Read THE HEART OF DANGER Online
Authors: Gerald Seymour
Tags: #War Crimes; thriller; mass grave; Library; Kupa; Croatia; Mowatt; Penn; Dorrie;
were most thick. To spread his weight, was what Ham had told him,
and
not to walk where it was easiest, where boot marks could be most
clearly seen. He had moved up the bank and there had been the open
space that he assumed was a path, and he had rolled across the space,
which was difficult with the backpack, and the pistol on his waist
had
bruised into his stomach. Past the open space, the path, he had
found,
as Ham had told him he would, a single low strand of barbed wire.
He
had found it because the barbs on the wire had suddenly trapped him,
become embedded in the material of his camouflage tunic. Ham had
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told
him that he should not shake the wire because it would carry empty
tin
cans, and he should not go beyond the wire because it marked the
perimeter of an area where mines were buried. He had a sort of
reassurance when the barbs of the wire caught at him, proof that Ham
knew. He had picked the barbs off with small and careful movements,
then crawled in the darkness along the length of the wire, threading
the wire through the circle he had made with his thumb and forefinger
until his hand was a mess of blood from the barbs. He led himself,
on
his stomach, along the length of wire until his hand felt the post
and
then the twine binding the wire to the post. From the post the wire
twisted in direction and headed back and away from the river behind
him. It was as Ham had told him .. . another path, going away from
the
river, and he had searched for a small stick, as he had been told
to
do, and he had held the stick loose in front of him as he had walked
at
the side of the path. Ham had said that he should be at the side
of
the path because the mud that would betray his boot weight would be
in
the centre of the path. He had held the stick loose in front of his
knees because Ham had said, but didn't know, that there might be a
tripwire slung across the path, at knee height, and a tripwire might
rattle empty cans, or it might detonate a grenade. It was as Ham
had
told him .. . Penn stopped when he reckoned he had gone a full hundred
yards from the river bank. When he had stopped, he groped with his
fingers and found the barbed wire that ran two strides from the path,
and he followed the barbed wire deep into the birch wood. He had
sat
down on the old leaf mould, and waited. They were desperate hours
to
wait, especially when the rain had started. The rain dripped from
his
head to his chest and his shoulders. He tried to ration how often
he
looked down at the luminous hands of his watch. Should have rested,
should have catnapped, as Ham had told him, but he could not have
slept
and could not have dozed. He reckoned he heard each dribble and
splatter of the rain coming down from the tall birches, and each
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minuscule shifting of his weight where he sat seemed a confined
explosion of sound. He waited for the dawn. The dawn was late
because
of the low cloud. The dawn coming late meant that he would have to
push faster when he moved off. When he could see where the weight
of
his boots would fall, then it was the time for him to move forward.
There was no going back. There was no inflatable waiting at his bank
of the Kupa river. There was no alternative to moving forward.
There
was nothing in his mind of sentimental crap, staying alive was going
forward. As Ham had told him .. . the most dangerous part of the
journey for him was the first five miles, and the worst of the most
dangerous ground was what he would cover in the first mile. He tried
to razor his concentration. The first mile was where the minefields
were most closely settled, where the tripwires were, where the
military
ruled. The first five miles were where the patrols would be most
frequent. It was the fucking contradiction, was what Ham had said,
that he must move most carefully in the first miles, and move fastest.
When he could see the path, Penn hoisted the backpack onto his
shoulders and went forward. Not running, not jogging, but going with
a
brisk pace. When he had gone half a mile, twelve minutes going on
thirteen, he realized the futility of the map drawn by Ham. He had
no
detail. The farmhouse was not marked on the map. The farmhouse was two-storey, brick-built from the ground up and then heavy-set
planking
for the upper floor. There was a wide balcony area at the front on
the
upper floor. He could see the man clearly. The man on the balcony
did
not bother to look out, to wonder if he were watched. The man opened
the front of his trousers and urinated through the bars of the balcony
and down onto the waste ground near to the front door of the farmhouse.
And then Penn saw the woman, nightdress under her coat and above her
black rubber boots, and she had the washing basket on the ground
beside
her and was starting to peg out the clothes a bloody early start for
the old house chores and she bawled. Penn heard her voice, full of
rich complaint, and was near enough then to see the man scratch, and
ignore her, and yawn and stretch and belch, and still ignore the beat
of her complaint, and turn to go back inside. Penn moved on. Each
time that he stopped he tried to be certain that he was against the
line of a thicker birch trunk. As Ham had told him .. . never to
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be in
Silhouette, never to be the unnatural Shape, and Sound and Smell and
Shine could bloody wait, it was Silhouette and Shape that mattered.
At
the back of the farmhouse were outbuildings and barns, a mess of
slumped roofs and corrugated iron and abandoned harvest equipment
and
the corrals for cattle and pigs and sheep. Parked up amongst them
were
three military lorries and a jeep. He could no longer see the front
of
the farmhouse but the woman's yelling carried to him, and there were
new cries of encouragement and jeers from young troops. So young.
