by Fritz Galt
“Of course not. What do you think we are, a charity?”
At least he was honest.
“Please take a seat.”
The niceties over, she took a seat opposite him.
He shoved that morning’s New York Times across the desk. The picture showed a soldier lying in a pool of blood, a dagger buried up to its hilt in his neck, a jagged tip protruding out the other side.
“Please. I just ate.”
“They’re trampling all over us, Natalie. The Serbian underworld is piping in oil and gas right under our noses. The government is tapping into all its foreign reserves in Cyprus. Their military is picking off UN observers at will and without fear of reprisal.”
“What are we doing about it?” She was looking at a desperate man.
“Our hands are tied. They’re mocking our economic blockade, and all the wrong elements are benefiting from it. We monitor their borders for commercial and military goods, and the damn country is thriving. People are happy, proud of their leadership, driving cars and tractors despite the fuel embargo, smoking imported cigarettes, gambling, snickering, thumbing their noses at us.”
“We’ll just have to be more vigilant.”
He shook his head. “You know Yugoslavia. The border is like a sieve. We’ve got only one option left.”
Okay, here it came.
“We want you to go in there. Lay off the local staff, seal the doors and close the embassy down.”
“What? Break diplomatic relations?”
“You’ve got it.”
In the dark room, Mick heard a container snap open and a plastic fork land on the carpet.
“Wait a second,” Gutman said.
“Sure thing.” Lance pushed a few buttons and the lights turned on, revealing Gutman on his hands and knees looking for his fork.
The screen rolled up, the map reappeared and the drapes drew open.
“Got it.” Gutman regained his feet and stuffed himself in his chair. “Proceed.”
The lights dimmed, the drapes reversed themselves, the map rolled up and the screen slid down.
The light beams projected a six-foot close-up of a muscular Mick standing naked in a lake. It appeared to be shot through a telephoto lens. He remembered camping at that spot that summer. He also remembered shampooing his hair, but he didn’t remember inviting a cameraman to take pictures.
“That’s Mick Pierce. Knows Yugoslavia like the back of his hand,” Lance said. “Sorry about the angle, Mick.”
Another click and Natalie’s face appeared, radiant, amused and brash, defying the cameraman to take a good shot.
“Natalie Pierce is Mick’s wife. She’s not one of us. Rather, she’s with the State Department.”
“Good cover,” Gutman said.
Mick grunted. “It’s not a cover.”
“Wait a second.” Gutman drummed his fingertips against his chin, dislodging a few crumbs. “Wasn’t there an operative named Pierce, code-named ‘Sheik’? Caught screwing the French Prime Minister’s wife.”
Mick and Lance exchanged glances. Lance cleared his throat. “That would be Mick’s brother, Alec.”
Another image flashed on the screen. Mick recognized the blurry snapshot at once. He had taken the picture of Alec while standing outside the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong five years earlier. He thought he had destroyed the negative.
Alec stood tall, with straight blond hair blowing around his perfectly curled ears. Mick had to admit that his brother was everything he was not. In addition to being rakishly handsome, he was agile and young.
Six years Mick’s junior and an overachiever, Alec Pierce was a born athlete with an interest in the sciences. In the CIA, he had overpowered human obstacles, outsmarted foreign security systems and operated under aliases and false legends for nearly a decade.
By all accounts, Alec was a success.
“Alec Pierce,” Lance said. “CIA operative. Beirut, La Paz.”
“I remember the events,” Gutman said. “And I also remember Paris. He became so enamored with the PM’s broad that it took five agents to pull him out.”
“He’s a bit of a loose cannon, sir,” Lance said.
“Soured French relations for years.”
Lance slapped Mick on the shoulder. “Mick usually keeps him on a short leash, am I right?”
“So whatever happened to him?” Gutman asked.
“Bosnia happened,” Mick muttered.
“That’s right,” Lance said brightly. The next image showed CNN footage of Srebrenica. Mick could barely watch.
