Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1)

by Joseph Badal

  “Janos, go sit on the sofa,” Stefan growled. “You, woman, make some tea. We’re going to have a nice chat.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Katrina Vulovich couldn’t calm the little boy. He didn’t respond to her Greek words, and the more she spoke, the more he cried. She thought he must be ill and called for the orphanage’s doctor. While she waited for the doctor to appear, she continued pacing her office floor, cradling the boy – her boy. Singing to him. Talking soothingly. She hugged him to her breast and remembered the baby she’d once had, so many years ago. The little boy she’d loved with all her heart. The child who’d died during the influenza epidemic because there wasn’t enough medicine in Bulgaria to treat all the sick children.

  The office door opened and Dr. Petrovic stepped inside. Katrina shuddered at the sight of the bald, gnome-like physician. His legs were too short, even for his abbreviated body. His black unruly eyebrows matched the long black hair protruding from his open shirt collar. Katrina was reminded of a wolf each time she looked into his amber eyes.

  “Doctor,” Katrina said, “look at him. He won’t eat. Hardly sleeps. He just cries all the time.”

  “Comrade Vulovich,” the doctor said, after touching the boy’s face to see if he had a fever, “this child appears to be in excellent health. I suspect he misses his mother. That’s all. Give him time. He’s young; he will forget. Time will resolve your problem. A week and he will think you are his mother.”

  “He’s just a baby, Comrade Petrovic,” Katrina said. “Doesn’t it bother you to see him crying?”

  Dr. Petrovic shrugged and walked out of the room.

  Katrina stuck a finger inside the high neck of her dress and extracted the jeweled cross she kept hidden there on a gold chain. She touched and kissed it, and said a silent prayer . . . for herself. So what if I know these children have been taken from their real mothers, she thought after she finished praying. I love them as much as their mothers could ever love them.

  Katrina looked down at the sobbing boy in her arms and began walking around her office again. She softly sang a lullaby her mother used to sing. When he finally fell asleep, she put him on the office couch and covered him with her coat. And then her tears flowed. Taking a handkerchief from her dress pocket, she began to blot them away. The handkerchief was quickly soaked – and still her tears flowed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Bob slammed a file down on the dining room table. “Most of this stuff is crap. There are dozens of kidnappings mentioned here, but few of them are tied to Communists or Gypsies. And those that are, are based on conjecture, not facts.”

  Liz came behind him and rubbed his neck and shoulders. “What about that Bulgarian agent the Greeks arrested? Let’s try to find his file.”

  “It would be a lot easier if we knew the guy’s name.” Bob began checking the incident dates on the tab of each file. “Meers said the Greeks arrested him five years ago, 1966.”

  He spread Meers’ files across the table until he found the ones from 1966. One file – the thickest of the 1966 group – caught Bob’s eye. It was labeled: George Makris. Bob read a few sentences from an interrogation report in the file and said, “This is it.” Then he read aloud. “Kidnapped by Communist guerrillas in 1946 at six years of age. Raised by an ethnic Greek family in southern Bulgaria. Trained as a Communist. Indoctrinated to believe his parents gave him up – that they sold him to the Communists. Taught to hate anything Western, non-Communist. Integrated back into Greece at twenty-six.”

  “Does it say anything about where he is now, what he’s doing?”

  Bob leafed through the pages. “Not that I can . . . wait a minute. Here’s something. His parents live on the Island of Evoia. They reunited with him after the Greeks released him.”

  “Then we need to go to Evoia.”

  The doorbell interrupted them. Franklin Meers’ voice carried through the locked front door to the dining room. “Anybody home?”

  “He’s come back for the files,” Bob said. He went to the door and brought Meers back to the table. Before Meers had a chance to say anything, Liz shot him a hopeful look.

  “We need you to do something for us,” she said.

