THE HEART OF DANGER (49 page)

dragged at his hip.

He went out into the morning.

He had not kissed his Marko, and he had not hugged his Evica, and

it

was not normal for him to wear the holster with the Makharov pistol

when he was about the village.

Milan Stankovic was no longer the king of Salika. The throne was

taken

from him. He walked away down the lane, away from the village now

ruled by the irregulars who followed Arkan. He did not wish to be

seen, by his own people, as subordinate to the gaol scum from

Belgrade.

He walked past the last houses of the lane, towards the open fields

beside the stream.

He did not want to go back towards the village because his office

in

the headquarters was now the command centre for the irregulars, and

they were without respect for him. His office would now be filled

with

their bottles and their guns and their sleeping bags, and their crude

cold laughter. If he had walked back through the village, if he saw

the people to whom he had been king, then he would have seen the fear

in their eyes that the presence of the irregulars had brought. He

walked away from the village. There were magnolia flowers in the

gardens of the last houses of the lane, and tulips were open and the

blossom was heavy on the fruit trees. It was so clear in his mind,

the

memory of how they had carried him on their shoulders when they had

elected him as commander of the Territorial Defence Force, just as

they

had carried him on their shoulders when the team had come back with

the

cup won from Karlovac Municipality. And so clear in his mind how

287

the

men had begged him, pleaded with him, for weapons to use in the attack

on the village of the Ustase bastards across the stream. Not a man

in

the village who had not slapped his back in congratulation when he

had

walked back over the bridge from Rosenovici with the mud of the pit

on

his body. He had been the leader, he had issued the guns, he had

brought the bulldozer to the field, he was responsible.

He walked in the watered sunlight beside the gardens of flowers.

It was like a closeness at his throat, because he was responsible

.. .

The weight of the pistol chafed against his hip. There were no

tractors out that morning, and the animals were still in the barns,

and

the village boys who were too old for school had not shepherded out

the

sheep. And he was responsible for the silence and emptiness of the

fields, because he had brought this fear to the village, and what

was

done could not be undone .. . His eyes searched the tree line. He

was

wondering whether they would come again, some day, in a month or a

year

or in his old age, and he was wondering whether his son would carry

the

Makharov pistol on his hip and search the same tree line for their

approach. He walked beside the stream. It was his home, it was a

place of beauty, and the tree line hemmed him in. The sunlight played

patterns on the slow movement of the deep pool, and he saw the ripples

of the trout's rise .. . A shout carried to him. He saw, distant,

back

at the edge of the village, the waving arms of Branko, calling him.

He

left behind him the stream's deep pool and the gathering spread of

the

ripples from the trout's rise. The Canadian policeman watched him

come. There were no flowers on the grave. The grave was a mound of

earth and at the end of it was a single stake. There was not even

a

cross for the grave. He stood beside the grave and he held the

spectacles in his hand. In five months he would be back in his

beloved

288

Ontario, back in the brick house in Kingston that Melanie's father

had

built for them, and he did not know what he could tell Melanie and

her

father about the place he had been posted to ... Couldn't tell Melanie

and her father about the cruelty, nor about the bulldozed graveyards,

nor about the poisoned wells, nor about the rape of grandmothers and

the disembowelling of grandfathers and the bludgeoning of

grandchildren, couldn't tell them that the smile which was adhesive

to

his face hurt far down in the pit of his soul. The wet mud of the

new

grave cloyed at his boots .. . Nor would he tell Melanie and her father

about the Headmaster of a village school who had had his spectacles

broken.

A small crowd confronted him. There were the faces that he always

saw

when he came to Salika, weathered faces, and amongst them, scattered

with them, were the cold bearded men of the Arkanovici ... If he had

not made his report, if the Professor of Pathology had not been

available for one day's digging, if he had not taken the window of

opportunity, then, and it hurt the Canadian, the Headmaster might,

probably would, have been alive .. . Nor would he talk to Melanie

and

her father about the hideous price paid by those who had gotten

themselves involved .. . He'd told them to go fetch Milan Stankovic.

When Milan Stankovic was close to him, the Canadian turned and laid

the

new pair of spectacles on the grave's mound. It was something he

had

been really most proud of, getting the new spectacles made in Zagreb

from the prescription, passed to him by the Political Officer, in

just

twenty-four hours. He had radioed the prescription through from

Petrinja to the Ilica barracks in Zagreb and he had begged for urgency

and in twenty-four hours the new spectacles had been brought to the

crossing point on the road north of Petrinja. The sun burnished the

lenses on the grave where there were no flowers .. .

His commissioner, the big guy from Alberta, back in the Ilica barracks

liked to tell a story to the new guys coming to serve with UNCIVPOL.

The commissioner had been down to Sector South, a one-night stand,

and

on the first day had found three old Croat women whose home was wrecked

289

and whose well was polluted and who were starving. The commissioner

had given them the bread and cheese that was the next day's lunch

for

his team. The commissioner's gift was witnessed. Four nights

later,

in the story the commissioner thought worth telling the new guys,

the

three old Croat women were shot to death ... It was a story about

trying to help and a story about screwing up.

