The 18th Abduction Read online

  “Now, sir, if you’re ready, the court would like to hear what you have to say.”

  Chapter 117

  Petrović took a moment to tighten the knot of his tie, secure his microphone, and sweep his gaze across the glass wall sequestering the press and interested parties.

  He took a quick look at the witnesses’ area, a bench similar to the judges’ benches. Beside it was a bank of folding chairs, every one of them occupied by a witness.

  Petrović paused for a fraction of a moment when he saw Anna among the witnesses. He may have gasped, or was that a wink? But his gaze continued past those men and women, and he turned so that he was looking directly at the judges.

  He said, “Greetings, Your Honors.

  “Judge Bouchard mentioned that when I was brought back to this prison, justice had been done. I find this surprising that he would make such a statement on two counts.

  “First, I was arrested and thrown into an airplane to Sarajevo. I was not tried. I had no trial. I did not face my accusers. I was not presented with evidence, and I did not have a lawyer present. I was arrested, restrained, flown to prison. How is this justice?

  “Justice. You speak of justice? Perhaps you should consider as well the absence of justice, or its selective application.

  “Let me ask you, jurists. Where was the justice for Dragan Ilić? Murdered by Bosniaks, on his son’s wedding day, walking in procession to the church.

  “Where was the justice at Sijekovac, where eleven of our people—civilians—were fatally struck down by Croat and Bosnian units?

  “There was no justice. No UN or ICC retribution. Were you sleeping?

  “These were unprovoked crimes caused by the tragic and unlawful breakup of a country in an attempt to thwart the destiny of Greater Serbia. These were attacks on our people—my people—that could not remain unpunished.

  “These acts, you seekers of justice, were acts of war.”

  He had the gallery and the courtroom transfixed. I was also in his grip. If I’d thought he might be slippery, manipulative, begging for his liberty, I was wrong. He was angry.

  Petrović continued.

  “I am a soldier. My father was a soldier. He was murdered in the Ustaša genocide, a crime against humanity perpetrated mainly against Serbs. Was I to allow the allies of those who killed my father—enemies for centuries and attackers of our beliefs and traditions—to repeat, with impunity, their crimes?

  “No. You judges have been deceived if you think that any man could do that. I could not, because I am a man who believes in justice. I. Not you. I.”

  There was an outcry in the room—an exhalation of emotion, outrage, grief, throughout the gallery. An older woman wearing a head scarf, sitting in the row in front of us, shook her head, No, no, no, and cried into her hands. Before us in the courtroom, one of the witnesses, a woman of about my age, got to her feet and cried out.

  The judge slammed down the gavel until the sounds ceased. The witness who had gotten to her feet sat down.

  Judge Bouchard said, “Mr. Petrović. You’ve been heard. Please step down from the dock and return to the table with your attorneys.

  “Witnesses to the military operation in Djoba will give testimony about the actions of Mr. Petrović’s troops on the town’s people.

  “Anyone, anyone at all, who cannot control their emotions will be escorted out of the courtroom.

  “Mr. Petrović will have an opportunity to rebut witness testimony after all the witnesses have spoken. After which,” said the translation of his words in my ear, “the court will decide if his appeal should be granted or refused. The tribunal’s determination shall be final.”

  Bouchard turned and spoke to the bailiff.

  “Mr. Weiss. Please call the first witness.”

  Chapter 118

  I was stunned by Petrović’s speech.

  If I had not witnessed his savagery in San Francisco, I might have been moved by his story. Even so, I was rocked by his defense. He felt justified in what he’d done in Djoba, and had shown no remorse when he was brought down in San Francisco.

  But he did have perspective, even if rooted in his narcissism. Innocent Serbs had died, too.

  It was only ten in the morning when the courtroom’s attention shifted to the witnesses against Petrović. They would be called in alphabetical order and sworn to tell the truth on the religious book of their choice, or on their honor. They were required to keep their testimony to five minutes, with a thirty-second warning from Mr. Weiss.

  For the next four hours the spectators in the gallery and the participants in the courtroom heard victim accounts of murder and destruction, of loss, hope, love, and faith, that could have broken even the hearts of sociopaths.

  But not his.

  I watched Petrović as the testimonies were given. He folded his hands on the counsel table, and sometimes he took notes.

  Anna was the last witness to be called and Petrović did give her his attention.

  She stepped across the polished floor to the witness area, took an oath to tell the truth, and addressed the tribunal.

  “My name is Anna Sotovina, but I am speaking today for all of those who were killed in Djoba, and all of the ones who survived but who have lost everything and everyone they loved.

  “When Petrović came into Djoba with military weapons, I was twenty, a housewife with a small baby. My husband told me to stay inside, and he took his rifle into the streets, where he was killed immediately. Soldiers broke down my door, took my little son from my arms, and threw me to the floorboards, where they ripped off my clothes and took turns defiling me.

  “The first man to rape me was him, Petrović.

  “I listened for the sound of my son and heard his cries out in the street. And they were cut short. I must have screamed for him, but Petrović told me to stop. Then he lit his lighter and did this.”

  Anna showed the scar on her face to the utterly silent room.

