The Company We Keep: A Husband-And-Wife True-Life Spy Story by Robert Baer;Dayna Baer

Author:Robert Baer;Dayna Baer
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Autobiography
ISBN: 9780307588142
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2011-03-08T09:53:59+00:00

TWENTY

Indicative signs are:

disposed boxes used for mine transport

disposed boxes used for mine trip wire fuses

holes in the ground from exploded mines and grenades

the presence of skeletons of dead animals

—From “Introduction to the Danger of Mines and Unexploded Ordnance,” The Bosnia and Herzegovina Genesis Project

Sarajevo: BOB

The landlord of the house where I intend to put my military communicator and Arabic translator comes over and stands behind me to see what I’m looking at. I bend down to examine the basement bedroom floor where it’s been cemented over, waxed, and polished, covering up some sort of a hole. I don’t know why I didn’t see it when I first rented the place.

“No problem, no problem,” the landlord says.

I bend down to take a better look. I look up and notice a similar hole in the ceiling, plastered and painted over.

The landlord motions me aside. “No problem. Look.” He stomps on the hole. “No problem.”

“It was an artillery shell, wasn’t it?” I ask. “It must have scared you to dig it out.”

He stamps his foot down on the hole. “See! See!”

I now realize that the round is still buried in the ground. The concrete and the paint are cosmetic.

The landlord is afraid I’m about to demand my money back.

“Is there another one?” I ask.

“This is the only one. I promise.”

I know about promises, but I’ve spent a lot of time trying to keep this place clean, and don’t intend to give it up lightly.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “We’ll be fine here.”

After I rented the house two weeks ago, I made a point of never driving here if I didn’t have to. I didn’t want anyone to start connecting the house to my car. Instead, I walked. I had it timed almost exactly: one hour and ten minutes from the National Library to the house, which sits high up on a ridge above Sarajevo. The route started with a steep run of steps, a traverse through a narrow alley, and a path above a dozen old stone houses cut into the rock. From there, it crossed a field and passed through a grove of birches, which led me to a narrow path through a village. The last leg wound up the mountain on a one-lane road. Anyone following me would have had to be on foot like me, and I couldn’t miss him.

Only rarely did a car pass me, or did anyone walk the route with me. Sometimes I’d pass children kicking a soccer ball in the road, but they’d ignore me. After the first week of this, I found a way to refine the route, cutting through a cemetery and a pine forest. I was absolutely sure anyone following me would have had to stay glued to my back in order not to lose me.

On the few occasions when I absolutely had to drive to the house to deliver supplies, I’d drive around for an hour to make sure I didn’t have a tail, taking a new route each time. Halfway up the mountain, I’d take off the license plates.

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