Dan Fesperman - Lie in the Dark

As he came within a block of the meeting point, he kept to the side of the street, as close as possible to an abandoned office building. He stopped and listened closely. Nothing but the faint gurgling of water, the sound creeping up from the steeply angled stone walls banking the Miljacka River. But there was something else, too, a sound he knew but couldn’t identify. It was a ticking sound, slower than a clock. It was the noise a car makes as its engine cools.

He took another few steps, still unable to make out anything ahead. Then a few more, and there it was, a car. No, two cars, facing each other about ten yards apart, only one was easier to spot because it was white. From its silhouette it seemed to be a jeep, and a white jeep could only mean U.N. He supposed that was reassuring, but the second car wasn’t. Damir didn’t own one.

Vlado waited a few moments, breathing heavily against the pressure building in his chest. He considered turning and walking quietly back toward the city center. Let them make the next move, whoever they were. But where would he stay in the meantime? Where would he work? There was no getting out of this now, and there was certainly no getting out of Sarajevo. He slowly took three more steps, then stopped when a voice broke the silence.

“Vlado. Is that you?”

It was Damir, sounding happy, welcoming. Vlado eased his satchel aside and reached into his pocket, clutching for the gun. A cigarette lighter flicked on, illuminating Damir’s face. He was smiling, casual. He might have been sitting on a bar stool waiting for a pal for all the worry apparent on his face.

“He’s down here, Vlado. He found me before I found him. Come on down and then I’ll move off to a discreet distance so you can talk in private while I keep watch.”

Vlado took another two steps and stopped, now within ten yards of Damir and the edge of the riverbank, but still saying nothing. Damir was squinting into the blackness, trying to find Vlado, and a look of worry began to crease his brow.

“Vlado, it’s okay. Nothing can go wrong. I’m here.”

“And that’s really the problem with this setup, isn’t it,” said Vlado, startled by the sudden loudness of his own voice. “Especially now that you’re collecting my soldiers. Do you get the rest of them once I’m down in the river? Is that part of the deal?”

With that, Damir’s smile collapsed. His lighter snapped out, and someone else took the moment in hand. The jeep’s headlights flicked on, illuminating Vlado against the building like a man on a stage. He ducked away from the beams, running for the middle of the street. As he did a gunshot crackled. Vlado turned sharply toward the river, darting behind the second car and diving for the ground as another shot sounded.

It was so loud, he thought, so loud. Then he was down on the grass and rolling, well out of the headlights now, feeling the wet blades brush his face, then rolling again, footsteps clattering quickly toward him, voices shouting. An iron railing brushed against his back, and as he rolled beneath it Damir shouted, “He’s going for the river!”

Free of the railing he was suddenly plunging, his stomach leaping toward his throat. He bounced once, a glancing blow against the stone wall, then fell fifteen feet to the water below. He hit with a loud splash, shocked first by the cold and then by the stony bottom. The river here was no more than two feet deep, and the impact nearly knocked the wind from him. He spluttered and gasped, hearing shouts and more running. There was another shot, striking in the water somewhere to his right. He dove, but found it hard to stay under in the shallowness. But the current, which had always seemed so lazy from up on the bridges, was already driving him downstream, pressing him toward safety.

The shouting continued, Damir’s voice joined by two others, Vlado recognizing neither. Then he realized that for the moment he was safe, rescued by the city’s helplessness. The river was an impenetrable gorge of darkness, with neither streetlamps nor city lights to pierce it. Someone had turned the jeep around, but its headlights were useless, leaping out above the river like searchlights aimed to the heavens. Nothing could angle them down to where Vlado paddled.

His problem now was the cold. He kicked for the opposite bank, but his legs were already feeling heavy, his wet clothes sagging around him. His satchel floated ahead of him, the strap chafing at his neck. The gun sagged in his pocket like an anchor, useless by now, and with difficulty he pulled it free and it sank to the bottom. The water tasted gritty, metallic, like a handful of dirty coins.

By now he was some twenty yards downstream. He heard a small splash, followed by cursing and thrashing. His teeth began to chatter. He realized he couldn’t stay in the water much longer. There were a few more minutes at the most before he would collapse from hypothermia. Climbing out and clawing up the bank was still too risky, nor was he sure he could make it to one of the spots where iron rungs laddered up the wall. The jeep’s headlights were now easing downstream along the road above, the driver probably peering down the bank to see if Vlado had emerged. Whoever was in this bunch probably had the connections to mobilize more men to stake out the north bank for the rest of the night, on one pretext or another, although the New Year’s bombardment would complicate matters for them at midnight.

Damir’s voice sounded again.

“The spillway! The spillway! Get on the bridge and we’ll see him as he comes through!”

Vlado knew exactly what he meant. Every quarter mile down the river were three-foot drops creating a series of small, neat waterfalls that trapped garbage and toy boats at their base. Even in the darkness, a body coming through would show up against the white cascade, an easy target for someone quick on the trigger. Even if the bullets missed, the current might trap him underwater and slowly do the job for them. He kicked again for the opposite bank, legs heavier than before, arms going limp. The current seemed to answer each movement with a force twice as strong. Now he could hear the approaching rush of the spillway, a hiss rising to a roar. He glanced toward the bridge just downstream and saw a figure vaguely silhouetted against the dim sky. A second form appeared, and a beam of light leapt from it and vectored into the river. They had a flashlight.

He surged again for the opposite bank, finally reaching it but feeling only the slime of a wet stone wall, too smooth and steep for a handhold. The current rose around him, the water deepening in the lull before the spillway. The roar of its cascade now drowned out every voice from above, though he could sense the beam of light playing about on the water behind him.

A black, round hole appeared just above him, two feet out of the water. It was one of the storm sewers draining the south side of the city, and with a grunt Vlado was just able to raise his left arm high enough to grab the trailing edge of the pipe as he slid by His feet slipped into the surge of the spillway, and it took all his strength to pull himself back against the current, though now he had both hands on the pipe. With his final reserve of energy he pulled his head, shoulders and chest into the opening, wondering all the while when he would be spotted and shot. The men on the bridge must be pinning all their hopes on the spillway.

Vlado dragged up his legs and sagged into a shallow stream of water sluicing down the pipe. The air was warmer here, refreshing even, despite its heavy sour smell. The bottom and sides were slippery with algae, but there was ample room to move around. He needed to get away from the opening before the beam found him, so he crawled, wobbly at first, his head bumping lightly against the top. It wasn’t so bad, he told himself, although the absolute darkness ahead was ghastly The only sound was the gurgle of water, echoing from deep into the blackness. But he was out of the river. More important, he was out of sight.