Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) by Joseph Badal Page B

drove to an ancient Byzantine site where we toured the ruins and picnicked. Afterward, I wandered alone into the forest and came upon a group of ten children being led by three men. Some of the children were crying. All of them were tied together by a rope that circled each of their waists. I hid behind a tree and watched for a while, believing I hadn’t been noticed. But one of the men must have spotted me. He came around behind me and clapped a hand over my mouth and then dragged me over to the group. I tried to yell, but the man tied a cloth over my mouth.
    “The next memory I have is of a large building, like a school. At the time, I didn’t know I was only a few miles from the Greek border – not that it would have made a difference. It wasn’t until later I found out I’d been dropped in a state orphanage near the town of Petrich. They never left me alone. They drummed thoughts into my brain. ‘Your parents abandoned you. They sold you to the Gypsies. The Bulgarian People’s Republic saved you from the Gypsies. Greece is a corrupt, westernized country that will collapse under the weight of the righteousness of the united Communist nations.’ On and on, until I believed every word of it. They rewarded me with treats and hugs when I recited my lessons well. When I didn’t do well, they locked me in a rat-and-cockroach-infested, unlit basement. After three years, they placed me with an ethnic Greek family. They wanted me to be Communist, but Greek in language, customs, and culture”
    “You mentioned Petrich?” Liz asked. “Where’s that?”
    Using his hands, Makris placed the Balkan countries for Liz in the air between them. “Albania is here, then Yugoslavia, and Bulgaria. Petrich is just across the Greek border, in Bulgaria, not far from Yugoslavia.”
    “How long were you in Petrich? With the Greek family?”
    “Until my fourteenth birthday. Then they moved me to a military school in Yugoslavia where I studied the usual academic subjects, along with military classes and more Communist propaganda. At nineteen, they sent me to Moscow where I was enrolled at Patrice Lumumba University. When not in university classes, I received espionage and language training at a KGB site outside Moscow.”
    “Did you learn English there? You speak like an American.”
    Makris nodded. “German, too.”
    “Is that what happened to all the children in the orphanage?”
    “No! Training and education depended on your test scores and work habits. Some children became farmers or mechanics or teachers, never becoming part of the Intelligence system, but still lost in the Communist workers’ utopia.”
    Makris’ face had suddenly become beet-red and his eyes took on a fiery look she hadn’t seen there before. This man may be free in a sense, Liz thought, but he’s carrying an incredible amount of emotional baggage.
    “Now, you tell me about your son,” he said.
    Liz smiled. “He’s a beautiful two-year-old boy. He’s got his father’s black hair and dark blue eyes. He can already count to fifty. You should see him kick a ball.” Liz looked away. “We wanted him always to be safe and to know we loved him. I don’t want him growing up without us. I don’t want him not knowing how much we love him. I . . ..” She began crying.
    Makris moved as though to put his arms around Liz; but, instead, just folded them across his chest. “Liz, I’ll help you find your son.”
    Liz turned toward George and grasped his hands. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so–” Then her crying devolved into sobs, and she collapsed to her knees on the sandy beach.
     

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
    “Pay attention, Gregorie,” Stefan hissed to his fourteen-year-old son. “Mornings are the best time for us. Mothers take their babies outside before it gets too hot, before they start their other chores.”
    Gregorie Radko, sitting in the backseat, peered through a side window of his father’s Mercedes at his aunt, Rumiah, climbing