Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) (26 page)

Artyan Vitas had been in his rental car for hours, watching people come and go at the Danforths’. But none of them was his concern. He had come to exact revenge for the kidnapping of General Karadjic. He would kill Danforth. And maybe Danforth’s wife as well. He’d caught a couple glimpses of her at the front door of the house. She was a bit old for his tastes – he liked them in their twenties – but she was damned good looking and had a great figure for a woman her age. Mrs. Danforth would be a fringe benefit. And then he’d go after the Gypsy girl.

He couldn’t keep his thoughts off the Gypsy – that slinky dress hugging her tight young body. Those breasts. Those legs. He’d make her suffer, a thought he was relishing when the girl suddenly emerged with her escort, the older man who’d been with Danforth during the botched umbrella attack. When the two of them got into the Lincoln, Vitas started his car. He could come back for Danforth later. He knew where Danforth lived; now he needed to find the Gypsy girl’s residence.

The Lincoln pulled away, and Vitas was about to follow, when a red Porsche shot out of the driveway.

Vitas fell in behind the Porsche, while it trailed the Lincoln toward Bethesda’s business district. He memorized the Porsche’s license plate number. Vitas had a contact at the Embassy who could get the owner’s name.

The two cars pulled into a restaurant’s parking lot. Vitas drifted past, went around the block, and came back to park in the lot. The Lincoln and the Porsche were now empty.

“You tell the CIA I had anything to do with getting you together here with Miriana and I’ll see to it that you get assigned to Antarctica. I got plenty of contacts at the Pentagon.”

Michael smiled and said, “I really appreciate you letting us spend some time together before you take Miriana back to Andrews Air Force Base, Uncle Jack.”

Now Jack grinned and patted Michael on the shoulder. “You got one hour, kid. Whatever you want to say to her, you better get it done by midnight,” he said, tapping the face of his watch.

“What are you two talking about?” Miriana asked, returning from the Women’s Room, stepping next to Michael.

“Your curfew,” Jack said.

She glared at Jack and said, “We would call you the bogeyman in Yugoslavia.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, then laughed and walked toward the bar near the front of the restaurant.

Michael put a hand on Miriana’s back and guided her toward the dining room. Only two tables were occupied at this late hour. He asked the hostess to seat them at a corner table, pointing at one well away from the other diners.

“I just vant coffee,” Miriana told a waitress.

“You sure you don’t want something else?” Michael asked.

“No, no. Thank you very much. I am pretty full from the good foods your mother served.”

Michael smiled, raised two fingers, and told the waitress, “Two coffees, please.” He looked back at Miriana and felt butterflies erupt in his stomach. He loved looking at her. He loved her accent. It sounded like a mixture of French and Russian. He met her eyes and saw her blush but she held his gaze and smiled back.

“So, tell me what you’re doing with the CIA,” he asked, lowering his voice.

Miriana shook her finger at him and said, “You bad boy. You know I cannot tell you that. If I tell you, I must kill you.”

Michael blurted a laugh. “It sounds like you’ve been around the CIA spooks too long already. Perhaps I should rescue you from that den of iniquity.”

She furrowed her brow. “Den of vhat?” she asked.

He waved a hand in front of him, trying to come up with the right definition. “Evil, sinful,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” Miriana said, “like villains.”

“Exactly!”

Miriana suddenly looked melancholy. Her face seemed to sag and her eyes shut. She bowed her head.

“What is it?” Michael asked, reaching across the table and taking her two hands in his.

Miriana’s head jerked up and her eyes opened. “Oh, I am sorry. It is just that I miss family.”

Michael moved his hands from hers when the waitress returned and placed two coffees on their table, along with a plate of biscotti.

The waitress said, “The biscotti are compliments of the house.”

Miriana seemed to retreat within herself. Michael tried to get her to talk about her family, but she suddenly appeared withdrawn, worried.

Finally, Michael said, “I’d really like to see you again, Miriana. But with my unit shipping out next week, I don’t see how it’s possible. I’d like to write to you from Macedonia, though . . . if that would be all right.”

Miriana met his eyes again and gave him a radiant smile. She took one of his hands in hers and said, “That would be nice, Michael.”

Michael felt his pulse race. He hoped his unit wouldn’t be in the Balkans very long.

Jack hated to break up the kids’ conversation, but it was already past midnight and he had a long drive home after dropping the girl off at Andrews. And he couldn’t help worrying about Michael starting off tonight on the long drive back to Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. He walked over to their table. “Sorry, guys,” he said. “I hate to be a party-pooper, but it’s time to go.” He saw Michael nod his head and push his chair back. Jack walked out toward the front door. He felt a warm glow when he looked back and saw the two of them embrace by their table.

Vitas felt like his bladder would burst. But he didn’t dare go inside to use the bathroom, in case the girl and the man with her chose that time to leave. He forced himself to ignore his need to piss – it was a self-imposed test. Only moments later, the Gypsy girl walked back outside with her escort and a tall, good-looking young man. Vitas felt an instant hatred for the young man. He had always felt that way around tall, handsome men. They had something he would never have. And this one looked extremely fit, as well. The parking lot lights set off the man’s short, dark hair and chiseled features. The younger man got into the Porsche and drove off. Vitas followed the Lincoln.

The Lincoln went to a guarded gate of what appeared to be a military compound. A wooden guard shack with windows stood between a lighted monument sign and a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Vitas parked his car two hundred feet from the gate, took a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment, twisted in his seat, and looked at the monument sign, which read, “Andrews Air Force Base.” He lit a cigarette and tried to get all the gears in his brain to mesh.

He waited for the Lincoln to pass through the gate, then he pulled away. Leaning over to pick up his cell phone, he punched in a Virginia number.

“Hello, who . . . who is this?”

Vitas stifled a laugh. Paulus Tomavic’s sleep-thickened voice made him sound pathetic.

“Greetings from the President,” Vitas said.

Paulus didn’t respond.

“Why, Paulus, are you not happy to hear from me?”

Silence.

“Did you go back to sleep, Paulus?” Vitas asked.

“No, no, I’m here.”

“Good boy. Get a pencil and paper. I want you to get some information for me.” Vitas dictated the red Porsche’s license plate number. “I want to know that car’s owner’s name.

“Artyan, please don’t call me at home,” Tomavic pleaded.

Vitas hung up.