Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  Mick thought fast. “Listen, we need more information before we can present it to anybody. We need to rattle some cages. Stir up a hornet’s nest. Whatever. Who do you know at the MUP?”

  “I met Djukanovic once.”

  “Call him up. Find out what the MUP’s top brass knows about their agents investigating Karta. Then we’ll sit back and watch the fireworks. As for me, I’ll find out who’s behind the news embargo on Macedonia.”

  “Why don’t you just go to Hungary and recover the map?” Harry said. “I’m not cut out for this kind of work.”

  “Oh yes you are.”

  When the train reached Budapest’s main railway station, Alec knew he had entered a real European city.

  A high glass roof sheltered the two massive buildings. Engines nuzzled up to rubber bumpers at one end of the station, no broomstick handles required.

  A large board clicked and rotated numbers and letters to update travelers. Men and women worked tirelessly in ticket and information booths.

  Budapest wasn’t just another stop for transcontinental trains. For many, it was the final destination. After all, Budapest was the heart and soul of the current and former reaches of the Hungarian Empire. And for international travelers, the station was a jump off point to Western Europe as trains trundled off to Vienna, Rome, Zurich and Berlin.

  Alec let the man from Sandjak step off the train first.

  “Rooms, rooms,” a well-dressed woman cried, shaking a brochure at them.

  “Where are you going?” Alec asked the old man.

  “I have a friend in Vienna.”

  “Well, good luck.” Alec extended a hand.

  The man pumped his hand vigorously, then hauled his suitcase off to change money.

  Alec had already bought forints at the railway station in Szeged. He waited in line at a bakery booth and watched his former cabin mate stand in line for a bank teller.

  Alec purchased a jelly-filled roll with powdered sugar, but didn’t eat it. Instead, he approached the old man, who stood hunched before the teller, counting his change.

  Alec dropped the pastry in the bank’s trash and, in the same motion, snatched the old man’s suitcase.

  The Karta safely in hand, he plunged into the departing crowd.

  He shouldn’t have been sweating. After all, nobody in that large terminal cared about Serbian artifacts. They had real world problems to deal with.

  He reached an exit and stepped outside.

  Young Arab men stood in groups and whispered to him as he passed, “Forints. Good rate.”

  He shrugged them off. Now, which way to Szentendre?

  Ivan Lekic’s glass-walled office was awash in sunlight as the afternoon sun finally broke through the overcast sky. Studio B radio and television occupied the top floor of the only skyscraper in town.

  The black metal 21-story frame was virtually a city unto itself.

  Mick hadn’t been there before, but the place looked very familiar. Earlier that week, Belgrade’s police had come to the building to confiscate videotapes of the riots. In response, the studio had live broadcast the entire police raid.

  In one of the studio offices, a camera still pointed down at the intersection of Kneza Milosa and Marsala Tita, streets where college students, workers and professors, now joined by schoolchildren, were belting out nationalist hymns.

  But military snipers watched carefully from surrounding rooftops, and the camera was now operated by the police.

  “We took a moderate stance on the riots,” Ivan was telling Mick.

  “Yet you broadcast footage of it, while the other stations played folk music.”

  “It had some effect,” Ivan said. “It gave us legitimacy, however briefly.”

  Mick surveyed the four walls of his office. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Come with me. I’ll show you the broadcast tower.”

  Mick followed him up a staircase to the roof. The doorway opened onto a gravel-covered rooftop with several television and radio antennae.

  They could hear an anthem rise from the milling crowd.

  “Our AM radio beam reaches twice as far as FM and television. However, the AM signal is weak. We need a new license to boost that, and I believe it will never happen.”

  “Let’s not talk about the station,” Mick said. “I need to talk about the news.”

  Ivan nodded cautiously. He had been a long-time party member. He had learned his trade in the traditional Radio-Televizija Beograd system. Mick knew all that. What he didn’t know was any ulterior motives Ivan might have for the independent station.