“Alec was a peacekeeper in Srebrenica that day the UN failed to protect the town and Serbs overran it. This is what we’ve been able to piece together, now that we have limited access to the town. Alec’s lover, a young Bosnian woman, was raped in her family home before Alec’s eyes. We learned that later she was either murdered or committed suicide.”
Jesus, Mick thought. He turned away from the screen.
Over the years, invaders had used sexual conquest as a form of domination, diluting the bloodlines and screwing the brains. But did it all have to happen before Alec’s eyes?
Backlit by the flickering footage, Lance went on. “Alec was forcibly removed from the house and taken to God-knows-where behind Serbian lines. At first, we assumed that he had been exterminated like most of the men captured in Srebrenica. You can see from these pictures how the UN War Crimes Tribunal has documented evidence of the genocide of war prisoners and civilians outside Srebrenica. A school building here. A pig sty there.”
Mick looked up.
The images showed bloodstained walls and ditches with bones sticking out of the earth. Any of those bones could have been Dutch peacekeepers, too.
Television audiences around the world had initially gobbled up coverage of the massacre taking place. Now they were gnawing on the remains.
Finally the footage stopped and a grainy photograph appeared. It showed a dreary apartment block in the winter.
Lance handed the remote over to Bernie. “You take it from here.”
Bernie gave an officious cough. “Skopje, capital of Macedonia, last week. That’s my pinky in the corner of the picture.”
He advanced toward the screen and pointed at a window on the third floor, what Europeans would call the second story.
“Macedonian police traced a shipment of dynamite to this flat. By the time they went in to seize it, the stash was already gone. They questioned the neighbors who came up with this description. Tall, blond American, blah, blah, blah. We invited them in to the embassy and lined up some photos of missing Americans. They all pointed to Alec.”
“And the dynamite?” Gutman asked.
“Oh, that’s what blew up the UN checkpoint a week ago on the border between Yugoslavia and Macedonia.”
“You’re sure?” Mick challenged.
“Sorry, Mick,” Bernie said softly. “Several extra sticks lay around the checkpoint unused. Last week it was dynamite. This week, the remaining squad had their throats slit. It was Alec’s work.”
“How do you explain that?” Gutman demanded.
“Well,” Lance picked up the narrative. “We ran his profile past our shrinks and they came up with a pretty conclusive analysis.”
Mick snorted. “How can you presume to know what happened to him in Bosnia?”
“We don’t know exactly what happened to him in Bosnia,” Lance agreed. “But we don’t need to know, either. We have all his personality tests on file. Based on his previous patterns, our shrinks were able to come up with a probable explanation for his current behavior.”
“Sounds dubious,” Gutman said. “But run it past me.”
“Alec is a professional,” Lance said. “It’s his profession to live undercover. He’s in survival mode, and he has reverted to type. But now he is his own handler, his own government. He plants a bomb that destroys a UN checkpoint in Macedonia. He slits the throats of three Swedish peacekeepers. Why? Who does he hate? Probably blames the UN for Sr
ebrenica. Who does he trust? Probably a woman.”
“Do you know for a fact that Alec slit their throats?” Mick shot back. “Or is that just more supposition?”
“The facts will be born out by a UN investigation.”
“And as for his lovers,” Mick said, “he had professional reasons for all of them.”
“No doubt. So we decided to track down his current flame.”
The image showed a young woman dancing at a party. She had intelligent, brown Slavic eyes, a pretty, heart-shaped face and loads of black hair. To Mick, the beret and bell-bottom blue jeans indicated a scrappy, artistic type.
“Dragana Alexandrov,” Lance said. “Not only Alec’s lover, but known to be affiliated with Zoran Rodic, a Serbian warlord.”
Another picture flashed on the screen. The young man had sad eyes and a shrewd grin that began at the cheekbones and culminated in tight lips.
Mick felt the cold stare of the soldier that fateful day in Srebrenica. There were many killers in Serbia, but this was the one he wanted.
He tried to contain his outrage. “How does that implicate Alec?”
