SKOPJE, NORTH MACEDONIA
It wasn’t that Helen didn’t trust her partner’s instinct, but she felt he sometimes overcomplicated things. They had spent the last two hours doing SDRs and they hadn’t been able to spot any hostiles. They had two safe houses nearby, and three getaway vehicles. Surely they were okay to conduct a five-minute meeting with the editor-in-chief of UR Real News?
Worst-case scenario, if Milan Velkoski was a no-show, they could try to pinch him at his condo later in the day or simply set up surveillance on him and make contact at another time. Still, Donovan had been playing this game longer than she had. During their first mission together, he had said to her, “In this line of work, a healthy dose of paranoia is what will keep you alive long enough to have gray hairs.”
Maybe she’d dismissed him too quickly.
With that in mind, she was about to acquiesce to his demand and postpone today’s meeting when Velkoski cut right in front of her, exiting from a small restaurant not even twenty yards away.
“I spotted Velkoski,” she said, doing her best to remain calm, but knowing she was failing. She glanced at the restaurant’s name as she walked by, but the name was so washed-out she had a hard time reading it. “He came out of a restaurant . . . the restaurant’s name is . . . Palma. He’s now heading south on Pokriena Charshija. He’s going to our meeting point. We’re doing this, Donovan.”
“Copy,” he replied, sounding not too happy about it.
Helen slowed her pace a touch and let a few other pedestrians walk past her so that they could act as buffers. The majority of the streets in Skopje’s old town were closed to motor traffic, which was nice, but, except for the narrow streets, there was nothing in common with the beautiful open squares and parks she loved so much in the rest of Europe. It didn’t matter where she was, it seemed that everywhere she looked there was a weirdly designed and very ugly concrete building standing tall, in blatant disrespect of any human-scale landscaping. Most of the public spaces she had walked through had been poorly maintained, and so were the buildings. She had seen some occasional gems here and there—like an elegant arch or elaborate stonework—among the inescapable litter, but most of the alleys were graffiti-ridden and carried a scent sourer than the average politician’s soul.
“Still going south on Pokriena Charshija, but approaching the T-junction with Bojadziska and Kujundjiska,” she said.
Having studied the map with Donovan, she knew that, from Velkoski’s location, he had two options for reaching the meeting point. The fastest would be to make a slight right onto Bojadziska, then a left onto Bozhidar Adzija. His other choice was to make a slight left on Kujundjiska, which would lead him farther south. He would then need to make a sharp right onto Bozhidar Adzija.
“Okay, stand by,” Helen said as she watched Velkoski head south. “He took Kujundjiska. I guess he’s in no hurry.”
“Copy, Helen. He’s walking south on Kujundjiska. Keep calling it.”
Their meeting wasn’t scheduled for another fifteen minutes, so it was possible that Velkoski had decided to make one or more stops on his way to the small square in front of the Old Bazaar hotel.
Wanting to keep Donovan updated on her progress and location, Helen glanced to her left to read the name of the shop she was walking by. It wasn’t a big shop—it was tiny and rather shabby—but the window display showcased an attractive tiered cake, a selection of blueberry and strawberry tarts, and smaller, but well-decorated, cupcakes and pastries. But what really caught her attention was the man standing behind the display. Young, clean-shaven, with eyes the color of polished steel. He was about six feet tall, very fit, and holding a small tart in his left hand. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a black leather jacket, and a dark blue baseball cap, with one earphone connected to a device in his jacket’s pocket. He tried to look away, but it was too late. She’d seen him, and she’d seen the spark of recognition in his eyes.
Helen’s stomach knotted, but she continued walking. She did her best not to appear bothered, but her heart was pounding in her chest.
“Donovan, I believe we have unwelcome company,” she said.
“Give me the description, whenever you can,” Donovan replied, his voice calm and soothing. He was all business.
“About six feet tall. Caucasian, wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket. And a blue baseball cap,” she said.
