The Untouchable (63 page)

' It's idiot talk.'

'You never listen I have talked to the foreman of the de-miners. They speak with me because I am a man of experience ami importance. Do they talk to you? It is what lie tells me, the foreman. It is like the time of Ban kulin, or when the Great Khan came from the east, or the time of King Stephen Tvrtko, or when Mehmet arrived from the south and the tyranny of the Muslims began. Disputes were settled in single combat, to the death or to surrender.'

Husein spat onto the ground.

Dragan persisted, 'That is why the foreman has come back here to clear your fields - not that you, an old fool, will ever work them.'

'This spring I will plant my new apple orchard, fifty trees, and I will be here to harvest the first crop . . . Do you mean it, this shit about single combat?'

' It is what the foreman said.'

' I don't understand that.' Husein shook his head wearily.

'Because you are an old fool and you do not listen.

The foreman is an intelligent man, so he confides in me. A criminal from Britain, Mr Barnaby's country, came to our country, for whatever corrupt reason. He is followed by the British Customs, by our men and the international police. He is in flight from them, and with him is his lawyer. They leave the road and come down the h i l l . . . '

'Where my son-in-law is dead,' Husein said grimly.

'And go into the field. The lawyer detonates the m i n e . . . '

' I heard his screaming - like children in hell.'

' . . . detonates the mine. The criminal shoots him.

Because the criminal has a gun, and has killed, the de-miners will not move to reach him. That pleases the Customs man. He is called Joey . . . '

'That is a stupid name,' Husein sneered. 'Like a girl's name.'

'Don't, old fool, interrupt. He is young, is junior, he is nothing. The criminal is a big man. It would not be a contest, single-handed combat, if they were in London. But they are not, they are here - and the criminal is in a minefield and—'

Husein was triumphant. 'Which your people laid, which pollutes my fields.'

'And the minefield makes them equal. Joey taunts him that he is afraid to run across the field, to risk going through the mines. If the criminal does not dare to run, his spirit fails him, then he loses dignity . . . '

While they bickered, the long-standing friends -

Husein Bekir and Dragan Kovac - gazed out over the fields. Close to them the de-miners worked in their taped corridors, crouched over their probes. Away in the distance, hard for them to distinguish in the sunlight, the single man stood, and around him was the emptiness.

'Who cares about dignity in a minefield? Did Lila?

Did my son-in-law?'

'Did the first foreman? You told him about the fallen post, you sent him to repair it, and he will never walk again . . . Dignity to a criminal is everything. Go into Mostar, find Tula and Stela, dignity is the only thing they have. If they are humiliated, show fear, plead for mercy then they have nothing. This man, there . . . He tries lo hold his dignity, and the young man tries to take it from him. The police could shoot him but then he dies with dignity, and happy, and he becomes the legenda. Does he want to be remembered for his dignity, or for his fear that made him surrender? It is subtle, but you would not understand that. At the moment he does not know what to do . . .

I believe he suffers.'

' I think it is stupid talk.' Again Husein Bekir spat.

'When a man is in a minefield what value is dignity to him?'

The picture on the screen was pastel, rinsed-out colour. Mister, in his suit, stood in a field. In the Custom House room of Sierra Quebec Golf, the team, short of only SQGI2, stood behind Gough. Their workplaces were abandoned, the desks littered with file papers and photographs. Above the only tidied place, where the computer was switched off, was the sign: 'CANN do - WILL do'. The picture in front of Gough enmeshed them, and none had the will to break free from it.

The image was of their Target One.

They all had paper mountains to scale but the work had been pushed aside once the call had come through from Vauxhall Bridge Cross, and SQG8 had been summoned to Gough's computer, had rustled the keys, found the network and had downloaded the picture. Gough wouldn't have been able to because he was weak on the new science, but SQG8 was the wizard. Their work that morning and afternoon should have taken them into the final planning stages of the raids that would sweep into the homes of the Mixer, two of the Cards, the Eel who had driven the lorry, and the warehouse where the truck - Bosnia with Love - was garaged. It was Gough's intention that, when Mister returned, he would find his organization disrupted, under microscopic investigation, and doubt permeating his lieutenants . . . but the planning work was discarded. The image fascinated them. The camera angle never changed, and the lens never zoomed. It would have been a still frame but for the occasional wheeling swoops of the crows and the bluster of the puff clouds in the wind.

