Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

“Slow down,” Natalie said.

  The ambulance was stopped, and medics were crawling around the scene. Clearly, the Lada bearing the two MUP agents had missed the bend and crashed into a tree.

  Medics were tending to the groggy agents as Mick and Natalie pulled up.

  Mick rolled down his window and listened to the sounds of destruction. The Lada’s engine continued to run. The punctured radiator sent up a hiss of steam, and the spinning fan screeched and tore at the engine housing.

  The two undercover agents had been pitched against their windshield. But there was also a bullet hole in the center of the window.

  “Are they going to survive?” Mick inquired.

  “Barely,” a medic said, pulling a limp body from the car.

  “Shot?”

  “One of them has a bullet wound.”

  Mick pointed his thumb back up the road. “There’s a priest shot at the monastery, too.”

  The medic nodded in acknowledgment.

  Mick pulled the Jeep away.

  “It will be a busy day at the Senj hospital,” Natalie said.

  They reached the Cuprija entrance to the Autoput.

  “Decision time,” Mick said. “Either I take a left and we disappear into Bulgaria, or I take a right and we’re back in Belgrade with all its fun and games.”

  He slowed to a crawl and looked at Natalie. She ignored him and stared straight ahead.

  Finally, she reached over, grabbed the wheel and tugged it hard right. “We have a dinner invitation in Belgrade.”

  He eased through a line of refugees that were working their way north on foot.

  Chapter 12

  Mick loved the rich aroma of Serbian cooking.

  Natalie watched Petra fussing over half a dozen dishes in the young woman’s kitchen. The gas stove was a backup for the electric stove if the power went out. The wood burning stove was a backup for the gas stove in case the gas went out. All three stoves were in use that evening at the Lekic household.

  The smell of chicken soup predominated.

  Mick lifted his shot glass. “Na zdravlija,” he offered to Ivan, Petra’s husband. “To your health.”

  The two clinked glasses.

  The twice-distilled brandy had a light amber tint and flowed warmly down Mick’s throat. It left him feeling flushed.

  Ivan said his rakija came from his home village. Mick could tell that it had been produced, probably in someone’s back yard, with great care. It hadn’t lost its fruity taste.

  From the numerous abstract paintings that adorned the apartment walls, one couldn’t guess Ivan’s real occupation. In fact, he was manager of Studio B, an independent television and radio station in Belgrade. Mick had first met him as one of Natalie’s primary contacts, but after an initial dinner, the couple had practically adopted the Pierces on the spot.

  Ivan and Petra Lekic had spent several years in London working for the respected Yugoslav news service Tanjug. Upon returning to Belgrade, they worked for Radio Television Belgrade for several years before walking away from their official jobs and going independent. That was ten years ago. Now they were starved for Western friends and eager to see the Pierces again.

  “Your station is still expanding, I hear,” Mick said.

  “Radio is live twenty-four hours a day,” Ivan said with pride. “Television broadcasts twelve hours a day.”

  Studio B had started out as a tiny radio station. Fifteen kilowatts was barely enough to reach west of the Sava and south of Topcidersko Mountain on the outskirts of the city. Things took time in the years that followed Tito’s death. In fact, they were broadcasting illegally for four years before receiving an official radio license. Now they shared transmission towers with official stations all around the country.

  “Do they still let you broadcast news?”

  “Music and news both. The news is not as heavily censored as it once was. Our best form of expression is not to cover the propaganda.”

  “I used to hate the kids’ show.” Mick said. “Do you still have the clown?”

  “Oh, the kids still love him.”

  “Who would have guessed that putting a red ball on your nose and singing along with an androgynous guitarist would captivate kids’ attention for so many years?”

  “We in Yugoslavia have a long tradition of singing and playing the guitar to pass time. The youth revolution of the Sixties affected us greatly. I remember many a day sitting in our flat with friends and singing Beatles songs. In our minds we were free.”

