Decoding Albanian Organized Crime: Culture, Politics, and Globalization

DECODING ALBANIAN ORGANIZED CRIME

DECODING ALBANIAN ORGANIZED CRIME

Culture, Politics, and Globalization

Jana Arsovska

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu.

University of California Press

Oakland, California

©2015 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Arsovska, Jana, 1981– author.

    Decoding Albanian organized crime : culture, politics, and globalization/Jana Arsovska.

        pages    cm

    Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-520-28280-3 (cloth) — ISBN 978-0-520-28281-0 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-520-95871-5 (ebook)

    1. Organized crime—Albania.    2. Organized crime—Balkan Peninsula.    3. Organized crime—Europe, Western.    4. Organized crime—United States.    5. Transnational crime.    I. Title.

HV6453.A38A77    2015

    364.106094965—dc23

2014029706

Manufactured in the United States of America

23  22  21  20  19  18  17  16  15

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In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures Natural, a fiber that contains 30% post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (R 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

To my parents, for showing me the way; to my husband, for showing me that the sky is the limit; and to caffeine, my companion through many long days and nights of writing

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations

Preface

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

1. Introduction: Ethnic Mob on the Rise

2. Why We Do What We Do

3. On the Run: Albanians Going West

4. Iron Ties: In Blood We Trust

5. Violence, Honor, and Secrecy

6. Sex, Guns, and Extortion

7. Conclusion: Dangerous Hybrids? What Now?

Notes

References

Index

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FIGURES

1. Drug trafficking routes in the Balkans used by ethnic Albanian organized crime group

2. Diagram of rational decision-making process

3. Bunkers ( bunkerët ), still a ubiquitous sight in Albania, with an average of twenty-four bunkers per square kilometer

4. Former president Sali Berisha at a political meeting in Skanderbeg Square (Tirana, Albania)

5. Smuggling of weapons looted during the collapse of Albania in 1996–1997 (Shkodër, Albania)

6. Before opening the gates for food distribution to the most deprived (Tirana, Albania)

7. Military base occupied by so-called local mafias

8. Murder rates in Albania

9. Us versus them: a mosque destroyed by Serb forces

10. The Kanun laws, on sale on the streets of Tirana

11. Distribution of food tickets by the NGO Première Urgence on the outskirts of Tirana

12. Dilapidated buildings against modern billboards on the road from Pogradec to Elbasan, Albania

13. Massive arrival of the first refugees from Kosovo following the NATO strikes (Kukës, Albania)

14. A clan-based criminal group (the gang of Nehat Koulla)

15. Core group organization

16. Aldo Bare in the High Court for Serious Crimes in Tirana

17. Tough macho with charisma (Prishtina, Albania)

18. Golden chain with KLA initials (Prishtina, Albania)

19. Members of an Albanian gang brandishing automatic weapons in images posted on the video-sharing website YouTube

20. Weaponry confiscated in Skopje during Operation Mountain Storm

21. Training of razors, or Albanian special forces that fight against smuggling of arms and drugs (Shkodër, Albania)

TABLES

1. Multiple registers of rationality

2. Material possessions and hard work

3. Responses of sixty ethnic Albanian immigrants interviewed in New York City

4. Some of the clan-based organized crime groups in Albania

5. Hierarchical model of organized crime

6. Myths versus realities

PREFACE

Kur shqiptari te jep fjalen, ai te jep djalin.

When the Albanian gives his word, he gives his son.

—ALBANIAN PROVERB

BALKAN TRAGEDY

The Roman philosopher Marcus Tullius Cicero once wrote: During war, laws are silent (Silent leges inter arma). Only strength, physical might, and power can establish moral right. The use of violence is always concealed by lies, and the lies are maintained by violence. In the Balkans, the 1990s will be remembered as the decade horribilis: one of silent laws, bloody wars, deception, and crime.