  Meers closed his eyes and sighed. “Oh shit,” he said. “What now?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Katrina Vulovich’s voice was shrill and seasoned with anger. “It’s been over a week since that damned Gypsy brought the boy here. He hardly eats. He only sleeps when he’s too tired to cry. Look at his face. You can see he’s exhausted. Dr. Petrovic, if we don’t do something soon he will starve.”

  “Comrade Vulovich, you are overreacting,” Petrovic said, leaning forward on the plush, leather couch and placing his coffee cup on the table. He looked at his watch as though she were keeping him from something really important. “Children will not starve themselves. He will come around, you’ll see. And why isn’t he with the other children? You aren’t supposed to be a babysitter.” Before she could respond, Petrovic stood up. “I have to go. Call me if there are any real problems.”

  Katrina Vulovich scowled after Petrovic left the nursery. “Call him if there are any real problems,” she said, mimicking the doctor. “He calls himself a doctor,” she said under her breath. “He knows nothing. This child’s heart is broken and he’s terrified. He will starve to death if I don’t figure out something soon.”

  She sat on the couch next to the boy and picked up the food tray on the coffee table. “Come on, my little boy, you must eat something. See, I made this just for you. At least drink the milk. Your Mama Katrina will make it better. You’ll see. No one can love you the way Mama Katrina can.”

  The boy looked up at her, his blue eyes wet with tears and underscored with dark circles. He took in several stuttering breaths, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and rolled into a fetal position.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Liz sat in the front seat while Meers drove to the ferry dock. Bob sat in the back and read aloud from the George Makris file. Even on the ferryboat ride to the Island of Evoia, they remained in the car and listened to Bob quote excerpts from the file.

  After the ferry docked on Evoia, Meers drove north. Just past a tiny village of a dozen or so white stuccoed homes with blue shutters and doors, he pulled the Volvo onto the dirt shoulder in front of a small house sitting between the road and the beach. Its back to the sea, the house faced the road. On the opposite side of the road, an olive grove covered a hillside.

  “Are you sure Makris is here?” Liz asked.

  “He agreed to talk with you after he learned about your son’s kidnapping,” Meers said. “I have no reason to believe he’d change his mind.”

  When they got out of the car, Bob put his arm around Liz. “Calm down,” he whispered. “Let’s not spook this guy, okay?”

  She took Bob’s hand and pressed it to her lips. They followed Meers down the gravel walk to the front door.

  Before Meers could knock, a frail, sickly-looking man of medium height opened the door. His thick mustache was a black, glossy swath across his death-pale skin. High cheekbones and a prominent hooked nose gave him a dramatic, Middle Eastern appearance. His eyes were spiritless. In a whispery-soft voice, he said in English, “Mr. Meers? Mr. and Mrs. Danforth?”

  “Yes,” Meers said.

  “Georgios Makris,” the man said. “Call me George. Please come in.”

  They followed Makris through the small stone house, which was full of the sweet smell of lamb simmering in tomato broth, out to a back patio. Makris directed them to chairs arranged around a table, on which sat a tray of fruit and olives, a carafe of white wine, and four glasses. A gnarled grapevine grew next to the table, its ancient arms extending up the side of a trellis, before spreading overhead on a lattice.

  Liz looked closely at Makris. He seems terribly ill at ease, she thought. He won’t make eye contact with any of us.

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” Meers said. “I’m sure this subject is not an easy one
for you. But, as I explained on the telephone, we need all the assistance we can get to try to recover the Danforths’ son.”

  Makris sat hunched over, looking down, his hands held together between his knees. He didn’t respond.

  “George, would you take a walk with me?” Liz finally said.

  Makris gave her a slight, uncomfortable smile. “Yes, I’d be happy to, Mrs. Danforth.”

  Liz caught a look from Bob that seemed to say, What the hell are you doing? She barely shook her head in response.

  “Do you live here alone, George?” Liz asked when they had walked the one hundred yards from the house to the shore.

  “No, Mrs. Danforth. This is my parents’ home. They are both working in the olive grove, where I would be if you weren’t here. They should be returning to the house soon. I would like them to meet you.”

