Free The Wolf of Sarajevo by Matthew Palmer Page A

know. But we’re playing the odds. The smaller the number of people who know what we’re doing, the less the chance of exposure.”
    â€œDo you have authority for this?” Eric asked.
    â€œIt falls under our group’s standing authorities. We’ve got a letter from the Langley lawyers that says so.”
    â€œCan I bring Wylie in on this? Let him know what I’m doing.”
    â€œI’d rather you didn’t.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI don’t trust him to keep his mouth shut. He’s a braggart and a drunk and kind of a gasbag.”
    â€œYou’ve got his number,” Eric agreed, with a rueful shake of his head.
    â€œWylie’s already cut you loose,” Sarah added. “You work for Sondergaard now. You don’t need to account for your time to him. Or to Sondergaard. Not really. She’ll be in and out of Bosnia. You’ll still be available to her when she needs you. But you’ll also be available to me. I need you, Eric.”
    Sarah leaned toward him, and over the powerful smells of grilled meat and mint and cardamom, Eric picked up a hint of her perfume. L’Eau d’Issey. The same one she had used when they were together. Was she still wearing the same perfume or did she put it on just for him, hoping that he would remember? Of all the senses, scent offered the most direct connection to memory.
    Eric sighed. He could rationalize his choice in professional terms any way he chose. On the surface, it was about the future of Bosnia. But if he was going to be honest with himself, this was as much about the past as it was about the future. Sarah and Srebrenica and a garage in suburban Orange County. Ghosts.
    â€œWhat do you need me to do?”
    â€œTake me to Banja Luka. Help me meet some people who might be in a position to know what’s going on and what Mali is using to control Dimitrović if—in fact—that’s what’s happening.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThere’s always more.”
    She smiled that “I’m impressed” smile again.
    â€œReally?”
    â€œReally.”
    â€œMaybe so,” she agreed. “We’ll see. But we have to hurry. There’s no time to waste.”
    â€œBecause of Sondergaard’s conference?”
    â€œNo. Because whatever it is that Mali has . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWe’re not the only ones looking for it.”

GENEVA
    OCTOBER 13
5
    A s a matter of principle, he hated code names. Too much artifice; not enough value. He used them, of course. It was an integral part of his chosen profession. It was tradecraft. But he did it reluctantly. For this op, he had been saddled with an especially clunky sounding code name—Klingsor. It sounded like something best treated with a shot of penicillin. Fuck it. If he was going to be Klingsor, then he would be fucking Klingsor.
    Klingsor and his team had their mark. They were targeting a Geneva-based lawyer named Emile Gisler. Kundry—Klingsor tried to use the code names for the op even in his private thoughts to minimize the risk of a slip over the radio or the phone—had told him that their mark almost certainly had the package. Kundry wanted it something fierce. It was Klingsor’s job to get it.
    Klingsor and Kundry had worked together before. Kundry was asolid professional, one of the best he knew. But there was something about this current op that did not feel quite right. It seemed ad hoc, made up on the fly, and cobbled together from bits and pieces of capabilities. But Klingsor the Sorcerer had performed miracles for Kundry on more than one occasion. Odds were he could do it again.
    Geneva was a god-awful place to do this kind of thing. The Swiss liked things neat and tidy. The national sport of Switzerland was ratting out your neighbors to the police, and static surveillance quickly drew a host of disapproving glances followed by a