The Balkan Photo

By Kenny Ferguson

In the summer of 1987 in Romania, Coronel Nicolae Mollica has just murdered the communist party treasurer. He has no fear of being caughtuntil he notices tourist Maria OSullivan taking pictures that may include him. Photographs are retrieved but not all of them. The vacationing OSullivan family has now become embroiled in a matter of national security.

Now, the OSullivans and twenty-four other Americans on a tour bus are in great danger. They find themselves accused of murder and trapped behind the Iron Curtain. Tour guide Peter Korzo has run up against Mollica before; he knows what the man is capable of, but he is willing to risk his life to escape with his new American friends.

Mollica will stop at nothing, however, in order to remain in power. His indiscretion cannot be revealed, so with the help of the Romanian Secret Police and a nation of informants, he hunts the OSullivan family. He must have the photo but now he also wants Maria. He lies when he offers her safety and freedom for her family in exchange for a night of sex, Will she accept his offer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475994940

Kenny Ferguson

Kenny Ferguson served in the United States Air Force and worked for the New York City Police Department. He is director of security for a large building materials company in New York and lives in Metuchen, New Jersey, with this wife. He is the author of Shades of Blue, The Balkan Photo, Tariq, and The Lost Lamb.

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CONTENTS

The Murder

The Photo

Bye Bye Bucharest

Romania

The Romanian-Bulgarian Border

Ruse

Bjala

Pleven

Sofia

Banat Castle

A City Tour Of Sofia

Nedilya Square

The Hotel Dinner

The Interrogation

Exit Sofia

NIS

The Abduction

Surrounded By Wolves

The Spider

The Web

The Last Supper

Captured

Sex For Freedom

The Bomb

The Escape

No More Castles

Maureni Crossing

It’s Alive

The Chase

Running On Empty

Caught By A Cop

Caught By An Army

The Hated Americans

Goodbye Old Friend

Trapped In A Tunnel

To Jump Or Not To Jump

The Detour

Repairs & Injuries

Stormy Weather

The Local Gendarmes

Tanks

Hot Pursuit

Hazardous Highways

The Last Stop

Epilogue

To my children,

Kenneth and Michelle,

and my wife, Marie,

who shared this bus tour

through Eastern Europe

and for creating the photo

that inspired this story

THE MURDER

IN THE SUMMER OF 1987, Michael and Michelle O’Sullivan played a kind of touch and run game in front of Magosoaia Palace in Bucharest. It was the eighth day of their seventeen-day tour of Eastern Europe. When their tour guide, Peter Korzo, pumped his red umbrella high in the air to signal his intent to move on, the kids were unaware of the two men in dark clothing approaching them and continued to play their game. Korzo shifted about twenty meters closer to the palace and his tour group followed him.

Maria O’Sullivan tried to frame a picture of her two children and the palace façade in the view finder of her new Polaroid camera but the kids were too far away. She waved at her kids beckoning them to move closer to her and walked up next to her husband. What did Peter just say, Mike?

The palace is closed today due to a national ceremony.

Young Michael took offense to the man in the black coat that carelessly nudged his sister aside and rushed off without an apology. A taller and younger man followed the first one. Both men weaved their way through a cluster of tourist to reach a shaded alcove in the palace wall. The tall man fumbled with a set of keys until he unlocked a heavy iron door and the two men vanished into the building.

Inside, Coronel Nicolae Mollica and Lieutenant Alexander Ceausescu of the Romanian Secret Police scaled a narrow and rarely used staircase to a third floor kitchen.

Communist Party Treasurer, Ion Crimca, waited in the War Room. He sat alone at one end of a long table flipping the pages of a cloth bound ledger. As Mollica approached, Crimca glared at him over a pair of thick-rimmed eyeglasses. Nicolae, Crimca massaged the book with his hands. I did ask you to come alone.

Mollica nodded at his aide and Ceausescu back-peddled into the kitchen.

Why did you to bring him with you?

Who?

Who? The Romanian Prince, that’s who.

Alex? Mollica shifted his interest to one of the ancient weapons on the wall, I have his complete loyalty.

He is related to the president, you know.

A mere formality. Mollica nudged a heavy curtain aside to peek outside. What is this urgent meeting about, Ion?

Crimca rubbed his pudgy palms over the ledger as if he were conjuring up a magic spell. Millions of Leu have been pilfered from this bank account, the People’s Palace Account.

You should know, you have most of it.