I was eleven years old when the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia was drawn into a highly destructive conflict. Men with much to lose from a peaceful transition to free-market democracy killed off Yugoslavia; the federation did not die a natural, or historically inevitable, death. In part, the origins of the war can be traced back to the rise of Serbian nationalism among Belgrade intellectuals in the mid-1980s, and to former Serbian president Slobodan Milošević’s conscious use of nationalism as a vehicle to achieve power.

In 1991 the collapse of the federal state culminated in the secession of its more developed republics, Slovenia and Croatia. By 1992 the struggle had shifted to Bosnia-Herzegovina, and Europe experienced the bloodiest war on its territory since World War II. In less than three years, more than 2.2 million Bosnian citizens were displaced, between one hundred thousand and a quarter of a million were killed, and an estimated twenty thousand to fifty thousand women were raped (Siebert 1997). The Muslims, unprepared for conflict, were to become the biggest victims—driven from their homes, their cultural heritage obliterated.

At the same time, in neighboring Albania, the government’s laxity in economic regulation allowed fraudulent financial pyramid schemes, known as Ponzi schemes, to proliferate. The inevitable collapse of these schemes in 1997 eradicated the savings of a large section of the Albanian population. By January 1997 the people of Albania, who had lost about 1.2 billion dollars over the previous couple of years, took to the streets. Thousands of citizens launched daily protests demanding reimbursement by the government, which they believed was profiting from the schemes. Foreign countries began to evacuate their citizens from Albania. The pyramid-scheme crisis led to an outburst of anger and destruction that resulted in the deaths of almost two thousand Albanians. During the turbulent 1990s, Albania experienced some of the world’s highest emigration rates. Some six to seven hundred thousand Albanians, or almost one-fourth of the population, emigrated mainly to Italy and Greece, driven by the economic and sociopolitical problems in their country (Martin et al. 2002; UNDP 2000).

Images of desperate refugees crowding into trucks and speedboats, angry street demonstrations, and destruction of property faithfully conveyed the anguish of the time. Newspapers also started writing about weapons moving from Albania to Kosovo, to be used in support of rising ethnic Albanian paramilitaries and criminal-terrorist movements. By March 1998 the situation in Kosovo had become highly unstable. The Balkan region witnessed the birth of a militant underground movement, known as the KLA (Kosovo Liberation Army, Ushtria Çlirimtare e Kosovës or UÇK) fighting against the abusive regime of Slobodan Milošević, and later for Kosovo’s independence as well.

The international press labeled Macedonia, my native country, the Balkan oasis of peace because it wasn’t as affected by the regional wars as the other republics. Once the conflict spread to Kosovo, however, it became clear that regional conflict would have serious consequences for Macedonia as well. Against the backdrop of a rising fear among the population in Macedonia, in July 1998 my parents sent me to Tennessee as an exchange student. I was sixteen at the time.

It is the right thing to do! my heartbroken mother said. You will see the world . . . improve your English. You never know what will happen tomorrow here.

Soon after I left for the United States, several terrifying events brought the situation in Kosovo to the breaking point. The KLA attacks and the Serbian reprisals culminated with the Račak incident on January 15, 1999, during which forty-five Kosovo Albanians were killed in the village of Račak (Reçak) in central Kosovo. Various reports, including those prepared by Human Rights Watch, the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE), and the International Criminal Tribunal of Yugoslavia (ICTY), characterized the killings as a deliberate massacre of civilians by Serbian police forces. The Yugoslav government maintained that the casualties were all members of the KLA killed in a clash with state security forces.

The Račak massacre became one of the main causes for the subsequent NATO bombing of Yugoslavia, a campaign that lasted from March 24 to June 11, 1999. Every day during that year I spent endless hours in front of the television, anxiously watching the news reports about this unfolding Balkan tragedy. Critics were arguing that the West had failed to intervene decisively and with sufficient will and vigor. Others were criticizing NATO’s military intervention, arguing that what occurred in Yugoslavia was not the international community’s business. And while diplomats and politicians were arguing over the role of the international community in ending the war, the war was pursued with terrifying rationality by protagonists playing long-term power games. By April 1999, the United Nations reported that 850,000 people, most of whom were ethnic Albanians, had fled their homes. Western Europe, the United States, and Canada experienced a vast increase in ethnic Albanian refugees.

