Dan Fesperman: Lie in the Dark

“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.