Curtain's Fall

By Katrina Morris

What would you do if you found out a conflict brewing halfway across the world was the result of a thirty-year CIA operation- and that one of your parents was somehow involved? When political analyst Kate Bennett finds herself in this situation, she partners with an arresting Army captain to uncover the truth. Can the couple avoid the crosshairs of a rogue assassin long enough to stop the war?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katrina Morris
• Release date: Aug 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311261489

Book preview

Preface

Oxford Dictionaries defines the term anachronism as a thing…appropriate to a period other than that in which it exists, especially a thing that is conspicuously old-fashioned.

Without question, Curtain’s Fall is an anachronism. Set at the turn of the millennium, protagonist Kate Bennett is repeatedly foiled in her attempt to disclose the U.S.‘s role in precipitating an interethnic conflict in Kosovo. Kate’s struggle to tell her side of the story is monumentally more difficult than it would have been today, in our world of ubiquitous mobile phones and Internet access.

The characters themselves are a bit old-fashioned. Kate and fellow protagonist Luke Davis are hardworking and modest, always seeking to do what’s right. The antagonists, too, pursue acts of virtue, but in their desperate attempt to depose Yugoslav President Slobodan Milosevic from power, they neglect to consider that the war they are expediting may ultimately destabilize the region indefinitely.

Curtain’s Fall unravels a tale of thirty years of deceit, culminating in a final act of vengeance with lasting repercussions for the future of Kosovo.

Dedication

To Tony and Alexa: I love you both infinitely. Thanks for the adventure!

Chapter 1

The overpowering smell of chemical should have tipped me off that something was wrong. As I moved closer for a better look, my arm grazed a cool metal table.

She smiled, appreciating the precise manner of Bill’s storytelling. She noticed with amusement that as they walked, she and Bill were in step. She inhaled deeply, the crisp January air filling her lungs. This distraction was exactly what she needed.

He spoke quietly, solemnly. A white cloth covered most of a large object on the aluminum table, save a bloodless left hand.

She furrowed her brow, confused by the scene he had painted. Her eyes widened in understanding, a grin spreading across her face. I don’t believe it, she said, chuckling. You stumbled upon the cadaver lab while you were in search of the language lab?

He nodded. It’s absolutely true, he said, his hands raised in a gesture of innocence. Any aspirations I had of becoming a doctor were abandoned the moment I met that dead person.

Well, it’s good you ended up a linguist. I never would have made it through my Russian class without your help, she said.

He seemed embarrassed by the compliment. I’m glad you called, Kate. He paused, looking down at his feet. How are you doing?

Her smile evaporated. It’s difficult. Every little thing reminds me of him.

They walked for a while without speaking, but she could delay relaying the news no longer. I accepted a short term assignment in Kosovo. I leave tomorrow.

Oh. He looked past the trees, into the distance. How long will you be gone?

Four weeks, she said.

He nodded slowly. I don’t blame you for wanting to go, Kate. I know how important he was to you. They walked a while in silence.

There’s something else, Bill, she said.

What is it?

Would you be willing to translate a note from Cyrillic into English for me?

A puzzled grin spread across his face. Why don’t you ask one of your own linguists at the State Department to do it?

They had reached the end of the loop through Triangle Park. She grasped the sleeve of his coat gently with her leather glove. I don’t want to involve anyone at work in this, she said softly. You’re the best Russian linguist at the National Security Agency, supremely overqualified for this simple task. Can we meet at your place tonight?

He said, I’ll agree to help you on one condition: I get to tell my colleagues that you and I had dinner so they stop trying to set me up on dates.

She smiled. It’s a deal. See you at seven.

Chapter 2

She carefully unfolded a small piece of yellow paper from her purse and placed it in front of him on the kitchen table. She let him examine the paper while she poured them each a glass of Chianti.

He rubbed his temples. The script appears to be Serbian or Bulgarian Cyrillic. It’s similar to Russian, so I should be able to translate most of the letters into our Latin alphabet. If the words are Serbian, then you’re in luck.

