Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1)

by Joseph Badal

  “How bad is it?” George asked weakly.

  “Pretty clean wound,” Bob said. “I think we’ll be able to stop the bleeding with a pressure bandage.”

  Liz opened the other rear door and got in next to George. She opened the first-aid kit and went to work on him.

  Bob watched Liz patch up George. “Are you okay?” he asked George.

  “I’ll be fine if you can find me a couple of pain killers and a bottle of Ouzo as a chaser.”

  “It sounds like he’ll live,” Liz said, smiling at George.

  “We’d better get him back to our place,” Bob said.

  “He should see a doctor,” Liz suggested.

  “Call Meers when we get to your place,” George said. “He’s sure to know a doctor who will keep his mouth shut.”

  While Liz sat with George in the backseat, Bob got behind the wheel and floored the accelerator, sending sand shooting off the spinning rear tires. He glanced at Liz in the rearview mirror. She was sitting quietly next to George. My innocent little wife is getting tougher by the minute, Bob thought. It gave him no pleasure.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Katrina Vulovich sat in a rocking chair in a corner of the nursery, the sleeping American child in her arms. Her heart felt as though it would leap from her chest. She loved this boy with every fiber of her being. He was the son she always wanted.

  “Andreas, my little boy,” she whispered, “how beautiful you are.” She brushed the hair away from his forehead and lightly kissed him. “You are different from all the others. They will become workers in the Communist system. Drones to operate the machines, work the fields. Maybe one or two will go into the Intelligence Service or the Army and become heroes of the State. But you shall become greater than them all. Yes, you will, my son.”

  Katrina wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She felt disoriented – as though she was moving in her mind from one place to another. Children stolen from their families surround me, she thought. And now I’m taking this boy with me to visit my parents in Sofia. If I’m found out, I’ll be sent back to the fields – or executed. But I can’t help it. This is my son. How could I leave him behind with these orphans? He isn’t an orphan. He’s my flesh and blood, my son.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “When are we going after this guy Radko?” Liz asked, spitting out the Gypsy’s name as though it was a curse. She stared at George, seated across the dining room table, surgical tape around his chest, holding a clean pressure bandage in place under his arm. Bob stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. The remnants of lunch lay on plates scattered around the table.

  “We’re not,” George said. “At least, not yet.”

  “Why not?” she said, her eyes wide, her hands flexing with impatience. “He’s the best lead we’ve got.”

  “I agree,” George said. “But even if we track him down, do you think he’ll admit to taking your son, or any other children for that matter? And if we question Radko, the first chance he gets he’ll contact the Bulgarians. If that happens, they’ll close down Petrich and move all the children to another location. We’ll never find Michael.”

  “Then we go to Petrich,” Bob said.

  “As soon as Meers briefs us on everything your Embassy knows about the area around Petrich. God forbid, the Bulgarians are planning military maneuvers along their southern border just when we decide to cross over. If we can meet with Meers tomorrow, you and I might try to cross the border the day after tomorrow – late at night.”

  Liz leaped to her feet, forcing Bob to jump back. “You’re not going without me,” she snapped.

  Bob put his arm around her. “Liz, it makes no–”

  She shrugged away. “You macho idiots get one thing straight. If my son’s in that damn orphanage in Bulgaria, I’m going there with or without you!”

  In the sudden silence after her outburst, George said, “Then it’s without me.”

  “What’s the matter?” Liz demanded, her fingers drumming nervously against the sides of her legs. “You don’t think I can keep up with you?”

  “That’s not the problem,” George said. “Do you know how to use a weapon?”

  “What the hell does that . . .” After a beat she shook her head. “No, I’ve never held a gun.”

  “We may have to kill people,” George said. “At the border, or getting into the orphanage . . . and getting out. There were always guards there.”

  Liz’s face seemed to sag, but the anger was still there. Her eyes blazed at George.

  “And what happens if Bob and I are captured or killed in Bulgaria?” George said. “It’ll then be up to you alone to work to find Michael.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Janos dropped off the crates of wine in Thessaloniki and drove northeast toward Seres. The only cargo left in the back of the truck were several empty boxes, Vanja, and the kidnapped baby girl. Just south of Seres, the truck’s fuel pump failed. While Janos and Gregorie waited with the truck – Vanja and the infant still locked in the cargo bay – Stefan drove the Mercedes into Seres and arranged for a tow truck. When he returned an hour later, beating the tow truck, he transferred Vanja and the infant to the sedan.

  After eight hours cooped up in the back of the truck, Vanja had a deer-in-the-headlights look. Perspiration plastered her hair to her face and her dress stuck to her body. Her skin looked two shades redder than normal. The baby girl squalled in her arms. It smelled like she’d soiled her diapers.

  “You sonofabitch,” Vanja screamed over the baby’s cries from the backseat of the car.

  Stefan twisted in his seat and raised his arm. Vanja shrank out of reach.

  “Go ahead, hit me,” she yelled. “I’ll walk away from here and leave you alone with this baby.”

  She rocked the infant in her arms, trying to quiet it. “You left us in the truck for hours. We could have died in there. It’s bad enough you get me involved in this baby stealing; must you try to kill me, too?”

