Avenger by Frederick Forsyth

small group of Serbs in camouflage uniform had entered the bar. He did not think they were Yugoslav Army because they did not have unit flashes on their shoulders.
    They seemed very full of themselves and ordered drinks all round, slivovitz with beer chasers, a lethal combination. Several rounds of drinks later, the major was about to adjourn to the dining room because the noise was becoming deafening when another Serb entered the bar. He seemed to be the commander, because the rest subsided.
    He spoke to them in Serbian and he must have ordered them to come with him. The men began to swig their beers back and put their packs of cigarettes and lighters in their uniform pockets. Then one of them offered to pay.
    The commander went berserk. He started screaming at the subordinate. The rest went deathly quiet. So did the other customers. And the barman. The tirade went on, accompanied by two slaps to the face. Still no one protested. Finally the leader stormed out. Crestfallen and subdued, the others followed. No one offered to pay for the drinks.
    The major had tried to secure an explanation from the barman with whom, after several weeks of drinking, he was on good terms. The man was white-faced. The Dane thought it might be rage at the scene in the bar, but it looked more like fear. When asked what it was all about, he shrugged and stalked to the other end of the now empty bar, and pointedly faced the other way.
    "Did the commander rage at anyone else?" asked the Tracker.
    "No, just at the one who tried to pay," said the voice from Denmark.
    "Why him alone, major? There is no mention in your report as to possible reason."
    "Ah. Didn't I put that in? Sorry. I think it was because the man tried to pay with a hundred-dollar bill."

    Chapter SEVEN
    The Volunteer
    THE TRACKER PACKED HIS GEAR AND DROVE NORTH FROM Travnik. He was passing from Bosnian (Muslim) territory into Serb-held country. But a British Union Jack fluttered from a pennant above the Lada, and with luck that ought to deter long-range pot-shots. If stopped, he intended to rely on his passport, letter-proof that he was just writing about relief aid, and generous presents of Virginia-tobacco cigarettes bought from the Vitez barracks shop.
    If all that failed, his pistol was fully loaded, close to hand and he knew how to use it.
    He was stopped twice, once by a Bosnian militia patrol as he left Bosnia-controlled country, and once by a Yugoslav Army patrol south of Banja Luka. Each time his explanation, documents and presents worked. He rolled into Banja Luka five hours later.
    The Bosna Hotel was certainly never going to put the Ritz out of business, but it was about all the town had. He checked in. There was plenty of room. Apart from a French TV crew, he judged he was the only foreigner staying there. At seven that evening he entered the bar. There were three other drinkers, all Serbs and all seated at tables, and one barman. He straddled the stool at the bar.
    "Hallo. You must be Dusko."
    He was open, friendly, charming. The barman shook the proffered hand.
    "You been here before?"
    "No, first time. Nice bar. Friendly bar."
    "How you know my name?"
    "Friend of mine was posted here recently. Danish fellow. Lasse Bjerregaard. He asked me to say hi if I was passing through."
    The barman relaxed considerably. There was no threat here.
    "You Danish?"
    "No, British."
    "Army?"
    "Heavens no. Journalist. Doing a series of articles about aid agencies. You'll take a drink with me?"
    Dusko helped himself to his own best brandy.
    "I would like to be journalist. One day. Travel. See the world."
    "Why not? Get some experience on the local paper, then go to the big city. That's what I did."
    The barman shrugged in resignation.
    "Here? Banja Luka? No paper."
    "So try Sarajevo. Even Belgrade. You're a Serb. You can get out of here. The war won't last forever."
    "To get out of here costs money. No job, no money. No money, no travel, no job."
    "Ah yes, money, always a problem. Or maybe