Disclaimer: It's fanfic, meaning I don't own anything or make any money off of it. It's a labor of love. Please don't sue me.
This story is rated T. Apart from some language, there's nothing here that wouldn't pass muster on an episode of The Following. If you're old enough to watch the Following, you're old enough to read this. However, it is The Following, so bad things can happen. Expect possible violence, dark themes, angst, and a certain amount of general awfulness. No serial killers, FBI agents, or small furry animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic. And don't try anything you read here at home.
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Chapter 2 - We're All Criminals Here
Quantico, Virginia, September 11th, 2014
Now
Director Franklin stood on the stage of the auditorium addressing the first class of New Agent Trainees to graduate from the FBI academy at Quantico in over two years. Behind him were the blue drapes across the back of the stage, the giant FBI seal, and on either side, the American flags on short indoor poles.
"Earlier this year," Franklin said, "the FBI marked it's 100th anniversary. Over the course of a century, the Bureau has changed and grown to face new challenges, and new threats. You are the first class to graduate since 2012, and you are needed on the front lines. Until now, you have been New Agent Trainees. Today, you become Special Agents, charged with protecting the American people from threats ranging from organized crime, to cyber crime, to terrorism. Much will be expected of you, because we live in a dangerous world. But I know you will rise to the challenge, and protect our nation and our way of life with the same courage, ingenuity, and resolve that Special Agents have shown for a hundred years. And now, if you are ready to join the ranks of a Bureau that has, for a century, stood in the defense of our people, our Constitution, our freedoms, our civil rights, and our way of life, then stand, raise your right hand, and repeat after me."
It was a moment she had dreamed of for years. She hadn't even told anyone when she had first applied, not even Ryan. She was afraid she wouldn't be accepted, and she didn't want Ryan to see her fail. And now, after six months of hard work, here she was, along with forty-six other newly minted Special Agents, achieving a years long dream that had begun early in her career with the NYPD'
"I, Maxine Hardy, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God."
"Congratulations," Franklin said. "And welcome to the FBI."
II
She worked her way slowly towards the back of the auditorium past happy families enjoying a proud moment with their son, daughter, husband, sister, or other relative who had just graduated from Quantico. Aunt Jenny had planned to be here, but a last minute bout of stomach flu had forced her to cancel. She had called Max the night before apologizing profusely, but it was impossible for her to travel at the moment. Max understood, of course, but looking around at the groups of people, she felt Jenny's absence keenly. The biggest day of my life, and I've got almost no one to share it with, except...
"Ryan!" She spotted him across the lobby as the exited the auditorium, and began pushing towards him. They met halfway, and she threw herself into his arms.
"I'm so glad you could make it," she said.
"No way would I miss this."
"How's Jenny? Have you talked to her today?"
"Yeah, I called her right before the graduation started. She's better today. She actually had to go to the ER last night. They didn't admit her, but they gave her IV fluids and some meds. She said whatever they gave her really helped. She definitely sounded better."
"That's good. Too bad she couldn't make it."
"Yeah. I wish Ray could be here. God, he'd be so proud of you."
"And I wish..." she hesitated. "I wish Mom was here." She had started to say Mike.
"Yeah," Ryan said, "Her too." He smiled, but his eyes betrayed that he knew what she'd been about to say.
"I've got us some reservations," Ryan said. "The Emerywood up in Woodbridge."
"That's kind of pricey, isn't it?"
"Nothing but the best for my niece. I'm buying."
III
The Emerywood was built to resemble a colonial tidewater style house, if colonial tidewater style houses had been built in the shadow of a four lane highway bridge over the Occoquan river. There were outdoor tables on a broad expanse of wooden deck behind the building, cooled by ceiling fans. There was a marina behind the restaurant, and about a dozen power boats were tied up at the three piers that jutted out into the river. Ryan had been able to reserve an outdoor table. Max ordered a crab cake sandwich and potato salad.. She might have gotten a glass of wine, but mindful of Ryan's alcoholism opted for the iced tea. It was served Southern style, meaning with enough sugar that you could leave a thumb print in it. Ryan was demolishing something called a shrimp and oyster po boy, which resembled a seafood sub.
She looked out at the river. A couple of people in kayaks were paddling by, apparently looking for a landing, and one of them was pointing at one of the many No Trespassing signs posted along the river's edge. "So what have they got you working on these days?" She asked. "More serial killers?"
"Actually, they've got me working organized crime. These guys have been leaning on some stock analysts to produce bogus research reports. They can use that to manipulate the prices of certain stocks. There's a lot of money in that potentially. A couple of the analysts they leaned on went fishing week before last and never came back."
"Sounds like an interesting case."
"It is," Ryan said. He dabbed at a spot of white sauce on his jacket with a napkin. "You know, I still can't believe you didn't tell me you'd applied."
"Part of it," she explained, "was bad timing. I put in my application before we got together. I applied in 2012. . The hiring freeze had hit by the time we worked together on Joe Carroll and Lily Gray. So my application wasn't going anywhere any time soon. So the subject really never came up."*
"Oh come on. There was time before Joe resurfaced and time after."
"I was going to tell you if I got accepted," she explained.
" You were afraid they wouldn't take you. And you didn't want me to know if they rejected your application."
Max grinned sheepishly. "OK. So I'm busted."
" I would have never doubted you. When you get back to New York, maybe you can help me nail these syndicate guys."
She hesitated for a moment. She had been dreading this conversation. " Actually, I put in for Los Angeles or Seattle."
Ryan looked as though he had been clouted on the head. "Why? I thought you'd want to come home. "
"It's a chance to travel. And they need people out there to work cybercrimes because of all the tech companies."
"But that's not the real reason."
"I can't go back to that apartment."
"Did you ever even tell Mike you'd applied?"
"No," she replied. "I meant to. But when we got together, finally, I thought that maybe I'd stay with him instead. Just...be together. Make a life together. He was talking about going after Mark, and I thought that if I stayed with him, maybe he wouldn't. But he left, and they were asking me to report to Quantico, and with Mike gone, it was like the walls were moving in."
"Joining the Bureau was important to you. Mike wouldn't have asked you to give that up."
"Being with Mike was important to me."
"I was hoping that we'd get to see more of each other. That we'd work together. Spend time together... Let me ask you this. Are you so sure Mike isn't coming back?"
"He doesn't call, he doesn't write."
