by Doug Raber
The most frightening of my excursions took place during the following year at a small border crossing. One afternoon, as I approached the Croatian frontier by the small village of Ormož in Slovenia, I began to feel uneasy. There was nothing obvious to be seen, but I felt a tingling sensation on my scalp. Then I saw what must have triggered this unconscious reaction. There was only one set of guards at the crossing. They were on the far side of the small bridge across the Drava River, and they appeared to be in an unusual state of readiness.
The guard station on my side of the bridge was empty. The Slovenians were gone. I pulled my car to a stop, not sure what to do next. I turned the wheel and began to turn around. I thought it would be preferable to spend a few extra hours on the back roads of Slovenia than to proceed directly into a trap. However, when I glanced back in the direction from which I had come, I saw a group of men in the road. They were walking rapidly, almost running, and they carried automatic weapons. Kalashnikovs.
At that point, I realized I had no choice. I threw the car back in gear and drove as quickly as the old vehicle would go to the bridge. I stopped again because I could see that the Croat guards had brought their weapons to the ready position. I looked in the rearview mirror, to find that the Slovenians were coming closer. And their weapons were pointing at me.
I had no choice, and I gunned the engine. The car lurched forward onto the bridge, and I drove across as fast as I could. At the far side, the guards had moved into the street, their weapons at the ready position. As I approached them, still driving rapidly, they changed their stance and pointed the weapons directly at me. One man, presumably their leader, motioned frantically for me to pull into a small gravel area at the side of the road.
There was no choice. I desperately wanted to press the accelerator pedal to the floor and keep going, but I knew they would shoot.
“Think!” I said to myself. Not silently, but quite loudly. Did I have any incriminating documents? The answer was no, but in my state of panic I wasn’t certain. Was I about to be arrested? Had someone betrayed me? Was it Josef? Or maybe Putin had been following me.
The sweat poured down my arms and back beneath my overcoat, and I could smell my own fear. I stopped the car.
“Papers.”
The unit’s commander extended a gloved hand, his pistol at the ready in the other. I could see from his insignia that he held the rank of sergeant.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
I gave him my passport, my driver’s license, and my travel papers. He took them and walked toward the small hut.
I dared a glance in my mirror, and the Slovenian guards were clearly visible, standing as a group at the far end of the bridge. Their rifles were no longer pointed at me, but they were still at the ready position.
I was shaking, and I held the steering wheel tightly to prevent others from noticing.
The sergeant returned to the car several minutes later. He pointed to a place several feet away.
“You will stand there.”
I did as he said and watched as they proceeded to search the car. They did a very thorough job of it, looking much more carefully than any other guards had done during my many previous crossings. They even found the hiding place beneath the dirt in the trunk, but it was empty. The man carrying out the search turned and looked at me with obvious enmity. I couldn’t be sure if he was angry at not finding anything, if he was only annoyed that he’d been forced to put his hands into all the dirt, or whether he knew something about my real purpose in making this trip into his country.
More minutes passed, and I was beginning to shiver as I stood stiffly in the cold. I could see the sergeant speaking on the phone in the hut, sometimes nodding, sometimes shaking his head, and periodically glancing over at me.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he left the hut and walked toward me in a deliberate manner. He handed me my papers and nodded toward my automobile, but he said nothing.
I walked slowly and got into the car, forcing myself to behave as though I had no concern. I placed the papers in the glove box and started the engine but did not put the car in gear immediately. I turned and looked at the sergeant through the window, which was still rolled down. I was afraid to ask permission to leave.
He glared at me as he spoke.
“After this you should not drive so fast on the bridge.”
He waved me forward, and in just a few seconds, he and the other guards were no more than small specks in my rearview mirror.
I drove another mile or so, and then pulled to the side of the road. I got out of the car, thinking I would be sick, but after walking a few paces I began to feel calmer. When I returned to the driver’s seat, my breathing was no longer labored, and my heart had stopped pounding. Everything was okay.
Nevertheless, I would have been a fool not to recognize what a narrow escape I had just experienced. I resolved at that moment, that carrying documents in the car’s hidden compartment would be relegated to the past. From that point on, whatever information had to be transmitted would be carried in my head.
• • • • •
Some months after that frightening sequence of events, I received a message telling me to travel to Vienna. No agenda was provided, only the instruction to check into the Hotel Sacher. I had not previously stayed at the establishment, and I was delighted to do so on this occasion. It was a first-rate venue, known for its high standards of luxury since it first opened a century before.
There had been no information on who would make contact with me or how they might do so. I thought there might be a telephone call, a message at the front desk, or perhaps even an envelope that would mysteriously slide beneath the door to my room. Consequently, as I waited for further communication, I spent more than a day without going out. Even my meals, ordered through room service, were taken in my room.
On the afternoon of my second day at the Sacher, I responded to a knock on the door. Through the peephole, I could see a young woman, and I opened the door a few inches.
“Yes?” I asked.
“You are Mr. Timothy?”
“Yes.”
“I am Valentina. I may enter?”
