by Young, Tom
“Oh, yes,” Irena said. “They don’t know what to make of it. They’re scared there’s going to be more trouble.”
“So they’re not ready to lock and load yet?” Parson asked. Gold shot him a look, and he shrugged, but Irena did not seem offended.
“I didn’t hear anything like that,” Irena said. “You can find hotheads anywhere, but you know how it is. Most people just want to cook their dinner and feed the kids and walk the dog and mind their own business.”
Traffic remained light as they strolled through the city. A quiet Sunday morning, Gold thought, just like a Sunday back home. Apart from the security men at the cathedral, nothing gave any hint of new threats of violence. Crossing a street, she noticed what looked like abstract art painted on the pavement. Red resin filled gouges chipped out of the asphalt in a design that looked vaguely like a flower, three or four feet in diameter.
“What’s that?” Gold asked.
“A Sarajevo rose,” Irena said.
“A what?” Parson asked.
“A Sarajevo rose. Places where mortars hit the streets, filled with red in memory of those who died.”
From the sidewalk, Gold examined the rose. Pretty in a way, if you didn’t know its origin. Just shallow indentations spattered in a rough circle. Hollywood’s version of mortars dug big craters, but Gold knew real mortars left only little pockmarks like this. However, they threw hot, sharp shrapnel in every direction. She wondered about the suffering that must have happened in this very spot.
Parson seemed especially moved by the sight. He said nothing, but he kept looking at the battle damage turned artwork. Gold had seldom heard him speak of Bosnia, but he seemed to have strong feelings on the subject, and he usually kept his feelings to himself. She wondered what he thought now, especially in light of the new spate of arson and riots. Perhaps he pondered how you always had to remain vigilant. Maybe sometimes you had to refight battles you thought you’d won.
After Parson turned away from the rose, Irena led on. Eventually they came to a sidewalk café. Plate glass windows stood in frames reminiscent of Moorish arches. From the windows stretched an awning that covered four small tables. An aproned waiter opened the door and beckoned, and when he did, the aroma of sweetened coffee rolled into the street.
Irena spoke in Serbo-Croatian with the man, then asked in English, “Does anybody want lunch?”
“I could eat,” Parson said.
“Me, too,” Gold said. She had not enjoyed a day this leisurely since she’d gotten out of the hospital, and she felt grateful to Parson and Irena for making it happen.
“Inside or out?” Irena asked.
“Let’s sit outside,” Gold said.
They took seats under the awning, and Gold surveyed her surroundings. From the architecture of the windows, she supposed Muslims owned the café. Irena ordered three cups of Bosnian coffee. When the coffee came and Gold tasted it, the flavor reminded her of the coffees she’d tried in countries farther to the east: very strong and very sweet.
Parson looked pensive. He rested his chin on the crook of his thumb and forefinger, and he ignored his coffee.
“What’s on your mind?” Gold asked.
Parson took his hand away from his chin, crossed his legs. “Webster wanted us to make Cunningham really understand what happened here. He hopes OSI will stay on this and see it through. Got any ideas?”
Gold thought for a second. “Maybe bring him here and show him a Sarajevo rose.”
“Maybe.”
Irena glanced up from her coffee. The contentment had drained from her face, and now she looked even more subdued than Parson.
“I just thought of something else we can show him,” Irena said. She explained her idea. It involved a visit to the town of Bratunac. “If Sergeant Major Gold has her United Nations ID card, that might get us on the site.”
“That’s not something I want to see,” Parson said, “but if it doesn’t make Cunningham feel for this place, nothing will.”
No one spoke for a long while. Eventually, Gold tried to change the mood.
“Let’s order some food,” she said.
From far down the street, the growl of motorcycle engines rose. Gold opened her menu and paid the traffic no mind. She thought to ask Irena for a recommendation, but the bikes roared louder now. When she glanced up from the menu, she saw two motorcycles, each with a driver and a rider.
The bikers came on fast, one machine a few yards in front of the other. Each driver gripped the handlebars and throttle; each rider held an object in his right hand. Before Gold could react, before she could even gauge the riders’ intent, they hurled their objects toward the café. Over the noise of the cycles, the bikers shouted something in Serbo-Croatian.
One of the objects spun toward Gold’s head. She felt the object flick strands of her hair before crashing through one of the café windows. The other object struck the table, broke Irena’s cup and saucer, bounced into another window.
“Grenade!” Parson shouted. With broken glass and ceramic still in motion, he leaped from his seat. Arms outstretched, he hit Gold and Irena like a linebacker. His shoulder thudded into Gold’s rib cage, and the force of the blow knocked her backward in her chair.
The three of them tumbled to the ground amid shards and spilled coffee. Gold landed on her back and rolled away from the overturned chair. Irena fell onto her side two feet away. Parson grabbed Irena’s arm and yanked her close. He crouched over both of them, in a position as if he were starting a push-up.
In that instant, Gold understood what he meant to do: shield them from the blast with his own body. The alpha wolf again, protecting his pack.
Nothing happened. What was the hang time of a grenade? Usually about five seconds, Gold recalled. She took a breath, let it out. That much time had passed.
