ghost-filled rooms around her felt less like a sanctuary now, and more like a beautifully appointed cell. Her mind raced, not with fear, but with a sharp, clarifying focus. She had six days until her first report. Six days to find the Albanian teacher, to learn something real, something that wasn’t filtered through Captain Stojanovic’s permission.
Six days to walk the tightrope he had strung for her, before he decided to test its strength.
Six days felt like both a prison sentence and a reprieve. The oppressive silence of the apartment, with its crystal decanters and dust-sheeted ghosts, became unbearable by the next afternoon. Vanja paced the Persian rug, her thoughts chasing each other in tight, anxious circles. Stojanovic’s conditions were a cage, but staying hidden felt like surrender. She needed to see, to hear something he hadn’t sanctioned.
She changed into simpler clothes—dark trousers, a plain black sweater, a scarf over her hair. It was a weak disguise. Her height, her posture, the unfamiliar cut of her clothes would still mark her. But it was something. She left the building, turning away from the main boulevard, moving deeper into the quieter, more war-worn streets where the eyes felt different.
The sign was simple, hand-painted in blue on a scrap of wood: Kafene. It was tucked between a shuttered tailor’s shop and a house with a collapsed roof. The windows were steamed from within. She could hear the low murmur of voices, the distinct hiss of a coffee pot on a burner. The air smelled of roasting beans and woodsmoke, a welcoming scent that felt radically at odds with the tension in the street.
She pushed the door open. The conversation inside died instantly.
Eight pairs of eyes locked onto her from the smoky gloom. Old men in worn suits and younger ones in track jackets sat at small, round tables. A radio played quiet Albanian folk music from behind a cracked plastic counter. Every face was male, every expression shifting from curiosity to immediate, hardened caution. She had walked into a private world.
She moved to an empty table near the back, feeling their stares like physical pressure on her skin. The proprietor, a thin man with a tired face and a white apron, approached slowly. He did not smile.
“You are lost,” he stated in thickly accented Serbian, his voice flat. It wasn’t a question.
Vanja looked up, meeting his gaze. She kept her own voice even, polite. “I am not lost. I would just like to drink a coffee in peace, please.” She said it in Serbian, clear and unapologetic.
A ripple went through the room. A foreign woman. Speaking their occupiers’ language. Asking for coffee. The proprietor stared a moment longer, then gave a single, shallow nod. “Espresso?” he asked, still in Serbian.
“Please.”
He turned and called the order to the back in rapid-fire Albanian. The conversation in the room did not resume. It was replaced by a thick, watching silence. She could feel the weight of their suspicion, their calculation. Who was she? A police plant? A foolish outsider? Something else?
The coffee arrived in a small white cup on a saucer. The proprietor set it down. As he straightened, he asked quietly, “Where are you from?”
Vanja lifted the cup, the porcelain hot against her fingers. She took a slow sip, the bitter, strong brew anchoring her in the moment. She did not look at him. “Not from here,” she said simply, again in Serbian.
She placed the cup back on the saucer with a soft click. The sound was absurdly loud. She took another sip, then another, focusing on the simple ritual, projecting a calm she did not feel. She knew they were dissecting every gesture, every flicker of her eyes. It was what it was. She had wanted to step off Stojanovic’s tightrope, if only for ten minutes. Now she was balancing on a different one, strung over a different abyss.
In a shadowed corner, a man in his late 30ies watched her with a stillness that set him apart. Rrustem Mustafa did not stir his sugar. His eyes, dark and depthless, missed nothing: the quality of her boots, the confident set of her shoulders under the humble sweater, the deliberate way she held her cup. A Serbian speaker, but not a Serb, not really, maybe her parents were. at least one of them. A woman alone, unafraid but not aggressive. A novelty. A variable.
He noted the subtle shift in posture of the two younger men at the table nearest the door. His brothers. They had noticed too. Their casual slouch had tightened; their eyes, previously dull with boredom, were now active, tracking her hands, her bag, the door. They were waiting for a signal.
Vanja finished the coffee, the grounds thick and gritty at the bottom. She placed a few dinars on the table, enough to cover the drink and a little more. She stood, the legs of her chair scraping on the tile floor. Every head turned a fraction to follow the movement.
“Faleminderit,” she said softly. Thank you. In Albanian. Perfectly accented.
The word hung in the stunned silence. It was a match struck in a room full of vapor. Then she walked to the door, pulled it open, and stepped back into the grey afternoon light.
Inside, the low buzz of conversation resumed, fiercer now. The proprietor swept the coins from her table, his face unreadable.
Rrustem Mustafa finally lifted his own cup and drank, his eyes on the empty doorway. He gave no visible signal. But the two young men at the door exchanged a glance, stood up with casual indifference, and drifted out into the street a minute after she had left. They turned in the direction she had gone, moving with the loose-limbed grace of men who knew every alley, every shadow.
Vanja walked, the back of her neck prickling. She didn’t look back. She knew. The coffee shop had been a passive audience. The street was an active player. She heard the scuff of a shoe on cobble somewhere behind her, out of rhythm with her own steps.
She didn’t hurry. She turned left, then right, heading not directly toward the boulevard and her apartment, but on a meandering path through the residential maze. The footsteps behind her persisted, never gaining, never falling back. A silent escort. A confirmation.