By this point, thousands of people had lost their lives. My hosts in Tennessee were a Baptist preacher and his family. We traveled from city to city, village to village, to listen to my host father preaching. Send prayers to Jana and her family. Her country is at war, and her people need your prayers, he used to tell the passionate crowds. Coming from a postcommunist country, I did not understand religion well. There were many sad days, however, when I found comfort in it.

I returned to Macedonia in June 1999. NATO’s intervention was concluding, and the conflict allegedly had ended. However, the problems were far from over, as the war crossed the border to Macedonia. The first actions by ethnic Albanians in Macedonia occurred in 2000, mainly along Macedonia’s border with Kosovo. Between 2001 and 2002, ethnic killings intensified and a group of ethnic Albanians calling itself the National Liberation Army (NLA) appeared. The NLA claimed responsibility for attacks on Macedonian police forces, and we witnessed the Kosovo conflict being repeated on our territory.

According to the Macedonian government and media reports, in the period between 2001 and 2003 gas stations around the city of Tetovo were repeatedly robbed, vehicles were stoned while trying to leave the city, tollbooths on the Tetovo–Gostivar road were destroyed, and armed and uniformed Albanians were harassing ethnic Macedonian drivers at an impromptu checkpoint set up near the village of Poroj. The TV news regularly reported on incidents of kidnappings and torture in parts of Macedonia. Consequently, the government advised us residents not to leave our cities and to avoid traveling on specific roads.

While many people suffered during the Yugoslav conflicts, there is no doubt that some benefited from this ten-year cycle of war that swept the Balkan peripheries. Local newspapers claimed that the lack of regulations in the region allowed for the rise of a violent Albanian mafia and that the growing illegal trade in drugs, arms, and human beings made Kosovo, Albania, and Macedonia hotbeds of organized crime. Starting around the turn of the twenty-first century, the so-called Albanian mafia went global. Many are familiar with the legendary Italian mafia and its notorious players—such as Al Capone, who ruled Chicago’s underworld in the 1920s, and Lucky Luciano, who established the first US crime syndicate a decade later. Now the newspapers were noting that another powerful organized crime group, comprised of ethnic Albanians, was gaining prominence in the global criminal underworld and threatening the West. The international press frequently portrayed the Albanian mafia as the new Sicilian mafia—a highly secretive, brutal, and clan-based organization. Common people did not know much about the nature of this so-called sinister entity (Raufer and Quéré 2006), yet many felt threatened by it.

Throughout the Balkan region, as well as in many Western European countries, the rise of the Albanian mafia became a topic of great interest. During these lawless times, I opened a café bar (ironically called Decorum, meaning dignity, politeness, and order) in Macedonia. What was I thinking? It should come as no surprise that four months into operating the business I became a victim of violence and extortion by local criminal groups. However, I learned a great deal from my unpleasant experience, and I turned it into something positive. Today, as a professor of international criminal justice, I specialize in Balkan organized crime. That is the irony of life.

FACING THE ENEMY

Café Bar Decorum

The café bar Decorum came to life in January 2001. At that time, the local Macedonian newspapers were writing about the spread of interethnic violence in the country, the uncertain future of the Balkan region, and the rise of ethnic Albanian rebels and mobsters retaliating against the Macedonian authorities and taking advantage of their compatriots. The following extracts are some examples of the events that were taking place at the time¹:

January 22, 2001—A group of armed Albanians attacked a police station in the village of Tearce, near Tetovo, killing a police officer and injuring three others.

March 5, 2001—A soldier of the Macedonian army, Teodor Stojanovski, died after being shot by a sniper at the Tanusevci watchtower. Two other soldiers were killed and one seriously wounded when their vehicle hit a mine on the road leading from Skopje to the rebel-controlled village of Tanusevci.

