Read Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) Online
Authors: Joseph Badal
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue, #Espionage
Paulus looked at Vitas stretched out on the couch. The assassin’s chest heaved and an animal-like rumble resonated from within it. His normal ruddy complexion now looked red – as though his face was on fire. The room stank with sour perspiration and . . . something else. Paulus couldn’t place the odor. He knew he never would have been able to enter the safehouse and walk up to the man without being observed if Vitas were not sick. Thank God he would be leaving today – before he died on him.
Vitas jerked alert and sat up when Paulus touched his shoulder. “What the fuck!” he shouted.
“It’s time for you to go. The plane is ready at the airport.”
“About time,” Vitas said. “Four days holed up in this fucking place.”
Paulus almost corrected the man. He’d been there six days. But he decided to let it go. “You know we couldn’t risk putting you on the streets with hundreds of policemen, the FBI, and the CIA looking for you.”
“Yeah, yeah. What now?”
“I have a private plane, a Gulf Stream, waiting for you in West Virginia. About a five-hour drive. It will take you to Juarez, Mexico. From there the plane will fly you to Mexico City, then Madrid, and finally to Belgrade.”
“All right, I’m ready,” Vitas said, struggling to get off the couch. He favored his injured leg. He followed Paulus out into the night and got in the back of the Embassy man’s sedan. He opened the back door and stretched out on the seat.
Paulus looked back over the front seat at Vitas. The man had already fallen asleep. He cranked up the air conditioner and opened the front windows. The stench of the man was overpowering. He was no doctor, but Paulus had guessed days ago that Vitas’ leg had become infected. It was damn lucky he’d been able to hire a private jet, Paulus thought; no commercial airline would have let the man board one of their planes.
From Mladenovac, Stefan, Vanja, and Attila crossed the Morava River on one of the few bridges that NATO air assaults had left standing. It had taken them two days to travel the first three hundred kilometers. Refugees packed the roads and they’d had to stop on several occasions to allow the car’s engine to cool off.
“These goddam peasants don’t have the sense to get out of the way,” Stefan yelled for the hundredth time, while hitting the brakes to avoid running over an old man limping along on crutches.
Vanja patted Stefan’s arm. “Be patient, my husband,” she said.
Stefan heaved a massive sigh and clenched his teeth in frustration, while he slowly drove the car ahead.
Passing through Serb town after Serb town, they saw little evidence of the war with NATO – other than the refugees from the north and from Kosovo Province straggling along the road. Buildings were undamaged; people seemed to be performing their normal activities. Life in the small towns and villages of Serbia appeared to be unchanged. Most of the bombing attacks, Stefan knew, had centered in and around the larger metropolitan areas and on the bridges.
When they approached Surdulica, just east of the southern part of Kosovo Province, the number of refugees increased to a swarm. Stefan identified ethnic Albanians, Gypsies, Bosnians, and even Bulgarians. There were also a myriad of other people whose clothing or features didn’t make them easily identifiable. It took Stefan another two days to drive the last thirty kilometers from Surdulica to a point just north of the Macedonian border. Most of the refugees were on foot. Only a few traveled in trucks, cars, or even tractors. Stefan saw there were very few young men among the refugees. The Serbs must have found them, or they are fighting in the mountains, he thought. His car moved slowly, only as fast as the walking refugees moved. In Preshevo, almost at the Macedonian border, the mass of people came to a virtual stop.
Stefan got out of the car and approached a bedraggled old man.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Why isn’t the traffic moving?”
The man just hunched his shoulders and turned away. Stefan grabbed an old woman by the arm.
“Do you know what lies ahead?” he asked her.
She shook her arm free. “Have you seen my Marika?” she asked plaintively. “The soldiers took her. Have you seen my Marika?”
Stefan shrugged and walked back to the car. No one seemed to know what was happening.
“Attila, move the car over to those trees where it will be cooler,” he said. “And see if you can scrounge up some petrol. We’re down to our last can. Vanja, get out the tent and set it up. We could be here awhile.”
While Vanja and Attila worked to set up camp, Stefan circulated among the refugees. He listened to their tales of dispossession, murder, rape, and mayhem. An idea suddenly struck him. He walked back to their campsite and sat down with Vanja and Attila.
“Somehow I will scrounge up some writing paper,” he told them. “We will interview as many of these people as possible. Since I speak Albanian, I will ask the questions and then translate their answers into Roma. Both of you will write it all down. We will record all we can on the atrocities perpetrated by the Serbs.”
“What will we do with all of this information,
O Babo
?” Attila asked.
“NATO and the international relief agencies will kiss our feet if we can give them lots of eyewitness accounts of Serb atrocities.”
“Do you hate the Serbs so much,
O Babo
?” Attila asked.
I don’t hate anyone, and then again I hate everyone, Stefan thought. “That’s not the point, Attila,” he said.
Michael felt useless and alienated from the rest of the 82nd Airborne’s units. His men resented the incessant kidding from the soldiers of other companies. They’d been relegated to performing administrative duties, doing KP, and pulling guard duty. The rumor was sweeping through camp that the battalion commander didn’t have confidence in Captain Danforth.
“Captain Danforth,” a voice called.
He turned and saw one of his men striding toward him. “What is it, Cox?”
“Colonel Sweeney’s looking for you,” Cox said breathlessly. “He wants you at headquarters right away.”
Michael fast-walked to headquarters.
“Captain Danforth, this is Mr. Maxwell Hunter of the International Red Cross,” Sweeney said after Michael reported. “He’s got a problem, so we have a problem. Mr. Hunter, why don’t you explain the situation?”
Hunter stood and put his finger on a map on an easel. “Here’s our location,” he said. He moved the finger to the right. “Over here we’ve got thirty thousand refugees along five miles of road. Some have been camped along here for days, with no sanitary facilities or medical supplies. The only food and water is whatever they brought with them. If we don’t do something to relieve the pressure, we’ll find ourselves in the middle of a typhoid or cholera epidemic, not to mention wholesale starvation. I’m sure the Serbs would love telling the world about the thousands of people who died because they fled their perfectly safe homes and found nothing but sickness and starvation in NATO’s hands.”
“So, what can we do?” Michael asked.
“That’s where you come in, Mike,” Colonel Sweeney said. “Your company will ride shotgun with the relief convoy we’re sending in.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said enthusiastically. Finally! he thought.
“I want you on the road at 0400 hours tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said again.
Hunter walked out and Michael started to follow.
“Hold a second, Mike.” Sweeney leaned his chair back on two legs. He clasped his hands behind his head. “I’m sure you noticed the location Hunter pointed out – Preshevo – is right on the Serb border. There’s been sniper activity all along there.”
Michael nodded.
“You’re the last company commander I’ve got who’s not already on a mission. I don’t feel I can wait for one of them to return. The condition of the refugees worsens with each passing hour. We’ve got to help those people. That’s why we’re here.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Be careful, Mike. If you get hurt, my career is over.”