He was not supposed to show emotion. He was not allowed to shout

and

curse. He stood to attention beside the grave, above the new

spectacles. He turned smartly, his heel squelching the mud. He was supposed to smile, to celebrate little victories, he was allowed to

smile. He fixed his smile at Milan Stankovic, then walked away from

him, went to his jeep. He had made the bastard come from wherever,

come running and panting, for a fucking smile. "Good God .. ." The supercilious grin played at the mouth of the First Secretary. '..

.

So the Warrior of Principle is pimping .. . The Soldier of Conscience

is providing some home comforts .. ." He stood in the doorway,

holding

the passkey that the floor maid had given him, paid for with a packet

of cigarettes. The curtains were still drawn and he saw the shape

of

the man on the bed, bare-chested, asleep, and there was a woman

crouched over him who stared back like a cat cornered with a rabbit.

'.. . And fancy finding you here, my little friend, fancy finding

your

little snout in the trough." But Hamilton, the loathsome Sidney

Ernest

Hamilton, code-named "Freefall' on the file header, was between the First Secretary and the bed, and "Freefall' Hamilton had a damned

ugly

rifle across his knees. Before he'd seen the rifle, his intention

had

been to get across the room, shake the sleep off the bloody man, and

kick him smartest out into the corridor, down the stairs, to reception

for account settling, and a sharp drive to the airport .. . that was

his intention, before he saw the rifle. He saw the empty bottles

close

to Hamilton, and he recalled the file in the safe of his room at the

embassy with six pages on an incident in a bunker at Osijek, a drunken

shooting. The First Secretary held back. The growling hungover

voice,

290

"What do you want?" "I want him on the plane. I'm going to put him on

the first plane." "He's going this afternoon." "First plane, my little friend .. . and I don't have time for a debate." Which was

truth. The First Secretary had little time. He had a meeting with

the

monitoring officers, and he was late for it, and they had access to

useful areas of raw intelligence. And he had a session, which had

taken him seven weeks to fix, with the brigadier commanding Croatian

military intelligence who was a bad old bastard from Tito times and

who

knew his trade. But he was wary of a rifle in the hands of a man

who

was hungover drunk. "So, a bit of action, please."

"You should let him sleep."

Hamilton, horrible little "Freefall', crabbed his way to the window and

the rifle was dragged with him. Horrible little "Free-fall' caught the

curtains and pulled them apart, letting light into the hotel room.

The

woman, the cat cornered with a rabbit and threatened, hovered over

the

sleeping man.

"Christ .. . who did that to him?"

The First Secretary saw the wounds and the discoloured bruises and

the

scars. He felt sickness in his throat. Penn's breathing was

regular

and his face was at peace. The First Secretary knew enough of what

happened in sunny former Yugoslavia to an enemy. He gagged the vomit

back. He remembered Penn, coming to his office.

The First Secretary said, "You will bring him to the airport, the

1500

hours flight. I'll see him onto the plane. You get him there ..

."

The curtains were pulled shut again.

'.. . He'll be there, Hamilton, or I'll break you."

291

The aircraft banked.

She was reading the bones of '(2) Ambit of Criminal Jurisdiction,

Paragraph 62I/Extra Territorial Jurisdiction', and slipping on to

"Paragraph 622/Sources and Rationale of Territorial Jurisdiction'.

The aircraft levelled out, west from Zagreb.

She was reading for the last time the pencilled written notes under

the

heading of '3. Offences Against the Person, (1) Genocide, Paragraph

424', and her eyes slid across the pages to "H. Offences Committed Abroad', and 'sub-section 4, sub-paragraph 1 Murder (see para 431

and

sec post)'.

The aircraft was losing height.

She was reading quickly, reminding herself of '(3) Geneva Red Cross

Conventions, 1864'. Turning through "The Geneva Conventions, (3)

The

Convention Relative to the Treatment of

Prisoners of War'. Riffling through '(4) The Convention Relative

to

the Protection of Civilians in Time of War'.

The aircraft wallowed over the end of the runway.

She was reading the last page of the young barrister's notes, learning

them so they were ingrained, Treatment of the Wounded etc, Paragraph

1869/General Protection ... At all times, and particularly after an

engagement, parties to a conflict must take measures to search for

and

collect the wounded, sick and shipwrecked, protect them from pillage

and ensure their adequate care; and the dead must be searched for

and

their spoliation prevented ... At all times the wounded, sick and

shipwrecked must be treated humanely without any adverse distinction

founded on race, colour, religion or faith, sex, birth, wealth or

any

similar criteria."

The aircraft's wheels touched down.

She was reading, "Paragraph 1866/Conflicts not of an International

292

Character .. . Treat humanely persons who take no active part in the

hostilities, including members of the armed forces who have laid down

their arms or are rendered unable to take part by reason of wounds

.. .

violence to life and persons including murder .. . the passing of

sentences and carrying out of executions without a proper trial upon

non-combatants are prohibited. The wounded and sick must be cared

..

."

The music played cheerfully over the loudspeakers as Mary Braddock

put

away in her bag the notes and the two sheets of the faxed report.

Sixteen.

The pain beat against the bone behind his temples, and there were

needle pricks behind his eyeballs, and there was a battering throb

behind his ears. It had been a hell of a long time since Penn had

been

this hungover. The others were still asleep. He was padding,

half-naked, round the room, moving without order, stumbling round

the

bed where Ulrike slept, hiking his feet over Ham's outstretched body.