by Joseph Badal
“You say gadjo like it’s a dirty word. What’s it mean?”
“Anyone who is not Gypsy is considered gadjo. Our people consider all gadji unclean – mahrime. A Gypsy who goes with a non-Gypsy also becomes unclean. So, I guess it is ‘dirty’ word, as you say.”
Miriana looked at Michael’s face and thought, You could be the gadjo of all gadjos and I would not care a bit about what other Gypsies think.
“But my mother is Bulgarian – a gadja,” she said, “so I am already soiled.”
“Does your mother have blue eyes, too?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Are you really interested?”
“Sure. I’m interested in anything to do with you.”
Miriana felt herself blushing. She brought her head back to Michael’s shoulder so he wouldn’t notice. “My mother, with no support from my father, teached my brother, Attila, and me history, geography, foreign languages – English and German – and other things. She read articles from foreign newspapers and magazines to us. Made us read them back to her.”
“She must be well-educated.”
“Self-educated. She not want us to follow my father’s Gypsy ways.”
The band finished the song and took a break. Michael guided Miriana to their table.
“And your father?” Michael asked gently.
Miriana hesitated for only a moment. She decided it would be better to know now if her past offended him.
“My father is much older than mother. He was leader of big Gypsy clan at end of World War II. He led clan for years. Then something happened – I do not know what – and he went on his own. He was married before, but divorced after death of only son. In the sixties, he met my mother, Vanja. She had escaped to Greece from Communist Bulgaria with her parents when she was only twelve. My father was thirty-eight when they met; she was eighteen.”
Michael whistled. “Big age difference,” he said.
Miriana paused a moment. “I think my mother loved my father very much. He was good looking and – how you say it? – dashing. Still is handsome man. She found him exciting. She was oldest of seven children. I think Mama would have done anything to get away from her parents’ home.” Miriana laughed. “She was tired of raising younger brothers and sisters. Whether my father ever loved Mama” – she hunched her shoulders – “I cannot tell you. He never showed affection for her.”
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Stefan. Stefan Radko. But for some reason my mother, brother and I have always gone by my mother’s maiden name – Georgadoff.”
“It sounds like your father has skeletons in his closet,” Michael said.
Miriana’s eyes rounded and her mouth dropped open in an “O.”
Michael laughed. “That means he must have secrets from his past.”
“Oh! I see. Kidding again. You are big kidder, no?”
Michael laughed again. “I am big kidder, yes,” he said.
“I think Father has many skeletons in closet. Understand, I love my father. But he is what you Americans call big son-of-bitch.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
R-r-r-ing.
Bob, instantly awake, jerked the receiver from its cradle on the nightstand. He looked at the clock by the phone: one-fifteen. “Danforth residence,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Bob, it’s Jack. Sorry to bother you at this hour.”
Bob sat up against his pillow.
“Miriana’s disappeared.”
“What!” He said breathlessly. “How the hell is that possible? She was under guard on a secure airbase, behind a barbwire fence.”
“All we know is she told a guard at the base she had an upset stomach. He went down the hall to use the telephone to call the base doctor. That’s when she slipped out. She took his keys from the field jacket the guard had left hanging on the chair outside her room. She took his truck. The cops just found it at the bus terminal.”
“Didn’t the gate guard challenge her?”
“They don’t challenge people leaving the base.”
“Did she get on a bus? Did you talk to a ticket agent?”
“Yeah. She’s a little hard to miss. The guy at the bus terminal remembers seeing her, but he couldn’t remember which bus she took. She could have gone anywhere.”
“So what are we doing?”
“We contacted Greyhound. They’re cooperating.”
“Good for them!” Bob said sarcastically.
“Listen, Bob. This young lady can place Karadjic at several locations on specific dates where atrocities occurred. The stuff she’s given us will be one more nail in the Serb hierarchy’s coffin – if we can get them in front of the War Crimes Tribunal – and if she’s there to testify.”
“I understand, Jack. What can I do?”
Jack didn’t answer.
“What’s up?” Bob asked.
“Would you do me a favor and call Mike?”
“What for?”
Jack didn’t answer.
“Oh no,” Bob said. “You can’t really believe Mike had anything to do with her disappearance. There’s no way he’d do something that stupid.”
“Bob, if the other side picks her up, they’ll kill her. And if Mike happens to be with her . . ..”
“I’m telling you, he’d never help her run away.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Bob. But the bus to Miami left shortly after Miriana disappeared. And it stops in Fayetteville. Do me a favor and call Michael.”
“I’ll get back to you.” Bob hung up the phone and swung his legs out of bed.
“Who was that?” Liz asked in a thick voice.
“I’ll explain in a minute. I’ve got to make a call.”
Bob went downstairs and dialed Michael’s number. He got his answering machine.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The rumble of the Porsche’s engine woke Vitas. He leaped from the bed and went to the window, pulling the curtain aside a couple of inches. Michael Danforth got out of the driver’s side and ran around to help Miriana out of the low-slung vehicle. Vitas watched them walk to the motel room three doors down from his own. They embraced and kissed. Danforth then returned to the car and drove off. Vitas checked his watch: three-twenty.