"Do you?," Ryan asked. Max hung her head slightly, without answering. "I know you're hurt," Ryan continued. "I think he knows he shouldn't have left. And maybe he can't admit that, not even to himself. Sooner or later, they'll order him to come home. He can't stay out there forever. Now I'm not saying that he'll come back, or that you should take him back. But if you go to Los Angeles or wherever, you're closing off the possibility. And besides, moving just isn't the solution. You can't run away from this. Whatever happens, you have to get some kind of closure."
"It's closed, OK?"
He shook his head. "No it's not. Look, all I'm saying is that we don't have any family, apart from each other. Going to Los Angeles won't bring Mike back, and it won't make it hurt any less. If you like, I know some people I could talk to. If you want to be assigned to New York City, I can call in a couple of favors. Stay in New York for a while. See how it goes. If you don't like it, if you change your mind, you can always put in for a transfer. If you want to work cybercrimes, then believe me, we've got 'em. We've got investigations ongoing right now of computer hacking and embezzlement cases against major banks and financial companies that run into the billions with a B. We've got computer espionage cases, and New York is terrorist target number one. That includes possible cyber attacks. It's the largest, most important field office the Bureau has. It's where the action is. You can make a real difference. And you joined the Bureau to make a real difference. And oh yeah, we could still see something of each other."
She watched as the kayakers turned away from the shore and headed downstream. "I don't want to be seen getting a posting just because you're my uncle."
"Have you actually looked at your transcripts? With your marks, they'll give you your first choice of assignments. . And it's not like they don't need people in Manhattan. What with the idiots in Washington bickering like children, this is the first new class we've gotten in two years. We've got holes in the lineup to fill. I can help you get your assignment changed to the one you really want. If you ask for New York, they'll give it to you, and Gina would love to get someone with your qualifications."
She broke into a smile. "I'm probably gonna regret this when it's the middle of a New York winter, and I'm thinking about sunny LA while trudging around in dirty snow. But OK. I'll do it."
IV
Skopje, Macedonia
The hands of the clock on the front of the three story stone building didn't move. He wasn't sure if they ever had. He'd read that they were permanently frozen at 5:17am, the time when the city had been devastated by an earthquake in 1963 that had killed over a thousand people. The stonework along the left edge of the building looked jagged, as if it had been damaged by the earthquake and never repaired, although it was probably a deliberate design. The narrow grassy strip in front of the building sported a number of what looked like headstones. He couldn't read Macedonian, and had no idea who or what they commemorated. The flag that flew over the building looked like a psychedelic version of a World War II Japanese naval flag. He handed a few bills to the cabbie. Like the flag, they had a colorful, slightly psychedelic 60's look to them, though the pictures on them were mostly of ancient coins or statues, or religious icons. The city sometimes felt like a patina of modern scraped across stone that was ancient before Columbus ever made it to the New World.
The Museum Of The City of Skopje was mostly an art gallery, and Mike Weston wandered through the exhibits on the third floor pretending interest in the mostly abstract paintings that hung on stone walls painted white. There were sculptures as well, even more abstract than the paintings. Something that looked like an upside down cow's udder sat on a pedestal in the middle of the room. A pedestal next to it held a statue of the number eight, or maybe it was supposed to be a sideways symbol of infinity. He pretended interest in a painting of peasants gathering in a harvest. It was done in a garish color scheme that made him wonder if what they were harvesting was something that would send you on a trip if you ate or smoked it. There were three other people in the room with him, a pair of young men speaking quietly in what sounded like German, and a woman who fitted the description of his contact.
She had shoulder length dark blonde hair tied back in a braid. She was wearing olive colored skinny fit cargo pants, a loose charcoal pullover shirt and black walking shoes with purple trim. Even indoors, she kept her sunglasses on. The briefing packet they'd shown him in Paris had said she'd be wearing sunglasses.
Mike had given the FBI liaison office at the Paris embassy a written description of what he'd be wearing to make it easier for the CIA officer he was meeting to spot him. He wore khaki slacks, an untucked blue denim shirt, and walking shoes.
The blonde woman stepped away from the cow's udder sculpture she'd been studying and stood next to him, staring at the mushroom harvesting peasants. "Excuse me, sir, but do you know which room they use for the concerts?"
"It's downstairs," he replied. "The acoustics are much better down there."
"I thought they kept the ancient artifacts downstairs," she said.
"They do, but they don't get many visitors, so they mostly use it for music. I think they have a string quartet today."
"I love classical music. Are you planning to go?"
"I am," Mike answered. "Maybe we could go together."
"I'd like that. Let's go." She started walking towards the exit, and Mike followed.
V
She said she had a car parked in the lot next to the building. It turned out to be a silver BMW 3 Series. Well, the CIA probably gave her a bigger allowance than the Bureau gave him. He got in on the passenger side, and she eased out into the late afternoon traffic. The street had a long three word name and he had no idea how to pronounce it. He'd been able to find his way around in most of the places in Europe he'd been because a lot of people here seemed to speak English. He hoped that was true in Macedonia as well. He'd wondered, at times, why so many people here could speak more than one language when the Bureau had trouble even finding enough Spanish speakers, and there were millions of those in America.
"So you're the famous Mike Weston," she said.
"I'm not exactly famous."
"Yes you are. You helped get Joe Caroll and Lily Gray. You testified before Congress. That's famous. I watched you on TV. I was back in the States at the time."
"So you must be Amanda Kirkland."
"I must be."
"That your real name?"
"You ever work with CIA before?" she asked.
"No. You ever work with the FBI?"
"Unfortunately."
"Why unfortunately?"
"You haven't worked with the Agency before. So here's how it is. We work low profile. That means no names. So today I'm Amanda Kirkland. Next week I'll be somebody else. The FBI didn't give you a cover, and the guy we're after knows you on sight. Which makes you a liability right out of the gate."
He looked at her wordlessly for moment. "I can tell I'm gonna love working with you. Where is Mark Gray now?"
" I don't know yet. They told you about Dusko Ivanovich, right?"
"Yeah," Mike said. "They said he was the guy who found Gray."
"Right. Well, he's looking to collect the reward, and he hasn't given us the exact address yet. I'm supposed to meet him tonight, and negotiate."
"You mean we're supposed to meet him tonight," Mike corrected. "Is that where you're going now?"