I didn’t know you spoke Serbo-Croatian, she remarked.

He shook his head. I don’t speak Serbo-Croatian, but I inherited a translation dictionary from a colleague who was killed by sniper fire in Sarajevo. At her funeral her father said I would be honoring Adriana’s life every time I referenced the book.

She handed Bill his glass of Chianti and pulled up a chair next to him at the table. To Adriana, she offered, raising her glass to meet his.

He sipped the wine and began to work. Kate watched him translate the Cyrillic characters into Latin, his long fingers transcribing the letters from the yellow paper into his notebook. His jaw muscles tensed as he concentrated.

He crossed the room to pull Adriana’s dictionary from the bookshelf. From the kitchen Kate observed him standing in front of the walnut shelf, flipping through the paperback, scribbling words in his notebook.

Frowning, he returned to the table. What is it? she asked.

I converted all of the letters into Latin, but none of the words mean anything to me. He pointed to script at the top of the paper. This says ‘potkova,’ which means ‘horseshoe.’ And here, in the middle of the page, are three phrases, each a combination of a proper name and a number: ‘Pec, twenty-three; Podujevo, forty-seven; and Urosevac, twelve.’

Pec, Podujevo and Urosevac are towns in Kosovo, Kate said. As the lead intelligence analyst in the State Department’s Balkans division, these cities were as familiar to her as L.A. and New York.

He gave her a puzzled look. I thought you said this was a personal matter.

It is. She leaned closer to Bill, reexamining the paper that she had studied hundreds of times before the note had something to do with Kosovo.

She noticed something new. Her eyes wide, she said excitedly, Look at this, Bill. Pec, Podujevo and Urosevac are arranged on this paper exactly as they would appear on a map of Kosovo.

A map? Bill asked.

She nodded. Originally I thought the words were scrawled haphazardly because of the lack of horizontal and vertical alignment of the script. But now it’s easy to see that these are points on a map.

She drummed her fingers on the table. But what does ‘horseshoe’ have to do with anything? And what do the numbers associated with each of the towns mean?

After a short time, Bill broke the silence. Kate, maybe I can help you crack this mystery if you tell me how you came to possess the map.

This was playing out much differently than she had expected. What had her father been up to?

Chapter 3

She owed Bill an explanation. She took a deep breath and began her story.

When my aunt called a few days before Christmas to convey the news of my dad’s death, it seemed impossible that he was gone. But then, at his funeral back in Chicago, his absence became real, and it was too much for me to take. I fled the church in the middle of the funeral service and trampled about a mile through snowy Lincoln Park back to our bungalow. When I got home I milled about listlessly for a while, unsure of what to do. Finally I settled into the oversized leather chair at my dad’s desk in the study.

She continued, "I spotted a small piece of yellow paper near my feet, under the desk. When I bent down to retrieve the paper, I noticed a sizable stack of hundred dollar bills banded to the yellow note.

"The note appeared to be written in Russian. Admittedly the first thing I thought was that my dad must have somehow been connected to the Russian mafia. Why else would he possess a stack of cash and a note written in Cyrillic?

"But it seemed impossible that my dad could have a relationship with the mafia, as he was the most honest man I knew, and he had plenty of money in savings. I sat there for a long time, thinking.

"The doorbell rang. I quickly pocketed the note and buried the cash deep in one of the desk drawers. My aunt had come to check on me. She offered to help wrap up loose ends in Chicago so that I could try to get back to a normal life in Washington quickly.

I stayed at my aunt’s house that night. The next morning we returned to the bungalow to retrieve my dad’s insurance documents. While my aunt was in the kitchen, I hurried into the study to grab the stack of cash. I dug through the papers in the desk drawer, but the money was gone.

Kate circled the Chianti in her glass, her gaze fixed on the swirling liquid. I figured the Russian mafia had sent somebody to the bungalow to retrieve the cash, but this explanation no longer makes sense, now that we know the note is a map of Kosovo.

Bill looked disturbed. Who was in your house that night? Who took the money?

