by Joseph Badal
Sokic rehashed his plan while he dug his boots into spaces between the rocks. Like a chess player, he wanted to anticipate every contingency. Not only because he and his men would soon put themselves in jeopardy. But also because he knew General Plodic would question him, to be certain they were all prepared.
I still have two weeks before we execute the mission, he thought. By then my men will be ready. He would tirelessly train his unit. They would know what to expect from the Americans. They would be perfect imitations of Bosnian refugees.
Sokic already knew everything about Captain Michael Danforth’s background and training. The Serb Intelligence Service had done its job well. He knew where Danforth had gone to school. What special training he’d had. Even what his grades were. Danforth was a highly trained combat soldier, but Sokic felt confident the man would be no match for his SPETSNAZ team. He and his men would succeed. And if they had the opportunity to kill a few Americans, maybe even some Albanian or Bosnian dogs along the way, so much the better.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Michael and another officer, Captain Khalid Ibrahim, from the Germantown section of Philadelphia, left the 82nd’s base camp at 9 a.m., drove the mile to the refugee camp where they picked up the most current camp census, and then went twenty miles to Kumanovo. NATO military officers who had been working in the field with the refugees had been ordered to Kumanovo to brief NATO Headquarters representatives on their observations. The meeting lasted two hours and broke up at noon.
“What say we grab a bite here in town?” Khalid said when they walked out of the NATO offices.
“What’s the matter, Khalid, tired of Army rations?”
“In a word, yes!”
“Me too,” Michael said. He laughed and slapped Khalid on the back. “I hear there’s a great place a couple blocks from here that serves Middle Eastern food. The owner of the place, like most of the people around the area, is probably Muslim. When he hears your name he’ll treat you like a long-lost relative.”
“I doubt he has any relatives of the African persuasion. And what, with my luck, if the guy is an orthodox Christian – not Muslim. He’ll poison my food. So, do me a favor and keep your trap shut.”
Now behind the wheel of the Jeep, Michael laughed while he drove through the narrow Kumanovo streets, until he found the Sultan Restaurant. Parking across the street, he followed Khalid onto the restaurant patio and sat opposite his friend at an outdoor table under a grape arbor.
“These places are all beginning to look the same to me,” Khalid said. “Same small, square wooden tables and narrow cane chairs. Uneven brick floors on a sand base. Plastic flowers on red and white oil cloth-covered tables.”
“Well, excuse me, Khalid. Maybe we should just go back to the base and eat in the mess hall.”
“Asshole!” Khalid laughed. “I was about to say how much I love these quaint southern European restaurants.”
As they sat talking, Michael noticed a phone booth across the street.
“I wonder how my folks would feel about a collect call from Macedonia?”
“Why, they’d consider you the most thoughtful, loving son in the world,” Khalid said.
Michael smiled. “As usual, Khalid, you are a wise and thoughtful friend, and a fine student of human nature. You’ve made me realize I’d be a real bastard if I didn’t pick up the phone and call home – collect.”
He crossed the street and dialed the operator. In three minutes, he heard his father’s deep voice, “Yes, yes, I’ll accept the charges! Michael, Michael, can you hear me? Are you okay? It’s four o’clock in the morning.”
“Oh, Jesus, Dad. I didn’t even think about the time difference.”
“No, no. Don’t worry about that. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“I got your letter, Michael,” Bob said.
Damn! Michael thought. I wish I hadn’t sent it while I was still angry with Dad. “I’m sorry about the tone of the letter, Dad. But I was pretty steamed at the time.”
Liz’s voice suddenly came over the line. “Hi, I’m on the extension. What are you two talking about?”
“Honey, if you wouldn’t mind, could you give Michael and me a moment?”
Michael heard silence. He knew his mother wouldn’t like getting off the phone one bit.
“We’ll only be a minute. Then you can get back on again,” Bob said.
Michael heard his mother replace the receiver in its cradle a little more forcefully than necessary. “You’re in for a tense evening, Dad.”
“You don’t know the half of it. Listen, I didn’t tell your mother about your letter. No sense making her worry any more than she already is. She would’ve been sick if she’d thought you were upset so far from home.” He paused for a moment. “I admit I asked Jack Cole to intercede with the Pentagon on your behalf. But he’d already called over there – before I talked with him. We both wanted you completely out of the Balkans. I’d be much happier if the Army sent you back to the States. But it had less to do with the war over there, than that the guy who kidnapped Miriana swore he’d go after you in Yugoslavia.”
“Let him come. I’d love to get my hands on the sonofabitch.”
“This isn’t the time for testosterone overload, Mike,” Bob said. “You could be at risk of assassination or abduction, especially if you were to cross into Yugoslavia. Your men could be at risk as well. Keep your head down, son.”
“I haven’t heard you say that in years, Dad. ‘Keep your head down.’ Not since I was a kid.”
“You’re still my kid. Now I’m going to call your mother back to the phone. Talk nice to her. I don’t need her PO’ed more than she is already.”
Michael laughed and said, “You can count on me, Dad.”
