THE HEART OF DANGER (12 page)

for another house deposit, digging in his heels, bloody-minded. Maybe

it was him, suggesting, almost shyly that the way forward was for

him

to take three years out and go to college and get a bloody degree.

And

maybe she was right to jeer back that no way was she going to live

for

three years carrying him, paying all the bills, and she hadn't passed

an exam since school and Wayne who managed the estate agent's drove

a

fifth-hand Porsche and had never passed an exam in his life .. . Maybe

.. . The baby should have helped, but it hadn't. The baby, Tom,

should

have bonded them. The baby had cut out her money ... It was Penn's

belief that a husband should provide. A father should go to work,

a

mother should stay home with a baby. Old-fashioned Penn, boring

Penn,

and he'd said that no way was she going back to work with a minder

to

watch his baby .. . She'd told him, full of tears, that she hadn't

listened to him, had gone back with the pram to the estate agent's,

made it as far as the plate-glass window with the bright photographs

of

properties, and seen Wayne bending over the new girl, and a hand on

the

shoulder of the new girl's blouse, and she'd turned around and pushed

the pram back to the maisonette. And the day after that he had gone

to

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those he thought he believed in, on the high floors of Gower Street,

and requested the chance to work on General Intelligence Group ..

. and

been betrayed. He lay in the bed. From the street below he sensed

the

burgeoning quiet of the night of a foreign city .. . but it had been

Dome's place and Dome's war. The ant column had found his hand, a

barrier, and busily crossed it. He could feel their unstoppable

progress, and he did not dare to move his hand to shake them off.

He

felt as if he was dead .. . Ham didn't reckon he could have run another

yard, crawled another foot, climbed another inch. The tree line had

been the first target and the rock escarpment had been the second,

and

the final aim had been to reach, running, crawling, climbing, the

summit of the escarpment. He felt as if he was dead ... he would

have

been dead if they had had a good dog, or if they had had organization

and discipline. He could see them from where he lay. They were

below,

quartering the field that was beyond the escarpment, down from the

tree

line of spring-green birches. Ham could hear their shouts and the

whistle blasts, but they had no dogs. It was because of the wounded

that they had broken off the pace of the search. It was the wounded

that had saved him and the three others who had stampeded with him

away

from the ambush. The light caught the grass of the field, and the

sun

feathered down through the upper trees and dappled onto the summit

of

the rock escarpment. They had been hit at first light when the grey

smear was settling on the fields and the trees. They had been caught,

bunched and too close, on a track that, if the intelligence had been

accurate, would have brought them to the rear side of the artillery

position. If the ambush had been done properly, as an ambush was

taught at Aldershot or out on the ranges above Brecon, then there

would

have been no survivors, but the ambush had been crap and there hadn't

been fire control, and they had made it out and running. All of them

running, and hearing the shouting and the chaotic chase behind them,

and they had hit the open ground of the field without warning. Shit,

bloody bad luck, the open field. It was there that the two of them

had

been shot. And he had run, too fucking right, and the others who

hadn't been shot had run. Looking down, through the thin early

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foliage, Ham saw the line that advanced, crouching then scurrying,

towards the two wounded men. The ants came on across his hand, and

he

would not move his hand and he would not twist his head. He whispered

from the side of his mouth, as if he thought he hazarded his hiding

place should his lips move. "Move once, you bastards, move once at all, and I'll break your goddamn necks." He could hear the three

of

them behind him, all trying to suppress the panting, all sobered by

the

ambush and by the charge out and by the climb onto the summit of the

escarpment, and by the sight of the cordon line closing on the two

who

were wounded. Shit, no, they hadn't listened to Ham when they had

crossed the Kupa river in the inflatable, and they hadn't listened

to

him when he had told them, swearing, that they should lay off the

booze

in their water bottles and they hadn't listened to him when they had

moved out to get close to the artillery position under the night cover

that was now gone. Shit, yes, they listened to him now .. . And if

it

hadn't been that the ambush was crap then they would, all six of them,

have been on the ground, beyond help, as the cordon line closed. They

listened, and struggled to control their breathing, and they were

watching as Ham watched. "Nothing you can do, so don't fucking think there is anything." He knew that the brother of one of them behind him

was wounded, lying in the field. It was the worst it had ever been

for

Ham. His throat was dry dust. His gut was knotted tight. His arms,

legs, would have been stiffened, clumsy, if he had tried to move.

There were tears welling heavy .. . Too bloody unfair .. . He had

known

guys who had been killed in close-quarters fire, and guys who had

been

wasted when an armoured personnel carrier had been rattled and

brewed,

and guys who had been mutilated when caught without cover as the

rockets from the Organj launcher had come down. He had known guys

from

the International Brigade who had been in Osijek, in Turanj, outside

Sisak, and shipped home in boxes by the embassy but that had been

more

than a year back, more than a year and a half. He had known guys

who

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had said it was too goddamn dull in Croatia after the cease-fire,

and

who had hitched on down to Bosnia, but that was a crazy bloody place

to

get killed .. . Too bloody unfair .. . In the days with the

Internationals Ham had been classified sniper first class, using the

long-barrelled Dragunov, stationary target three shots out of four

at

1000 metres. In the days after the Internationals had drifted off

scene, or been booted, he had bullshit ted expertise in ordnance.

