An SAS soldier. A war criminal. A reckoning with the truth.
Belgrade, 2008. SAS operator Mark "Huds" Hudson hunts down Europe's most-wanted man. When the SAS team closes in on the Beast of Bosnia, the mission erupts into a deadly battle on a Belgrade runway. But the real conflict begins when Huds is forced to confront the fugitive's chilling justifications for genocide... and the darkness of his own past.
The Healer is a gripping international thriller of justice, vengeance, and the lies nations tell themselves - perfect for fans of Frederick Forsyth, Charles Cumming, and Jason Matthews.
A twisting tale of genocide and betrayal - where truth depends on who is telling the story.
An SAS soldier. A war criminal. A reckoning with the truth.
Belgrade, 2008. SAS operator Mark "Huds" Hudson hunts down Europe's most-wanted man. When the SAS team closes in on the Beast of Bosnia, the mission erupts into a deadly battle on a Belgrade runway. But the real conflict begins when Huds is forced to confront the fugitive's chilling justifications for genocide... and the darkness of his own past.
The Healer is a gripping international thriller of justice, vengeance, and the lies nations tell themselves - perfect for fans of Frederick Forsyth, Charles Cumming, and Jason Matthews.
A twisting tale of genocide and betrayal - where truth depends on who is telling the story.
Sunlight lanced through the cracks in the curtains of the Hotel Panorama, high in the green hills above Sarajevo, casting narrow beams that sliced across the map. The President stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the back of his neck slick with sweat.
Bosnia sprawled before him —its towns reduced to black dots, its rivers to faint blue lines. Srebrenica, circled in red, festered on the chart like an open wound. The room buzzed with unease, low murmurs rising and falling like static. Cigarette smoke hung suffocatingly in the stagnant air, clinging to the walls and filling every corner.
His generals exchanged tense glances, their confidence brittle. Advisors shifted in their chairs, their discomfort palpable. All of them were waiting—for him to speak, to act, to carry the weight they could not.
‘Mr. President, our Drina Corps is here, North of the Kasani River. Srebrenica must fall.’
Mladić stabbed the map with a thick finger, the ash from his cigarette falling dangerously close to the inked lines. ‘We have the town surrounded and are ready for the final assault. My men have been patient enough. Give the order.’
The President reached again for the cigarette resting in the ashtray beside him and took a deep drag - the nicotine was required fuel for a decision. His fingers traced the map, evaluating his options. He frowned, his eyes narrowing.
‘What about the civilians?’ he asked softly.
Mladić leaned forward, his massive bulk casting a shadow across the table. The General was a throwback to a 19th Century Prussian cavalry officer - an arrogant swagger, meaty jowls and piercing blue eyes that rarely exhibited a flicker of emotion. He scowled back at the Bosnian Serb President who faced him and exhaled a blue plume of cigarette smoke, letting it drift contemptuously in the President’s direction. He was growing tired of the politician’s weak excuses,
‘Civilians?!’ he snorted. ‘Ha! Since when do you care about the civilians? Women and children didn’t matter in your precious Sarajevo – why would it matter here?’
‘You know the Turks always have the civilians shield their soldiers,’ Mladić continued. ‘We will bus them out to Sarajevo. But if they choose to stay with the men, they will share their fate.’
The room fell silent, the chilling weight of the General’s words freezing the air like cold, dark matter.
The President’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the edge of the table. He thought of Bratunac, of Višegrad, of the Serb villages burned to the ground. The faces of the survivors haunted him—angry widows clutching children, their eyes hollow with grief. How many times had they asked him why he had not acted? He had promised to protect them, to end the raids.
Srebrenica was not just another town. It was a Bosnian Muslim enclave, surrounded by the Bosnian Serb countryside— a UN Safe Haven, protected by Dutch peacekeepers. NATO was watching his army close in, their planes circling like vultures. The Americans, the Europeans—they were daring the Serbs to make the final assault.
He turned his gaze back to Mladić, his voice low but firm. ‘Clinton called me yesterday to say he will retaliate if we do this,’ he said. ‘Airstrikes. Bombing campaigns.’
Mladić chuckled, a dry, bitter sound. He took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the dim light.
‘The Americans are too busy watching O.J. Simpson,’ he laughed. ‘The French are already sunbathing on the beach and will not be paying attention until September. By the time NATO reacts, Srebrenica will be ours. Let them bomb the empty hills for CNN. They will be too late.’
The President’s temper flared. He drew himself upright, his voice rising. ‘This is no joke, General,’ he reproached.
‘And Milošević? What did Belgrade tell you to do?’
