Chapter 32

I

Kosovo, April It was a cold day even though spring had come to this blood-soaked land, and the sun shone, rode high in a pale-blue sky filled with white puffball clouds. And despite the bitter wind, it was a pretty day. But few people noticed that.

Jake had been right about NATO intervening in the war. The air strike was on and bombs had begun to fall on March 24. NATO was still in the fray, and I suspected the battle would last a long time.

I was in Priština, the capital of Kosovo, looking for Jake, which is where he had been a few days earlier. Jacques Foucher had given me all the information when I had arrived in Paris, having flown from Acapulco to New York, and from there to Paris on the Concorde.

After a night at my apartment on the Left Bank I had filled a small backpack with film, put in an extra camera, a few toiletries and a change of underwear, plus two clean T-shirts. When I left for Belgrade, I was wearing my combat boots and flak jacket, and thus was able to minimize my luggage, travel light, be mobile at all times.

The streets of Priština were filled with masses of rubble; people were hurrying through the streets, dodging Serbian bombs and gunfire, trying to find somewhere safe to hide.

So many had apparently left, were moving on foot and cart and tractor toward the borders of Albania and Macedonia, hoping to be allowed to enter these countries. But luck was running out now for all these refugees who were fleeing Milosevic’s terror.

It was a hellhole here.

The barrage of gunfire was deafening, and dust rose up from the rubble to choke me. I had a camera slung around my neck and the backpack was on my shoulder. Traveling light worked, I decided as I hustled along, dodging the crowds as best I could.

There were so many people moving through the streets, it was hard to spot anyone, although I’d kept my eyes peeled for Jake ever since I’d arrived that morning.

Suddenly and unexpectedly I spotted Hank Jardine, an American war correspondent with one of the cable networks.

“Hank!” I screamed, and began to run toward him. “Hank, wait! It’s me, Val Denning!”

He was hurrying down the street ahead of me with his cameraman, and it was the cameraman who heard my voice and grabbed Hank’s arm. The two men swung around, and Hank waved when he saw me, looking surprised.

I caught up with them and exclaimed, “Hi, guys.”

“Hi, Val,” Hank said.

The cameraman smiled at me and said, “John Grove.”

“Val Denning.” We shook hands and then I addressed Hank. “I’m looking for Jake. Have you seen him?”

“Sure did, about two hours ago. He was with Clee Donovan, and they were down by the Red Cross tents. About ten minutes down this road. The tents are set up at the edge of a field.”

“Were they wounded?”

“I don’t think so. But I’m not sure.”

“Thanks, Hank. Are you heading that way?”

“No, I’m going over to talk to some of the Kosovars who have been wounded. I want to do a couple of interviews.”

“Thanks,” I said again, and hurried off on my own. It worried me that Jake and Clee were at the Red Cross tents. It didn’t bode well, I thought.

I began to fill with anxiety, and as apprehension got the better of me, I started to run, pushing myself forward, dodging people, intent on getting to the tents as fast as I could.

I was panting and out of breath by the time I came to the field where the Red Cross tents had been set up. In the distance I could see several K.L.A. soldiers talking in a group, and a couple of Red Cross doctors close by. And Clee Donovan.

I came to a standstill for a moment, and my heart stopped. Oh my God, something had happened to Jake. I just knew it. This place was unlucky for me. It stank of death.

I took a deep breath and began to run again, and as I continued sprinting hell-for-leather down the road, I spotted Jake.

“Jake! Jake!” I screamed, rushing forward, my feet flying along the road, my heart racing.

He heard me and swung around.

“Val!” he shouted, raising an arm, and then he began to run toward me.

We met in the middle of the dusty road.

I stumbled into his outstretched arms.

We clung to each other, and I began to sob with relief.

“Oh, thank God you’re all right, that nothing’s happened to you,” I cried, my voice cracking.

“I told you I’d be all right, that you should trust me,” he said, holding me away, looking into my face. An amused smile made his mouth twitch, and he said, laughing, “Your face is dirty, Val.”

I gaped at him, uncomprehending for a second, and then I yelled, “What the hell do you expect it to be in this muck hole!” But I started to laugh myself.

He held me close again, saying, “Val, oh, Val, it’s so wonderful to see you, and this has just been the worst few weeks. I sure am glad you weren’t here, it’s been very rough, pretty damned lousy.”

I drew away from him, stared into those very bright blue eyes of his, and murmured, “But I’m here now, Jake, with you. Where I belong. Here in your arms. On the front lines. Or wherever you want me to be. Just as long as we’re together.”

Staring at me, he said, “And I want you with me, Val. But not here, not here anymore. I’ve sent out enough pictures, done what I set out to do when I came. I was planning to get out just before you arrived.”

“You mean you want to leave Kosovo?” I asked, looking at him intently.

“Yes, I do. Let’s go and say good-bye to Clee.” He put an arm around me and we headed on down the road toward the field.

Abruptly, Jake stopped, looked down at me, and said, “There’s just one more thing, Val.”

“What’s that?”

“You just said you belong with me . . . does that mean you’ll marry me?”

“Yes, I will,” I said, looking up into his face, smiling at him.

“I’m glad,” he said as he smiled back.

He took hold of my hand and held it tightly as we set out across the muddy field, and I knew that at last I was safe from harm.