Dan Fesperman: Lie in the Dark

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.