Lie in the Dark

CHAPTER 21

Vlado slept for eight hours and awakened with a plan.

He stepped from the bedroom to find Amira on the floor, playing quietly with her children and a set of crayons. A mortar was thumping in the distance somewhere. The small girl had a doll, and the boy tugged at it, crying to hold it. Amira glanced up from her efforts at mediation to say hello, and his presence immediately silenced the children.

“Good morning,” he said. “Or, good afternoon, I suppose. Thank you for that. It’s the best I’ve slept in months.”

“Laundered sheets and clean clothes work wonders. You should try them sometime.”

Vlado blushed. “Sorry about the way I looked.”

“I’m still not sure I want to ask where you’d been in those clothes. I’ve washed them. They’re drying outside the window.”

Vlado looked about the room, panicky for a moment.

“Your bag’s over by the door,” she said, and he relaxed.

“How long were you planning on staying? I’m assuming you’re not exactly welcome at your house right now or you wouldn’t have come here.”

“I might as well tell you. There are people looking for me. People who you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of. I looked the way I did this morning because I’d been running from them. Swimming, even. I had to cross the river to shake them, and I wasn’t exactly welcome over there, either.”

“Does this have anything to do with the shooting from the other night?”

“It has everything to do with it. And that’s probably all I should tell you about it, for your own good. If that worries you, I can leave now. With the children, I’d certainly understand.”

She considered that a moment.

“Where would you go?”

“I’d find someplace.”

“You already have. Stay as long as you need. I could use someone to watch the children while I work. I think they’re wearing out their welcome with the neighbors. The price of babysitting keeps going up.”

“Actually I might have another place by the end of the day. In the meantime, do you still have any of your husband’s tools?”

“We managed to bring a few. I’ll get them.” She walked into the bedroom. He heard her rummaging in a closet and in a few minutes she emerged holding a small metal toolbox. Inside were a few screwdrivers, a claw hammer, a crescent wrench, and an assortment of nails and bolts. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

“I’d like to borrow a few,” he said.

“Certainly.”

“In fact, there’s a chance you may not get them back at all.”

“Fine,” she said without pause. “They were his. I’ve no use for them except to sell them, and the market seems glutted right now.” She’d gone back to her businesslike voice when talking about her husband.

“I also need a favor from you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you speak any English?” He had scant hope she did, being from a small town. But if that were the case he could send a note, though that would be riskier.

“A little, yes. Pretty good, in fact.”

When Vlado reacted with surprise, she said, “Some of us did learn something in the provinces besides how to kill each other, you know.”

“Sorry.”

“Who do you need me to talk to?”

“I need to get a message to a British journalist staying at the Holiday Inn. Not by phone, his may be tapped by now. You’d have to tell him in person. I’m not even sure he’ll be there, so you may have to wait around, or go back again later. You’ll probably have a better chance if you wait until after dark.”

“So I’d be cutting into business hours.”

“Yes. And I’ve no way to repay you.”

“That’s all right. I suppose I owe you one anyway. You’re the man who got me started in business.” This time she said it playfully, without the earlier hint of bitterness. He joined in her smile.

“So what’s the message, then? And who am I to see?”

“Toby Perkins, room four thirty-four. Tell him to meet me here. He should bring a blanket with him and come in his Land Rover. Tell him to make sure no one follows him. I’ll need him to drive me somewhere.”

“And if he asks where?”

“Just tell him I’ve broken the case, and if this works out then he’ll have the story of a lifetime.”

It got him, of course.

Four hours later, with darkness complete, Toby come thumping and wheezing up the steps behind Amira. He entered red-faced, his bulging sack dragging at his feet, but he was clearly excited.

“So, where are we going, Mr. Homicide Detective. To solve another one of your individual murders?”

“A lot more than that, I hope. But we’ll have to wait until after curfew.”

“Well, aren’t we the sly and cagy one these days. Secret faxes to Belgrade. Unofficial trips to Dobrinja. Now you’re hiding out in a west side apartment while your office says you’re ’unavailable for comment’ then asks curious questions about when was the last time I saw you and who else has Mr. Petric been in touch with, et cetera. They wanted me to come in for a few questions so I gave them the brushoff, told them they’d have to speak to my editor. I get the idea you must be up to something they don’t exactly approve of. I like it more all the time.”

So, they were checking everywhere now. Vlado was glad he’d never told Amira’s name to Damir, nor was it written anywhere at the office.

“I’ll make us some coffee,” Amira said.

“Allow me,” Toby responded, stooping with a grunt to his bag and its seemingly bottomless supply of Nescafe. Out came another jar.

She nodded briskly, as if expecting it all along. Toby seemed a bit taken aback by such a routine reaction to his routine generosity.

