The Operative (21 page)

The sergeant was aware that his assessment of the legal aspect of the conflict was not entirely accurate. If he carried out his threat the result would, if discovered, be denounced as a British atrocity. But he was confident that the Albanians would apply their own brand of common sense to the statement and believe every word of it.

‘Who’s the leader here?’ the sergeant asked.

Cano was far smarter than the rest of his men: he actually understood the legal basis of the NATO occupation. But the sergeant had assessed him accurately insofar as Cano had no respect for any law and trusted no one who said they did. He got slowly to his feet, watching the sergeant, wondering what kind of man he was and if murder was something that came easily to him. Cano had spoken hardly a word of English before NATO had arrived in his country but as the first American F16s screamed across his skies he had started to learn. He realised that it would be a wise Albanian who at this point in history knew the tongue of the most recent invaders, the language of the richest and most powerful country in the world.

Cano had guessed that these men, though, were British rather than American even before the leader had spoken. Furthermore, their unusually long hair and several days of facial growth, plus their webbing and weapons indicated that they were special forces. He himself had been trained by American special forces and knew the difference. He had seen men like these on the roads and in the countryside when they had usually been carrying large packs. It was known that they often patrolled for days, sometimes weeks, in all weathers, doing what he had no idea, although of late he had suspected that they were spying on KLA activities. Now he knew for sure and cursed himself for not being more vigilant when he and his men had escaped from the ambush site.

‘I am in charge,’ Cano answered in broken English as those of his men who had been sitting got to their feet. They were all strong and hard-looking. Had this been a bare-fist fight they might have given the SAS a run for their money. But that was never going to happen.

The red-headed sergeant let his gaze fall on Cano. He did not look pleased to see him. ‘Come ’ere,’ he growled.

Cano did not lack courage and took his time taking the first
step, maintaining his own sneer of contempt as he walked towards the soldier who was a head taller than him. Cano stopped in front of the muzzle of the sergeant’s rifle and stared him in the eye.

The sergeant knew that these were a tough and arrogant people who did not shy away from a fight easily. But at his level of soldiering much more than brute force was required of a man if he was to earn another’s respect and the sergeant had none for these types. ‘You blow away those people on the road a couple miles north of here?’ he asked accusingly.

Cano knew there was no point in lying, certain that the soldiers had followed his group to the hamlet. ‘It was us who fought the enemy, yes,’ he announced proudly, as if this Englishman had no right to challenge his authority.

‘Enemy?’ the sergeant said with disgust. ‘Did you identify your target before you pressed the button, laddy? Did you see the women and children you maimed and killed, you bastard?’

For Cano to admit that he had to the English who evaluated everyone else by their own holier-than-thou criteria and who could never begin to understand the true nature of the struggle between Albanian and Serb would only invite bitter judgement. But to deny it would compromise Cano’s dignity and self-esteem and he was not prepared to suffer that no matter what these foreigners intended. ‘They were Serbs,’ he said, spitting out the name as if it was dirt in his mouth.

The sergeant’s disgust deepened. ‘You piece of shit,’ he muttered, shouldering his weapon. ‘Turn around.’

Cano did not obey, unsure how far the man was prepared to go. He kept his gaze fixed on the English soldier’s face.

‘I said turn around,’ the SAS sergeant repeated, an unmistakable threat in his grim expression.

The barrel of the gun in the hands of the trooper beside the sergeant drifted towards Cano’s chest. Unwilling to trust his judgement of their likely tolerance any further, Cano obeyed. The
sergeant’s hands landed hard on Cano’s shoulders as he faced his men and for a second Cano thought he was about to get a beating. Then the hands moved down his body as they searched him. They paused at a bulky side pocket, reached inside, and removed a ball of white malleable matter the size of a small fist. A quick sniff revealed the substance’s identity and the sergeant spun Cano around to face him again.

‘What’s this?’ the sergeant asked.

‘You know what it is,’ Cano said.

