I was surprised it mentioned anything related to news, especially since Cliff Sutcliffe took over at GNZ. I silently finished packing for another adventure.
Hoping it would be my last.
Chapter 9
Frankfort, Germany
July 3
Carter and I flew from JFK to Frankfurt, Germany, where we would pick up the Yugoslavian airline JAT. I was checking my phone messages, when I noticed Byron Jasper heading in our direction.
He was draped in heavy video equipment. But it was no match for the man who was five-feet-nine-inches of pure muscle. Of the three of us, it was fairly easy to figure out who didn’t have a gym membership.
“Thanks for the help, Big Ugly,” Byron addressed Carter in his usual high-pitched squeal. Byron was the only one who got to call him that without repercussions.
Carter barely turned his weary head in his direction. “I’ve been carrying you for years, so it’s about time you carried your own weight. And besides, you’re late-where were you?”
“Tonya had plans that couldn’t be broken. I can’t just drop everything whenever you wanna jet off to Serbia for a romantic weekend.”
“In other words, you weren’t allowed to leave until Tonya returned your balls.”
Byron laughed at another in a long line of good-natured barbs between the two, before turning his attention to me. When I barely responded to his greeting, he asked, “What’s wrong, J-News-upset that your girl stole your Lamar Thompson interview?”
When I took the comment in stride, he turned back Carter. “What did the aliens do with J-News? Those were fighting words I just threw his way.”
“You’ll have to excuse him-he’s having a midlife crisis. Claims he’s leaving the business. Maybe you can talk some sense into him … I’ve given up.”
But one look in my eyes told Byron that I was serious, and his tone changed, “Lamar Thompson was a god when I was growing up in South Carolina. Just shows how life can turn in an instant. You gotta do what makes you happy, JP.”
Carter shook his head in disgust. That wasn’t the ‘sense’ he had in mind.
But Byron understood where I was coming from. He was an all-American running back at the University of South Carolina, where he came in third in the voting for the Heisman Trophy. He went on to star for the NFL’s Arizona Cardinals, until his promising career was put in jeopardy by a gruesome knee injury. The so-called experts said he would never come back from it, but they underestimated him. He was a man who lived for challenges, and as usual, he proved the critics wrong by making All-Pro his first year back.
But at the height of his football career, with a multimillion-dollar contract on the table, Byron walked away. It was his job, not his dream. People were shocked by such a move in an age where greed was king, but those folks obviously didn’t know Byron Jasper.
His real passion was to tell the stories of those who couldn’t tell them for themselves. He’d caught the bug one off-season when he made a rudimentary documentary, with a hand-held camera, of hurricane survivors in his home state of South Carolina. And then when a teammate named Leonard Harris was killed in a freak accident, he came to realize that life was too short to be putting off his dreams. So he signed up to become a field cameraman for GNZ. The man who once had every eye on him as he streaked to another touchdown, found his real calling behind the camera.
He got off to a rocky start when he was assigned to work for a prickly correspondent named JP Warner. He was the overeager rookie, while I was the perfectionist with no tolerance for mistakes. But Byron took on the challenge, and before long he was considered one of the best in the business. We’ve now worked together for ten years, and I refuse to work with anyone else.
Byron was also a technology junkie, which helped GNZ remain on the cutting edge of the industry. Due to his contributions, GNZ was one of the first TV news reporters to use the videophone. Since we were usually stationed in remote locations, the videophone was a revolutionary tool. The pictures were often grainy with long delays in communication, but they could take you right to the action, which gave the viewing audience a whole new perspective.
As I boarded the plane for my last assignment, I knew it was time for me to follow Byron’s lead, and chase the dream at any cost. I had to be willing to give up J-News. He was right-life really is too short. And in this business, if you lose your passion, life can become even shorter.
Chapter 10
Belgrade, Serbia
We arrived in Belgrade tired, but with a second wind of excitement.
It had always amazed me how people around the world swarmed to Carter. It was like traveling with The Beatles. Although, this usually ruined any attempts at traveling incognito. The idea that professional wrestling had expanded beyond the borders of US trailer parks was certainly a disturbing thought, but it was worth it to see him put smiles on a group of kids from a war torn country. This time was no different.
Our hotel stay was brief. I could have used about ten hours of sleep, but settled for a forty-five minute power nap. Being my final trip, I’d actually hoped for a little fun-despite the bloodiness of Belgrade we’d witnessed over the years, we’d often had a great time here. Especially the nightlife. After a few cocktails, we would be singing and dancing with the locals, and the traditional Serbian food would actually start tasting decent.
Carter never revealed the details of our mission until absolutely necessary. This was fine with Byron and me, and I think the secrecy made Carter feel like he was some strange combination of James Bond and Dog the Bounty Hunter, which he really seemed to thrive on. The only item he provided in this case was that our guide’s name was Milos and for symbolic reasons Zahir wanted to meet on American Independence Day.
We met Milos at what was the biggest event in Belgrade that night-the Euroleague Championship basketball game between the Serbian club team, Partizan, and CSKA Moscow. The arena had an aroma I uniquely related to the Yugoslavian countries-a combination of a musty basement and enough cigarette smoke to cause lung damage. The people of the region have two great loves: basketball and cigarettes.
The place was jammed to capacity a good hour before the game was to begin, and the smoke hung like cumulus cloud cover. This didn’t stop the excitable fans from singing, chanting, and even tossing firecrackers on the court.
Milos was standing in the back row of the arena, looking like a typical American teenager. He wore a replica Lebron James basketball jersey and a pair of jeans. When we approached, Carter and Milos shook hands and made small talk-in English-like long-lost friends.
Milos’ baby-face made him appear to be around sixteen, which was saying something in Serbia, where most men had five o’clock shadow on their faces by noon. But Carter insisted he was twenty-five-older than I was when I was avoiding B-1 Bombers in Baghdad during the Gulf War. Carter’s sources and guides have an impeccable record, so I never questioned them.
We stood in the back of the arena watching the first half of the game. Paritzan led by ten at halftime and the crowd was worked into a lather. Then without warning, Milos was on the move. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t headed to the snack bar. We followed him out of the arena, and then along the Danube River, passing riverboats filled with young Serbs partying to what they affectionately call gypsy music. I guessed it was an acquired taste.
We arrived at a small Hyundai parked in a cobblestone alley. We piled in, and Milos drove a few miles through the crowded city. He parked in another cobblestone alley.