  Mick stabbed a sweet pickle and a slice of smoked sausage with the same toothpick. Basic flavors mixed well with brandy. “Tell me how you stand with the church these days.”

  “Me personally? I don’t attend church. I’m not one of the faithful.”

  “Surely you’ve been to a funeral.”

  “When we had our son baptized several years ago, the priest came to our flat and we held a small ceremony here. Now that the services are held in public, I find it too ostentatious.”

  “You don’t think people really believe?”

  “You see, for years only old people remembered the church. Even they forgot the liturgy. Now everybody and his brother wants to practice. It’s a fashion. In fact, this last All Saints Day, when we go to the cemetery to honor the dead, people stood there with flowers and candles in their hands asking each other what they were supposed to do. “That’s not religion.”

  “What is the Church up to politically these days?”

  Ivan stroked his thin beard. “They’re a bunch of old men lost in a fog. They have no direction. The government plays them like marionettes. In the next few weeks, the Serbian and Greek Orthodox Churches are holding a big celebration here in Belgrade. Big deal. That wouldn’t be allowed without official sanction, or even pressure.”

  Mick nearly choked on his second piece of sausage. “You think the government is behind this?”

  Ivan paused to examine his fingernails. Then he said in a low voice, “You have to remember that the government gets a lot of mileage out of the church and Studio B. We’re tokens of a democratic opposition. In truth, we have very little power.”

  It was a remarkable statement from the head of an independent radio and television station.

  “Why do you go on?”

  “Because it’s the Balkan way. We’re a contradictory people. We’re creative, but we need direction. We’re outspoken, yet we can’t take care of ourselves. We’re a contradictory lot. That’s our identity.”

  “Sometimes I think you’re more human than the rest of us. You’re open with your contradictions. You don’t see them expressed so clearly elsewhere in the world.”

  “Another drink?” Ivan poured a glass for both of them.

  The drinks were landing on a near-empty stomach and the smell of chicken soup was overpowering. “I think they’ve given me an appetite.”

  “That’s good, because we’ve got lots of food.”

  How they could round up so much food on a meager salary was a question too painful to ask. There was chicken and broth, cheese and vegetable musaka, robust white bean pasul, flaky filo dough stuffed with spinach and ham, cold slabs of roast pig from a family slava, or Saint’s name day, and marinated cabbage leaves wrapped around ground beef for a sarma. Mick didn’t know where to start.

  Belgrade’s BIP beer wasn’t very good on its own. Its name, Belgrade Industrial Beer, didn’t improve the taste. But the brew did augment the flavor of the honest peasant fare.

  Natalie and Petra were still deep in conversation about the Lekic’s recent trip to Crete. Mick plunged into the food and listened.

  “Have you seen other parts of Greece?” Natalie asked.

  “We’ve taken trips before,” Ivan said. “At first we were told that Greeks didn’t like Yugoslavs. But we found them friendly toward us.”

  “I agree.” Petra’s cheeks were rosy from the hot kitchen and memories of their trip. “We stayed for two weeks in the state of Makedonia, the one with the same nam
e as our former republic of Macedonia. The family watched over us like we were their children. I don’t think we spoke a word in common, but we shared food and pored over maps together.”

  “And, of course, the food was very good,” Ivan said. “They have a similar cuisine. They make salads like our Shopska salata, pita like our pita. They grill souvlaki like we grill our meat. They have moussaka and sarma. They’re very much like us.”

  “They would say that you’re very much like them,” Mick suggested between slurps of soup.

  “Of course.” Ivan laughed. “They would say that.”

  “But they don’t like us,” Petra said pointedly.

  “Why do you say that?” Natalie asked.

  Ivan tore off a piece of bread and chewed for a while with a frown. “Let’s say that they’ve always felt threatened by us. God knows Tito’s maps extended clear down to Salonika. Of course Serbia is no longer a threat. Today Greece worries about Macedonia.”