“Oh, one other thing,” Bob said. “Jack Cole’s having someone drive Miriana out here this weekend, on Saturday. The three of us will have lunch together. She’s doing great, by the way.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Michael said, his heart doing a trapeze act in his chest. “I was going to ask Mom if she’d heard from Miriana.”
“I’ve kept an eye on her, Mike. I’ll give her your address so she can write. I assume you’d like that.”
“You assume right, Dad.”
“I miss you, son.”
Michael hesitated. He wasn’t used to his father expressing his emotions so openly. “Thanks, Dad.”
“I’ll get your mother. Liz, you can get on now,” Bob shouted.
Bob heard Liz pick up the receiver in the kitchen. “It’s nice of you to let me finally talk to my son,” she said sarcastically.
Michael hung up the phone after talking with his mother for a few minutes and crossed back over to the cafe.
“What’s with the shit-eating grin?” Khalid asked.
Michael laughed. “Gonna have a little surprise for someone this coming Saturday.” He felt a shiver of excitement course through him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Colonel Sweeney finally found a Gypsy woman who could read and write both Roma and English. It took her a week to translate the statements that Stefan had gathered. But from the first pages onward, Dennis Sweeney knew he’d struck gold. He located many of the refugees Radko had interviewed, isolated them in a separate compound, then contacted the NATO field commander in Macedonia who, in turn, brought in people out of NATO Headquarters in Brussels. Investigators from NATO and the War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague, already in Macedonia, met with Stefan and Vanja.
“What motivated you to do this?” the Chief Investigator from The Hague asked.
Stefan looked surprised at the question. “Is it not our responsibility to bring the criminals committing these atrocities to justice?” he said with furrowed brow, trying not to laugh at the way he was playing this idiot.
“Of course, Mr. Radko. But few people would go to the effort you and your wife did. I compliment you. You saved us weeks of work, and the detail you have provided is amazing.”
“We
are happy to be of assistance.”
“Is there anything we can do to show our appreciation?” the Chief Investigator asked.
“There is a favor I would ask: Help my wife, son, and me get out of Macedonia. We have learned our daughter has gone to the United States. We want to join her.”
The Chief Investigator thought he saw tears in Stefan’s eyes. “Yes, Colonel Sweeney already mentioned this to us,” he said. “I’ll do everything I can, Mr. Radko. But, of course, we’ll need you to remain in Macedonia until we talk to all the victims and eyewitnesses you interviewed. I’m sure you’ll get a great deal of personal satisfaction assisting us in the questioning, seeing this through to the end.”
Stefan’s mouth tightened, as though he’d sucked on a lemon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Mr. Radko,” Michael said, having finally found Miriana’s father crouched behind a tent near the inside of the refugee camp perimeter fence, playing dice with five Albanian men. There were neat stacks of currency and coins in front of Stefan. He had clearly been winning.
Stefan looked up at the interruption. “Can this wait?” he said coolly.
“I’m afraid not. You need to come with me.”
Stefan blew out a stream of air. “My apologies, gentlemen,” he said, scooping up and pocketing the dice and his stacks of money. “When our masters talk, we jump.”
Michael suspected that most of the refugees there didn’t understand Radko’s English. He assumed the man had chosen to use English so Michael would understand. The man truly was a sonofabitch.
As Radko walked away with Michael, he began to laugh. “Another week in this camp and none of these peasants will have a coin left in his pocket,” he said, slapping his thigh. “These are the easiest pickings I have had in years.”
“Don’t you feel bad about taking what little these poor people have left?”
“Sheep are meant to be shorn, Captain. Don’t you agree?”
Michael just shook his head. How could this man be Miriana’s father?
“So,” Stefan said, “what is so important you interrupted the game?”
“I have a surprise for you and your family.”
“You have arranged to get us out of here?” Stefan’s eyes sparkled, and his smile seemed to extend from ear to ear.
“No, not yet.”
“Well, what is it?” Stefan said, his smile fading.
“It’s a surprise. I’ve already rounded up your wife and son. They’re waiting for us by my Jeep.”
“We are going for a ride? Where?”
“You’ll see,” Michael said.
Michael, talkative and in high spirits, couldn’t hide his excitement during the ride into Kumanovo. It was a beautiful sunny day with just a trace of a breeze and the open country around them offered a spectacular view of the nearby hills and the distant mountains. Vanja and Attila, seemingly picking up on his mood, were more animated with Michael than either had been before. Stefan just glowered, sitting rigidly in the Jeep’s front passenger seat.
Michael drove to the NATO field headquarters in Kumanovo. While he parked the Jeep down the street from the building entrance, the muffled sound of an explosion echoed through the town.
“What was that?” Vanja asked, looking around, then huddling against Attila.
Michael gave her a reassuring smile. “There are always guerrillas in the hills. Don’t worry, we have patrols out.” He turned back toward the building and led them to a small, first floor office.
“Ah, Captain Danforth, right on time,” a short, stocky man in a German Colonel’s uniform said in English. “And this must be the Radko family. Fritz Heinige,” he introduced himself, shaking hands all around. “I have heard much about you Radkos. The information you provided has been invaluable. Now, if we can all sit down around the table?”
Once they were all settled in chairs, Heinige asked Michael, “Do you have the telephone number?”
