by Ted Dekker
She retired at nine, leaving Jan to finish his chapter. But she could not sleep. Her mind settled into a dream of sorts, wide awake but lost in the stranger’s world, in recounting every detail of their meeting. And then it slipped into Glenn’s Palace and a mound of powder and she gave up trying to fight the thoughts. Instead she let them run rampant through her mind, even embellishing them.
She pretended to be asleep when Jan came to bed, but in reality she dozed for another two hours. The card lay under her mattress, and at one point she was sure she could feel it. And if Jan rolled over here, he would feel it! She started and sat.
“What is it?” Jan asked, suddenly awake.
She gazed about in the darkness. “Nothing,” she said, and collapsed to her back.
Sleep finally overtook her near midnight. But even then she could not shake that man’s haunting face.
Do you want to fly, Helen?
Yes, of course. Don’t be silly. I would love to fly. I’m dying to fly.
Do you want to die, Helen?
I want to fly. I don’t want to die.
I want to sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
JAN AMBLED down the avenue the following afternoon, stretching his legs, whistling into a light breeze. He’d asked Helen to walk with him but she seemed content to stay home. Perhaps even a little preoccupied with staying home.
The sights and sounds of Sarajevo came to him like a rich, soothing balm as they did every morning, healing wounds long forgotten. When he’d walked these streets five years earlier, the war’s scars still mocked the city on every corner; blasted buildings and pitted roads.
But now . . . now his city was brimming with new life and a people fanatical about reestablishing their identity. There was some dissatisfaction with Tito and his government, of course—talk of an independent Bosnia. And there were occasional words between the Serbs and the Croats, even the Muslims. That had become a staple of the people; a prerequisite the land seemed to extract from its inhabitants. But the country was nothing like the war-torn shamble he’d left.
“Hello, Mira,” he called, passing the bakery where the plump baker swept clouds of flour through her doorway. “Nice day?”
She looked up, startled. “Oh, Janjic, there was a gentleman looking for you. I sent him down the street.”
“Oh? And did this gentleman have a name?”
“Molosov,” she said.
The name rang through Jan’s mind like a manic rat. Molosov was looking for him? So the soldier from Sarajevo had heard that he’d returned. They’d discussed the possibility a hundred times and now it was happening.
“Hmm,” Jan finally managed.
“You send your wife down, and I will sell her something special, just for you,” the baker said.
He chuckled. “Good enough.”
Jan glanced up and down the street; it was empty. He left Mira and walked on, but with a stiff step now. Molosov. The name sounded strange after such a long time. And if Molosov had heard of his return, what of Karadzic?
The sun was out today. In Atlanta he would have been sweating like a pig. Here the warmth was like a smile from heaven. It had only been a month, and yet it felt like a year. He’d heard from Lorna, who had sent him the settlement statement from the ministry last week. She’d managed to pay off all of their debts and come away with nearly five thousand dollars. What should he do with it? Lorna wanted to know.
Give it to Karen, he’d written back. She deserves it and more.
As for himself and Helen, they had four thousand dollars still, which was barely enough to carry them through the year. Then they would see. Honestly, he had no clue.
Helen wanted to return to America, he knew that much. But then she was young and it was her first time leaving the country. She would adjust. He prayed she would adjust.
“Janjic.”
He turned toward the voice. A man stood on the curb, staring at him. The street suddenly appeared vacant except for this one man. Jan stopped and looked at the figure. There were others striding in his peripheral vision, but one look at this man and they ceased to exist.
Janjic’s pulse spiked. It was Molosov! The soldier he’d roamed Yugoslavia with, finding enemies to kill. One of the soldiers who had crucified the priest.
Now Molosov was here, grinning at him from the street.
“Janjic.” The man strode to him, and a smile suddenly split his face. “That is you, Janjic?”
“Yes. Molosov.”
The man thrust his hand out and Janjic took it. “You’re back on the streets of Sarajevo,” Molosov said. “I’d heard you’d gone to America.”
