Read Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) Online
Authors: Joseph Badal
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue, #Espionage
Before reaching the road beyond the gate, Bob heard the sickening sounds of sirens coming from somewhere across the valley.
Five minutes passed and then flashing strobe lights on the roofs of police cars illuminated the night sky as they raced up the road toward the orphanage gate. Bob helped George into the cover of bushes one hundred yards up the road from the gate. Two white police cars, followed by an unmarked black sedan, careened off the road onto the orphanage’s drive.
Having tucked the infant inside his zippered jacket, Bob said, “Come on, George.” He took George’s arm and helped him to stand. They weaved down the side of the road like two drunks, Bob’s leg wound causing him to limp. George was barely able to support himself, and Bob was bearing much of his weight, staggering under the combined burden of the two packs, the baby, and George. They moved deeper into the forest and rested behind the dense screen of the trees. The baby had dropped off into a fitful sleep. Probably so exhausted she’s past the point of hunger, Bob thought. He placed her on a bed of pine needles and then pulled up his right pant leg to check his leg wound. The bullet had entered his lower left calf, thankfully missing bone and artery. The calf muscle was cramping and the wound was seeping blood. He quickly ripped off a strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his calf. Then he stuffed everything from the two backpacks he thought he wouldn’t need into one of the packs. He used a flat stone to dig a depression in the earth beneath the low branches of a fir tree and buried the pack.
Bob checked his calf wound again and knew he had to keep moving or it would seize up on him. He hefted the remaining pack onto his back.
Even in the muted moonlight barely filtering through the treetops, Bob could see George’s face was terribly pale. He checked the bandages on George’s side and back and found the exit wound in George’s back bleeding again. While he fixed the dressing, he realized George hadn’t made a sound since they’d stopped to rest. After propping him up against a tree trunk, Bob pushed up one of George’s eyelids and shined a flashlight into his eye. George moaned and slapped at Bob’s hand.
Early on the morning after Liz and Meers arrived in Sofia, an American Embassy Chevrolet sedan sped down Sofia’s rain-dampened, time-worn cobblestones. Franklin Meers sat in the front seat, across from the driver. Liz sat in the backseat with Andrew Morton, staring at the depressingly-gray buildings lining the streets. She felt numb, drained of emotion. Until I have Michael in my arms, none of this will be real, she thought.
“We’re going to the Bulgarian Premier’s office,” Morton said. “After your papers are checked, you’ll be reunited with your son Michael. Then the Premier will make a speech at a press conference you will attend. His people have notified the press agencies. They’ve nicely orchestrated the whole thing to make themselves look good.”
“I don’t care, as long as I get Michael back.”
“I want you to understand,” Meers added, “the Bulgarian government will use this press conference for propaganda purposes. And they’ll condemn the people who kidnapped Michael.”
“Nice twist,” Liz said, exhaling a stream of air. “The Bulgarian Government was behind my son’s kidnapping all along.”
“Probably right, Mrs. Danforth,” Morton said. “But I warn you, say nothing about that. It won’t do the other kidnapped children any good for you to attack the Premier. Just say how happy you are to have your son back and how grateful you are to the Premier for his assistance.”
Keeping quiet about the Bulgarian Government’s involvement in kidnappings didn’t seem to Liz to be the way to protect other kidnapped children, but she had one priority at the moment. She’d keep her mouth shut until she had Michael back in her arms.
“I understand, Mr. Morton,” she said. “I’ll behave.” Liz shrank into the corner of the backseat and looked out the car window again. The morning sun was just beginning to light up the city. She visualized Michael’s face and conjured up the sweet smell of his skin. What have the Bulgarians done to him?
Then she snapped her head forward, looking at the back of Meers’ head. “Franklin, how are we going to know if Bob called?” She tightened her hands into fists and pressed them against her thighs.
Meers twisted in his seat to face her. “When we get to the government building, I’ll call our Embassy here. I left instructions for my messages to be forwarded.”
Liz nodded. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the car window, feeling a terrible emptiness. She felt suddenly chilled. An image of Bob came to her. She imagined him running through a dense forest, being chased by armed men shooting at him. Liz blinked her eyes and tried to erase this nightmarish image from her mind. What if I get my son back and then lose my husband?
“Ah, Mee-ster Mor-ton,” Premier Mimovich said in heavily accented English, “it is alvays good to see you. And this most be tha mother of our bright leetle boy.”
Liz cringed at the Premier’s use of the word, “our.”
“Mee-sus Danforth, I am huppy to meet you and to place you together vith your son. I understand all the formalities haf been taken care of, so let us not put off tha reunion any lunger.”
Mimovich gave an almost imperceptible nod to a barrel-chested man standing in a far corner of the spacious office. The man took two steps to a door, twisted an ornate brass doorknob, and opened it.
