Read THE HEART OF DANGER Online
Authors: Gerald Seymour
Tags: #War Crimes; thriller; mass grave; Library; Kupa; Croatia; Mowatt; Penn; Dorrie;
194
that had been worthwhile. She had captured him, with her taunt
beckoning, with the laugh of her lips and cheeks. That horrid young
woman, he would have loved her. Penn wanted to be near to Rosenovici
before darkness. That angel, he would have loved her. He had put
down
the book because there was not enough light through the window for
him
to read more. He was still cold. The Headmaster sat in his chair.
He
was hunched, bowed, with a blanket of thick wool across his shoulders,
and he rubbed hard at his upper thighs to put warmth in them. All
through the day he had been cold. His trousers, soaked from the
wading
of the river at the ford that was not guarded by the scum boys of
the
militia, could not be hung on the line to dry outside in the day's
spring sunshine. It would have invited suspicion to have displayed
his
wet trousers for the village to see. His shoes, mud-caked, could
be
left, discreetly, at the kitchen door because no one from the village
now came to their house, that much was guaranteed. The plague was
on
his house, but his trousers would have been seen from the road and
his
wife had not complained to him, just laid them wet and filthy over
the
wood frame in front of the kitchen stove. Although he shivered, he
felt a sense of true liberation. It had been good to pray in that
place of evil, kneeling in the mud, crying silently for the
forgiveness
of them all. He did not think it an idiocy, which was what his wife
had said it was, that he had waded the ford to go to pray in that
place
of evil ... He made out a movement through the window, the hurrying
walk of villagers going towards the crossroads near the church. He
stood up from the chair and pressed his face against the cold glass
and
craned to see where the villagers went, hurrying. He saw the white
jeeps stopped near the church, and he saw, in a blur, the Canadian
policeman who had promised to bring him books for his school in return
for the sharing of his secret, and the Political Officer who was an
educated man. He felt his strength because he had prayed in that
place
of evil, knelt in that muddied pit that shamed them all, and he would
wade the ford again that night, ask again for their forgiveness, pray
195
again that the guilty would face harsh retribution. He knew that
some,
a few, had the courage to stand up because he had heard it on the
foreign radio. There were some, a few, who had sheltered and hidden
their neighbours, Croat or Muslim. There were some, a few, who had
stood against the tide and shouted against the barbarism of the
concentration camps and the killings and the digging of graves in
the
dark silence. It was worth praying for, harsh retribution for the
guilty. The Headmaster climbed the stairs of his house. It was
right,
when he went to see the UNCIVPOL Canadian and the Political Officer,
that he should wear his suit. "We have a job to do, and the job is mandated by the office of the Secretary General of the United Nations
.. ." The Political Officer was Finnish, but it was many years since he had lived in the family home at Ivalo, up north by the Arctic
Circle, close to the Russian border, and many years since he had
served
in the offices of the Foreign Ministry, down south in Helsinki. The
Political Officer was a United Nations man, had been for seventeen
years. He did not know whether he had offended a particular
dignitary,
whether he had made waves where oil should have been poured, but
following an investigation that he had led into the use of United
Nations facilities by the families of diplomats accredited to New
York,
he had been shipped overseas. His wife's home, where she was with
the
children, was New Jersey. His home, where he was alone, was the spa
town of Topusko. Perhaps it was his penance, for digging too deep
into
claimed expenses, that he was posted to Topusko in Sector North.
"When
you hinder me, then you hinder the world. It is a great conceit for
a
little man to hinder the humanitarian efforts of the world community
..
."
The Political Officer had come to Salika to offer what he called
'moral
weight' to the efforts of the Canadian and Kenyan police officers.
He
used big language, and he recognized that his words fell empty.
"You should know, Mr. Stankovic, that each obstruction of our work 196
is
logged and filed. If I were in your position, Mr. Stankovic, I
would
be unhappy that my actions had attracted so many reports .. ."
"Go get the shit out of here."
He regarded the man as a brute. The Political Officer's training
was
in the quiet world of diplomats and bureaucrats and functionaries.
He
assumed that he was regarded as a dull man at cocktails and poor
company at the dinner parties of the social circuit, but he believed
himself to be a man of rectitude and decency. Because of what he
believed himself to be, any meeting with Milan Stankovic, was
personal
pain .. . and there were so many like men scattered among each valley
of the area that he covered from the spa town of Topusko. The length
of Bosnia, the width of Croatia, there had been atrocities and graves
dug, through the length and the width there were thousands of old
women, old men, washed-up debris on a shore, who died alone for the
want of a parcel of food brought in secrecy ... He made the point
of
calling this one by the title of "Mister', little victories were hard to come by and Mister Stankovic always wore military fatigues.
"We have the right of free access anywhere in this territory .. ."
"You go where I say, only where I say. I say you get the shit out."
Nothing of his upbringing in Ivalo had prepared him for confrontation
with the likes of Mr. Milan Stankovic, nor for the others similar
to
him who ruled over similar villages. Nothing of his short work in
the
Foreign Ministry in Helsinki had prepared him, nor anything in the
hushed corridors beyond the Secretary General's inner sanctum.
