Read Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) Online
Authors: Joseph Badal
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue, #Espionage
General Plodic knocked on the door and, as instructed by the secretary in the anteroom, opened it and entered the Serb leader’s office. He walked confidently across the carpeted floor, holding Captain Sokic’s progress report in his hand.
“Plodic, what do you have to report?” the Serb leader growled, not even waiting for the General to get halfway across his office. The man stood behind his desk, his hands flat on the desktop, his eyes locked on Plodic like missiles locking on an enemy plane.
Plodic felt his confidence dissipate. Perspiration dripped from his underarms. He could tell from the President’s tone and the scowl on his face that he was in a very bad mood. “Everything is progressing as per your orders, Mr. President. The Special Forces team will be ready to go in thirteen days. Right on time, according to the schedule you gave me. They’re the best men in all of Yugoslavia. They’ll be ready, I assure you.”
“You have confidence in these men?” the leader asked, an implied message in his tone Plodic did not fail to comprehend. He knew the President had just warned him. If the mission failed, then Plodic’s ass would be on the line. People who failed this psychopath had a habit of disappearing.
“Absolutely, Mr. President. They are the best trained men in all of Yugoslavia. True patriots.” Plodic hazarded a smile, but quickly wiped it from his face. The leader’s eyes were beginning to make his bowels feel loose.
“Good! Then they should be able to start in two days.”
Colonel Heinige rushed back into the room. “Captain Danforth, you should take the Radkos back to their camp. It appears we have Serb guerillas in the hills again, but this time they are close to the city. They must have knocked out the telephone lines. We are sending soldiers out to sweep the streets in case any of the guerillas infiltrated the city. You need to get these people out of here while you still can.”
“Yes, sir!” Michael said. He turned to the Radko family. “Let’s go. You’ll be safer at the camp.” He led the way out to the street and ran for the Jeep, leaving the Radkos in the building’s doorway. After starting the vehicle, he backed it up to the building entrance. When Stefan and his family had climbed aboard, he sped toward the refugee camp.
Vanja and Attila seemed worried about the sounds of small arms fire coming from the hills above the road. Neither of them said a word until they were a couple of miles from the refugee camp, after they could no longer hear the pop-pop-pop of weapons.
From the back of the Jeep, Vanja placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder and shouted over the noise of the engine and the wind rushing through the open vehicle, “I will never be able to thank you for what you did. You gave us back our daughter when we thought we had lost her forever.”
“I was glad I could do it. As they say, it’s a small world.”
Michael ignored the grunting sound that came from Stefan sitting in the front passenger seat. He’d already come to the conclusion that Miriana was right. Her father was “sonofbitch.”
By Monday evening, Stefan was sick of the refugee camp. And the men he had fleeced seemed to suspect his winning streak with the dice had continued too long to be mere luck. Where could he find a new group of suckers? Stefan left the camp and walked north on the road to Preshevo, in search of new sheep to shear.
Although just before dusk, there was still enough light for him to see the campsites along the road and in the fields to the west. Idiots! Stefan thought. Waiting like children for the great Americans to save them. He patted the wad of bills in his pockets and smiled. He was confident he’d double his money before he returned to the refugee camp later that night.
On the other side of the border, north of Preshevo, Captain Sokic and his men hid their vehicles in trees along a dirt track connecting with the main road. They walked back to the main road to mix with the scattering of refugees still moving south. It appeared that most had stopped and camped, now that night approached.
Carrying their gear in packs, suitcases, and canvas bags on their backs and shoulders, they continued southward.
Sokic watched his men dispersing among the refugees, melting in amongst the stragglers, dragging their feet and walking stooped as though exhausted and demoralized. They fit right in as they shuffled along at a snail’s pace, their ragged clothing hanging on them like castoffs on scarecrows. Sokic trailed behind, placing himself next to a slow-moving, horsedrawn wagon.
While he walked, Sokic practiced his cover story – birth date, village, names of his family members. He had it all down perfectly, but Sokic was a careful man. At the outskirts of Preshevo, four hours later, he and his team encountered the first NATO refugee checkpoint.
After a long wait in barely-moving lines of refugees, they were cleared through to the next checkpoint. Most of the rest of the way, Sokic, his team, and a dozen other refugees hitched a ride on a tractor-towed flatbed trailer. Two kilometers north of Kumanovo, when it was fully dark, the Serb soldiers jumped off the trailer, climbed a hillside by the road, and rested among the trees.
“We wait here until all these Muslim pigs are asleep,” Sokic told his men. “Then we’ll go around Kumanovo and locate the 82nd’s encampment. Dimitrov, you and Pyotr take the first watch. Vassily, Josef, get some sleep. The next shift will be in two hours. We leave at 0200.”
