by Joseph Badal
“With all due respect, Colonel, what’s going on? Why doesn’t my unit ever go out on patrol? Have I screwed up?”
Sweeney ran his hands over his face and then through his hair. “Sit down, Mike. No, you haven’t screwed up; you’re doing a great job. The reason you and your men haven’t been doing patrols has nothing to do with your performance. It’s because the Pentagon ordered me to keep you out of harm’s way.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“I don’t either, Michael. Not completely, anyway. Apparently someone from the CIA called General Hightower over at the Joint Chiefs and demanded you be rotated back to the States. They worked out a compromise. You’re to be kept away from the Yugoslav border. I’ve got no choice. Orders are orders.”
Michael felt betrayed. He never would have believed his father would do such a thing. “This stinks, Colonel,” he said. “What do I tell my men? Hell, what do I tell the other company commanders?”
“Nothing. You tell them absolutely nothing.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Stefan, we must leave,” Vanja said. She heard the fear in her own voice and regretted it. Stefan hated weakness, especially when displayed by his own family members. “The Serb Army is moving this way. It’s all over the television.”
Stefan turned his head and gave Vanja a blank stare. Then he looked back at the television.
Vanja stepped in front of him and knelt on the carpet. “You’ve been like this since you saw Miriana shot. You have to get over it. You don’t know that she is dead. She could still be alive. Do you want her to learn her father just gave up, that he’s a quitter? You will never know if she’s alive if you let Serb goons kill you.”
Vanja began to cry. She grabbed Stefan’s arm and pressed her head against it. “What’s wrong with you?” she wailed. “If you have no concern for your own life, don’t you care anymore about us?”
Stefan looked at her again, eyes blazing now. “Shut up, woman!”
“No, I won’t shut up,” she screamed, her face crimson. “You’ve bullied me for thirty years. And still I loved you. Well, go ahead and let the Serbs kill you. Attila and I are leaving.”
Vanja stood and rushed away, skirts swirling while she ran out the front door of the little, white-stuccoed house. Attila was in the yard, throwing pebbles at a tree.
“Attila, get the car,” she ordered.
“Wh . . . where is Babo, Mama?” the teenager asked in his cracking, pubescent voice.
“He’s not coming. There’s nothing we can do. Now get the car.”
The teenager bowed his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Yes, Mama,” he said, before walking around the side of the house.
He looks so much like his father, Vanja thought, tears running down her cheeks. Just as tall. The same sharp features. But he’s prettier. Softer. The door creaked open behind her. She whirled around, wiping her face with the sleeve of her dress. Stefan’s tall, lean form filled the doorframe. Now in his seventies, he was still an imposing figure. He looked at least ten years younger than he was.
As he came toward her, Vanja turned her head to the side, expecting him to strike her. Instead, he put his arms around her and kissed her gently on the forehead. He had never done anything like that outside the privacy of their bedroom, she realized – and rarely even there.
“You’ve been the best woman any man could want,” he said. “You’ve always stood by me. If you’re determined to go, I’ll go with you. Someone has to protect you and Attila.”
Vanja smiled and pressed her body against him. Tears, now of relief, flooded her eyes. Just then, Attila drove up in the Mercedes, jerrycans of gasoline strapped to the car’s roof rack. The boy stopped the car, got out, and gawked wide-eyed at his parents.
Vanja smiled. “What’s wrong, boy? You’ve never seen a man and woman hold each other. Go help your father pack a suitcase.”
The young man smiled. “Yes, Mama.”
CHAPTER THREE
Eighteen-year-old Frank Murata walked around his car to the passenger side and opened the door. He tried not to be too obvious, checking out Ellen’s legs when he took her hand and helped her out. Man, does she have great legs, he thought.
Sexual tension was driving him crazy. He tried to control his trembling. It was damned hot out, yet he was shaking as though it was freezing. He kept getting mixed signals from Ellen. One moment he thought she wanted to screw his brains out; the next moment he thought she might scream rape. Catholic girls, he thought. One minute they’re hot for your bod, then they’re thinking about what they’ll have to say in confession.
