Page 22 of Spread Your Wings
The eighteenth of April seemed like any other day, if Sammy didn’t think about the war. Spring had finally taken hold in Sarajevo. The temperature warmed to fifty degrees Fahrenheit by ten o’clock in the morning, with the predicted high in the upper sixties. Granted, the papers didn’t measure temperature in Fahrenheit. Sammy guessed and hoped he got the conversion right.
During a two-hour break in the afternoon, he packed his belongings into his two bags. His tight finances had kept him from buying souvenirs, at least. His clothes still fit in the rolling bag. He’d even dropped some books he’d purchased and read at the local library, making his backpack even lighter. He wanted to find another English book before they reached London. It would be a long travel day if he had nothing to read.
After a late night preparing for the early morning broadcast, he said goodbye to his teammates. Tima hugged him. Howard shook his hand and wished him luck until they met again. Tol was Tol. A side hug, a “Good job,” and then, “Get out of here. Make us all proud back in Atlanta.”
It was already one a.m., and Sammy’s alarm was set for four. He tried to sleep and couldn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mustafa. He’d been working too hard the past few days. They hadn’t seen each other at all. Thoughts of Mustafa filled his head. He’d seemed so small in his hospital gown. He’d been so scared the night the snipers overran the Holiday Inn. Sammywished Mustafa safe passage to the US, and soon. He hoped Vasily had it all figured out.
The room’s alarm clock blared before Sammy even shut his eyes. He dragged himself out of bed and into the shower with little ceremony. His tired body completed his morning routine on autopilot. His brain still worried about Mustafa.
He was brushing his teeth when someone banged on the door.
“Housekeeping.” He only heard it because the bathroom was next to the main door.
He spat the last of the toothpaste into the sink and wiped his mouth. He opened the door, and Mustafa bumped him aside, grabbing his suitcase from the closet floor. “Are you ready?”
Mustafa looked comfortable in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. The sweatshirt was the kind Sammy liked, a zipper down the middle. It was only half-zipped, showing the tops of the Yankees NY logo.
“Only if you are. Vasily’s plan worked out?”
“If by plan you mean, ‘Bribe everyone on the planet,’ then yes.” He stared fixedly at his feet. “You going to get dressed?”
Sammy hadn’t finished his routine. He shuffled to the bed and pulled on his long-sleeve T-shirt, sky blue with the Braves logo in the middle. He slipped into his black Oxfords, the last item of clothing he’d laid out the night before. As he reached for his jacket in the closet, he brushed shoulders with Mustafa, who blushed.
“Your eyes are the same color blue as your shirt.” Mustafa turned without another word and opened the door.
Sammy slung the backpack over one shoulder and stepped into the night-dark hallway.
In the low light, the red lobby carpet resembled dried blood. Vasily’s BMW was parked under the awning, protected from the snipers above. Mustafa took his backpack and directed himtoward the passenger door. “Get in and stay down so you don’t get shot.”
Sammy did as he said. He felt like a coward as he leaned over his legs. He touched his forehead to the cool metal glove compartment door.
Mustafa ruffled his hair as he climbed behind the wheel. “Just like that.” Sammy whipped his head around at the rasp in Mustafa’s voice, and his breath caught at the need in Mustafa’s eyes. His throat felt tight and his eyes stung. He had to look away.
The scent of pine air freshener overwhelmed him as Mustafa weaved through parked cars and merged onto the freeway. Sammy winced each time he heard a gunshot. Mustafa drove. With his head down, Sammy couldn’t see how fast they were going. The way his body slammed into the door with each swerve and the way his butt bounced against the seat at each stoplight suggested they were speeding. The gunshots faded into the distance, and then Mustafa slowed to make two left-hand turns and parked.
“Can you get your bags?” Mustafa asked, his voice a whisper in the quiet car.
Another shot, distorted by the acoustics of the airport buildings, destroyed Sammy’s hopes for a leisurely stroll into the airport. Instead, he got a hasty nod and a dash to the back of the car.
Sammy’s pulse quickened as he saw two other bags: a small carry-on and a large suitcase behind his. Sammy took his bags and hooked the loops of his backpack over his shoulders. Any other time, he would have draped the bag over one shoulder, but he wanted his balance for the run to the building. He grabbed both large suitcases, and Mustafa closed the trunk.
Patchy fog covered them in the parking lot. Mustafa ran, and Sammy followed, hoping the Sarajevo native knew where he was going.
A shot rang out as Mustafa opened the door. “They’re shooting from the hills,” he said, “Hoping to scare travelers.”
Sammy nodded. They’d done more than scare travelers, though. Hundreds of Bosnians had been murdered by the Serbs, with no end in sight.
Sammy made it through the military security checkpoint with no problems. Mustafa’s bags were checked, and then he was pulled off to the side for a pat-down. Two of the security guards pointed toward the back room.
“Find Vasily,” Mustafa said as a guard dragged him that direction.
Sammy stepped forward to intervene.
A hand on his elbow stopped him. “Let me handle this,” Vasily said, suddenly appearing beside them. Sammy had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.
Sammy did his best to stay calm as the two security guards raised their voices at Vasily. They spoke in one of the country’s languages. Bosnian, Serbian, or Croatian, he couldn’t tell. After more terse words, and one of the guards resting his hand on his service weapon, Vasily turned to Sammy. “Take Mumu to terminal seven. I’ll join you in a minute.” One of the security guards took Vasily by the arm and dragged him into an office.
“He will be fine,” Mustafa said, heading for the concourse. “The Jews paid good money for a pilot.”