  “We received news out of Macedonia,” Mick said. “It’s a horrifying story about Serbs being slaughtered in a small town. How has your station handled the story?”

  It took Ivan a while to respond. “We haven’t covered the story at all.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “On a story like that, we wait for RTV Belgrade to carry it first. If they don’t carry it, we assume it is not right to carry it ourselves. You see, that’s a story with grave national consequences.”

  “Nobody censored it?”

  “It was our own decision.”

  Mick smoothed out the pebbles that covered the rooftop. “Why do you suppose neither RTV Belgrade nor the papers carried it?”

  “I think it’s a provocation. It’s intentional. Do you see all the ‘Revenge Serbian Victims in Macedonia’ posters down there? Who’s paying attention? Serbia isn’t interested in responding to threats from the south. Our resources are limited to defending Serbs in Bosnia, Kosovo and Eastern Slavonia and defending the capital from our own people. It’s that simple.”

  Mick nodded. Studio B’s coverage of the carnage in the former Yugoslav republics to the west was hardly different from the official news. Like most Serbs, Ivan probably felt an historic obligation to right the injustices of the medieval past and the Second World War up through recent events.

  “So you don’t think Macedonia is next?” Mick asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you have any indications that it is?”

  “Well, the obvious indication is the Greek archbishop’s visit to Belgrade in two weeks. The two churches will have come to some sort of agreement, part of which might include Macedonia and Kosovo. You know that the Greeks dislike the Muslims in Kosovo as much as the Serbs do.”

  “Has the government approved of the Greek visit?”

  “Actually, to the contrary. The president is not pleased.”

  “Then who’s behind the Greek visit?”

  Ivan’s intense, dark eyes examined his friend from the American Embassy. “Perhaps some elements in the military,” he said slowly. “That’s only a guess. After all, they abandoned all their bases down there in Macedonia. They lost a lot of territory.”

  “I’m working with very little information,” Mick said, frustrated. “The news I receive is pre-digested by those who want to affect how I think. The only thing I have left is to judge the intentions of those who worry about affecting my thoughts. It’s all speculation.”

  “Mick, old fellow, if I could read the minds of our country’s leaders, I’d tell you right now what they intend to do. But I’m not privy to their thoughts. If I could tell you what happened in their conversations with the military or with RTV Belgrade, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you.”

  “Can we try an experiment?” Mick proposed.

  “Perhaps, in some limited way.”

  “Then run the story. Tell the story of the butchered Serbs in Kumanovo. I need to see the reaction.”

  “It would be irresponsible.”

  “But you’d draw a reaction.”

  “I know who’ll react,” Ivan said bitterly. “The police will close us down again.”

  “The Belgrade police or the MUP?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m working on a theory that the MUP isn’t aware of the government’s intentions in Macedonia.”

  “Ok
ay, so the Belgrade police close us down. Either way, we lose our station.”

  “All I need is for Studio B to cover the story on your small AM station. That’s not the same as broadcasting on television or on FM. It won’t close you down.”

  “So you need to see who reacts?”

  “That’s all. You can retract the story later, if necessary.”

  “The funerals of the Serbs in Macedonia take place this afternoon. I could cover that.”

  “That would be enough,” Mick said.

  Below him, dusty red trams and buses nudged through the crowd from intersection to intersection. Traffic lights turned red, yellow, green and red again, unheeded by the pedestrians.

  To Mick’s mind, the crowd seemed confident and steadily growing. Their call to arms in Eastern Slavonia was resonating with the rest of the country.

  “I talked with Bane at the MUP,” Harry said, as he and Mick talked through their car windows on the way home from work. “What a loser. He had no idea about any map being stolen, any plans afoot to attack Macedonia or any agents assigned to the case.”

  “Are you sure he was telling the truth?” Mick said.

  “I can’t say for sure.”

  Mick leaned out his car window. “Does that mean that the Deputy Minister of the MUP doesn’t know what the hell is going on?”