I verified that she was alone, and she presented no threat, so I stepped back and motioned for her to come in.
“You ask for Monika, but she is not able to be here now.”
She removed her coat, and twirled around to reveal a beautiful body, barely covered by a short dress that clung tightly to every curve. I had been momentarily confused, but quickly I understood that she must be a prostitute. Quite clearly, she had come to the wrong room in the hotel, and I began to explain that to her.
“Miss … Valentina, I’m afraid …”
She interrupted before I could say another word.
“Wait, please. I think there will be no disappointment. Monika is very good, but I am better.”
There was something about the way she said ‘Monika’ that gave me pause, and I gave the woman a quizzical look. She responded with a smile and looked up at the ceiling.
“I think maybe you have insects in room. I will open window to let them go away.”
I saw no insects, and I was again puzzled for a moment until I realized what she was telling me. Not ‘insects’ but ‘bugs.’ She was telling me that the room might be bugged.
It was a warm spring day, and she stood by the window. Valentina had pulled the curtains wide. The room was on the third floor, so she was visible both from the street and from the upper floors of several buildings across from the hotel.
“Come here and kiss me, Timothy. You will quickly see I have much to give you.”
I understood. It was a performance, not for me, but for others who might be watching or listening. I did as she asked, and she kissed me quite passionately. I must admit that my surprise was quite overtaken by lust, and I allowed my hands to begin an exploration, starting with her back and moving down to her hips. She pressed her body against mine, and I was quite taken by the eroticism of
the encounter.
She glanced briefly at the ceiling again before she spoke, not in a whisper, but in a voice that would be audible to someone who might be listening.
“First, you must bathe. I want you to be clean.”
She took my hand and led me to the bathroom, where she turned on the shower.
“Stand here, please, so I may remove your clothing.”
Valentina proceeded to take off my clothes, and I was aware that she had left the bathroom door open. We were hidden from the street, but I thought we must be quite visible from one or more of the windows across the street. I decided that I didn’t care, although I remain uncertain whether it was good tradecraft or just my libido. When she had stripped me naked, she took off her clothing, and we stepped into the shower.
She took the soap and began to wash my shoulders and chest. Then she leaned close and spoke quietly in my ear, using a voice that would have been difficult to hear from more than inches away, even without the background noise of the shower.
“I have brought you something. It is something that must be delivered to Sarajevo.”
For a brief moment, my sexual excitement disappeared entirely as the inherent contradiction in the circumstances overwhelmed me. On the one hand, I was in the shower with a beautiful woman who was touching me in the most sensual manner possible, yet at the same time, she had just advised me that she would give me something that I was expected to take to the middle of a war zone.
I think she recognized my discomfort, because she said nothing for a brief time as she continued to wash me. Her hands went lower on my body, and I was in ecstasy.
“Listen to me carefully, Tim. I will give you a capsule. It has negotiating points. Everything is written on small piece of paper. You must deliver to Jovan Divjak, who is deputy commander of Bosnian forces.”
“The risks are too high,” I said. “Messages on paper are not safe.”
“This is special. The capsule is plastic. Waterproof. It is same size as big vitamin pill. So, if something might go wrong, you swallow it. One day, maybe two, you get it back again. Nobody find it, not even with X-ray machine.”
“What does it say?”
“It promises help to Bosniaks. From NATO. It is how U.S. will provide assistance. NATO will send jet fighters, and you will explain them date and time. Also where air strikes will happen. So the Bosnian forces can be in safety.”
“Do I go to Sarajevo on one of the UN flights?”
“No airplanes. You drive with your car. Right through Serb territory. They will accept that you are businessman.”
“But the city is under siege.”
“Go to Ilidža. On outside edge of Sarajevo. Near airport. You will be contacted. They will take you through tunnel.”*
“Tunnel?”
“Yes. Big secret, Timothy. Even with siege, you can go into Sarajevo from outside.”
“All right,” I said. “I guess I can do it.”
“Is very good. And important.”
She leaned into me again and began caressing me. After a few seconds, she turned off the water and reached for a towel to dry me.
“Okay, Tim. Now we got to finish our show. Anybody listening or watching is believing that I do better than Monika.”
• • • • •
I left Vienna the next day, and after spending several days at my apartment in Graz, I began a long, tortuous drive to Sarajevo. The border crossings into Slovenia and then Croatia had become almost routine by then, and one of the Croatian guards actually gave me a friendly wave as I passed his station.
These crossings nevertheless required some foresight, and I took great care that my papers were in order. Everyone seemed satisfied with my business credentials, and the long drive allowed me to relax slightly. However, I was considerably less sanguine about my prospects as I approached the Bosnian frontier. My initial entry was into Serb-held territory, and my papers were tailored for business ventures there and in Serbia itself.
In theory, I should not have had any worries. On the other hand, these territories were under the command of Radovan Karadžić and Slobodan Milošević, both of whom would later be convicted of war crimes by the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. What assurance did I have that the political climate would not change in an instant? If that happened, my situation would be hopeless.