Michael handed him a scrap of paper, then watched him lift the receiver and tap in a long series of numbers. Michael glanced at his watch: eight Saturday on night, Macedonia time, equaled noon on Saturday, Eastern Standard Time.
Heinige switched the call to speaker mode, replaced the receiver, and walked out of the room, leaving behind the sound of a phone ringing.
Then, a woman’s voice. “Hello!”
“Mom, it’s me, Michael.”
“How wonderful! Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s great! Is Miriana there with you?”
Vanja, seated between Stefan and Attila, gasped and slid forward in her chair. She grabbed Stefan’s hand.
“Yes,” Liz said. “Do you want to talk to her?”
“Sure. But there are some people here who should probably talk to her first. Could you put her on?”
There was an interval of mildly hissing static, then Miriana’s voice filled the room. “Hello, Michael, is that you?”
Before Michael could respond, the Radko’s erupted in rapid-fire shouting. Michael could understand only her name. “Miriana! Miriana!” But all the rest was Roma shouted back and forth.
Vanja and Attila kept raising their voices, competing to be heard. Miriana must have recognized their voices because she began screaming their names and shooting questions at them. Then Michael heard Miriana break down and cry, “Mama, Babo, Attila.” When Vanja began crying and Attila jumped out of his chair, hurried to the telephone speaker and yelled, Stefan took control.
“Quiet!” he yelled. Like someone had turned a switch, the room fell silent. No more shouting or crying. “One question at a time,” Stefan ordered. “Miriana, are you well?”
Michael jumped at the loudness of Stefan’s voice. He wasn’t used to the way the man dealt with his family.
“Yes, O Babo. Everyone here has been wonderful. Especially Michael’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Danforth. Are you all okay?”
Michael saw the worried look Vanja gave Stefan, but didn’t know what to make of it.
“Yes, we are fine,” Stefan said. “Everything will be perfect as soon as we get out of here and are all together again.”
“When will that happen?” Miriana asked.
“Soon, I hope.”
“What have you been doing?” Vanja interjected.
“That is a long story. I will tell you when we are together again.”
After fifteen minutes, Miriana finally switched to English and asked to speak with Michael.
Michael picked up the receiver, taking the phone off speaker. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself. I should put your mother back on phone. She seems – how do you say it? – anxious to talk to you. But, before I say goodbye, I want to say finding family is most wonderful gift you could give me. This phone call has been so . . ..”
Michael heard Miriana’s sniffling over the phone.
“I miss you, Michael,” she said.
Michael felt a shiver run from his neck and down his spine. “If it wasn’t so awkward at the moment . . ..”
“I understand,” Miriana said, giggling.
Liz came back on the line. “From the look on Miriana’s face, you must have made her day. What’s going on?”
“I found her parents and younger brother. They’re with me.”
“Michael, that’s wonderful! Are they okay?”
“They’re all fine, Mom. They’re nice people.” When Michael said this, he turned abruptly in Stefan’s direction. He caught a venomous, squint-eyed look that caused the hairs on his neck to stand up. Stefan’s expression quickly changed to neutral, and he averted his eyes.
Michael turned again, putting his back to the Radkos.
In Bethesda, Bob picked up the extension. “Hi, son, what’s happening?”
“I’ll let Miriana explain it to you. Could you help her family get out of here? I know some refugees are being transported to the States. Can you get their names on the list?”
“I can’t promise, but I’ll give it a try. Let me grab a pencil and a
piece of paper. Okay! Where are they located?”
“They’re at the Kumanovo Refugee Camp. It’s right near the 82nd’s base in Macedonia.”
“I guess that’s all I really need to get from you. I can get their full names from Miriana. I assume the records there have the last name spelled, G-E-O-R-G-A-D-O-F-F.”
“Miriana’s mother and brother use that name,” Michael said, “but her father’s name is different. It’s Radko, not Georgadoff. Stefan Radko.” Michael looked at Stefan, just when Miriana’s father laughed in short, grunting bursts that made Michael’s skin crawl.
“What did you say?” Bob shouted, an odd tone to his voice.
“Radko,” Michael said again. “R-A-D-K-O,” he spelled.
“Michael, listen to me! Don’t–” The phone went dead.
Bob desperately tried to reconnect the call, but without success.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Jack, I’m confident we can work out an agreement with the Serbs. It’s what kind of agreement that’s problematic,” Major General Stan Ewing said, while he walked with Jack down the stone path leading from the Kumanovo Municipal Building to the American negotiating team’s temporary offices.
“Remember, you’re supposed to refer to the other side as Yugoslavs, not Serbs,” Bob said, a facetious edge to his voice.
“More politicalspeak! The former Yugoslavia is run by Serbs at all levels. But now that ‘Serb’ has become a dirty word, they want to be called Yugoslavs.”
“Stan, I understand. But the administration wants a deal. They don’t want this thing to turn into another Vietnam War.”
“If the administration expects me to kiss the Yugoslav generals’ asses, they got the wrong boy. Besides, the White House is playing games. They hate the military and use us to deflect attention away from the President’s extra-curricular activities.”
“Spare me, Stan. You know your orders, so get the job done.”