March 14, 2001—Yesterday morning at 10:30, a group of armed and disguised people attacked a police patrol near the city of Tetovo.

April 28, 2001—Eight Macedonian police officers were killed in an NLA ambush, and their bodies were mutilated. The ambush was executed by Komandants Hoxha, Qori and Brada—all veterans of the KLA. Komandant Brada was a member of the Kosovo Intelligence Agency and was one of the main organizers of weapons smuggling in Kosovo.

These were terrible times for most small businesses in the Balkan region, but my acquaintance Vlado and I were optimistic about opening a café bar in Macedonia. We will make a lot of money out of selling water! Vlado used to say. For a few months the business went surprisingly well. It seemed that good company, music, and alcohol helped people to escape the harsh reality of poverty, war, and violence.

One night a group of men, known in our city to be thugs, racketeers, and tough guys, visited our bar. They were powerfully built, with shaved heads and heavy gold chains around their necks. They drank good-quality Scotch whisky for almost two hours and then asked for the check. Because we were aware of their reputation for violence, we instructed the waitress not to charge them anything, hoping they would leave without causing trouble.

It’s on the house, she told them anxiously.

One of the guys, however, insisted on paying the bill. He acted as if he did not understand why we would let him drink for free.

OK, please give me a moment and I will bring you the check. No problem, the waitress responded in a wobbly voice.

As soon as he paid the bill, the man approached my partner, Vlado, and asked him to step outside the bar. The man was in his early thirties, around five feet eight, with a large build and short, dark hair. His beard was fringed, and there was a visible scar on his face. He was certainly not a typical Decorum customer. In fact, he was reputed to be one of the leaders of a spectacularly elusive and violent gang of thieves and extortionists operating in our city. His name was Berisha.

Vlado and Berisha went outside to chat. When Vlado came back, he looked very worried. And he was becoming visibly angry and upset over Berisha’s bogus claims that we had dishonored him. When he asked for the bill, he didn’t expect that he would have to pay for the drinks of everyone else in this bar, Vlado said dryly, his eyes clouding over for a moment. Trouble was on its way.

Berisha demanded that we pay him two thousand euros for this dishonor, and he threatened my partner: I will be back for the money tomorrow. Have it ready or else. . . .

Berisha and his group left. We were puzzled. What now? Vlado called a friend for advice.

Just give them the money. They will not leave you alone otherwise, the friend advised. Then just hope that they stay away for at least some time. But be aware that they will ask again for money in the future. They do this with other bars as well. And don’t bother with the police. They can’t do much.

Why not the police? Vlado asked, although he already knew the answer.

Even if they take one in for questioning, the other guys will demolish your bar in a second. You will go out of business in the blink of an eye. It’s not worth the trouble, trust me!

I remember vividly the two days following that incident. To avoid a confrontation, Vlado and I did not go to the bar. Instead we stayed in Vlado’s apartment. Every time he called the bar, the waitress informed him that someone from the group had paid a visit and was looking for us. We also saw Berisha and his crew driving around Vlado’s apartment a few times. I knew that we could not hide forever. Something had to be done.

On the third day after the incident at the bar, I called Tiger, an old acquaintance of mine from the city. Tiger was a tough street guy, a boxer. He knew everyone in town and could set up an appointment with Berisha. Vlado disliked my plan, but I assured him that confronting Berisha would be better than any other scenario we could think of. Tiger arranged the meeting.

It was a Friday evening, around 7:45. I found myself waiting alone in front of a church not far from Decorum, in the center of Macedonia’s capital, Skopje. A few moments before 8 P.M., a black Mercedes pulled up in front of the church. Three big men were sitting in the car. In the front seat was Berisha. The back door of the car opened and an unfamiliar man told me to get in.

For a few moments no one said a word to me. The guys were having a conversation among themselves.