“Stones,” Irena said. “They’re just stones.”
No one moved. Gold’s chest hurt like hell from the old gunshot wound and the impact of Parson’s shoulder. But as she thought about what he’d done, she put her hand on the side of his neck, met his eyes. Then she moved her hand down to his arm and asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry. I guess I kind of overreacted.” He picked himself up, brushed at the coffee stains on his shirt.
“No you didn’t,” Gold said. “They could have been grenades.” She sat up, winced with pain. The back of her hand stung, too. Blood trickled from a cut with a sliver of glass still embedded. Gold picked out the glass, let it drop to the sidewalk. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped the cloth around her hand.
“Does that need stitches?” Parson asked.
“No, it’s not deep.”
“How about you, Irena?” Parson said.
“I’m okay,” Irena said. “Can’t say the same for my dress.” Parson had torn the sleeve in his attempt to shield her, and coffee had spilled down the front. The espresso aroma floated stronger in the air, but now it brought no pleasure.
A flush of anxiety came over Gold. Sweat popped out all over her skin. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. You can help beat it just by identifying it, she told herself. PTSD. Not everyone who experienced combat trauma suffered debilitating effects. Gold felt she had nearly overcome her injuries, both physical and psychic. She recalled taking the Automated Neuropsychological Assessment Metrics right before leaving active duty. The computerized test included activities such as memorizing symbols associated with numbers, recognizing patterns, and gauging reaction time by clicking the mouse every time an asterisk appeared. Her ANAM results showed no loss of function.
Gold stood, extended her good hand to Irena, pulled her to her feet. Excited voices came from inside the café.
“Oh, they’re pissed,” Irena said.
“I would be, too, if some asshole trashed my coffee shop,” Parson said. “What did t
hose bastards yell when they drove by?”
“Fucking towel heads,” Irena said.
“That’s just great.”
The waiter came back outside, waving his arms and talking fast. Irena spoke with him for several minutes. The man went back inside, and through the shattered windows Gold saw him pick up the telephone.
“He wanted to make sure we’re all right,” Irena said. “I told him we’re fine. He also wants to know if we’ll stay to tell the cops what we saw.”
“Hell, yeah, I’ll make a police report,” Parson said. “I’d like to strangle those sons of bitches.”
When the police arrived, both officers spoke English well enough to take statements from Parson and Gold without translation. One of the cops went to the trunk of his squad car and brought back a first-aid kit. He wiped the cut on Gold’s hand with an alcohol pad, which burned a little. The officer agreed that she did not need sutures, and he placed an adhesive bandage over the cut.
Irena addressed the police in Serbo-Croatian. After she’d spoken with them, she said, “They’re offering us a ride back to the hotel.”
“That’s good,” Parson said. “I’ve had enough playing tourist.”
The officers talked to the waiter and manager, took some notes, and opened the back doors of the squad car, a VW Polo. Gold squeezed into the middle between Parson and Irena. During the drive back to the hotel, the police chatted with Irena. The car stopped in front of the Holiday Inn, and Gold, Parson, and Irena got out, waved thanks to the police officers.
In the lobby, Parson asked, “What did you guys have so much to talk about?”
“They were real curious about what we’re doing,” Irena said. “I just told them we were on vacation.”
“Smart.”
“I don’t know if they bought it. They also said this is about the third time in a week they’ve had low-grade violence. Nobody’s been killed like in that riot at Zvornik, but this stuff seems to be spreading.”
Parson shook his head but he said nothing. Irena went upstairs to change out of her ruined dress. Gold accompanied Parson to the hotel restaurant.
“I need a beer,” Parson said. “You want a glass of wine?”
“Too early for me,” Gold said. But she did not begrudge Parson his beer. Though he showed no signs of emotion, his feelings had to have taken a wild ride. He’d made a split-second decision to save others with a move that could have cost him his own life. That the grenades turned out to be rocks made Parson’s impulse no less impressive to Gold. And after someone had acted to sacrifice himself, you could hardly expect him just to forget about it and go have lunch.
When the waitress brought Parson his lager, he took a long pull, then set the glass onto a napkin. He looked like his nerves had settled a bit, so Gold decided to see if he felt like talking.
“This place gets to you, doesn’t it?” she asked.
“Well, it’s kind of hard to ignore flying rocks and busting windows.”
“I mean even before that.”
Parson took another drink, put the glass back down. With his index finger, he traced a line in the condensation sweating on the outside of the glass. After a few moments he said, “Yeah, I guess you could say this is where I got my education.”
He told her about that night mission long ago when he’d seen the ground fire from his C-130. Through intel briefings and news reports, he’d come to realize he’d watched part of the Srebrenica massacre as it unfolded.
“I was pretty young back then,” Parson said. “I guess I just couldn’t reconcile a world where those things could still happen.” He went on to say he’d seen awful things in Iraq and Afghanistan, too. But he was older and more jaded then. Bosnia had first taught him that cruelty persisted in human nature like a dominant gene. “I don’t know the things you know,” he added. “I don’t know about philosophy and history and religion; I just fly airplanes. But it seems the more I learn about what we’re capable of, the worse it gets. I don’t see how you stand it.”
