Page 9 of Spread Your Wings

CHAPTER FOUR

No such luck. Every day, the Serbian army’s presence grew.

They put up barricades around the parliament building and attempted to overtake parliament.

Thousands of Sarajevo citizens stood between the snipers and the officials, and Howard caught it all on video.

Sammy caught sound bites here and there, but Tima’s interviews and translations gave the most insight.

The standoff saved the budding government, and the new government declared its independence from Yugoslavia. The tension only increased afterward.

Outside the hotel, Sammy saw more and more olive-green coats and Russian hats.

The men wearing the Yugoslavian army gear also had rifles slung over their shoulders.

The ones without rifles tucked pistols into their boots, pants, or anywhere else one could fit a holster.

Whenever these soldiers accosted a Bosniak citizen, they called out.

Sammy didn’t understand the words. The hateful tone made him walk faster toward his destination.

Mustafa returned to work after a week. He still looked a little green as he sat behind the hotel’s admissions desk.

Sammy brought him a seltzer water after lunch, but he couldn’t stay and talk.

He attempted to find Mustafa that evening, and the guy at the front desk confirmed he’d gone home early with a headache.

Sammy didn’t see Mustafa again until the weekend.

By then, skirmishes had spread throughout Bosnia-Herzegovina.

Sammy, Harold, and Tima spent the weekend driving through the countryside.

They stopped at every small-town tavern along the way to interview the townspeople.

They returned to the hotel at night to write reports for Christiane to deliver around the world.

“I’m coming to Sarajevo myself,” she said on a teleconference the morning of April sixth.

Christiane sounded chipper and friendly, and he wanted her to shut up already.

Sammy was still shaking and hyper-aware of every sound after a sleepless night.

They’d heard gunfire as close as the top of the Holiday Inn all night long.

He tried to focus as she continued. “I want to see what you see. Hear what you hear.”

“She doesn’t trust us,” Tol said after they’d hung up.

“You mean, she doesn’t trust me,” Sammy said.

“You’re doing a fantastic job, kid.”

Harold patted him on the back. “Christiane isn’t the type to steal the fame and glory.”

When they placed the call to CNN headquarters for their next teleconference, his boss called Sammy back home.

“Christiane wants to write her own copy, and there’s a war on.

We’d like to get some good years out of you before we lose you.

” Director Melody Tan’s voice was warm, as though she were laughing at her own joke. Sammy scowled at Tol, who shrugged.

“Can he at least stay until the nineteenth?” Tol asked. “That would give him time to debrief with Christiane, and then he’s off to London for a concert. We can send him home from there.”

Sammy couldn’t hide his surprise. He’d never told Tol about London, or the concert.

“That would be fine,” Melody said, “as long as Sammy is on board. Do you want to stay until the nineteenth, Sammy?”

“Yes, that’s perfect,” Sammy said, sounding more upbeat than he felt. He wondered if Vasily had any luck arranging passage to America for Mustafa. The thought of parting ways forever on the nineteenth made Sammy’s chest hurt.

Sammy was surprised to find Mustafa behind the counter at the coffee bar later that morning. It had been almost a week since they’d last spoken. The bruises and cuts had healed. His hair, buzzed because of the head wounds, was now long enough to stick out over the bows of his dark glasses.

“Bright future?” Sammy asked, taking a seat at the bar after pouring himself a cup of French roast.

Mustafa seemed confused.

“Like the song, you gotta wear shades?”

“Yeah,” he said, taking them off and glaring at his reflection in the mirrored lenses. “For the headaches.”

“Sorry, man.” Sammy took a sip of coffee as Mustafa slipped the glasses back on his nose. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Too many. I’ll be fine. Have you heard any news from Bijeljina?” There was talk of a massacre in the city to the north.

“Not since yesterday.” Sammy, Tima, and Howard would wait for the Bosnian government to form a delegation to investigate the crimes before they ventured to the city.

“They were saying up to a thousand casualties. Tima’s sister Alma lives there.”

At least Sammy had good news for him. “Tima heard from her last night. She called home.”

“Thank Allah.” Mustafa bowed his head.

It was the first time Sammy had heard Mustafa refer to Allah. “Are you religious?”

Mustafa shook his head. “I believe, but don’t practice. What about you?”

“I grew up Catholic,” Sammy said.

“Like Vasily.”

