Read Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) Online
Authors: Joseph Badal
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue, #Espionage
Bob and Liz sat at their backyard patio table on one of those rare summer days in Bethesda when the humidity drops below seventy percent and a cool breeze takes the edge off the heat. There were glasses of chilled white wine, untouched, on the table. Cuts and bruises still showed on Liz’s face. Bob knew that his own face also bore signs of the madman’s attack. It broke his heart that Liz had not undressed in front of him in the two days since coming home from the hospital. He knew she wouldn’t until the thin line the madman had drawn on her body with his switchblade had completely healed. She saw it as a mark of shame. That the man had seen her naked. That he had violated her in a way she never would have imagined. He wanted to tell her that the line was a badge of courage, a testament to her bravery. It just wasn’t the time.
“How do you feel about accepting the Randells’ dinner invitation?” Bob asked, forcing cheeriness he didn’t really feel into his voice. “Sounded like they were really looking forward to seeing us.”
Liz looked down at her hands, as though she was inspecting them for some stray speck of dirt. She slowly shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve got so many things to do around the house. You know.”
Bob reached across the table and covered her hands with his own. “Whatever you say, honey,” he said.
Liz looked up, smiled, and then dropped her gaze again.
Bob felt rage bubble within him. It was becoming a more familiar feeling with each passing day. Find the sonofabitch, he silently prayed. Find this man named Vitas.
Stefan sat between Michael and the driver. The deuce-and-a-half slowly bounced down the rutted, refugee-clogged road. Hunter and four armed paratroopers stood in the supply-crowded cargo bay. The truck worked its way against a southward creeping human tide.
“How much further, Mr. Radko?” Michael asked.
Stefan didn’t answer. He wasn’t paying attention. How can it be? he thought. Impossible! Danforth! Gregorie’s murderer. Now his son is here.
Michael repeated his question.
“What! Oh! It’s just around the bend in the road. You will see an old, gray Mercedes on the right side.”
“How’d you get a car this far south? The roads must have been crammed with people.”
“We just drove at their pace most of the time. There is the car up ahead,” Stefan pointed. “That is as far as we got before the traffic stopped completely.”
Michael shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare. The road and the fields on each side were wall-to-wall people. A woman and a teenaged boy stood next to the Mercedes, parked in the shade of a large tree. While the truck edged forward, hundreds of refugees rose from the ground and began to move toward it.
“Don’t stop,” Michael told the driver. “Pull over to the middle of that pasture.” He turned to Radko. “As soon as we stop, go to your family and get them in your car. The road will clear a little when people crowd around the truck. When the truck is empty, I want you to follow it back out of here. I’ll be riding with you.”
“I do not want to just go back to that place where we met,” Stefan said. “I want my family taken all the way to your headquarters, and then out of Macedonia as soon as possible.”
“Those papers you say you have better be damn good if you expect tickets to the United States.”
“They are damn good!” Stefan said.
“Why don’t you let me take a look at them?” Michael suggested.”
“And then maybe you will tell me how you know my daughter’s name?”
“Fair enough,” Michael agreed.
As soon as the truck came to a halt, Michael followed Radko out of the cab. While Radko walked toward his car, Michael ran to the back of the truck.
“Stay in the truck,” he ordered his men. “Let them see your weapons. We don’t need a riot.”
He climbed into the truck to join his men, while Hunter began to address the milling, murmuring crowd in Albanian.
“Your attention, please.” Hunter waited for his words to be passed back to those who were too far away to hear, and then he waited for the crowd to quiet. “We have food and water, and some medicine.” Another wait for the message to be carried to the rear of the crowd. “If you will line up, we will pass out what we have. There is not enough for all of you, but–”
The sound of several thousand voices rose in complaint, and the sound grew when Hunter’s words traveled through the crowd.
Hunter raised his arms for quiet. It took over a minute for the din to calm. “There are twenty trucks just like this one distributing supplies one and a half kilometers from here. Those of you who are strong enough to walk should go there. Please let children, the old, and the sick get through to us here.”
The sounds of complaints rose again, but many of those in front moved aside to allow the weaker people to come forward.
“Amazing,” Michael told Hunter. “Even after all they’ve been through, they still behave in a civilized fashion.”
“I’ve seen the same thing everywhere I’ve gone since coming over here,” Hunter said.
Michael just shook his head and jumped down from the truck.
General Dimitri Plodic handpicked the five-man Serb Army Special Forces team to infiltrate Macedonia. The Serb Special Forces had been modeled after the Russian SPETSNAZ. Like the American Green Berets and the SEALs, the SPETSNAZ troops were the best and the brightest of the Russian military forces. They were paramilitary forces that could operate in almost any situation, no matter how extreme. All the men he selected were at least bilingual in Serbo-Croatian and Albanian. A couple also knew English. And each had years of combat experience and other qualities Plodic valued: a pathological need for action, fearlessness, and no conscience. The fact that a couple of the men were borderline psychopaths only served Plodic’s purposes.
The Serb Intelligence Agency provided each man with false ID and a fabricated personal history. Plodic told them not to shave, to look more like civilians, like refugees. They were to pass as Bosnian Muslims. The General personally explained the mission to the team’s leader, Captain Mikhail Sokic, making his options clear: Succeed and be national heroes, fail and . . .. He left the alternative to Sokic’s imagination.
“Captain Sokic, you have three weeks to prepare your men,” Plodic said. “Intelligence Service personnel are available to you at any time. Use them! I want you to know everything about the Kumanovo area and about the 82nd Airborne Division – its location in Macedonia, its mission, its weaponry. Everything.”
“Yes, General Plodic. We will do our best,” Sokic barked.
“I hope so, Captain. The President wants this American officer brought to him. My career and yours are on the line.”
The day had been filled with budget meetings, which had strained Bob’s patience more than usual. He thought more than once that, perhaps, he had come to the moment when he should put in his papers. At least that’s what Liz wanted him to do. Retire. He’d thought a lot about changing careers – maybe go into teaching at the university level.
He breezed through the outer office, gave a half-hearted wave to his secretary, and walked into his office. He dropped into his chair and noticed an envelope lying on the middle of the blotter. He noticed the APO return address and Michael’s familiar scrawl. Thank God! A letter, finally. He checked the date. It had been sent just five days earlier. Tearing the end of the envelope open and extracting the single sheet of paper, he walked to a window while standing in a ray of sunshine.
Dear Dad:
This is addressed to you alone because I have to get something off my chest. You can’t imagine how angry and disappointed I am that you would interfere with my assignment and my career. The embarrassment and humiliation you have caused me is unbelievable. While every other company commander has led missions into the hills along the border to sweep them clean of Serb units, I‘ve been kept behind the lines. While other companies do their jobs, mine stays in the headquarters area, safe and sound. And why? Because I have connections. Because my father has pull.
Never in my life would I have expected you to do something like this. I found out that someone at the CIA contacted the Pentagon about me. I must assume it was you.
Butt out, Dad! This is my life. Give me a chance to live it.
The letter was signed “Michael.” No “Love” or “Your son.”