No

home to go back to, had to bullshit to stay. Big bullshit if he wasn't

to be on the trail down to Bosnia and the crazy bloody war .. . Too

bloody unfair .. . They had wanted an ordnance man to get across the

Kupa river and spy out the artillery position on the high ground,

and

their own ordnance men would have been too precious ... As an ordnance

man he would have been able to identify the type and calibre of the

artillery pieces in the position, their stockpiles of ammunition,

their

threat .. . Big bloody bullshit, and the bullshit had put him where

it

was worse than it had ever been for Ham. He did not reckon it safe

to

use his binoculars. Could have been flash or shine from the lenses

against the low-rising sun. He could see enough without the

binoculars. He knew what he would see. He knew it because he had

dreamed it in the temporary sleeping quarters behind the old police

station in Karlovac town. The dream was Ham's agony. Ham knew that the wounded, struggling to keep up with those who were not wounded,

would have thrown away their weapons as they had lumbered, hobbled,

after those who had run. If they had had their weapons then, sure

as

Christ, they would have used them. Sure as Christ they would have

used

their weapons and kept one back for the last. There was no firing.

The cordon line reached that part of the field, near to the tree line,

where the wounded lay. He could see it clear enough, without

binoculars. He should have looked away, and he could not. The stuff

of Ham's dreams, the stuff that made him sweat, toss, sometimes scream

in the night. There was a bearded man, big and well set, in the centre

of the cordon line, and he had a whistle in his mouth, and his was

the

voice of command. Ham could not see the wounded, lying in the thick

spring grass of the field, but he knew where they were because he

saw

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the bearded man kick hard into the grass and the moan carried up from

the field and through the trees and reached the summit of the rock

escarpment. He saw the bearded man swivel, casually, like he played

kids' football, and kick again. There was a moment of confusion,

men

around the bearded man and bending down and two small scrimmages of

bodies. He heard the orders from the bearded man, curt in the

sunshine. The two wounded were held upright in front of the bearded

man, and he punched them, one in the face and one in the pit of the

stomach and because they were held they could not fall. Then

bandannas

from the heads of two of the men who held them were used to blindfold

the wounded. The knife flashed at the waist of the bearded man. The knife went low, quick, to the groin of the wounded man who had the

bloodstains at his knee and down his right leg. Ham turned, his first

movement, and he broke the column of the ants, and he slapped the

palm

of his hand across the eyes of the brother of the wounded man. He

heard the howl of pain, sobbing .. . The tears were running on his

face, and the vomit was coming. He watched it, each instruction from

the bearded man, each thrust of the knife. It was worse than the

dream

.. . When it was over, when the sport was gone, then the bearded man

wiped his knife on the grass and replaced it in the sheath at his

belt,

and all of them sat in the field, close to where the bodies lay, and

they drank and they laughed.

They had no organization and no discipline.

After they had drunk and told their jokes, they moved off again

towards

the tree line, but the heart had gone from the search. They did not

go

far into the birch trees that covered the hillside and they did not

come near to the rock escarpment.

They went back the way they had come and there were the marks of their

boots in the wet grass and the trails where the two bodies were

dragged.

Ham watched. He wiped his face, furtive, and his tears smeared the

camouflage cream. His eyes, all the time, held the broad and

powerful

back of the bearded man, who walked easily, walked without care.

Piece

68

of cake, if he had had the Dragunov SVD 7.62mm, not the Kalashnikov,

piece of cake for a sniper first class.

Ham murmured, "That's a right bastard .. ."

The brother of the man who had been castrated whispered, calmly, "That is Milan Stankovic."

"That right bastard needs sorting .. ."

"He is Milan Stankovic, he commands the TDF unit at the village of

Salika. He has grown the beard now because he would think that makes

him more of the Serb soldier. It is, perhaps, ten kilometres from

here, his village. He was a clerk. He was a junior clerk in the

administration of the co-operative at Turanj. All the farmers in

the

region came to the co-operative with their produce, and it was

marketed

from there. We came, my brother and I, to the co-operative each week

in the summer. It was the job of Milan Stankovic to check the paper

we

brought, to see that we did not cheat, and then to stamp the paper.

To

check paper and to stamp it, now he is an important man. He would

have

recognized immediately the face of my brother. Often we used to

bring

him the best cabbages, or carrots, or a side of meat, some cheese,

because then he would check our paper and stamp it more quickly. We

would always look after Milan Stankovic. He knew my brother .. .

and

he killed him. That is Milan Stankovic .. ." They were gone into

the

trees on the far side of the field. Ham sat. He understood enough

of

the war to believe that if the brothers, one dead and one living,

had

captured the bearded man who they knew, then another knife would have

flashed, another knife would have gouged. He said, "Nothing we could have done, if anyone had fired we'd all have been gone .. . It's called

SERE, guys, that's Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape .. ." They would lie

up the rest of the day. At dusk they would move for the Kupa river.

The streets were cheerful, the shops had good stock, the gutters were

clean. The bars were full and the espresso machines rumbled, and