“I’m sure I’ve got some pictures of Dragana and Zoran screwing,” Lance said, his finger poised over the remote control. “If you want, I might even have one with Alec in it.”
Mick dropped his head. Damned intelligence.
“Go on.” Gutman’s eagerness filled the void.
“We traced Dragana into Serbia,” Lance said. “Here’s a photocopy of her passport made by Serbian border control.”
They stared at her mug shot. Her hair was neatly pinned up for the passport photo. But the expression was defiant.
“Here is Alec at the same border crossing.” Another passport photo appeared on the screen. The face was clearly that of Alec. His blond hair was long, his features gaunt, his eyes hollow. He clearly looked haunted by something.
“Where’s Zoran?” Mick asked. “Did he cross into Serbia with them?”
Lance looked at him curiously. “Are you interested now?”
“Mildly.”
“Zoran uses a military identity to pass in and out of Serbia. We have no record of his whereabouts.”
“Turn on the lights,” Gutman said. As the lights turned up and curtains opened, the final leaf of a salad slithered through his lips.
Mick stood up, but Gutman and the others remained seated.
He looked straight at Mick. “Is this the kind of job you can handle?”
“Just what kind of job is that? A wet job? He’s my brother, for God’s sake.”
“Isn’t that precisely the point?” Gutman said. “I’m convinced that he’s involved with the bad guys. And I don’t want any covert crap washing around our feet in the Balkans.”
“If I might suggest, Hugh,” Lance said. “Let’s give Mick a month or two to close the Yugoslavia account and yank his brother out of there.”
“Four weeks max,” Gutman said. He stood and wiped the mayonnaise off his chin.
“I know Mick, sir,” Bernie said, standing up beside Lance. “He’s an expert on the region. He’s the right man for the job.”
“So am I clear?” Gutman demanded, turning directly to Mick. “Send someone else in there and it just might turn out a wet job.”
Mick’s mind raced. Gutman had already determined to wash his hands of the Balkans. Lance didn’t need him for that. The whole spiel was intended to sell Mick on the job.
He didn’t care for Lance’s tactics, but in the end Lance and Gutman were right. Not only did they need him. Alec needed him.
He tried to calculate Natalie’s reaction. Was she getting the same dog and pony show from the State folks? Were they sending her back into Yugoslavia with him?
“You’re thinking about Natalie,” Lance said.
He nodded.
“You’ll both go there under your current diplomatic visas,” Lance said. “She’ll be placed on temporary duty in Belgrade to wind up the press office and help close down the embassy.”
Gutman studied Mick. “You look like a wreck. I don’t see the thrill you operations guys get out of living overseas. Whenever I go abroad, I get food poisoning.”
“Hope that’s all I get,” Mick said.
“So where do we stand? Do we have a deal?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I’ll give you one month. If you’re not out of there by then, we’ll terminate your pay, your expenses and your protection. That goes for you, too, Bernie. And double for Alec. We’ll disavow any knowledge of your actions, or some such language. I want to pull our dicks out of that region once and for all. Am I making myself clear?”
“You’re most eloquent, sir.”
Chapter 3
Bane Djukanovic stepped out of his gleaming black Mercedes Benz and entered the Question Mark café. It was his favorite Belgrade haunt. Two of his men remained on the cobblestone street to turn back anyone who tried to enter the place.
In the gloom of the landmark shrine to alcohol and good times, Bane spotted a slim young man seated comfortably in the corner.
Bane took a last puff on his cigarette and tossed it out the door.
Even seated, the mobster before him looked tall, and roguishly handsome with an unkempt mop of black hair. Zoran Rodic was known throughout the country simply as Zoran. He looked positively urbane in his Giorgio Armani suit.
Zoran rose to greet Bane, who gave him a bear hug, replete with three kisses on the cheeks.
“You have business for me?” Zoran asked.
“I need your brain and I need your contacts.”
“They come at a price,” Zoran said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
A waiter brought Bane’s favorite beer and set it on the table before him.
