Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  After a tuna and tomato sandwich dinner using the neighbor’s homemade mayonnaise sauce, she revved up the Jeep and left for the Winklers’.

  Bud and Pam Winkler had planned the party well before the evacuation. That evening, they played Risk, Taboo and Trivial Pursuit, but mostly relived old times and relaxed from a hectic day of packing.

  Rich McKenzie sang a hilarious rendition of “Heartbreak Hotel” called “Drawdown Hotel” to Harry and Tammy’s air guitars. The song was funny, but mostly because it was true.

  Nothing would stay behind, but their houses and several years of their lives.

  Mick eased out of the thermal-heated pool in Budapest and sat on the tile edge.

  Stephanie’s long blonde hair floated behind her as she drifted up to him. She broke the surface and her face radiated a smile.

  “Relaxing?” he asked.

  “Sexy,” she replied.

  He looked down at his own broad chest and muscular arms. “What, this?”

  “Uh-huh.” She tugged at her pale blue bikini that had become translucent in the water. Then she jumped up to sit beside him.

  Their legs dangled together in the warm, lapping water. Late afternoon sunshine poured in the window opposite them and played on the expanding ripples. The wavy motif reflected on their chests.

  “We just got news from our embassy in Belgrade,” she said.

  “What news is that? I just drove through plenty of news.”

  “They’re evacuating.”

  “No kidding. When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  What could Natalie do on such short notice? She might appear in Budapest the very next day. He had to act fast.

  “Let’s take a tour in the morning,” he said. “I have to see Szentendre.”

  “Oh, it’s such a nasty little place. I can take you to more interesting places.”

  “Like where?”

  “Like my place.”

  He smiled and looked away. She would be disappointed.

  “This city has become one popular destination lately,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve felt twice blessed in one week.”

  He tried to make out her meaning.

  She slung an arm over his shoulders. “I mean Alec,” she said. “He was here last night.”

  His breath escaped like air from a blown tire. Of course. Alec would have brought the Karta himself.

  And again Mick was trampling on Alec’s turf, being propositioned by Alec’s girl.

  “Hey,” she said. “I’m ready for more.”

  “No,” he said. “This is business.” He had lost all capacity for humor. “How do you evaluate him?”

  She raised an eyebrow with a wry smile. “On what scale?”

  “I’m talking about his mental state.”

  She splashed at the spa waters in thought. “I would say he was sort of driven.”

  “By what?”

  “I don’t know, but he seemed uncharacteristically preoccupied.”

  “Was he headed for Szentendre?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Is that why you don’t want me to go?” he asked.

  “Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you two. You don’t seem in especially close contact, not even traveling together. Now, I’m willing to take you both in, but I’m not sure I want to come between you.”

  “You don’t have to come tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’ll come. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I just won’t choose sides.”

  “That’s fair enough.” He looked her over. She had a wretched look on her face.

  Mick and Alec were to blame for that. What would Yugoslavia look like once the two were done with that?

  Chapter 23

  The eroding forces of history had rubbed the name Saint Andre down to its present form, Szentendre.

  Similarly, wind off the Danube had sandblasted the face of the ancient Serbian Orthodox Church down to a smooth gleam. The locked doors and windows sealed off all outside influences, and sealed in the past.

  Serbs escaping the Turks had built several colonies along the river. The hilly town, with its narrow streets and individual whitewashed shops, told more of the old Serbian way of life than the current streets of Serbia did. The buildings told of a happy, prosperous trading community.

  Although few Serbs still lived there, Hungarian painters and artisans had moved in and managed to maintain its medieval charm.

  Mick and Stephanie left her sleek, black BMW at the bottom of the hill and walked up through town. They passed art galleries, sculpture gardens, a bakery, well-kept houses of artists and writers and a thriving grade school with the sound of soccer being played behind a cement wall.