  “The same day I’m telling about, the women of the town were rounded up, corralled into the school auditorium. They were stripped naked, and those who were pregnant were taken out and shot. We were told that we were to bear the children of our enemies and only when we were pregnant would we get rest.

  “We were fed. We had to clean the school, and we slept on the floors of the classrooms. We were raped repeatedly and beaten, and we did not complain or even talk to each other for fear of our lives.”

  Anna paused. I could see that she was keeping a tight hold on her composure. I was glad when she was able to go on.

  She said, “Women with children were told that they could have more. ‘You will give us little Chetniks,’ the soldiers said. They put blades to the children’s throats, used them as hostages to make their mothers comply. Sometimes we were gang-raped by two, four, or as many as seven revolting and cruel soldiers. He—Petrović—frequented the rape hotel.

  “Sometimes a woman fought back. It was a suicide wish that was often granted by pistol or the leg of a chair. My aunts and sisters and cousins and friends were all raped and killed in the schoolrooms.

  “I did become pregnant. I was brought to a doctor who said so. But before I could retire to a closet and sleep, a fight broke out and I was beaten with everyone else. I lost the baby I did not know and didn’t yet love.

  “Later I learned that I could not ever again bear a child.

  “When the war ended, I came to the USA. All these years later I found, to my horror, that he, Petrović, was living a half mile away from my door. I know that his crimes outside of Bosnia are not the purview of this court, but I say this with your permission: Petrović was not fighting his father’s war or any war when he raped and beat me, and when he did the same to other women and killed them with his hands in the sunny state of California. There was no war in California. It was about him, and his love of power. His love of power over life and death.

  “Please. Keep him here. Do not release him. Please.”

  Chapter 119

&n
bsp; There was an attenuated silence as Anna returned to her seat, and then the crying started in the observation room and the witness section. Even some of the judges put handkerchiefs to their eyes.

  I sobbed into my husband’s jacket and I couldn’t stop. But I was forced to look up when I heard the sound of the gavel cracking through my headphones. Judge Bouchard called the court to order. He thanked the witnesses, and he adjourned the proceedings for thirty minutes.

  The main hall outside the courtroom was flooded with people who couldn’t stay in their seats any longer. Friends and even strangers embraced. Press spoke into phones and recorders. Lines to the washrooms were long. No one broke the tension with conversation or laughter.

  Twenty-nine minutes later the gallery was full and court was in session again.

  The rooms were utterly quiet, filled with expectation. Judge Bouchard’s use of the gavel was pro forma.

  The judge asked, “Mr. Petrović. Would you like to make a closing statement?”

  Petrović got up, crossed the room with a heavy stride, and mounted the three steps to the dock. The overconfidence was gone, but his anger was fully present.

  Without thanks to the court or any preamble, he said, “I am not a war criminal. You,” he said, pointing a finger at the rows of witnesses, “are liars. All of you are liars. I am a patriot. I am a Serbian hero, and history will remember me as such. Streets and parks and sons will be named for me. So all of you can go to hell.”

  With that, he put his hand up to his mouth. I couldn’t see what he was holding, but when he tipped his head back, I gathered that he had swallowed something.

  “Joe. What was that?”

  “I read that he has hypertension.”

  Petrović dropped something, a vial, and made an obscene gesture with his hand, waving it in a slow circle, taking in the whole room. And then he collapsed to the floor.

  The bailiff moved fast. Guards left their positions at the doors. They all rushed to the dock, where Petrović slumped partially on the steps, his head on the floor.

  Was this a trick?

  Petrović was flung about by spasms. He writhed, grabbed at his throat, and made sounds that could only be caused by agonizing pain. I could tell from the cherry-red color of his skin, the way his open eyes bulged, that Petrović had evaded a life sentence in prison by taking cyanide—easily obtained, easily smuggled in, guaranteeing a quick but excruciating death.

  Where had his self-confidence gone?

  To hell. He’d known when Anna made her statement that there was no chance he’d be leaving court a free man.

  Petrović’s attorneys were detained by the guards. The judge cleared the courtroom, but those of us in the observation room saw the paramedics come in. It took four of them to get Petrović onto a stretcher and out the door.

  They were too late.

  Slobodan Petrović was finally dead. We’d never forget him.

  And, for sure, Joe and I would never forget Anna Sotovina.

  Acknowledgments

  Our thanks to these experts who shared their time and knowledge with us during the writing of this book:

  Captain Richard Conklin, BSI Commander, Stamford, Connecticut, Police Department; Phil Hoffman, attorney-at-law, partner, Pryor Cashman LLC, NYC; Michael A. Cizmar, former US Marine and FBI agent, SME, CCE; Steven Cerutti, Homeland Security Investigator, New York, ret.; J. M. Sereno, investigator for the US Attorney’s office, Connecticut; Lt. Patricia Correa, SFPD, ret.; and Lt. Lisa Frazer, SFPD, Airport Division.

  We also wish to thank our fabulous researcher, Ingrid Taylar, West Coast, USA; John Duffy, passionate war historian; and Mary Jordan, who keeps the whole shebang in order and on time with some LOLs along the way.

