by Fritz Galt
“Christ,” he muttered. “Here I go again.”
Holding his limp arm, he stumbled toward the open door. “Can you get me back into Yugoslavia?”
“Anything. Just get in.”
He eased onto the lumpy springs, yanked the door shut and slumped over in pain.
“What happened?” The inspector handed him a handkerchief.
“I guess I’m lucky he didn’t shoot me.” He daubed at the wound and caught the blood that dripped off his cheek.
“I’m talking about the map.”
Mick blinked. The inspector wasn’t talking about him. Alec hadn’t been talking about him. They were talking about something larger than that.
The road swept around bends in the river and zigzagged between farm buildings. The inspector wove at high velocity between cars, trucks and buses as if they were poles in a slalom course. He had lost all concern for personal safety.
“I suppose my brother wants to redraw Karta to expand Serbia’s borders, just like Zoran ordered. If we don’t get it away from the Macedonian nationalists, it’s unavoidable.”
“What’s unavoidable?”
“A massive invasion of the Yugoslav Army into Macedonia.”
The inspector gritted his teeth.
The car shot across flatlands past apartment complexes and under concrete overpasses.
On the outskirts of Budapest, the road turned into a four-lane. They passed through wide intersections and hordes of pedestrians.
“They might take the Szeged road south,” Mick said. “That’s our best bet if they’re heading straight through Yugoslavia for Macedonia.”
“I know the road.”
Mick caught a flash of black. “There’s the BMW.”
It was passing under the Elizabeth Bridge that crossed the river.
“And there’s the truck.” He pointed with his chin as he held the handkerchief against the side of his face.
He watched in fascination as the BMW pulled ahead of the yellow truck and forced it onto an exit ramp. The truck hit its brakes and spun to a halt, facing backwards down the ramp.
To Mick’s shock, it started driving in the wrong direction, straight into oncoming traffic, and straight at their speeding Lada.
“Watch out,” he cried.
The inspector spun the wheel to the left.
Mick fell against his sore shoulder and shut his eyes.
The truck driver was as crazy as Alec.
When Mick opened his eyes, the BMW zipped past, having reversed its course. The Lada skidded into an about-face and followed close behind.
Mick looked at the inspector with a whole new respect.
Oncoming cars dodged to the left and right as Stephanie and the inspector followed the truck.
Eventually, the truck swerved onto a side street leading uphill to the Var.
The way was narrow and steep, and the inspector was unable to keep up with the others.
If the truck got away, Macedonians would bring on the wrath of the Serbs. And if Alec got to the map first, Zoran would have his way.
Mick pulled the revolver out of his pocket and trained it with both hands on the back of his brother’s head.
Just before the road expanded onto an open square, a car pulled into the street.
The truck made a sudden swerve to avoid it.
Stephanie had little time to react. She slammed on her brakes and skidded to a halt one foot from the car.
She and Alec had just avoided a devastating crash, but she was blocking the Lada’s way. She backed up to circle around the stopped car.
“Forget the BMW,” Mick said. “Just follow the truck.”
The inspector swerved around the other side of the innocent car, and sped onto the square. A traffic cop blew his whistle and began to chase after them on foot.
They were on top of the city castle.
The yellow truck stopped against battlements that overlooked the city. A small man jumped out of the cab and ran away along the promenade.
The Lada’s brakes shrieked, and they came to an uncertain halt.
“Keep an eye on the BMW,” Mick said. “I’ll take the truck driver.”
He opened his door with his good arm and headed after the running man.
Tourists watched him stumble past, clutching his shoulder, his face a bloody mess. The small man nimbly turned down a stairway. Mick followed him for several flights, then realized that the stairs split in two directions before disappearing into thick pines.
“Damn.”
Mick could no longer risk following him. Resting his good elbow on a wobbly knee, he paused to catch his breath. Only then did he realize that he had been waving his gun about in the air.
He stuffed it under his belt, then launched back up the steps to the promenade.
When Mick emerged on top, he saw the inspector was crouched behind the Lada. Heat rose in waves from his engine.
Across the parking lot, the BMW sat sideways several yards from the truck. Two figures crouched behind the sleek black car. Mick’s best guess was that it was Alec and Stephanie.
Mick caught the inspector’s attention and made a questioning gesture, wondering if the truck was safe to approach. The inspector shrugged.
Dripping both sweat and blood, Mick skirted parked cars and returned to the inspector’s side.
“Anybody left in the truck?”
A moment later, he got his answer. A truck door opened, and a bullet dented the hood of their car. The sound of the report bounced against the castle walls and echoed over the city.
Mick watched a heavy man with gray hair bolt out of the yellow truck and disappear with a gun into a startled crowd.
A second bullet deflated one of the Lada’s front tires. It was Alec, firing from behind Stephanie’s car.
“We’re getting it from both sides,” Mick said.
“This is one tough country,” the inspector said through gritted teeth.
Tourists, having finally grasped the threat, scattered along the cliff-side battlement.
“I have to get to the truck,” Mick said. “Give me cover.”
