Read THE HEART OF DANGER Online
Authors: Gerald Seymour
Tags: #War Crimes; thriller; mass grave; Library; Kupa; Croatia; Mowatt; Penn; Dorrie;
dragged at his hip.
He went out into the morning.
He had not kissed his Marko, and he had not hugged his Evica, and
it
was not normal for him to wear the holster with the Makharov pistol
when he was about the village.
Milan Stankovic was no longer the king of Salika. The throne was
taken
from him. He walked away down the lane, away from the village now
ruled by the irregulars who followed Arkan. He did not wish to be
seen, by his own people, as subordinate to the gaol scum from
Belgrade.
He walked past the last houses of the lane, towards the open fields
beside the stream.
He did not want to go back towards the village because his office
in
the headquarters was now the command centre for the irregulars, and
they were without respect for him. His office would now be filled
with
their bottles and their guns and their sleeping bags, and their crude
cold laughter. If he had walked back through the village, if he saw
the people to whom he had been king, then he would have seen the fear
in their eyes that the presence of the irregulars had brought. He
walked away from the village. There were magnolia flowers in the
gardens of the last houses of the lane, and tulips were open and the
blossom was heavy on the fruit trees. It was so clear in his mind,
the
memory of how they had carried him on their shoulders when they had
elected him as commander of the Territorial Defence Force, just as
they
had carried him on their shoulders when the team had come back with
the
cup won from Karlovac Municipality. And so clear in his mind how
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the
men had begged him, pleaded with him, for weapons to use in the attack
on the village of the Ustase bastards across the stream. Not a man
in
the village who had not slapped his back in congratulation when he
had
walked back over the bridge from Rosenovici with the mud of the pit
on
his body. He had been the leader, he had issued the guns, he had
brought the bulldozer to the field, he was responsible.
He walked in the watered sunlight beside the gardens of flowers.
It was like a closeness at his throat, because he was responsible
.. .
The weight of the pistol chafed against his hip. There were no
tractors out that morning, and the animals were still in the barns,
and
the village boys who were too old for school had not shepherded out
the
sheep. And he was responsible for the silence and emptiness of the
fields, because he had brought this fear to the village, and what
was
done could not be undone .. . His eyes searched the tree line. He
was
wondering whether they would come again, some day, in a month or a
year
or in his old age, and he was wondering whether his son would carry
the
Makharov pistol on his hip and search the same tree line for their
approach. He walked beside the stream. It was his home, it was a
place of beauty, and the tree line hemmed him in. The sunlight played
patterns on the slow movement of the deep pool, and he saw the ripples
of the trout's rise .. . A shout carried to him. He saw, distant,
back
at the edge of the village, the waving arms of Branko, calling him.
He
left behind him the stream's deep pool and the gathering spread of
the
ripples from the trout's rise. The Canadian policeman watched him
come. There were no flowers on the grave. The grave was a mound of
earth and at the end of it was a single stake. There was not even
a
cross for the grave. He stood beside the grave and he held the
spectacles in his hand. In five months he would be back in his
beloved
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Ontario, back in the brick house in Kingston that Melanie's father
had
built for them, and he did not know what he could tell Melanie and
her
father about the place he had been posted to ... Couldn't tell Melanie
and her father about the cruelty, nor about the bulldozed graveyards,
nor about the poisoned wells, nor about the rape of grandmothers and
the disembowelling of grandfathers and the bludgeoning of
grandchildren, couldn't tell them that the smile which was adhesive
to
his face hurt far down in the pit of his soul. The wet mud of the
new
grave cloyed at his boots .. . Nor would he tell Melanie and her father
about the Headmaster of a village school who had had his spectacles
broken.
A small crowd confronted him. There were the faces that he always
saw
when he came to Salika, weathered faces, and amongst them, scattered
with them, were the cold bearded men of the Arkanovici ... If he had
not made his report, if the Professor of Pathology had not been
available for one day's digging, if he had not taken the window of
opportunity, then, and it hurt the Canadian, the Headmaster might,
probably would, have been alive .. . Nor would he talk to Melanie
and
her father about the hideous price paid by those who had gotten
themselves involved .. . He'd told them to go fetch Milan Stankovic.
When Milan Stankovic was close to him, the Canadian turned and laid
the
new pair of spectacles on the grave's mound. It was something he
had
been really most proud of, getting the new spectacles made in Zagreb
from the prescription, passed to him by the Political Officer, in
just
twenty-four hours. He had radioed the prescription through from
Petrinja to the Ilica barracks in Zagreb and he had begged for urgency
and in twenty-four hours the new spectacles had been brought to the
crossing point on the road north of Petrinja. The sun burnished the
lenses on the grave where there were no flowers .. .
His commissioner, the big guy from Alberta, back in the Ilica barracks
liked to tell a story to the new guys coming to serve with UNCIVPOL.
The commissioner had been down to Sector South, a one-night stand,
and
on the first day had found three old Croat women whose home was wrecked
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and whose well was polluted and who were starving. The commissioner
had given them the bread and cheese that was the next day's lunch
for
his team. The commissioner's gift was witnessed. Four nights
later,
in the story the commissioner thought worth telling the new guys,
the
three old Croat women were shot to death ... It was a story about
trying to help and a story about screwing up.
