Scamper's Find

by Terry H. Watson

  Superintendent Harvey stormed out of the prison, leaving the former news reporter to ponder his fate.

  CHAPTER 21

  Thousands of miles from the problems facing Scottish and American crime officers, a young man faced his own seemingly insurmountable problems.

  Sergei Bregovic, always alert, watching, remembering, studying his enemy, noted the guards as they paraded around the compound where he was held. For almost six years he had been held captive by hostile forces as the war in Bosnia continued around him. He, with others, was constantly moved from place to place under the cover of darkness and always on foot, sometimes returning to a spot previously used to hide the captured men. The alert young man was aware of this ploy: others might think they were being moved further and further from their homeland, but Sergei noted that they were at times being moved around in circles.

  He was badly injured when first captured and suffered constant shoulder pain from a bullet fired randomly into the group of young men he was working with. Guards prodded the bedraggled captives with rifle butts to ensure they kept moving. Those who weakened were left where they fell, a bullet to the head ending their misery. The mercenaries were ruthless, callous, cruel, but they too showed signs of fatigue. Exhaustion breeds carelessness which young Sergei planned to use to his advantage. He studied their every move, their every inattentive action, and waited, waited for the right moment to make his move to escape from his hell of existence. Patience was something he had learned. He had attempted to escape before and was savagely beaten for his efforts. The pain and humiliation only served to increase his determination to flee, to return home to his only living family member, his sister Amila. Unknown to Sergei, she and her husband believed him to be dead.

  He had little idea of his location, but listened out for clues from the guards who sat around the night fire smoking hash and drinking heavily. They became crude and raucous as the night wore on. They became careless. They entertained each other with tales of sexual bravado. One guard, inebriated, cold, and homesick for his woman, pointed to his village.

  “Look, only twelve miles across those hills to my home, so near, a stone’s throw from Sarajevo.”

  Sergei took his chance when the guards drifted off to sleep as they inevitably did each boring evening. Summoning strength that came from sheer determination to escape, Sergei ran like a wounded gazelle towards the direction the careless captor had stated was near the outskirts of Sarajevo. He left the compound totally undetected having previously checked for weakness in the flimsy fence which was meant to deter escape attempts. Sergei had cultivated the friendship of the guard dogs that trusted him to bring scraps of food, sometimes his own only source of sustenance. As the dogs ate, they ignored their friend as he clambered under the fence. He ran. He ran until he felt his heart pounding as if it would explode with exertion, paused briefly to catch his breath, and then fled to freedom. Night dangers lurked everywhere. He proceeded swiftly but cautiously into the darkness, using the stars as his only light. He listened for warning shots indicating that his absence had been noted. All was eerily silent in that troubled land.

  Nothing would happen until morning, not before the break of dawn, and then, God have mercy on his fellow captives; they would suffer beatings and worse. Anger from the guards would explode like a raging inferno in uncontrollable savagery, like a demon released from the depths of hell. Sergei himself had been at the mercy of the sentries who, knowing harsh punishment awaited them for their carelessness, exacted inhumane vengeance on their weak and defenceless prisoners. God forgive me for what I have done to them, whispered the gentle individual.

  As dawn broke heralding a new day, hope of a new life filled his soul.

  He reached Sarajevo and found a bombed-out building in which to hide as he recovered from his ordeal. He slept. His sleep was disturbed by memories of the horrors of the past years. He slept fitfully until wakened by some people who alerted by his nightmare screams, tended to the dishevelled boy, and carried him to hospital where he drifted in and out of consciousness, in and out of near death.

  It was there, some days later, that he was recognised by elderly Doctor Josef, a former colleague of his sister, Amila. Doctor Josef was exhausted from the relentless work but refused to retire, as was his right. ‘While my fellow citizens are in need of my help, I will remain here,’ he told anyone who pleaded with him to rest.

  “I know this young man. He is Sergei Bregovic. Most of his family was wiped out in the early days of the siege of our beloved city. His sister and brother-in-law believed him to be dead.”

  Doctor Josef examined the young man and assisted a nurse in dressing his horrific wounds.

  “Siroti, mladié, you poor young boy. He has been whipped like a dog, within an inch of his life. He is on the verge of starvation. I must operate on this shoulder. He is in danger of losing his arm to infection. With God’s help I can save it. Poor boy.”

  Sergei, recovering from surgery, lay in a strange bed in a strange room, not knowing where he was or what had happened to him. He drifted in and out of sleep. Painkillers helped ease the pain in his body but not the pain in his heart. He mumbled incoherently calling out for his family: “Amila, my sister, moja sestra, my sister, Amila.”

  Concerned staff, many of whom had lost family to the ravages of war, comforted him, hearts full of pity for the young man who not only faced a long physical recovery, but an even longer emotional one. As yet, he did not know of the whereabouts of his sister.

  Later, when he felt his patient strong enough to comprehend what he had to relate to him, the elderly doctor took a deep breath, wiped the sweat off his hands and brow, and sat with Sergei. He gently explained what had happened to his family.

