THE HEART OF DANGER (48 page)

was

like a guard dog. Sitting without speaking, sitting and always

watching. The mercenary did not matter to her. She lay on the bed

beside Penn and she stroked his face and his chest where she had

unbuttoned the front of his shirt. Long enough it had taken, holy

Christ, for her to follow her mother's message. Ulrike Schmidt's

mother told a story of a friend. The friend lived at Rosenheim, on

the

autobahn and the train route from Munich to Salzburg, so it was easy

for her mother to travel to see her, and to update the story. Her

mother's friend made preparations for each stage of her life ... at

chess speed. The education that would present her with maximum

earning

capability, the husband who would be a rock for her, the holidays

that

would relax and divert her, the home that would be pleasant and

convenient for her. Her mother's friend could no longer find a

private

bank to employ her, and was locked in a loveless marriage, and had

been

food poisoned the last winter in Mombasa, and the home was mortgaged

to

the bank as collateral to her husband's failing business. And the

friend, her mother said, stuck stubbornly to the principle that

everything must be planned for. And it was rubbish ... All the

planning, all the preparation, that had sifted through job

opportunities, weighed the young suitors, agonized over brochures

to

the sun, toured housing developments, was rubbish. Her mother said,

coded for Ulrike each time she flew from Zagreb to Munich for the

weekend, that her friend had never known the freedom of impulse.

She lay on her side. Some of the night he had been awake, but he

was

sleeping now. She lay on her side, her head held up by her crooked

arm, and she watched over the peace of his sleep, and her fingers

moved

gently over the bared ribcage that showed the colouring of bruises.

It

was her impulse .. . Her mother's marriage had been impulse. Few

would

have looked at the harrowed man, her father, mourning the death of

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a

loved one in the bombing of Magdeburg, and inconsolable, a teacher

without a school. Her mother's impulse had brought long love, long

happiness .. . She would tell her mother about Penn when she next

flew

to Munich for the weekend. She could see the two faces in the

photograph frame on the bedside table, the young woman with thin lips

and the baby without hair. But it was her impulse to protect the

man

who had walked alone into Sector North .. . not love, because she

did

not know love. Love was beyond her experience ... It was attraction

and it was interest and it was fascination. She wanted to protect

him,

lie close to him, and in the loneliness of her life his sleeping body

seemed to bring a comfort to her. And by protecting him, she thought

she might show him her gratitude. He deserved her gratitude. He

had

done what she craved to do and was not able to, he had confronted

the

bastards of the uniforms and the guns, a tiny gesture, maybe, but

few

others did it. What she wanted, what she could not have, was to make

happiness for him, to take him from the bed and march him into the

old

city and hear the music throb and take him in her arms and dance,

dance

wildly, dance till the dawn came. What she wanted was to dance with

him and laugh with him and wear a flower that he had given her ..

. but

he slept and she protected him .. . And the morning would come too

soon, and the aircraft would scream from the runway, and Penn would

be

gone back with his cuts and bruises to the young woman with the thin

lips and the baby without hair.

He had walked into Sector North just to write a report, and the report

was gone .. . And she had never met another man in her life who would

have walked into Sector North just to establish the truth that was

necessary for a report.

When he had woken, when he had sobered up, when he had gone on the

plane, then she would return to the daily and nightly misery of the

Transit Centre .. .

She sat in her car and watched the milk float judder down the street.

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She was parked up outside the terraced house. It was a neat street,

decorated and smartened with bright window boxes of pansies and

hanging

ivy. When the milkman had passed, she left her car and went to the

front door, and rang the bell. It was four minutes past six in the

morning. She shivered. She waited. She stretched because she had

been sat in her car for three and a half hours before the milk float

had turned into the street. She heard slow feet coming clumsily down

the stairs behind the door. She had been to his wedding, Charles

was a

friend of his parents. She flexed her hands, felt her nerves

rasping.

The door opened. Blinking eyes in the half-light, a loose dressing

gown, bare feet, tousled hair.

"Good God, Mrs. Braddock .. . what on earth .. . ?"

He was half her age, Charles said he was very clever. Charles had

said

that if her Dorrie hadn't been such a bloody messer then Jasper

Williamson would have been the right sort of man.

"Please, I do apologize, I need advice."

Eyes narrowing. "What sort of advice?"

She stood on the step. He was the only one she could have come to,

she

could not have come to any of the fat cat lawyers who were Charles's

friends.

She said in meekness, "International law, I suppose that's what it's called."

Eyes concentrating. "What sort of international law?"

She blurted, "Prosecution of war criminals."

Somehow, he understood straight away. "Because of Dorrie .. . ?

You'd

better come in, Mrs. Braddock .. . "Fraid it's a bit of a tip. Had people in last night. I was sorry to hear about Dorrie ... I can

only

tell you the basics."

He led her into the long living area, and he seemed not to know where

283

to start with the filled ashtrays and the dirtied glasses and the

emptied bottles, and she told him that he shouldn't bother. She took

the two sheets of fax paper from her handbag and gave them to him,

and

he'd groped for the mantelpiece and his spectacles. She thought that

he'd probably have reckoned Dorrie to be quite awful, like everyone

had, like she had .. . He sank down onto the sofa and he started to

read, and she began to collect up the glasses and the ashtrays and

took

them through to the kitchen. Didn't know much, did she? Knew how

to

bloody tidy up. Didn't know much about mothering, did she? Knew

how

to bloody wash up ... He was reading slowly, and he'd found a pad

of

paper, and he'd started to take notes. When she had all the glasses

and all the ashtrays and all the bottles away into the kitchen, when

she had run the hot water into the sink, Mary came and stood behind

him. She could read over his shoulder, what he read .. .