Ellen Murphy was everything Frank wanted in a girlfriend: tall, blond, athletic, and funny. He was fairly sure she was still a virgin. Takes one to know one, Frank thought. Jeez! Eighteen and still as chaste as a nun.
He led the way through a stand of trees. “Watch out for the poison oak,” he told Ellen, pointing at the waxy leaves of a bush on the side of the path. He knew where he wanted to go. There was a clearing just ahead. It was hidden on three sides from the road that looped through the park. It was too early in the year for many other people to be in the park. He hoped.
They’d just entered the clearing when Ellen said, “Ooh, what’s that smell?”
Frank detected the odor, too. He let go of Ellen’s hand. “Stay here. I’ll check it out. Somebody probably dumped garbage.” He followed the scent trail. It got stronger while he crossed the clearing, passed the picnic table and barbecue pit, and approached the far treeline this side of the park road. The stench was so strong now that Frank took out his handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose. “Why the hell did I have to play the big, brave man?” he murmured, when he suddenly heard scurrying sounds just ahead. His heart seemed to stop and his stomach erupted with the swirling of a million butterflies.
Something lay on the ground a few feet away. It looked white. He took another step forward and then moved to the side, out of the light from the full moon. Moonlight now shone down on the blue-white skin of a mutilated body. Pieces of clothing had been strewn around the corpse and chunks of flesh had been bitten away. Frank’s stomach heaved. He turned to Ellen, but before he could say anything, he vomited down the front of his clothes.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jack entered his office waiting area and smiled at Miriana sitting in one of the chairs. Now wearing a cropped black sweater, jeans, and flat-heeled, black leather boots, she looked like any young American woman.
“You two getting along?” Jack asked, directing the question to his secretary.
She chuckled. “Just offering Miriana some hints on how to deal with you and the other macho types around here.”
Jack laughed. He waved at Miriana. “Come on in; let’s talk.”
Once they were seated facing each other in the two easy chairs at the far side of the office, Jack looked quizzically at Miriana. “You look worried,” he said.
“Have you seen news?” she said, hugging herself. “Serb Army is moving toward Kosovo. They will go through Mladenovac. Is parents’ town.”
“I’m aware of that. Meetings are going on at NATO right now about what kind of action we should take.”
“Mr. Cole, whatever action NATO takes will be too late to help family. The Serbs know I was involved in Karadjic’s abduction. They will make family pay for my treachery.”
“We’ll think of something, Miriana. I promise.”
Miriana blew out a loud, exasperated stream of air. “Have you found man who kidnapped me? Who attacked Mr. and Mrs. Danforth?” she asked.
“Not yet. We found the neighbor woman’s car. Then some kids found her body in the woods a few miles away from the car. But we haven’t found him.”
“You have to find him!” Miriana heard her own voice tremble.
“We’re doing our best. We’ll keep looking for him. I promise.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Liz opened her eyes and looked around the unfamiliar room – white walls, stainless steel b
ed rails. A soft but steady beep-beep-beep sound distracted her. She was groggy and lost. “Bob,” she whispered hoarsely.
She heard someone delicately snoring. “Bob?”
A sharp, slapping sound – a book hitting the floor? A scraping noise – a chair leg on linoleum? Then Bob brought his face into view.
“Liz, I’m here.” He took her hand in both of his.
She tried to say something, but all that came out was a raspy “Wh . . .. ”
Bob filled a plastic cup with water from a jug. He slipped a straw into the cup and guided it between Liz’s lips. She raised her head slightly and sipped. Then she dropped her head back on the pillow.
“Where am I?”
“Bethesda Memorial Hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Do you remember the man . . .?”
Liz tried to follow what Bob said. But her head pounded and the overhead lights hurt her eyes.
“You took a bad knock on the head,” he said. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for the past four days.”