“Yeah.” Sammy wanted to ask Mustafa more about Vasily’s plan to get Mustafa out of Sarajevo but said nothing. He didn’t want to get Mustafa’s hopes up. He also had to get back to work. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“It was nothing. Thanks for the news.”

Sammy held up his coffee cup to Mustafa’s slight wave, and they parted ways like old friends. Old friends didn’t give Sammy an ache of fear in his chest, though. He worried each time they parted now. He didn’t want this to be the last time.

As the days passed, Sammy wished more and more that he’d taken Melody’s offer to leave Sarajevo.

At night, he heard snipers on the roof of the Holiday Inn.

Staccato shots echoed and ricocheted down sniper alley, fired at pedestrians and drivers on the street.

On April sixth, the Bosnian government declared a state of emergency.

The country was at war. Christiane arrived on the seventh.

Her calm presence reassured Sammy he could stick it out for twelve more days.

After wrapping up an interview with Radovan Karadzic, Sammy headed back to his room.

He didn’t have far to go. The Serbian Democratic Party leader lived at the Holiday Inn with his family and their entourage.

Sammy had been up since four, and now it was well past eight o’clock in the evening.

The interview itself had been exhausting.

Karadzic was a zealot. Unchecked, he would make himself dictator of a Serbian province, free of Bosniaks.

Sammy ordered room service, a steak and French fries on CNN’s dime.

He was astounded by how little he had to think about feeding himself.

At home in Atlanta, it was a struggle to decide if he should stay in or go out.

He chose based on the food in the pantry.

Sometimes, the choice was getting groceries or getting by with a bag of potato chips and a two-liter of Coke.

Here, he didn’t have to skimp on calories or nutrients.

He didn’t even need to worry about paying for his meal, besides the tip.

A young woman with a thick braid and a bright smile delivered his food. He traded her a five-Mark for the heavy tray, almost too wide to fit on the desktop. He’d just cut the steak into bite-sized pieces when someone knocked three times on the door.

Howard had a habit of knocking repeatedly until Sammy answered. Tima had a timid knock, like a bird peck. Christiane always used the same unique pattern.

Four more knocks followed, these quieter and quicker. “Please be in there,” said a muffled voice he recognized. He rushed to the door, smacking his knee against the bed in his haste.

“Hey,” he said, opening the door for Mustafa. He wore jeans, a sweater, and a boxy gray peacoat. Even sexier than the hotel’s tuxedo uniform.

“Shh,” Mustafa replied, pushing him away from the door so he could shut it, lock it, and pull the deadbolt into place.

“What’s going on?”

Mustafa crushed him in a hug. Sammy responded, wrapping his arms around Mustafa’s waist and inhaling the scent of spicy pine aftershave. Mustafa’s rough stubble grazed his cheek.

“I have never been so glad to see someone in my life. I tried to head home after work, but it’s too dangerous.

Karadzic’s men have been restless all day.

One of the wash boys tried to run to his car, but they are on the roof.

They shot at his feet. They’re still up there, shooting at people in the street, shooting at anyone they know is Muslim. ”

Mustafa quaked in his arms. “A housekeeper overheard Karadzic’s guards. They’re going to go through the hotel, room by room, searching for Muslim workers. That’s when I ran up here. The fifth floor is mostly foreign reporters. American. French. British.”

“You could have knocked on any door,” Sammy said, feeling foolish. Somehow, he’d missed the signs of war within their own hotel.

“I don’t know them. I know you.” Mustafa lifted his head, his brown eyes shining in the lamp light. “Thank you.”

Sammy cupped Mustafa’s cheeks, appreciating the scruff of stubble against his fingertips. He tipped his chin up, making a silent offering to God, or Allah, or whoever, for Mustafa to take the hint.

Mustafa tilted his head down, his warm breath heating Sammy’s lips a moment before impact.

Mustafa’s lips met his with unexpected force and voracity.

Sammy melted into the kiss, opening his mouth and letting Mustafa take the lead.

His mouth tasted like cinnamon and cloves and his neck like spicy pine aftershave, salty skin, and a hint of soap.

Sammy trailed his fingers through Mustafa’s thick hair.

He found a long, thin scar. Mustafa hissed against his throat.

“Sorry.”

“Healed, but still tender,” Mustafa said.

As an act of contrition, Sammy traced Mustafa’s jaw from hairline to chin. Then, he lifted Mustafa’s chin to the perfect angle for another kiss. This one was softer and slower, the type of kiss that made his jeans feel too tight.

Mustafa moved them away from the door and pointed to the food on the desk.