By ten p.m., Stefan had unburdened several Kosovars of their money. He’d not gotten very far north of Kumanovo, but he wasn’t sure where he was. He tried to remember how many shots of
raki
he’d drunk, but all he could come up with was “a lot.” Although dead-tired, he felt ecstatic about the money filling his pockets. So many marks, so little time, he thought, laughing in the darkness, listening to his voice rebound off the hills on the east side of the road. At a curve in the road, he noticed a small group of men leave the crowd of refugees and climb a hillside into the trees.
Still more sheep, he thought. And no women with them. Good! No nagging wives telling their husbands not to gamble or drink. Rubbing his hands together gleefully, he thought, What the hell; I can’t pass up suckers like these. An hour is all it should take. He shook the loaded die in his hand while he plodded up the grassy incline toward the flat crest of the hill, no longer feeling tired. He’d made it halfway up the hill, when a man stepped from behind a large bush and stuck the point of a knife under his chin.
“Going someplace, old man?”
Stefan had dealt with all manner of men; he could identify the victims from the predators, the sane from the crazies. The tone in this man’s voice told him he needed to be careful with this one.
“Hello,” he replied in Serbo-Croatian. “I was hoping you might share some water with me.”
“Get fucked,” the man growled. “We’ve got nothing for the likes of you.”
Stefan began to turn around, when a second man appeared and placed a hand on his arm. “Who are you?” the man asked.
“Stefan Radko is my name. I’m staying at the refugee camp down the road. I got tired of the Americans’ bullshit and decided to take a walk.”
The second man just continued staring at Stefan. He didn’t react to what Stefan had said.
“You look like you just arrived,” Stefan said in what he hoped was his most congenial tone. “Perhaps I can be of help; I’ve been here for many days and I know the people at the refugee camp. The paperwork is awful, but I can help you with it.”
“Thank you, sir; please join us,” the man said, turning around and going back up. “We left our farms weeks ago and have been traveling on foot since then,” he said over his shoulder. “We would appreciate your help in finding our families.”
Stefan followed, thinking none of them would have much chance of finding family in the mob of refugees. He sat with the men and learned their names – always better to break down suspicions by using first names, appearing to be friendly. He told them lies about his own escape from Yugoslavia.
Stefan noticed that this group seemed somehow unlike the other refugees – dirty, with tattered clothes, but not so downtrodden. They seemed more . . . alert, better educated. The more he talked, however, and the more of their liquor he drank, the more comfortable Stefan felt. Soon he seduced a couple of them into playing dice. The mood of the group became amiable.
“Where’s that other bottle of whiskey?” the one who seemed to be the leader said.
Another man took a bottle from a suitcase. Stefan smacked his lips. He would do more than his share in making the contents of this bottle disappear, too.
“Have you met any American soldiers?” one of them asked. “I hear they are well trained and equipped. We should be grateful they have come to protect us.”
Stefan began to relish his role as adviser to this group of farmers. It was wonderful to have an advantage over them. He looked across the campfire and squinted, trying to bring the man’s face opposite him into better focus. “Oh, yes, he slurred, “I met many Americans. Even the head of their 82nd Airborne, Colonel Sweeney.”
Sokic glanced at Dimitrov sitting across from him and saw the soldier raise his eyebrows, as though to convey the thought that this old man was either the biggest blowhard in the world or they had discovered a valuable resource. Or both.
“What other Americans have you met?” Sokic asked.
“Many, many,” Stefan said, throwing an arm in the air to indicate there were too many to name.
“I think you’re joking with us.”
Stefan shrugged. “Believe what you want,” he said. “But one of the American officers has even fallen in love with my daughter.”
“Big goddam deal,” Pyotr said loudly.
Sokic narrowed his eyes with contempt while he stared across the fire at Pyotr. Stupid idiot! If the Gypsy clams up . . . The soldier shrank back and lowered his head.
“It’s true; one of them has fallen in love with my Miriana,” Stefan said. He spat into the fire.
The name tugged at Sokic’s memory. General Plodic had spoken about Karadjic’s kidnapping and how a Gypsy girl named Miriana was involved.
“Your daughter, is she beautiful?” he asked.
Stefan smirked. “You won’t find a more beautiful girl in all of Yugoslavia.”
Sokic laughed. “Spoken like a loving father,” he said. “I hear the Americans are all rich. You must be pleased an American officer is interested in your daughter.”
Stefan scowled. “He’s the last American I would let my Miriana marry!”
“Why?”
“His father killed my son,” Stefan slurred. “I curse the Danforth name.”
Sokic was so surprised his jaw dropped.