182 AMERICAN SPYmatters of mutual interest. Božović wanted an American visa for his
underage Yugoslav girlfriend, and our mutual friend had (falsely) suggested
to him that I might be able to help. Somewhat fittingly, satirical Montene-
grin songwriter Rambo Amadeus’s newest album, Psychological Propaganda
Set, played in the background.
Božović was tall, a tough and physically imposing guy, but he was very
friendly and personable with me. His English was excellent. He told me
he’d earned the nickname Giška because he looked like a bear with the
same name that used to be kept in the Belgrade Zoo. I told him truthfully
that I really liked his New York–tagged Jeep CJ that was often parked in the
Košutnjak forest near my house. Giška then told me what I already knew:
he was the leader of a large “unofficial” militia called the Serbian Guard
that trained near my Banovo Brdo residence. What he neglected to say was
that he had no prior military training.
My objective was to string him along on the visa matter while extracting
as much information out of him as I could about the dangerous Serbian
Guard, its plans, intentions, and capabilities. After our first meeting,
Božović agreed to leave his American passport with me, along with his girl-
friend’s Yugoslav passport, “for processing.” I told him I would do my best
but could make no guarantees that I could help with the visa.
We met a few more times after our initial encounter at the Ušće res-
taurant, and he shared some valuable information with me about the
Serbian Guard. One day he told me he was headed north to take the fight
to the Croats. I wished him luck. He knew I wasn’t taking sides; I was just
a Serbian-speaking American who wanted to understand what was hap-
pening in this complicated country.
During his first armed engagement near Gospić, Croatia, Koman-
dante Giška stood up and was shot in the head by a Croatian sniper.
Komandante Giška’s distraught Serbian Guard comrades brought his
lifeless body back to Belgrade, where he was given a hero’s send-off. After
the parade, Božović’s mother met me to retrieve her late son’s passport.
Sporting a respectable mustache, she kissed me three times, alternating
cheeks. To this day, my Yugoslav friends who happened to witness the
encounter wonder why on earth I was so tight with the mother of leg-
endary Serb gangster and warlord Komandante Giška.
Božović’s wartime exploits and the funeral parade were big news in