MILAN STANKOViC: (See MS above.) Commander of para militaries in

Salika

village. Formerly clerk to agricultural produce co-operative.

Aged

early to middle thirties. Tall (approx 5'll/6'1), athletic build,

no

facial distinguishing scars etc, beard and full hair dark brown, eyes

grey-blue. Well dressed, suit for social evening, quite obviously

the

undisputed leader of the community.

After capture I was taken to Salika school hall. Punched by MS.

Interrogated by MS through interpreter. Gave my name, confirmed my

nationality to MS, told him purpose of my journey to Sector North.

Told

MS that he had been identified to me as the killer of DM.

My impression, MS deeply shaken by being named, through interpreter,

in

front of his village peers. From my kit he had seen photographs I

carried of DM after exhumation, my impression was that he recognized

DM's facial features. Evasive and unsettled when confronted with

my

accusation of guilt. After villagers beat me, he gave the order for

me

to be taken away, don't know intended destination, don't know whether

284

I

was to be executed immediately or later. Managed to break free in

confused situation. I am not trained in Escape and Evasion I believe

my life was saved by intervention of BS (see above). I have no doubt

that DM was murdered by the direct actions, stabbing and beating and

shooting, of Milan Stankovic of Salika village, in Glina

Municipality.

Faithfully, William Penn, Alpha Security Ltd. "Right, Mrs.

Braddock,

what do you want to know?" "I want to know how I can nail that bastard to the floor." "Give me a few minutes." She went back into the kitchen. She filled the kettle for coffee, and she started to rinse

through the glasses. She saw that he was reading the two faxed sheets

a second time. She wondered if he still thought Dorrie to be quite

awful, like everyone had, like she had. A young woman came down the

stairs, naked, so pretty, so different from the young woman in

virginal

wedding white, and didn't seem to notice that an intruder had usurped

her sink and was making free with her coffee. The young woman picked

up a packet of cigarettes and wafted away back up the stairs. Clever

young Jasper, who would have been right for Dorrie if she hadn't been

'such a bloody messer', was pulling thick books off the shelves, and

he

took the coffee mug without comment. Mary dried the glasses. She

cleaned the ashtrays. She stacked the empty bottles outside the back

door. She wiped the wood surfaces down. She found the vacuum

cleaner

in the cupboard and ran it over the carpet. His head was down in

the

books and he had torn strips of paper as markers, and his pencil

writing was filling the pages of the notepad. The young woman came

down the stairs, white blouse and executive blazer and discreet navy

skirt, with a briefcase, and kissed clever young Jasper, and was gone

out onto the street. He didn't seem to notice her. He hadn't

touched

the coffee she'd made him. He put the books back onto the shelves.

He

stapled the handwritten sheets together, with the two faxed pages.

"It's all there, Mrs. Braddock. It's a bit complicated, but if you take it slowly ... I'm in court in an hour ... Of course it's possible

to prosecute, but what it needs is the determination. Without that

determination then the world just rolls on. The notes are Halsbury's

Laws, it's Volume 2 ... You'll have to excuse me, Mrs. Braddock,

but

I've got to move .. . You see it's not important whether Dorothy is

now

285

the English rose or whether she was an awkward little bitch, a crime

is

a crime is a crime. The British jurisdiction would be pretty

complicated, what with Yugoslavia not being a country any more, and

it

being a civil war, but the Geneva Convention on the treatment of

prisoners sews it up. There's a procedure in place now for dealing

with war crimes in former Yugoslavia. It can happen, if there's the

determination .. . I've got to go and dress, Mrs. Braddock .. .

Whether that determination exists, well, you'll find that out, it's

not

for me to say. Whether you can "nail that bastard to the floor", I

just don't know."

"Thank you." She took his notes from what he called Halsbury's Laws, Volume 2, put them in her handbag. "I want to hear him scream."

"Only one problem, but it's cardinal. It's one thing to find the

determination of the great and the glorious to prosecute, something

else to have the accused man in custody .. ."

"Where are you going?"

"To walk, to be alone .. ."

"I have to open the school."

"To be alone .. ."

He didn't think his wife had slept, and he had heard most chimes of

the

church clock.

They were in the kitchen, and Marko was still at the table and hanging

back on his breakfast because there was crisis between his mother

and

his father. It was what Milan would have expected from Evica. She

had

to open the school, she had to make the pretence of normality. It

was

her strength, that life must be lived. She was chiding Marko for

not

eating, and she was clearing the table in the kitchen, and she was

routing for the books she would need for the day in school. She had

the strength and he did not. He had not told her of Katica Dubelj

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in

the cave in the woods. He was not strong enough. She would hear

it at

the school in the morning, she would know it when she brought Marko

home for their lunch .. .

He wanted to be alone. He fastened the clasp of the heavy belt over

his jeans, and the weight of the holster carrying the Makharov pistol