He grew angry while he watched them. He had wanted to charge down to where they had stood and pound the young man into the concrete walk. But he would bide his time.
He waited nearly an hour, until long after the sliver of light coming from Miriana’s window disappeared. Then he put on his jacket, stepped outside, tossed his bag in the rear seat of the rental car, and backed it into the slot in front of Miriana’s room. He got out of the car, opened the trunk, listened for a moment, then kicked in her door.
The girl moved on the bed and Vitas pounced on her before she could throw off the covers. He swung his fist against the side of her head, heard her moan, and then watched her go still. He bound her ankles and wrists with strips of cloth he tore from the bed sheets, and gagged her with one of her own socks from the floor. He went to the light switch and turned on the room’s overhead light. After hastily stuffing her things in her overnight bag, he walked outside, looked around to make sure no one else was around, and dumped the bag in the trunk. He went back into the room and made sure he’d packed up all of her things. He wadded up the sheets and tossed them into a corner. There would be no ready evidence she’d been abducted. He wanted it to look as though she’d packed up and left of her own free will.
The girl was moaning and her head moved from side to side. Vitas stared at her bare legs and the bulge of her breasts against her T-shirt. He licked his lips and felt a tension build in his groin. This one will be one of the best, he thought.
Miriana felt dizzy. Her head ached. She blinked her eyes and tried to figure out what was wrong. Her vision seemed blurred. Then she saw the man and it all came back to her. Miriana’s breath caught. She tried to scream, but only a series of muffled grunts and whines came throu
gh the gag. He looked like the devil. She felt a wave of desperation overwhelm her while staring at the man’s cruel features – the pink scar running down his right cheek, the thin slash his mouth made, the beak-like nose, and the one gold tooth. But his dead, milky-white eye frightened her most. She detected no humanity in the man’s face. Miriana felt a chill grip her, like an icy hand squeezed her heart. Tears rolled from her eyes. She’d never been more afraid.
The man smiled.
Vitas bent down and roughly squeezed the girl’s breasts. He stared at her silk bikini underpants. He lifted the front of her pants and stared at her pubic area. Smiling again, he said to her in Serbo-Croatian, “We are going to have much fun, my little bird.”
Vitas walked away from the bed, opened the door, and peeked outside. He looked up and down the row of rooms. No lights had come on. No doors had opened. Returning to the bed, he whistled as though he was out on a Sunday stroll. No cares, no worries. He took a plastic bag from his pocket, extracted a chloroform-soaked cloth from the bag, and pressed it against her face, waiting until she stopped struggling and her breathing slowed. He lifted the girl and carried her out to the car trunk. He went back to the room, clicked off the overhead light, and closed the door. Then he got behind the wheel of the rental and drove away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Michael tossed his keys on the table by the front door and walked into his apartment. The blinking light on his message machine seemed like a beacon in the dark living room.
What now? he thought, moving to the machine and punching the play button.
“Michael, it’s Dad. I don’t mean to alarm you, but Miriana Georgadoff is missing. Jack’s worried about her; very worried. For reasons I can’t explain on the phone, she could be in danger. I told Jack you wouldn’t know anything about her whereabouts. But he insisted I call. I need you to get back to me immediately, regardless of the time.”
What the hell! Miriana in danger? Michael pulled out the Fayetteville White Pages and found the number for the Rebel Inn. A man answered after ten rings. His slurred words told Michael the man had been fast asleep.
“Room 116, please.” It seemed an eternity before Michael was connected to Miriana’s room, but the phone went unanswered. Convinced the motel clerk had dialed the wrong room, Michael hung up and called again. The same voice answered.
“I just called for Room 116,” Michael said. “It rang, but no one answered. Would you try again, and stay on the line this time?”
Michael heard the guy say “Jesus H. Christ” before the phone began ringing. Again nothing.
“You still on the line?” Michael asked, his voice rising.
“Yeah, pal, but not for long. I got better things to do than play games with you.”
“Listen, mister. I’m worried about the woman in 116. Could you walk down there and check things out? I just dropped her off a little while ago.”
“What do you think this is, buddy? The Waldorf fuckin’ Astoria.”
The sound of the receiver being slammed into its cradle hurt Michael’s ear. He felt the heat in his face and growled, “Bastard!”
Michael speed-shifted through Fayetteville’s streets. Once he reached Persons Avenue, he opened the throttle on the Porsche and raced down the four-lane avenue at one hundred miles an hour.
Traffic at 4 a.m. was nearly nonexistent. Just the cop who pulled in behind him a mile from the motel. Michael reflexively hit his brakes when he saw the cop’s flashing roof lights, but then gunned the Porsche’s engine again. He would deal with the cop when he got to the motel.
The sportscar’s tires screeched when it turned off the avenue and careened into the motel parking lot. When he pulled up to Miriana’s room, he saw the door was closed, the room was dark. The cop skidded to a stop at Michael’s rear bumper, lights flashing and siren wailing. Michael ran toward Miriana’s room, adrenaline rushing through his system. He tried the door knob on the room door and found it unlocked. He opened the door and flipped on the light switch. Empty. No Miriana. No luggage. Nothing visible, except the unmade bed, to prove anyone had been in the room.