Nothing he’d said made any sense to her. She tried to force a question from her mouth, but nothing came. Her eyes closed despite her efforts to resist. She felt herself beginning to drift away.
CHAPTER SIX
Paulus Tomavic, whistling along with a melody on his car radio, was pleased he’d soon be rid of Artyan Vitas. Because of his injuries, the assassin had to stay in the U.S. longer than planned. This would be Paulus’ last trip shuttling food and medicine to the madman. I’ll deliver the forged documents to Vitas today, then wash my hands of him, he thought.
Traffic was light on this early Tuesday afternoon, and most of the traffic lights were working in his favor for a change. He gunned the engine when the next one switched to yellow, racing through the intersection. Checking his rearview mirror for police, he saw a tan sedan speed after him through the now red light. His stomach seemed to do a full gainer.
He diverted from his normal direct route to the Alexandria safehouse and weaved through a maze of streets. The tan sedan hung back – but it followed each of his turns. Two men sat in the front seat. “Dammit! A tail.” He saw an open curbside parking space and hit the brakes hard to pull into it. He stepped from the car, walked around its front, crossed the sidewalk, and stood before a bakery’s display window. He pretended to look at the breads and pastries, while he looked for the tan car’s reflection. It slowly moved into a parking slot across the street.
After going into the bakery and buying a loaf of French bread he didn’t really need, Paulus returned to his car and drove back toward the Embassy. He saw the same car in his mirror.
Two hours later, the vehicle gate at the Yugoslav Embassy opened to release a Lincoln Towncar. Agents Tommy Shapiro and Lee Ferguson, parked across the street in a tan Oldsmobile, craned their necks to get a view of the driver. It was a woman. They settled back in their seats. “False alarm,” Shapiro said.
A minute later, an identical car exited the Embassy grounds. Again, a female driver. A third and fourth car left the compound shortly after. Male drivers. But not Paulus Tomavic. What the hell! Shapiro thought.
“Shit! We’ve been made,” Ferguson said.
Shapiro pulled the toothpick from his mouth. “That’s putting it mildly. Which one do you think Tomavic was hiding in?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Hi, beautiful,” Bob said while pushing a wheelchair into the hospital room.
“Oh, I’m sure I look absolutely gorgeous,” Liz said in a sandpapery voice. She smoothed her hair back and sat up a little straighter in bed.
Bob kissed her on the lips. “You look damn good to me.”
He felt tears well in his eyes and tried to blink them back. When that didn’t work, he quickly wiped them away with the palm of his hand.
“I’m fine now, Bob,” Liz said, patting his arm. “Don’t worry.”
“Easier said than done,” he said.
“I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“The doctor said you were ready to go home. I have your ride right here.”
“Now?” Liz said gleefully. “I can leave now?”
Bob laughed. “You bet!”
A nurse came into the room. “So you’re taking our favorite patient away from us,” she said.
“You’ve all been great,” Bob told her. “But you’ve had her for six days. Now I want her back.”
“No argument from me,” the nurse laughed. “But I want the privilege of wheeling Mrs. Danforth out. Besides, it’s hospital policy that only a hospital employee can push a patient to freedom.”
Bob walked beside the wheelchair to the CIA car parked at the hospital’s front entrance. He nodded at the CIA agent/driver standing next to it. He kept his hand near the grip of the pistol in his shoulder holster until Liz was safely buckled into the backseat, he’d gone around to the other side and climbed in next to her, and the CIA man had pulled away from the curb.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Paulus looked at Vitas stretched out on the couch. The assassin’s chest heaved and an animal-like rumble resonated from within it. His normal ruddy complexion now looked red – as though his face was on fire. The room stank with sour perspiration and . . . something else. Paulus couldn’t place the odor. He knew he never would have been able to enter the safehouse and walk up to the man without being observed if Vitas were not sick. Thank God he would be leaving today – before he died on him.
Vitas jerked alert and sat up when Paulus touched his shoulder. “What the fuck!” he shouted.