I don’t know, she said. She had been uncomfortable with the idea that somebody had broken into the bungalow, but she had convinced herself that the intruder had only been after the cash. She shuddered, unsettled by the stranger’s unknown motive.

If we can understand the purpose of the map, then maybe we can figure out who the intruder was, he suggested.

They sat together in silence, examining the map for additional clues. She sighed, stretching her arms above her head. I had better get going. My flight leaves early in the morning.

He retrieved her jacket from the closet and unlocked the apartment door. He looked worried, but he said nothing.

I need to do this, she offered gently.

I know, he said. Perhaps you’ll solve the riddle of the map while you’re there. He looked down at his feet, and then back up at her. Please be careful, Kate. All it takes is one bullet from a sniper’s rifle.

She clasped his hands, offering a reassuringly grip. I’ll be back in four weeks, Bill. You can count on it.

Chapter 4

The flight descended toward Sarajevo, once the capital of Yugoslavia. Kate closed her eyes, permitting herself a moment of reflection. When Bosnia declared independence from Yugoslavia in 1992, war raged for three years. In the end, NATO landed its first post-Cold War mission: to keep the peace in a country blown apart by ethnic conflict.

Her thoughts returned to the map. A new idea came to her, a possible explanation. Her father manufactured mine safety equipment, and he periodically exported his materials to mines in Europe and South America. Had her father planned on doing business in Kosovo?

She recalled a conversation she and her dad shared the last time she had seen him, at Thanksgiving. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? She had been talking about her work, and he mentioned that someday he dreamed of visiting Kosovo to see the Trepca mines. The mines, he had informed her, were rumored to be the most abundant source of zinc in all the world.

She had established a business connection between her dad and Kosovo, but this didn’t explain the existence of the map, or of the cash. Or of the disappearance of the cash.

Kate craned her neck to glimpse Sarajevo as the jet descended. She spied medieval steeples popping out like daggers among the red roofs. The Mijacka River, snaking through the heart of the old town, glistened.

The sun was beginning to set. She spotted the famous Latin Bridge, where Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in 1914 by a small group of young Serbs seeking independence from Austria. Now, in 1999, the tables had turned: Kosovar Albanians were taking up arms to fight for independence from the Serbs.

Kate had told Bill that Kosovo was safer now than it had been in a while. While that was true, safe was a relative term. She took a deep breath, wondering what was in store for her these next four weeks.

Chapter 5

An Army lieutenant greeted her at the gate at Sarajevo International Airport.

Ms. Bennett? I’m Lieutenant Scudder. I’ll be escorting you to Kosovo Verification Mission headquarters in Pristina. After we retrieve your luggage, we’ll proceed to the military end of the airport.

All I have is this backpack, she said.

Lieutenant Scudder smiled. To the Jeep, then. They walked to the far end of the terminal to Scudder’s vehicle. They drove out of the civilian airport and past a guard into a restricted military area.

Parking near a Black Hawk helicopter, Kate said wistfully, I’ve always wanted to ride in one of those.

Today’s your lucky day, ma’am. We’re transporting two high level dignitaries to Pristina, and they don’t want to drive the scenic four hours through the mountains in the dark. It’ll be about a thirty-minute flight to Pristina Airfield. We’ll take off as soon as General Willis and Secretary Anderson arrive.

She could hardly believe she would be accompanying the U.S. Secretary of State and a decorated four-star general to Kosovo. Why are General Willis and Secretary Anderson going to Pristina? she asked.

They’re meeting with the chief of the Kosovo Verification Mission for a situation update, Scudder said.

A situation update? Why would they bother going to Pristina when they can video teleconference?

Scudder shrugged his shoulders. I wondered the same thing, ma’am.

Chapter 6

A speeding Mercedes parked near the helicopter. A chauffeur opened the back door for the Secretary of State, who clasped her briefcase as she swung her lean legs out of the automobile. Scudder offered a hand to the Secretary as she stepped into the body of the Black Hawk, and then he motioned to Kate to climb into the helicopter. Scudder gave Kate a boost.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam Secretary. I’m Kate Bennett, an analyst in the Balkans division.