Fortunately, I encountered no difficulties beyond the unpleasant stares I received from armed guards at several checkpoints along my route. When I finally reached Ilidža, I found a small hotel and spent most of a day recovering from my long trip. As expected, I had no need to go searching for a contact. The next morning, as I sat in an outdoor café with my morning coffee, a man sat down at my table.
“You will call me Marko,” he said.
It was an odd way of introducing himself, since there was no indication it was his real name. Moreover, it is a widespread name in that region, used by both Bosniaks and Serbs.
He pointed across the street. “Two hours. I will stand near the restaurant. Bring nothing. Only your information. I take you to tunnel.”
He stood and walked away. Something about his demeanor was highly unsettling. Moreover, he had given me nothing to establish his credentials. Yet I wasn’t sure what I could do other than follow his instructions.
It was precisely at that moment that I saw a familiar face across the square. It was Reza Kashani. My mind raced, and I asked myself why he would be there on the outskirts of Sarajevo. The answer came almost as quickly as the question. He was a government agent for a Muslim nation. And the Bosniaks were Muslim. He would have a stake in this conflict that pitted the Muslim Bosniaks against the Catholic and Orthodox Serbs.
My decision came to me as quickly as the question and answer that had preceded it. I would not go with the man whose name might have been Marko, who had instructed me to meet him in two hours. That man had shown no tradecraft. We had not exchanged sign and countersign, and he had done nothing to indicate where his allegiance might lie. Consequently, there was no reason for me to reward him with my trust. I would instead turn to someone whose loyalties were unassailable.
Reza had not seen me, and I caught his attention by asking for another coffee in a voice that was slightly louder than necessary. I lifted my hand in a discreet signal, and Reza responded with a nearly imperceptible nod. He continued walking and disappeared from my sight for several minutes. I was not concerned, as I knew he would come back.
When he returned, his path took him within a few feet of my table. He said nothing, nor did he glance at me, but he paused to put a cigarette on the ground and crush it with the heel of his shoe. His move was deft, and nobody else would have noticed that the cigarette was not the only thing he had placed on the ground. Next to the butt was a small piece of crumpled paper.
I waited a minute or two, and in what appeared to be an accidental move, dropped a packet of sugar on the ground. With a look of exasperation, I leaned over to retrieve it, picking up the crumpled paper in the same motion. After a cautious interval, I opened up the paper to read the few words Reza had written. It was the name of a restaurant on the next block.
I paid for my coffee and walked casually to the restaurant. There was no obvious surveillance, and I knew Reza was cautious. If anyone had been watching, he would find another place and time. It was dark inside, and I walked to the back, where I knew he would be sitting. We nodded to each other, and I sat down.
“Is it safe to talk here?” I asked.
“Yes. And I have someone watching outside. No one will disturb us.”
I smiled and reached across the table to shake his hand.
“It’s good to see you.”
“And I am glad also to see you again, Timothy. You are here in Sarajevo for some important business?”
“I have come to deliver a package to the deputy commander of the military.”
“Of which forces?” he asked. “Serb or Bosnian?”
Valentina had told me to give
the capsule to Jovan Divjak, deputy commander of the Bosnian forces in Sarajevo. But he was an ethnic Serb, and I was not convinced of where his loyalties were. By this stage, I was becoming increasingly aware that almost everyone seemed to be playing a double game.
“Does it matter?” I asked in an attempt at sarcasm.
“Perhaps not, Timothy. But you know my country is an Islamic state.”
“Yes,” I said, noting to myself that he had not clearly defined his position.
“I was instructed to give my information to the leaders inside the siege zone. A man approached me just before I saw you and said he would take me through the tunnel in two hours. But I do not trust him. It felt like a trap.”
“What was his name, Timothy?”
“He said I should call him Marko.”
Reza’s eyes clouded for a moment. Then he leaned across the table to speak quietly.
“Do you wish my assistance?”
“Yes.”
“Where is this information?”
I handed him the capsule, and I told him it had the details of the air strikes that would take place in a few days.
“This could change the course of the entire war, Reza. If it falls into the hands of the Serbs, the effect of the air strikes could be negated.”
“I will take care of this matter, Timothy. But you must leave here now. Before this person you call Marko returns. Get into your automobile and drive back to Graz. If you remain here even minutes longer, your life will be in great danger.”
I took his advice, and I was on the road in only a few minutes, more than an hour before Marko expected to meet me. By the time that hour had passed, I was well along the road to Banja Luka, from where I would be only about thirty miles to the Croatian border. To me that represented my escape from the nightmare I had been living for a week.
I never learned what happened to the capsule. I had my theories about what Reza did with it, but ultimately, it mattered little. As much as I disliked placing myself in danger, the chain of events had proven to be a remarkable thrill. As I had done so many other times in my life, I achieved enormous gratification from the act of sharing my secret. Through the daring transfer of the capsule to Reza, I had transformed my hidden secrets into secret truths, and my feelings of exhilaration were little impacted by who took advantage of the information. As I look back on it, I am not entirely sure whether my pleasure was greater from my decision to give the capsule to Reza or from the process by which I had received it from Valentina.