Searching for Stolen Love Page 10

  Chapter 7

  I walked straight to this mysterious house. Tonight, on a freezing cold January night, I stood outside this house hiding behind a tree. I hoped I would find Yelena there. Then I could rescue her and take her to America. We will leave Bosnia behind forever.

  I reached into my pocket and felt the handle of the gun.

  After my colleague’s murder – Karl Carlson, I suspected something was wrong in Bosnia, something was wrong with the university. I didn’t know why I did it, but I would have coffee or tea at the coffee shops in the northern part of the city, where two murders had occurred, including my friend, Karl. I worked on my lecture notes and waited until 9 o'clock, the time when Yelena finished work.

  A couple of days after Karl's murder, Yelena showed me a newspaper article. Another murder occurred during the night that Karl died. Police discovered a transient, brutally strangled with a leather cord, crushing his windpipe and throat.

  Police claimed the murders were not connected. However, I found it odd for a city to have one or two murders per year, and then two murders happened on the same night?

  I usually roamed that neighborhood within two blocks of the murdered transient, the same neighborhood, where I bought my gun.

  On one chilly day in November, a shady-looking Bosnian hood stood silently and watched me walk by. In broken English, the hood asked, “Cocaine.” Then a minute later, he whispered, “Ecstasy?”

  I stopped. Then I slowly turned to face the hood. I replied with an emphatic “No!”

  After a pause, I sarcastically asked, “How about a gun?”

  The hood hesitated as he scanned me up and down.

  I almost turned, when the hood replied, “What if I did? How much you pay?”

  “I’d pay two hundred Euros,” I replied confidently, but I didn’t know the real street value for a gun, so I threw a number out there, and 200 euros seemed reasonable. Fortunately, I guessed correctly because the hood happened to have a gun for sale, an old 0.38 Smith and Wesson. I had to pay another thirty euros for a half box of bullets.

  I bought that gun immediately. The exchange happened so fast, I thought I dreamed it. Before I could say, ‘Thank you,’ the hood disappeared into the midst of the night.

  I continued meandering through the neighborhoods. I never took my gun with me. I always hid it behind the radiator in my apartment. I didn’t want Yelena to know I bought a gun.

  I knew Yelena's father died during the Bosnian War, and guns terrified her. However, my inner voice screamed at me that I needed a gun. Harm was racing towards me like an asteroid falling from the heavens. Something was wrong at the Bosnian University of Management, and I was caught in the middle.

  Then on one dark night, around seven, on December 3rd, I scored big. I had a perfect view of the street outside while I sat in the back corner of the coffee shop in the shady Northern neighborhood

  Constant parades of pedestrians and drivers went by the coffee shop, but they never noticed me sitting in the shadows in the corner.

  On that foggy, dark night, I saw Jasmin, the driver, pass by in the university car.

  For the Bosnians who owned cars, the cars tend to be old and rusty, and pedestrians would cough and belch as they breathed in the thick oily smoke from the cars' exhaust. Drivers kept the aged relics, left from the disintegration of Yugoslavia, the Yugo.

  My university was big on image and leased brand new Skoda Octavias, which were sleek, silver cars resembling an Oldsmobile sedan.

  I gathered my things and started walking around the neighborhood. I walked for hours and didn’t spot that silver Skoda. I almost gave up until I spotted a silhouette of a car under a tree. Sneaking closer to a thick oak tree, I found the silver Skoda.

  Jasmin parked the car in the driveway, and several large oak trees grew around the property, trying to hide the house. I saw a typical Balkan house, resembling the Italian style. The house stood three stories tall, had orange terra cotta roof tiles, and painted a pastel yellow. On the front and back of the house, it had large spacious balconies on each floor, except the ground floor.

  Approaching the house, I ducked myself into the shadows, hiding behind a large oak tree, studying the large three-story home.

  After a couple of minutes, I saw a moving shadow open the door to the second-floor balcony, and someone stepped out.

  Jasmin emerged! He pulled out a cigarette and started smoking. He coughed a couple of times as he took a drag on his cigarette. Once Jasmin finished his cigarette, he flicked the butt onto the lawn and walked back inside.

  Here I had returned to the house with a gun in my pocket. Death flew around the house, patiently waiting for a customer, and unfortunately, I was the delivery man.

  Approaching the front door, I scanned the property for strangers hiding behind the trees. Once at the door, I knocked loudly and shouted in Bosnian, “Police, open up!”

  I hoped the occupants could not detect my thick accent.

  After several minutes, I knocked again. I held a fake badge in front of the peek hole. I knew it would be a long shot, but I hoped the badge I bought in a toy store would pay off.

  A frail, old man opened the door slowly.

  His hair, a pure cotton white, stood up in every direction, like a mad scientist. While small, thin, he looked tired as if he hadn’t slept well in ages. The old man appeared to be relieved by my presence, like an escaped prisoner who has been on the run for so long; he’s actually relieved when the police catch him.