  Atop the central hill and wobbly stone steps stood an enormous Catholic Church. Its long, dark sanctuary was in daily use, whereas the Serbian Orthodox Church rarely opened its doors. Nevertheless, the two churches spoke of a peaceful coexistence between the two faiths over long periods of time.

  Cobblestones formed jagged, protruding ridges, so Stephanie had to hold Mick’s arm as they climbed the next hill.

  A small yellow truck carefully eased toward them as it headed down toward the river. A side panel read, “Art Supplies.” The license plate was white with a red Yugoslav star.

  Mick and Stephanie stepped aside to let it pass.

  “I’ve got to find a Serbian painter,” Mick said. “There must be one left in town.”

  “Let’s ask.” She headed past a rose garden and birdbath and entered a gallery of post-modern paintings.

  Something of a sketch artist himself, Mick had a deep appreciation for art. Once inside, however, he had to shake his head. He had no taste for the pieces on display.

  Stephanie stopped in front of a dismal winter scene. It showed a snowfield and river with a brilliant orange stripe slashing down from the heavens.

  He turned to a lady at a small writing table.

  “Good morning. Do you know any Serbian artists in town?”

  The lady smiled pleasantly. “Just up this street is an old artist. There are two more. A young couple and an art student from Belgrade.”

  “Where might I find the old man?”

  “Just up this back street. He’s number 24.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a slight bow. He placed Stephanie’s hand over his arm and led her out into the garden.

  “Strange how you become so formal in an art gallery. It sounded like you were in church.”

  “More like a bank. Whenever a gallery feels stuffy, I know that they’re after my money.”

  “The painting with the orange streak is by Foyer,” she said. “His paintings sell in the tens of thousands in New York. Two thousand German marks was a steal.”

  “That explains why they take Visa. Listen, I have some business to transact. Can I meet you at the car in half an hour?”

  She looked disappointed. “You won’t need me?”

  “Not for this. I’ll need you to drive.”

  “Fair enough.” She tipped her sunhat. “Always at your service.”

  She turned and picked her way down the street.

  Mick reached into his tweed jacket, cocked his service revolver and pointed it carefully away.

  Number 24 was a long, enclosed shed. Its doors and windows were tightly shut. He leaned against a wood panel to listen. There were no sounds coming from within.

  He looked around the corner of the building. There was a steel garbage container, a small courtyard full of hens and a square, white house.

  Standing in front of the shed, he pushed down gently on the handle. The door eased open. He thrust his gun through the doorway and stepped inside.

  The front half of the shed was a painting studio. Newly stretched canvases leaned against the walls. Stacks of watercolors collected on a long table. The smell of freshly applied oil paints hung in the air. It was a creative smell, one that made him feel fresh and alive.

  H
e placed the gun back in his pocket.

  Then, unexpectedly, he heard a footstep behind him. He whirled around. A young man with dark hair stepped out from behind a curtain and casually leveled a revolver at him.

  “Morning, Mr. Pierce,” he said in Serbian. “I thought you might show up.”

  “How did you know?” He didn’t recognize the smug young stud.

  “Zoran knew that you’d be coming. I’m sorry, but you’re too late.”

  “I didn’t tell Zoran that I was coming.” Had the young man mistaken him for Alec?

  “Take off your coat.”

  He slipped the jacket off and set it on the back of a chair.

  “Now turn around.” The man motioned with the barrel of his gun. His tone of voice had turned cold and brusque.

  Mick raised his hands and turned to demonstrate that he was no longer armed.

  Through a narrow slit in the curtain, he saw an old man’s legs bound to a chair. No doubt it was the painter.

  “Where’s the artist?” he asked.

  Assured that Mick was unarmed, the young man smiled to himself and straddled a narrow wooden chair. “He won’t be talking to you either.”

  Suddenly, a firearm discharged in the back room.

  Before Mick could react, the curtain billowed outward. The young man tipped forward in his chair, and he fell flat on his face on the concrete floor.

