“It’s me. What’s wrong?”
“Some men. My grandfather told me. Men from the outside. They come to see you.” Pearse had trouble keeping up with the Serbo-Croatian; he heard more than enough, though, to recognize the fear in the boy’s voice.
“Did they say what they wanted?”
The boy continued to stare. He pointed in the direction of the western gate. “Some men. They come to see you.” And with that, he sped off through the maze of tents and rope lines.
Men from the outside
. It was an odd way to describe anyone. Pearse knew that a boy that age would have had no trouble identifying the
uniforms
of every relief worker in the camp, likewise those of the KLA, NATO, and the Albanian police. The vague designation “men from the outside” told him the boy’s fears were warranted.
His first thought was the Austrian. It had been five days, ample time to grow impatient. Pearse had to believe that they still needed Angeli
whether they’d pinpointed his location or not. Finding him—Men-dravic’s call to Rome, his search for a missing priest in a refugee camp, had seen to that—was only half the battle. They still needed something to keep him in line. He was praying that their hook remained Cecilia Angeli.
Then again, maybe the Greeks had gotten lucky? The discovery of Andrakos’s car, the connection between Blace and Kukes?
Whoever they were, Pearse knew he needed to get a good look at them before they him. Sizing up his options, he quickly crossed the mud path and slipped into a tent three down from his own. At once, a line of familiar faces peered up at him, four women ranging in age from eleven to sixty, a boy of four, a man in his seventies.
Before any of them could ask, Pearse brought a finger to his lips. Silence. They had learned to appreciate its power early on in the war, hiding in basements, attics, waiting for the Serb patrols to loot and move on. A single gesture was all they required. Pearse nodded, then turned to peek through the crack in the flap.
Less than a minute later, he spotted them, conspicuous by their clothes, more so by their attitudes, four men who, from their expressions, had only recently entered a war zone, each trying his best not to show too great an aversion to the filth and disarray. Dressed in field khakis, windbreakers, and mountain boots—a muted yellow, tied halfway up the calf—they could easily have passed for members of a weekend climbing club, save, of course, for their physiques. Each stood at least six two, rigidly straight posture, broad shoulders, thick, powerful forearms. Everything about them screamed military. And yet, unlike their comrades in Rome, these men from the Vatican displayed none of the swagger Pearse had witnessed the first time around. Instead, they seemed far more … humane. It was the only way he could think to describe them. Even as they split up to take positions around his original tent, they indulged in none of the commandolike gesticulating he expected. One at the rear, one ten yards to the south, one ten yards to the north. Coordinated and precise.
With a nod, the fourth man entered the tent.
He reemerged a minute later with one of Pearse’s former tent mates in tow: Achif Dema, the barber who had set up shop under a nearby tarp, the man who had accepted Pearse’s jacket as a farewell gift. The obvious choice for consultation. Dema shook his head several times, pointing off in the direction of the medical tents, hands waving in a
series of convoluted gestures, all accepted with an easy smile from the Vatican man. He knew exactly what the refugee was doing, or at least trying to do. A wild-goose chase for an inquisitive stranger. It might have done the trick had Mendravic not chosen that moment to return.
Dema, no actor to begin with, could hardly contain his reaction; at once, Mendravic became everyone’s focus. Dressed as he was, he had no chance of passing for a fellow refugee, a fact not lost on the men. As one, they began to circle in—subtly, but again with a precision that bespoke a familiarity with such situations. Pearse was left to observe as the strange dance played itself out.
Luckily, Mendravic knew his way around the floor, as well. Pearse watched as his old friend moved along the path, his eyes aimed at the ground—seemingly oblivious—but with an intensity that indicated a plan of attack already in the making. As he drew to within earshot of Pearse’s hiding place, he began to scratch his cheek. At the same time, and without breaking stride, he whispered under his breath:
“Wait for them to follow me. Meet at the north gate.”
Pearse had no idea how Mendravic had known he was inside the tent. Nor did he have time to digest the information. Within seconds, Mendravic was springing to his left, a wild-bear version of the boy who had darted through the tents only minutes before. Instantly, the men from the Vatican raced after him.