  “It was not safe for your brother-in-law and his beloved Amila to remain in this war-torn city. I myself encouraged them to seek a new life in America. I had sent my own family to safety in Germany where we have relatives. My wife protested, but she saw for herself that the city was no place for the children and grandchildren to live in. ‘I don’t want to leave you here Josef, please come with us’. She pleaded with me Sergei, but I had taken an oath to help people in need, and where was most help needed but here in our beloved Sarajevo and I knew my family would be safe. Amila was caring and devoted, she tended to her patients as if they were here own family which in a way they were; we are all Sarajevo people, all sufferers in a cruel war. I persuaded them to leave here just as I had persuaded my own to go to safety. They were young. Amila and Nikol had a future ahead of them. They believed you to be dead and wept for you. Amila had miscarried her child; it was such a disappointment for them, in the midst of war and hardship. When she recovered sufficiently they left for Europe and hopefully, onwards to America. I have heard nothing from them, but letters seldom arrive here with any regularity, sometimes they come years later. I live in hope of some day hearing from them.”

  “Then that is where I must go. I must find my brother-in-law, my sister, my family.”

  “Then I will assist you in whatever way I can. I too am anxious to have news of them. But for now, you rest, you eat and you build strength. You have many months of recovery ahead of you. Your arm will heal through time, but your heart like my heart, will take a little longer. War, it eats into the heart of a man and how can we fix that? By hope, my young boy, by hope. You are so like dear Amila. She too has a gentle soul.”

  ***

  In her apartment in New York Donata Stojanovic relaxed with her usual morning coffee as she read the newspaper. The years had brought about a contentment which she never thought she would experience again. Her mind often dwelt on her homeland but she had no wish to return; no, this is my home now, this is where I will live out my life.

  “Dragi, darling, who are you talking to? Have you turned into an old woman who talks to herself instead of her beloved husband?” laughed Marc as he looked at the skyline of New York. T
he view from their tiny apartment never failed to amaze him.

  Donata chuckled and returned to her morning read. Something there caught her attention.

  “Marc, dragi, darling,” she called to her husband, “here is an enquiry from someone requesting information about Amila and Nikol Tanovic from Sarajevo. That was surely the names of our dear friends Zelda and Kristof? Do you remember they had to change their names when we were in transit camp in order to obtain forged documents to help them get out of the country?”

  “You are correct, my dear. I recall those names. Let me read the enquiry. I remember them so well, the young couple with a new life ahead of them, and then to die in a plane crash; so tragic, so tragic.”

  Marc read the article and exclaimed, “There is a number here. We must call at once. The name is Sergei Bregovic. Surely that is the brother they feared had been killed. They wept so much for him, just as we did for our beloved son. Is it too much to expect that this boy has somehow survived the atrocities and has come to seek out his family?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Having established contact, Marc delayed answering the young man’s many questions regarding the whereabouts of his relatives.

  “It is best we meet face-to-face and I can tell you all you need to know.”

  Sergei had only recently arrived in New York, and was as yet unsure of his surroundings. The three agreed to meet at Grand Central Terminal. They sat in a coffee bar; the noise of trains, traffic and constant announcements went unheeded by the trio as they concentrated on the task in hand. Sergei, still pale from his illness and fearful of what he might hear from these kindly people, fixed his eyes on them ready to listen for any speck of hope in locating his family.

  Donata was struck by the resemblance of the young man to his sister Amila. As gently as they could, the couple took it in turns to relate the tale of how they met with his relatives, how they travelled together across Europe, parted company, each going their own way, and the joyous reunion some time later in New York. Marc, holding the young man’s hand, gave Sergei the devastating news of the deaths of his last remaining relatives. His heart went out to the boy as he watched the impact of what he had told him, his demeanor changing from hope to despondency in one short moment.

  “They were aboard a flight to Chicago when their private airplane crashed on landing, killing everyone on board, including a young girl who had been abducted. The strange thing is, Sergei, that they, your brother-in-law and sister, were the abductors. We do not understand any of this.”

  “No, never. Ne, nikad, that could not be, not my family, not Amila, never, not my sister, moja sestra! No!”

  Donata comforted the young man as she had similarly comforted his sister several years previously. She could feel every bone shaking in his thin body as he allowed his emotions to pour out like an unstoppable tap. People noticing them probably presumed a difficult parting was forthcoming for a traveller. Gently, she explained the change of names.

  “They were known as Zelda and Kristof Djuric. The last we heard from them was when they left us to search for employment in another area of the city. We were surprised not to hear from them and had no means of contacting them. We longed to come across them somewhere in the city, but it is such an immense place, we were not hopeful.”

  Marc took up the story; “Then we heard of their deaths and involvement in the abduction of a child. Sergei, to this day we cannot believe such good people would ever do that. There must be more to it all. We are confused.”

  The couple offered Sergei a home with them until he had time to assimilate the news and make a decision about his future. Donata fussed over him and made his little room as comfortable and as welcoming as she could.

