Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) (20 page)

Miriana hurried through the maze of narrow streets on the outskirts of Belgrade. She carried a large straw bag against her chest and scurried along as fast as the slippery pavement allowed. Rain had been falling for hours.

Damn Karadjic for continually changing the location of their meetings, she thought. Following his directions, she turned a corner onto Kondraki Lane. A black sedan sat at the corner. A man jumped out from behind the wheel, opened the back door, and waited for Miriana to slide inside. He then slammed the door shut, got back in the car, and drove for fifteen minutes, continually checking his rearview mirror. The last few minutes of the drive took them down narrow residential lanes with three-story row houses facing each other. The space between the facing houses was so narrow cars had to park on the sidewalks to leave a single lane clear.

Finally, the man eased to a stop in front of a row house. “He’s inside,” the driver barked. He let Miriana deal with her door.

She got out of the car and looked first left, then right. The street seemed deserted, except for a man seated in a car a couple doors down the street. She would never have noticed the man if she hadn’t seen the red glow of a cigarette inside the car. Karadjic’s bodyguard, she thought. She climbed the steps to the front door and knocked.

“Ah, my little Gypsy is here,” Karadjic exclaimed after opening the door. He rubbed his hands together. The General was grossly overweight, with beady eyes and a bloated face. Miriana thought again that he looked
like an apple with pencils stuck in it for arms and legs.
The musty odor of the place told her the building had not been occupied in awhile. Even the strong smell of Karadjic’s cigar couldn’t hide that fact. There was no furniture in the front room.

Karadjic led her through the front room to a first-floor room furnished with nothing but a small, square table and four straight-backed chairs. Just another safe house the General would use once or twice, then abandon for another. He sat in one of the chairs and propped one of his legs on another. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray on the table. Karadjic lifted a tea glass filled with a cloudy, off-white liquid. “Would you like to join me, little Miriana? This is very fine
raki
.”

“No thank you, General,” Miriana said primly. “Alcohol and telling the future are not good companions.” Her father drank the stuff. She couldn’t stand the taste or odor.

“Ah, of course,” the General said. “We mustn’t do anything to taint the spirits.”

Miriana put her bag on one of the empty chairs. She took a bottle of water, a shawl, a candle and candleholder, and matches from the bag. She set the candle in the holder and lit it. When enough wax had dripped from the candle to fix it in place, she walked to the wall near the door and turned off the room’s overhead light. Moving across the room to the front room’s single window, she gripped the two curtains. She hesitated a moment, stared out at the grim row of houses across the street – now partially obscured by the pouring rain – and closed the curtains. She moved back to the room with the table and took a seat opposite Karadjic.

The General picked up his cigar and tamped out the embers in the ashtray. He put the four inches remaining in his shirt pocket. Then he put down his glass and laid his sausage-fingered hands on the table. His eyes bored into hers.

Without turning her gaze away, Miriana lifted the shawl from the table and draped it over her head and across her shoulders. Then she lifted the water bottle, sipped from it, and sprayed a fine mist at the candle flame through her teeth. The flame sputtered, then revived. Miriana prayed aloud for the protection of the Virgin Mother through the use of Holy Water.

Miriana laid her hands on Karadjic’s and closed her eyes. She fought to hide the revulsion she felt touching the man. They sat silently, without moving for several minutes, just as in all previous sessions.

Then Miriana held up both her hands and threw her head back as though jolted by an electric shock. Her mouth fell wide open and her pupils rolled back so her eyes showed white.

In an eerie, half-howling, half-wailing voice, she droned, “Antonin Karadjic, I see an ebony-black sky.” She paused. Then she shook as though suffering convulsions. The shaking stopped as quickly as it had started. Taking exaggerated breaths, her breasts lifting and falling with the effort, Miriana moaned, “The stars and the moon are dead.” Pause. “I hear the sounds of a million drummers.”

She shuddered, then continued in a quivering voice, “The blackness is coming at me . . . it has a million eyes. Help me! I’m afraid! I see bodies in the dirt.” A moan escaped her lips.

She clutched his hands with all her strength, digging her nails into his flesh. He yelled and jerked his hands away. Miriana shrieked, fell sideways onto the floor, and lay there as though unconscious. Karadjic knocked his chair over, jumping straight up.

Miriana sneaked a look at him with one slitted eye. The brave Serb general, victorious leader of a hundred battles, murderer of tens of thousands, is afraid. What a joke!

Finally, Karadjic reached for his glass of
raki
and knelt next to her. He held the glass under her nose. The strong whiff of alcohol made her cough, but she opened her eyes slowly. Shaking her head as though to clear it of confusion, she sat up on the floor. Karadjic took her arm, helping her off the floor and back into the chair.

“Te . . . tell me, Miriana,” Karadjic said. “Wh . . . what did you see?”

“I have to go, General. I must go home.” She stood and began hurriedly packing her things.

Karadjic shoved her back into the chair. “You’ll tell me what you saw!”

Miriana sighed and clasped her hands to her breast. “I saw nothing but blackness and heard a loud thrumming sound. The blackness came closer and closer, as though it would swallow me. And the closer it came, the louder the noise became. Then the blackness showed itself for what it really was – a mass of flying blackbirds. The sound of their wings became a roar.”

“What happened next?” Karadjic asked, his voice tremulous . . . respectful.

“I saw you being carried across the sky on the blackbirds’ wings. And behind you were thousands of corpses floating on air. Each one carried a sign reading:
Prizla
. They cried out your name. Oh, General! It was awful. Please, let me go.”

Karadjic’s eyes looked ready to pop from his head. White spittle had formed at the corners of his mouth. “Oh my God!” he cried.

“What does it mean, General?” Miriana asked.

Karadjic just waved her question away. He commanded her to continue.

She swept her hair back from her face, looking at him. “The birds flew with you over the land – nothing but burned out buildings, scorched fields, dead forests.”

“What about the bodies you saw?” Karadjic interrupted.

“They floated along after you.” She let this sink in. “You, the birds, and the corpses moved across the sky like storm clouds. Then the birds stopped. You asked the birds, ‘Why have we stopped?’ ”

Karadjic’s eyes were saucers.

“What happened next?”

Miriana paused, lowered her head for effect, then looked back at Karadjic. His lips quivered. His face had gone white. “Then the birds fell on you and consumed your flesh.”

The General shook his head and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers.

“This is bad, Miriana! You have to help me! What can I do to prevent my death? How can I save myself?”