Read THE HEART OF DANGER Online
Authors: Gerald Seymour
Tags: #War Crimes; thriller; mass grave; Library; Kupa; Croatia; Mowatt; Penn; Dorrie;
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
286
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