THE HEART OF DANGER (60 page)

what the Ustase fascists did to his grandparents, what the people

from

Rosenovici did to their neighbours, burning them with fire, is in

his

bones and his blood and his mind, and has been since he was a small

child .. . He says that you do not understand, and that you cannot

understand .. . He says that you have no quarrel with him, and that

he

has no quarrel with you ... He says now that you should try to

understand ... He begs you to permit him to return to his people,

to

his wife and to his son .. ." Going forward, stopping, listening.

He

felt the cold in him. Even when they crossed the small clearings

where

old trees had rotted and fallen, where the sun caught him, he felt

cold. She spoke to the man, the whisper of the local language, and

again she killed the words, and the pleading. "What did you say to him?" "I asked him, could he describe the face of Dorrie Mowat when he

hit her, knifed her and shot her .. ." The man was broken. He took the lead. He did not know how she could find the cruelty. He let

Ulrike have charge of moving Milan Stankovic forward. He handed her

the

knife and she held it against the man's throat, as he had done. She

would use the knife, of that he was certain. Ahead were the strong

points and the minefields and the tripwires and the patrols. As his

defence, he had only the skills he had learned as a child, going to

the

badger sett or the vixen's den, stalking the fallow hind. He

remembered about the INLA man, and what the detective sergeant of

the

Anti-terrorist Branch had told him weeks after the arrest, meeting

in a

357

pub to hand over surveillance evidence notes, that the arrogance and

conceit had been stripped off the man with his clothes, that the man

had sat in his cell wearing his paper overall suit and wept .. . There

was nothing definite that he could tell her. It was just his

instinct.

Each time they stopped and listened, his instinct told him they were

being followed, but he saw nothing behind and heard nothing. And

it

was all ahead of them, the worst. "I don't know how we'll pick up

the

pieces again .. ." It was the usual way of their sessions. They

were

in the kitchen. The bulk of Charles Braddock's body was slumped on

the

table and he spoke muffled through his hands. "I've always made the decisions for her. I've always said what'll happen. Damn it, she's always been here, waiting, available .. ." Arnold Browne leaned

against the sink. Pretty rare for him to be invited inside the Manor

House and not outside to the 'snug' shed at the bottom of the garden,

but it was usual that he should play the punch bag for his neighbour's

monologue. He supposed that he was attracted by the power of the man,

but he found the whined self-pity quite unpleasant. '.. . Lost her to

that damned child. I mean, it's hardly as if she can just walk back

through the door, and we carry on like nothing ever .. . Humiliated

me

in my own house, at my own table, with my own friends ... I mean,

it's

not even for the child living, it's for the child that's bloody dead.

Not what I want, not at all. I've done everything that Mary could

have

wished for, needed, asked for ... Arnold, she' scrapped on me, bloody

ungrateful woman .. ." He went to the kitchen door. It was not

Arnold

Browne's way to tell his neighbour that he thought him the most

opinionated bully he had ever met. Or to inform his neighbour that

he

thought his wife to be the most selfish woman he had ever known. It

was not his way to tell his neighbour that a young man had been

exploited when vulnerable .. . And it was not his way to reveal that,

in his own mind, he was tormented by guilt for his part in the matter.

He let himself out. "Yes, Penn. He's Bill Penn .. . Might be under William Penn .. ." She stiffened. Mary Braddock could endure no

longer the isolation of her room. She sat in a low chair in the lobby.

She waited for the telephone call from the earnest young American.

She straightened, taut. "He was here, this is where he was staying, 358

Bill Penn .. ." The reception clerk, bored and superior, was shaking his head, reluctantly leafing through the guest list. "This is where he was booked in .. ." A nasal English voice. She saw a small man, overweight and bald. He was leaning over the desk trying to read

the

lists as the reception clerk's pencil moved languidly over the names.

He wore dirty jeans that were smeared in engine grease and an open

shirt with a pullover that was ragged at the cuffs. "Ah, yes .. .

Here, but gone .. . Gone two days ago, two days ago he checked out..

.

Yes, I remember, Mr. Penn, I think he had had an accident .. . but

gone." She saw his disappointment. He looked Jewish. She saw him mouth a curse, and he turned away. She was up fast out of the low

chair and she intercepted him by the glass swing doors. "Excuse me

...

you were asking for Mr. Penn." "Right." "It's impertinent, but in what connection?" "Depends who needs to know." "Well, if it doesn't

seem ridiculous, I suppose I could say I'm his employer." "The girl's

mother? Dorrie Mowat's mother? I'm Benny Stein, I met Bill Penn."

'"BENJAMIN (BENNY) STEIN: Crown Agent lorry driver, Brit aid convoy, rescued me (life threatened situation) from Sector North at

considerable risk to himself, his colleagues, and the future shipment

of aid through Serb-occupied territory." She had recited it, as if it

were learned by heart. '.. . You were in his report." "We were geared

up to go back today, down to Knin, but there's some flap over there,

crossing points closed. We got put on hold. Seems I missed him,

just

wanted to put alcohol down his throat. Good guy, but you know that,

lucky guy. So, he's gone home .. ." "Not home, Mr. Stein, back inside

Sector North. I asked him to return there, and that's what he did.

I

asked him to bring out my daughter's murderer, that's what he's

doing."