  “Actually, when I told him about the investigation, I think I took him by surprise. He was interested to hear that his own agents were chasing around the countryside after the map.”

  “So you may have tipped him off?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Harry said. “Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “…as if we could count on the secret police to prevent a war.”

  “Well, the agents might retaliate against us,” Harry said. “Bane asked me for more intelligence as I receive it. In turn, he promised more cooperation.”

  “Great. At least we’ve improved international relations.”

  “We’ll have to be careful,” Harry said. “I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire of a secret police feud.”

  “I agree. Let’s lie low and let events take their course.”

  Natalie felt glum when she returned home at the end of the day. After spending two days denying knowledge of the slaughter of Serbs in Macedonia, it had now made the AM radio news as Studio B covered the funerals in Kumanovo.

  She was hot. She waved a lapel to circulate air against her skin. Mick blew on her forehead, lifting her hair off her face.

  She leaned against his broad chest. He held her tightly as she kicked her pumps across the bedroom floor.

  Her taut neck and shoulder muscles began to relax under his gentle massaging. Her body was going limp. He reached down and picked up her tired frame. She landed softly on the bed sheets.

  Under her blouse, his large, strong fingers unhooked her bra. Now we’re getting somewhere, she thought.

  She bent her legs to slip off her stockings.

  Her purple blouse was next, and he blew gently against her breasts.

  She carefully slipped her fingers under each button of his shirt. Unbuttoning it was as nerve-wracking as defusing a time bomb. Either he did not mind, or he didn’t notice. At last she whipped the blue fabric free of his shoulders and threw it triumphantly across the room.

  Over the great plain of sweet corn and bean fields and dust and war, the dogged heat rolled like a carpet. It was a dry heat that brought beads of sweat to the brows of farmers and snipers alike.

  One could only shake one’s head. It melted the steel in one’s resistance, and Mick’s tightly muscled body broke down into a soft, penitent coil.

  She looked around the dark wood panels at the shadows in the room. The sweltering summer heat had pervaded every corner of their lives.

  A gust of hot breeze momentarily lifted the gossamer curtains and pushed them over their naked bodies.

  Frustrated, he leaned on his elbows to look at her. The curtains draped against his back. “I’m taking a short trip to Hungary tomorrow.”

  She sighed. “And leave me here alone?”

  He nodded. “But first, I must recruit you.”

  “Like hell, you will. I’m here because you need to find Alec. I’ve got a job to do in the meantime. You’re not going to leave me stranded and run me like some crappy, paid-off agent.”

  “I’m not paying you anything. Just hear me out.”

  “I’m not interested.” She rolled away.

  “I need you to meet with Gerard and Ivan.”

  “Forget you.”

  “We’re close to finding Doc’s killers.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “We can put some bad people away forever.”

  She rolled onto her back and looked at him through her tangle of sweat-soaked hair. “Mick, you’re a spy. I hate spies. Whenever I see a spy, I tell myself that he can screw himself. That’s how much I care about spies. How I ever married a spy, I’ll never know.”

  She felt something hard and warm probe her thigh, and she emitted an involuntary gasp.

  “Are we getting somewhere?” she asked.

  “Maybe. It’s a good sign.”

  “Do you want me to cuss some more?”

  He broke into laughter, and she joined him. But the harder he hugged her, the more their laughter dissolved into sobs.

  Chapter 21

  As he drove Ed Carrigan’s Caprice west out of the city, Mick noticed hundreds of people standing along the Autoput.

  At first he thought they were waiting for buses. Maybe public transportation was finally being affected by the gas shortage.

  Traffic moved slowly, so he pulled into the far-left lane and found some open road. Most of the ve­hicles he passed were trucks driving slowly and carrying milk, water and various dry goods. More and more of the trucks also carried soldiers. Troops hung out of trucks and waved at the people who lined the highway and watched from overpasses.

  All of a sudden it hit him. This was a military column heading to Croatia.