  I pointed the gun at him and slid the toy badge back into my coat pocket.

  “You can shoot me if you want,” the old man snapped in English, “Your accent was as fake as your badge.”

  Then the old man turned and hobbled slowly up the stairs into the living room.

  I entered the home, and cautiously closed the front door. I carefully followed the old man upstairs into the living room and sat directly across from him in an armed chair.

  A strong stench of chemicals struck my nostrils in the living room, like walking into a dry cleaner’s. I saw several tables with laboratory equipment with an assortment of Petri dishes, beakers, flasks, and containers of chemicals spread across the surface. The table near the old man had a Bunsen burner heating a large flask. The flask contained a clear solution that boiled slowly, and bubbles glided upward toward the glass tubing. Then glass tubing led from the flask to an ice bath.

  I pointed the gun at the old man. He began speaking softly, “You can shoot me if you like. However, you should know that would be foolish. You see this flask,” he said while pointing at the boiling flask on the table, “That chemical is very explosive. You’ll die if you shoot me. This whole house will blow up with you and me in it.”

  “Who are you?” I snapped.

  “My name is Boris. I’m the chemist.”

  “What are you making here?”

  “I make anything Damir wants. Tonight, I’m making methoxy methaline dioxyamphetamine.”

  “What‘s that?” I asked raising my eyebrows in confusion.

  “They call it MMDA for short. On the streets, the kids call it ecstasy. It’s very popular with the kids all over Europe.”

  “Ecstasy?”

  “Yes, and the chemical reaction is very dangerous. You shoot that gun in here; we’ll both die.”

  “Damir’s a drug dealer?”

  “Well, Damir does not sell the drugs, but he’s the mastermind behind the operation. Damir, let me say, has his dirty hands in everything around this little town.”

  My mouth hung low and my eyes flapped wide open. I began thinking. How could a university president be a drug dealer? He became a president of the university, and also a dark lord who controlled the underworld of Tuzla. What a dichotomy?

  Boris began chuckling ominously. “I also make methamphetamine or you'd call it simply meth, PCP, and LSD. I also test the potency of the cocaine. Damir buys it from someone in Montenegro. Damir is such an entrepreneur. Wherever he can make money, he’l
l be at the center.”

  “You’re very forthcoming. You don’t even know who I am.”

  “It does not matter. Once Damir finds out, we’ll both be dead.”

  “What?”

  “Damir will kill us in an instant,” and Boris snapped his fingers for emphasis.

  “That’s completely insane! How could you make drugs for Damir? Don’t you worry about the kids you feed your poison to?”

  “I worry about it every day, but I had no choice.”

  “Choice? Everybody has a choice.”

  Boris just stared at me coldly.

  “How many children have you killed?”

  “My wife was dying,” Boris whispered.

  “What?”

  I waved the gun intentionally in the air in wide arcs and then pointed it back at Boris.

  “Talk! I have plenty of time.”

  Boris let out a long sigh and began, “Damir tricked me. After the Bosnian War, I worked at the University of Tuzla as a chemistry professor. My salary was very low. My wife became gravely ill, and we needed to buy expensive medication from Italy. I just did not have enough money, and I could not watch her die.”

  Boris paused for a second. He reached for a teacup that stood near the edge of the table. Boris's hand trembled a little when he lifted his teacup and sipped his tea.

  Then Boris continued, “Damir came to me and said he could solve my financial problems. I started making drugs for him. In the beginning, I made good money.”

  My skin whitened while I shook my head in disbelief. I thought I became stuck in a nightmare. Any minute I would awaken, and the dream would end, but how do you awaken from a dream of reality? The cold reality in Bosnia was university presidents sell drugs; professors manufactured illegal drugs, and university car drivers murdered honest people and kidnapped innocent women.

  “Why does Damir sell the drugs? He owns a university! Isn't that enough?”

  Boris chuckled again and added, “It is very complicated to own and operate a business here in Bosnia. A businessman must bribe the politicians, the police, the tax inspectors, and anyone else with sticky fingers. All the government officials stand in line, demanding their cut. This money has to come from somewhere. Then I heard that you professors from America are very expensive. Who knows, Damir hates the Serbs. He’s probably financing the Bosnian War machine and accumulating weapons too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “During the Bosnian War, the Serbian military brutally raped and murdered Damir's wife, and he has never gotten over it. Damir has several houses scattered around Tuzla in the countryside. I would not be surprised if he’s stockpiling weapons. Of course, I only make drugs for Damir, so I don’t know anything else about his other activities. In my business, the less you know, the longer Damir lets you live.”

  I uttered, “Oh, my God!”

  After a minute of silence, I asked, “When you opened the door and saw the gun, you looked relieved. You were happy it was over.”

  “I had hoped you would arrest me and then it’ll be over.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m tired. I’m tired of life. I’m tired of Damir and his goons. I’m tired of making drugs. I just want it to be over. I want to get away from Damir, but I am afraid to do it myself.”