Before the inspector could object, Mick began to run past the parked cars toward the truck.
He could see the heavy, gray-haired man circling behind the cars.
Several bullets erupted from Alec’s gun, knocking out headlights as Mick passed.
Mick sprinted for the rear door of the truck, away from the BMW. He tried the handle and the door swung open. A large crate slid out and landed at his feet.
He pried the crate open and found a wrapped object the size of the Karta.
He pulled out the package, his heart beating so hard he could hear blood throb in his ears.
“Stop,” a woman cried. “Don’t move.” She was inside the truck. Her Serbian had a familiar ring. “Put Karta down.”
He eased it to the ground and reached for the gun at his belt.
“Put the gun down and turn around.”
He set his revolver on the ground and faced away from the truck.
The entire city seemed to have come to a standstill. Not a single sound hung in the air. Then he heard the soft pad of someone landing beside him. He turned around.
He was looking down the barrel of an AK-47. At the other end was Dragana, the woman in Zoran’s hotel room, Alec’s lover.
“What the—?”
She stared at him, her eyes hard. This time she held the gun. Finally, she motioned for him to move away from the truck.
He glanced around the square. Where was the inspector? Where was Alec?
Wheezing, the man behind the cars sauntered up to them, a gold cross hanging from his open shirt. “I’ll take care of him.”
The man shoved a pistol up against Mick’s nose. The man smelled like a smoking parlor.
Mick paused to take in Dragana before he would be executed on the spot. The wind had blown her thick black hair against her perspiring cheeks and neck. She had the timorous bravado of one with a powerful weapon
.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
She seemed to have lost her voice. She motioned with the tip of her rifle for the man to shoot him.
Another shot whistled overhead.
Springing to action, Dragana flung the truck’s rear door shut and ran for the cab.
Mick looked for the source of the shot. Alec was waving at him. He recognized the gesture from his youth, the sign of a quarterback signaling his wide receiver to head for the sidelines. He wanted Mick out of the way to line up a shot at the man.
Meanwhile, the truck was speeding away.
“She left me,” the gray-haired man said, and swore in Serbian.
Before Mick could react, the man lowered his pistol and broke for the steps leading down to the river.
Mick considered giving chase, for the man’s short legs were unable to move fast. But Mick’s vision blurred and faded to black. His hearing grew faint as if listening through a long tube. He sank to the ground.
The inspector’s voice grumbled beside him, “This is one tough country.”
Chapter 24
Natalie spent her last lunch in Belgrade saying farewell to Ivan and Petra Lekic. Her goodbye party was animated and depressing at the same time. The American drawdown was happening at the height of public unrest.
Demonstrators, gleeful at the Serbian attack on Eastern Slavonia, had once again ransacked downtown Belgrade. Workers planned pro-war celebrations.
Then Patriarch Savic cast a dark shadow over that jubilation.
His frail figure had dramatically reappeared after being mysteriously absent from the public since his secret trip to Ravanica. Eager for religious authorities to condone the military action in Croatia, a boisterous crowd had flocked to the cathedral to hear him speak.
From the steps of Sveti Sava Cathedral, to everyone’s surprise, he strongly denounced the government’s actions in Croatia, warning of an evil within Serbia and saying that the Church taught that killing and taking others’ possessions was wrong. Rather, good Serbs should take up arms to defend their churches in Macedonia.
Nobody had realized that Serbian churches were being threatened in Macedonia. The demonstrators’ xenophobia, heightened by the threat in Croatia and the biting international sanctions, caused them to strike out in fear.
They left the cathedral to storm the Presidential Palace. Outside the imposing edifice, they rang bells and set off alarm clocks to tell the president to wake up.
“Nikic is not there,” Ivan said, and ate another spoonful of American chili. “He now spends his time out near the airport for a quick getaway.”
“Protesters may take over RTV Belgrade,” Natalie said.
“The army has moved in to guard them.”
Petra was more worried about the Montenegrins. “All those running the government are from Montenegro. Five percent of the population controls the entire government.”
“Will there be a split between the military and civilian government?” Natalie asked.
Ivan only said, “Belgrade itself is threatened by heavy artillery set up on Mt. Avala and pointed at the city.”
“Let’s open another bottle of wine,” Natalie said. “I can’t take it with me.”
Ivan raised his glass. “We are all going away.”
For some reason, perhaps to purge the country of its young, intellectual opposition, President Nikic had allowed a grace period when Yugoslavs were not required to present a military exit visa to leave the country.
Ivan had decided to take advantage of the amnesty. The previous evening, a friend traveling with a Hungarian passport had taken his 8000 German mark life’s savings across the border to Budapest. Later in the day, Ivan and Petra would take the train north and join their friend. From there, they planned to travel to Slovenia where they would spend the summer. They were prepared not to return.
“I have fought with my only weapons, the pen and the spoken word. I have pulled together an association of independent Belgrade intellectuals, and I attended the Helsinki Watch meetings in Bratislava. Other weapons will take control now. I will not be forced into the army, nor will I kill anyone.”