  “If I’m going to call you George, I expect you to call me Liz.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Danforth . . . uh, Liz,” Makris said.

  “Meers makes you nervous, doesn’t he?”

  He hunched his shoulders and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “How did you know?”

  “A guess.”

  “I will never again trust anyone from any Intelligence agency. I was kidnapped on the orders of the Communist Intelligence types. Can you even imagine what it’s like to be six years old and taken from your father and mother? I’m not discounting your own son’s kidnapping. But there is a big difference between being six and two, like your son. I remembered everything about my parents, this home, my friends, my school. Everything. Even when the Bulgarian teachers – brainwashers, really – told me my parents gave me up, convinced me they didn’t love me anymore, I still remembered everything about them. At your son’s age, he won’t remember you or his father after two or three months.” He looked at Liz and gave her an apologetic look when her expression turned anguished.

  “I’m an only child. My parents were in their early forties when I was born. I was the child they thought they’d never have. Now that I’m back, I spend nearly every waking hour with them – in the olive grove, in the house, at church every morning, at the market. I catch them staring at me as if they don’t believe I’m here.”

  Makris stopped at the edge of the water and sat in the sand. Liz dropped down, too, and hugged her knees.

  “And what Greek Intelligence put me through, after my arrest here, was just as cruel. I was the hated Communist, the spy who wanted to undermine Greek civilization. It got even worse when they found out I was born Greek. My abduction as a child, the brainwashing I endured, made no difference to them. They treated me like the worst sort of scum – a traitor. They beat me, told me my parents didn’t want to see me. Tell me, Liz, is one side any better than the other?”

  Makris didn’t wait for Liz to answer. “I have nightmares nearly every night. I tried to tell people around here what happened to me, but no one believes me. Some sympathize, but most just think I’m crazy. I can’t get a job. I have no future. No woman sees a future with a traitor who’s also crazy.” He suddenly stood up and walked ten yards down the beach. He stopped and turned back toward Liz. “How old do you think I am?” he called.

  “I know how old you are,” Liz said. “I’ve seen your file. You’re thirty, almost thirty-one.”

  “How old do I look?” Makris demanded.

  Liz knew she needed to answer truthfully. His prematurely gray hair and worry lines around his mouth and eyes were obvious. But it was what she saw in his eyes that told her his soul had aged at least as much as his body. “You look a lot older than that, George.”

  He just nodded his head.

  Liz got up from the sand and brushed off her skirt. She caught up to Makris and continued walking with him. She sat next to him on a rock outcropping and stared at the sea. She listened to waves lapping against the shore, to a fisherman’s oars slapping the water in the distance.

  “Tell me about your kidnapping,” she said.

  “I remember that day like it was yesterday. My father had taken us to visit my grandparents in Drama, about halfway between Thessaloniki and the Turkish border. One afternoon, we drove to an ancient Byzantine site where we toured the ruins and picnicked. Afterward, I wandered alone into the forest and came upon a group of ten children being led by three men. Some of the children were crying. All of them were tied together by a rope that circled each of their waists. I hid behind a tree and watched for a while, believing I hadn’t been noticed. But one of the men must have spotted me. He came around behind me and clapped a hand over my mouth and then dragged me over to the group. I tried to yell, but the man tied a cloth over my mouth.

  “The next memory I have is of a large building, like a school. At the time, I didn’t know I was only a few miles from the Greek border – not that it would have made a difference. It wasn’t until later I found out I’d been dropped in a state orphanage near the town of Petrich. They never left me alone. They drummed thoughts into my brain. ‘Your parents abandoned you. They sold you to the Gypsies. The Bulgarian People’s Republic saved you from the Gypsies. Greece is a corrupt, westernized country that will collapse under the weight of the righteousness of the united Communist nations.’ On and on, until I believed every word of it. They rewarded me with treats and hugs when I recited my lessons well. When I didn’t do well, they locked me in a rat-and-cockroach-infested, unlit basement. After three years, they placed me with an ethnic Greek family. They wanted me to be Communist, but Greek in language, customs, and culture”

  “You mentioned Petrich?” Liz asked. “Where’s that?”

