The policemen kept asking nervously if he’d seen enough, hinting almost to the point of insistence that it was time for them to return to their UN base. Finally, Powder suggested they look at the building next to the police station; it was a grocery-type store, though from the window and door facing the street, the shelves looked pretty bare.

The policemen argued it was time to leave. Danny exchanged glances with his two men, then told the Yugs they were going in.

“Fine,” said one of the policemen. “We’ll wait out here.”

More than likely, they were just being paranoid, but you could never tell. The building had to be inspected and it had to be inspected now.

Danny and his men were dressed in fatigues with armored vests, but weren’t carrying rifles. They could and would call on air support if things got crazy, probably cancel the meeting tomorrow, and set the process back considerably.

He left his Beretta in its holster, trying to play it as innocently as possible. The door squeaked on its jamb as he pushed inside, and a bell at the corner of the frame rang, but there was no one in sight. He walked in, boots creaking against the old floorboards—there was a basement; they’d have to investigate.

Danny had memorized a set of cumbersome phrases in Serbo-Croatian, meant more to show he was friendly than to really communicate. He rehearsed one—“Vrlo mi je drago što vas vidim,” or roughly, “pleased to meet you”—as he walked toward a glass display counter about three quarters of the way back in the room. The display was empty, as were the shelves nearby. The place had a slightly sweet smell to it, the sort of scent that might come from cooking cabbage. The faint odor mixed with something more like dirt or mud.

Something moved on his right. He spun, his hands down near his belt and gun.

A figure came from behind a tattered curtain, a thin shadow. He thought it was a boy at first, then realized it was a girl, a young woman really. Maybe five-one, barely ninety pounds. Her hair was very short, unusual for the area.

“Vrlo mi” he started, faltering almost immediately with the pronunciation. He had memorized a phrase for “are you the owner?”—“da li ste sopstvenik?” which was intended to apply to the taxi drivers. He tried to remember it, but before he could, the girl held her hands in front of her, then backed away.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, putting up his own hand.

The girl stopped. The store was unlit, making it difficult to see her face well, but Danny thought she had understood what he said.

“We’re just Americans. Yanks,” he told her. “United States. U.S. We just, uh, looking around. Do you have anything to sell?”

It was lame, but it was all he could think of. Powder, who was a few feet behind him, said they were looking for coffee.

“Powder,” said Danny. “This isn’t a deli.”

“Hey, Cap, you never know. I could go for a good hit of joe right now.”

“We just want to look around,” Danny told the girl. “Okay?”

she stared at him, and then nodded, or seemed to nod.

“You stay with her. Powder, while I check out the stairs.”

“You sure, Cap?”

“I’m sure.”

The urge to take out his gun was overwhelming, but Danny managed to resist, determined to show the young woman he meant no harm. He walked toward an open staircase at the side of the room. A candle and matches were on a small ledge at the base of the steps; he lit them, then, calling ahead, went upstairs. In the glow of the candle, Danny saw the floor of a large room was covered with bird shit; he looked up and saw little remained of the roof. Still, he walked far enough inside to make sure no one was hiding in the shadows, then returned to where Powder was monitoring the young woman.

“Basement next, Powder.”

“Yes, Cap.”

In the basement, Danny found a mattress and some bedclothes about four feet from the bottom step. There was nothing else; no furnace, no washing machine, not even a store of food—just the stone and dirt walls of the foundation.

Danny relaxed a bit as he walked back up the stairs. Idiot policemen were probably just anxious to go home—

or more likely, complete whatever black-market transaction was waiting for them near the checkpoint. Smuggling was a common sideline for the authorities here.

Once back on the main floor, Danny started toward the door, then remembered he hadn’t looked beyond the torn curtain the girl had emerged from.

As he turned and took a few steps toward the concealed area, Powder said something, then shouted. Totally by instinct, Danny ducked as the woman charged past his sergeant. He reached out and grabbed her leg, sending her tumbling against the shelves. A small revolver fell from her hand.

“Shit,” said Powder.

Now standing, Danny clamped his foot on the woman’s arm. The two Yugoslavian policemen charged inside, raking the ceiling with submachine guns. After shouts from the Americans finally managed to calm them, one of the policemen grabbed the woman and hauled her out. Danny—pistol now out—pulled back the curtain.

A boy, three of four years old, sat on the floor in the middle of a small, squalid kitchen, his thumb in his mouth.

By the time Danny got outside, the young woman was gone, and several policemen had poured out of the station next door. As Danny tried to sort out the situation, one of the policemen had said the woman was a known Muslim. Danny tried to find out what would happen to her, but was ignored. Finally, he and his men had no option but to leave. The meeting between the UN and government officials was never held.

Powder had grabbed the pistol and found three bullets loaded, but the firing pug was broken and it probably couldn’t have fired.