Petra nodded, and her husband continued.
“I have fought as best I know how. But, in my land, I fear the pen can never be mightier than the sword. Some people want change and others do not. If those who support the mafija in power win, then I have lost the battle.”
“Are you bitter, or just being realistic,” Natalie asked.
“I have been surrounded by monsters all this while, and I never realized they were so powerful. The forces of ignorance and chauvinism will finally win in Serbia. So I must leave.”
“Have some more cornbread,” Natalie said at last. “You’ll need all the nourishment you can get.”
“I don’t want to eat any more, because I don’t want to get too used to food,” he said.
“Here, write your new address.” Natalie handed him a piece of paper.
He fretted over the paper for a moment and couldn’t figure out what address to write.
At last Petra said, “Write down, ‘Red Cross.’”
They departed with the traditional three kisses on each other’s cheeks, wished each other good trips and Natalie watched them fit their long legs and the food supplies she had given them into a Volkswagen Beetle.
They hung out of the cramped car and waved all their arms as they drove out of view.
The street would be deserted by next week.
Zoran sipped a bottle of imported beer late that afternoon at the Question Mark café. Two bodyguards sat without drinks at the tables opposite the entrance.
Feet scraped in the alcove and the men jumped up.
Bane entered in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“Good afternoon, my friend.” Zoran rose to hug him.
Bane grunted, returned the hug and slouched into an empty chair.
Zoran looked down at his own shirt. Bane had just soaked him with sweat. He signaled the waiter to bring another beer. “Why did you want to see me?”
“My agents report that the Americans are looking for you.”
“The Americans are nothing. I can take care of myself. Besides, they’re evacuating Belgrade.”
“What will we do for fun once they’re gone?”
Zoran laughed mischievously, then waited for the waiter to bring Bane’s beer. “What are you doing about your agents?”
Bane worked the cigarette around his mouth. “I ordered the case closed. I also ordered any Americans who remain behind after today to be detained.” He raised the beer halfway and gave a sly grin. “They won’t live long.”
Zoran agreed. The dogs deserved what they got.
“One other problem,” Bane said, his thick gray eyebrows knotted with a frown. “It seems that your forger in Hungary was attacked. They made him expand Macedonia in all directions.”
“Expand Macedonia?”
“He reduced the size of Serbia, Greece and Bulgaria to less than our current borders. Then they made off with the map.”
“To where?”
“Presumably to Skopje.” He searched Zoran’s eyes for a reaction.
Zoran absorbed the news with increasing calm. He stared at where the road fell away steeply toward the Sava. Maybe the new development would be to their advantage. “Dobro.” Good.
“What do you mean, ‘Dobro?’”
He smiled with confidence. “The map is even better now.”
“That wasn’t the plan. You wanted him to make Serbia bigger.”
Zoran could not let the situation get the better of him. “Why do you question my tactics? Our position is stronger than ever.”
Bane took several swigs. “Anyway, it’s water under the bridge.”
“So who has the map?”.
“Macedonian nationalists, according to my inspector.”
“Excellent.” Zoran peered through the bright windows at the immense church across the street. The Serbs would crush
Macedonia.
“What’s your next move?” Bane’s expression was hidden behind a cloud of smoke.
“I’ll contact Dragana. She’s in Skopje. If she can find the mutilated map, we can present it to the Greek Prime Minister. He’ll realize that Macedonia is threatening Greece as well.”
Bane leaned forward through the smoke. “Ah, yes. Dragana.”
Zoran stared at him. The bright eyes told him volumes. Then he cast the thought aside. Dragana would never stoop to dealing with Bane.
“On the bright side, what happened to the forger?” Zoran asked.
“They used a few techniques to make him redraw the map, something about a cigarette.”
Zoran stared at him until Bane lifted his eyes.
“Where have I seen that before?”
Bane pulled a smoldering stub from his lips and revealed a grin.
The secure phone rang at the office late that afternoon just as Natalie was putting her last document into a burn bag.
“Hello, Mrs. Pierce.” It was Mick, sounding weak over a crackling line.
“I’m leaving on a bus for Budapest within an hour,” she said, looking about her empty office.
“Not so fast.”
“We’re evacuating the embassy,” she explained.
“First, what did you find out from our friends?”
“Our friends? Oh, you mean our spies?” She tried to calm down, but she didn’t have time for code words. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Gerard followed the young gangster from Gypsy Island. He works for Agrobanka.”
“Agrobanka. The bank owned by Ljubomir Rodic.”
“Right, Zoran Rodic’s father. An informant at the bank says they’re expecting a shipment of oil tomorrow through the Iron Gates.”
“Interesting, there’s the link on how the German marks circumvent sanctions to by oil,” Mick said. “I just need confirmation. I can go down to the Iron Gates and pressure the skipper into divulging his source of income. Exposing the Germans will stop the flow of oil. It’s a done deal.”
“Who cares about stopping oil shipments?” she said. “All I want to do is get out of here. I’m getting the creeps.”
“Don’t you want to know who killed John Moore?”