The Balkan Assignment

by Joe Poyer

  mount. I had about three hours of work ahead to drain and dismount the fuel pump before I could check the diaphragm. We were in the process of removing the nacelle when trouble appeared on the shore end of the quay. Mikhail saw him coming and nudged me. I looked up to see a man, dressed in an old military-style greatcoat that flapped around his ankles and officer's cap, walking slowly towards us. About fiftyish, he had that bearing and tight casualness that spelled experienced cop.

  "Trouble," I muttered. "Know him?"

  "Yes." Mikhail's face was grim. "He is deputy head of the Federal Security Police in Dalmatia. He arrived on the island two days ago. I have already had one bit of trouble with him."

  Mikhail didn't get a chance to explain just what kind of trouble before the man had reached the aircraft and was looking up at us.

  "Good day, gentlemen." His English was heavily accented but understandable and his face said plainly enough that he knew all about us . . . or at least enough to make some pretty shrewd guesses.

  I sat up on the engine, wincing at the stiffness in my back. "Good evening. You speak English?"

  "Obviously."

  I coughed and tried again. "We're having a bit of engine trouble. Perhaps if you know the island well enough, you could tell us where we could find a mechanic?"

  He stood looking up at me for a long moment before he answered and when he did, he shifted his gaze to Mikhail. "No. I am afraid there is none. Your friend should know that.

  He has been on the island for several days now."

  Mikhail grinned wolfishly down at him and then turned his head and spat into the water.

  "Yes, I have been. Long enough to know what is what and who is who . . . or at the least, those who are worth knowing."

  The two men locked stares long enough to make me uncomfortable, and angry as well.

  Angry at Mikhail. He knew damned well what was involved. And he sure as the devil knew better than to have a run-in with the local law, no matter what the provocation.

  There was something between the two of them, and whatever it was I did not like it at all.

  Finally, the policeman broke off the silent battle and

  turned back to me. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Major Orez Vishailly, Prefecture of Police. In turn, I would be very much obliged if you would show me your passport and other paper." He smiled slightly, "I find that the most part of my job concerns who is coming and who is going through and within my area of responsibility."

  "And with what, heh, Major!" Mikhail snorted.

  Vishailly's head snapped around so fast that I thought it would topple right off his shoulders. His eyes went wide and he almost snarled in his anger. I glared at Mikhail's grinning face. For God's sake, I thought, what in hell was he up to.

  "I am sorry, Major," I interrupted hurriedly, "but my passenger, Klaus Maher, has taken the papers up to the customs house to clear us through. We are flying a freight run for his company, Imports du Italia. He should be back shortly if you would care to wait."

  Bemused, Vishailly stared vacantly at me for a moment, then turned to Mikhail.

  "This is Mikhail Korstlov. He saw us land and noticed that we were having trouble and offered to give me a hand . . ." I let the silence trail off because Vishailly had turned and was walking back up the dock. As soon as he started up the steep flight of steps leading to the town and was out of hearing, I wheeled on Mikhail.

  "You idiot, what in hell are you up to? Are you trying to louse up the whole deal? If you bring the Security Police down on us we'll . . ."

  I shut up because Mikhail had shoved the spanner he was holding into my face.

  "You do not talk to me that way," he said very quietly and very slowly. "Do it again and I will kill you." And undoubtedly he would. I shut up.

  Mikhail settled back down on his haunches and tapped idly at the engine mount with the spanner.

  "Now, I will tell you. Our friend Vishailly arrived on the island two nights ago. As is his habit, I am told, he went to see a certain friend of his in the town. They were once very good friends, if you understand my meaning. Only this time, he found me there. We did not fight, although we came almost to blows. He will never forgive me, and I in his place would do the same. It is something that cannot be helped. Something that a foreigner cannot understand . .. a matter of honor. Now I must play it through or he will suspect there is something more here than one man taking away his mistress."

  It made a certain amount of sense. Maher told me that if Mikhail had a weakness, it was women. But he was damned sure that that weakness did not also run to a loose mouth.