  “Tiny Macedonia?” Natalie seemed incredulous.

  Petra laughed with some derision. “I’m more frightened by my own shadow. Macedonia is so backwards. It’s a poor land of shepherds and Albanians. Greece’s only problem with Macedonia is the name.”

  “And the flag,” Ivan pointed out.

  Natalie was aware of the controversy. Greece’s massive Makedonia region shared not only the same name, but the symbol on their flag as well. The Macedonian government had adopted the Star of Regis, the same emblem borne by Alexander the Great, one of Greece, and Macedonia’s, greatest heroes.

  “It’s only symbolism,” Petra said.

  “I don’t really understand it, myself,” Ivan said.

  “Does Macedonia still feel threatened by Serbia?” Mick asked. Shortly before Macedonia’s independence, Belgrade had overthrown their parliament and replaced it with Serbs, only a tiny fraction of their population.

  “I think Macedonia shouldn’t worry,” Ivan said.

  “Say Serbs were threatened,” Mick persisted. “Would you invade?”

  “We invaded Croatia and Bosnia,” Ivan said. “Why not Macedonia?”

  Natalie looked at Mick. They had monitored BBC Radio all the way home. But Belgrade radio stations weren’t covering the massacre of Serbs in Macedonia. Surely Ivan was suppressing the story himself.

  “So,” Natalie said. “Tell me what happened to your kitty cat.”

  “Oh, our poor Macka,” Petra said.

  When they left for home that evening, Mick looked so overcome by the combination of rakija and beer that Natalie decided to drive. Ivan and Petra Lekic walked them out to the car, which was perched along with other cars on the sidewalk.

  “We’ll have you over next time,” Natalie told them.

  They laughed it off. It was hard not to be the hosts.

  “Seriously. Do you like chili and cornbread?”

  “What is that?” Petra asked suspiciously.

  “Chili is an American pasul,” Mick said.

  “It sounds exotic.”

  “We’d be glad to come,” Ivan said.

  “Good.” Natalie hugged Petra and kissed Ivan on the cheeks, feeling the scrape of his beard.

  As Natalie steered around the corner of the ink-black street, Ivan and Petra were still waving good-bye.

  Mick leaned back. “You know, at times like these all seems well with the world. Then you realize, you’re still living in the past.”

  “Home again?” Natalie turned onto Boulevard Revolucija.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We need to change direction. Head for Professor Cercic’s apartment.”

  She shot her husband a glance. He had been watching in the side view mirror.

  “Right away,” he said. “We’re clear.”

  “Why?” she demanded to know.

  “I’ve got to pass word to Alec on what I’m up to, in case I need him.” And then he added, “Or in case he needs me.”

  “Mick, you’ve got to come to grips with this. Alec has lost his mind. He’s working for the bad guys.”

  He stared out the window at the blackness. “I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, even if it kills me.”

  She sighed. “Back to the present,” and pulled a tight U-turn on the nearly empty street. They bounced over two sets of tram tracks and sped down the hill toward Boulevard George Washington.

  Mick took Natalie and the professor on a walk down the deserted street. Belgrade saved power by turning its streetlights off after midnight, providing excellent cover for Mick’s purposes.

  “Have you seen Alec lately?” he asked Professor Cercic bluntly.

  “Not directly. I hear from him.”

  “How?”

  “I can’t tell you. I have to watch my back.”

  “Fair enough.” Mick looked at Natalie, and she nodded back. He took a deep breath and began to describe the incident at Ravanica.

  When Mick finished describing the shoot-out, the professor didn’t say a word. He was either too stunned or already knew it all. Mick couldn’t tell which, so he moved on to his analysis:

  “It looks like Serbia and Greece will go ahead with their plan to carve up Macedonia. The Serbian and Greek Orthodox Churches will hold a joint celebration in Belgrade in the near future.” Mick related exactly what he had learned from Ivan Lekic that evening. “It’s what we predicted would happen.”