Well… Now others know.

Like who?

Yeltsin for one.

The chief accountant?

Yes.

What’s a few million when we’re talking hundreds of millions… Perhaps billions.

So, pay him off.

Ha, some people cannot be bribed.

Then kill him.

Crimca lowered his head to the book. You can’t kill them all, Coronel.

Why not? Who else knows?

Crimca removed his eyeglasses to massage his face.

Mollica strolled along the weapons wall. I can take care of this.

No, no, no, my friend. It is too late for that now. This is too big, Yeltsin may have told others.

Like who?

That no longer matters, my friend. You must leave Europe at once.

Me, why me? Mollica meandered around Ion Crimca and the big table to the window side of the room and looked outside again. He considered the dark clouds forming over the Carpathian Mountains. There is a storm coming.

There’s always a storm coming.

Why not you? Mollica turned to face Crimca. You’re a lot richer than me and you told me that you hate it here.

Impossible, I am a Communist Party Official with the power of the Kremlin in my pocket, while you…

. . . Are just a Romanian policeman, huh? Mollica glanced at Ceausescu then turned to face Crimca and spread his hands apart. I thought we are partners in this.

We were but there’s no sense in both of us going to prison.

Why should anyone go to prison?

The funds were funneled through the Securitate, a state security project—your project.

True. Mollica continued to rove and examine the museum’s medieval weapons. Why can’t we blame this on Yeltsin?

Impossible.

What if I refuse and remain in Romania?

You will be arrested and beaten and spend the rest of your short life in prison but, Crimca opened the ledger, you would still have a friend in power.

You?

Crimca closed the ledger with a thud. Of course, me.

I guess you would go easy on the torture?

Yes.

And you would give me the best accommodations in prison, huh?

Of course, my friend.

Strolling behind Crimca, Mollica removed a four-foot broad sword from its sheath on the wall and stepped to Crimca’s side. When Crimca turned to face Mollica, it was too late. Mollica whirled and the razor sharp blade quickly sliced through Crimca’s neck. The sword came to an abrupt stop when the blade wedged into the backrest of the antique chair. The sword remained deeply jammed in the chair after Mollica released it.

Lieutenant Ceausescu charged forward to see Crimca’s head on the floor. Blood was gushing from the twitching body still sitting in the chair. Ceausescu, s lower lip dropped as Mollica yanked the broad sword from the chair.

The Coronel wiped his fingerprints from the sword’s handle and placed it on the table next to Crimca’s hand. Then he turned to face the head on the floor. I don’t think so, my friend. He stooped to retrieve Crimca’s severed head by the hair and carefully balanced it on victim’s neck. There. He carefully pulled the blood stained ledger from the dead man’s hands and continued his conversation with the corpse. Isn’t this a much better solution, my friend?

Ceausescu watched his Commanding Officer in silence. Somehow he recalled the memory of a snake swallowing another snake.

Mollica continued talking to the dead man as if he were still alive. Glancing back at his lieutenant, he threw his hands up in frustration. Now this fool will not answer my questions. I must assume that he agrees with me.

A perplex expression formed on Ceausescu’s face.

Mollica grinned as he opened the ledger to examine a few pages then turned to face the corpse again. He pointed an accusing finger at the dead man. If you confess to this theft and commit suicide, I might become a party official. No, that won’t work. There are already too many predators at the Kremlin. Mollica turned to Ceausescu again. I should have hanged him, huh?

Ceausescu shrugged.

You’re right, Mollica handed the ledger to Ceausescu and took a long look around the room. You must think that I’m too impulsive, don’t you? He put a hand on Ceausescu’s shoulder and nudged him toward the exit. You’re the only one that I trust, Alex but you must help me to control my emotions in the future.

Outside, Mollica and Ceausescu moved casually toward their car. Mollica paused to admire the structure of the palace. Why are there so many flags flying today?

It’s the anniversary of an ancient revolution.

Ah, Mollica looked around the courtyard; That’s what we really need in our country, a revolution and you know something else, Alex?

Ceausescu waited for Mollica to continue but the Coronel’s eyes were fixed on an attractive young woman posing her two children for a picture.

It has come to my attention that Party Leader Crimca and his accountant, Yeltsin, were stealing money from the president and the people.

I am shocked to hear this, Coronel. Ceausescu grinned.

Facing the tourists, Mollica noted the flash of the woman’s camera. That woman took our picture. Her camera was pointing directly at us. I’m sure of it.