Once, a
year after his posting to New York, jogging with his wife and his
three
children at night in Central Park, he had met such a beast, seen a
knife, handed over his wallet and his credit cards from the pouch
at
his waist. It had been his only experience of the beasts before
coming
to Topusko. But that beast had gone, running for bushes and shadows
197
and cover, had not stayed in conceit to confront the weakness of him
and his family ... He knew the Headmaster by sight, for conversation,
and he saw him coming up the road behind Stankovic. There was always
a
curious undressed look about a man without the spectacles that were
habitual to him. The Headmaster had twice offered him a game of
chess,
but there had never been the opportunity. There were deep
orange-blue
bruises on the Headmaster's face, and welt scars on his cheeks, and
the
lower lip was split and angry.
"We have a file on you, Mr. Stankovic, that grows more thick each
week. I promise you, from the depths of my heart, that we are not
stupid men. We have the file .. ."
The hand was on the holster, fiddling for the locking button of the
flap.
"We have a file. Maybe you will be an old man when the file is
presented to an examining magistrate. You are one of those, Mr.
Stankovic, who tells me loudly that Serbs and Croats can never again
live together I tell you, never is a long time. My experience, Mr.
Stankovic, those who shout loudest that there can never be
reconciliation are those who hide the greatest guilt .. ."
But the pistol was out of the holster. The Political Officer rated
his
file as a puny weapon when set against the Makharov pistol. The
pistol
was armed. The clatter of the metal parts seared at him. For
seventeen years he had believed in the power, glory, authority, of
the
blue flag. The reality was a loaded pistol on a village road. There was a shout from beside the Canadian policeman's jeep, a wiry little
man in camouflage fatigues trying to peer past the bulk of the
Kenyan's
body and into the back of the jeep. He said in his reports that went
to the desk of the Director of Civilian Affairs for on-passing to
the
Secretariat in New York that there was so much cruelty, so much fear,
and his power of intervention was so minimal. Milan Stankovic was
striding away towards the jeep, and the Headmaster had reached him.
"My friend, what happened to you .. , ?" The question of a fool.
198
The small piece of paper was put in his hand. He was told it was
a
prescription for the lenses of spectacles.
"We will have them made, my promise, we will bring them to you. Was it
him that did that to you .. . ?" The question of an idiot.
The Headmaster shrugged, turned away.
They had the door of the jeep open, and the Canadian and the Kenyan
were blocked from intervention by the rifles. He saw the bag lifted
out and held high, and passed to the hands of Milan Stankovic. It
was
because of the bag that he had come to Salika with the two policemen,
and the Political Officer had believed he possessed the seniority
to
argue his way through the roadblocks that curtained Rosenovici. The
face of Milan Stankovic was in front of him, and the face was contorted
in hatred. The white plastic bag was held up. The three cartons
of
milk were tipped out and each one in turn was stamped on. The three
loaves of bread were kicked, as footballs, across the road and into
the
rainwater ditch, and the cheese and the ham, and the apples from the
kitchens of the hotel at Topusko where he had his room.
Another failure.
Failure was the reality of the power, glory, authority, of the blue
flag.
He had good control of his voice, did not raise it. "What, Mr.
Stankovic, is a war crime? The killing of the wounded after the
finish
of a battle is a war crime .. . Who, Mr. Stankovic, is a war criminal?
The leader of the men who killed the wounded after the finish of a
battle .. . Do you sleep well, Mr. Stankovic, in your bed? Each
night
I add to the file .. ."
"Get the shit out, and stay out."
Another failure.
199
The Political Officer could not see in the face of Milan Stankovic
if
there was guilt or shame or fear. He hoped they came, journeyed to
the
beast in the quiet of the night, gnawed at him. It was all he could
hope for, that the brute's face would, one day, quiver in guilt, shame
or fear, one day .. .
He was losing time.
With the lost time came impatience.
Penn wanted to be close up to Rosenovici before the total darkness
came
down on the woodland of birches.
With the impatience came arrogance.
The wire line that marked the perimeter of the minefield ran away
to
his left and seemed to reach as far as the edge of the tree line.
If
he were to skirt the mines going left then he estimated that he would
have to break the cover of the trees, and he reckoned there was still
sufficient light for his movement to be seen. He looked up to the
right and the barbed wire stretched away to a rock wall. To go round
the minefield, going right, he would have to backtrack and then climb
the cliff, and that would be serious delay. He wanted to be close
up
to Rosenovici .. . Penn could see the evidence of the mines.
The trees were thinly spaced here, as if they had been coppiced within
the last five years, and there was room for armoured personnel
carriers
or tracked vehicles to power between the tree stumps of the old
harvesting.
The evidence of the mines was from their antennae.
It was his impatience and his arrogance that led him to step over
the
barbed wire line. The antennae, as far as Penn could see, were laid
out in straight lines. The antennae of the mines were eighteen
inches
high, reaching to just below his knee cap. Penn had never been on
a
200
course, not for a weekend and not for half an hour, on mines. It
was
pretty obvious to an impatient and arrogant man, a man running late,
that the mines with the antennae were developed to catch the
undersurface of a vehicle chassis if the wheels or tracks rolled
clear.
He could step out briskly, and ahead of him was better light to tell
him that the last of the woodland was near. There would be better
light because a field was ahead, and if the map of Alija was correct,
if she had drawn it with accuracy, then the village of Rosenovici