  About the Authors

  James Patterson is the world’s bestselling author and most trusted storyteller. He has created many enduring fictional characters and series, including Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club, Michael Bennett, Maximum Ride, Middle School, and I Funny. Among his notable literary collaborations are The President Is Missing, with President Bill Clinton, and the Max Einstein series, produced in partnership with the Albert Einstein Estate. Patterson’s writing career is characterized by a single mission: to prove that there is no such thing as a person who “doesn’t like to read,” only people who haven’t found the right book. He’s given over three million books to schoolkids and the military, donated more than seventy million dollars to support education, and endowed over five thousand college scholarships for teachers. The National Book Foundation recently presented Patterson with the Literarian Award for Outstanding Service to the American Literary Community, and he is also the recipient of an Edgar Award and six Emmy Awards. He lives in Florida with his family.

  jamespatterson.com

  facebook.com/JamesPatterson

  twitter.com/JP_Books

  Maxine Paetro is a novelist who has collaborated with James Patterson on the bestselling Women’s Murder Club, Private, and Confessions series; Woman of God; and other stand-alone novels. She lives with her husband, John, in New York.

  Read on for Christmas

  come early:

  an excerpt from the next Women’s Murder Club thriller,

  The 19th Christmas.

  Chapter 1

  Julian Lambert was an ex-con in his midthirties, sweet faced, with thinning, light-colored hair, wearing a red down jacket.

  As he sat on a bench in Union Square waiting for his phone call, he took in the view of the Christmas tree at the center of the square. The tree was really something: an eighty-three-foot-tall cone of green lights with a star on top, ringed by pots of pointy red flowers, surrounded by a red-painted picket fence.

  That tree was secure. It wasn’t going anywhere.

  It was lunchtime, and all around him consumers hurried out of stores weighed down with shopping bags, evidence of money pissed away in an orgy of spending. Julian wondered idly how these dummies were going to pay for their commercially fabricated gifting spree. Almost catching him by surprise, Julian’s phone vibrated.

  He fished it out of his pocket, connected, and said his name, and Mr. Loman, the boss, said, “Hello.”

  Julian knew that he was meant only to listen, and that was fine with him. He felt both excited and soothed as Loman explained just enough of the plan to allow Julian to salivate at the possibilities.

  A heist.

  A huge one.

  The plan had many moving parts, Loman said, but if it went off as designed, by this time next year Julian would be living in the Caribbean, or Medellín, or Saint-Tropez. He was picturing a life of blue skies and sunshine, with a side of leggy young things in string bikinis, when Loman asked if he had any questions.

  “I’m good to go, boss.”

  “Then get moving. No slipups.”

  “You can bank on me,” said Julian, glad that Loman barked back, “Twenty-two fake dive, slot right long, on one.”

  Julian cracked up. He had played ball in college, a very long time ago, but he still had moves. He clicked off the call, sized up the vehicular and foot traffic, and chose his route.

  It was go time.

  Chapter 2

  Julian saw his run as a punt return.

  He charged into an elderly man in a shearling coat, sending the man sprawling. He snatched up the old guy’s shopping bag, saying, “Thanks very much, knucklehead.”

  What counted was that he had the ball.

  With the bag tucked under his arm, Julian ran across Geary, dodging and weaving through the crowd, heading toward the intersection at Stockton. He waited for a break in traffic at the red light, and when it came he sprinted across the street and charged along the broad, windowed side of Neiman Marcus. Revolving glass doors split a crowd of shoppers into long lines of colorful dots filing out onto the sidewalk accompanied by Christmas music: “I played my drum for him, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.” It was all so crazy.

  Julian was still running.

  He yelled, “Coming through! No brak
es!” He wove around the merry shoppers, sideswiped the UPS man loading his truck, and, with knees and elbows pumping, bag secured under his arm, dashed up the Geary Street straightaway and veered left to cross again.

  Another crowd of shoppers spilled out of Valentino, and Julian shot his left hand out to stiff-arm a young dude, who fell against a woman in a fur coat. Bags and packages clattered to the sidewalk. Julian high-stepped around and over the obstacles, then broke back again into a sprint, turning left on Grant Avenue.

  Julian chortled as oncoming pedestrians scattered. Giving the finger to someone who yelled at him, knocking slowpokes out of his way, he shouted, “Merry fucking Christmas, everybody.”

  God, this was fun. He couldn’t see the goalposts, but he knew that he was scoring, big-time.

  Julian ate up the pavement with his long strides as he listened for sirens. He glanced behind him and saw, finally, two people who looked like cops running up from behind him.

  He was winded, but he didn’t stop. Show me what you’ve got, suckers. He put on another surge of speed as he headed toward Dragon’s Gate and the Chinatown district. He slowed only when a lady cop’s authoritative voice shouted, “Freeze or I’ll shoot.”

  Chapter 3

  My partner, Inspector Rich Conklin, was running out of time, and he needed my help.

  He said desperately, “Would be nice if she told you what she wants.”

  “Where would be the fun in that?” I said, grinning. “You figuring it out is kind of the point.”

  “I guess. Make our own history.”

  “Sure. That’s an idea.”