Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (47 page)

He had earnest blue eyes and a warm smile that bespoke his sincerity, and integrity was implicit in his nature. These qualities underscored his genuine believability, were part of his huge success on television. Because he had this enormous credibility, people trusted him, had confidence in him. They paid attention to his words, listened to everything he had to say, and took him very seriously.

It was not for nothing that CNS treasured him and other networks coveted him. Offers
for his services were always being made to his agent; Bill turned them all down. He was not interested in other networks. Loyalty was another one of his strong suits, and he had no desire to leave CNS, where he had worked for eight years.

Some time later he stood in front of the grim backdrop of burning houses in the marketplace, and his sincerity seemed more pronounced than ever. He spoke somber words in a well-modulated voice, as always following the old journalistic rule of thumb:
Who, when, where, what
, and
how
, which had been taught to him by his father, a respected newspaperman until his death five years ago.

“Thirty-seven civilians were killed and many others wounded today when a mortar shell exploded in a busy marketplace in Sarajevo,” Bill began. “The mortar was fired by the Serbian army entrenched in the hills surrounding this battle-torn city. It was an obscene act of aggression against innocent, unarmed people, many of them women and children. UN forces, who quickly arrived on the scene immediately after the bombing, are calling it an atrocity, one that cannot be overlooked by President Clinton and the leaders of the Western alliance. UN officials are already
saying that the Serbs must be forced to understand that these acts of extreme violence are unwarranted, unconscionable, and unacceptable. One UN official pointed out that the Serbs are endangering the peace talks.”

After giving further details of the bombing, and doing a short commentary to run with the footage of the carnage, Bill brought his daily news report to a close.

Stepping away from the camera after his ten minutes were up, he waited until the equipment was turned off. Then he glanced from Mike to Joe and said quietly, “What I couldn't say was that that UN major I was talking to earlier says there
has
to be some sort of retaliation, intervention by the West. He says it's inevitable now. Public anger is growing.”

Joe and Mike stared at Bill doubtfully.

It was Joe who spoke, sounding entirely unconvinced.

“I've heard that before,” he said and shook his head sadly. “I guess this disgusting war has turned me into a cynic, Billy boy. Nothing's going to happen, you'll see . . . it'll be status quo . . .”

But as it turned out, Joe Alonzo was wrong. The leaders of the Western alliance in Washington, London, and Paris had no choice
but to take serious steps to stop the Serbs in their systematic slaughter of Bosnian civilians, or risk being the focus of public outrage and anger in their own countries.

Just two days after the mortar shell exploded in the marketplace, the alliance sent in NATO warplanes to attack the Serbian army in the hills of Sarajevo.

It was August 30, 1995. The bombing began in earnest that day, and it was the biggest attack of the war. There were more than 3,500 sorties in the short space of two weeks, and even Tomahawk Cruise missiles were launched in the assault.

At the end of three weeks, the Serbians had begun to back down, withdrawing their heavy weaponry from the Sarajevo hills at the edge of the city, and making sounds about peace negotiations.

Because of the NATO attack and later developments, Bill Fitzgerald and the CNS crew remained in Bosnia, their week of rest and relaxation in Italy postponed indefinitely.

“But we don't really care, do we?” Bill said one evening when the three of them sat at a large table in the communal dining room of the Holiday Inn.

“No, of course we don't,” Mike answered. “I mean, who cares about missing a week in Amalfi, relaxing with a couple of beautiful girls. Nobody would
mind
missing that, certainly not I. Or Joe.” He shrugged. “After all, who gives a damn about sun, sea, and sex. And wonderful pasta.”

Bill chuckled.

So did Joe, who said, “Me, for one. I give a damn.” He grinned at the cameraman, who was his best buddy, then addressed Bill quietly. “I was certainly looking forward to our trip. And you were fixated about Venice, Bill, come on, admit it.”

“Yes, it's true, I was. And I plan to make it to Venice soon. Maybe in the next month or two.”

It was late September and relatively quiet out on the streets of Sarajevo; the fighting was less intense, with only sporadic sniping and fewer forays into the city on the part of the bloodthirsty Serbs. The entire foreign press corps were fully aware that the intense NATO retaliation had worked far better in curbing
the Serbs than the words of appeasement the West had been uttering thus far.

Bill said, “I think things
are
going to ease up here, and very soon.”

From their expressions, Mike and Joe were obviously disbelieving, and they did not respond.

Looking at his colleagues intently, Bill added, “With a little luck, this war should end soon.”

Joe, ever the cynic, ever the pessimist, shot back, “Want to bet?”

“No, I don't,” Bill replied swiftly. “You can never really tell what's going to happen with the Serbs. They talk out of both sides of their mouths.”

“And shoot from the hip with both hands. Always fast on the draw, the fucking maniacs,” Joe exclaimed. “They started this war and they're only going to end it when it suits them. When they get what they want.”

“Which is most of Bosnia, if not, indeed, all of it,” Bill said. “This war's always been about territorial greed, as well as power, racial bigotry, and ethnic cleansing.”

“Greed, power, and hatred, a pretty potent combination,” Mike murmured.

The cameraman glanced at his plate of
food, his expression glum. He grimaced and put down his fork; his nose curled in distaste. “The soup was watery and tasteless, now this meat is greasy and tasteless. Jeez, this damn curfew has been getting to me more than ever lately. I hate having to eat here every night. I wish we could find somewhere else.”