Did you see the guy with the newspaper? Berisha asked the driver, with a sarcastic smile on his face. No doubt a secret agent. I can smell them from miles away.

Berisha then turned his head and finally started talking to me. Why did you want to meet with us? And where is that gay friend of yours that sends his woman to deal with us? What a loser!

Everyone started laughing. My head was spinning.

The bar is mine, I finally said in a shaky voice. Vlado has been helping me because I am often away in Greece for my studies, but the bar is mine. He has nothing to do with it, so it is pointless to ask him for money. I will give you the money if you think this is the right thing to do.

I stopped for a second to catch my breath. I was getting very nervous.

But two thousand euros is a lot of money! I continued. I don’t make that much profit, and it will be impossible to give you so much money. There are more expenses than profit for me at this point. But I will give you some money every month. Maybe one or two hundred euros every month? Will that work?

Another brief moment of silence passed before I continued. I think it was easier for me to talk rather than to stop and listen to what Berisha had to say. I was afraid of his answer.

But please leave Vlado alone. You are right that he is a coward, so there is no point in wasting your time dealing with a small fish like him. I am the bar owner, and I will give you the money. Let him go.

What a loser this guy is! the man sitting next to me interrupted. Do you hear this, Berisha?

Berisha and the driver were laughing. They seemed entertained.

OK. Berisha finally got serious. But tell that disgusting pig that if he tells anyone that we let him go like this, his family will find him in a box. Two feet underground! You hear me? He must say that he paid the money for dishonoring us. Every cent! Let me tell you, if I ever hear from anyone that Vlado said he didn’t pay, you don’t know what will happen to him. People will laugh at me if I let him go just like that! Take note of what I say to you.

Berisha stopped for a moment and muttered, I can’t even believe I am doing this. So, you will pay the money, huh?

Every cent, I replied. As long as you give me enough time. And don’t worry about Vlado. He knows better than to squeal.

We had been driving for almost forty minutes, although it seemed like just seconds to me. I had no idea where we were heading. It was somewhere on the outskirts of the city. Berisha had mentioned Kili’s house. I’d heard Kili’s name before, but I had never met him. The head of their gang, I was thinking to myself.

The car pulled up in front of a big, old house in the middle of nowhere, with only dirt roads and miles of grapevines nearby. On the porch, at least ten men were playing cards and smoking cigarettes. At the sound of our car pulling into the driveway, the men moved around anxiously, until the moment they recognized the car and realized it was Berisha. We all got out of the car. Weapons lay on the floor next to the card table. Berisha told me to stay close to the car and wait. Everyone else went to shake hands with the men playing cards.

I could hear the crew laughing. Berisha and a short man went inside the house. Fifteen minutes later everyone was back in the car.

Nice talking to you, m’lady, Berisha said after dropping me off at my apartment. Call me when you have the money. This is my number. Call me if you need me for anything else, too.

The problem was solved. At least, I thought it was. I called Berisha three weeks after our first meeting to give him 150 euros. He seemed happy to hear my voice and invited me to an elite restaurant, where he and his group hung out most of the time.

M’lady! he shouted when he saw me enter the restaurant. How have you been? Glad to see you, and glad you are keeping your word, m’lady.

I had lunch with Berisha and his crew. Afterward, he offered to bring me back home. I insisted on taking a taxi.

You want to dishonor me again? I don’t think so. My driver and I will take you home. Get in the car.

As we were driving, I took the money out of my pocket and gave it to him. Berisha looked embarrassed and humiliated.

Hey, look at me. Big mafioso getting pennies from you. Now this feels like a joke. I am ashamed. Take your money back. No need for this. Just don’t say to anyone that the bar didn’t pay its dues. I have a business to run.

I remember feeling so proud of myself. I rushed to call Vlado as soon as I got home, just to tell him what had happened. He was not pleased at all, and I was not sure why. But I soon understood. Berisha and his crew had become regular customers at our bar. They stayed at the bar for hours. Although they always paid their bill, they sat with their weapons on the table. We lost all our other customers in less than three months.

