by Fritz Galt
But he didn’t follow them to the nearest café. Instead, he turned away from downtown and headed uphill.
Dragana’s grandparents lived in an elite residential area that overlooked the city. She had taken him past her ancestral home earlier that year, but for some reason, she hadn’t introduced him to her family.
He discreetly stopped several passers-by and asked if they had seen a yellow art-supply truck. One woman had seen one two days before.
Alec thanked her and thought about it. Even if the truck was gone, it didn’t mean that its driver was, too. He walked up the steps to the house and knocked on the door. A plump woman with ratty hair cautiously opened the door.
“Excuse me,” he said in his best Serbo-Croatian. He opened his wallet and showed her a California driver’s license. “I’m with the Ministry of Internal Affairs. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The woman sucked in her breath, then dutifully pulled the door back and let him in. He stepped into what was a living room. A table and worn velvet chairs soaked up brilliant morning sunlight. He heard only the woman’s heavy breathing, the door creaking shut and the chain as she set the lock.
“Is your husband home?”
“Yes, he’s in bed. He’s not well.”
“Is anybody else here?”
“No.”
So much for finding Dragana right away. “Are you the paternal grandmother of Dragana Alexandrov of Belgrade?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m looking for a truck with Belgrade plates. Perhaps you’ve seen it.”
“The yellow truck,” she said. “Why are you looking for it?”
“Let me ask the questions. Where is the truck now?”
“It left last night.”
“Did it leave by itself, or did she drive it?”
“She drove it, with others.”
“Where to?”
Her eyes turned as hard and flat as polished stones. “I don’t know.”
“Is your granddaughter returning to Jurija Gargarina 21, Apartment Block 50, Floor 5, Apartment 29, Belgrade?”
“I don’t know the place.”
“You don’t know the apartment of your own son and grandchildren?”
“I know it. I just forgot the address.”
“Comrade Alexandrov, I need not tell you how concerned we are for the safety of your granddaughter. I must have all the information you can give me. Now, with whom was she traveling?”
“Perhaps you should ask my husband. Branko,” she shouted up the stairs. “An inspector from the police.”
Alec couldn’t make out the feeble reply.
The woman motioned for him to go upstairs, and she followed.
Their shoes echoed on granite steps. It sounded and smelled like a public stairwell.
As he neared the first landing, he saw a door that was slightly ajar. Behind it, an old man faced him in a bed. A thin leg lifted under the sheets.
When Alec reached the landing, he pushed the door open.
The leg lifted higher, not a natural motion.
Alec jumped to the side.
A black hole blasted out of the sheets. The old woman gasped like a blown tire, a bullet in her chest.
She lost her balance and fell back down the stairs. Her skull crunched several times like a dropped cantaloupe as she hit each step.
The recoil must have stunned the man, because the rifle fell off the bed.
Alec rushed into the room and kicked the rifle under the bed. The man was groaning in anguish.
“Where’s Dragana going?” Alec demanded loudly.
The man tried to draw away from him.
“I won’t get a doctor for your wife until you tell me.”
“Is she dead?”
“She’ll survive if you tell me where Dragana’s going.”
The man had little time to ascertain if the intruder was telling the truth. “She’s being bullied. She has no choice. They’re taking her to Mt. Athos.”
“What for, to sacrifice her to the gods?”
The man began to sob.
“Does she have the desecrated Karta?” Alec asked.
“Karta isn’t desecrated,” the man shot back through his tears. “It has been restored. Now Karta is correct.”
“You idiot. Where is the map?”
“The priests took it to Sveti Pantelejmon. Find it there.”
Alec turned and ran down the stairs. He stepped over the grandmother, who appeared to have breathed her last. Some in-laws the couple would have made. They tried to kill him, then shot each other instead.
It seemed that lately whenever he got close to Dragana, he faced the barrel of a gun. He began to sense that she would never drape her lovely arms around him again.
He stumbled out of the building into blinding sunlight. Several neighbors stood behind the walls of their houses.
“Call an ambulance,” he said. “The old man shot his wife.”
“Gerard, this is Mick. Can you hear me?”
“Mon dieu. Yes, I can. Are you back in town?”
“I’m in Sofia,” Mick said, hunched over the American Embassy radiophone. “I ran into an Inspector Stojanovic from the MUP while we were in Kladovo. He was heading the investigation into the missing Karta. I’m sending a Brit named Jack Hamlin to Belgrade. He will fill you in on some new developments and help you with the inspector there. Stojanovic is a real snoop and will continue investigating this.”
“Great. How do I reach him?”
“Here’s the inspector’s phone number.” Mick pulled out the receipt upon which Inspector Stojanovic had written his Belgrade phone number, and read it over the radio. “I want you to contact him discreetly and offer him your services. We may have turned him. He doesn’t like other departments meddling in his investigations.”
“What kind of meddling are we talking about?”
“Someone has manipulated facts to incite an invasion of Macedonia and the MUP is onto it. That someone has called off the MUP investigation.”