“I’m back.” In any other place this man would be his mortal enemy. They had never gotten along well. But they had been through a war together, and they were both Serbs. That was the bond between them.
Molosov slapped him on the shoulder and Jan nearly lost his balance. “You are looking good. You’ve put some meat on your bones. I see America has been good to you.”
“I suppose,” Jan said. “And you? You are good?”
“Yes, good. Alive still. If you’re alive in Bosnia, you are good.” He chuckled at his remark.
“You were looking for me?” Jan asked.
“Yes. My friend in the market told me about you a week ago, and I have watched for you. I am planning to go to America.” He said it proudly, as if he expected immediate affirmation for the disclosure.
“You are? Very good. I am not.”
Molosov wasn’t put off. “This place is no longer for me. I was thinking you could help me. Just with information, of course.”
Jan nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. “Have you heard from the others?” Jan asked. “Puzup, Paul?”
“Puzup? He’s dead. Paul left the country, I think. To his new homeland, Israel.”
“They were good men.” He wasn’t sure why he said that. There was some goodness under everyone’s skin, but Puzup and Paul were not especially well endowed with it and Jan had concluded as much in his book.
Molosov withdrew a cigarette. “And you, Janjic, you have a wife now?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m married.”
“A fat lady from America?”
Jan smiled with him. “As a matter of fact, she’s from America. The loveliest woman I’ve ever known.”
He chuckled, pleased. “American women are the best, yes? Well, let me give you some advice, comrade,” Molosov said in good humor. “Keep her away from Karadzic. The beast will devour her!”
A spike drove down Jan’s spine at the words. His feet felt suddenly rooted to the concrete. “Karadzic?”
The man’s smile faded. “You two were not so close. Forgive me—it’s been a long time.”
“Karadzic is . . . he’s in Sarajevo?”
“He’s always been in Sarajevo.”
Of course, Jan already knew that if the man were still alive, he would live somewhere near Sarajevo. But hearing it now sent a buzz through his skull. “And what’s Karadzic up to these days?”
“The same. I worked for him, you know. For three years, until I couldn’t stomach his nonsense. Karadzic was born to kill. He doesn’t do well without a war, so he makes his own.”
“And how does he do that?”
“In the underground, of course. He’s Sarajevo’s prince of darkness.” The man laughed and drew on his cigarette.
“So Bosnia has its own Mob, is that it?”
“Mob? Ah, the American gangsters. Yes, but here it’s all done with threads of nationalism. It legitimizes the business, you see.”
“But his business is illegitimate?”
“Are you joking?” He looked around to be certain they weren’t overheard. “Karadzic doesn’t have a legitimate bone in his body. If you’re looking for drugs in Bosnia, his dirty fingers will have touched them somewhere along the line, no question.”
The heat started at the crown of Jan’s head and washed over his face. Drugs! His mind flashed to Helen. It was the association
alone, he knew, but still he was suddenly thrust to the verge of panic, standing there on the sidewalk beside Molosov. Dear God, help us! A dreadful sense of foreboding washed through him.
And Helen.
“Just stay out of his way. Or better, go back to America; this place isn’t safe for people like you and me.” He jabbed Janjic playfully with the hand holding his cigarette. “At the very least, if your wife is as beautiful as you say, keep her out of his sight. He makes pretty women ugly very quickly.” The man chuckled again.
But Jan didn’t find any humor in his words. None at all. He was barely hiding his terror. Or perhaps he wasn’t.
“I . . . I have to go now,” Jan said and began to turn.
Molosov’s voice lost its humor. “Hold on. You weren’t easy to find. We have a lot to discuss. I’m very serious, Janjic. I am planning on going to America.”
“I live in the flats on the west side of the market. Top floor, 532.” Jan suddenly thought better of giving out the address, and he turned to his old comrade. “But keep this to yourself.”
