THE HEART OF DANGER (55 page)

slitting the throats of old friends and former neighbours .. ."

"I understand, sir."

"What I am trying to do, with my piss-poor intellect, is create some sort of cease-fire so that the killing stops. Are you following me?"

"Very clearly."

"I have these war crimes groupies fucking about in my backyard. At the

moment they are little more than a nuisance, but each day they're

here,

each day they dig their hole deeper, so their power of sabotage

increases .. ."

"I appreciate that, sir."

"Let me tell you something, in confidence. Right now, this week,

there

is a meeting in Budapest between Croat bureaucrats and Serb

bureaucrats. There is a meeting scheduled tomorrow in Detroit, out

of

the limelight, between a Croatian constitutional lawyer and a Serb

with

the same education. Two days ago, in Athens, there wound up a session

involving Bosnian Muslims and Serbs .. . Thank Christ, those bloody

journalists down in Sarajevo and Belgrade and Zagreb are too

preoccupied with getting hero medals on the front lines, they don't

know the half of what's being worked .. ."

The First Secretary knew of all three meetings, and disguised his

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knowledge. "Small mercies."

"Under the fucking carpet, we are working night and day for a

cease-fire, and talk of war crimes tribunals is an obstruction.

Shit,

the Serbs have monsters in their ranks, but so do the Croats,

so do the Bosnian Muslims. Everybody in this mess is guilty. If

an

alleged war criminal is kidnapped and brought out of Sector North

then

I can kiss goodbye to a cease-fire, most especially if they also bring

out an eyewitness. Got me? For six months now I have oiled these

bastards towards talking with each other .. . You know what, you

should

see them. Get a Croat and a Serb together in a quiet hotel with a

bar,

and you sure as hell wouldn't know they've been beating double shades

of shit out of each other. They want a deal. They laugh together,

drink together, probably go looking for tail together. They want

out

.. ."

"I wouldn't wish you to think that my government in any way condones the action of this freelancer, quite the opposite .. ."

"And who will believe you?"

There might have been a microphone in the room. Best to assume there

were microphones recording the conversation. The First Secretary

spoke

softly. "Which is why I brought you the information, which is why

we

will do our damnedest to make certain no alleged war criminal is

brought out from Sector North. I think we are running on the same

rails. It won't happen .. ."

The face of the Director lightened, as if he were now amused. "But it

was your Prime Minister who called for tribunals .. ."

"Should never pay too much attention to political ramblings."

"And this Penn, interfering fucking nobody, he's your man .. ."

The First Secretary was smiling. "Pity that he didn't stay home.

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I

met him. Not very impressive, but he's been caught up in the emotion

of the place. Capable in a technical sense, but not very bright.

Capable enough, perhaps, to make it back to the Kupa river, but not

bright enough to see the implications of his actions. If he takes

his

man then we'll hear about it ... As you know better than me, the dust

sheets will be coming off the artillery pieces and the cladding will

be

off the ground-to-ground missiles that can reach southern Zagreb.

They

might even get to loading up ... I don't think they'd fire unless

this

wretched clerk from Salika village is actually out of their

territory.

Penn will not be allowed to cross the river with his prisoner, I

thought you should know."

He saw the spreading astonishment crack the Director's face. "You'd see him go to the wall, your man?"

The First Secretary had served one tour, two years, in Dublin as a

junior Six person covered by diplomatic status. He thought he knew

the

southern Irish. He thought they reckoned that the British were

always

totally devious, quite ruthless. Well .. .

"He's not our man."

Everything of note, everything sensitive to his work, Marty had

locked

away in the floor safe. He was checking his shopping list and beside

him as he stood was the howl of the mains-powered electric drill.

They

were cheerful young guys, the two Swedish soldiers with the drill,

perhaps carpenters or engine mechanics back home before their turn

in

the armed forces. When they had made the deep screw sockets in the

floor they would fix down the metal ring that he had demanded. They

did not ask him why he wanted a metal ring fastened to the floor of

the

converted freight container, and he would not have told them the

reason

for it. He checked his list, carefully typed out.

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1 Bed (collapsible).

1 Sleeping bag, plus blanket.

Food: Bread, margarine, jam, sliced ham, sausage, milk

(3 lit res 1 Hotel room reservation (KD eyewitness).

1 Chain (4 metres).

2 Padlocks (2 keys each).

1 pair Handcuffs (2 keys).

He told the Swedish soldiers that they should close the door when

they

had finished fastening the ring in the floor. The ring would hold

a

padlock, the padlock would hold a chain, the chain would hold a second

padlock, the second padlock would hold a pair of handcuffs, the pair

of

handcuffs would hold a war criminal. Marty Jones had told anyone

who

would listen since he had come to Zagreb that it was the means that

were important, not the end. He reckoned himself entitled to change

his mind. He said to the Swedes that he would be out for the rest

of

the afternoon, gone shopping.

The sun was lowering behind the trees, edging for the summit crest

of

the hillside. The woodland that blanketed the long valley steamed

from

the heat of the day, and now there was the first freshness from the

coming of the evening.