The bar could not survive on the profits made from these fifteen tough guys, yet I felt as if I owed Berisha something. I often had to sit with his crew and listen to their bizarre stories. It was the most uncomfortable experience of my life. So many times I wished he had taken the money and left us alone. Berisha would call me at any time of the day, asking if I would come to the bar to keep him company.

Why you are not at Decorum, m’lady? he used to ask, as if he owned me. One day the waitress told me that Berisha had visited the bar and left a gold bracelet set with shiny diamonds. A sign of his appreciation for your hospitality and friendship, the waitress quoted as she handed me the bracelet.

I did not accept the present, although I wondered how Berisha would react to this rejection. Tell him that being hospitable and friendly is part of my job, and there is no need for gifts. The thought is what counts.

I avoided coming to the bar for about a week, so I would not have to confront Berisha. When I returned, he and I did not mention the bracelet. We pretended the whole situation had never happened. In these lawless years, many bar owners in our town were paying protection money to different criminal groups. I learned this the hard way.

Life in Greece

Eventually, the daily pressure became too much to handle. I started spending more of my time in Greece, where I was attending university. My aim was to distance myself from the troubles at home. But I couldn’t bury my past. One night in early June 2001, after my summer classes were over, I received a phone call from an anonymous number.

M’lady! Is that you? It is me, Berisha! I hope you didn’t forget your old friend. I am here with Tiger, and he gave me your number. We just wanted to see how you’re doing. Are you in Thessaloniki?

I could not believe my ears. What do they want now? I thought to myself.

M’lady, Tiger has some business in Khalkidhiki, close to where you are, so he will need to stay in Thessaloniki for a day or two. We were wondering if he could stay for a night at your place?

Sure, no problem. The words flew out of my mouth. I could not think fast enough to come up with a good excuse as to why he couldn’t stay with me.

The next day Tiger arrived in Thessaloniki. We arranged to meet in a local tavern known for its superb seafood dishes. I arrived a bit early and, although I wasn’t hungry, I ordered a Greek salad so my plate would not be empty. After fifteen minutes I looked up. Tiger was standing over my left shoulder with a smile on his face.

Jana! I am so thrilled to see you! It has been such a long time.

Not long enough, I thought to myself. I greeted him with a fake smile.

Every two or three weeks for the next two months, someone from Berisha’s group had to stay at my apartment for a night or two.

My guys have to finish some work there, but they will be out of your way in no time, Berisha would tell me.

I was not sure what the nature of their business was, but from time to time I could overhear parts of telephone conversations. References were made to businesspeople in Khalkidhiki who wanted to transport cigarettes to Macedonia, and to credit cards stolen in Italy and Greece and used to purchase expensive clothes that could be resold in Macedonia. I heard mentions of loan sharking, extortion, smuggling luxury cars, and buying Italian passports. I never knew what these stories really meant and which parts were actually true.

Each time I entered the room, the conversations would end abruptly. I felt like a guest in my own apartment. It all felt like a bad dream—one in which I was watching my life fall apart before my eyes. Eventually all this will stop, I reminded myself.

One day, right after my class, I received a phone call from Berisha. He told me that he and his crew had some business with Bosnian businessmen in Greece, and that they were all having dinner at the tavern Porto di Mare in Kalamaria.

I expect you to come and see us. We are saving some seafood for you, said Berisha.

I did not even try to come up with an excuse. I just got into my car and drove to Porto di Mare. Seven men were sitting at a large table full of food. Calamari, tzaziki, eggplant, octopus, kolokithakia, fish, pitas . . .

Among the seven men I recognized the face of Kili, the man I’d met the day I had first negotiated with Berisha. He was one of the group’s bosses. The men didn’t discuss their business directly at the table. Yet on a few occasions they did mention Bosnian businessmen who were to deliver cigarettes for them, and they gossiped about the kidnapping of the son of a well-known businessman in Macedonia because of unpaid bills. I stayed for about forty-five minutes, so I wouldn’t dishonor Berisha, and then said I had to leave to finish a homework assignment.