  His black revolver skittered between them. Mick crouched low, scrambled toward it and whisked the gun to the far side of the room.

  Four more shots rang out. The body rolled over and over like a pinwheel and ended up in a heap against a cluster of canvasses. The first blank canvas blossomed into a gory abstract of blood.

  Mick looked back at the curtain. The hook-nosed MUP agent with the black overcoat was standing there.

  Training his gun on Mick, the agent approached the motionless body, squatted down and felt for a pulse.

  Mick examined the man with the bent nose. His face had the slack muscles and sallow skin of one who normally worked indoors.

  The man shook his head gravely. “He’s dead.”

  “What did you expect? You emptied your entire clip into him.”

  “I was just trying to protect you.”

  “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

  They stared at each other.

  “I didn’t want to shoot him, but as soon as I arrived, I saw his gun and suspected the worst. You see, I need you alive.”

  “Then perhaps we have something in common.” Mick extended a hand. “I’m Mick Pierce.”

  “Inspector Stojanovic, Yugoslav Ministry of Internal Affairs. I came here looking for a map.”

  Mick gave an involuntary laugh. “Same here. Let’s ask the forger.” He picked up the young man’s gun and headed for the other room.

  “No guns,” the inspector said.

  Mick set the dead man’s revolver down. He passed the inspector and pulled the curtain open.

  There was more blood, this time on the old artist’s forehead. A blindfold covered his eyes and a gag dripped blood from his mouth.

  Mick untied the blindfold. Around the man’s eyes were deep, oozing cigarette burns, the same kind of torture used on Dr. Moore.

  Mick found a penknife and cut through the gag.

  “Hvala.” Thank you was all the Serbian artist could say.

  “What happened to the map?” the inspector said.

  The artist swallowed several times, then said in an anguished tone. “I destroyed it. I mutilated it.”

  “You redrew it,” Mick said.

  “Now Serbia is the size of a pea.”

  “What do you mean?” Mick started to untie the other bindings.

  The man lifted his troubled eyes. “I undertook the project to redraw the borders. I didn’t know that the country would shrink down to a mere valley.”

  The inspector looked at Mick. “Can you explain this?”

  “Apparently, Zoran wants to redraw the Karta to gut Serbia.”

  “Zoran Rodic? Hah,” the artist said. “It’s those crazy Macedonian idiots.”

  “Are you sure?” Mick asked.

  “It’s the Macedonian nationalists,” the old man croaked. “They killed King Alexander in Marseilles. They’re back.”

  “Where’s the map now?” Mick said, ignoring the reference to the assassination of Yugoslavia’s monarch in 1934.

  “They drove it away.”

  “Crap.” The voice came from the studio door.

  Mick whirled around. His brother stood there with a gun.

  Mick took a second to recover. “I thought I’d find you here, but with the map.”

  “Where is it?” Alec said, the revolver limp in his hand.

  “In a yellow truck,” the artist said.

  It was the very truck that had passed Mick just a few minutes ago.

  “Which way did it go?” Alec demanded.

  “Back to Macedonia,” the artist said.

  Alec hefted the revolver. Its muzzle swung wildly around the room. Killing someone would be useless under the circumstances, but Mick had lost all ability to read his brother’s mind.

  “For God’s sake, Alec. Put that thing away.”

  Alec’s tired eyes traveled from the artist to Mick. He seemed to look straight through him.

  Then Alec whipped around and ran outside.

  “Wait,” Mick shouted. “I know the truck.”

  Alec didn’t stop.

  The inspector licked his lips and pocketed his gun. “After him.”

  Mick sprinted for the door. He heard the inspector scramble out the back way.

  Pulling on his jacket, Mick bounded from rocks to sidewalks to bare earth. He had to get to Stephanie at the bottom of the hill. Several houses away, the figure in the black coat leapt fences and pounded down the street.

  Behind her windshield, Stephanie’s eyes grew large as Alec and Mick descended upon her from two different angles.