  Stefan shot her a hateful look and opened his mouth as though to say something. Instead, he just stepped from the car and walked over to the stranded truck.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Bob sat with George under the Campari umbrella at the same table where he and Liz had first met Franklin Meers. They’d left Liz at home. This time when Meers arrived, he stood by the table, barely acknowledging their greetings. Bob assumed from Meers’ rigid posture and clipped speech that he was still pissed off about the death of his informant on the beach at Kaki Thalassa.

  “Please sit down, Franklin,” Bob said.

  After a second’s pause, Meers took a seat. He had barely settled into the chair when George peppered him with one question after another.

  Bob could tell George was not making the intelligence officer any happier.

  “Did you find out if the Bulgarians are planning any military exercises along the border near Petrich?”

  “There’s nothing going on – at least in the next week.”

  “What about trip wires, security lights, or alarms along the border?” Bob asked.

  “Mostly concertina wire and intermittent patrols on the Bulgarian side. Some alarm trip wires. Not very sophisticated. After all, how many people want to sneak into Bulgaria? There are two sets of trip wires on the Greek side, though.”

  George nodded.

  Meers looked at Bob. “Have you thought this through? You get caught and they’ll shoot your ass as a spy. And if you don’t get caught and actually make it back – which I seriously doubt – you’ll probably be courts-martialled. Your Army career will be over.”

  “What’s my alternative, to let those bastards keep my son? Screw my Army career.” Bob knew he had his priorities right, but he also knew giving up his Army commission would be painful.

  Meers nodded, then said, “When are you going across?”

  “I think it would be best if you didn’t know our schedule,” George interjected.

  “Look,” Meers said. “I w
ant to help you. If you tell me when you plan to cross the border, I can arrange to get a message to the Bulgarian Secret Police through one of our double agents. Tell them a saboteur will try to cross into Bulgaria – at some entry point far away from Petrich. It would distract, maybe draw away some guards from your area.”

  “We’ll reconnoiter the crossing point while it’s still light,” Bob said. “We’re leaving–”

  But George cut him off. “We’re starting out early in the morning, the day after tomorrow,” he said.

  “I’ll set things in motion,” Meers replied. He stood and looked down at Bob and George. “You guys don’t have a hope and prayer, you know?” Then he walked away from the table and disappeared around the corner.

  “Why’d you lie to Meers about when we’re going across?” Bob asked. “Don’t you trust him?”

  “I believe he’s on our side. But what he doesn’t know can’t hurt us.”

  They found Liz sitting on the living room floor surrounded by backpacks and an assortment of gear.

  “Did you get everything?” George asked.

  Liz picked up a sheet of yellow notepaper and read off the list. “The camouflaged clothing is over there,” she said, pointing toward the couch. “Black grease paint, ropes, a grappling hook, flashlights, a first-aid kit, and two .45 caliber pistols – all this stuff on the floor will go in the packs. One of the pistols is yours, Bob. Will Spence dropped the other one off about an hour ago. He never asked one question about why you wanted it. ”

  Bob knelt down next to Liz and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you,” he said.

  She gave him a quick smile. “I’ll fill the canteens and make sandwiches in the morning. I put the money Mom and Dad sent in your backpack – ten thousand in large bills. My father said to tell you something.” She dropped her voice to a lower register: ‘‘ ‘You tell Bob that good, hard American currency can sway the mind of even the most dogmatic Communist.’ ”

  “What’s this?” Bob asked, lifting a small, soft-sided bag from the top of one of the open backpacks.

  “That’s for Michael,” she said.

  Bob unzipped the bag and saw one of Michael’s shirts, a pair of shorts, underwear, sandals, two cans of juice, and a teddy bear.

  That night, Bob dreamed he heard Michael: “Daddy, Daddy!” But he couldn’t find his son. Gone! Gone! “Michael, where are you?” Bob called in his dream. A strange woman held his son and Michael called her “Mama.” Then he saw wave after wave of young men – Soviet soldiers – marching in Red Square, wearing high-brimmed Russian Army hats and carrying AK-47 assault rifles. They yelled in cadence, “Down with the American dogs; death to Robert Danforth.” Michael, now a tall young man, marched in the middle of the front row of soldiers, yelling the loudest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Katrina Vulovich tried to force from her memory the obligatory visit to her fat boss’ Sofia apartment – his lying on top of her, sweating and grunting. She owed him for giving her the job at the orphanage. If she didn’t service him on demand, she’d find herself back in the fields of a government collective farm.

  As she walked back to her parents’ apartment in the center of the Bulgarian capital to pick up her little Andreas, she talked to herself, her hands moving as though she were gesturing while talking to another person. She ignored the stares of passersby. “What choice do I have? I have to let him fuck me. It only lasted thirty minutes, but it seemed like an eternity.” She shivered. “That fat, stinking body!” she said. “Things will be better as soon as I have Andreas in my arms.”

  Her mother answered her knock on the apartment door.

  “Ah, Katrina, it’s you.”

  “Hello, Mama. And how is Andreas?”

  “No problems. Papa has been playing with him on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Papa happier.”