  “Why are you tired of Damir?”

  “He’s crazy and impossible to deal with. I know eventually he’ll kill me or have one of his goons kill me. If he could find another chemistry professor to take my place, then I am a goner. Who knows what would happen to my body?”

  “What do you mean he’s crazy?”

  “He lost his wife during the Bosnian War. His mind snapped. He thinks the world is out to get him. He tries to squeeze the world for every nickel and penny he can.

  Look at me. In the beginning, Damir paid me 5,000 euros each month to make his drugs. He easily makes 10 times that on the black market. Then he started to renegotiate my salary.

  Look at the big house! This is not my house, but I’m here 15 hours every day, so Damir started charging me rent.

  Last month, Damir didn’t understand why he has to buy the chemicals for the lab. So now, I must buy all the chemicals myself, recycling every one I can. I can’t do anything about it. If I don’t agree, then Damir will kill me.

  Each month, my salary becomes smaller. Who knows, I’ll be paying him next year to work for him.” Then Boris burst into a coarse laughter.

  “I can’t believe this! This is crazy!” I became dizzy as my mind refused to accept the facts.

  “Then wait. You teach for him at his university. Just wait a year. He’ll start charging you for the paper clips, the sips of water out of the water fountain, and your office space. After each month, when you get your paycheck, I guarantee he found another deduction. He’ll figure out something to take away from you.”

  I bowed my face down, so my face rested in my hands. I held the gun in my right hand, and I felt the coldness of the steel barrel on my cheek.

  After Boris let this information steep in my mind, Boris continued, “Just take this piece of advice. If you have a chance, just kill Damir. Don't talk to him. Don't reason with him. Don't ask him questions. You point that gun at his forehead and pull the trigger; then God will do the rest. If you hesitate, he’ll kill you. I’m positive Damir has killed many people after the Bosnian War. I wouldn’t be surprised if people continued disappearing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  My arm became sore, and I laid the heavy gun on the end table. Besides, the old chemist did not appear to be a threat. I wished I could awaken from this nightmare.

  “Damir Kovacev is quite psychotic. He isn’t a little deranged, where a few neurons are misfiring in his brain, and God is talking to him. He’s psychotic of the worst degree. He would kill someone just to see if his soul would separate from this body and drift upwards towards the heavens. He would cut someone's head off and drink his blood if he knew it would make him stronger.”

  I raised my head again and stared at the old man. I must know. My voice wavered, “I’m dating a Serbian woman. Her name is Yelena, and someone kidnapped her three days ago. Do you know anything about it?”

  “I haven’t heard of anything. I’m sorry. If the police haven’t found her, then you’re lucky. Damir hates the Serbs. If she’s still living, then most likely, he sold her to the sex trade.”

  “What!” I refused to believe what he said and repeated, “Sex trade?”

  “It was very common after the Bosnian War. Many poor Bosnian women were sold to brothels all over Europe. The mafia kidnapped some girls outright while they tricked other girls into prostitution. Poor girls thought they would work in a foreign country, but their employers never specified the nature of the work or their pay.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  I wanted to lie down on the floor and cry, but my raged had dammed the tears. It’s my fault that someone kidnapped Yelena. If I didn’t come to Bosnia, then Damir Kovacev would never have known about Yelena.

  After pausing for several minutes, I asked, “Would you happen to know where Damir might have sold her?”

  “They don’t tell me anything. Only thing I know is Damir gets his cocaine from Montenegro. I know he has connections to the Russian mafia. If she isn’t in Tuzla, then she must be in Montenegro.”

  “How could I find her?”

  “I do know someone who may know where Yelena is. I expect Jasmin will be over to check up on me in the morning. Jasmin should know where she is. You confront Jasmin. Then you kill him, afterwards, you kill Damir, and then you go find your girlfriend. I’ll help you. That ecstasy should be done within an hour. Then I’ll press the powder into white pills, and I’ll clean up all the dangerous chemicals.

  Tomorrow morning, you can shoot your gun in here as often as you want and not worry about blowing yourself up. Just point the gun at Jasmin and ask him. Then you kill him!”

  I sat in the chair and refused to believe what the chemist
told me. I felt my eyelids become heavy as the new information shorted my brain, causing it to shut down. Then I drifted to sleep while sitting in the armchair. My dreams were horrific and troubled. Occasionally, I stirred and screamed obscenities in my sleep.

  When I awakened, I had a thick wool blanket draped around me. I stirred a little as the woolen fabric itched my neck and hands.

  Boris’ smile broadened as he stared at me.

  If everything goes to plan, then both Jasmin and Damir will be dead, and Boris becomes a free man. His deal with the devil becomes broken while I send the devil into his lake of fire and sulfur. Boris will become a free man again, and he and his wife can flee Tuzla forever.

  Then I drifted back to sleep again.