  Alec jumped beside her in the front seat and urged her to go. Mick grabbed the back door handle and jumped in.

  The black BMW roared to life.

  “Back to Budapest,” Mick said. “We have to catch up to that yellow truck from Yugoslavia.”

  Stephanie stepped on the accelerator and they spun out of the parking lot.

  “Who are we chasing?” she asked.

  “Ask my brother,” Mick said.

  Alec said nothing and only stared straight ahead. When words finally came to his lips, they were intense and bitter. “They are Macedonian nationalists trying to stop Serbian aggression.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Stephanie asked.

  “You can’t stop a rampaging elephant without further inciting it,” Alec said.

  “How do you stop a rampaging elephant?” Stephanie asked.

  “You don’t,” Mick said with bitter sarcasm. “You join the herd and stampede Macedonia.”

  “That’s right,” Alec shot over his shoulder. “You play their game.”

  “For two years?” Mick said.

  “What do you know?” Alec turned away. “You joined the herd and stampeded out of Bosnia. I expected you to keep on running.”

  “I’m here to help.”

  “Like hell you are. You’re here to get rid of me. It’s just like the Company to clean up after itself.”

  “You’ve got me wrong,” Mick said. “I am here to stop you, not to kill you.”

  “I knew you didn’t care.”

  “Whoa,” Stephanie said. “This is getting too heavy for me.”

  “You can stop here,” Alec ordered.

  She applied her brakes and pulled to the side of the road.

  Alec turned in his seat and pointed his handgun at Mick’s head. “Get out of the car.”

  “Alec, it’s me. Your brother.”

  “Out.” He released the safety.

  Mick pushed the door open and stepped out into traffic.

  Alec also jumped out, his revolver by his side
, but pointing at Mick.

  “Why are you doing this, Alec?”

  Alec didn’t answer. Mick had never seen such fierce intensity in his brother’s blue eyes before. He seemed on fire.

  “Is this because I abandoned you in Bosnia? You don’t know how that’s eaten me up.”

  “You didn’t just abandon me,” Alec said. “You abandoned an entire people. You and the UN gave Serbs a green light to butcher everyone in sight. And not just Srebrenica. Everywhere.” He swung the barrel of his revolver and caught Mick on the cheekbone.

  Mick’s skin ripped like the sound of Styrofoam.

  He stumbled backward and fell hard against his right shoulder.

  Alec jumped back in the car. The BMW shot off, its rear door swinging shut under the force of acceleration.

  Mick clutched his sore shoulder and doubled over at the exposed nerves in his cheek. Alec had taken out on him two years of pent-up anger. Why hadn’t Alec just gotten it over with and shot him?

  At that moment, poorly lubricated brakes squealed to a halt.

  It was the dusty white Lada. The inspector motioned for him to jump in.

  Mick stared at the gravel. The pebbles blurred and divided into two superimposed images. Alec was right. He no longer belonged in Yugoslavia. He hadn’t stayed to fight in Bosnia. And his return had only caused more harm, for Tyrone, the doctor, Tammy and the kids. If he wanted it all to stop, he should not get into that Lada.

  He was unable to move, just as on the footpath above Srebrenica.

  “Get in,” the inspector said. “You can identify the truck.”

  What for? It was better for everybody if he stayed away from Yugoslavia. Let the Balkans forge its own destiny without him.

  He looked up. The double image of a road blended back into one. He saw the black smudge of Stephanie’s BMW bearing Alec away. Once again the road led toward Yugoslavia, but this time toward Natalie as well.

  Just down that road lay a stubborn Serbian nation that had developed the concept of inat over the generations. Inat involved proudly defying oppression, sometimes to the detriment of everyone or oneself.

  Perhaps it was his turn to defy authority, disobey the embassy, forget the interests of Europe and the United States, cast off his official mantle, throw all personal caution to the wind and look after his brother and wife for a change.