"Actually, I'm going out for dinner first . They sent me on kind of short notice. There hasn't been much time to eat. I haven't even had lunch."
"Where did they send you from?" he asked.
"We'll meet Ivanovich later, and get Mark Gray's location. Then I'll alert the team."
Mike decided that he was getting tired of her ignoring his questions. "Team?" he asked
"Yeah," she replied. "There's a military special ops team on standby. They'll do the actual takedown."
"I'm arresting him myself," Mike said.
"Do you have a gun?" she asked. "Because you couldn't take one through airport security, and you can't arrest him without a gun."
"They said you'd have one for me."
"The actual plan," she said, " is that you're taking delivery of him. We'll get his location, and then the team will go in. They'll hand him to you all tied up with a ribbon, you'll read him his rights, and then it's book 'em Danno, murder one."
"We're supposed to be working together," Mike objected. "As in a team. I'm not here to just take delivery. I'm here to make the arrest. So we need to be planning this together. And you need to be coming up with that gun. "
"Ok," she said. "So what do you feel like having for dinner?"
"Dinner?"
"Yeah. Since we're a team, we can jointly decide what to have for dinner."
"We're jointly deciding a lot more than that."
"Whatever," she said, grinning. " But first we have to decide what to have for dinner. What do you want?"
"I want the gun they promised."
"After dinner. So what do you feel like having?"
"I don't know. What have they got?"
"Whatever you like. Chinese, Italian, French..."
"What about Macedonian?" Mike asked. "Is there like, Macedonian food in Macedonia? I'd like to try the local cuisine. "
"Adventurous, are we? I like that. I know a place. Best turli tava in Skopje."
"What's turli tava?"
"Macedonian beef stew," she explained. "We'll meet Ivanovich later, and hear what he has to say. Then we'll plan from there. Jointly."
"We better. And we'll get my gun. In fact, I'd like to have that right now, if you don't mind."
" I do mind. I'm hungry. Dinner first, gun later. The waiters in this place can be a pain, but I'm pretty sure we won't have to shoot our way out."
VI
The first order of business was a car. That had been the easy part. Eliza's company, ZR Security Ops, had people in Europe, and she had simply arranged for two of them to meet her at the airport with a car. She wasn't traveling under an alias. Her business interests gave her reason enough to travel, and she was allowed a vacation now and then. So a couple of ZR men were waiting at the airport with a black Audi S5. It was a bit high profile, but she was traveling under her own name, so she decided that inconspicious would actually look a bit conspicuous. Plus, she might just need something high performance.
And besides, she did like to travel in style.
Weapons and gear were another matter. Her company could have fitted her out with almost any weapons she wanted, but it would leave a trace. She didn't want anyone she normally dealt with to know her business here, or indeed that she was here on business at all. So she had decided to go outside her ususal supply chain and call Stan The Man.
Stanislaus Loncar was Serbian. The post Communist collapse of the Albanian government in 1996 had brought misery and deprivation to many thousands, but Stanislaus Loncar was entrepreneurial. Where most had seen a disaster, he'd seen opportunity. When the Albanian government lost control of its own armories because it could no longer pay its troops and the soldiers were reduced to selling their weapons, Stanislaus Loncar had backed up a convoy of trucks and made off with everything from AK-47 Kalashnikov rifles to machine guns, antitank missiles, mortars, and grenades. It was the start of a hugely successful career as an arms trafficker.
Stanislaus Loncar had made a fortune providing weapons to anyone who would pay. His AKs had been used by Balkan militias to massacre entire villages, by poachers in Africa to slaughter endangered herds of elephants and rhinos for their ivory, by rebels in the Middle East as well as the governments they were fighting against, and by the spooks of many nations for a wide range of deniable covert operations. Stanislaus Loncar had been in business for almost two decades. Somewhere along the way he'd become known as Stan Loncar, and eventually as Stan The Man.
Stan had set the meeting place at a garage on the outskirts of Skopje. Normally she wouldn't have gone to an isolated location like this to buy contraband, especially not alone. But she'd done business with Stan before, and usually on a much larger scale. Stan had equipped her teams often enough, and if anything happened to her, he'd be out a valuable repeat customer. And today's buy was a very small one indeed, at least on Stan's scale. He was doing this in part, she suspected, to keep her sweet for future business. So she wasn't too worried about being ripped off or murdered. Even so, it made her nervous to be buying weapons for cash. She normally paid Stan by letter of credit, but she wasn't telling the whole truth about this trip even to the Organization, so there couldn't be a paper trail.
She pulled into the parking lot of the garage, a long, low stone building with four bays in the front. It was nearly 6:00pm, and the place was closed. A young man with a thick shock of tousled blonde hair and a mustache in dirty gray coveralls with the sleeves rolled up could be seen standing by the cash register through the front window. From the muscles in his arms, he might not need a jack to lift up a car. A sign hung in the window She didn't speak or read Macedonian, but had no doubt that the red Cyrillic looking letters on the sign spelled CLOSED.
She knocked on the door. "We are closed for the day," the young man said, in heavily accented English.
"I'm sorry," she replied. "My battery won't hold a charge, and once I cut the engine off, I can't restart it."
The young man opened the door. "You have a bad alternator?"
"I'm afraid so."
"I will open the bay," he said. "Pull your car inside."
The man disappeared through a door leading to the bays, and the rollup door nearest the office began to open. Inside, she could see Stan and two other men, including the one in the dirty coveralls.
She got back in her Audi, pulled into the bay, and killed the engine. As she got out of the car, the door began to close behind her.
Stan The Man was standing at the back of the bay flanked by a couple of hoods. Stan was dressed in a bespoke olive gabardine suit. The hoods wore loose fitting nylon jackets that could conceal an arsenal and would be cheap to replace if they got blood all over them. Stan had a round face with blonde hair and widow's peaks in a military buzz cut that made him look like an army officer, though he'd never served a day in uniform. Stan the Man didn't go to war, he just made a killing off of it.
She saw three suitcases sitting on a workbench next to him. She hoped those cases held what she'd come here to buy. She began looking around the bay carefully as if searching for something.
"What on Earth are you looking for?" Stan asked.
"Dead bodies," she replied with a grin. " I don't remember anything about you owning a garage, and I was just wondering what might have happened to the owners."
Stan laughed out loud. "You are always kidding around. The guy owes me a favor. I have the use of his shop."
. "Looks like you came through," she said, nodding at the suitcases.