“Everything in this city comes at a price these days,” Bane reflected. “Patriotism and socialism are dead.”
Zoran tapped on his Rolex watch. “Patriotism and socialism never bought a watch like this. That’s what’s wrong with the old ideals.”
Bane didn’t dispute it. He was certainly no ideologue himself. “That’s why we have great plans in the works.” He leaned forward and spoke under his breath. “We have the Army, the Church and the press gearing up to invade Macedonia.”
Zoran’s expressionless face broke into a broad smile. “Macedonia? Why not? I’m listening.”
“What we need is an angle,” Bane plowed straight ahead. “We need something to stir up the man on the street.”
Zoran toyed with his watchband. “We’ve got to think big.”
“That’s what Nikic said.” Bane could see heaps of gold reflected in Zoran’s face. He swigged his beer. “What are you thinking?”
“For starters, you can’t start a war without some major crisis. Now, what would really anger the common Serb?”
“Simple,” Bane said, as if answering a test question. “A threat. It worked in Croatia. It worked in Bosnia. We love threats to our nationhood.”
“My thinking exactly.” Zoran glanced out the window.
Bane turned around to see what Zoran was looking at. The old Orthodox Cathedral was just across the street.
“But the threat can’t be obvious,” Zoran went on. “It must be subtle and unnerving.”
“You’re good at that.”
Zoran was concentrating now. “Someone will steal our national icon: they will take Karta. Serbs will be butchered in Macedonia.”
“Comrade, our goal is not to desecrate our national icon and kill our own people.”
“Everything comes at a price.”
Bane had to concede the point. Slowly it dawned on him, Zoran had come up with the perfect plan. He was in the presence of greatness. “It’s genius. Sheer genius.” Zoran certainly did think big. What was bigger than the Karta, the Serb equivalent of the Magna Carta, Declaration of Independence and Communist Manifesto all rolled into one? And sacrificing fellow Serbs to provoke national outrage? Nikic, who enjoyed playing the victim, would love that.<
br />
“Only, don’t destroy the map,” he pleaded. Karta was an ancient map depicting Serbia’s medieval borders that stretched far into Hungary to the north and Macedonia to the south. It was the bedrock upon which the nation was built.
“That wouldn’t be necessary,” Zoran said with a far-off look. “We’ll improve it.”
“How’s that?”
“The Karta is our hidden treasure. No photographs have ever been taken of it. Once it is revealed to the public, we will see a grander Serbia than ever before.”
Bane finished his beer with a single gulp. “Okay. Do whatever’s necessary. Just remember that we’ve got to keep out prying eyes. That means nobody knows about this, not the Europeans, not the Americans and certainly not the War Crimes investigators.”
“Understood.”
“So, is it a deal?” Bane urged.
“Sure,” Zoran said, smiling. “Why not?”
Bane stood and lit another cigarette. “Make sure you don’t leave any tracks.”
“Did I say I was going to do it? I have someone else in mind.”
“He’d better not leave tracks.”
“She won’t.”
Chapter 4
Mick Pierce awoke early in the Hotel Zipser after two days stumbling around the baroque palaces of Vienna with Natalie in a dense fog and heavy jetlag. Bernie had gone back to Belgrade directly from Washington.
They descended the hotel’s spiral staircase into the cellar for breakfast. There they partook of their final meal in the West, a Continental breakfast of pastries and coffee.
Mick forced himself to remain calm and methodical under Natalie’s diplomatic cover. Director Gutman didn’t want another Rambo.
He took a moment to savor his black coffee. His next cup would be Turkish, the bitter kind. That afternoon, they would cross into history. Returning to Belgrade meant returning to a land caught in a time warp. It also meant facing their personal past.
He had assumed the role of a diplomatic spouse on their previous tour in Belgrade. He had spent many relaxed days reading local newspapers, gardening and strolling, writing the occasional secretive report or think piece for Langley. He would hide behind the same façade this time around.
