THE HEART OF DANGER (23 page)

his friend.

He had known Milan's grandparents, Zoran and Milica, and both had

died

in the fire at the church in Glina.

He had known Evica's grandparents, Dragon and Gospava, and both had

been burned alive at the church in Glina.

He understood what he called, when he talked with his friend as they

pondered the board, 'the curse of history'. There was not, in the

village of Salika, a man, woman or child, who had not been fed, since

the dawn of understanding, the story of what had been done by the

Ustase fascists.

They sat in the kitchen, and he understood.

They were around the table and he had been given bitter coffee and

juice, and he understood.

The Priest had baptized Milan Stankovic, just as he had baptized Evica

Adamovic, and he had baptized little Marko who slept now above them.

The bayonet was on the wall. Against the leg of the table, on Milan's

side, was the automatic rifle. All of their lives, Milan and Evica

and

Marko, would have been battered by the curse of history. He thought

himself a pragmatist, thought himself a realist. It was impossible

that the curse of history should not fall upon the big shoulders,

upon

the wide face, upon the big heart of Milan Stankovic. The Priest

thought it was the curse of history that had made inevitable the

attack

on Rosenovici, the fall of Rosenovici, the butchering at Rosenov-ici.

The Priest did not apportion blame .. . But he had not gone across

the

stream, when many had gone, to watch the digging up of the grave and

the recovery of the bodies. Perhaps, he had not wished to take the

gaze of the old American, near his own age, who had come and directed

the digging .. . Milan agreed with no dispute to allocate the diesel

for the buses.

He considered Milan the best of the younger men in the village. The

best basketball player, but he no longer had time for sport. The

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best

organizer, such as the time he had led the other men in the village

in

the flattening of a football pitch, but he no longer had time for

triviality. The best husband, but Evica walked around him as though

a

wall rose between them. Milan sat morose opposite him, his back to

the

window and the last light. The Priest thought that the curse of

history made a treadmill for the best of men, and the drive of the

treadmill was faster. Milan sat subdued opposite him, and never

turned

to look out across the stream to the corner of the field in the dusk

distance. Walking briskly on the treadmill, elected by acclamation

to

head the village militia. Jogging, and the visit to the village of

the

barbarian Arkan who was a criminal from Belgrade and who had raised

his

own force of gaol filth and who had posed in front of the War Memorial

with Milan. Running, when the attack, supported by the tanks and

artillery, had been directed on the Croat neighbours of Rosenovici.

Sprinting, when the wounded were taken from the cellar of Fran jo

and

Ivana, and he had played chess with Franjo, when the wounded were

taken

out and the girl. Pounding, when they had come with their spades

and

zipped bags and dug. Careering, when the Ustase spies had been

captured .. . The Priest did not know how Milan could go faster, and

he

did not know what would happen to him if he fell from the speeding

treadmill. The Priest offered his thanks for Milan's time, for the

promise of the diesel and Evica let him out. He walked up the lane

from Milan Stankovic's house, going slowly, but he speeded his frail

stride where a wax lamp threw light across his path. He did not wish

to see the opened window, to see if his friend sat alone in front

of

the board. It was like a bad pick-up in a bad bar. He had written

up

his notes of the day, good material. He had walked up into the old

city and bought a good meal. He had come back to the hotel, striding

and wondering what Jovic would pull on him the next day. He had taken

his key at the reception, been handed the telephone message would

he,

please, please, call Mrs. Mary Braddock crumpled it and handed it

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back

to reception to dispose of. Earlier, he had made his own telephone

call, international, and no answer. He had gone into the bar for

a

last drink. He had ordered a beer, local, good, and cheap. He

hadn't

seen the man at first. His eye caught the clutch of journalists whose

table was covered with filled ashtrays and emptied bottles. He was

eavesdropping on them, they were back from Sarajevo and noisy. He

was

halfway down his beer when the man came off his stool and the movement

caught Penn's attention. He saw the van driver from the camp for

officer cadets, he saw the shadow shape from when he had stepped off

the pavement to give the arguing hooker better space for her

negotiation. A round full face, darting sharp eyes, close-cut fair

hair, old acne scars on the cheeks and the chin, a bulging neck above

an open white shirt and on the neck was the tattoo. A rolling swagger

walk, a small man's walk, coming from his stool with his glass in

his

hand.

"Evening, squire bit far from the old smoke .. ."

"Evening." Penn offered him nothing.

"Don't see a lot of English here mind if I join you .. . ?"

"Please yourself," Penn said coldly.

"Nice to talk English better than all this foreign jabber .. ."

Like a bad pick-up in a bad bar. He thought of when he had been in

Curzon Street, early days in the Service, close to Shepherds Market

where the girls were, when he had gone out for a sandwich at lunch

time, and he didn't think there would have been a hooker who would

not

have been ashamed at such a bad pick-up. The tattoo, close to him,

was

of the Parachute Regiment's wings. Penn didn't feel curious, only

tired. He finished his beer, but the man was in fast.

"You'll have another? "Course you will .. ." The man was leaning across the bar and flicking his fingers at the barman. "Two more

local

piss. Move it, my boy .. . Dozy buggers, right? .. . I'm Sidney

Hamilton. I get called "Ham" So, what brings you to this shit hole, 131

squire?"

"Just a bit of work," Penn said.

"Out from UK, are we, squire? I packed it in there, no future. It's all niggers there, and slit eyes, and fucking Irish .. ."

"Why were you following me?" Penn said, quietly.

"Beg pardon .. ."