  Katrina followed her mother from the doorway to the living room, where her father watched Andreas draw circles in a coloring book.

  “So, when are you going to get married, Katrina?” her mother said. “You need to give us a real grandchild. We’re not getting any younger.” Katrina’s father looked over at her, waiting for her answer.

  Katrina stared at her little Andreas. “Mama,” she said, “Andreas is my son. He is your grandson.”

  Her parents glanced at each other, worry and shock etching their features.

  Katrina ignored the looks. They couldn’t understand how she felt. She walked over to Andreas. “Today’s Saturday,” she said. “The carousel in Lenin Park will be running. Do you want to go to the park?”

  Andreas jumped up, a gleeful smile on his face. “Da, Momi,” he said.

  His position as cultural attaché at the U.S. Embassy in Sofia provided Andrew Morton with cover. He was, plainly and simply, a spy. Pausing in signing the last few letters due to go out in the diplomatic pouch, he looked at his eight-year-old daughter, Erica, leafing through a stack of papers on his secretary’s desk in the adjoining room.

  Morton leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms over his head, and groaned. So much work left to do. But he had promised Erica he would take her to ride on the merry-go-round. He stood and reached for his jacket. Erica skipped into the room, a piece of paper in her outstretched hand.

  “What’s this, Daddy?” Erica said. “What’s ‘abducted’ mean?”

  Morton took the sheet of paper from Erica, looked at the photo on the flyer, and glanced at the information printed above and below the photo. He feigned interest, wanting his daughter to think he found her discovery exciting.

  Pointing at the photo on the flyer, he said, “It means someone took this little boy away from his parents.” He saw the sudden look of fear in Erica’s eyes. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “let’s take this with us.” He winked. “We’ll run our own investigation. Maybe we can find this little American boy and return him to his family.”

  “Okay,” Erica said. “Can I hold the picture?” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

  Morton laughed. Kids and their fantasies. “Sure, honey,” he said.

  Katrina watched little Andreas try to chase down the soccer ball some older boys were playing with in the park. He would get right back on his feet whenever one of the bigger boys knocked him down, but still Katrina began to fear he might get hurt. She rushed into the melee on the field to rescue him. After brushing dirt from his clothes and face, she took his hand and set off toward the carousel.

  She bought a ticket from the operator. “My horsey, my horsey,” Andreas said. He ran to the black horse with a red saddle. The carousel horse stood frozen in a half-rearing pose; its painted eyes seemed wild with rage. It was just like her little boy to pick the fiercest of all the carousel animals. Katrina lifted Andreas onto the horse’s back.

  “I can get on myself, Daddy. Here, you hold the picture,” Erica Morton said, passing the kidnapping bulletin to her father.

  Morton nodded to Erica and stood next to a group of other parents while she ran to the merry-go-round. He watched her mount one of the horses.

  The merry-go-round began to turn, slowly at first, its calliope music chiming loudly. It picked up speed and Erica’s long brown hair streamed behind her while she exhorted her horse to go ever faster. Lost in the pleasure of the moment, Morton almost didn’t notice something picking at his consciousness. Words shouted by a child other than Erica. English words. Out of place in Sofia.

  “Giddyup, horsey.” The carousel spun around and the words came again. “Giddyup, horsey.”

  There! A little black-haired boy, three horses behind Erica, called over and over, “Giddyup, horsey.”

  Morton looked around, trying to locate the boy’s parents. He thought he knew all the few Americans in Sofia. After scanning the crowd and finding no familiar faces, he turned back to the carousel. Something about the child seemed familiar. Erica flashed by him again on her own wooden horse. Seeing her reminded him. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the bulletin with the
picture of the kidnapped American boy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Liz hadn’t been able to sleep since Bob and George took off for Bulgaria. She’d cleaned the house twice, washed dishes that didn’t need washing, and was now weeding the garden. She’d just taken a break, to go into the house to get some iced tea, when a car pulled up in front of the house. She recognized Franklin Meers’ Volvo. Liz’s pulse elevated. Oh God, she thought, something’s happened to Bob.

  Her knees wobbled as she watched Meers leave his car and approach the gate. She rested an arm on the rail next to the steps going up to the porch.

  “I need to talk with you and Bob,” Meers said while opening the wrought iron gate.

  Liz swallowed. She wasn’t sure she could trust her voice. She swallowed again and said, “You’ll have to settle for talking to me. Bob and George took off early this morning. Didn’t you know?”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Meers ran both hands through his hair and seemed suddenly terribly upset. “They told me they weren’t going until tomorrow.”

  Liz squinted her eyes at the change in Meers’ face. “What’s going on?”

  Then Meers smiled. “We’ve found Michael. He’s safe.”

  “Oh, my God.” Liz’s eyes filled with tears. She collapsed onto the flowerbed.

  Meers helped her up and into the house, into a chair.

  “Where’s Michael?” she asked. “When can I see him?”

  “He’s in Sofia, in Bulgaria. Apparently, the female director of the Petrich orphanage had him. They were in an amusement park. She tried to run away with Michael, but an American assigned to our Embassy there caught her and called the police. Michael’s at police headquarters in Sofia now.”