“There's nowhere else to eat in Sarajevo, nowhere that's any better, and you know we can't go out at night anyway,” Bill reminded him. “Besides, it's difficult driving without any streetlights.” Bill stopped, sat back in his chair, suddenly feeling worried about Mike and Joe. They rarely complained about anything; lately they had done nothing but complain to him. He couldn't say he blamed them. Living conditions in Bosnia never improved, only got worse. He thought of the line he had heard when he first came to the Balkans at the outset of the conflict. It had been told to him by a reporter from a French news magazine and he had never forgotten it:
A day in Bosnia is like a week anywhere else; a week is like a month, a month is like a year.
And it was true. The country was wearing and wearying. It killed the soul, drained the spirit, and damaged the psyche. He was itching to get out himself, just as Mike and Joe were.

“It's not much of a menu, I'll grant you that,” Joe suddenly said, and laughed hollowly. “It's always the same crummy food every night, that's the problem.”

“Most people are starving in Bosnia,” Bill began and decided not to continue along these lines.

All of a sudden Mike sat up straighter and announced, “Personally, I aim to be in the good old U.S. of A. in November, come hell or high water. I plan to be out on Long Island for Thanksgiving if it's the last thing I ever do. I want to be with my mom and dad, my kid brother and sister. It's been too long since I've seen them. I'm certainly not going to be in this godforsaken place, that's for sure.”

“I know what you mean, old buddy,” Joe said. “Me . . . I'd like to be in New Jersey for
my
turkey dinner. With my folks. I don't want to spend Thanksgiving in Bosnia either. Screw that!” Joe threw Bill a pointed look, and finished with, “Let's tell Jack Clayton we want out, Billy boy.”

“Sure, I'll do it tomorrow. No problem. I'm positive our grateful and adoring news editor will understand your feelings, and Mike's, and mine. He'll tell us to hop a plane to Paris, any plane we can get, and to hell with the expense,
and then board the first Concorde out of Paris to New York. Pronto, pronto. Sure, he'll tell us to do that.”

“Sarcasm has never been your forte, Bill,” Mike remarked with an engaging grin, then went on: “But very seriously, talk to Jack tomorrow. Our rest period is long overdue. Originally, we were supposed to have it in July, then it got shifted to August, and finally it was canceled altogether. We haven't been out of Bosnia, except for a few long weekends in Hungary, for
three months.
I happen to think that we've all reached the end of our individual bits of rope.”

“Could be we have. And you're right, Mike, so is Joe. Our R & R has been postponed for too long now. We're all edgy. Look, the peace talks are about to start in Dayton in October. That's only a few days away. Things ought to be relatively quiet here during that period, so I can't see that there would be any problems. Jack'll just have to send in another news team, should anything serious erupt when we're gone.”

“There could easily be trouble,” Mike remarked in a thoughtful tone. “Just because the peace talks are on doesn't mean that the guns will be silent. Not here. Anything goes.”

“Only too true,” Joe agreed. “Let's not hold our collective breath on that one.”

“I know Jack's a tough news editor, but he is fair. He'll agree to this. Don't forget,
we
elected to stay when the NATO bombs started falling at the end of August. Jack was very appreciative that we did.” Bill paused, thought quickly, and made a sudden decision. “Let's plan on getting out of here in a week. How does that sound, guys? Okay with you?”

Mike and Joe stared at him, dumbfounded. Then they grinned and exclaimed in unison,
“Okay!”

T
he light in the piazza was silvery, the sky leaden, frosty. A faint mist rising from the lagoon and the many canals swathed everything in a veil of gray on this cold winter's afternoon.

Bill Fitzgerald walked slowly across St. Mark's Square, not caring about the weather in the least. There had been too many abortive attempts on his part to get to Venice, and he was glad he had finally made it.

It was a relief to be here after life in the battlefields of Bosnia; also a relief that the tides and the winds were cooperating and Venice was not flooded, as it frequently was at this
time of year. Even if it had been, he wouldn't have cared about that either. The Venetians always managed very well when the city lay under water, so why shouldn't he?

He had been coming here whenever possible for the past few years. It was relatively easy to get to Venice from most cities in Europe, which was where he invariably was, on foreign assignment for his network. And even after only a couple of days here he always felt considerably refreshed, lighter in spirit, and uplifted.

La Serenissima, the Venetians called it, this city of churches and palaces floating on water, blazing with color and liquid light, brimming with treasures of art and architecture. Bill thought it was one of the most intriguing and evocative places in the world, its aspects bound to delight even the most jaundiced eye.

On his first visit twelve years ago, he had spent a great deal of time in many of those churches and palaces, gazing at the breathtaking paintings by Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese, Tiepolo, and Canaletto. These masterpieces touched his soul with their incomparable beauty and, thereafter, the Venetian school of painting was one of his favorites.

He had always wished he could paint, but he was not in the least gifted in that respect. His only talent was with words.

“He's kissed the Blarney Stone, that one,” his maternal grandmother, Bronagh Kelly, used to say when he was growing up. “True,” his mother would agree. “That's his gift, a way with words. And he writes like an angel. We must remember that the pen is mightier than the sword.”

Bill was an only child. He had spent a lot of time with adults when he was young, and his lovely Irish grandmother, in particular, was a favorite of his. He had been especially attached to her.

When he was little she had held him spellbound with her stories of leprechauns, lucky shamrocks, and pots of gold at the end of the rainbow. Bronagh had left Ireland with her parents and a younger brother when she was eight, and had grown up in Boston. It was here that she had met and married his grandfather, a lawyer named Kevin Kelly.

“I was born in 1905, and what a birth it was, Billy!” she would exclaim. “I came into this world at the stroke of midnight on the twelfth of June in the middle of the most violent thunderstorm,” she'd tell him. “And me
darlin' mama said it was a bad omen, that storm.” She always embellished the details of her birth with every retelling, obviously enjoying his rapt expression and widening eyes. “And indeed it's been a stormy life I've lived ever since, Billy,” she would add, with a huge laugh, which led him to believe she had relished her stormy life.