208 AMERICAN SPYtion was the Serbs would be less likely to arrest or harm Rugova if he was
accompanied by an American officer.
I took a taxi across town to Rugova’s secret lair, a smoke-filled, under-
ground conference room known as the “Writers’ Club.” Rugova and a
dozen or so of his Democratic League of Kosovo colleagues warmly wel-
comed me to their hideout. I sat next to Rugova at the head of the large
conference table while hot tea was served. After putting a spoonful of sugar
in his mouth, Rugova returned the spoon to the sugar bowl before passing
it on to me. I normally put sugar in my hot tea, but in this instance, I
politely declined.
After a brief discussion of the game plan and securing Rugova’s agree-
ment to venture out again, we went upstairs and walked toward a small
Soviet Lada, in which we would ride across town to the Grand Hotel. The
driver opened the door for future president Rugova, who got in and sat in
the back seat of his beat-up Communist limo. I rode shotgun and would
deal with any police checkpoints we might encounter. We then drove off
through chaotic streets of Pristina, weaving our way through running
battles between ethnic Albanian demonstrators and Serb specialci. Tear
gas hung in the air and made breathing difficult.
As expected, we were soon stopped at a specialci roadblock. A big Serb
specialist in full riot gear approached my side of the car. I rolled down the
window, and he immediately put his AK to my head. His specialci brethren
surrounded the car and could see that the instantly recognizable Rugova
was in the back seat. Rugova remained motionless and said nothing. It was
make or break time for me, a genetically calm person and, at the time, a
fluent speaker of Serbian. If I failed to talk us through this situation, the
Serbs would arrest, beat, and possibly kill the future president of Kosovo.
Doing my best to ignore the barrel of the assault rifle that was aimed
directly at my forehead, I explained to the officer who we were and where
we were headed. I lied and told him we had been assured safe passage by
senior Serb police officials.
The big specialac looked at me as if I were from another planet. After
what seemed like an eternity, he lowered his gun and signaled for us to
proceed. His colleagues made a hole and allowed us to drive through the
makeshift checkpoint. We all breathed a sigh of relief. My two traveling
companions each lit up a vile Balkan cigarette.