  “It’s small, Sergei, but clean and warm.”

  Marc assisted him in dressing, as his arm continued to cause pain.

  “You are such kind people. I’m glad Amila and Nikol had friends like you to assist their journey from our war-torn city. I cannot leave things like this,” he wept. “I must seek for the truth. Nikol and Amila would never do such a shameful deed. Ne, ne, nikad. And now I am totally alone in the world. I am a sad man.”

  Marc assisted the distraught man in an online search through past newspapers for any explanation which would lessen his sorrow.

  “Together, we will find the truth.”

  They sat together in the library where a sympathetic librarian assisted them in their search. Reading of his relatives’ involvement in a heinous crime distressed both Sergei and Marc. They found the names of the senior detective who was involved in the investigation.

  “Here is where we begin, Sergei. We will call this person and get to the truth.”

  Marc put a call through to Chicago police headquarters to be told that the person in question, Tony Harvey, was now Chicago’s superintendent of police and was presently out of town at a police conference. The young detective logged details of the call to be picked up by Harvey on his return.

  Marc was surprised at the speed of response from Superintendent Harvey who spoke briefly to Sergei, stating he had too many details to give him and preferred to meet face-to-face. He arranged to come to New York as he was anxious for more background information on the deceased and wished also to speak to Donata and Marc Stojanovic whose involvement with the couple was, until then, not on record.

  “It would sure help fill in a lot of gaps about this case,” he said to no one in particular as he ended the call.

  Once again, Harvey teamed up with Carole Carr and travelled to New York.

  “Here we go again Carole, criss-crossing the country, this time with the mayor’s approval and no one giving us grief about cost. Hopefully, we can get some more background information.”

  “These people might have info that would clarify a few things,” said Carole. “We never did find any background on the couple on the plane. They were a total mystery.”

  “Yeah and all we know about them is what Rita Hampton told me and I find it difficult to believe one word that comes from that person’s mouth. We know from Anna Leci’s letter to her solicitor that they were illegal immigrants and were probably here on false documents. The abduction and death of young Lucy, even after all these years, leaves too many unanswered questions. I hate having loose ends. It riles me when cases go unsolved.”

  “You don’t think they had anything to do with the Scottish murders, do you?”

  “Let’s keep an open mind until we have met them, Carole. Why are we only now, after four years, locating people who knew the abductors? Maybe they want to come clean. They may well be the ones who exacted revenge for the loss of their friends or put out a contract on them. Contract killers don’t care who they eliminate and can name their price for the vile deed. Let’s check these people out.”

  They had arranged to meet at the apartment of the couple and were surprised at how welcoming it was.

  There’s a good feel about this place, Carole thought as they made their introductions and drank tea and ate cake which the motherly Donata insisted they have.

  “We don’t often have visitors. Please help yourself.”

  Tony Harvey always prided himself in his discernment when it came to interviews. He was seldom wrong in his judgement of people and, being with the couple and Sergei, he was convinced of their non-involvement, of their honesty and, like him, of their desire for the truth. We can rule them out of any suggestion of involvement in contract killing, he thought to himself.

  The couple spoke at length of their flight from Sarajevo and how they met and befriended Zelda and Kristof, of their flight from war-torn Bosnia until their arrival in Europe.

  “Sir,” explained Marc, “our son, Stefan, was taken at gunpoint along with other men from our village while working the fields. We waited for news but nothing came, until months later when we heard that the mercenaries had killed a group
of young farmers. We prayed that Stefan would some day return to us but in our hearts we knew we would never see our son again. We made the decision to leave the war-torn city.”

  As they continued with their horrendous tale, Carole, usually the strong, unemotional detective, found it hard not to feel sorrow as they explained about Zelda’s miscarriage and the carnage of their city, which wiped out their families.

  “This young man,” said Marc, pointing to Sergei, “was believed dead. How they wept for him. We cannot believe in our hearts that our friends, whom we grew close to, could have been involved in something as awful as child abduction. Something is not right, sir.”

  When they had finished relating the horrors which had befallen them, Superintendent Harvey took up the story of the involvement of Zelda and Kristof Djuric as they had come to think of the abductors.

  “Sergei,” he gently disclosed, “your brother-in-law and sister were innocent victims of a mad, scheming woman who threatened to have them deported if they did not follow her crazy instructions in the abduction of a young girl.”

  Detective Carr took up the story, “We can tell you that they were kind and considerate to their young charge, protected her from harm, and saw to her every need. They were good people. We have this from the woman who nursed the mad schemer. They were so afraid of the consequences should they disobey her orders. Until your phone call, Marc, we did not know the true identity of Zelda and Kristof Djuric. I will read you part of a letter from Anna Leci, the mad woman who caused such havoc for them. Sergei, it totally exonerates your relatives and explains her hold over them.”

  On completion of her task, Carole comforted the sobbing Donata, who, through tears, replied, “We knew they were good people and something must have happened for them to be involved in that horror. When we read of their deaths we were bereft and confused and we knew there was more to it. Thank you for explaining things to us.”