"I always do," he said. "Especially for you. But I was amazed when you said you would be paying cash. That's not like you."
"I'm doing a job for an important client."
"It must be important indeed if you are doing the job personally." He indicated the young man in coveralls. "I'd like you to meet my son Dragon"
"I didn't even know you had a son"
"I am showing him the business. Dragon, this is Eliza. An important customer Who usually does not walk around with this kind of cash. It's a good thing I am so trustworthy, but then that is doubtless why you came to me."
"You're my go to guy, Stan." She said it with a smile, while keenly aware that she was hopelessly outnumbered and unarmed if Stan did actually decide to rip her off. "I've got some people coming in tomorrow. You want to meet them here?"
"Yes. I was told two men?"
"Two men and a woman, but you're just fitting out the men. It'll be a cash job, like this one."
"Of course. Check over the merch. Make sure it's right."
She began by opening the largest suitcase. Inside was a subcompact 9mm pistol, a CZ RAMI, along with a three magazines, and a small tuckable leather holster. Next to it was a Skorpion machine pistol with a folding stock, six twenty round magazines and a silencer. There was also a bulky looking shoulder holster for it with a large pouch for extra mags on the opposite side. It was too big to really conceal, but it would allow her to carry the gun and move hands free if she had to. The second case held several boxes of ammunition for the two guns. The third held her electronics. The smart phone she carried had been provided by the Organization. It was encrypted and secure, but she'd had Stan supply her with four burners just in case. There was also a set of six tiny tracker bugs and what looked like a GPS device that could be stuck to the windshield of a car with a suction cup and displayed out the position of the trackers. **
She reached into the pocket of her suit jacket. She was dressed like an executive, with a suit jacket and slacks, but with trainers on her feet in case she had to move. She pulled out a thick envelope and handed it to Stan. She had another envelope in her other pocket with extra cash just in case. If she'd somehow made a counting error, she could make it good right away. Stan riffed quickly through the thick sheaf of American hundred dollar bills.
"Put the bags in her car," he said to one of the hoods.
"Thanks Stan," she replied, as she took out her fob to open the trunk. ""Your customer service is unbeatable. You're going to be in town a couple of days just in case?"
"Dragon will be here. That's his number I sent you before you left the States. He's good, don't worry. If you need anything, he'll take care of you. But I must say, I'm surprised that you're operating like this. You have a lot of guys who work for you. Why are you calling on Stan for backup?"
" I didn't have a lot of guys in the neighborhood. I wanted someone local and reliable. "
"Well, whatever this is about, I wish you success."
"Thanks. Nice meeting you, Dragon." She got back in her car, and the rollup door began to open. She gunned the motor, and sped off, wondering what Stan had told Dragon about her. Stan had hit on her a few times, and she'd explained that she simply couldn't get involved with someone she did business with, which was a way to turn him down gently. She'd probably have to go through the same spiel if she had to call Dragon for anything. Actually, she thought with a smile, Dragon was hot, but even so. She had her reputation to think about.
VII
Her fourth floor hotel room had a beautiful view of the Vardar river, but she had little enough time to enjoy it. She hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door so that she would not be interrupted. She had to go through her equipment and weapons, and she faced the drudgery of loading her magazines. She also wanted to look over the report that the bearded man had sent her about the plan to capture Mark Gray.
According to the report he'd sent, the girl who'd spotted Mark Gray was named Marta Pandev. She was twenty-four years old, and had worked for Dusko Ivanovich part time for the past year while trying unsuccessfully to make it as an actress. Eliza weighed her options. She faced a number of serious obstacles. First, she didn't speak the language. She spoke Arabic, German, and Russian, but not a word of Macedonian. Second, Dusko Ivanovich was apparently hoping to collect the reward that the US Government had offered for Mark Gray. That pretty much ruled out simply buying Gray's address from him. She wasn't poor, but she couldn't win a bidding war with the CIA.
So she'd likely do better starting with the girl. Ivanovich was in it strictly for the money, at least according to the Agency. And apparently, they thought the girl was too. But maybe it was more complicated than that. In any case, the best thing to do was to start with the girl. If she had feelings for Mark Gray, maybe she could play on that. If the girl was in regular contact with Gray, then at least she'd know where he was. And if push came to shove, and she had to tie someone to a chair and start cutting off body parts to get answers, then it was would be physically a lot easier to start with the girl.
So she was starting with the girl.
VIII
"That was a good," Mike said. "Although that beef stew was actually lamb."
"Yeah, well, turli tava can be pork, lamb, or beef. It's really best with lamb I think."
It was dark, and Amanda was driving them slowly down an ill lit narrow road lined with small apartment buildings and smaller shops. He noticed that she kept checking her rear view mirror.
"So we're going to get my gun now," he said.
"We are. In fact we're almost there. I'm staying in a safe house that the Company rents. On Dusko Popov Street of all places."
"Who's that?" Mike asked.
"The guy that James Bond was actually based on. For real. He was a double agent in World War II. He worked for the British and the Germans, but he really worked for the British and fed false intel to the Germans. Later they sent him on a mission to America. He reported to the FBI that the Japanese were scoping out the defenses of Pearl Harbor. But J Edgar Hoover wouldn't listen, and threatened to throw him in jail because he'd picked up a model in New York City and taken her to a beach in Georgia. Old J Edgar didn't approve, and threatened him with prison for violating the Mann Act.*** Anyway, they named a street after him. We'll get you a gun and then go meet Ivanovich."
She turned onto a street that was better lit than the one she'd just left. This was clearly a residential neighborhood, and apparently whoever lived here was important enough to rate streetlights that worked.
She pulled over to the side of the road in front of a small frame house with a napkin sized yard around it. There didn't seem to be a driveway. She checked around them carefully before getting out. She'd taken a complicated series of detours on the way here, and Mike had recognized a surveillance detection route.
Inside was a tiny living room with a TV on the wall in front of a ratty couch. A short hallway led towards what looked like a small kitchen, and he could see into a bedroom as well of to the side. Two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen, and a living room. He'd seen larger apartments. She pulled out her phone and called up what looked like a photograph on the screen.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Photo Trap. **** I'm checking to see if anything's been moved."
"You're careful."