They were past the skeletons, un cared for and untouched since he

had

last seen them, and he had watched the control settle on Ulrike's

face

as if the refugees shot down were not a part of her business. The

way

she had gone by the skeletons told him of her strength ... So small,

so

fragile, so bloody strong ... He had pointed down to the swaddled

bodies of the babies and Ulrike had not flinched, and he had felt

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the

tears welling in his eyes.

He no longer held her hand. He felt his trust for her. Down from

the

trees, below in the width of the valley, he could hear the drive of

two

tractor engines, but the tractors and the fields were still masked

from

them by the thickness of the trees' foliage.

When they came to the minefield, to the needle lengths of wire rising

up through the leaf carpet, he broke the rule that he had made for

himself. He spoke. He told her of the cat, and he swayed his hips

to

show the way that the cat had eased itself against the antennae of

the

mines, just for a moment of lightness, almost of clowning. Then he

caught a grip on himself .. . This was no bloody place to go clowning.

But if they didn't laugh they would cry, and if they cried they would

be broken .. . They pushed on.

She went easily. She could have been on a forest ramble. Ulrike

would

know the reality because she took in the refugees. She would know

they

were moving into the eye of the storm.

The stream was silver and black between the trees.

They stopped still. They stood against a wide oak's trunk and they

could see beyond the stream to the orchard blossoms and the smoke

wreath above the chimneys of Salika. Gold light fell on the valley.

They saw two old tractors moving in the fields across the stream.

The

one spread manure and the other ploughed. And across the stream they

saw a man and a child walking away from the village and Penn shuddered.

He did not need to tell her .. . Milan Stankovic held the child's

hand

and he carried on his shoulder two fishing rods and a landing net.

Milan and the child were coming away from the village and were walking

on the far bank of the stream past the silver spate water towards

a

dark slow pool.

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They had a plan.

The plan dictated that, first, they should find the eyewitness.

He estimated the village was a mile from the pool and the tractors

were

half a mile from Milan Stankovic and his boy.

Ulrike understood the dilemma. She said, "You must have the

eyewitness

first. You must."

"It is our opportunity."

"The eyewitness is evidence. Evidence is necessary.

"We get the eyewitness ..." As if she were speaking to a juvenile.

"They have not even begun .. . They will be there when we want them to

be there .. . Penn, you have to be cruel."

He was looking at the child who skipped along beside his father and

he

could faintly hear the excited squeals of the child who held his

father's hand.

They went back into the depth of the trees, where the trunks were

set

closer. He looked twice into her face to see if the sight of the

target man had changed her, if the sight of the child with the target

man disturbed her, and he saw nothing but a chilled and steadfast

determination. They pushed on. They moved now in short rushes. He

would select a big tree ahead, and he would go fast to it and hug

against it, and she would come to him, and they would wait, would

listen, and he would choose the next tree. He recognized that he

made

more noise than she did, that his feet were heavier and his footfall

clumsier. He could see the jagged rooftops of Rosenovici .. .

Back to Dome's place, back again into Dorrie's war ... He could see

through the trees the broken tower of the church, and he could see

the

lane that led to Katica Dubelj's hovel home. He caught at Ulrike's

arm

when she came light-stepped to him, and his hand was across his mouth

to demand her silence and he pointed to the grey-black smear of the

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earth among the weeds in the corner of the field .. . and he seemed

to

hear again the horrid young woman, laughing at him, mocking him. It

was a madness, and it was for her, and her laughter clamoured in his

mind.

They came to the path that climbed the hill slope behind the village

that had died. He could have turned then, when he came to the path.

He saw the worn mess of the path, mud stamped by boots. He remembered

how the path had been, covered in fallen and undisturbed leaves. At

that point he could have gone back into the wood. He went at the

side

of the path. He came to the mouth of the cave where the grass was

broken, where the boots had gathered. He took the small torch from

the

backpack side pouch. Ulrike's hand was on his arm, holding tight

to

him, as if to give him courage. He stood in the entrance of the cave.

He shone the torch beam forward and from the dark recess twin lights,

amber, blazed back at him. The beam found the cat, wide-eyed,

crouched

on the rag bundle, snarling at the light. He saw the parchment skin

of

the face of Katica Dubelj and he saw the darkened slashes of the

knives' work. He saw the cat was across her stomach and past the

cat's

tail were the spindle-thin legs of Katica Dubelj and the long black

material of her dress was forced up to her waist and he saw the white

death of the skin of her thighs. He swung the light away, away from

the cat who guarded her. He reeled out of the cave. Ulrike held

him.

"It is what they always do. They violate old women. They rape old women. Perhaps you are responsible, Penn." "Don't .. ." "Every time,

for the rest of your life, that you take a woman to your bed .. .

Perhaps it was you that led them to her, Penn." "Don't say that ..

."

"Every time you take a woman to your bed, for warmth and for love,

you

will remember her ... It is what you have to live with here, Penn,

your

responsibility." "Don't let me hear you say that .. ." "Because you

are not man enough to hear it? It's not boys' games ... It is about

survival ... It is about the code of living that you believe in ...

You

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do not have an eyewitness, so you have to take him and you have to

make

him convict himself. Are you strong enough to make him convict

himself?

"I have to be .. ."

"And he has the child with him .. . Are you strong enough?"

She had walked the city all of the afternoon, not shopping and not

window gazing, but a restless striding, as if walking the streets