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.
Chapter 11
Senator Craig Kingsbury sat in the back of the stretch limo, surrounded by his insufferable father, George Kingsbury, and his annoying press secretary, Joey Lynch. It was the fitting end to the week from hell.
The plan was to spend a long Fourth of July weekend at the Kingsbury’s vacation retreat in the Avon Village. They needed to regroup from the sudden return of Lamar Thompson into their lives.
At first, they tried to laugh off the accusations, but kept running into the same sticking point-they were true. Craig ran his last campaign on the slogan “character and honesty.” Right now, honesty was biting him in the ass.
Craig wasn’t concerned that the scandal would cost him the presidential election. It was still sixteen months away and he didn’t want to win, anyway. His biggest fear was his father pulling him out of the fire one more time and accumulating more debt. The debt paid to George Kingsbury came at a very high interest rate.
He was still on a payment plan for the “incident” at UNC, almost twenty years earlier. The senate seat he never wanted was the biggest punishment so far. The run for the White House was another. But it was still better than doing ten to fifteen in a state pen for vehicular homicide-he was too pretty for prison.
On television or a billboard, Craig appeared to be the ideal political candidate. Boyish good looks accentuated by sandy blond hair that flopped to the side. One prominent magazine billed him as the southern Bobby Kennedy. Craig just hoped the voters would determine he lacked the experience to hold the office of president, and cast their vote for his competitors.
Joey Lynch ended his call and jubilantly provided the latest polling numbers. Still ten points ahead of any other Democrat, even with the mini-scandal, and in a dead heat with the incumbent Republican president.
As usual, his father tempered the enthusiasm by shouting in his hard-of-hearing style, “A lot can happen in sixteen months!”
Craig sure hoped so, as the positive numbers were really starting to scare him.
George was a cranky man of seventy-three, who made no secret that he was living vicariously through his youngest son. The elder children either failed, or worse, turned out to be girls. A Kingsbury would hold the office of president if it killed him to get him there. Craig sighed, thinking of those obnoxious television commercials.
The story broke in a small high school newspaper in South Carolina. Lamar Thompson was being honored as the high school’s top athlete in school history. A sixteen-year-old sophomore reporter asked Lamar about the accident that changed his life. Lamar Thompson answered truthfully.
As far as Craig knew, Lamar had never previously uttered a word about the accident, at least not one that connected Craig to it. He figured that King George had threatened him to keep his mouth shut. Or maybe he just thought that nobody would ever believe him. So why did he suddenly decide to talk? Maybe the headlines of Craig joining the presidential campaign opened some old wounds, or perhaps Thompson saw it as a bargaining chip to shake them down for a nice payday. But if so, why not take the money when it was originally offered? What Craig did know, was that his father was unraveling like never before, which meant it must be the worst-case scenario- Lamar Thompson had decided to talk because he no longer had anything left to lose. You can’t threaten a dead man.
The limo followed the police officer in the unmarked SUV down US-64 South-the stealth escort was one of the perks of the Kingsbury power. They were desperate to avoid the slobbering media that smelled the blood in the water, until they could come up with a solution to the Thompson problem. Sand dunes and quiet bodies of water surrounded the road. The only signs of civilization were the vacation homes on stilts that likely wouldn’t last through the next hurricane.
They rumbled up NC-12, and King George continued on his soapbox, “I always knew your bad choices would get in the way of our dream.”