"I have to be." She looked around the room, comparing it to the pictures on her phone. Satisfied that nothing had been disturbed, she out the phone away and went to the bedroom, motioning for Mike to follow. She slid back the closet door, and pulled back a section of carpet on the floor to reveal a safe. She spun the combination and opened the door. She reached inside, producing a Glock 19, two magazines, a plastic mag holder that would snap onto his belt, and a leather inside the waistband holster with a clip to secure it. . "Here," she said.
"Do I need to sign for this?"
"No," she said, smiling. "We're not the FBI. They let me requisition weapons, vehicles, equipment..."
"Requisition?"
"As in they let me have whatever I need, and after, someone signs off on it."
He locked the slide back to make sure the chamber was empty. "Must be nice."
"It is, and they don't let just anybody do that. How long have you been after Gray?"
"I left the States back in March. So it's almost six months." He checked the magazines. They were already fully loaded. He clipped the holster to his belt.
"What have you been doing to find him? If you don't mind my asking."
He inserted a magazine into the Glock and chambered a round. "Mostly I've been following the money. Lily Gray had a lot of it. If I can turn off his money, then I can run Mark to ground. That's what I was doing when I got the call about Ivanovich. I was following up a lead about a bank account." He slipped the Glock into the holster, and pulled his denim shirt down over it.
"Bank account?"
"Yeah. Lily had a charity that she set up. It was a sham. Supposedly it was for orphans from war torn African countries. But she used fake charities to move money around, and Mark was getting money through those after he went on the run. . Turns out that a check got written on an account used by this charity that ended up in a numbered Swiss account. The Swiss don't like cooperating with law enforcement where banking privacy is involved, but they'll do it, especially with a serial killer like Mark Gray. So we found out that the money went from Switzerland to a bank in Macedonia. I was trying to trace it when I got the call about Gray having been spotted in Skopje. I was hoping that following those accounts would lead me to Mark. I was working with the FBI office in Paris. I'm going to contact the embassy here tomorrow and..."
"Don't," she interrupted. "Stay away from the embassy."
"Why?"
"Do you know why we're here?" she asked.
"To get Mark Gray," he replied, irritably.
"No. We're here because someone in DC got a visit from the Good Idea Fairy. It's a nonextradition country, but Mark Gray is a serial killer, and we could have asked the locals to hand him over. Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't, but the fact is that Washington decided not to ask. They're sending in the door kickers."
"You need to understand something," she continued. "You're not a cop over here. That FBI badge they gave you is worthless here. As far as these people are concerned, we're not arresting Mark Gray, we're kidnaping him. And if we get caught at it, we'll both be in prison cells hoping that Uncle Sam sends someone to negotiate for our release, and hoping that the Macedonians will listen if they do. We're in their country, and we're breaking their laws."
"Do you have any idea how many people Mark has killed?" Mike asked.
"Yeah, I do. I was in the States when Joe Carroll got resurrected. I saw you on TV, remember? I know a lot of people died, and I know your father was one of them. It doesn't matter. Imagine how you'd feel if someone from, say, Russia or China showed up in Manhattan and snatched a guy off the street that they said was a murderer. And maybe he was, but that's not the point. Not to you. The point is you're the guy in New York enforcing the law, and these Russian or Chinese guys are breaking it. So if you catch 'em, what are you gonna do? You're gonna throw 'em in jail.. So you need to stay away from the embassy. It's watched, and phone calls in and out are monitored."
"By who?"
"Everyone. You don't want to be seen going there, and you don't want to be calling there either. We need to stay under the radar. Remember, we're all criminals here. Washington decides that instead of asking for Gray's extradition we're going in after him, so we're going in, but we better not get caught at it. The rest of the world gets tired of Americans acting like cowboys, and if we get caught, they'll make examples of both of us."
"I need to trace that account."
"Why?" she asked. "If we get Gray, that account won't matter."
"We might not get him, and even if we do, we still need to seize the money."
"We," she said, emphasizing the word, "need to not get caught. This might be your case, your mission, your quest for revenge, but it's my one and only life. And yours too. I hope you can remember that."
"It's not about revenge."
"Whatever. Well, let's go meet Ivanovich."
IX.
According to the Agency file, Marta Pandev lived in a flat on the Ulica Bogdan Kabul. The information had supposedly come from Ivanovich himself. His Agency contacts had demanded details about the girl he claimed had spotted Mark Gray before any discussion about money could take place. She supposedly drove a Ford Focus, a common enough car in this part of Europe. Eliza couldn't keep eyes on Marta Pandev all by her herself. There was no mention of a regular job or a phone number. The best way to keep tabs on Marta Pandev's movements would be to plant a tracker on her car. The problem would be to catch her at home, and get close enough to plant the bug without drawing attention.
She had packed some energy bars before she'd left New York, She'd need them now, since it wouldn't be possible to stop for a regular meal. She's drive by Marta's apartment and get the lay of the land, then she'd have to come back on foot and in disguise. And she'd have to take some extra clothes in case she had to change her appearance on short notice.
She wore jeans, trainers, a gray T shirt, and a soft leather motorcycle jacket. She packed a light pink hoodie into a zippered nylon bag. She could swap the dark motorcycle jacket for the hoodie, and it would change her appearance quite a bit. She also included a plain cadet cap the color of washed denim and a pair of ballet flats and stuck them in the bag as well, along with a pair of sunglasses. The sunglasses wouldn't be much use at night, but she might just be out all night.
She stuffed the CZ into its holster, which was little more than a leather sheath that covered the trigger. Her T shirt was a size too big to help conceal a weapon. She stuck the pistol in its holster into the front waistband of her jeans , and pulled the T shirt down over it. She stuck a spare magazine in her jacket pocket. The Skorpion would be more of a problem. Although she had a shoulder rig for it, she would need winter clothing to really conceal it well, and the warm September night ruled that out. But her Audi was a ZR company car, and that meant that certain accommodations had been made. The passenger side airbag had been removed, creating a compartment behind the glove box where she could stash the weapon along with a couple of spare mags, although she'd have to store it with the silencer unscrewed.
Getting everything into the car took a couple of trips, since a lot of it had to be carried down to the car from her hotel room in bags to hide the contents. Once she was done, she stopped and ate an energy bar which she washed down with some bottled water. Dinner would have to wait. She sealed up the water bottle, started the Audi, and headed out into the night.
X
Eliza drove slowly down Ulica Bogdan Kabul looking for some sign of the Ford Focus the Tier 3 report had led her expect. There was no sign of it. Marta might not be home, but she could easily have missed it. She'd park a few blocks away and walk the area.
