Greater Skopje
18-10-2006, 21:53
The Skopje Evening Post
Foreign Minister Assasinated by Republican Rebel
Tuesday, July 15th-
The Skopjani people were saddened early this afternoon when foreign minister and dedicated servant of King Milos Vojvodic III, Aleksander Makeiv was shot on the steps of Karacinov Palace as he exited following a closed meeting of the King’s Advisors with His Royal Highness. Paramedics who responded to the scene pronounced him dead shortly after their arrival, reporting a single though very severe gunshot wound in the upper abdomen, the bullet presumed to have pierced the stomach. Witnesses to the crime report hearing three distinct shots, however, and police investigators found two rounds lodged in the steps and a building column, indicating that the assassin did fire three times, marking himself as an enthusiastic gunman, though one of limited marksmanship.
Almost immediately after delivering the fatal blow, however, the shooter, a 19 year old man of south Slavic descent, was himself cut down in a hail of automatic weapons fire from local police and Mr. Makeiv’s bodyguards. Although the shooter’s name is being withheld by Security forces, it has been released that he was an active member of the Solun based republican rebel group “Tumo’s Army” an acknowledged terrorist organization with the stated intent of removing the monarchy and establishing a democratic government, one that would no doubt lead to an oligarchy dominated by the Solun based fanatics. The group draws its name from….
Boulevard Milos Vojvodic, outside Karacinov Palace, Skopje
Josip Pancev climbed into the beaten up import sedan, and reached for the towel on the other seat to wipe the rain from his hands and face. The sky that had been threatening all day to unload its contents on the busy city had finally made good on its omen, and an uncommon mid-july tempest now soaked Skopje and its inhabitants.
The 19 year old of heavy beard and soft, almost childish features, closed the door and turned up the car heater, hearing the distinctive rise and fall of an old engine. Drying his thickly matted hair on the towel, he turned his sights towards the imposing government building across the street, watching the door for any sign of movement. A pair of soldiers were all that had been visible for the past hour, and he was growing impatient.
Just as he prepared to close his eyes for a few minutes, he glimpsed a limousine passing him, circling around, and parking directly across from him, in front of what was called Karacinov Palace. He knew that the time to carry out his mission was fast approaching.
Pancev had been waiting for this moment for three years, ever since he had enlisted in the ranks of Tumo’s Army in the small, nameless village of his birth. Unlike the capital, times in the southern border regions had been hard for many years, and many felt a strong dissociation with the King, the Royal government, and the wealthy upper class who dominated the Skopje city oligarchy. Rebel and separatist movements such as the one he had joined (named after an old cultural hero from the early 20th century who had established the first Skopjani republic) thrived in these borderlands, and tension between the local populace and the Royal security forces had built steadily the past year, ever since a bombing in the small city of Negotievo had sparked a week of riots in the capital against the king’s perceived lack of concern for the common people. Tumo’s Army was not the largest, nor the most infamous of these organizations, and was one of few that had been largely untouched by internal security forces, preferring to plan its operations in secret and having only just begun a large scale recruiting campaign. Thus, the climate for an attack that would shake the nation to its foundations was ripe.
Pancev opened the glove compartment and removed a pair of black leather gloves which he slipped over his callused laborer’s hands. He reached into the compartment again and withdrew a Glock 17, which he slipped under his raincoat. He turned his eyes to the palace doors, and his heart leapt to see them open and three men step out into the rain. The one in the center was his target.
He got out of the car and quickly crossed the street as the man he knew as Foreign Minister Aleksander Makeiv continued down the steps. A police officer spotted him, and moved to direct him away from the open palace gates, but the well-trained Pancev delivered a crippling blow to the abdomen as he drew close. Shoving the officer to the ground, he pulled his pistol, and opened fire. He pulled the trigger three times. He could not tell which shot hit, but he saw the man he was supposed to kill crumble on the steps and felt a surge of joy that hit him just before the bullet from the officer he had knocked to the ground.
He screamed and fell, his warm blood soaking his clothes, and mixing with the rain on the concrete. Shots continued to ring out, but, as everything went dark he lost his ability to distinguish them from the ringing in his ears. His task complete, he went on to the great undiscovered country beyond that street in that cold city, knowing he had been martyred.