Except for the one who stood by Dema. He remained perfectly still, only his head moving in a slow rotation, scanning the line of tents with great concentration.
His eyes came to rest on Pearse’s. And he began to walk.
If faith required confrontation, Pearse knew he was about to enter a state of grace. The man quickened his pace. Pearse felt his heart accelerate, a sudden pounding in his throat. He had no choice but to go. Pulling the flap back, he bolted out—an instant of recognition from the Vatican man, Pearse ducking to his right through the web of rope lines.
The sound of pursuit was immediate. Forcing it from his mind, he began to weave his way through the tents, his head still groggy, his body crouched so as to avoid the lines, more so to gain as much shielding from the low canvas walls as he could. His eyes swept along the ground, never more than two, three feet in front of him, hunting for stakes, ruts, anything that might trip him up. Wherever the path grew wide enough, small gatherings of people appeared, obstacles to be run over and through. Their curses trailed after him, each a sonar’s ping to trace his
escape. A second wave always followed—the advent of his pursuer—the surest means of measuring the distance between them. The echoes were coming quicker and quicker.
Pearse did his best to keep himself moving northward in the hope of finding the gate. Several minutes in, he became acutely aware of a sudden shift in the air, a familiar sweetness, somehow lighter, the moment before deluge, when sky and earth darken under sooted clouds, a breathless hint of the coolness to come. He could almost taste the breeze as the sky began to open up, first gentle, then pail after pail of water, the sudden patter of clapping mud, Pearse drenched in seconds. The timpani of rain on canvas propelled him from tent to tent. All sound seemed to vanish, no sense for anything or anyone behind him, only his tiny bubble world shaped by the relentless barrage.
Underfoot, the ground grew slick with incredible speed, tiny inlets seeking out the low ground, rutted tracks from carts and trucks providing the network of conduits. Above, the clouds pressed farther down, a porous gray plummeting the afternoon into premature twilight. He had no idea how far he had ferreted his way into the confusion of tents, hardly willing to take his focus from the ground so as to gain his bearings. Instead, he continued to run, no chance at even a quick look back to see how close his assailant had drawn. The rope lines, once obstacles, now kept him upright, his hands sliding along the slick fiber in an attempt to maintain his balance, one narrow path to the next, improvised benches and chairs upended along the way as he raced by them.
Minute passed into minute—the gate nowhere in sight—his lungs and muscles starting to give out, his head beginning to pound, a burning in his throat, no amount of adrenaline able to stifle its hold. He tried to push himself on, but his chest began to constrict, his sides cramping. Shooting a glance over his shoulder, he fully expected to see the large man barreling toward him.
The path stood empty.
Amazed, Pearse slowed, then stopped. Slouched over, hands on his knees, he sucked in air, rain cascading through his hair, thick drops streaking down his face. He wiped them away. Again he turned, certain that the rain had somehow distorted his vision, the man only feet from him. Nothing. A flare of lightning illuminating the area, confirmation that he was alone. Not quite believing his luck, he stood upright, still breathing heavily, the pain subsiding, an uncontrollable grin spreading across his
lips. He had lost him. With a sudden surge of confidence, he turned around, hoping to get a better sense of where he had brought himself.
His legs nearly buckled when, no more than thirty yards in front of him, he saw the man now propelling himself forward from rope line to rope line, knees brought high with each powerful thrust, the mud below no deterrent to the strangely mechanical leaping. Somehow, he had made his way around, anticipating Pearse’s movements and positioning himself to cut him off. To the peal of thunder, Pearse swung around, too quick for his own footing, a hand to the ground as he began to tumble headfirst, trying to push himself forward, the boy’s shoes no match for the sludge. He looked back for only an instant, a nightmare sensation, his own legs unable to move, his body in the grasp of the mud, his hands clawing to get himself to his feet. He lunged for the nearest line, hoisting himself up, the first hint of racing steps behind beginning to break through the rain’s compulsive beat.
With the sound of the man’s breath closing in, Pearse turned, catching sight of a pair of crystal blue eyes no more than fifteen feet from him. Their stare, however, exhibited none of the menace Pearse had conjured in his own mind. In fact, the man seemed to be slowing, his arms at his sides, a pose to pacify, not to intimidate. Strangely unnerving.