XI
This particular neighborhood was ill lit, even by Skopje standards. Eliza was careful to walk as close as possible to the street to make herself a hard target if someone stepped out of one of the narrow alleys she passed and tried to grab her. She found herself walking slightly hunched over, with her left arm just slightly forward. If she had to defend herself she could instantly sweep her T shirt out of the way and draw her CZ. She was glad it was still early in the evening and there were people moving about. At least she wasn't isolated.
There was a small parking lot tucked in behind the building where Marta lived. She hadn't been able to see it very well from the street when she'd been driving. She wanted to walk through it and see if Marta's car was there. She had a tracker bug in her jacket pocket. If the car was there...
She turned into the parking lot, which consisted of a shirt driveway that led off the street and spilt into a T long enough to park a dozen or so cars. A lot of tenants, if they had cars, would liekly have to park on the street.
She spotted a gunmetal blue Focus. She had no idea of the license number, but she'd take a chance that this was the one she was looking for. She turned left at the T. There were three other cars parked back here. She walked close to the parked cars. She looked around quickly. No one was close, or paying attention to her, and back here she couldn't be seen easily from the street. She'd just have to hope that no one inside happened to be looking out a window.
As she passed the Focus, she stopped, knelt down, and fumbled with her shoelace as if tying it. Then she quickly pulled the tracker bug out of her pocket. Housed in a waterproof magnetic case, the bug was small, not much larger than a cigarette lighter. She reached up and attached it inside the wheel well. It was fitted with an accelerometer, and would activate only when the car was in motion to conserve its battery life.
She stood and resumed walking. Once she was out of sight of the apartment building, she would circle back to her car.
XII
"Where is this place?" Mike asked.
"It's a mall, actually" she replied. "We'll meet them, then drive some place where we can have some privacy." Amanda was driving them towards the center of Skopje. Ahead was a bridge over the Vardar River. "If we get stopped, then you and I met at the museum. We decided to go out for dinner. I'm in IT. I work for a tech company called Mizar Automation. I set up computer systems. I live in New York City, I'm originally from Ohio. Single, no kids."
"All part of your cover, I guess."
"I can tell you where Amanda Kirkland was born, where she went to school, and what her astrological sign is. I can tell you her social Security number and who she took to the prom."
"So how did you get into this?" he asked.
"You mean the Agency? Same way anybody ever gets a job. I put in an application."
"Just like that?"
"Not just like that, no." She paused, as it deciding whether to continue. "I was in the Army. I spent some time Over There. I picked up some language skills, and I spent some time outside the wire. I was on a female engagement team. The locals didn't like American men talking to their women, so I went out on patrols with the combat troops. I could meet the local women. Talk to them. They were comfortable talking to me, and telling me things. I could gather intel. I was going out with a Special Forces team on operations. One of the guys on the team was planning to join the Agency when he got out of the Army. I kind of got the idea from him."
"So did he join the CIA when he went home?"
"He went home in a body bag."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah." She fell silent for a moment. "My name's Erin," she said. "Erin McAuley."
It took a moment for him to get over the surprise. He looked at her for a moment, and then smiled. "Nice to meet you, Erin, " he said.
"Likewise. Sorry if I was kind of hard on you."
"It's OK," he said. "You seem to be driving in a circle."
"Well, when you make a left turn, it's easier to see who's behind you. I have to make sure we're not being followed."
They drove across the bridge, the city lights reflecting a rainbow of colors off the dark water below. "So you packed up and left everything behind to look for the man who killed your father. It must have been hard."
"I had to find him."
"You didn't have any family or anyone to leave behind?"
He noted the words "or anyone". "At the time," he said, "There didn't seem to be anything else to live for." That, he realized, didn't answer her unspoken question. "I left someone behind. But we haven't been in touch since."
The bridge was now behind them, and the road ahead widened to four lanes. She eased over to the right. "But you hope she's waiting when you go home."
"She won't be." He believed it, he realized. But he still hoped he was wrong
XIII
The City Mall Of Skopje was built with a parking deck attached to one end, making for a sheltered rear entrance. Erin pulled into the deck, and eased up slowly towards the rear entrance of the building. "There he is," she said, pointing at a man standing near the entrance.
"He's alone," Mike said.
"Yeah. Get in the back, and let him get in next to you. I don't know what's going on, but I don't want him behind both of us." She slowed to a stop.
Mike quickly got in on the rear passenger side. Erin eased forward, rolling her window down as she did so. She slowed to a stop in front of Dusko. Mike had read that he was supposed to be forty, but he looked ten years younger. He was wearing a suit jacket, light blue shirt, light gray cargo pants, and casual lace up shoes that almost looked like low top work boots. Extreme business casual for the well dressed spook, Mike decided.
"I thought you were bringing a date," Erin said.
"She stood me up," Dusko replied.
Erin glanced back wordlessly at Mike. He nodded slightly.
"I hate when that happens," she said to Dusko. "Get in back"
Dusko slid in next to Mike, and Erin turned towards the parking deck exit. "I know a place where can talk," she said. "It's only a few minutes away."
XIV
They were in the parking lot of some ugly gray blocky apartment buildings. "Where is she?" Mike demanded.
"You are Mike Weston," Dusko replied.
So maybe I am famous after all, Mike thought. "Yeah, that's me. Where's Marta Pandev?"
"I don't know. She was supposed to meet me earlier. She didn't call, she didn't show. I've tried calling, and all I got was her voice mail."
"You think Mark Gray knows about her?" Mike asked. " Maybe we should go check on her."
"No," Dusko said. "We can't do that."
"She could be in trouble," Mike said.
"Mike," Erin said softly, "you aren't a cop here. If something's happened to her, the last thing you want to do is be found at a crime scene."
"When did you see her last?" Mike asked.
"Yesterday," Dusko replied. "We met, and she told me about her evening with Mark Gray."
"Where is Mark?" he asked.
"You have to pay for that information," Dusko replied. "Your government has advertised a reward."
"Which you won't ever collect unless we get an address," Mike pointed out.
"Just a moment," Erin said. She reached into the left cargo pocket of her pants, and pulled out a fat envelope. She opened it, and showed Dusko the contents. Inside was a thick stack of hundred dollar bills. "Ten thousand front money," she said. "But I want to see some food on my plate right now."