  “Even with Savic gravely wounded?” the professor asked.

  Mick shrugged, and then related what the wounded Father Jovic had said about Zoran redrawing the Karta for them.

  The professor offered no response.

  “I think I have a way of finding Zoran,” Mick went on. “Unfortunately, it involves blowing a covert money exchange operation that’s going down this weekend. However, under the circumstances, I think it’s worth it.”

  Mick thought he saw Natalie smile. She knew when he was planting information.

  “I can’t overemphasize how serious this has become,” Mick said in conclusion. “You know the implications better than I do.”

  “What do you want from an old man like me?” the professor asked.

  “I just wanted to thank you for your help. Without you, we would never have uncovered this agreement with Greece to redraw the map and lay claim to Macedonia.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all,” Mick said with a smile.

  The professor nodded. They had come full circle and reached his apartment. “It’s late,” he said. “I’m going to bed.” He unlocked the door and disappeared inside a darkened corridor.

  Mick looked at Natalie. “And we’re going to hold a dinner party.”

  “Well golly,” she said. “Can I do the cooking?”

  He threw an arm around her and steered her down the middle of the road.

  “It’s just like old times,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  Even on a bright morning, the flat that Alec rented in that low‑lying area of Belgrade was a gloomy place. A ten-story apartment building next door blocked the view, and tall trees blotted out whatever sunlight remained.

  But his little domicile would be a welcome retreat for Dragana from her parents’ flat, and he loved to liberate her creative spirit.

  “Play some more music,” she said, and indicated the guitar lying on the bed.

  He took in her lithe form in her black ballet top and cut-off jeans.

  “Only if you dance.” He picked up the guitar. His long fingers began to strum a calypso beat.

  She sang as she draped her hair back. She held her arms out and her bare knees began to prance up and down.

  He followed the fine line of her young throat as it arched back.

  “Make me dance,” she said with laughter. She spun around and made herself dizzy.

  “Easy, girl,” he said above his accelerating tempo.

  “Whoa.” Her movement captured the wild abandon of the Caribbean rhythm.

  He stomped a heel, bore into a final riff, burned his thumb on the buzzing
strings and whipped out a final quivering chord.

  She held her breath and came to a halt with her hips thrust forward. Her slender arms stretched up toward the chipped ceiling and framed her long dark hair.

  “Oh, Sasha.” She flopped down in the flowery sofa. “Your music is better than theater. It’s more alive than Albee. More fun than—”

  “Than Flaubert?”

  “Flaubert wasn’t a playwright.”

  “No, but his sister was. Her name was Fanny.”

  “Really? Fanny Flaubert?” Then she attacked him with a throw pillow. “You’re kidding me.”

  At that moment, the telephone rang. Alec stiffened. The only person who knew his number was Dragana, and she was already in the room. He grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her quiet.

  He watched that she didn’t say something unexpectedly, and picked up the phone. “Da?”

  “This is your old professor.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “How’d you know that I was here?”

  “Never mind that. I knew. I wanted to invite you out to my weekend house for lunch on Saturday.”

  “Sure. Is anything the matter?”

  “No. Just a lunch to catch up.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll be there.”

  He hung up and turned to Dragana with puzzlement. “How did he know I was back in town?”

  “Maybe Zoran told him.”

  “I couldn’t imagine either of them associating with each other, for any reason.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Speaking of Zoran, how did he react when you shot Savic?”

  She smiled and nodded to herself. She pounded her bare heels against the floor and studied her toes. “He couldn’t believe that I did it. So I told him not to believe it.”

  “You almost ruined his plan.”

  “His plan is a joke. So what if the Karta shows that Serbia encompassed Macedonia at some moment five hundred years ago. How will that make Serbia attack Macedonia?”

  He was still thinking about her gunshot at Ravanica. “Do you really think you could have touched off another war by knocking off the patriarch?”

  “Why not? We killed Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo. That worked.”