“Location, Helen,” Donovan said. “What’s your location?”
Then, taking her by surprise, Velkoski made an abrupt right into a small alley. She had expected him to continue another fifty yards before making a right onto Bozhidar Adzija. She tried to remember where that alley led. She checked over her shoulder, trying to keep it as casual as possible, and was surprised, but mostly relieved, to see that the man she had spotted wasn’t following her.
“Helen, talk to me,” Donovan said, this time with more insistence.
“Velkoski made a right into an alley,” she said.
“Don’t follow him into the alley, Helen. Disengage,” Donovan said. “Keep going south till you reach the next intersection and make a left, then make your way to the emergency vehicle we positioned in the parking lot in front of the Hotel Doa. We’ll regroup at safe house Bravo.”
“Copy,” she said through gritted teeth.
Donovan had been right. She should have heeded his warnings.
Helen quickened her pace, mad at herself. Though she had no intention of going after Velkoski, she nevertheless looked down the alley into which he had turned, now remembering that it was one of the two entries leading into a courtyard, the other entry being just east of the Arasta Mosque.
For a moment, she couldn’t see him. Then she saw a body, not even thirty steps away, facedown on the pavement but still moving. She knew the right move was to keep on going, to ignore Velkoski, but it didn’t mean it was the right thing to do.
“Velkoski’s down. East side entrance of the courtyard,” she said, then rushed to Velkoski’s side, her eyes scanning for threats.
She was five strides away from Velkoski when the first shot rang out. She threw herself to the ground, but the shot hadn’t been fired at her. She dragged herself with her elbows until she reached Velkoski. There was an exit wound at his back. She rolled him to his side until he rested against the curb. A round had caught him two inches above his heart. By the amount of blood that had pooled underneath him, Velkoski wouldn’t last much longer. His eyes were glassy, and his breathing was coming in gasps, but Helen thought Velkoski recognized her. Just like the nice-looking, clean-shaven man she’d seen at the bakery had.
“Velkoski’s been shot,” she said to Donovan. “But he’s still breathing.”
More shots echoed through the alley, but no bullets were coming their way. For now.
“I’m on my way, Helen,” she heard Donovan say. “Talk to me. Keep the comms open.”
“Copy,” she replied.
Velkoski had closed his eyes. Helen took his pulse. Weak. At the touch of Helen’s fingers on his neck, the reporter opened his eyes.
“I’m Lisane Averill, Milan,” she said to Velkoski. “I’m the Canadian reporter you were supposed to meet with.”
Velkoski’s mouth opened, but the words that formed on his lips were hardly perceptible. Helen had to lean down closer to him to make them out.
“You . . . FBI,” Velkoski rasped.
His words shocked her to the core. If Velkoski had known she wasn’t a Canadian reporter, why did he accept the meeting with her?
Because they lured you into a trap and you fell for it.
“Who told you, Milan?” she asked. Velkoski was dying, there was no point in her continuing to pretend she was a journalist. She waited for him to say something, but he kept quiet, defiant even.
Bursts of automatic fire resonated against the buildings. Shit!
“Whoever told you I was with the FBI used you, Milan. They tricked you. Who did this to you?”
Velkoski rolled his eyes up to meet with hers. “Abalos . . . Francisco Abalos,” he said, then closed his eyes and stopped breathing.
Before she could reply, a couple ran past her as more shots were fired close by. The firefight was getting more intense. She had to get out of there.
Helen got to her feet, her hands sticky with Velkoski’s blood, and started to the courtyard’s exit, looking behind her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t about to get shot in the back. Forty yards across the courtyard, several men armed with rifles were moving from west to east. Two were dressed casually, but she did spot one wearing what looked like a police uniform.
“Donovan, armed men—”
That’s when she saw him, just as she turned around. He was right in front of her, the man from the bakery. He had an expression of utter disbelief across his face, but his pistol was halfway up, with his finger already on the trigger.