Molosov grinned again. “I will. Good to see you. I live on the east end of the Novi Grad. Welcome back home.”
Jan turned back and took the man’s extended hand. “Yes, good. Good to be home.”
He left then, striding evenly for half a block. And then seeing Molosov disappear around the corner, he broke into a jog.
She has been acting strangely, Janjic. Helen has not been herself.
Nonsense! He was just piecing together impossible strings of coincidence.
She didn’t come on this walk with you, Janjic. She did not want to.
Shut up! You’re being a child!
Still he had to get back to see her. If anything happened to Helen now he would die. He would throw himself from their window and let the street take him home.
Jan reached their building and swung into the atrium. He took the stairs two at a time and had to pause after five flights to catch his breath. By the time he reached the tenth-floor flat his chest burned. He crashed into the apartment.
She was not in sight!
“Helen!”
His black typewriter sat alone at the table. “Helen!” he screamed.
“Hello, Jan.” He spun toward the bedroom. She walked out, wide-eyed. “What’s wrong?”
Jan doubled over to his knees and panted. Thank you, Father! “Nothing. Nothing.”
“Then why were you screaming like that?”
He straightened, smiling wide. “Nothing. It was nothing. I ran up the stairs. You should try it sometime; excellent exercise.”
She grinned. “You scared me. Don’t smash in here screaming the next time you decide to exercise, if you don’t mind.”
“I won’t,” he said. He pulled her to his chest and stroked her hair. “I promise I will not.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE DAY seemed to keep time to the clacking of Jan’s typewriter, but it all came to a silent halt late that afternoon, when Jan clapped his hands with satisfaction, stood from the table, and proudly announced that he was leaving. His uncle Ermin had a car he wanted to sell them. An old bucket of bolts, Jan said, but the old man had fixed it up—given it a new coat of blue paint and tweaked the carburetor so that it actually ran. Perhaps having a car wouldn’t be such a bad idea. They could drive out into the country and see the real Bosnia. Even Ivena had access to a car.
He said he would be gone for a couple of hours. Helen’s heart was pounding already.
He kissed her on the nose, then again on the cheek, and after a short pause, again on the head. Then he slipped out the door with a wink, leaving her alone in the kitchen staring after him. The old wooden wall-clock with painted ivy leaves read five o’clock.
Horns honked through the open window to her right. She closed her eyes and swallowed, trying to shake the voice that suddenly whispered through her mind. And then it wasn’t whispering—it was buzzing, like an annoying fly that refused to go away.
Helen leaned back on the kitchen counter. You know that if you pull that card out you won’t stop. You know you’ll go.
Of course, I won’t go! Going would be suicide! Her heart thumped in her chest. How could she possibly be having these thoughts after a month of freedom? That’s what her time in Jan’s strange country had been: freedom. No Glenn, no drugs, no chains. And now a stranger who called himself Anton had walked out of the shadows and offered her chains once again. What a fool the man was to think he could just waltz into her life and expect her to follow.
Helen ground her teeth. What a fool she was to think she would not follow!
“God, please . . .”
She ditched the feeble attempt at prayer and let her mind play with the card. If I leave now I could see this place in the Rajlovac district and be back before Jan returns. I would just walk there and then walk back. Is it a sin to walk?
But you won’t just walk.
Don’t be stupid, of course I’ll just walk! That’s all I’ll do. A rush of desire flooded her veins, and she pushed off the counter toward the bedroom.
You want the chains, Helen?
She pulled the black card from beneath her mattress and straightened the covers quickly. Her hand trembled before her eyes. “Rajlovac,” it read.
Don’t be a fool.
But suddenly the impulse to at least walk toward the place hammered through her mind. She walked straight for the front door and eased into the staircase, thinking that she was being a fool. But her spine tingled at the thought of flying. And she was already hating herself for having come this far. Why would she even dare to think about any of this?!
Her feet padded quickly down the stairs. She cracked the door to the street and slipped into the dying light. She would walk east. Just walk.