Michael stood there next to a heavyset matronly woman who was dressed in a long gray dress and
From Russia with Love’s
Elsa Clinch shoes, dwarfing the little boy, making him seem especially small and vulnerable. Liz took a step toward her son, but stopped when she saw him shrink back against the woman. Liz saw Michael’s fear – his eyes round, his little fists clenching the woman’s skirt.
Liz knelt on the floor, arms extended, and softly said, “Michael, it’s Mommy.”
Michael peeked from behind the woman. Liz’s voice seemed to have lit a spark in his eyes. He took a tentative step toward her. Then another. And another. Then he began running.
Liz burst into tears when Michael cried, “Mommy! Mommy!”
Morton stood in the back of the briefing room, no expression on his face, listening to Premier Mimovich feed the international press a line of bullshit about the Danforth kidnapping and the “tremendous satisfaction the Bulgarian people and our government have received from playing a vital role in the recovery of this little American boy.” Morton surveyed the room and saw Anatoly Bruskoff, a member of the Bulgarian Intelligence Agency, eyeing him. Bruskoff motioned with his head toward the door leading to the outside hallway. Morton watched the Bulgarian leave the room. He followed him.
“So, Andrew,” Bruskoff said, shaking Morton’s hand, “isn’t it wonderful about the little boy being found and returned to his mother?”
“Anatoly, I hope you’re not going to give me the same load of crap your premier is shoveling to the press. You and I know better.”
Bruskoff looked offended for a second, then laughed the dry, hacking laugh of a chain smoker. “Ah, Andrew, of course not. For a moment I forgot who I was talking to.”
“Tell me, Anatoly,” Morton said, “what’s going to happen to the woman who had the Danforth boy?”
Bruskoff frowned at Morton. “There’s nothing more we can do to the woman. One of the prison guards found her hanging from a pipe in her cell. Committed suicide before we could even question her.”
“How convenient,” Morton said. “Would have been nice to find out who she worked for. Who was bringing the kidnapped children to her.”
“Of course, I agree,” Bruskoff replied. He slapped Morton on the back and walked away.
Sveta Vulovich sat by the window in her fourth-floor apartment and looked out at the darkening sky. The window gave her an unobstructed view of the street down to the park four blocks away, where her daughter had taken the little boy two days earlier. She rubbed her eyeglasses on her apron, put them back on, and watched the street, hoping to see Katrina. She’d been gone for over thirty-six hours. Sveta’s calls to the police had been a waste of time. They said they would look into it, but Sveta could tell from their tone they would do nothing.
A black, official-looking sedan coming around the corner caught her eye. It stopped in front of her building. Four men dressed in suits and wearing fedoras got out. While the driver stayed next to the car, the other three marched into her building. Some poor idiot probably got caught dealing in the black market, Sveta thought. More than likely the good-for-nothing Katanach boy. She turned her attention back to the park in the distance.
Then a knock sounded on her door. Sveta stood, groaned, and stretched her arthritic limbs. What now? She patted her hair back and closed the top button on her dress, smoothing her apron with her hands. Opening the door, she found the three brawny men who’d gotten out of the car. She gasped when they pushed their way inside. Two of them rushed through the apartment to her husband’s bedroom.
“What is it? What do you want?” she asked, her words squeaking out of her tightened throat.
“We’re taking you and your husband in for questioning. Get your coat and your papers.”
Sveta looked at her husband, Butros. The men had dragged him into the living room. “Wh. . . . what is it, Butros?”
Butros stared at his wife and Sveta saw the fear in his eyes. He seemed to be trying to smile at her, to reassure her, but he couldn’t quite suppress his fear. Finally, he said, “A mistake, Sveta. These things happen. You will see; it is all a mistake.”
The three men herded the Vulovichs to the street and pushed them into the back of the black sedan. Two of the men got into the car. One stayed on the sidewalk in front of the apartment house.
A moment after the car pulled away, a large truck drove up and took its place at the curb. Two men in coveralls stepped from the truck’s cab. The driver walked up to the man in the suit and hat. The other man from the truck walked to the rear of the vehicle and opened the cargo door. He stepped aside when four more men in coveralls jumped from the cargo bay onto the street.
The driver said to the man in the suit, “Which floor, comrade?”
“Fourth.”
“Shit! What else? They’re never on the first floor!”
The man in the suit ignored the complaint, his face expressionless.
“What did these people do, comrade?” the driver said. “They must be real criminals to be sent to the Gulags, to forfeit all their possessions.”
The suit, his face still blank, looked at the driver. “They are being sent away because they asked too many questions,” he said.
The driver’s mouth dropped open and then slammed shut; his face turned pale. He walked over to join the rest of his crew.