  Either the government had caved in to the protests, or they had never intended to invade Macedonia. Why did that disappoint him?

  From their jocular grins, the troops appeared to be mostly reservists heading out to rescue their comrades, JNA soldiers trapped in their barracks. Most of the throng cheered, while many had just come to observe the spectacle. Cars honked. One man waved a Yugoslav flag. Another gentleman waved flowers at the troops. They were there to witness history, to cheer on their boys and to see a few Croats get killed.

  Mick cruised past the column keeping a wary eye on the crowds.

  Suddenly he caught a glint of steel. A mob flipped a metal light pole off an overpass. There was nowhere to swerve. The pole landed just in front of him, bounced overhead and dented the back of his roof.

  He checked his mirror. The trunk and back window had survived. A dusty white Lada had to pull up short and drive around the fallen pole.

  The crowd must have seen his diplomatic plates and aimed for him. He must have seemed like a parasite pestering their troops, hampering their war effort. After all, many saw Yugoslavia as a Serbian nation. The blue, white and red of the Yugoslav flag represented Serbia, and the army had every right to remind the Croats of that.

  Fortunately, the vehicle was still intact. Air rushed normally over the roof. The tires still bounced over potholes.

  Armor-plating to the rescue.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The Lada had narrowly escaped harm. He had seen one such MUP special get completely destroyed by a ditch and a tree in Ravanica. The man in the dark suit at the wheel of this Lada was either smart or lucky. Mick would have to watch out for him either way.

  The crowd thinned out as Mick drove west, but the trucks never ended. It would take more than four hours for a column that long just to leave the city.

  He hoped the troops would continue down the Autoput and leave him free to veer north, but he had no idea where the fighting was occurring.

>   Ed Carrigan had initially denied Mick permission to travel to Buda­pest on security grounds. “Besides that, it’s completely impossible. The wait at the border is between ten and twenty hours.”

  Mick had said he was prepared for whatever risk.

  Now he wondered if Ed was right. He switched the radio on. Radio Belgrade gave several frantic reports of fighting over the Autoput to Zagreb. Landmines were discovered in the pavement. Localized fighting had broken out in parts of Eastern Slavonia. Could he squeeze through?

  He kept an eye on the mirror as he took the exit north toward Novi Sad. Fifty yards behind him, the Lada also took the ramp. Could he lose the man with a burst of speed? No, that wouldn’t be fair.

  Having committed to a northward track, he mulled over two optional routes.

  Option One meant brushing by Osijek, a scene of heavy fighting, but there would be no wait at the border. Option Two was an eastern route toward Subotica, which was safer but promised a long wait at the border. Once he crossed the border, Budapest was another four hours away.

  By the time he reached the sprawling agricultural city of Novi Sad, he had lost sight of the Lada in extremely heavy traffic, all flowing toward the border. In the early mist of the sunny summer morning, he jockeyed with cars and trucks all trying to avoid the Zagreb road. The war coincided with the end of a German vacation in certain states. It meant that refugees, vaca­tioners, and Gastarbeiter, Yugoslavs and Turks working in the West, were on the road to Germany.

  He approached a sign written in Cyrillic that pointed to an alternate border crossing. Few Germans or Turks would be able to read the sign, and if they could, they still wouldn’t want to head into the war zone.

  He turned and headed down the country road.

  Would people take his dinars in Hungary? In the sleepy town of Sombor, he pulled into a gas station to offload the last of his diplomatic ration coupons for a few liters of gas.

  He stepped out of the car just as the Lada arrived. It pulled up short and waited for him, apparently not needing to refill this time.

  Mick slowly unscrewed his gas cap for the attendant. A military helicopter zoomed by overhead. The youngster who worked the pumps looked skyward and scratched his head. He eyed the Lada slinking by the entrance to his station. Then he surveyed the gleaming white Caprice and laughed as if he had never seen one before. These were strange times in old Sombor.