Foreign Minister Assasinated by Republican Rebel
Tuesday, July 15th-
The Skopjani people were saddened early this afternoon when foreign minister and dedicated servant of King Milos Vojvodic III, Aleksander Makeiv was shot on the steps of Karacinov Palace as he exited following a closed meeting of the King’s Advisors with His Royal Highness. Paramedics who responded to the scene pronounced him dead shortly after their arrival, reporting a single though very severe gunshot wound in the upper abdomen, the bullet presumed to have pierced the stomach. Witnesses to the crime report hearing three distinct shots, however, and police investigators found two rounds lodged in the steps and a building column, indicating that the assassin did fire three times, marking himself as an enthusiastic gunman, though one of limited marksmanship.
Almost immediately after delivering the fatal blow, however, the shooter, a 19 year old man of south Slavic descent, was himself cut down in a hail of automatic weapons fire from local police and Mr. Makeiv’s bodyguards. Although the shooter’s name is being withheld by Security forces, it has been released that he was an active member of the Solun based republican rebel group “Tumo’s Army” an acknowledged terrorist organization with the stated intent of removing the monarchy and establishing a democratic government, one that would no doubt lead to an oligarchy dominated by the Solun based fanatics. The group draws its name from….
Boulevard Milos Vojvodic, outside Karacinov Palace, Skopje
Josip Pancev climbed into the beaten up import sedan, and reached for the towel on the other seat to wipe the rain from his hands and face. The sky that had been threatening all day to unload its contents on the busy city had finally made good on its omen, and an uncommon mid-july tempest now soaked Skopje and its inhabitants.
The 19 year old of heavy beard and soft, almost childish features, closed the door and turned up the car heater, hearing the distinctive rise and fall of an old engine. Drying his thickly matted hair on the towel, he turned his sights towards the imposing government building across the street, watching the door for any sign of movement. A pair of soldiers were all that had been visible for the past hour, and he was growing impatient.
Just as he prepared to close his eyes for a few minutes, he glimpsed a limousine passing him, circling around, and parking directly across from him, in front of what was called Karacinov Palace. He knew that the time to carry out his mission was fast approaching.
Pancev had been waiting for this moment for three years, ever since he had enlisted in the ranks of Tumo’s Army in the small, nameless village of his birth. Unlike the capital, times in the southern border regions had been hard for many years, and many felt a strong dissociation with the King, the Royal government, and the wealthy upper class who dominated the Skopje city oligarchy. Rebel and separatist movements such as the one he had joined (named after an old cultural hero from the early 20th century who had established the first Skopjani republic) thrived in these borderlands, and tension between the local populace and the Royal security forces had built steadily the past year, ever since a bombing in the small city of Negotievo had sparked a week of riots in the capital against the king’s perceived lack of concern for the common people. Tumo’s Army was not the largest, nor the most infamous of these organizations, and was one of few that had been largely untouched by internal security forces, preferring to plan its operations in secret and having only just begun a large scale recruiting campaign. Thus, the climate for an attack that would shake the nation to its foundations was ripe.
Pancev opened the glove compartment and removed a pair of black leather gloves which he slipped over his callused laborer’s hands. He reached into the compartment again and withdrew a Glock 17, which he slipped under his raincoat. He turned his eyes to the palace doors, and his heart leapt to see them open and three men step out into the rain. The one in the center was his target.
He got out of the car and quickly crossed the street as the man he knew as Foreign Minister Aleksander Makeiv continued down the steps. A police officer spotted him, and moved to direct him away from the open palace gates, but the well-trained Pancev delivered a crippling blow to the abdomen as he drew close. Shoving the officer to the ground, he pulled his pistol, and opened fire. He pulled the trigger three times. He could not tell which shot hit, but he saw the man he was supposed to kill crumble on the steps and felt a surge of joy that hit him just before the bullet from the officer he had knocked to the ground.
He screamed and fell, his warm blood soaking his clothes, and mixing with the rain on the concrete. Shots continued to ring out, but, as everything went dark he lost his ability to distinguish them from the ringing in his ears. His task complete, he went on to the great undiscovered country beyond that street in that cold city, knowing he had been martyred.