They spent the next three hours talking, an odd three-way conversation about life alternating between English and Serbo-Croatian with Vlado interpreting when necessary. At one point, as Toby rattled on about his previous days covering African revolutions, Vlado considered the unlikely combination of events that had brought together this trio. At its root was mostly one form or another of stubbornness-the ethnic stubbornness that had begun the war, the world’s stubborn refusal to do anything but nurture along a deadly siege, Vlado’s stubborn clinging to a city that had died beneath his feet, Toby’s stubborn pursuit of a story, and Amira’s stubborn fight for her children’s future.

Amira made dinner, half a chicken divided among them, then put her children to bed. Half an hour after the nine o’clock curfew Vlado rose to his feet.

“It’s time,” he said.

“Yes, but time for what,” Toby said.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Vlado turned to Amira. “The authorities will probably be looking for you on the job. If you can afford it, you had better stay away for a night or two. Once they do catch up to you, be especially wary of my partner, Damir Begovic, or one of his bosses, Juso Kasic. And don’t admit to anyone that I was ever in your apartment. Just tell them the story you told me, except leave out anything about ever knowing the colonel’s first name, or knowing that he was an officer, or even knowing that he was French. That should satisfy them.”

“And where will you be all this time?” she asked. Toby waited just as eagerly for the answer.

“That depends on how lucky we are.”

At Vlado’s direction, they drove the armored Land Rover west down Sniper Alley. Vlado was poised to climb quickly into the back beneath the blanket in case any new checkpoints had been posted. Along the way he reached into his satchel and tore open the plastic taped around the U.N. shipping invoice and scanned the document by the green glow of the dashboard lights, while Toby glanced over in curiosity.

“Where to now?” Toby asked.

“Pull over for a minute. We’re almost there. A few hundred yards up on the right.”

“U.N. headquarters?”

“Yes.”

“I thought that’s where we might be heading. And who do we ask to see once we’re at the gate?”

“No one. We’ll be driving around back to the loading dock to see what we might find.”

“And how do you propose for us to get through the main gate, short of ramming it open in a hail of gunfire.”

“With this.”

He held out the invoice as Toby pulled the Rover onto the curb.

“Impressive,” Toby said. “Looks like it might even be the real thing. But that still leaves you. I’ve got U.N. press credentials, so no problem. You don’t.”

“I’ll be in the back, under the blanket. You’ll point to the lump I’m making and tell the guard you’re making a delivery, as stated on the invoice. Just hope he doesn’t ask to inspect the parcel, or notice that the shipping date is a few months old. But you can probably avoid most of the questions by directing his attention right away to Colonel Chevard’s signature at the bottom. They should be used to this kind of delivery by now, and in trucks that look a lot shadier than yours. Oh, and tell him you might need a few minutes to do a little hammering, to shore up the crate for shipment. That should give us the time we need.”

Toby sighed, seeming to reconsider the venture as Vlado climbed into the back and pulled the blanket over his head.

“This better be a hell of a story,” he muttered, throwing the car into gear.

It went just as Vlado had predicted. The sentry seemed bored, little interested in anything but Toby’s U.N. credentials and Colonel Chevard’s signature at the bottom of the invoice.

“Around to your right, sir,” the soldier said. “Docks are on the far end at the back, behind the sandbags. Take care in your business, though. Sniper was working that side of the building earlier tonight.”

They drove in, Vlado warm beneath the blanket. He felt the Rover stop. He heard Toby pull up the handbrake and say, “Last stop, everybody out.”

Vlado sat up, relieved to see they were well out of sight of the sentry, and probably out of earshot as well. He was even more relieved to see a large wooden crate standing on the loading dock. The usual invoice was attached to the side, covered in plastic. The crate was roughly the same size as the one in Vitas’s mother’s basement, though perhaps a little smaller.

“Come on,” he said to Toby. “Let’s see what’s inside. The quicker we’re finished back here, the better.” He let the better nourished Toby do the prying and pulling with the hammer, while Vlado loosened nails with a screwdriver.

They pulled one side of the crate free, the nails groaning, and Vlado tugged away the bubbled plastic that had been wrapped around the contents.”

“Jesus,” Toby explained. “It’s a painting.”

“Worth about one hundred twelve thousand U.S.,” Vlado said.

“How the hell’d you know that so quick?” Toby asked.

“It belonged to Milan Glavas. That’s whose apartment we were in the other day.”

“They killed him for it?”

“Partly for that. But mostly for telling the truth.”

“So. It’s like I thought the other day. An art smuggling operation,” Toby glanced at the names on the invoice. “And with some very big fish involved, it seems. How much do you figure they’ve made this way?”

“Millions. Minimum.”

Toby smiled broadly. He slapped Vlado on the back.

