Page 29 of Eight Years (The Trident Trilogy 1)

Chapter Sixteen

Millie

Sarajevo, Bosnia

2019

When we arrived at the U.S. Embassy in Sarajevo, Mason and the team left immediately to pick up Petrovic. Officially, the Bosnian government had not given us permission to take him against his will, but they had given permission for the team to detain him for a “voluntary” interview. I had asked to go along with them, so I could just interview him in his apartment. Culver had flatly denied my request.

I’m waiting in the embassy garage for the team to return with Petrovic. I’d just watched them pick him up from his apartment on their body cam footage. He hadn’t resisted at all, which I thought was beyond odd. The truck pulls back into the garage, and Hawk, Bryce, Ty and Mason spill out. Bryce reaches back in to pull Petrovic out. He hands him off to the embassy staff who are waiting to take him to the interview room.

“He was exactly where you said he’d be. No resistance at all,” Mason says like he has just come back from a walk in the park.

“I know. I watched the feed. Impressive work. You guys are very efficient.”

“It’s just what we do every day,” he says.

“It might be every day to you, but it’s impressive, no matter how humble you want to be.”

He shrugs, sincerely not needing the compliment. He knows they’re the best in the world.

“I guess it’s time for me to do my work now,” I say, heading toward the interrogation room. Mason follows me.

A guard stands blocking the door, arms crossed in front of him.

“I don’t want you in the room with me,” I say to the guard.

“It’s standard operating procedure, ma’am,” the guard says.

“Well, my standard operating procedure is to be alone in the room with my subjects, so that’s how we’re going to do it,” I say.

The guard looks at Mason for help.

“Stand down,” Mason says. “We can react from here if necessary.”

The guard immediately takes a step sideways to clear the door.

“We?” I ask.

“Yeah, I thought I’d stay and watch you work. You mind?” Mason says trying to be subtle. He clearly doesn’t trust me alone in the room with Petrovic. I guess he doesn’t know I’ve done this hundreds of times.

“Knock yourself out,” I say, walking into the small, brightly lit room.

I turn off the intercom system when I walk in so Mason can’t hear our conversation. I’m trying to honor George’s wish as much as I possibly can.

Petrovic looks up at me when I walk in the room. He’s clean-cut and impeccably dressed. Not at all like my usual interviewees.

“Where’s Sayid Custovic?” I say in Bosnian.

Predictably, my question is met with silence, but he has already given me the answer. When you do enough interrogations, you notice everything about your subject—an eye twitch, neck muscles tensing, a head movement. With Petrovic, it was just a subtle widening of his eyes when he heard Custovic’s name. Many people wouldn’t have noticed, but to me it just screamed, “She knows he’s alive.”

“Amar,” I say slowly. “I appreciate you volunteering to come in to talk to me today. It’s a great first step, but I really need for you to be forthcoming with me. Where’s Sayid Custovic?” I repeat.

He hesitates for a second, but then says in English, “I don’t know who that is.”

I continue in Bosnian, “You lived next door to him when you were young. Do you forget your childhood friends that easily?”

Eye twitch. “My English is not good,” he says in Bosnian. “I meant to say I haven’t seen him since childhood. I heard that he’s dead.”

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