Secretary Anderson smiled. The pleasure is mine. Your monthly reports make it to my desk, which is no small feat for a mid-level analyst, Ms. Bennett.

Kate was incredulous that the Secretary of State had recognized her work. Thank you, ma’am, she said.

General Willis’s Mercedes arrived a few minutes later. The General climbed into the helicopter and took a seat next to the Secretary on the bench.

Scudder handed ear plugs to the passengers, It’ll be just a few minutes until the rotors start spinning. Flight time to Pristina Airfield is thirty-two minutes. Scudder sat on a stool across from Kate, securing his seat belt.

As the Secretary inserted her earplugs, she addressed General Willis. How do you think the meeting went, John?

General Willis said, Milosevic is never going to agree to withdraw his troops from Kosovo, Alice. He purposely likened the conflict in Kosovo to the situation in Chechnya to remind us that Moscow will veto any U.N. Security Council resolution for NATO intervention. If NATO could find justification to intervene in Kosovo, then what would stop us from intervening in Russia’s backyard? He’s pitting us against Moscow to save his own skin.

The Secretary closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. With the fiftieth anniversary of NATO just around the corner, we need a victory in Kosovo right now, to prove that NATO is not an anachronism, and that when push comes to shove, we’ll do the right thing.

Kate was listening carefully, and the Secretary seemed to notice. What do you think, Ms. Bennett?

Did the Secretary really want to know what a mid-level analyst thought? Kate chose her words carefully, politely. I have never considered the internal conflict in Kosovo as having anything to do with NATO’s relevance, or with U.S.-Russian relations.

The Secretary said, Milosevic’s inability to manage his own security situation effectively is why Kosovo has become NATO’s problem, Kate. As long as Milosevic is in power, there will be no peace in the Balkans. We cannot make the same mistake we did in Bosnia, wasting time debating what action to take against Milosevic while he carries out atrocities against his own people.

Kate was silent. The Secretary said, What is it, Kate? It’s not every day that I have a chance to hear what one of my top intelligence analysts think.

Kate opened up. Madame Secretary, Milosevic is a rational and calculating leader. He wouldn’t order ethnic cleansing in Kosovo, because he knows such a move would foster his political demise. If we really want peace in Kosovo, then we should help Milosevic disarm the insurgent Kosovo Liberation Army, and we should make clear to the KLA that an independent Kosovo is not an option.

A forced smile appeared on the Secretary’s face. Our problem isn’t the KLA, Ms. Bennett; it’s Milosevic. If he is unwilling to cooperate with NATO, then we must follow through with our threat of air strikes for the sake of NATO’s credibility.

Kate felt her pulse quicken. An air campaign over Kosovo will incite an exodus of refugees into Albania and Macedonia. If you believe that Milosevic wants an ethnic cleansing of the province, then a NATO air campaign would only help him achieve these goals.

General Willis cut in. A brief air campaign over Kosovo would undermine Milosevic’s domestic credibility, deposing him of power. With Milosevic out of the way, we can bring peace to Kosovo, with fewer lives lost in the long run.

Kate said, The American public won’t agree to wage a preemptive military campaign.

They did in Bosnia, the General retorted.

That’s because the media had documented the genocide in Bosnia. There is no genocide in Kosovo, Kate asserted.

The rotor blades of the Black Hawk began to turn, muffling the General’s response and terminating the prospect of continued conversation.

Kate looked past Scudder, out the window. As the helicopter ascended, she noticed the buildings below pocked by missiles from the Bosnian war. The Black Hawk glided over forested hills, gaining altitude to traverse the more rugged alpine terrain of the province of Montenegro.

Twenty minutes later, in the dwindling light of dusk, the terrain softened to rolling hills, and then finally to the flat plains of farm land. This must be Kosovo, she thought.

The helicopter descended. She craned her neck to look ahead, searching for their destination. She spotted a tiny air strip dimly lit among farms.  A few miles past that she could see the sprawling city of Pristina, the capital of Kosovo. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a nourishing breath, eager for the adventure that lay ahead.

