by Fritz Galt
“I’m not interested.”
“We’ve come this far. Hear me out.”
She held her tongue and he took the opening.
“A map was stolen, a very important map. It’s called ‘Karta’ and depicts—”
“—the Serbian empire of the early Fifteenth Century,” she said. “I’ve always heard about it. Serbs cherish it like the English cherish their crown jewels.”
“Right. Someone intends to use the Karta to mess this country up. At great personal risk, Professor Cercic took me to see the display case from which it was stolen. He told me nothing, but pointed to the name ‘Ravanica.’ It probably has something to do with what’s happening inside the church right now.”
“Discussing history with the Greeks is not good.”
“I’m not only worried about the Greeks. The Bulgarian Ambassador expressed concern over the map last night. It looks like the Greeks and Serbs are fixing to carve up Macedonia.”
“And cut out the Bulgarians,” she completed his thought.
“A third of ancient Macedonia lay within what is now Bulgaria. These people take maps seriously.”
She looked thoughtful. “Why would the Church get involved?”
“Here’s my guess. The Greek Orthodox hierarchy holds considerable sway in Greek politics. If they cease to recognize the Macedonian Orthodox Church and back a Fifteenth Century map of the region, it furthers the Greek government’s claim on Macedonia.”
“But how do you un-recognize a church?”
“Neither the Serbs nor the Greeks nor, for that matter, the Patriarchate of Constantinople officially recognizes the Macedonian Orthodox Church. It’s on its own. If they’re at all opportunistic, the Serb and Greek clergy will label them heretics.”
“But that’s not all we’re talking about, is it? We’re talking about territorial ambitions.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Since the Greeks won’t agree to an independent state with the Macedonian name, they’d rather take it over or at least prevent it from gaining full nationhood by letting the Serbs subsume it.”
She shook her head. “But Greek approval isn’t enough of a green light for Serbia to invade Macedonia. Historically, Serbs only react to a provocation. That’s what brought their wrath down on Croatia and Bosnia.”
“There’s no provocation here,” he said with a shrug.
“Look out.”
Two men approached them with snarls on their unshaven faces. Their semiautomatic rifles meant business.
“Let’s shove them in the loo,” Mick said.
He prodded her toward the outhouse.
“Dobar dan,” he greeted them with a Texas twang. Then he continued in English. “A privy at last. We’ve been holding it for hours.”
The men looked dubiously at him. He held the door open for his wife. “Go ahead, dear. Try it out.”
She looked inside and hesitated. Then she stepped back.
“What?” Mick played along.
A ghastly look was frozen on her face.
The men peered around the door into the outhouse.
Mick reached back and crashed an elbow into the leathery neck of the first man, met bone and continued downward with the crumpled body. He spun on one heel. The second man never saw the crippling chop to the base of his skull.
He stripped the rifle off the man’s limp shoulder and eased him to the ground alongside his buddy.
Natalie looked at Mick in shock. “You might have killed them.”
“They might have killed us.”
She looked around wildly. “I don’t want any part of this. Give me the keys.”
The dusty white Lada was just pulling into the parking lot.
“Damn,” Natalie said. “They found us.”
Mick raised a finger to his lips. “Take this and wait in the trees.” He thrust the rifle into her hands.
“Are you out of your mind? I don’t know how to fire these things. Like, which end shoots?”
“Figure it out.”
Natalie reluctantly traipsed into the woods with the gun.
Mick dragged the two bodies into the outhouse, reached over the door and latched it from inside. The stench would soon revive the men, or seal their fate.
He slung the second man’s rifle over one shoulder and examined the scene below.
The structures looked like sacred red tombstones rising out of a beautifully manicured golf course. Grass carpeted the bottom of a forested vale like a green fairway. Segments of the wall, with its sturdy blockhouses on the eastern and western ends, ran the length of the valley.
From the nearest point in the fragmented monastery wall, a thirty-yard flagstone path led to a round water well, which sat just in front of the church, a solitary square building.
The road from the outhouse led down to one end of the complex, where the more mundane aspects of modern life lay: a gravel parking lot with parked cars and the whitewashed administrative building.
He headed toward the administrative building, skirted the lot, and approached the blockhouse unnoticed. From there, he crossed the open lawn to the stone well. Crouching low, he strained to see inside the church.
A healthy old tree grew next to the well. Its leaves swished in a mild breeze. Mick moved into its shade, leaned against the well and assumed the casual pose of a guard.
Footsteps shuffled at the entrance of the church and a small man emerged. His wispy beard, hunched profile and bishop’s cap identified him instantly. He was the beloved Patriarch Savic, known throughout Serbia as the leader of the Serbian Orthodox Church.
Priests guided him toward the parking lot. Despite the patriarch’s difficulty walking, he had a smile on his face.
Then Mick saw the white robe of the Greek patriarch. He was impressive in both stature and status. His obligatory white whiskers didn’t obscure his strong face. He was no scholar, rather, a forceful man at the peak of his political power. His priests escorted him, but did not lead him. His confident stride said he knew, and got, whatever he wanted.
Mick turned and strode up the flagstone path to the church. No one stopped him.