“No wonder everyone’s looking for you. But don’t worry, from now on I’m your personal escort and bodyguard, courtesy of the Evening Standard, all expenses gladly paid. So, where to from here? And we should probably round up my photographer on the way. He can get a few snaps of this. The invoice, too.”

“First, we’ve got to do a little repackaging. Then you’re taking the painting with you. The invoice and the crate stay here.”

“ ‘We,’ you mean.”

“No. You. I want you to take the painting back to Amira’s. If she’s nervous about keeping it, tell her to burn it. Fine with me.”

“But it’s worth over a hundred thousand? Christ. And I should think it’s a bloody good piece of evidence as well.”

“So it is. But all the evidence I’ll be able to carry is in this bag,” Vlado said, pointing to his satchel.

“And where the hell will you be all this time?”

“Here. Waiting. I’d let you stay with me, but I’m afraid there’s only room for one.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ll be inside this,” Vlado said, patting the side of the crate. “And when it leaves Sarajevo, so will I. Courtesy of Maybe Airlines. Which is why the painting has to be taken away. To make room for me. This crate’s scheduled on the first flight tomorrow morning to Frankfurt. If you’re on the flight, too, then you’ll be able to snap all the pictures you want once we arrive. I’ll even have time for an interview. The rest of the documentation you’ll need for your story is in some notebooks and index cards in my bag.”

It was the first time Vlado had ever seen Toby at a loss for words.

“We’d better get to work, then,” he finally said, picking up the hammer again.

It took about fifteen minutes.

Vlado stepped in among the packing material, which Toby then draped around him, making sure he was concealed while still having enough openings for breathing. Toby then propped the wooden side back into place and hammered the crate shut.

“Steady on, fellow, be seeing you in Frankfurt,” Toby muttered into the box, and Vlado heard the Rover drive away.

Vlado was standing, yet the sides offered enough support to let him drift into a fitful vertical sleep, which ended when he awakened to voices around the crate. The packing plastic held most of his body heat, so he’d remained surprisingly warm through the night; it was even a bit stuffy. Vlado then felt motion, listening to the whir and grind of a motor as a forklift moved the crate into a truck bound for the airport.

A few minutes later the brakes squealed as the truck stopped for the usual Serb checkpoint on the way to the airport. Vlado heard the voices of the soldiers, then the opening of the tailgate as they stepped inside. They, too, must have been used to these cargoes by now. There was no request for an inspection. They were more worried about what was coming into the country than what was leaving.

The truck continued on its way, Vlado’s second trip across enemy lines in the past thirty hours. At the airport a second forklift carried him on a bumpy ride across what must have been the runway. The crate then settled with a metallic clang inside a space where the noises echoed, as if in a cave. He knew then he was within the belly of the next plane out of Bosnia.

From the sounds around him, he could tell that a few other items were being loaded aboard as well, although outgoing flights were generally lightly packed, having already emptied their payloads of relief supplies for the city. They usually departed Sarajevo with little more than the luggage of the soldiers, journalists, and aid workers who were hitching a ride home. There was room for maybe a dozen passengers, who sat single-file along either side, facing inward, although there were a few small porthole-size windows on both sides if they cared to turn to take in the view.

Vlado heard the passengers boarding. American voices of the flight crew told the arrivals where to place their bags. He wondered if Toby had made it. Sometimes these flights had waiting lists, especially when heavy fighting allowed for fewer flights while increasing the demand for safer transportation. But during the recent days of light fighting, flights had proceeded virtually without interruption, so his chances were probably good.

A second bunch of people clattered aboard, and Vlado heard Toby’s voice above the others. “Hey, wonder what’s in that crate,” he asked. “Smuggled masterworks of art, probably,” a remark that drew a hearty laugh from a colleague.

Jesus, Vlado thought. Don’t get cocky yet.

Some of the passengers were moving around, still attending to their bags before settling into their seats, and Vlado suddenly felt a light tap on the side of the crate, followed by the mutter of Toby’s voice.

“You’re home free. Departure in ten minutes. It’s just me, one other hack, and a dozen Belgian soldiers. Bon voyage.”

Vlado listened to the shuffling of feet and the clicking of seatbelts, the strapping into place of a final piece of luggage, and then an American voice shouted to the cockpit that all was ready and secure.

A few moments later the great engines rumbled to life. With some difficulty, Vlado was able to raise an arm, loosening just enough of the packing material to make a small peephole out one side. By craning his neck a bit he could just see out one of the tiny windows. The view now was only of the runway, and as Vlado watched, it began to move. They were taxiing into position for takeoff.

He felt the swivel and tremble of the plane as it rolled across the pocked runway, turning into position for the final run. The plane stopped, and the engines revved to full power, the vibrations loud and violent. There would be no gunshots. No delays. They were right on time, and his heart leapt.

