Читать книгу A Secret Affair - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 7

Sarajevo, August 1995

He was closing the small padlock on his duffle bag when a deafening explosion brought his head up swiftly. He listened acutely, with accustomed practice, fully expecting to hear another bomb exploding. But there was nothing. Only silence.

Bill Fitzgerald, chief foreign correspondent for CNS, the American cable news network, put on his flak jacket and rushed out of the room.

Tearing down the stairs and into the large atrium, he crossed it and left the Holiday Inn through a back door. The front entrance, which faced Sniper Alley, as it was called, had not been used since the beginning of the war. It was too dangerous.

Glancing up, Bill’s eyes scanned the sky. It was a soft, cerulean blue, filled with recumbent white clouds but otherwise empty. There were no warplanes in sight.

An armored Land Rover came barreling down the street where he was standing and skidded to a stop next to him.

The driver was a British journalist, Geoffrey Jackson, an old friend, who worked for the Daily Mail. “The explosion came from over there,” Geoffrey said. “That direction.” He gestured ahead, and asked, “Want a lift?”

“Sure do, thanks, Geoff,” Bill replied and hopped into the Land Rover.

As they raced along the street, Bill wondered what had caused the explosion, then said aloud to Geoffrey, “It was more than likely a bomb lobbed into Sarajevo by the Serbs in the hills, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Geoffrey agreed. “They’re well entrenched up there, and let’s face it, they never stop attacking the city. The way they are sniping at civilians is getting to me. I don’t want to die from a stray rifle shot covering this bloody war.”

“Me neither.”

“Where’s your crew?” Geoffrey asked as he drove on, peering through the windscreen intently, looking for signs of trouble, praying to avoid it.

“They went out earlier, to reconnoiter, while I was packing my bags. We’re supposed to leave Sarajevo today. For a week’s relaxation and rest in Italy.”

“Lucky sods!” Geoffrey laughed. “Can I carry your bags?”

Bill laughed with him. “Sure, come with us, why don’t you?”

“If only, mate, if only.”

A few minutes later Geoffrey was pulling up near an open marketplace. “This is where the damn thing fell,” the British journalist said, his jolly face suddenly turning grim. “Bleeding Serbs, won’t they ever stop killing Bosnian civilians? They’re fucking gangsters, that’s all they are.”

“You know. I know. Every journalist in the Balkans knows. But does the Western alliance know?”

“Bunch of idiots, if you ask me,” Geoffrey answered and parked the Land Rover. He and Bill jumped out.

“Thanks for the ride,” Bill said. “See you later. I’ve got to find my crew.”

“Yeah. See you, Bill.” Geoffrey disappeared into the mêlée.

Bill followed him.

Chaos reigned.

Women and children were running amok; fires burned everywhere. He was assaulted by a cacophony of sounds…loud rumblings as several buildings disintegrated into piles of rubble; the screams of terrified women and children; the moans of the wounded and the dying; the keening of mothers hunched over their children, who lay dead in the marketplace.

Bill clambered over the half-demolished wall of a house and jumped down into another area of the marketplace. Glancing around, his heart tightened at the human carnage. It was horrific.

He had covered the war in the Balkans for a long time, on and off for almost three years now; it was brutal, a savage war, and still he did not understand why America turned the other cheek, behaved as if it were not happening. That was something quite incomprehensible to him.

A cold chill swept through him, and his step faltered for a moment as he walked past a young woman sobbing and cradling her lifeless child in her arms, the child’s blood spilling onto the dark earth.

He closed his eyes for a split second, steadied himself before walking on. He was a foreign correspondent and a war correspondent, and it was his job to bring the news to the people. He could not permit emotion to get in the way of his reporting or his judgment; he could never become involved with the events he was covering. He had to be impartial. But sometimes, goddamnit, he couldn’t help getting involved. It got to him occasionally…the pain, the human suffering. And it was always the innocent who were the most hurt.