He mounted the steps, listening keenly for the presence of others.
The church was quiet except for a few distant footsteps.
The antechamber was a high vault. Once adorned with vibrant frescos, it had been whitewashed and now housed only a small booth with souvenir buttons and postcards of President Nikic.
Mick edged into the gloom of the sanctuary. A circle of candles hung suspended from the dome. Through lingering incense, light fell on the central fresco that showed women cleaning Christ’s wounds.
Under the fresco, a covered painting sat on a stand. A tall blond man and a shorter man carried in a wooden trunk and set it on the mosaic floor beside the painting.
Mick slipped the rifle off his shoulder and released the safety. The click echoed in the stone chamber.
Both men hesitated.
A handlebar mustache caught the light. It was Alec.
Suddenly, two sharp reports rang out from the lawn.
Mick spun around to look. The Serbian patriarch tottered and fell to the ground. Just behind that, the Greek patriarch’s entourage forced him to hit the ground and covered him with their bodies.
A series of gunshots erupted nearby. A woman rushed into the church, smoke smoldering from the barrel of her rifle.
It was Natalie.
“Honey, I didn’t expect you to use that thing.”
“The Serbian patriarch was hit,” she said, breathless.
Gun in one hand, Mick stepped out of the church and grabbed her by the shoulder. He had to get her to safety. Momentarily blinded by the sunlight, he pulled her toward the far end of the monastery.
Behind them, Serbian priests scrambled on all fours to find cover. The Greeks remained face down and unmoving.
“What the hell were you doing?” he asked at a dead run.
“A woman shot Savic. I was coming to get you when I saw th
e whole thing transpire. She took a potshot at me, so I fired back.”
“No kidding.” He was impressed.
The blockhouse at the west entrance was literally the monastery’s back door. The most pious, such as priests, only came and left through the opposite side.
Mick and Natalie ran uphill and took up cover behind thick foliage where they could observe the grounds.
Alec and his accomplice stumbled out of the church just below Mick. They were carrying the trunk.
“That’s Alec,” Natalie said, suddenly recognizing her brother-in-law.
“And he has the Karta.”
“And there’s the woman who shot the patriarch.” Natalie pointed to a slim figure sprinting across the lawn toward the parking lot.
Mick looked around for the agents from the Lada. At last he saw them, two hefty men trying to look small on the back porch of the administrative building.
Just then, a priest in glasses and dark vestments stumbled out of the building and confronted the woman.
The two agents nearly fell off the porch trying to listen.
It was Mick’s first opportunity to study the MUP agents who had been tailing them. Both seemed out of shape. Though they dressed casually, there was nothing casual about their demeanor, or their drawn pistols.
He caught a glimpse of Alec and his accomplice struggling with the trunk through the flattened bodies toward the building where the MUP agents had their weapons drawn.
Natalie clutched Mick’s hand. “Watch out, Alec,” she whispered under her breath.
The priest was physically trying to detain the escaping woman.
“Look out, Father,” Mick muttered. It was too late. The young woman sent a single bullet into the priest’s chest.
The priest’s knees buckled. He fell forward and smashed face first into the gravel.
The agents unloaded a burst of fire at the woman, and she ducked behind the Rolls Royce.
Alec dropped the trunk to take on the MUP agents, while his accomplice scampered toward a small Isuzu pickup truck.
Alec leaped onto the porch and, while the agents were reloading their weapons, lunged at them both. The three spilled off the porch onto the lawn.
In the tangle of arms and legs, Alec flung the guns far across the field. Then he regained his feet and raced back to the woman whose life he had just saved.
The trunk lay open like a casket at the rear of the pickup.
Alec and the woman lifted the trunk and dumped it into the flatbed of the pickup. Then they jumped in front with the accomplice and Alec at the wheel.
The agents ran across the lawn in search of their weapons.
Alec gunned the engine. The Isuzu’s back wheels spat out crushed rock that showered the shot priest’s body.
Pistols retrieved, the agents loped along the crumbling monastery wall.
The pickup pulled onto the roadway.
Crouched behind the wall, the agents held their fire.
Suddenly, Natalie stood up and began to wave her rifle in the air.
Mick jumped to his feet and threw a hand over her mouth. “If you give us away, we’re all dead.”
Two shots spat from the agents’ guns. The bullets struck metal. The Isuzu’s wheels kept turning. A second fusillade splintered the back window and exploded in a bloody shower out the front.
Mick gulped dry air. His heart came to a stop.
The Isuzu bounced off the road and drove over the side of a ditch. Moments later, it reemerged, having righted itself and skittered back onto the road.
Mick watched in disbelief. Who was at the wheel?
Within seconds, the Isuzu bearing Alec, the woman, their accomplice and the Karta had disappeared around a curve.
He let his breath out.
“You could have stopped them,” Natalie said softly.
“Stop who, the agents or Alec?”
The two MUP agents set their safety catches and thrust their guns back into their waistbands. They rushed to the Lada and sped down the road with a tinny kind of roar.
“And I thought they were after us,” Mick said.
“Yeah. Well, your brother has the map, if he’s still alive.”