Then, just as the pilot should have been pulling hard on the throttle, the engine eased off, the deafening throbs dropping suddenly to the loud hum of idling. A few moments later the engines stopped altogether, and one of the Americans shouted from the cockpit, “Sorry fellas. We got a last-minute visitor wants to see us.”

There were shouts, a buzzing of questions from the passengers, and the creaking of the cargo door. A sudden spill of daylight poured through Vlado’s peephole, and he worked to close the opening, his elbow straining against the side of the crate.

Footsteps were clanking aboard, several men by the sound of it, with businesslike strides. He heard an unfamiliar voice shouting orders in Serbo-Croatian. “Sorry to delay your flight, gentlemen,” the voice then said in English. “But this should only take a few minutes.”

“And who the hell are you,” Toby’s colleague shouted impatiently.

“General Dragan Markovic, Bosnian Serb Army.”

Had Vlado not been propped up by the close quarters of the wooden crate, his knees would have buckled. The next announcement was even more disconcerting.

“I believe there is a Toby Perkins on board, a gentleman from the Evening Standard?” Markovic said.

Toby must have raised his hand or otherwise made his presence known, because Markovic then said, “If you don’t mind sir, we need to keep you here just a while longer. For a few questions.”

“Sorry,” Toby answered. “I’ll miss my Frankfurt connection to London. I’m staying.”

“Then the plane will be staying, too, sir.”

That threat brought the Belgian soldiers into it, who weren’t about to let a British scribbler scrap their departure. It was quickly clear Toby would be leaving the plane. Vlado felt a pang of worry for him, but he’d likely be released in no more than a few hours, none the worse for wear, with another war story for his colleagues. Although Serb snipers enjoyed an occasional potshot at a Western journalist, police detentions were generally conducted on an official level. As long as a Westerner was involved, especially if he was a journalist, they usually resulted in little more than some inconvenience and a burst of sympathetic publicity for the detained correspondent.

But Markovic wasn’t satisfied merely with rounding up Toby.

“I’m afraid there’s one other order of business as well. I want the cargo area thoroughly searched. Please proceed, men. Pay special attention to the larger pieces.”

The next sounds were those of locks and hasps being thrown open on boxes and footlockers belonging to the Belgians and the crew of Americans. Several Belgians shouted in protest, while one of the American crewmen demanded, “Where’s your search warrant?”

“This is not America, gentlemen,” Markovic coolly replied. “Nor is it Belgium. This is the Serbian Republic of Bosnia.”

A hand thumped the side of the crate, and Vlado braced for the end. Trying to run from here would be impossible. Even if he made it out the back of the plane and off the airstrip he’d quickly run into gunfire from other quarters of the Serb army dug in around the runway. Whoever had taken hold of the crate began pulling at a board, trying to wrench it free.

Then Markovic spoke up.

“Popovic!” he shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The movement stopped.

“Checking this crate, sir.” He might have been shouting directly in Vlado’s ear, the sound was so close.

“Never mind that one,” Markovic said, with the slightest hint of smugness. “I can personally vouch for its contents.”

The soldier pushed the loose board back into place and moved on to the next item. Five minutes later they were done, and everything was repacked.

“Sorry to have troubled you, gentlemen,” Markovic said, satisfied that his fugitive was nowhere on board and his cargo would soon be on its way to the auction markets of Europe. “Everything here seems to be in order.”

In perfect order, Vlado thought.

The footsteps clanked off the plane, and the light dimmed as the cargo door cranked into place. A few moments later the engines rumbled back to life, and this time there was no further delay as the plane throttled forward, jolting down the runway until Vlado felt a breathless lift of his stomach as the wheels left the ground. The plane pulled up sharply and quickly curled into a steep bank, aiming for the far hills.

Vlado again pulled back enough of the packing material to look toward the small window without making himself known to the Belgians. Rooftops rushed past below, some blackened and burned, others staved in. Then the plane rolled around the end of the city to begin its run out of the valley.

Someone seemed to be moving just outside the crate, and Vlado experienced a momentary panic. Then he heard laughter, and by craning his neck a bit he could see that the Belgians were already up and out of their seatbelts, snapping Instamatics at each other, celebrating the end of their six-month tour of duty.

Out the window Vlado saw a puff of smoke from somewhere far below, a shell either leaving or landing, then the airfield rolled by, a receding strip of tarmac. The plane banked more sharply, and the silvery ribbon of the Miljacka River gleamed below in the early morning sun, and for a moment he could again taste its coppery brown water.

His last view of the city was out over the burned highrises to the east and beyond, off toward his own apartment, though his line of sight was blocked by a hill. He could, however, just see the edge of the snowy fields where, judging by the time of day, the gravediggers would soon be bending to their shovels.