Mister did not move. He did not seem to change his weight from a right-foot bias to a left foot, he did not reach out with his arms to stretch or flex, his hand did not go to his forehead to mop it. The rain pattered on the windows facing into Lower Thames Street, but the shower had no reality for them. The heat of the sun on Mister's head and shoulders were real; they could sense it. Because Gough had lit his pipe, in blatant contravention of the in-house edict, cigarettes were on and SQG4 billowed smoke from a small cigar. The room was fugged. They watched Mister, and each in their minds played with his dilemma and wondered what they would have done, faced with his situation. The shouts, thin and metallic, played over the loudspeakers beside Gough's computer, made them squirm, but they were all addicts.

The door opened. Heads turned briefly. The glances to the intruders betrayed their feelings. The chief investigation officer introduced the commander from the National Crime Squad. There were some among them, and Gough might have led, who would have gone to the walls and abruptly pulled down the sheets on which the cartwheel was chinagraphed, and the plans for the next programme of raids, but the screen held them.

Cork intoned, ' I thought you should know that this afternoon officers of CIB3 entered National Crime Squad offices and arrested a detective chief inspector who was a primary leak source on investigations into the affairs of Albert William Packer. The leak is plugged. I am instructed - yes, instructed - by the appropriate minister of the Crown that we co-operate, share, with the commander and his people, the fruits of our investigation. I am told that, united, we will improve immeasurably on the chance of a successful prosecution of Packer and the dismantling of his empire.'

If he was heard it was not shown; the eyes of the team stayed on the screen.

' I intend initially to second one of SQG to the Crime Squad, and for you to have one of their experienced officers in here, and welcomed. When Packer returns, the full resources of both organizations will be turned on him. Packer, is he on his way back? Do we have a flight?'

Gough pointed to the screen. Reluctantly, SQG3

and SQG9 edged aside and allowed the intruders a small space behind Gough's chair. The CIO and the commander craned forward.

'Good God, isn't that Packer? Where is he?'

'He's in a field, Commander, he's standing in a field,' Gough said, with dry civility. 'He is standing in a field and right now his thoughts are far from buying an airline ticket. The field is in a valley that is about ten miles south-south-east of Mostar.'

'Why? Why is he standing in a field?'

' It's not an ordinary field. It's not sown with parsnips or potatoes. Its crop is mines. He is in a minefield. How does he know he is in the middle of a minefield? He knows because Arbuthnot - the Eagle, our Target Two - stepped on one, and is now deceased. He is caught, trapped, in a minefield, and his little mind is working overtime.'

'What about rescue?' The commander's voice was hoarse. 'Aren't there trained people who can bring him out?'

' It's a long story/ Gough evaded. 'Too long for now

. . . That's Arbuthnot.'

The commander's chin and the chief investigation officer's jaw were over Gough's shoulders as he showed them the corpse, and they peered at the dark shape in the grass that was slight, insignificant, and diminished by the scale of the fields.

'What's that?' The commander's fingernail replaced Gough's. The point he took was beyond the standing figure and near to the prone shape. Against his nail was a russet blob, unclear.

'Don't know,' Gough said.

'Well, go in on it.'

Gough hesitated, and flushed. 'That's a bit beyond me.'

'Should I ring my granddaughter and have her ferried over?'

SQG8 inserted herself, knelt beside Gough's leg and worked the mouse. She highlighted the russet blob, clicked and zoomed, dragged it closer and clearer.

It was not necessary for Cork to speak. They could all see what he saw. Cork blurted, 'Christ, it's a bloody fox . . . What's it got? It's got a bone. It's cleaning its bloody teeth on a bone . . . What's that on the end of the bone? I don't want to believe what I am seeing. It's a shoe. It's Arbuthnot's shoe. The fox has eaten his bloody leg, all except for what's in the shoe . . . Christ almighty.'

The smoke of the cigarettes and the small cigar, and from Gough's pipe, floated over the screen. The zoom pulled out, then SQG8 took the centre point of Mister's back, and he was pulled, jerked, closer to the watchers. They could see the silver streaks of perspiration at his temples.