He was not supposed to show emotion. He was not allowed to shout
and
curse. He stood to attention beside the grave, above the new
spectacles. He turned smartly, his heel squelching the mud. He was supposed to smile, to celebrate little victories, he was allowed to
smile. He fixed his smile at Milan Stankovic, then walked away from
him, went to his jeep. He had made the bastard come from wherever,
come running and panting, for a fucking smile. "Good God .. ." The supercilious grin played at the mouth of the First Secretary. '..
.
So the Warrior of Principle is pimping .. . The Soldier of Conscience
is providing some home comforts .. ." He stood in the doorway,
holding
the passkey that the floor maid had given him, paid for with a packet
of cigarettes. The curtains were still drawn and he saw the shape
of
the man on the bed, bare-chested, asleep, and there was a woman
crouched over him who stared back like a cat cornered with a rabbit.
'.. . And fancy finding you here, my little friend, fancy finding
your
little snout in the trough." But Hamilton, the loathsome Sidney
Ernest
Hamilton, code-named "Freefall' on the file header, was between the First Secretary and the bed, and "Freefall' Hamilton had a damned
ugly
rifle across his knees. Before he'd seen the rifle, his intention
had
been to get across the room, shake the sleep off the bloody man, and
kick him smartest out into the corridor, down the stairs, to reception
for account settling, and a sharp drive to the airport .. . that was
his intention, before he saw the rifle. He saw the empty bottles
close
to Hamilton, and he recalled the file in the safe of his room at the
embassy with six pages on an incident in a bunker at Osijek, a drunken
shooting. The First Secretary held back. The growling hungover
voice,
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"What do you want?" "I want him on the plane. I'm going to put him on
the first plane." "He's going this afternoon." "First plane, my little friend .. . and I don't have time for a debate." Which was
truth. The First Secretary had little time. He had a meeting with
the
monitoring officers, and he was late for it, and they had access to
useful areas of raw intelligence. And he had a session, which had
taken him seven weeks to fix, with the brigadier commanding Croatian
military intelligence who was a bad old bastard from Tito times and
who
knew his trade. But he was wary of a rifle in the hands of a man
who
was hungover drunk. "So, a bit of action, please."
"You should let him sleep."
Hamilton, horrible little "Freefall', crabbed his way to the window and
the rifle was dragged with him. Horrible little "Free-fall' caught the
curtains and pulled them apart, letting light into the hotel room.
The
woman, the cat cornered with a rabbit and threatened, hovered over
the
sleeping man.
"Christ .. . who did that to him?"
The First Secretary saw the wounds and the discoloured bruises and
the
scars. He felt sickness in his throat. Penn's breathing was
regular
and his face was at peace. The First Secretary knew enough of what
happened in sunny former Yugoslavia to an enemy. He gagged the vomit
back. He remembered Penn, coming to his office.
The First Secretary said, "You will bring him to the airport, the
1500
hours flight. I'll see him onto the plane. You get him there ..
."
The curtains were pulled shut again.
'.. . He'll be there, Hamilton, or I'll break you."
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The aircraft banked.
She was reading the bones of '(2) Ambit of Criminal Jurisdiction,
Paragraph 62I/Extra Territorial Jurisdiction', and slipping on to
"Paragraph 622/Sources and Rationale of Territorial Jurisdiction'.
The aircraft levelled out, west from Zagreb.
She was reading for the last time the pencilled written notes under
the
heading of '3. Offences Against the Person, (1) Genocide, Paragraph
424', and her eyes slid across the pages to "H. Offences Committed Abroad', and 'sub-section 4, sub-paragraph 1 Murder (see para 431
and
sec post)'.
The aircraft was losing height.
She was reading quickly, reminding herself of '(3) Geneva Red Cross
Conventions, 1864'. Turning through "The Geneva Conventions, (3)
The
Convention Relative to the Treatment of
Prisoners of War'. Riffling through '(4) The Convention Relative
to
the Protection of Civilians in Time of War'.
The aircraft wallowed over the end of the runway.
She was reading the last page of the young barrister's notes, learning
them so they were ingrained, Treatment of the Wounded etc, Paragraph
1869/General Protection ... At all times, and particularly after an
engagement, parties to a conflict must take measures to search for
and
collect the wounded, sick and shipwrecked, protect them from pillage
and ensure their adequate care; and the dead must be searched for
and
their spoliation prevented ... At all times the wounded, sick and
shipwrecked must be treated humanely without any adverse distinction
founded on race, colour, religion or faith, sex, birth, wealth or
any
similar criteria."
The aircraft's wheels touched down.
She was reading, "Paragraph 1866/Conflicts not of an International
292
Character .. . Treat humanely persons who take no active part in the
hostilities, including members of the armed forces who have laid down
their arms or are rendered unable to take part by reason of wounds
.. .
violence to life and persons including murder .. . the passing of
sentences and carrying out of executions without a proper trial upon
non-combatants are prohibited. The wounded and sick must be cared
..
."
The music played cheerfully over the loudspeakers as Mary Braddock
put
away in her bag the notes and the two sheets of the faxed report.
Sixteen.
The pain beat against the bone behind his temples, and there were
needle pricks behind his eyeballs, and there was a battering throb
behind his ears. It had been a hell of a long time since Penn had
been
this hungover. The others were still asleep. He was padding,
half-naked, round the room, moving without order, stumbling round
the
bed where Ulrike slept, hiking his feet over Ham's outstretched body.