  "All right. Do what you have to do. Maher isn't going to be very happy about this at all.

  Just stay as far away from Vishailly as you can."

  Mikhail shrugged and went back to work:

  It was just after sundown when we heard the sputtering of an engine over the steadily rising wind and saw Maher nosing an ancient calque into the quay. Fishing boats in the eastern Med. are pretty much all of a style, a very ancient style that, but for the addition of an engine, had hardly changed in two thousand years. This one looked like it had been handed down from generation to generation since the days of the Turks. She was fat with one mast stepped far toward the bow and the other far astern. The original coat of paint had long since washed away, but streaks of unnamable liquids had sunk, or eaten, I don't know which, far enough into the oak lapstreaking to relieve the dull monotone of sunburned wood. A square boathouse perched gloomily on the stern and was pierced by the mast. A long, slender spar was lashed to the foremast and extended back to the foot of the mizzen. The roll of moldy canvas bundled around it suggested that we check the engine carefully. Each time the piston descended, it belched a cloud of blue smoke followed by a drawn-out rumble. As it rose again and the pressure backed off, water gurgled into the exhaust in a way that was almost obscene.

  Maher came up onto the wing carrying a thermos of hot coffee. The coffee made an excellent excuse to stop work for a few moments.

  "Where the hell did you dig that up?"

  Maher climbed up onto the engine mount with me and handed over the thermos. "The best I could do. She looks terrible, but doesn't leak . . . too much."

  "I suppose that's the most you can ask for out here," I admitted. Seen closeup, the fishing boat was even worse. Once, long ago, to judge by the way the wood was weathered to the same shade of gray, the calque had smacked something mighty hard. A rough patch had been applied to the forepeak, about halfway up from the water line, and the edges sealed with pitch. The deck was littered with poorly coiled lines and two empty water barrels leaned drunkenly against the foremast. I could almost smell the scum coating their sides.

  "No wonder the owner doesn't ask questions. With that for rent, I wouldn't care if it was ever brought back."

  "It will serve," Maher said shortly. "Have you found the trouble yet?"

  I nodded. "It's the fuel pump. The diaphragm and housing are both cracked. The whole thing will have to be replaced. I'll go up to the village after I put it back together and find a phone."

  Maher nodded slowly. "That will take more time." "Why, any trouble?"

  "No. Not as yet. We are issued a three-week visa, which should be more than ample.

  They were a bit sticky at first until I mentioned that we were having engine trouble. After that, it was no trouble at all. In fact, they were quite interested in the aircraft."

  "Who is they?" I wanted to know, suddenly apprehensive. I glanced at Mikhail, but he was sipping his coffee, unconcerned with the conversation.

  "A Major Vishailly . . . the head of the Customs Department, I suppose . .."

  "Oh, hell."

  Maher scowled. "Why do you say that?"

  I hooked a thumb at Mikhail. "Ask your trouble-prone friend. He can tell you all about Vishailly, beginning with the fact that he is not a customs official, but the deputy head of the Security Police for the Dalmatian district."

  Maher stared at me f
or a minute and then turned slowly to Mikhail.

  "Is this true, what Chris is saying?"

  Mikhail peered into the bottom of his cup and then tossed the dregs into the water before answering. "Yes. He is the Prefecture of the Security Police for the district of Dalmatia."

  "How do you know?" Maher's voice was taking on a steel edge. "How do you know that?

  " he repeated.

  "I had a small bit of trouble with him a few days ago. Nothing that will interfere with us here. It is strictly of a personal nature."

  "How personal?"

  When Mikhail did not answer right away, I put in sat-

  castically, "He took the nice policeman's girl away while the nice policeman was out of town. And, the nice policeman didn't like it at all."

  "What else?" Maher demanded without taking his eyes from Mikhail.

  "That's all I know. Vishailly was down here earlier this evening to look us over. When he saw Mikhail, he turned all different kinds of red and purple and went away in a huff."

