His name was Remo, and he didn't look like a walking sanction.
In fact, he was the United States of America's ultimate sanction. He stepped off the plane at Sarajevo looking like a typical American tourist. Except for the fact that tourists don't come to the former Yugoslavia. No one comes to the former Yugoslavia. They only try to get out. Ethnic fighting had reduced the nation to the status of a Third World hellhole with former neighbors accusing one another of genocide, ethnocide, patricide, matricide, infanticide and even worse horrors.
At the bottom of the air-stairs stood a uniformed agent who directed Remo to customs.
"Where can I get a cab?" Remo asked him.
"After undergoing customs and baggage reclaim, you will find signs."
"I'm not carrying baggage."
"What? No baggage?"
"I travel light," said Remo, who was attired for shooting pool. He wore gray slacks, a crisp white T-shirt and Italian loafers that fit his sockless feet perfectly.
"You must come with me if you have no baggage."
"No," Remo corrected. "I must catch a cab."
"Why?"
"Because the quicker I catch the cab out of here, the quicker I can get the cab back to my return flight."
The uniformed man looked at Remo with unhappy eyes.
"When are you leaving Bosnia-Herzegovina, sir?"
"Four-thirty."
"You are in Sarajevo for only four hours? What is your business here?"
"My business," said Remo.
"You are reporter?"
"No."
"UN observer?"
"I heard the UN got chased out."
"They are forever trying to sneak back in," the customs official said pointedly.
"I'm not UN. If I had a safe area to protect, it wouldn't be overrun by a bunch of big-mouthed goons with guns."
The uniformed agent flinched. "You must come with me."
"If with you means to the cab-stand, sure. If not, go screw."
"Go screw what?" asked the agent, who was obviously unfamiliar with current U.S. slang. Actually, Remo's slang wasn't that current, but it usually got the point across.
"Go screw yourself onto a cactus and go for a spin," returned Remo.
The Yugoslav-Remo couldn't tell if he were a Serb, a Croat or a Bosnian-probably didn't know what a cactus was, but he knew an insult when he heard one. And he was convinced he had heard one. Even if he didn't exactly understand it.
"I am insisting," he said, his voice and spine turning to ice.
"Okay, but only this once," said Remo, changing attitude because he had been ordered to Sarajevo not to clean up Dodge, but to take out one Black Hat.
"Come with me," the man said, turning around like a man used to being obeyed.
In an interrogation room, they sat Remo down and surrounded him.
"Empty pockets, please."
Remo laid his billfold with its Remo Novak ID and approximately three thousand in U.S. bills and the folded article from the Boston Globe. He figured the money would distract them from the clipping. He was wrong. The Serb who detained him slowly unfolded the article. It was headlined A "Wanted" Poster That Leaves Pursuers Wanting.
"What is this?"
Remo decided what the hell. They didn't sound as if they were planning to let him go any time soon, and he had that plane to catch.
"It's the reason I'm here," he said nonchalantly.
"You are reporter?"
"Assassin."
"Again, please?"
"I'm here to nail one of the war criminals on the list."
"This is a reproduction of a Wanted poster for UN war criminals."
"That's right," Remo agreed.
"It is useless."
"Next to useless," Remo corrected.
"These are posted all over former Yugoslavia. There are almost no photos. Just silhouettes. The descriptions are a joke. Look at this one. It said, 'Bosko Boder. Six feet tall. Known to drive a taxi in Sarajevo. Wore gold."'
"Know him?" asked Remo.
"I could be he. It could be any Serb who drives a taxi and stands so tall."
"I'm not allowed to nail just any Serb. I have to nail the correct Serb."