Jesus, Mike thought. They let her walk around with that kind of cash and hand out money and weapons like candy.
Dusko looked carefully at the offered envelope. "OK," he said. "Marta has been seeing Mark Gray for a while. She's fascinated by him. But he is violent, Unpredictable. He may have called her, and demanded that she go with him. If so, she would have had little choice but to go."
"Go where?" Mike
"Out. Maybe to kill."
"You mean she's a follower?" Mike asked.
"She's been seeing Mark Gray," Dusko said. "What do you think he does for fun? Miniature golf?"
"Where does he stay?" Mike demanded. "If she's working for you, and she's been seeing him, then you know his address."
"And when you have it, you won't need me, and you will pay me nothing."
"Dusko," Erin said. "You show up alone and empty handed. I gotta have something. I can't pay you today for a hamburger on Tuesday."
Dusko eyed the envelope like a hungry dog looking at a steak. "Mark Gray lives in a villa on the Ulica Nicolae Volocek. Near Saraj. There's a house. Number 1106. It's set back from the road. He likes his privacy. He rented it under the name Kevin Pender. It's a Canadian passport, probably forged."
"And Marta Pandev, Mike asked. "Does she stay with him all the time?"
"No. She lives at the address I gave. Gray calls her sometimes. As I said, he is reclusive. And erratic. And volatile. He may be killing someone right now. Perhaps even Marta."
Mike looked uneasily at Erin. He wondered who was more on edge, Dusko at the prospect of the cash or himself at the prospect of getting his hands on Mark. Erin sat there with a perfect poker face. She might have been holding trash. She might have been holding a full house. But she was definitely holding ten thousand dollars. She studied Dusko like a professional card player sizing up a fish. "OK," she said at last, and handed him the envelope. "I want to know if Marta Pandev turns up."
"I'll let you know," he said. "How should I contact you?"
"Leave a charcoal mark on the light pole at the corner of Kennedy and Dizhonska. We'll meet back here that evening."
"OK," Dusko said. "You still want to meet her?"
"If you think she can be trusted," Erin replied. "For now, I need to be somewhere else. You try to contact her. I'd offer to drop you off at the mall, but I'm pretty sure you can afford cab fare."
XV
"Where are you staying?" Erin asked.
They had left Dusko in the parking lot to make his own way. Mike was sitting beside Erin, who was driving them down a broad six lane road through the center of town. "The Vila Bandera," Mike replied.
"I know it. Good choice. I'll meet you there tomorrow. They rent bicycles there. Tomorrow, I want you rent us a couple of bikes. This place he gave us is just outside of town. It's scenic. We can use the bikes to go check it out, and its low profile. We can be a nice couple out for a ride in the country."
"Do you think he was lying to us?"
"If they're selling information they're always lying about something. But I don't think he was lying about Marta Pandev."
"She could be a follower, then."
"Or she could be helping Gray kill in order to set him up to collect the reward. Or she could be dead."
"If she's a follower, she'll sell us out. She may have done it already."
"From what you've told me, Mark Gray is stone cold insane. If she's informing on him, then she's got to stick close to him, and she won't be able to keep a set schedule. So don't read too much into it. I'll drop by your hotel early. We'll grab some breakfast and go for a ride in the country."
"That street you mentioned," Mike said. "Kennedy. As in President John Kennedy?"
"Yeah. Skopje has a street named for John Kennedy. And Ho Chi Minh. Go figure."
XVI
Marta Pandev was on the move. Eliza had taken up a position in a coffee shop a few blocks from her apartment, and had kept the small tracker unit with her. She'd ordered coffee and a scone and settled down to see if Marta went out for the evening.
She picked a seat in the corner. The tracker unit sat by her elbow. It could pass for a small e reader. The screen would remain dark until it got a signal, and it would get no signal until that car moved. She scrolled idly through the email on her phone. Lots of junk. Changes were coming to her internet bill, since her provider had been bought out by a larger company. Yeah, there'd be changes all right - higher prices and crappier service, no doubt. The deposed dictator of some African hellhole needed to use her checking account to get his billions out of the country and would gladly cut her in for two percent as soon as he had her account number. She turned to the news. Some nattering about the recent cease fire in Ukraine, and more charges and countercharges about the attack in Benghazi.
She was finished with her scone, halfway through her coffee, and bored with the news when the tracker unit came to life. The screen illuminated, showing a street map. The position of Marta Pandev's car was marked in the center of the screen with a red dot. Two numbers across the top gave the coordinates, and at the bottom were words Driving S on Ulica Bogdan Kabul 32kph.
She tossed her coffee cup and empty paper plate in the trash, and headed for her Audi.
XVII
Marta was picking up speed. Damn. Eliza didn't want to get pulled, but the girl was in a hurry. Maybe she'd been planning to binge watch something and had run out of popcorn. Or maybe she was meeting someone.
The red dot came to a stop. Eliza slowed, deciding to make a slow drive past whatever it was. Marta's destination proved to be a nightclub called Club Plevna. Eliza looked at herself, wishing she'd put a dress in her bag. Jeans and a motorcycle jacket weren't what she normally wore for clubbing. There was also the question of the CZ. If there was a metal detector at the door...
She decided to take the CZ with her, and if it tripped a metal detector, she'd tell them that she had an artificial hip joint from an accident. She parked, and made her way to the door. She gave the bouncer a big smile, and he let her pass without wanding her. Maybe they didn't even do that here.
Club Plevna was dark, loud, and crowded. The air conditioning was turned down to meat locker, and they were playing something with a synthpop beat. The bar was crowded and the tables were mostly taken. She looked around, but did not see Marta in the immediate vicinity.
She decided to go looking.
XVIII
The Hotel Vila Bandera was a cube shaped brick building painted light brown. It was small, only six rooms, and located about twenty minutes from the center of town. Mike wasn't sure why Erin had liked it, the beds were a bit hard, but the wifi worked, and the room had it's own kettle if he wanted to make his own hot drinks. The owners, a middle aged couple, had seemed friendly enough. The place was two storied, and Mike's room, on the second floor in back, was reached by a short concrete staircase that led up from the corner of the building to an outside door. In America, they would have called this place a motel.
He sat on the bed, looking at the sterile walls with one small art deco looking print on them, wondering how many crap hotels and apartments he'd stayed in these past six months. This wasn't the worst by any means. But even five star accommodations wouldn't change anything much for him. Even in the Presidential Suite of a luxury hotel, he'd still be alone.