“Hands over your head, asshole. You make a sudden move, I’ll blow your head off.”
Michael slowly raised his hands.
“Now turn around, nice and easy.”
The cop crouched in the doorway. The bore of his .38 police special looked as big as a howitzer’s.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Vitas drove south on Route 1 until he found an isolated area. He pulled onto a dirt road bordered on both sides by tall stands of pines. The trees were so dense he couldn’t see moonlight through them. He got out to check on the girl. She was beginning to stir in the trunk, though still sedated from the chloroform. She looked so tantalizing, he wanted to climb into the trunk and take her right then and there. He reached down and felt her breasts. Then he touched her pubic area with the tips of his fingers. The sense of anticipation coursing through him was like a fever that had taken control of his mind and body. He would have to find a place to hole up soon.
He straightened up and stood at the rear bumper for over a minute, just looking down at the girl. Her legs were exquisite. Long, smooth, finely muscled. Her skin was a golden brown – naturally tan. He removed a handkerchief from his pants pocket and mopped the sweat that had magically appeared on his forehead. This one would be the best ever. Not just one of the best. He knew that as a matter of fact. His instincts were never wrong.
He slammed the trunk lid in place, walked around and got back behind the wheel, started the car, and returned to the highway. There were numerous billboards along the highway advertising hotels and motels in and near the larger cities. Miles away. That wouldn’t do. He would need an out-of-the-way motel, where he could be far from traffic and prying eyes . . . and ears, where he could play the game in seclusion. He felt his heart hammering in his chest. He loved this part of the game. The anticipation always made the realization even better.
“Mir-i-a-na,” he sang.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The deputy who’d followed Michael into the motel lot and drawn his pistol on him now stood just outside Miriana’s room, talking with a very big man, dressed in the same kind of khaki uniform the deputy wore. Michael stared at the two men, but couldn’t make out what they said. Finally, the large man entered the room and stood over Michael, squinting down at him sitting on the motel room bed.
“I’m Sheriff Collins,” he said. “You know you got problems here, boy.”
Michael looked up, blinked. The Sheriff stood six feet, four inches tall – at least – and had forearms as thick as cordwood. His accent was so thick his words drawled on forever. But his blue eyes said, I’m a mean bastard and I’d like nothing better than to prove it to you.
“Yes, sir,” Michael said.
“My deputy here says you were driving on my streets at one hundred miles an hour. You didn’t stop when he signaled you to. And when you got here, you ran away from your car and into this room. I suppose you got some smart-ass explanation for your behavior.”
The Sheriff wiped his face with an already damp handkerchief and turned to his deputy. “Crank up that air conditioner, Del. I’m about to melt from this humidity.”
Michael ignored the man’s bluster. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, Sheriff Collins. But I’m really worried. I think a friend of mine’s been kidnapped.”
The Sheriff squinted. “Before we get into some bullshit discussion about kidnapping, suppose you tell me what you’re doing down here in God’s country.” His eyebrows arched, as though he expected lies from Yankees.
“I’m stationed at Bragg. I’m with the 82nd Airborne.”
Collins stared at Michael for a moment. “I hear they’re sending some of you boys over to goddamn Serb-i-a pretty soon.”
“Yes, sir. We’re shipping out Friday.”
The Sheriff pulled a straight-backed chair from a small table, dragged it over, and sat down. “Now, son, what’s this horseshit
about somebody being kidnapped?”
Michael felt like he’d overdosed on coffee. His legs jiggled up and down, and he had to put his hands on his knees to make them stop. He forced himself to try to breathe calmly. “I left my friend here about an hour ago. We’d gone out for dinner, then went dancing over at the Sackett Inn.”
“What’s your friend’s name?” Collins asked.
“Miriana Georgadoff.”
Collins looked over his shoulder at the deputy. “Didya get that, Delbert?” his voice heavy with sarcasm. The deputy fumbled at his shirt pocket and pulled out a pen and note pad.
“Yes, Sheriff,” he replied.
Collins turned his attention back to Michael. “Don’t the Sackett Inn close down about two a.m.?”
“That’s right. We sat in the parking lot there talking for over an hour. Then I dropped her off here and went to my place.”
“And what made you break a bunch of my traffic laws to rush back here?”
“There was a message from my father on my answering machine. He said Miriana might be in danger. I called Miriana’s room and got no answer.”
“Why would your daddy think your friend was in danger? What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s with the Agency,” Michael said.
“And what agency would that be, boy?”
“The Central Intelligence Agency, Sheriff,” Michael said. “You’ve heard of the CIA, I presume?”
The Sheriff blinked.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bob Danforth hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after calling Michael’s apartment in Fayetteville and leaving a message. He was wired. The fact Michael hadn’t called him back was causing all sorts of scenarios to reel through his mind – all of them bad. He’d been pacing the floor of his home office or trying Michael’s phone number for the past hour. When the phone on the desk rang at 4:15 a.m., he rushed to the desk and snatched the cordless receiver from its cradle.