"Why were you following me? Why were you listening yesterday to my conversation?"

The darting bright eyes had narrowed, focused. The new beers were

in

front of them.

"Smartarse, eh?"

"Straight question, shouldn't be too difficult to manufacture a

straight answer," Penn said.

But a diverted answer. "Just heard a word, the word triggered. You know how it is, squire? You hear a word said and you get to listen.

It's not a crime .. ."

"What was the word?"

"Rosenovici, the Croat village in Sector North, you were talking to that hag about Rosenovici .. ." "You know Rosenovici?" Penn tried to

stay casual, didn't know whether he succeeded. The confidence was

flowing again. "I know Rosenovici, hell of a battle there, big

fight.

Warrior of Principle, squire, that's me. Bad fire fight there ..

."

"You were in Rosenovici?" "The village was cut off. They'd brought tanks up, T-54s, wicked bloody things. They'd got the old Stalin's

organ, that's the multiple rocket launcher .. ." "Were you in the village?" "They had artillery up there, howitzers. There was right shit going in there .. ." "You were there?" "Well, I wasn't actually

.. ." "Where were you?" The eyes darted away. "I wasn't actually there, would have been minced if I was there. We were close up. We'd

been sent in to make contact with our guys who'd legged it into the

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woods. We had a corridor open for them to get out through. We had

it

on the radio. We had it on the radio when they signed off, put the

flag up. I was near there .. ." "Not actually there?" "Near there, last week .. ." "Walked into Sector North?" "Didn't take the bloody Central line. "Course I bloody walked. Recce job. It's bad shit

in

there. We lost two guys .. . These fuckers, they've no bottle. We

had

two guys wounded but the other fuckers wouldn't stop for them, bottled

out. No lie, I saw them killed. Their throats were slit. They used

knives on them. I couldn't do anything because the other fuckers

had

bottled out .. ." "You can walk into Sector North?" The man was drinking faster, and flicking his fingers for the barman, and

shovelling the banknotes onto the bar. "If you know what you're at, which I do. Know where to cross the Kupa river, know where the mines

are, which I do, and the strong points .. . He's a bad bastard in

there, he's the commander of the militia. He's at the village across

the stream from Rosenovici. He's Milan Stankovic. He did it himself,

used the knife. I could have dropped him, if the other fuckers hadn't

bottled out .. ." Penn felt the pinch in his stomach. He swayed,

slightly, on his stool. He held tight to his glass. '.. . Say,

squire, you know where Nagorno Karabakh is? Where the hell is that

fucking place?" Penn said, "It's a bit left of here. You know those little globes that kiddies have, where you put a pencil in the top

to

sharpen it, well on one of those it's about a half-inch to the left."

"You pissing on me, squire .. . ?" "It's the other side of Turkey."

"I heard there was a good little war there. I heard they wanted good men. Could be South Africa, security, but there's all those niggers.

This is just fucked up here .. ." "Why did you follow me, Ham?" "Who said I bloody Penn cut him. "An answer to my question, Ham why did you

follow me?" Like a ball being punctured. The bombast of the man

went

flat. He was standing, off the stool, and he was pulling a thin

wallet

from his hip. The photograph in the pouch of the wallet was of a

skinny little woman, brunette, and the woman was holding a child in

a

party frock. "It's Karen, and that's Dawn, my little one." "Why me?"

"You're a bloody gumshoe, you're a dick. That's what you are, a

private detective." Then the story rolled. An old photograph, yes.

She'd done a runner, yes. She'd taken the kiddie, yes. No contact

133

and

letters sent back "Not Known at this Address', yes. And he was far from home and when the bullshit was turned off then he wanted the

love

of his woman and his kiddie, yes. A lonely boring little man, yes.

He

wanted them found, his Karen and his Dawn, yes .. . Penn would not

have

known the answers before he had gone to work at Alpha Security. He

had

had his share already, bombastic men coming up the stairs to the

office

above the launderette, showing a photograph of a woman and a kiddie,

and wanting them found .. . Basil had told him that looking for a

woman

who had quit with a child was a "Go Careful Area'. Basil had said

it

was necessary to go carefully or the woman might end up in the casualty

section ... He looked into the woman's face, knotted, and the child's

face, strained. He took an address, a police station in Karlovac,

he

wrote down a telephone number. He was told to ask for 2nd Bn, 110

(Karlovac) Brigade, then for "Ham', everybody would know Ham. He

looked a last time at the photograph, then gave it back. "You didn't tell me your name, squire .. ." Penn eased off his stool. "I'll be in

touch, maybe."

Eight.

"Yes, I saw her .. ." It was Jovic's success. The tram ride out to

the west of Zagreb, through the old quarter, then out amongst the

apartment blocks of the capital's new suburbs. Jovic's success had

brought them to the end of the tram route, to where the track ended.

Jovic had said that the wood huts used by the construction workers

of

the last block to be built were now a refugee camp. To Penn it was

a

desperate place. There had been rain in the night and the puddles

glistened in the first sunlight of the morning. The road to the camp

would have been gouged out by heavy plant equipment. He stepped

carefully, but the mud gathered at the caps of his cleaned shoes.

There were children here, but too beaten to play with a football,

there

were men standing listless and watching their coming. The place had

134

its own aggression. He had seen small gardens carved out of the rubble

at the edge of the camp, and thin thorn bushes had been planted round

the plots, pitiful little efforts to make a home in a refugee camp.

The huts were for communal living. They walked inside, carried more

rainwater and mud inside, as others had done before, then into the