‘Good quality,’ the sergeant said, squeezing it and inspecting the light oily residue it left on his skin. ‘C4?’

‘PE4,’ Cano said, aware of the irony that he had used the British and not the American military variety of plastic explosive to carry out the ambush.

The sergeant didn’t care how this KLA shit had got hold of British explosives. That wasn’t what this was about. ‘You like this stuff, don’t you?’ he asked, holding it in front of Cano’s face as if he was about to shove it into his mouth.

Cano did not waver.

The sergeant checked inside Cano’s bulging breast pocket and removed a small coil of fuse wire. ‘Regular Guy Fawkes, ain’t we?’ he said with a grin that had danger written all over it. ‘Eat it,’ he said.

Cano looked at the explosive, then back up at the sergeant, refusal written across his face.

‘I said eat it,’ the sergeant growled, pushing it closer to Cano’s face.

Cano did not show the man any weakness and maintained his resolve.

‘You don’t eat it, I’ll shove it up your arse and detonate it,’ the sergeant said, tossing the ball of explosive slowly up and down in his hand.

Cano did not relent.

The sergeant handed his gun to the trooper beside him and swiftly grabbed the lapels of Cano’s jacket, lifting him slightly as he swept his feet out from under him. Cano dropped heavily on his side as he landed on the floor. Several of the Albanians took a step forward but froze again as the SAS troopers’ fingers tightened menacingly on their weapons’ triggers.

The sergeant knelt down, his knee landing solidly on Cano’s chest, and pushed the plastic explosive against his mouth. ‘Eat it, you fuck,’ he growled. But still Cano would not obey. ‘Eat it,’ the sergeant repeated, brutally pushing the explosives against Cano’s lips, trying to force them apart but without success.

The sergeant stopped to reconsider. ‘Fine,’ he said, sighing. ‘We’ll go for the other option, then.’

The sergeant rolled Cano onto his front. Then the SAS man removed a long slender knife from a sheath on his belt, pulled up Cano’s jacket, grabbed the waist of his trousers, inserted the knife between it and Cano’s skin, and cut through the fabric with ease, tearing the trousers and underpants open all the way to the crotch to expose Cano’s white buttocks. The Albanians watched motionless as their leader was humiliated but few had the desire and none the loyalty to intervene. Most of them were conscripts who had been practically press-ganged, or at best strongly co -erced, into joining the KLA on pain of violent punishment for themselves and their families if they did not. So any allegiance to Cano was largely superficial.

The sergeant held up the ball of plastic explosive and looked at one of his lads. ‘This ain’t gonna fit,’ he said. ‘I’ll ’ave to make the hole bigger.’ And with that he knelt heavily on Cano’s spine, took hold of one of his arms and twisted it across his back. Then he stuck the end of the blade between Cano’s arse cheeks and pushed it into his rectum for several inches.

Cano jerked in spasm as the blade cut into him. He let out a yell, unable to control himself. The sergeant pressed down harder
on Cano while twisting the arm further up between his shoulder blades. The weapons in the hands of the other SAS men remained firmly aimed at Cano’s mates.

The sergeant withdrew the bloody knife and wiped it on Cano’s back. ‘Right, then,’ he said in a business like manner. ‘Let’s see if it fits now.’

He rolled the plastic back and forth over his thigh until it resembled a phallic shape and shoved the end between Cano’s cheeks, pressing it firmly into his bleeding anus. Cano shuddered but did not make another loud sound or effort to roll over, as if allowing the man to do his worst.

‘Won’t go all the way in. Bit of a tight-arse, are we? Never mind. We’ll just have to make the hole bigger.’

But instead of using his knife the sergeant left the explosive in place, half its length sticking from between Cano’s buttocks. Then he took the fuse wire, placed one end into the detonator and crimped it with his teeth. Next, he pressed the det into the plastic and searched one of his own breast pockets. A second later he produced a lighter, struck it, and held up the flame, pausing to look at the faces of the Albanians whose expressions ranged from mystified to horrified. His own men even glanced between themselves, wondering if it was their leader’s intention actually to light the fuse. Everyone in the room was surprised when he really did touch the flame to the end of the fuse. It crackled into life, hissing as it burned, giving off a thin wisp of smoke.