“Is that someone the someone I’m thinking of?”
“It could be. What rumblings do you hear in Belgrade?”
“The president is flying down to Greece tomorrow. Something about a monastery in Mt. Athos.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I am. The Serbs have big issues to discuss with the Greeks.”
“You say tomorrow? Maybe I’ll hop down to Greece.”
Mick punched the CIA’s main number into the radiophone. “Get me Bernie Fletcher.”
The operator put him through to his former boss.
“Bernie here.”
“This is a voice from your past.”
“Mick Pierce. What the hell have you started over there? We’ve got reports of Serbian troops moving south.”
“Into Macedonia?”
“Up to the border. Wait. Let me patch in the Director on a conference call.”
Mick heard a burst of static and held the phone away from his ear while Bernie added the Director to their conversation.
“Mick Pierce, is that you?” Gutman said at some distance from his speakerphone.
“I can barely hear you.”
A few grunts later, “How’s this?”
“I little better.”
“Pierce, the Serbs are attacking everything in sight,” Gutman said. “I want us out of there. I want no foreknowledge. I want no Capitol Hill investigations into why we instigated World War Three.”
“We’re not instigating anything,” Mick said.
Bernie cut in. “We were there when it happened. That’s enough.”
Mick rolled his eyes.
“Pierce, where’s your brother?”
“I suspect he’s in Macedonia looking for the Karta.” He wondered if he had to explain what the Karta was. When Gutman didn’t respond, he said, “The Karta is a map of—”
“I know what the Karta is. Everyone here knows what the goddamned Karta is by now. An
d we don’t give a flying brownie. If you don’t get him out of there before this thing goes sky high, I swear we’ll fry your balls. You read me?”
“Is that intended as a threat?”
“Pierce, we sent you there to do a job. Now look what’s happened.”
In the background, Mick heard Gutman make an aside, “What’s that, Lance? Never mind.”
“Is Lance Pickett there?” Mick demanded.
“Never mind. Now to the point. I have no knowledge of your presence there. As far as I know, you’re on leave. You’re not assigned there, I can’t send you protection, I can’t write diplomatic notes for you, and you have no official status there. If I see your ugly face on CNN staring down a Serbian bayonet, I’ll tell ’em I don’t know who the hell you are.”
“Sounds like I’m kicked out of the gang.”
“There never was a gang. You’re on your own. And you know what you have to do.”
The ambient noise of Gutman’s office cut off.
“Bernie?”
“I’m still here.”
“Why did you have to put the Director on the phone?”
“He has gotten personally involved to the point where he’s threatened to remove me if this leaks to the Hill.”
Mick heard a pounding on Bernie’s door.
“Gotta go,” Bernie whispered.
Just before the phone landed in its cradle, he heard a strained, “Hi, Lance.”
“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” Lance Pickett wanted to know, glaring down at Bernie Fletcher.
“I’m keeping up contact with Mick.”
“And back-channeling to the Director.”
“He wanted to stay informed.”
“He’s a pea brain. He doesn’t know Serbia from Siberia. We have to terminate Alec.”
“What, like kill him?”
“Yes. Like kill him. He’s become a liability.”
“You want to liquidate Alec Pierce?”
“I’ll hold you personally responsible if he’s not dead within twenty-four hours.”
Bernie closed his eyes.
“If we don’t get Alec right away,” Lance said, “we’ll have to terminate Mick, too. Do you want that around your neck, too?”
Bernie numbly shook his head.
“Now we’re going to make some phone calls.” Lance squatted on the nearest chair. “Get me the list of embassies and consulates in the area.”
Bernie dug out a single sheet of phone numbers for Eastern Europe and handed it across his desk.
Lance studied it briefly, then added, “Get me Greece, too.”
Bernie reluctantly pulled out another sheet for Western Europe.
“That’s a start.” Lance tossed the pages back at Bernie. “You dial the numbers, and I’ll talk.”
“Can’t we use another office?” Bernie stared at his telephone. All calls in and out of the building were registered in a databank. Any internal investigation of Alec’s death would lead to him.
“Let’s start with Skopje,” Lance said, ignoring the request.
With heavy fingers, Bernie plugged away at the keypad, each stroke sending another bullet through his friend’s head.
“This is the American Embassy in Skopje,” a groggy female said over the phone.
Bernie had to pause. Within the past year, the small American library in Macedonia had been converted into a full-fledged embassy.
“Is the ambassador there?”
“This is Terry Whitcomb. We have no ambassador as yet. I’m acting.”
“One moment please.” Bernie handed the phone to Lance.
“This is Lance Pickett, Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. I need to speak to you about a certain individual who may show up at your doorstep. He’s armed and dangerous.”
“Who is he?”
“You’ll need to use lethal force to stop him. Let me repeat, he’s armed and dangerous.”
“What are you suggesting? Shoot to kill?”
“With extreme prejudice.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Alec Pierce.”
“Oh, Alec. I know him.”