She stared him straight in the eyes. She saw him shudder. She

thought that for a moment his mind was working like a slow mechanism,

but when they came his words had the deliberation of a quite total

dislike. "Do you know Oscar Wilde, Mrs. Braddock? Maybe you don't

..

. "Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything except the obvious." What is obvious to me but not

obvious

359

to you is that over there, inside Sector North, is a bloody awful

corner of hell. So, you "asked" him to go back inside .. . When I got

to meet him, he was kicked half to death, they were taking him out

to

shoot him. You know what he said? He said that you told the worst

stories about your daughter .. . "a story about her for every year

of

her life, the stories seemed to queue up to foul-mouth her ..." And for your peace of mind, you "asked" him to go back into that place

.. .

Well done, Mrs. Braddock, for missing the obvious." He pushed past her, hammered into the swing doors. She thought that Benny Stein,

if

he had not pushed past her and run across the pavement, would have

hit

her. They played it as a game, and the Director watched. The tip

of

the wand moved high on the wall map of the operations room, and the

Canadian officer described the moves. But there was no passion to

the

commentary. "Initially there was a search mounted out of Salika

village, that search did not make a trace and was wound down this

morning. The activity of the search is now in their prime

militarized

zone fronting onto the Kupa river. They've cancelled leave, beefed

up

the duty rosters. They believe they have sealed the militarized zone

it's out of the hands now of the rabble because their main force

military have taken charge. We have no idea of the location of their

target, whether he is pressing on, whether he has decided to go to

ground while the heat's hot. From our monitoring of their radio it

is

clear that they do not, as of this moment, know his position, nor

his

approximate position. They seem, however, confident of blocking him

in

their militarized zone. That's about where it stands .. . You'll

excuse me for asking you, sir, but do you have that information, where

he's coming to?" They waited on him. The Argentine captain held

the

sheaf of papers that carried the monitored radio messages. They

watched him. The Jordanian major lowered the pointer from the map.

They searched him for truth. The Canadian colonel smiled, dryly.

The

Director said, in sadness more than anger, "I bloody well don't.

360

We're

only the United Nations, you see, only the world body, only the one

international authority that every clown politician pays lip service

to. We are good enough to be derided, humiliated, insulted, kicked

from one fucking end of this place to the other, good enough to shuffle

aid round without being thanked. Not good enough to be trusted.

It's

what I've made a career at, advancement without trust .. . Thank you,

gentlemen." He went back with heavy steps, up the flight to his

office. His secretary greeted him at the outer door, messages in hand

and with a gesture towards the three men sitting uncomfortably in

the

outer office and waiting for their delayed meeting. He waved her

away.

The Director closed the door hard behind him. He sat long at his

desk

and he smoked his cigar and loathed himself for the habit. There

were

many telephones on his desk. Big decision of the day ... He reached

for the white telephone, and he dialled hard, belting the buttons.

'..

. Your guarantee? He does not cross with his prisoner, I want that

as

a promise. I have that as an unequivocal promise? I accept your

guarantee." He had the promise from the First Secretary of the

British

mission that the man who was disowned would not be permitted to cross

the river that night with his prisoner. He must place his trust in

the

guarantee. She did not know how much longer she could keep up the

pace. The dog could hold the pace, whining for food in its hunger

when

she stopped to rest, sometimes veering away from the scent to lap

at a

pool of old rainwater, but the dog kept strength while she faded.

Sometimes she had a kaleidoscope of lights in her mind,

hallucinations

at her eyes .. . She knew this part of the forest, not well, but she

had been there as a teenager with the Pioneers of the Party, when

the

young people had gone on long hiking marches with their tents and

cooking gear, when they were brought to the place of the massacre.

Where the dog led her was within a half-hour's walk of the place of

the

massacre. At the place the teenagers had been lined up by the

officials, the rain dripping on them, and the Croat children and the

361

Serb children had listened to the officials tell of the shooting in

cold blood by the Ustase men of the group of women who were taking

food

to the Partizans, and after the speeches the teenagers, Croat and

Serb,

had murmured their factional insults at each other. It was why she

knew this part of the forest .. . She had thought, all through the

length of the day, that she would find soldiers, and that the soldiers

would go with her as the dog led them on the scent. She had found

no

soldiers, and now the light amongst the trees was fading. She had

only

the bayonet. Evica Stankovic had seen them first an hour before.

When

darkness came they would be close to the river. She had seen them

for

a moment, where the haphazard growth of the trees made a clean

corridor

for her vision. When darkness came again, when they were near the

river, she would lose them. She went on and all the time her eyes,

sometimes blinded in tiredness, sometimes seared by the leaping

lights,

searched for the shape of them. Evica Stankovic had seen, in that

moment an hour before, the man leading, and the woman, and her husband

who was called a murderer was dragged between them. The two military

policemen were waiting on the platform of the station. They were

tall

men and their heads were above the mass of passengers, friends,

relations, who crowded and waited for the instruction that they

should

board the train. "What I don't understand .. ." "Wrap it up, Freefall." The First Secretary threaded through the crush, going

towards the military policemen. Ham had spent the day, imprisoned

without ceremony in the basement cellar of the First Secretary's

villa

on the high northern outskirts of Zagreb, among the firewood and the