What woman?

The one in the yellow dress. Mollica lowered himself behind the car but continued to watch the woman through the car’s windows. There. He pointed. "That woman with the two children.

They are just tourist taking pictures of the palace."

Follow her and get the film from her camera."

Shouldn’t we just leave?

Mollica shook his head in silent disappointment. Why can’t you just do what I tell you to do?

Yes, my Coronel. Ceausescu snapped to attention and saluted.

Don’t do that here, you fool. No one knows we are here. Take Sergeant Steaua with you and get the film from her camera. Try to be diplomatic. Don’t create any international incidents. Just get the film and bring it to me at the castle tonight.

You’re leaving me here?

Of course, I can’t stay here any longer. Someone might recognize me. You and Steaua can take the train back when you have finished.

Ceausescu leaned down to get Sergeant Steaua’s attention. Come with me, Sergeant.

Sergeant Steaua, sitting in the driver’s seat turned his head to acknowledge the Lieutenant.

THE PHOTO

INSIDE THE GLOBAL TRANSPORT BUS, Maria O’Sullivan began tidying up the clutter around her children’s seat. Each morning, the passengers on the left side of the bus moved one seat forward and the passengers on the right moved one seat to the rear. Michael and Michelle would have the front seats they’ve been wanting in two more days. The tour was half over and beginning to take its toll, especially on the older passengers. Most of who were over sixty and making their first and last voyage of a lifetime.

Michael and Michelle were seasoned travelers; they avoided using the often-occupied on-board-toilet because of its foul odor. Almost all the passengers were on a first name basis by now and had established a friendly relationship with the O’Sullivan kids. Only Jacqueline Nosworthy, a brooding teenager who was forced to accompany her parents on the trip, remained aloof.

Lieutenant Ceausescu flashed his identification card at the bus driver and climbed the two steps at the front of the bus. He paused to scan the passengers.

The bus driver, Helmut Schroder, recognized the ID of the Romanian Secret Police and moved aside. As the two men past him, he mumbled Gestapo.

Ceausescu heard Helmut’s comment and flashed the driver a dirty look before turning his attention to Maria O’Sullivan.

Helmut sidestepped off the bus to find tour guide, Peter Korzo and urged him back to the bus.

Ceausescu moved up the aisle to the mother of two children and shoved his ID in her face. Police.

Maria O’Sulllivan was startled by his abrupt appearance and looked around for help. She couldn’t imagine what was wrong. Perhaps she bought too many items from a local vendor or used her bargaining skills to get the better end of a purchase or maybe she got the money wrong. Her head began to shake. An uncontrollable affliction that began in her childhood and frequently reappeared in pressure situations. She nudged the Lieutenant aside to see out the window. Mike would know what to do. He knows how to handle cops. He is a New York City police Lieutenant who deals with trouble every day. But Mike was nowhere in sight.

You have taken pictures of the military. Ceausescu said.

But I…

You must give me the role of film from your camera.

But this camera doesn’t have a roll of film, Sir. It’s a Polaroid, it has a-

The film, please! Ceausescu demanded.

The tour guide, Peter Korzo, rushed into the bus and wedged himself between Ceausescu and Maria. He spoke to the Lieutenant in Hungarian.

The Lieutenant answered in Romanian.

He says you took photographs of military personnel and he wants the film from your camera.

But I didn’t—

I know I told you about this, Mrs. O. Korzo looked around at the other passengers on the bus. I told you all not to take pictures of the soldiers.

Ceausescu leaned closer to Korzo and whispered a threat into his ear.

Mrs. O’Sullivan, please. Korzo’s eyes bulged, You don’t want to be arrested, do you?

No. With six unused pictures in her camera, she reluctantly ejected the film cartridge and handed it to the Lieutenant.

Ceausescu pocketed the cartridge without looking at it and exited the bus. He and Sergeant Steaua vanished on the crowded street.

Michael Jr. ran to the front of the bus to meet his father and sister. Dad, dad, Mom almost got busted. She took some pictures of soldiers and they grabbed her film—

I didn’t do it! Maria sulked.

Michael Sr. guided his daughter into the seat in front of his wife. Peter told us ten times not to do that.

I didn’t do it- Maria turned her frowning face to the window.

Maria, Maria, Her husband sang to her, I love a girl named Maria.

I didn’t do anything wrong. She pulled the four photos from her shirt pocket and spread them in front of her like a hand of poker.

"I