The voice came over the speakers. They were pin-drop quiet as they listened.

'Are you going to run, Mister, or are you going to beg for help to come and get you? Let me talk you through the begging. Throw the gun away first, then strip, get off every last stitch, then beg. You're naked and you're begging, and all the world knows you're finished, and a loser . . . or you run. Those are your options, Mister . . . Come on. Come on.'

The voice was gone. Light wind bruised the camera's microphone.

'Who is that?' the commander barked.

'His name is Cann, he's SQG12,' Gough said flatly.

'He is our most junior executive officer.'

'It's torture, psychological torture,' Cork snapped.

'What's his problem? He is challenging him to risk his life in a minefield. Packer - as damn near as makes no difference - is in custody, if you've anything to charge him with. What you're doing is obscene. Even Packer has rights. I never sanctioned such behaviour. All I sanctioned was surveillance.'

'Then you didn't know your man,' Gough

said. 'What did you want, Mr Cork? Did you want a packaged legal process, or the elimination of our Target One? I thought I knew what you wanted.'

'Get him out. That is an order, Mr Gough. Remove Cann.'

'Easier said . . . If you hadn't noticed, Mr Cork, that field and that valley and Packer and Cann are a long way from me. But I'll do what I am able.'

'An order, Mr Gough.'

'How many mines do you reckon are there, Mister?'

Frank listened to the pitiless ring of Joey's voice. He thought Mister's shoulders, out in the field, were lower and he wondered whether Mister's knees were near to buckling. Frank had driven into Mostar and dumped his prisoner in a police cell, under IPTF

supervision, and then had bought supermarket cold food and water. He had come back to the crest of the hill, then the call on Maggie's phone had driven him down the slope path, with the food and water, past the skeleton of a wretch who had tripped the wire of a PMR2A mine, with the instruction from London. The men had their backs to Joey Cann. He crouched beside them and listened to what he was told as they ate and drank. Frank Williams was a career policeman and he believed in the rigour of law enforcement and in the processes of the criminal code. He listened to Ante, their spokesman, and then to the chipped remarks of Salko, Fahro and Muhsin, who had the dog's leash coiled in his hand. He had seen the monitor picture from the video camera and had heard the mocking shout across the valley. What he had seen and heard made a travesty of justice as he knew it. When they had finished, said what they wanted to, he went and stood behind Joey Cann, brought bread and cheese and an apple and what was left in the water bottle.

The head wasn't turned, the eyes were locked on the back in the dark suit jacket that rose above the hazed heat of the fields.

'Are you listening to me?'

' I'm hearing you.'

' London want you out.'

'Do they?'

'The instruction to be passed to you was made, personally, to me by Douglas Gough acting on behalf of Dennis Cork, chief investigation officer. Not tomorrow or the day after, but now. Out, and quit.'

' Is that what he said?'

'What you're doing is barbaric. Maggie rigged up the video and it's playing over the mobile. They are watching it in London. They know what you're doing and, like me, they are disgusted at your self-serving arrogance. You're going down to his level, Mister's, maybe going lower than him. If you don't believe what I'm telling you, out and quit, then use your mobile and call your Gough. Go on.'

Joey shifted his weight and took the mobile off his belt. He peeled it out of the ragged leather case, flipped off the back flap and took out the battery. The battery went into his breast pocket and the mobile was hooked back on his belt.

Frank spoke, steely quiet: 'Those men behind you, they call you Nasir. They've given you the dog's name

. .. Muhsin told you that Nasir Oric, defend -r of Srebrenica, their military leader, was a hero. Salko's just told me that when the town fell the people rampaged and looted in the last hours before the Serbs came in, and they found warehouses stacked to the roof with UN-donated food, but it wasn't for free handouts. It was for black-market sale, and that was criminal . . . Ante tells me that Nasir, who had been pulled out by the government to Tuzla before Srebrenica went under, led a column of a hundred and seventy men who fought through the Serb lines to link with the fighters breaking out, hand-to-hand combat, against the odds, and that was heroic . . . Fahro tells me that today Nasir Oric is a rich man, not bad for an ex-police bodyguard, with a money-spinning restaurant on the lake at Tuzla and won't talk about the source of the start-up cash.'