“Has he made contact with you?”
“Not for a couple of years. But I wouldn’t mind if he did. Sir, I can assure you, he is no danger to us.”
“Now he is. Let me speak to your Marine detachment commander.”
Chapter 30
Alec Pierce wasn’t finding the Karta fast enough. In fact, the dusty bus ride out of the capital of Macedonia seemed to drag him backward, if not physically, then in time.
He got off at a gravel parking lot high above Skopje. Two young girls held out wildflowers that they had picked. He wasn’t in the buying mood, and they moved on.
Sveti Pantelejmon Monastery was rust-colored and stood sharply etched against the azure sky. Since the landmark no longer functioned as a church, he didn’t expect to find priests there. Indeed, it had been converted into a resort, with a restaurant and guest lodge bordering the premises.
What had become of the monastery after years of neglect? He stretched his long legs and stepped into the cool interior of the church. What he saw caught him by surprise.
Time and Ottoman Turks had ravaged the frescos inside. But the lamentation scene had survived. And it was striking. Tears welled up in Mary’s eyes as she bathed her dead son. It was the only Orthodox monastery in the Balkans where he had seen any hint of emotion. Most icons veiled God in mysticism. This one did not. The artist had broken the wall to God’s humanity.
He was moved, but also curious. Maybe the artist had traveled west and studied religious art in the Roman Catholic world.
In search of the Karta, he wandered back onto the windblown courtyard. The landscape had changed little over the centuries. Sheep and goats still dotted the steep slopes. The forested mountaintops must have appeared just as mysterious to the Greeks, who turned away from the continent to focus their empire-building on the south.
Then the low, uncertain call of a trombone broke the stillness. He spotted a young musician in the grass behind the restaurant.
He approached the blond-haired mountain boy and nodded for him to continue. Instead, the lad, no more than ten years old, set the trombone down on his lap.
“May I try?” Alec offered.
The boy handed it up to him. Alec blew a note, tightened the mouthpiece, adjusted the tuning valve and produced a prolonged B flat that turned into a jazzy rendition of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
The boy watched and listened in wonder.
The forlorn notes floated over stone huts and wooden storehouses. Goats paused, legs splayed, on rooftops and bundles of hay.
He finished the tune with a Tommy Dorsey flourish that might still be new to the Macedonian ear. He handed the instrument back to the boy, who touched it as if it were magic.
Alec sat down in the grass beside the lad. From there, they could see into the back of a kitchen. “Is this your house?”
“Yes.”
“I need some help,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for priests who might know about a map.”
“Priests have been staying at the lodge. They left last night.”
“Was there a yellow truck?”
“Yes. There was.”
“Where were they going?”
“The priests were very happy. They were driving the truck to Greece.”
Alec was on the right track, but a day late. “Was there a young woman?”
“Yes. She wore a beret. Like a soldier. There were two other men and four priests.”
“Did she leave with the others on the truck?”
The boy nodded.
“Where in Greece were they going?”
“They were going to see the Prime Minister of Greece at Mt. Athos.”
Alec studied the boy. “How do you know all this?”
“I work in the restaurant. I served them breakfast and dinner. They t
alked about a new era for Macedonia.”
“Was the President of Macedonia here?”
“No.” The boy smiled. “I would have told you that.”
“Do you remember anything they said?”
The lad squinted at him. “Are you a reporter?”
“How did you know?” Alec smiled as if he had been found out.
“I can tell these things,” the boy said, then thought for a moment. “They talked about Karta, the map.”
“What did they say about it?”
“It was in the truck. I saw a large box. They didn’t let me near it, but I saw it. ‘This will mark the beginning of a great future for Macedonia,’ they said. That’s why I’m practicing.”
Alec didn’t understand.
“When Macedonia becomes famous, the world will ask, ‘Well, who is the best trombone player in Macedonia?’ And they’ll all turn to me. I must be ready.”
“That’s right. But don’t wait for Macedonia to become famous. You can become famous all by yourself. Maybe you’ll even make Macedonia famous.”
“Is that possible?”
“I can see you have talent.”
He left the boy holding the trombone lightly in his hands as if Alec had breathed greatness into it. Then the young musician raised it to his lips and produced a wavering B flat scale.
“Hi, Terry. It’s me, Alec Pierce,” he said into an intercom at the entrance to the American Center in downtown Skopje.
“Let him come up,” a female voice ordered the Macedonian guard on duty.
Alec climbed a set of stairs to the bright office of Terry Whitcomb, Director of the American Center.
“Where are all the books?”
“We’re in transition,” Terry said. Her stiff blue suit crinkled as she swept an arm over the cramped cubicles. “We’re an embassy now, scattered all over town. Where have you been for the past few years?”
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
A shapely young brunette, she lowered her big, blue eyes and tugged on a lapis earring. “Okay, I won’t ask.”
He came up close and sniffed the fresh scent that emanated from her. “One thing hasn’t changed after all these years.”
“What’s that?”