Voices of caution whispered through Helen’s mind, casting their inevitable arguments as her feet carried her east. But within ten minutes, she’d shoved the debate aside, preoccupied instead with the eyes that seemed to watch her progress. They were just strangers, of course, watching the Western woman—was it that obvious?—walk briskly with her head down. But to Helen it seemed as though every eye was focused on her. She picked up her pace.
The streets ran narrow, bordered by square tan buildings. Rajlovac—she’d heard that there was money in the Rajlovac. A short boxy car snorted past, spewing gray smoke that smelled strangely comforting. The structures were thinning. She was headed away from home and every step she took would have to be retraced, in the dark.
She should be home, peeling the potatoes for tonight’s meal, listening to music, reading a novel. Being loved by Janjic. Helen grunted and watched her feet shuffle over the ground. No, she did not want to do this, but she was doing this and she did want to do this.
She pulled the black card out a dozen times and glanced at the sketched map on the fly. It wasn’t until she had entered the Rajlovac district that she began thinking that coming here had been a terrible mistake. The sun sat on the western horizon, casting long shadows where the buildings did not block it all together. If there was money in Rajlovac, it wasn’t wasted on the buildings, she thought. At least not in this industrial section where the card had led her. Here the old gray structures appeared vacant and unattended. The occasional blown-out window gaped square and black to the darkness within. A newspaper floated by, whipped by the wind. Its cover picture of a man shouting angrily had been all but washed out by the weather. Three men stood across the street, arms folded against the cool, wool caps on their heads. They watched her pass with mild interest.
You should be back with Jan, Helen. How long have you been gone? Less than an hour. If you turn back now he’ll never know.
But her feet kept their pace, shuffling forward as if pulled by habit. Right into the falling darkness, ignoring the fear that now snaked down her spine. This was not right. A large building suddenly rose at the end of the dead-end street she’d entered, ominous against the charcoal sky.
Helen stopped. This was
it. She stood alone on the asphalt and faced the ten-story blackened building. Gray cement towered on either side, chipped and pocked by years of abuse and war. The sound of water trickled faintly along the curb, sewer water by the musty smell. She took a hesitant step forward and then stopped again.
Thirty meters ahead a flag waved above a large door; a dirtied white flag with a black object on either side, but she couldn’t make out the shapes at this distance. She took a breath to still a tremor that ran through her bones, and she walked forward.
You have to turn around, Helen. You’ve had your walk. It’s time to go home and prepare the evening meal. Go and let Jan hold you. He’ll do that, you know. He will hold you and he will love you.
Her feet ignored the plea and stepped forward.
If night had not fallen over the rest of Sarajevo yet, it had come here first. She wondered absently if this was how it felt to walk into your own grave. Other than the trickle of sewer water the night lay still. Perhaps she’d gotten it wrong.
A chill suddenly streaked down her spine. The markings on the flag were skulls, she saw. Black skulls waving in the breeze. A human form clothed in dark wool lay in the gutter to her right, evidently dead to the world. Helen stopped for the third time, blinking against the warning bells that rang in her head. Another body was propped in the far corner, barely visible.
Helen stood before the metal door and stared at the brown paint, peeling like scabs from a rusted surface. A throbbing beat came from deep within the building, barely audible, but somehow comforting.
You aren’t walking any longer, Helen. Now you’re going in. That wasn’t the deal.
She reached a trembling hand forward and pushed gently on the door.
Do you want to fly, baby?
The door swung in quickly, startling her. But it had not given on its own—a man stood in the shadows looking at her with dark eyes. At first he said nothing, and then, “Who invited you?”
“A . . . Anton,” Helen said.
A faint smile crossed the man’s face. “Yes, of course. Who else would find such a beautiful woman. You know what we do here?”
Helen’s heart skipped a beat. Do you want to fly? Or do you want to die? We do both here. “Yes,” she said, but her voice held a tremor.