“Looks like Savic might not make it.” He nodded at the Serbian patriarch on the lawn.
Natalie’s gaze turned to the various clumps of priests lying here and there.
Mick looked at her rifle. “Did you hit anyone when you shot that thing?”
“How would I know? I was running for my life and just fired this thing over my shoulder.”
“It probably saved your life.”
She stared up and down the long barrel and hefted it in her hands.
“Ugly thing, isn’t it?” Mick murmured.
She shivered and threw it into his hands. “Get rid of it.”
Mick studied the carnage below. The Serbian patriarch’s entourage had returned to their fallen leader and simultaneously tried to staunch the flow of blood and administer his last rites.
Meanwhile, the Greek patriarch’s party hustled their leader to the parking lot. Before ducking into his Rolls, the religious leader took in the God-forsaken scene. Perhaps he wondered why Serbs bothered to shed blood over such an isolated valley still choked by the smoke of wood-burning stoves.
He checked for any damage to his bulletproof car and pointed out the paint scratches of several bullets.
A priest gently removed the patriarch’s miter and helped him duck inside the car. Then the caravan rolled away without a sound.
On the lawn, the Serbian patriarch appeared gravely wounded, but still alive, based on the frantic activity of the priests.
They tried to lift him. Someone backed the old Ford onto the lawn. Blood dripping all over their black robes, they lay the patriarch across the back seat. Apparently, two other priests from the party suffered minor wounds. Helpful hands led them to a second car.
Meanwhile, the priest from the administrative building lay groaning and neglected.
The Isuzu and Lada were long gone. Once the Serbian religious party puttered off down the road, only the Jeep remained.
“Is there anyone left?” Mick wondered aloud.
“There were men along the road,” Natalie reminded him. “But we took care of two of them. The parking lot’s empty except for that poor priest.”
“Let’s give it a moment,” he said.
They waited several minutes.
At last Mick got to his feet. “Let’s check on the priest.”
They crouched behind the monastery wall and circled to the parking lot. Mick carried both rifles poised in front of him.
The priest’s fingers slowly raked the stones. Mick set the guns down and carefully rolled him onto his back. His dark hair and beard were that of a young man, but his face was a mess.
Mick began to wipe blood and glass from his broken spectacles off the puffy purple skin.
The man’s eyes stared back full of pain and questions.
Mick flung the man’s silver cross out of the way. Then he ripped the robe open and the underlying cotton shirt. “Missed his heart.”
“He’s in shock,” Natalie said, swinging a concrete parking bumper over. She lifted his legs and slid the bumper under them. “Put pressure on the wound and let’s keep him warm.”
“Do you have a telephone?” Mick asked.
The man’s eyes traveled toward the white building.
“I’ll call for help,” Natalie said, and left.
Meanwhile, Mick struggled out of his striped cotton shirt. It wasn’t clean enough to staunch the wound. He pulled off his T-shirt and folded it several times. He pressed it against the small round hole that gurgled with every pulse.
Natalie trotted down the front steps carrying a blanket. “I called the telephone operator. An ambulance is on its way from Senj.”
She wrapped the blanket around the priest’s legs to help him maintain his body temperature.
Mick worked at keeping the priest conscious. “Why did this
happen?”
The stricken man licked his lips under his beard. “Karta.”
“All for a map.”
“Our map,” he said in slurred Serbian.
“Who wants it? Who shot you?”
The heavy head rolled slowly back and forth. He shut his eyes in an agony that seemed far greater than the pain of his gunshot wound and crushed face.
“Do you know who?” Mick asked.
His lips formed a word, but there was no breath.
“Come on, Father.” Mick applied more pressure. “You’ll survive. Who’s behind this?”
“Zoran Rodic,” he said.
Mick inhaled sharply. The name came shooting at him out of his past.
“Zoran brought Karta. The Church will let him redraw the frontiers.” He grimaced. “It isn’t right.”
Mick closed his eyes. Given Alec’s presence today, he and the Serbian warlord were indeed working together. The Serbian and Greek churches must have agreed upon new boundaries. And the Karta’s borders would be appropriately adjusted.
Redrawing maps was a dangerous game that not anyone could play. Zoran had to be proceeding under higher authority.
Mick opened his eyes and sized up the wounded priest. Could he take the news? “They shot Father Savic,” he said at last.
The priest groaned.
“The ambulance should be here in ten minutes,” Natalie said.
“We must go,” Mick said, tying his T-shirt tight over the wound. “They may have shot my brother, too.” He rose and pulled on his shirt. “What’s your name?”
The priest closed his eyes to bless Mick and Natalie. “Jovic,” he said.
“Good luck, Father Jovic.”
The priest’s mangled brow formed a wordless question.
“I can’t tell you my name,” Mick said. “Perhaps we’ll be in touch again.”
They left him in the parking lot bundled in the blanket.
Mick gripped the steering wheel of his Jeep and headed out of the valley. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a couple of dazed men staggering out of the outhouse.
A minute later, they came within earshot of an ambulance siren.
Approaching the sound, they reached a sharp bend in the road.