  Maher sat staring very hard at Mikhail for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and poured his own cup of coffee. "Then perhaps it is purely personal. There is nothing to worry about if it just woman trouble. It is a way of life in the Balkans."

  "Like hell it is, Klaus," I snorted. "Anything that brings the cops down on us at this particular time means trouble up to and including five years in a Yugoslav prison. Like you also said, feuds over women are a way of life around here. And usually someone gets himself killed. No! We haven't got time to spare while Mikhail and this Vishailly square off in some dark alley. We have to be out of here inside of a week . . ."

  "All right, Chris, drop the subject."

  "Come on, Klaus, something . . ."

  "I said drop it, Chris." Maher was angry, and right. If there was one thing we did not need then, it was fighting among ourselves.

  "All right," I agreed. "I won't say anything more. But I think it best if Mikhail steers clear of both Vishailly and his girl friend."

  "I will decide if that is necessary," Mikhail rasped. "Mind your own business and I will take care of mine."

  Maher swung round on Mikhail for the second time and now his voice did have an edge to it, a cutting edge. "You will stay away from Vishailly and this woman. Do you understand? You will not go near them for the rest of the time we remain on the island.

  Do you understand?"

  Mikhail had come into a half crouch, one knee under him, ready to spring. One big hand shot out and gathered up a handful of Maher's jacket lapel and he shook him, very gently, but enough to set the wing to bobbing. "No one, no one, especially you, Nazi, tells me what I will do and what I won't. Do you understand? I take . . ."

  Mikhail's voice cut off abruptly and for a moment, I

  didn't see the thin blade of the knife that Maher held pressed against his throat.

  "I will tell you once," he said quietly, almost in a whisper. "There are two things you must never do. One is you must never lay your hands on me again. The second is you must never call me a Nazi. If you do, for either one I will kill you." He said it quietly, but death was a centimeter away from Mikhail.

  The two men sat hunched and staring at one another for a long moment before Klaus withdrew the knife and slipped it away. Both men stood up on the wing and Mikhail turned angrily away as if to climb down for the dock.

  "Get into the boat," Maher said. "We still have work to do."

  The Yugoslav hesitated, I could almost see his mind churning with the indignity Klaus had thrust upon him; weighing his pride against his greed. Finally, he turned back and climbed down into the stern of the calque. The greed had won out this time. But it was very clear that sooner or later, the two of them would have to finish what had started tonight.

  Maher followed him without a word to me and in a few minutes, the calque was lost in the gloom that had now completely spread across the bay. The high-pitched keen of the winds covered even the sound of its engine. I can remember shivering, perhaps with the cold, but more likely with the shade of some ancestral fear of a cold, windy night eons lost when death had come brushing past.

  It was close to nine o'clock before I had the landing light rerigged in the wing and finished up. The calque had made one full trip to and from the cave, reloaded with the last of the equipment and returned a second time. I was cold and hungry and the thought of tinned meat and cold tea was too much for my stomach. According to Mikhail, the village contained more bars than houses. In one of them, I thought, I should be able to find a hot meal and a phone.

  The restaurant was a low, kerosene-lantern-lit shed and indescribably dirty. But I was so tired, I really did not care . . . and besides, I had eaten in worse places in Vietnam. The proprietor was half asleep behind the wooden platform that served as a bar. There were still several

  people at the scattering of small tables and all looked up curiously as I entered.

  After the cold night air, the tiny coal fire at one end of the room accentuated the decades-old smell of sweaty bodies and burning kerosene, making the place indescribably close.

  I chose a small table near the door and ordered coffee and the stew of goat meat that was the only item on the menu. When it came I had second thoughts. From the smell I was not sure that it was goat. From the warm, rancid fat floating in the plate in large, half-melted chunks, I was not sure that it was food.

  "Please eat. We have a department of health that looks in every week."

  "I know. That's one of the few benefits of living in a socialist country . . . you can go anywhere into the boondocks and you won't die from food poisoning . . . usually."

