CHAPTER 112
I was so proud of Claire.
We had evidence, we had probable cause. We had him. I beamed as we gave her a wholehearted round of applause.
She tucked the evidence back into the cooler, curtsied playfully, and said, “Thanks, everyone. I’ve got to go. I’m in the middle of someone.”
The rest of us cleared out, and Conklin, Joe, and I went to the FBI field office with Steinmetz, where we spent the rest of that Wednesday working out the plan.
First, Steinmetz put in a call to FBI director L. Martin Roberts. He was well regarded, with movie-star looks and some kind of political future. When Roberts was on the speakerphone, Steinmetz introduced us, and Conklin and I itemized the evidence: the hanged women, their wounds from throwing stars, and the photos of Petrović in Djoba in a forested killing field, surrounded by hanged bodies and with a throwing star in his hand.
And we told Roberts about our latest findings: that we’d rescued two bound-and-gagged victims from a subfloor inside Petrović’s club.
I said, “One of the victims, a schoolteacher name of Susan Jones, made a statement that Petrović had raped her and bragged of killing Carly Myers, and she was the last person to see Adele Saran.”
I finished with Claire’s matching Petrović DNA evidence.
The FBI director said, “How fast can you turn all that into a memo?”
By the time the sun touched the horizon, Roberts had our memo and had reassigned the task force that had been watchdogging Petrović to a transport detail. Steinmetz contacted the CIA, which connected with the powers that be in Bosnia. Green lights all the way. Steinmetz printed out Petrović’s signed deportation order.
I wanted to jump up and hug everyone, but I resisted the impulse.
Steinmetz seemed pretty pleased himself. He looked at all of us and said, “The game’s in play. It’s all over but the shouting.”
It was an old line but a great one. Still, as we all knew, there was much to be done before anyone started shouting.
Petrović didn’t know that he was breathing his last free air, and we didn’t want to risk any ironic accidents, so we had to work fast.
When the meeting broke up, Cappy and Chi picked up Marko Vladic at Skin, where he was going over the damage to the stage with a contractor. Despite the fit Vladic threw about his so-called immunity, he was arrested for kidnapping, rape, and accessory to murder. He was brought to the Hall and slow-walked through booking so that he couldn’t tip off his boss.
Steinmetz, Joe, Conklin, and I blocked out plans A and B to grab Petrović. We diagrammed manpower deployment and made calls.
And then we moved out.
CHAPTER 113
After leaving Steinmetz, our task force plus reinforcements formed a tight surveillance detail around Tony’s Place for Steak.
California Street and surrounding blocks were lined with unmarked vehicles, and two undercover teams were inside the restaurant having a leisurely meal, with mikes and eyes wide open.
Operatives outside Petrović’s house on Fell gave us a heads-up, and not long afterward a taxi pulled up to Tony’s Place. Petrović got out, paid the driver, and entered his restaurant through the front door.
On Joe’s command, Jacobi, Conklin, and I stormed the front entrance. Joe and Diano kicked in the back door and came through the kitchen.
I took a mental snapshot. Three-quarters of the tables were full. Petrović was chatting with a customer near the front when he heard dishes crashing in the back. He turned, saw Joe, turned again toward the front door, and saw me and Conklin cutting past the maître d’ and bearing down on him.
The dinner crowd reacted; a table flipped, with squealing diners hitting the floor as we advanced on Petrović with guns drawn. The four undercovers were on their feet, badges and weapons in hand.
I saw realization dawn in Petrović’s eyes. He knew he didn’t have a prayer of getting out of his restaurant on his terms. I ordered him to put his hands on his head and drop to his knees.
He did it, saying, “I’m not armed.”
Diano frisked him from chest to ankles and nodded to let us know that in fact Petrović didn’t have a weapon.
Conklin walked up behind him and slapped on the cuffs, while I said, “Mr. Petrović, you’re under arrest for kidnapping, aggravated assault, rape, and murder.”
I read him his rights and asked him if he understood.
He didn’t reply.
“Did you hear me? Do you understand your rights?”
“I heard you.”
Conklin and Diano hoisted Petrović to his feet and moved him toward the front door. He squirmed and resisted, asking, “Where are you taking me?”
I was happy to tell him.
“SFO international airport, Mr. Petrović. Your connecting flight to Sarajevo leaves at nine.”
He struggled as he was marched out the front door and under the awning to the curb, wrenching his body around as he was forced into the CIA’s armored SUV.
He protested, “You can’t deport me. I’ve done nothing.”
I answered him with my face six inches from his: “We have nothing but testimony from eyewitnesses and physical evidence that you raped Carly Myers.”
“How many times do I have to say, I don’t know this woman.”
Conklin said, “You were sloppy. Or hasty, Mr. P. You left physical evidence inside your victim. We’ve got you by the short hair.”
CHAPTER 114
We couldn’t just go home after the takedown.
The team that brought down Slobodan Petrović stood out in the darkening street, adrenaline pumping, watching the taillights dwindle as the CIA’s armored Land Rover took the monster away. We were high on success but still unresolved. Until Petrović was off US soil, the shouting would have to wait.
Jacobi said, “I’m starving. Anyone else?”
He led us back into the restaurant and had waiters push three tables together at the middle of the room. The waitstaff looked freaked out, but they complied, and after all of the Feds and cops took seats, they brought menus.
One of the waiters leaned down to talk to me. He was young, in his early twenties, the name Christopher engraved on the tag on his jacket.
Christopher asked, “Is Mr. Branko coming back?”
“No. Probably not.”
“Mr. Vladic didn’t come in today. Is he in trouble, too?”
“I can’t say,” I told the waiter.
“What’s going to happen to the restaurant? To us?”
I told him that I didn’t know.
He said, “They’re going to jail, huh? No loss. They’re both scumbags.”
“They are. But we’re good for the bill,” I told him.
“If not, what am I gonna do? Call the cops?”
He winked, added, “Don’t worry about it,” then attended to Jacobi, who said, “What’s good here?”
We all laughed, ordered steak and wine and side dishes, and before the food came, Jacobi called the mayor. He gave him a breakdown of the events, then set the phone down in the middle of the table so we could hear the mayor in a rare happy moment.
“I’ll hold a press conference tomorrow,” said the mayor. “The city is grateful to every one of you.”