Officer Jones

Chapter 10

Belgrade, Serbia

We arrived in Belgrade tired, but with a second wind of excitement.

It had always amazed me how people around the world swarmed to Carter. It was like traveling with The Beatles. Although, this usually ruined any attempts at traveling incognito. The idea that professional wrestling had expanded beyond the borders of US trailer parks was certainly a disturbing thought, but it was worth it to see him put smiles on a group of kids from a war torn country. This time was no different.

Our hotel stay was brief. I could have used about ten hours of sleep, but settled for a forty-five minute power nap. Being my final trip, I’d actually hoped for a little fun-despite the bloodiness of Belgrade we’d witnessed over the years, we’d often had a great time here. Especially the nightlife. After a few cocktails, we would be singing and dancing with the locals, and the traditional Serbian food would actually start tasting decent.

Carter never revealed the details of our mission until absolutely necessary. This was fine with Byron and me, and I think the secrecy made Carter feel like he was some strange combination of James Bond and Dog the Bounty Hunter, which he really seemed to thrive on. The only item he provided in this case was that our guide’s name was Milos and for symbolic reasons Zahir wanted to meet on American Independence Day.

We met Milos at what was the biggest event in Belgrade that night-the Euroleague Championship basketball game between the Serbian club team, Partizan, and CSKA Moscow. The arena had an aroma I uniquely related to the Yugoslavian countries-a combination of a musty basement and enough cigarette smoke to cause lung damage. The people of the region have two great loves: basketball and cigarettes.

The place was jammed to capacity a good hour before the game was to begin, and the smoke hung like cumulus cloud cover. This didn’t stop the excitable fans from singing, chanting, and even tossing firecrackers on the court.

Milos was standing in the back row of the arena, looking like a typical American teenager. He wore a replica Lebron James basketball jersey and a pair of jeans. When we approached, Carter and Milos shook hands and made small talk-in English-like long-lost friends.

Milos’ baby-face made him appear to be around sixteen, which was saying something in Serbia, where most men had five o’clock shadow on their faces by noon. But Carter insisted he was twenty-five-older than I was when I was avoiding B-1 Bombers in Baghdad during the Gulf War. Carter’s sources and guides have an impeccable record, so I never questioned them.

We stood in the back of the arena watching the first half of the game. Paritzan led by ten at halftime and the crowd was worked into a lather. Then without warning, Milos was on the move. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t headed to the snack bar. We followed him out of the arena, and then along the Danube River, passing riverboats filled with young Serbs partying to what they affectionately call gypsy music. I guessed it was an acquired taste.

We arrived at a small Hyundai parked in a cobblestone alley. We piled in, and Milos drove a few miles through the crowded city. He parked in another cobblestone alley.

We got out of the car and started out on foot. We walked past the endless brick buildings of Old Belgrade and storefronts advertising in Cyrillic-Script writing. The night was pleasant with a temperature in the seventies, and an oversized moon lit the streets. We’d seen the Belgrade nights lit by bombs, so it was a welcome change.

We arrived at an alleyway where an identical Hyundai sat unoccupied. Once we were safely inside, Milos instructed us that our meeting with Zahir would take place outside of the small Serbian town of Vrsac. I was familiar with the place. It was in the middle of nowhere and could only be reached by a treacherous journey. Kind of like a place where an international fugitive might choose to hide out.

The Hyundai drove along a desolate road with no lighting, except for the moon, and even less sign of life. Cell phone reception was nothing but a pipe-dream. A cold rain arrived out of nowhere and temperatures dropped dramatically. Milos explained that the fifty-mile journey would take us almost three hours, due to the conditions. We would have to wait for the tantalizing story.

While I was tired of “the life,” I was still energized by the anticipation of the big story. It reminded me of when Byron talked about the end of his football career, when he said he still loved the games, but it was all the hard work and practices that he no longer had the passion for.

Byron displayed his usual nervous energy. He tossed his cookies before most missions, but today he just nervously fiddled with his camera. Nothing ever seemed to bother the unflappable Carter. He sat comfortably in the front seat, wearing his usual denim uniform and wraparound sunglasses.

I sat calmly. I’ve often been described as having nerves of steel. But if people could see my insides churning during these moments, they might have a different take. I wore a shearling-lamb suede poncho for the elements, and a few days of stubble for the rugged look. J-News was going to go out in style.

I checked my watch, before casually looking up, expecting another monotonous view of the rugged Serbian countryside. When I did, my eyes bulged.

Carter had already seen it, and yelled, “Look out!”

The van driving innocently ahead of us suddenly skidded to a stop, blocking the road.

Four men in camouflage suits ran from the sliding door on the side of the van, carrying automatic weapons, and looking like they were willing to use them. But I knew right away that they weren’t military. I pegged their language as Arabic, not Yugoslavian. In any language, I knew we were in trouble.

It was all happening too fast. Milos tried to put the car in reverse, but he didn’t get far. A round of gunfire shot into the engine of the Hyundai and the radiator fizzed. Milos was hit in his upper chest and he bent over in agony.

The men dragged the four of us out of the vehicle and tossed us on the cold, wet ground. Carter tried to put up a fight, but one of the men took a gun handle to his head, knocking him out cold.

Blindfolds were tied around our heads and we were loaded into the back of the van.

I had stayed one story too long.