  I hadn't seen Vishailly standing near the bar, but he'd seen me come in. I waved to indicate the other chair and he sat down heavily. The man looked tired, not just tired from one or two nights of little sleep, but from decades of insufficient rest. Seen close up and in better light, his face was heavily lined and the shock of long hair was shot through with steel-gray. The backs of both hands were blotched red and purple and the fingers of his left hand were twisted, as if they had been broken all at the same time and reset improperly. But his eyes were what told you that he was not the overworked civil servant he appeared to be. Deeply hooded in folds of loose brown skin, they stared out in a perpetual frown; the perfect policeman's stare.

  The waitress shuffled over with a foggy glass and a bottle and he nodded his thanks and turned back to me. "Have you fixed your airplane yet?"

  "No," I said rubbing the back of my very weary neck. "A fuel pump is gone and I don't have a spare." "What will you do to fix it?"

  "Nothing much I can do until the morning. I figured I'd phone Brindisi and ask them to send over a spare. Shouldn't take much more than a couple of days."

  Vishailly nodded and swirled the liquor around the inside of the glass. "You cannot find a spare on the island, or something that will do in its place?"

  "I'm all for buying locally, but here, I doubt it. This isn't a piece of equipment that you can pick up in the local shopping center."

  Vishailly glared at the sarcasm in my voice, but I was too damned tired to care.

  "You are an American?"

  "Yeah, how'd you guess?" I was wishing that he'd go away somewhere and let me eat the mess in front of me in peace. I never was a very good liar under the best circumstances and dead tired as I was, I was either going to fall asleep or make a stupid mistake.

  Vishailly didn't answer my return question.

  "We don't do things the American way .. ."

  "Bully for you." Surprisingly the stew was edible; in fact, despite its appearance, it was quite good. Perhaps the fact that I was half starved had something to do with that.

  Vishailly watched me eat for a few minutes, saying nothing and ignoring my bad manners in not offering to listen further to him.

  Finally, he brought himself to the next question. As I ate, I watched him carefully. His face worked as he thought, but in no discernible pattern.

&n
bsp; "Where is your friend now? Klaus Maher is his name?"

  I shrugged. "Either out on the bay somewhere in that damned boat he dug up or else back on the plane, asleep. It's his money, and I don't care where he goes or what he does."

  "As long as he pays you?"

  "So long as he pays me," I echoed.

  I couldn't take any more of this tired, dedicated old man. "Look, do you have something you want to ask me? Korstlov told me who you are and what you do. If you have any questions, just come right out with them. I'm just a businessman—not a very successful one mind you—who has the major piece of his capital equipment busted and losing money for every minute it sits out there in the damned harbor on this Godforsaken island.

  "

  "No," he said finally. "I merely thought you would like some company while you ate your dinner. We Yugoslays try to be friendly to foreigners."

  "Thank you for your kind thought, but no. I'm too damned tired to enjoy conversation with anybody right now. So, if you will excuse me, I'm going back to the dock and get some sleep."

  Vishailly stood up slowly. Everything the man did

  seemed to be in slow motion, and I wondered how true this impression really was. I remembered how he had spun on his heel and disappeared up the cliff after his go-round with Mikhail.

  "You will find that from here the only telephone connection with Italy is through the switchboard in my office. That is in the building at the end of the street. If you will come after nine o'clock in the morning, I will be glad to give you what assistance I can."

  I stood up also and dropped a couple of bills on the table next to the plate. "Thanks," I said, trying to sound as sincere as the offer called for. "I imagine that I will need all of the official help I can get to unravel the Italian overseas operator."

  Vishailly smiled for the first time. "And our own local operator as well. She is almost deaf."

  I let that one hang.

  We walked out together into the sharp air of the night. Overhead, the sky had cleared off and was full of stars. A soft moon was edging up over the faintest line of the mainland to the east. The moon was bright enough to outline the way down the broad street to the rickety scaffolding of stairs leading down to the harbor. We both paused to look down the steep line of cliff at the PBY, caught snuggled against the quay, her wings and the line of the tail outlined in silver. Nestled under one wing was the calque.