The sergeant got to his feet, put the knife back in its sheath and took his firearm back, looking at the KLA members with contempt. The fuse was a couple of feet long and, depending on its quality, the flame would take about a minute to reach the detonator.

Cano was tense and shaking in sweaty agony, still refusing to make any move.

The two groups faced each other, the sergeant standing, smiling
broadly as he waited until the fuse was halfway consumed before nodding to his men to head out.

Seconds later only the sergeant remained in the doorway. ‘Shit’s gonna fly any second now, lads,’ he said.

And so it appeared that the sergeant had not been bluffing, though all of his men would later say that they believed he was right up until the moment he lit the fuse. The Albanians had also doubted his seriousness but were now convinced that their leader was about to have his backside blown off. They moved back, a couple of them dropping to the ground and covering their faces, except for one who could not bear it any longer. As the fuse burned down to an inch from the detonator he lunged forward, grabbed it, pulled it from the charge and threw it into a corner where a few seconds later it exploded with a loud crack.

The SAS sergeant burst into laughter. ‘I wondered how long you pricks would leave it before someone saved his arse.’ He stopped laughing and his threatening scowl returned. ‘Anyone sticks their head outside this door in the next hour will get a bullet through it … And you,’ he said, looking down at Cano. ‘I ever see your face again I’m going to slit your throat open like a goat’s.’

A second later he was gone.

Cano reached behind him with a shaking hand, removed the bloody lump of explosive and rolled onto his back, keeping his legs straight, gritting his teeth in an effort to ride the stinging pain. It was the humili ation that hurt more than the wound: he silently vowed the same throat-slitting threat against the English soldier as the sergeant had made to him and could only pray that one day he would meet him again in more favourable circumstances.

Cano’s men let him be, knowing better than to try and help him – they knew they would only get abuse or worse for their troubles. It was more than a week before Cano was walking normally
and a couple more before he could pass solids in the toilet without pain.

Several months later, as Cano was preparing for an ambush beside his old haunt, the Pristina-Podujevo road, he received word that the West was planning to set up a war-crimes tribunal for Albanians as well as Serbs. He learned that his name had made it to a list of persons wanted in connection with ethnic cleansing. Obviously he needed to leave Kosovo if he was to avoid imprisonment so he accepted the unexpected assistance of a distant member of his family and made his way into Albania.

A few days later the same family member invited Cano to meet the man who had given him the ori ginal warning as well as helping him to get out of Kosovo. (The money necessary for his escape had been channelled via the distant relative.) The man was Skender, whom Cano had never met although he had heard of him. His reputation for brutality as well as for generosity to his family was legendary. Shortly after submitting his curriculum vitae, most of which Skender was in any case familiar with, Cano was enlisted into the vast crime organisation.

There was plenty of work for a man of Cano’s skills. Although he had expected to operate from Albania, Skender had bigger plans for him. Two months after arriving in Albania Cano was sent to Turkey to ‘cleanse’ a section of Skender’s trade route that was having minor problems with local bandits. Eleven months later and after more than five hundred suspected bandits and members of their families had simply disappeared he was moved on to Russia where, to his complete surprise, he was given a new identity – or an old one, depending on how you looked at things: it had once belonged to a vacuum-cleaner salesman who no longer needed it after he mysteriously disappeared.

Skender had already earmarked Cano for his forthcoming Pacific Rim operation and a year later he arrived in America, travelling as ‘Ivor Vleshek’. It had been remarkably easy getting a visa to
travel to America. All that was required was payment to a crooked judge in Russia, of whom there were plenty, to provide a detailed profile and an affidavit for the visa application. It was practically impossible for the FBI to investigate the information over the head of a senior Russian official and, as in so many cases, the Feds had little choice but to grant the request.