He reached the parking lot with just enough time to punch in; to beat the clock. His veteran ears had been listening to radio news about the Sarajevo trials. The unpronounceable had committed the unimaginable against the unfamiliar. “Here we go again,” he said.
“There have been countless genocides,” the newscaster said. “The Hugenots, Beziers and Albigensians. Tenochitlan. Pequots. Auschwitz and the Sicherheitsdienst.”
He reached for the off switch. Work time. “Viet Minh, Ngo Dinh Diem, My Lai.” The announcer pronounced them perfectly. These names went with his memories of friends: ‘Frank,’ ‘Stace,’ ‘Tom,’ ‘Ryan.’
His hand dropped to the car seat. “Lubyanka and Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky,” she said. “Chmielnitzki. Vijayanagara. Khmer Rouge. Khmer Noir. Rwandi-Burundi. Ieng Sary and Ieng Thirith. Kampuchea. Quiripi-Unquachog. Hissane Habre.” He was pinned down.
Millions rolled into a hundred million.