The shocking news came in July, several days after Kili, Berisha, Tiger, and the other unknown men left Thessaloniki and went back to Skopje. My friend Mia called me from Macedonia to tell me the news. A little before midnight, Marjan and his driver were shot dead in cold blood!

Marjan, who was one of Kili’s rivals—although some claim he was friend and an associate—and his driver had been killed in a busy area close to the center of Skopje. Two (some say three) men shot them as they were walking toward their car after they left the café bar Vitraz and had a quick stop in the nearby café bar Zoo (also known as Panta rei). The first man allegedly shot the boss, Marjan, in his leg, and then in his chest and head. Eleven bullets were fired. A witness reported that Marjan begged him to stop but the assassin put his gun inside Marjan’s mouth and fired (Popovski 2006). The driver started to run in panic. The second assassin shot him in the back as he was trying to climb over the parking lot fence.

According to witnesses, the assassins were professionals and left the scene quickly, so it was difficult to identify them (Popovski 2006; Vest 2001). When the police arrived, they found a black bag with two fully loaded guns, a Browning and a Russian-made Zastava, next to the bloody bodies. The victims never got a chance to use them.

But who killed Marjan and his driver? At that time no one knew who the killers were, yet gossip quickly started spreading. Marjan had a long police record and too many rivals. He was known as one of the most dangerous racketeers in the city and was doing the same work as Berisha and Kili. He was particularly infamous for shooting the owner of a famous restaurant in Macedonia; he’d fired nine bullets, aiming to kill, but luckily only one found its mark, ending up in the restaurant owner’s foot.

Marjan had a lot of enemies. He extorted shop owners in the shopping mall Beverly Hills. Everyone was paying him money. Major companies were paying big money, too, a friend of Marjan’s told me (interview, Macedonia, 2001). He injured the owner of a local café bar who refused to give him ten thousand euros. . . . Sorry, he refused to ‘lend’ him money. He also took six thousand euros from the owner of a music shop, and was asking for sixty thousand euros from one big businessman. He was no doubt blacklisted. Maybe this was the ultimate revenge of the local businesspeople.

I don’t know if what he was telling me was the truth, but his words made me think of Decorum. Could Berisha or Kili have arranged this assassination? Alex, an old friend of mine, said, Hey, today you can hire assassins for two or three hundred bucks. Albanians from the north of Albania are the best in this business. Life is very cheap nowadays! I am telling you, it’s a sad reality for our region.

However, there was more support for the claim that the men involved in Marjan’s shooting were professional assassins from Serbia and Montenegro. One scenario linked the shooting to Ljube Boshkovski, then the Macedonian minister of interior. The minister seemed to have been a close friend of Marjan, and he had helped him create the special police force called the Lions—a unit in which many criminals took an active role during the 2001 interethnic conflict. Marjan’s father told a reporter for Macedonian newspaper Utrinski Vensik that the minister had promised Marjan that he’d make him the chief of the police station in Skopje if he brought him votes and helped him with the Lions (Popovski 2006; MKnews 2012). But then the brother-in-law of the minister was kidnapped and brutally injured, and many people speculated that Marjan had something to do with it because of a money-related dispute with the former minister. Allegedly, the minister and the chief of his security personnel promised one hundred thousand euros to Marjan if he burns the property of a well-known Macedonian businessman for insurance purposes. These people had a lot of disputes. A lot of promises were made. Promises were not delivered. There was a lot of deception and behind-closed-doors talks. This is what happens when you mix politics with criminals, an insider told me.²

After Marjan’s assassination neither Berisha nor Tiger contacted me again. They simply disappeared. Several months later, Vlado and I closed Decorum.