“It’s time for you to go. The plane is ready at the airport.”
“About time,” Vitas said. “Four days holed up in this fucking place.”
Paulus almost corrected the man. He’d been there six days. But he decided to let it go. “You know we couldn’t risk putting you on the streets with hundreds of policemen, the FBI, and the CIA looking for you.”
“Yeah, yeah. What now?”
“I have a private plane, a Gulf Stream, waiting for you in West Virginia. About a five-hour drive. It will take you to Juarez, Mexico. From there the plane will fly you to Mexico City, then Madrid, and finally to Belgrade.”
“All right, I’m ready,” Vitas said, struggling to get off the couch. He favored his injured leg. He followed Paulus out into the night and got in the back of the Embassy man’s sedan. He opened the back door and stretched out on the seat.
Paulus looked back over the front seat at Vitas. The man had already fallen asleep. He cranked up the air conditioner and opened the front windows. The stench of the man was overpowering. He was no doctor, but Paulus had guessed days ago that Vitas’ leg had become infected. It was damn lucky he’d been able to hire a private jet, Paulus thought; no commercial airline would have let the man board one of their planes.
CHAPTER NINE
From Mladenovac, Stefan, Vanja, and Attila crossed the Morava River on one of the few bridges that NATO air assaults had left standing. It had taken them two days to travel the first three hundred kilometers. Refugees packed the roads and they’d had to stop on several occasions to allow the car’s engine to cool off.
“These goddam peasants don’t have the sense to get out of the way,” Stefan yelled for the hundredth time, while hitting the brakes to avoid running over an old man limping along on crutches.
Vanja patted Stefan’s arm. “Be patient, my husband,” she said.
Stefan heaved a massive sigh and clenched his teeth in frustration, while he slowly drove the car ahead.
Passing through Serb town after Serb town, they saw little evidence of the war with NATO – other than the refugees from the north and from Kosovo Province straggling along the road. Buildings were undamaged; people seemed to be performing their normal activities. Life in the small towns and villages of Serbia appeared to be unchanged. Most of the bombing attacks, Stefan knew, had centered in and around the larger metropolitan areas and on the bridges.
When they approached Surdulica, just
east of the southern part of Kosovo Province, the number of refugees increased to a swarm. Stefan identified ethnic Albanians, Gypsies, Bosnians, and even Bulgarians. There were also a myriad of other people whose clothing or features didn’t make them easily identifiable. It took Stefan another two days to drive the last thirty kilometers from Surdulica to a point just north of the Macedonian border. Most of the refugees were on foot. Only a few traveled in trucks, cars, or even tractors. Stefan saw there were very few young men among the refugees. The Serbs must have found them, or they are fighting in the mountains, he thought. His car moved slowly, only as fast as the walking refugees moved. In Preshevo, almost at the Macedonian border, the mass of people came to a virtual stop.
Stefan got out of the car and approached a bedraggled old man.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Why isn’t the traffic moving?”
The man just hunched his shoulders and turned away. Stefan grabbed an old woman by the arm.
“Do you know what lies ahead?” he asked her.
She shook her arm free. “Have you seen my Marika?” she asked plaintively. “The soldiers took her. Have you seen my Marika?”
Stefan shrugged and walked back to the car. No one seemed to know what was happening.
“Attila, move the car over to those trees where it will be cooler,” he said. “And see if you can scrounge up some petrol. We’re down to our last can. Vanja, get out the tent and set it up. We could be here awhile.”
While Vanja and Attila worked to set up camp, Stefan circulated among the refugees. He listened to their tales of dispossession, murder, rape, and mayhem. An idea suddenly struck him. He walked back to their campsite and sat down with Vanja and Attila.
“Somehow I will scrounge up some writing paper,” he told them. “We will interview as many of these people as possible. Since I speak Albanian, I will ask the questions and then translate their answers into Roma. Both of you will write it all down. We will record all we can on the atrocities perpetrated by the Serbs.”