This was the worst part of the day. The time between when he returned to his room, wherever that was, and the time he drifted off to sleep. The quiet time at the end of the day, when there was nothing to drown out his thoughts.
"You didn't have any family or anyone to leave behind?" No family, no. Mark had done for the last of his family.
But he'd had someone to leave behind. And he'd left her, even after she begged him to stay.
"But you hope she's waiting when you go home"
And what if she wasn't? He didn't really believe she would be. He hoped. But what if she wasn't there? What was there to go home to, anyway? Was home even there anymore? He thought about calling her, but what would he say? I'm sorry, I love you, but I can't come home until I find Mark. If she asked him to come back, he'd have to refuse, and that would only make things worse. And if she didn't ask him to come home, it would mean it was too late.
He'd thought of buying a bottle whiskey in Brussels. Something to help him sleep. He'd decided against it. Depending on alcohol to get to sleep was the first step to being dependent on alcohol. He wouldn't go there, he'd seen what it had done to Ryan. But he wished he could sleep.
He thought about the bank account. Mark Gray was moving money to Macedonia, so Mark was here somewhere. If he could trace that account...but Erin didn't want him going near the embassy. He could call Keith Hoffman. He was the FBI liaison in Paris, but that might get back to Erin, and while he trusted her, he'd try to put off the inevitable clash with her as long as possible. Because they were working at cross purposes. Erin, with her bundles of cash, unlimited gear, and military backup was here to capture Mark Gray alive.
And Mike was here to kill him.
He thought about the bank account again. And then he made his decision. If he couldn't work through the embassy or the FBI liaison... he reached for his phone. There was a six hour time difference between Skopje and New York. He scrolled down the list of contacts on his phone, and selected one...
"Hey Ryan. Remember me?"
XIX
She found Marta coming from the direction of the ladies room. She was alone, wearing a gray plaid cropped shirt and skinny black jeans with brothel creepers. She wasn't far away, and Eliza pretended interest in her phone for a moment. Marta was looking her way and she didn't want to be seen staring.
She gave Marta a few seconds to turn away, and started to put her phone back in the inside pocket of her jacket. As she did so, she heard a man's voice. "Did he call?"
She'd been so focused on watching Marta and not being made that she hadn't noticed the man with the short dark hair and stubbly beard dressed in a knit shirt with blue horizontal stripes and jeans. He was standing beside her on her right. "Because if he didn't, I'll be happy to get you a drink."
"Excuse me," she said. "I need to..."
"He didn't call, did he? We'll get a drink." Knit shirt reached for her hand, got her by her right wrist, and began pulling her towards the bar.
In an instant, she rotated her hand so that her thumb was towards the opening between his thumb and forefinger and snapped he hand towards her chest, breaking his hold. The move startled him. "I said excuse me," she snarled. She turned way from him to walk away, and found herself face to face with Marta Pandev. She stopped for a moment, while knit shirt said something in what sounded like German that probably wasn't too complimentary.
"She's with me," Marta said to knit shirt.
"Come on," she said to Eliza, and nodded her head towards the back wall. She walked towards the back and Eliza followed.
"I'm Marta."
"Eliza."
"You're American aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I have an American friend. Someone I'd like you meet."
"Sure," Eliza said, glancing back to make sure that knit shirt wasn't following.
Marta stopped in front of a table where a man was sitting alone. "Eliza," she said, "this is Luke."
Eliza looked at the man, and realized that she'd found Mark Gray.
Musical Interlude - The Long Way Home by The Birthday Massacre
======== Chapter Notes ========
* When I was researching this fic, I decided to learn a little bit about FBI training at Quantico. One thing I learned was that during the time frame of S2, when Max Hardy was first introduced as a character, the FBI, in real life, was under a hiring freeze, because President Obama and the Republican Congress were at loggerheads over the budget. Normally the FBI Academy at Quantico graduates a new class of Special Agents once a year, but there was no graduating class in 2013. That being the case, Max Hardy could have put in her application to join the FBI well before the start of season 2. In fact, it's more realistic to assume that she did.
We were never told how long Mike and Max were together before Mike left to go overseas. In trying to come up with a chronology , I learned that when the hiring freeze finally ended, a new class of New Agent Trainees, or NATs as the FBI calls them, reported to Quantico in April of 2014, and graduated in September, with nearly fifty agents in the graduating class. If we work that into the timeline for The Following, it would mean that Mike left to go chasing Mark Gray not later than March. (It would also indicate a remarkably quick recovery from his first stab wound, but that is neither here nor there.) Max, distraught, lonely, and badly needing a change of scenery, left New York City for Quantico a few weeks later. This is more realistic than saying that she went through the lengthy application and selection process for the FBI in the space of the few short weeks between Mike's departure and the start of the 2014 NAT course.
** The CZ 2075 RAMI is a subcompact version of the CZ 75, a 9mm pistol made in Czechoslovakia that was used by many Soviet Bloc troops during the Cold War and exported all over the world. But where the CZ 75 is a full size military pistol, the RAMI is a lot smaller, and made partly of aluminum to make it light weight. It's meant for issue to plainclothes or undercover types. The RAMI holds ten rounds in the magazine plus one in the chamber.
The Skorpion is also made in Czechoslovakia. It's a fully automatic pistol/submachine gun that was widely issued to Soviet Bloc paratroopers, special forces, and intelligence agents. It's also been used a lot by terrorists who need a compact, nasty little bullet hose. It's still standard issue for North Korean commandos. It's sometimes seen in movies and video games as well. The Skorpion is usually designed to take a 7.65mm cartridge, and on full auto can fire 850 rounds per minute.
Pictures and videos of any weapon mentioned in this fic can be seen online. Search engine or YouTube.
***Yes, this is all true. The Mann Act was passed to prevent women from being forced into prostitution, but it could be used to throw someone in Federal prison for a year and a day for taking a woman across state lines for "immoral purposes", i.e. having sex without being married. As for Dusko Popov, I once read his memoirs and have wondered ever since why Hollywood never made a movie about him. There really is a street in Skopje named after Dusko Popov, although most of the street names I cite are fictitious.
**** An app that compares the positions of items in two photos and tells you what's been changed. There's a good deal of real life spy tech that you can access and use yourself.
26