Chapter 7

The desolate airfield consisted of a hangar and two other buildings.  One of Scudder’s sergeants had secured a weathered Mercedes for their ride to Verification Mission headquarters.

The passengers rode in silence while Scudder handled the luxury vehicle effortlessly the first ten kilometers through farmland. As they entered Pristina, Kate found herself gripping the door handle while Scudder managed the Mercedes up and down hilly roads through heavy, seemingly lawless traffic.

Mission headquarters, like most of the other buildings on the street, was a squat, concrete compound. Scudder squeezed the car in a tight spot in front.  He tugged the heavy metal door of the building, holding it open for his three passengers.

The first thing Kate noticed about the building interior was the harsh lighting. Fluorescent bulbs illuminated dingy, whitewashed walls, and the scuffed marble floor had lost its luster long ago. Desks peppered the wide, open room. Kate noticed three offices at the back of the room, appendages that appeared to have been constructed more recently, perhaps to suit the needs of the Mission’s leaders.

A lanky, sloppily dressed civilian popped out of one of the offices. He spoke rapidly, a forced smile pasted on his oval face. Madam Secretary and General Willis, welcome to the KVM operations center. Please join me in my office, he said. She recognized the man as Joe Watson, the Mission’s newly appointed director.

Kate spied the only other person working in the office, a uniformed U.S. Army Captain. His gaze was focused on his computer screen. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place how she knew him. He looked at Kate and Scudder, a smile spreading across his face. He approached them at the door.

Kate recalled how she knew the Captain. She had seen him once before at an intelligence conference in Germany two years prior. She remembered him distinctly because he was exceptionally well spoken. His bright green eyes had glistened as he presented the audience with an update on the ground situation in Bosnia.

Addressing Scudder, the Captain said, How are things in Sarajevo, Lieutenant?

Business as usual, sir.

The Captain chuckled and turned to Kate. As their eyes met, Kate felt her pulse quicken.

Captain Luke Davis, he said, extending a firm handshake. I’m the Verification Mission’s operations officer.

Kate Bennett, State Department. Reporting for thirty days of patrol duty.

We’ve been expecting you, Luke said. Let’s get you outfitted. Scudder excused himself as Kate and Luke walked over to a closet in the far corner of the room.

Here’s a flak jacket, helmet and radio, he offered. We don’t carry guns. People can shoot at us— and they do— but we’re not allowed to shoot back.

She laughed. That’s reassuring.

What languages do you speak? he asked.

Basic conversational Albanian, and a little Serbo-Croatian.

Good, he said. Tomorrow you’ll patrol Stari Trg, thirty miles north of Pristina, with an observer named John Harris. He’s from the State Department, too.

Scudder rejoined Kate and Luke near the supply closet. You’re not headed back this evening, are you, Chip? Luke asked.

No, sir. The Secretary and General didn’t want to fly back in the dark. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.

They heard the click of Director Watson’s office door. How strange to travel all the way to Pristina for such a brief meeting, Kate thought.

Turning to Kate, Scudder said, It was a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.

And you, Lieutenant Scudder. Thanks for remarkable ride.

As Scudder opened the door to escort the dignitaries outside, Kate felt the cold winter air permeate the room.

Luke turned to Kate. The Hotel Ambassador is about six blocks north of the office. If you can give me five minutes to wrap up my work, I’ll drive you there to get settled in for the night.

Thank you, she said. She sat down at a desk near the door. She stole a glance at Luke, who had resumed his position at his computer. She looked forward to working with somebody who seemed to take his work as seriously as she took hers.

Chapter 8

He unlocked the passenger side door for her. What kind of car is this? she asked. It looks like a Fiat, but the ‘Z’ insignia on the hood is unfamiliar.

He smiled. Until recently Fiat produced a line of its compact cars about fifty miles north of here.  They were sold under the name Zastava, which means ‘flag’ in Serbo-Croatian.

As they drove out of the parking lot, she asked, "Do you still go out on patrol, or are you too busy managing