Empty Promises

Not long after the deaths of Marjan and his driver, my cousin introduced me to an ethnic Albanian man from Macedonia named Artan. Artan’s family sold alcohol and cigarettes in Macedonia and along the Macedonia-Kosovo border. People close to Artan once told me that one of his family’s small storefronts in the duty-free zone made more money than the entire Frankfurt Airport in Germany. This may have been an exaggeration, yet Artan’s family was undoubtedly one of the wealthiest in our country.

Artan’s older brother was kidnapped for ransom in 2002, and his family sent Artan to study in Greece in order to protect him from future troubles. In Macedonia, kidnappings of wealthy individuals were common around this time.

I was studying international relations and foreign affairs at the same university where Artan was due to start. My cousin asked me if Artan could stay at my apartment until he found a place of his own. Artan seemed like a pleasant person, so letting him stay at my place for a few weeks was not a problem.

Toward the end of 2002, Artan introduced me to his good friend Vuli, whose family owned a luxury car dealership in Macedonia. Vuli and I became fast friends. He was an adventurous and charismatic young man, fun to be around. Some people disapproved of my friendship with Vuli because he was ethnic Albanian. Some also said that he was a manipulative con artist who bought stolen jewelry from Kosovo, smuggled it across the borders, and resold it in Macedonia. I thought this was just gossip. How far would people go to discredit someone because of his ethnicity? I used to wonder.

With time, and through Vuli, I met many Albanians who were doing all sorts of jobs, some indeed illegal. Their businesses varied from loan sharking and selling forged university diplomas to dealing contraband cigarettes and stolen cars. In those days, I didn’t care too much about how people made their living. According to the NGO Transparency International, 80 percent of the Albanian economy is a parallel one; for every hundred euros of documented capital, another eighty euros are never accounted for. Most of this undocumented capital comes from organized crime activities. At that time, the situation in countries such as Kosovo and Macedonia was not much different; many people were engaging in some form of illegal business to make ends meet.

In 2003 I graduated from university and returned to Macedonia, hoping to find a good job. Having a university degree, though, meant little. Only active membership in a political party mattered. I managed to get an entry-level, low-paying job as an office manager in a local NGO focusing on Euro-Atlantic integration. I worked for 130 dollars per month, enough to cover my parking expenses. By late 2003, I had had enough of the situation and decided to pursue my education abroad. I applied for a master’s degree program in European criminology in Belgium.

After selling my car—a present from my parents—to finance my studies, I had some money left over that I felt I should invest somewhere.

Listen, Vuli told me one day. I can help you double your money if you want me to. I know you have plans, and you have been struggling with your job, so I would like to help out.

How? I asked, excited.

I don’t need to give you any details, he told me in a friendly voice. Just give me whatever you have left, and every month you will get good interest on your money. In one year you will double your money—trust me.

Vuli promised that by the time I returned from Belgium I would be—in his words—a rich girl, a dream for many young, ambitious Macedonians, including myself.

You have my word, and my word is harder than a stone, Vuli reassured me. Handshake?

He gave me his besa—a word of honor and inviolable trust. As an old Albanian proverb goes, when an Albanian gives his besa, he would sooner lose his son than break his word. Besa is a sacred promise and it means more than any written contract.

I left for Belgium in September 2003. By the following month Vuli and my money were gone. I called and texted Vuli every morning and every evening for a couple of months, but no one ever picked up the phone. Eventually the number was disconnected.

My cousin knew an influential ethnic Albanian man called Komandant Cati who was willing to help me with my problem with Vuli. People called him Komandant, or Commander, because he had taken an active part in the 2001 conflict in Macedonia and supported the Albanian national cause. He promised to get my money back for a reasonable 30 percent of the total amount, and he asked me to write on a piece of paper that the money Vuli had taken from me was actually his.

This way I can deal with Vuli as if he owes me money personally, he explained. If they ask you anything, you just say, ‘Deal with Komandant Cati; that is his money.’ He gave me his besa too, assuring me that the problem would be solved.

After two months, Komandant Cati told my cousin