The image lasted less than a second.
From somewhere off to his right, a figure sprang out in a blur of movement, hands latching onto the man’s chest, plunging him into the side of a nearby tent, spikes jerked from the ground, bodies trapped within the deflating canvas.
It was then that Pearse recognized Mendravic, now pulling the man upright and driving his knee into an unsuspecting groin. At once, the man doubled over, his head easy prey for a second assault. Mendravic swung his knee up, this time into the man’s skull, the neck snapping back, the body instantly crumbling to the ground.
It had taken less than ten seconds. Pearse stared in astonishment.
Mendravic stooped down to check the man for papers. Finding none, he stepped toward Pearse and pulled him to his feet. “Don’t worry,” he said, yelling to him over the rain. “He’ll be up and about in twenty minutes. He’ll just have a very bad headache for a day or so. You know what that’s like, don’t you?”
Pearse was still unsure what had just happened. “Where did you come from?” he yelled back.
Mendravic led him to the spot from which he had just leapt, then pointed through the tangle of ropes. Remarkably, the north gate stood some forty yards from them, two cement block hovels on either side, checkpoint stations for those coming and going. An odd collection of trucks and vans sat parked around the open expanse, two Albanian guards in rain gear monitoring the area, their chosen perch the back of one of the larger trucks, shelter against the rain, rifles resting at their sides. Not exactly the most taxing duty in camp. Probably another two or three men inside the buildings. Pearse couldn’t quite believe his luck at having gotten this close to the gate.
“I was here a minute, maybe two, before you,” Mendravic yelled. “That’s when I saw your head pop up, then the other one. Him,” he said, pointing at the unconscious body. “At least I thought it was you.” He started to make his way to the gate.
“And the other three?” Pearse asked, following.
“The rain helped.” Mendravic seemed content to leave it at that. Pearse saw no reason to press for details.
As they moved into the opening, one of the Albanians jumped down from his perch. His smile made it clear that he and Mendravic had already done business. “He needs another two hundred dollars,” Mendravic said under his breath. “I assumed you’d have it.”
Pearse reached for the backpack, evidently too quickly for both soldiers. The one still in the truck reached for his rifle. The one moving toward them stopped, his smile gone. Mendravic raised his hands, a wide smile on his face; Pearse did the same. When they had drawn to within a few feet of the man, Mendravic began to speak in a cordial Albanian.
“My friend,” he said, his hands now extended, “he’s just getting the rest of your money. What did we say? One hundred American?”
“Two hundred,” answered the man.
“Of course. Two hundred.”
The guard’s smile returned.
Pearse nodded slowly, as if to ask permission to open the backpack. The soldier motioned to his friend in the truck. The rifle returned to its resting place. Careful to bring out only the necessary bills, Pearse handed them to Mendravic who then handed them to the guard. After a quick count of the money, the man nodded again to his friend. He then waved for Pearse and Mendravic to follow him outside the gate.
A few hundred feet on, they arrived at the edge of a thickly wooded area. The guard pulled a flashlight from his jacket and let the thin beam
cut across the rain-soaked bark of the trees. He found what he was looking for some fifty feet farther on, a virtually hidden path, but one with which the man was clearly familiar. It was nearly a quarter of a mile before they came to a small glade, a pair of run-down delivery vans—the small European kind, little more than a car with extended cab at the back, two cramped seats up front—standing side by side. Pearse guessed they had been “procured” from the streets of Pec or Prizren in the last two days, a cottage industry for the guards and any refugees willing to pay. Four hundred dollars seemed reasonable enough for an American priest and his Croatian friend. No doubt, the price varied considerably depending on the clientele. The guards had done well today.
“You’ve enough petrol to get you to Shkodër,” the man said pointing to the van on the right. “There’s a map inside. And some towels.” He smiled. “Don’t say you didn’t get your money’s worth.” He started back, shouting over his shoulder as he walked. “And don’t worry. The car won’t have any trouble at the Yugoslav border.”