  Using his hands, Makris placed the Balkan countries for Liz in the air between them. “Albania is here, then Yugoslavia, and Bulgaria. Petrich is just across the Greek border, in Bulgaria, not far from Yugoslavia.”

  “How long were you in Petrich? With the Greek family?”

  “Until my fourteenth birthday. Then they moved me to a military school in Yugoslavia where I studied the usual academic subjects, along with military classes and more Communist propaganda. At nineteen, they sent me to Moscow where I was enrolled at Patrice Lumumba University. When not in university classes, I received espionage and language training at a KGB site outside Moscow.”

  “Did you learn English there? You speak like an American.”

  Makris nodded. “German, too.”

  “Is that what happened to all the children in the orphanage?”

  “No! Training and education depended on your test scores and work habits. Some children became farmers or mechanics or teachers, never becoming part of the Intelligence system, but still lost in the Communist workers’ utopia.”

  Makris’ face had suddenly become beet-red and his eyes took on a fiery look she hadn’t seen there before. This man may be free in a sense, Liz thought, but he’s carrying an incredible amount of emotional baggage.

  “Now, you tell me about your son,” he said.

  Liz smiled. “He’s a beautiful two-year-old boy. He’s got his father’s black hair and dark blue eyes. He can already count to fifty. You should see him kick a ball.” Liz looked away. “We wanted him always to be safe and to know we loved him. I don’t want him growing up without us. I don’t want him not knowing how much we love him. I . . ..” She began crying.

  Makris moved as though to put his arms around Liz; but, instead, just folded them across his chest. “Liz, I’ll help you find your son.”

  Liz turned toward George and grasped his hands. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so–” Then her crying devolved into sobs, and she collapsed to her knees on the sandy beach.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Pay attention, Gregorie,” Stefan hissed to his fourteen-year-old son. “Mornings are the best time for us. Mothers take their babies outside before it gets too hot, before they start their other chores.”

  Gregorie Radko, sitting in the backseat, peered through a side window of his father’s Mercedes at his aunt, Rumiah, climbing down from the back of a ho
rsedrawn wagon parked forty meters up the street. A man in the back of the wagon handed down several colorful fabrics to her. Gregorie’s breath steamed the glass again, and he wiped it with his shirtsleeve.

  “Are you looking?” Stefan demanded.

  “Ye . . . yes, O Babo,” Gregorie said.

  Vanja, sitting in the front with Stefan, looked at the boy, then at Stefan. “Why get the boy involved with this business?” she said.

  “Don’t interfere. He’s my son, not yours,” Stefan growled, his face reddening.

  Gregorie hated when his father got angry. It scared him. It always had. He wished his father had left him with Mama in Yugoslavia. He turned back to the window and watched the wagon roll around the corner toward the rear of a two-story, corner house. When the wagon disappeared from view, he turned his attention to Aunt Rumiah standing in front of the house, her arms draped with colorful scarves and shawls. She pushed the doorbell. A young woman opened the door. Gregorie stared open-mouthed at them, until his father’s voice broke the silence in the car.

  “The job’s been done,” Stefan said, while he started the Mercedes.

  They drove to a point several blocks away and waited there in the idling Mercedes. Five minutes later, the Gypsy wagon drove up and stopped next to the car. A man stepped from the wagon, walked to the Mercedes’ passenger side door, handed a small bundle wrapped in a pink blanket through the window to Vanja, and climbed back into the already moving wagon. Stefan hit the gas and sped away. Vanja inspected the bundle.

  Gregorie leaned forward and looked over the front seat. Vanja turned and their eyes met. He saw what he thought was shame in hers.

  “What is it?” Stefan demanded.