Half
asleep and paddling around in the mud, the troops, but they had their
rifles slung on their half-dressed bodies. Hesitation, to move or
not
to move, but the light was growing all the time .. . None of the
training on the Five surveillance courses seemed relevant. He had
only
his instincts to protect him, and the guidance that Ham had given
him,
and the instinct and the guidance seemed damn all of nothing. Going
so
carefully, tree to tree, along the track, and knowing that if the
movement were seen .. . holy shit.. . going carefully. One of the
troops, a fresh-faced young boy, a straggle of beard on his chin,
walked purposefully from the barns and up the field towards the track.
Carried his rifle and a small entrenching spade, and three dogs
gambolled and chased around him. Penn had to move, because the line
that the trooper had taken would cross the track ahead of where he
now
stood. He had to risk the movement. Going forward fast, too fast,
going from tree to tree, spurt rushes. Just a boy coming up the hill
behind the outbuildings, probably a shy boy, probably looking for
a
place where a shy boy could dig his small pit and defecate and not
be
watched. There was a terrier dog and a cross-collie dog and there
was
a big, slow, heavy-coated dog. His last surge, and the terrier had
its
hackles up and the cross-collie barked, and the heavy-coated dog
didn't
seem to know what the hell was happening. The boy was twenty paces
from him. Slow hands, trembling, feeling into the flap of the
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backpack, twisting his arm round, finding the paper holding the
sandwiches that Ham had given him. Ham had said there was cheese
and
beef and pickle in the sandwiches. The terrier growling as the boy
dug. Slow hands, clumsy, un peeling the newspaper from the
sandwiches.
The cross-collie barking as the boy lowered his trousers and the rifle
was beside him. Penn put the sandwiches gently to the ground, on
the
wet dead leaves. The heavy-coated dog wagging its tail in vigour.
Penn
understood dogs because that was his childhood. Dogs had poor
eyesight
but had the sense of smell and the sense of hearing. They came close.
It was his luck that the boy had his crouched back to him. They were
close, and he looked into the sharp teeth lines of the terrier and
the
barking fangs of the cross-collie and the happy friendship of the
heavy-coated dog. With his boot he edged the sandwiches closer to
them. He went on his toes. He went in silence and behind him was
the
snarling for possession of his sandwiches. Penn went with his chest
heaving and his legs leaden and his heart pounding. He went, and all
the time that he moved he waited for the shout and the metal scrape
of
the rifle being armed, but he heard only the dogs disputing for his
sandwiches.
When he had gone past the farmhouse where the troops who guarded the
front line were billeted, he looked back. The boy was walking down
towards the farmhouse and with his bowels cleared the boy whistled.
He
wondered whether he could have knifed the boy. Just a shy boy, just
a
pack of farm dogs, and Penn understood what Ham had told him ... a
fucking dumb place to be.
He made ground, went hard, had to cover good distance before the
daylight settled.
It was a response to the rejection.
The rejection was of him, not his wife, which made it wound the more.
For his wife there was normality in Salika village. She was the
nurse.
She could still move amongst the people of the village, visit the
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elderly, examine the children, weigh the babies, while her husband
stayed at home with his books and his loneliness. Each of the days
that she had gone out, since his challenge at the school and his
beating, the Headmaster had asked her what was said of him, how he
was
spoken of... She had thought she, too, would be rejected, and she
was
not, his wife could go into the homes of the village and talk, gossip,
advise and drink coffee .. . and she answered him straight, always
had
spoken to him in frankness since the youth of their marriage. Simply
nothing was said of him. It was as if, she had said the night before
and that morning as she hurried his breakfast, he did not exist in
the
life of the village. His wife had gone to visit the two sisters who
suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, to offer them comfort instead
of
drugs that were no longer available. He was alone in his house. He was with his loneliness and the books that he could read when he held
them as far as his arm would stretch in front of his face and when
he
sat close to the light of the window. 11 The Headmaster believed
there
were two women and one man who had cared about him, and the two women
and the one man had now rejected him.
Evica Stankovic had taken over the running of the school and used
his
office as her own.
The Priest had missed another evening when he might have called by.
To
counter the agony of his rejection the Headmaster determined, that
morning when there was still insufficient light for him to sit in
his
window and read, that he should pray to the good God, if the good
God
was there. He did not believe that the good God was known to his
former friend, the Priest who rejected him. Their bond had been
intellectual, not religious. He resolved that he would struggle in
his
own way, to find the necessary words of prayer. He was a communist,
of
course, and he would not have been elevated to the Headmaster's
position if he had not been a member of the Party; he did not know
the
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way of prayer. His mother and his father, dead so long, knew of
prayer
and he would try to summon the memory of them. He would go in darkness
to that place of evil. He would pray alone where evil had been done.
He would pray in that place of evil for guidance as to how he should
utilize the secret he held. If they had not been sitting on the
track,
if they had not been squabbling over cigarettes, if they had not been
scuffling for the bottle, Penn would have walked into the patrol,
into
the arms of the five militia men. But they were sitting on the track
and one yelled as he snatched the cigarettes and one shouted as he
grabbed the bottle. First statue still, rock still, stone still,
then
retreating back along the track, cat careful, cat cautious. He edged