Mladić’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and challenge.
‘Milošević says you don’t have the stomach for what needs to be done. We are sick of waiting for you to act. The peace negotiations are ongoing. We need to secure Srebrenica before it is settled. That’s why he already gave me his blessing.’
The President slammed his fist onto the table, the sharp sound silencing the room.
‘You forget your place, Ratko,’ he snapped. ‘I make the decisions here, not Milošević, not Clinton, and not you.’
Mladić leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a sinister growl.
‘And I am the commander of your army, Rade. My men have bled for every town and hill in the Drina Valley this spring while you played politics. While you dithered and negotiated, we stopped the Serb villages from burning. Wars aren’t won with speeches.’
The two hulking men stood nose to nose, their animosity crackling in the air like a summer storm. Each looked about to throw a punch. Their advisors exchanged uneasy glances, some looking down at the map, others avoiding eye contact entirely. For a moment, it seemed the room itself might buckle under the strain of their enmity.
The President’s media advisor finally stepped forward, raising his hands as if to part the tension. ‘Gentlemen, please,’ he said smoothly. ‘This is not the time for division. We must remain unified. The world is watching.’
‘Take Srebrenica and then negotiate your precious treaty from a position of strength for once,’ Mladić said. ‘When we have the town, perhaps you will not give it away easily again.’
The President exhaled sharply, stepping back from the table, his hand releasing the edge as though it had burned him. He glared at Mladić, who scoffed in return. He turned his gaze back to the map, the red circle like a noose around the target. He could not allow himself to appear weak.
He thought of Milošević, the strongman who pulled the strings from Belgrade. Milošević would let him carry the can for this decision. It would not be Milošević’s name in the history books. It would be his. For better or worse, this moment would define him.
The President clenched his jaw, his hand hovering over the map. He thought of the families who might die tomorrow if he did nothing today. History would judge him, but it was not history he feared—it was failure. He could not fail his people.
Finally, he straightened himself up, accentuating his massive, commanding stature. He ran his hand through his voluminous, back-combed hair.
‘Proceed,’ he said, the command scything through the room like an executioner’s axe. He raised a finger in warning,
‘But ensure the attack targets only the military threat. Leave the UN in peace. And the civilians are not to be harmed unnecessarily. The world must see this as justified.’
Mladić stubbed out his cigarette, his face set in grim satisfaction, as he gave a curt nod.
‘As you command, Mr. President,’ he acknowledged, the sarcastic edge in his voice, unmistakable.
As the room emptied, the President lingered, staring at the map. The decision was made, but doubt gnawed at him, relentless and unforgiving.
He told himself he had done what was necessary, that the survival of his people was worth the sacrifice. But deep down, he knew that the blood of Srebrenica would stain his hands forever.
In Terence Hamilton, Karović, now known as Dr. Dabi`c, has become a respectable member of his community. He’s a healer, with Reiki treatment being his specialty. Block 45 is his home now, and he’d get out to stay in touch with the people. There’s something unusual about him, though. For instance, why tight security outside his door if he’s just an ordinary old man going about his life? Why is he being surveilled by a team of SAS operatives?
One phone call from a friend, and Dr. Dabic's world crumbles. His days in Block 45 are now numbered. Will he reach Russia safely?
The Healer takes place in Europe, and it reminds us of the dark history of the Serbian people, notably the war that ravaged the land, and the politics and religious intolerance that fueled it. It centers on the life of the ‘Butcher of Bosnia’, the man responsible for mass killings. Bringing the Butcher to justice costs more bloodshed and isn’t an easy one to pull, much as the effort to haul him to The Hague has received support outside Serbia.
The book begins with Karović in his new mask, and he wears it like there’s nothing evil underneath. Like he’s the man his patients and the community say he is.
For readers of war stories, The Healer is a must-read. It’s an action-packed story bursting at the seams with gunshots and car chases. It’s a story that had me on tenterhooks throughout, because Dr. Dabi`c seems like a nice guy; I hated Mark and his team every time they succeeded.
Hamilton does a commendable job of giving the readers the two sides of Karovic. Starting with Karović’s good side endears him to the reader. Later, after revealing his dark side, the reader still considers Karović’s reasoning. For instance, he’s convinced that the war was necessary. That killing thousands and thousands was necessary back when he committed the atrocities. That he deserves a medal for doing what was necessary, what others couldn’t.
In a nutshell, Hamilton’s villain doesn’t see himself in the same light as people about him but sees himself as righteously good. He plays mind games well, so good at this that he almost changed Mark’s perspective. Interestingly, he blames America for his woes.