As he moved around the perimeter of the marketplace, his eyes took in everything…the burning buildings, the destruction, the weary, defeated people, the wounded. He shuddered, then coughed. The air was foul, filled with thick black smoke, the smell of burning rubber, the stench of death. He drew to a halt, and his eyes swept the area yet again, looking for his crew. He was certain they had heard the explosion and were now here. They had to be somewhere in the crowd.

Finally, he spotted them.

His cameraman, Mike Williams, and Joe Alonzo, his soundman, were right in the thick of it, feverishly filming, along with other television crews and photographers who must have arrived on the scene immediately.

Running over to join the CNS crew, Bill shouted above the din, “What the hell happened here? Another bomb?”

“A mortar shell,” Joe answered, swinging his eyes to meet Bill’s. “There must be twenty or thirty dead.”

“Probably more,” Mike added without turning, zooming his lens toward two dazed-looking young children covered in blood and clinging to each other in terror. “The marketplace was real busy…” Mike stopped the camera, grimaced as he looked over at Bill. “A lot of women and children were here. They got caught. This is a real pisser.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bill said.

Joe said, “The mortar shell made one helluva crater.”

Bill looked over at it, and said softly, in a hard voice, “The Serbs had to know the marketplace would be busy. This is an atrocity.”

“Yes. Another one,” Mike remarked dryly. “But we’ve come to expect that, haven’t we?”

Bill nodded, and he and Mike exchanged knowing looks.

“Wholesale slaughter of civilians—” Bill began and stopped abruptly, biting his lip. Mike and Joe had heard it all before, so why bother to repeat himself? Still, he knew he would do so later, when he did his telecast to the States. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

There was a sudden flurry of additional activity at the far side of the marketplace. Ambulances were driving into the area, followed by armored personnel carriers manned by UN troops, and several official UN cars, all trying to find places to park.

“Here they come, better late than never,” Joe muttered in an acerbic tone. “There’s not much they can do. Except cart off the wounded. Bury the dead.”

Bill made no response. His brain was whirling, words and phrases racing through his head as he prepared his story in his mind. He wanted his telecast to be graphic, moving, vivid, and hard-hitting.

“I guess we’re not going to get our R & R after all,” Mike said, a brow lifting. “We won’t be leaving today, will we, Bill?”

Bill roused himself from his concentration. “No, we can’t leave, Mike. We have to cover the aftermath of this, and there’s bound to be one…of some kind. If Clinton and the other Western leaders don’t do something drastic, something especially meaningful, there’s bound to be a public outcry.”

“So be it,” Mike said. “We stay.”

“They’ll do nothing,” Joe grumbled. “They’ve all been derelict in their duty. They’ve let the Serbs get away with murder, and right from the beginning.”

Bill nodded in agreement. Joe was only voicing what every journalist and television newsman in Bosnia knew only too well. Turning to Mike, he asked, “How much footage do we have so far?”

“A lot. Joe and I were practically the first in the marketplace, seconds after the mortar shell went off. We were in the jeep, just around the corner when it happened. I started filming at once. It’s pretty bloody, gory stuff, Bill.”

“Gruesome,” Joe added emphatically.

Bill said, “It must be shown.” Then, looking at Mike, he went on quickly, “I’d like you to find a place where we can film my spot, if possible one that’s highly dramatic.”

“You got it, Bill. When do you want to start rolling the tape?”

“In about ten minutes. I’m going to go over there first, talk to some of those UN people clustered near the ambulances, see what else I can find out.”

“Okay, and I’ll do a rekky, look for a good spot,” Mike assured him.

William Patrick Fitzgerald was a renowned newsman, the undoubted star at Cable News Systems, noted for his measured, accurate, but hard-hitting reports from the world’s battlefields and troublespots.

His fair coloring and clean-cut, boyish good looks belied his thirty-three years, and his tough demeanor stood him in great stead in front of the television camera.

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!”