Gold liked it that he’d said “what we’re capable of.” Not this group or that group. He might feel older and more jaded, but he was also older and wiser.
“I can stand it,” Gold said, “because I never lose hope.” She never lost hope, she told him, because in addition to the horrors she’d witnessed, she’d also seen great kindnesses. And sometimes great courage to enable the kindnesses. “Remember how you came after me when the insurgents captured me in Afghanistan? You had almost no support at all—just determination and a rifle.”
“Seemed like the thing to do.”
“That’s my point. I don’t believe you gave it much thought. You just did it. You went with your gut. Pure instinct. All to help somebody you didn’t even know at the time.”
“I’m nothing special.”
Gold put her hand over his. She looked at one of his fingers, the tip nipped off by frostbite when he’d rescued her.
“That’s right,” she said. “You’re nothing special. Well, no. Yes, you are. I hope you don’t mind me saying that. But I mean there are a lot of brave, kind people out there like you. That’s why I have hope.”
Parson stared into his beer. “You’re killing me,” he said. Gave a slight smile, shook his head. “But I suppose that’s something to think about. I know some pretty high-speed folks, myself.” He looked straight at Gold when he said that.
She released his hand. Something to think about, indeed, she thought. You could dwell on darkness or focus on light.
Gold thought she detected a hint of relief in Parson’s eyes; she hoped so, anyway. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and she just let him sip his beer and come down from the adrenaline high of the day’s events. Or was he coming back up from a low?
Either way, Parson maintained his usual stoic demeanor. Gold had seen it in worse situations. When Cunningham entered the restaurant, Parson nodded to him as if nothing had happened.
“What have you guys been into today?” Cunningham asked.
Gold told him about the cathedral visit and the vandalism at the café. She left out how Parson had tried to shield her and Irena because she knew he wouldn’t feel like talking about it.
“That rock-throwing thing sucks,” Cunningham said.
“Yeah, it does,” Parson said.
“Well, we all have a big day tomorrow,” Cunningham told Parson. “The Rivet Joint will go up, and they want Sergeant Major Gold to go up with them. You and I are taking a road trip.”
“Where to?”
“Belgrade.”
15
NO MAJOR TRAFFIC ARTERY CONNECTED Sarajevo directly to Belgrade, so Parson enjoyed the scenery of Bosnia and Serbia as Cunningham drove the rental car along winding two-lane roads. The green hills and lush forests looked like great territory for hunting and trout fishing. Parson wondered how such a beautiful place could have become the scene of the awful things that had happened here. But he’d asked himself the same questions in the countryside of Germany, on the old World War I battlefields of France, and, for that matter, among the fields at Antietam and Gettysburg. The problem lay not in the terrain but in people’s hearts.
He remained angry about the café incident yesterday and puzzled over why those kinds of things were happening now. Anybody here over the age of thirty should have a good idea of where it all could lead. When he tried to put himself in the place of the rock throwers, to imagine what they must have been thinking, his mind could not plumb the depth. The effort made him think of a radar altimeter out of its range, whose beam could not find the ground. So its indicator just went blank. At a mental dead end, he turned his thoughts back to the mission.
“So tell me more about this op,” Parson said.
“I met with Bosnian and Serbian police yesterday,” Cunningham said. “They have a hangar under surveillance at the Belgrade airport. That’s where the opium
has been going. I think they’re going to take it down this afternoon.”
“Sounds like somebody’s going to have a bad day.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’ll see some traffickers with their faces in the tarmac.”
“Cool. So what do we do?”
“Just observe, I hope. The Rivet Joint will talk to me on Fox Mike if they hear anything.”
Parson had never witnessed a drug bust, and he looked forward to seeing a little justice in action. At the airport, Cunningham made a cell phone call, then met an unmarked white van in a parking lot near the cargo terminal. The driver, a dark-haired man of about thirty, introduced himself only by his first name. He spoke English with just a trace of a Slavic accent, and he wore civilian clothes: a golf shirt with blue tactical pants, and those black shoes favored by cops all over the world—enough leather almost to pass as low quarters, but with soles fit for running down a criminal.
“I’m Dragan,” he said. “Ministry of Internal Affairs police.”
“Thanks again for your help,” Cunningham said.
“We’ll do this just like we briefed yesterday,” Dragan said. “My uniformed guys are already in position.”
“Where did you learn such good English?” Parson asked.
“University of Chicago. And I have American relatives.”
“Want to do a radio check?” Cunningham asked.
“Sure,” Dragan said.
Cunningham plugged a cord into his VHF-FM radio, inserted an earpiece into his ear. Dragan donned a headset with a lightweight boom mike. The Serbian officer walked several steps away. Cunningham pressed a switch and said, “Radio check.” Lacking an earpiece, Parson did not hear the answer, but he did hear Cunningham when he responded, “Good. Got you five by five.” Cunningham’s pronunciation of “five” sounded like “foiv.”
Dragan came back over to the rental car, and the two lawmen worked out last-minute details. “The flight’s due in about an hour,” Dragan said, “but let’s set up now in case the plane’s early.”
“Yeah, we better,” Cunningham said. “Where do you want us?”