Captain Stojanovic had warned her that luxuries were dangerous. Curiosity was a luxury. Speaking Albanian in a Serbian town was a luxury. Simply being herself was now a provocation, a flicker of light in a dark field, and she had just drawn the attention of watchers from both sides of the wire.
The footsteps behind her ceased at the edge of the newer boulevard, as if an invisible line had been drawn. She didn’t need to turn to know they’d stopped, melting back into the fabric of the older quarters. The message was clear: they knew where she lived now, too. The wide, paved street with its grim socialist blocks felt exposed, a gauntlet under the grey sky.
She entered the foyer, the marble cold and echoing. Her heart was a frantic bird in her chest, not from the walk, but from the implications. She’d been identified, categorized, and filed by both the serpent and his prey. Up in the tomb-like silence of the fourth-floor apartment, she went straight to the window, keeping her body behind the wall, and peered through a narrow gap in the heavy burgundy drapes.
A figure in a dark jacket leaned against a doorway diagonally across the street. He wasn’t looking up. He was lighting a cigarette, his posture casual, too casual for the biting cold. He was one of the brothers from the café. Further down, a police car was parked, its engine off. The silhouette of the driver was just visible, a dark shape against the lighter grey of the seat.
Men were watching her window. She knew it with a cold certainty. They were not as important as Adem Jashari, the subject of her secret, impossible research, but they were important enough. A local cell. A connection to him. But how would she even talk to them? Why would they not dismiss her as a Serbian spy, or worse, kidnap her, or lie to her and use her to gain sympathy for their cause? Every possible approach felt like stepping onto a landmine.
“Why couldn’t I just appear in Adem Jashari’s backyard?” she muttered to the dusty, still air. The absurdity of it hit her, and a short, sharp laugh escaped her lips. It sounded unhinged. Would she be dead by now if that had happened? Probably. Would they think her crazy? Not if she spoke Albanian. They’d just think her a very clever, very doomed plant from Belgrade.
She thought of the people who might come here, the contacts a journalist might seek through the university in Pristina. But no, the people she needed to contact, to see, to get close to if she were to try and prevent the tragedy… they were in the Drenica region. A world away from this apartment of watched windows and competing shadows.
The weight of it pressed down, a physical ache behind her eyes. Action. She needed motion, a task. She walked to the kitchen, the grand, empty room with its obsolete appliances. She filled the small, long-handled džezva with water, spooned in a small mountain of finely ground coffee, and set it on the stove. The blue flame hissed to life. The ritual was calming, ancestral. She watched the dark foam rise, pulling it from the heat just before it boiled over, once, twice.
She poured the thick, black liquid into a small cup. The smell was intense, bracing. She carried it to the massive dining table, cleared a space amidst the dust, and opened her notebook.
Her pen hovered. Then she began to write, not in a single language, but in a fluid mix of all the languages she knew. Serbian for official observations, German for clinical analysis, English for personal fear, Albanian for names and places that were secrets even to the paper. She interspersed it with codes only she knew—childhood shorthand, musical notation, chemical symbols from a long-ago forgotten class. It was a schizophrenic tapestry of thought, strategy, and panic.
ŠTRAJK? NE. PRERANO. (STRIKE? NO. TOO EARLY.)
Marko is a complication. Handsome complication. Dangerous.
Mitar Pendic = Shield? Or target? should not engage and keep him safe
They saw me. They followed me. The one by the door had a scar on his left thumb.
DRENICA. HOW? Bus to Glogovac? Checkpoint nightmare. Need a REASON.
Why am I thinking about his eyes? This is insane.
REASON: Human interest. “Traditional villages.” Flimsy. Maybe the origin of kuci, her fathers tribe from montenegro, also adam jasharis tribe. two sides of the same coin, Need Albanian guide. Contact? Teacher. Find teacher.
The one watching the window just shifted his weight. He’s cold.
She stared at the chaotic script. It was not a plan. It was the raw material of desperation. She needed a real plan, something with steps, something that could survive an interrogation by Stojanovic or a sudden, violent encounter in a dark alley. The coffee was bitter and grainy on her tongue. She needed to leverage her only asset: her apparent absurdity.
A Swiss-Serb journalist, charming, clueless, independently wealthy, asking naive questions about culture and history. A dilettante. A fool. That was a persona both sides might tolerate, might even underestimate. Stojanovic might see it as confirmation of her harmlessness. The men in the café might see it as a potential opportunity, a channel to the outside world too naive to be truly threatening.
It was a performance. It required her to dim her own light, to play the charming, slightly vapid observer. The thought grated, but survival was a costume party where the wrong mask got you killed. She would find the teacher, a neutral academic. She would express scholarly interest in Drenica’s ethnographic heritage. She would be rich, curious, and painfully obvious.
And all the while, she would be listening, coding every scrap of information into her private lexicon, searching for a thread, however fine, that could lead to the heart of the gathering storm in the hills. She finished the coffee, the grounds forming a stark, dark prophecy in the bottom of the cup. Outside, the light was failing. The man in the doorway lit another cigarette, the brief flare illuminating his face for a second before the grey dusk swallowed him again.