Authors: Gerald Seymour
They came onto the flat plain, and the signs pointed for Mostar. Joey drove the blue van. He had failed. He had washed up, like driftwood on a beach.
Maggie was beside him, her legs straddling the gearstick, her skirt riding up, and beyond her on the front bench seat was Frank Williams. His arm was behind her neck, her hair against his cheek. They both slept, had the right to. They had been up all through the night to monitor the increasing panic, shouting and belted orders relayed to them by the infinity transmitter. The boy, Enver, had not been found. The Sarajevo police were out searching for him, the hospitals had not admitted him. Only when Ismet Mujic had abandoned his watch for the boy, and had left the apartment to go to the airport to meet the first flight of the morning in from Zagreb, had they come back to the hotel, with time to shower and change, and head off for the Holiday Inn with the van. Joey was the one who had slept, who would drive. He had watched the Mitsubishi pull out from the hotel, and once it was on the open road he had dropped back and allowed visual contact to be lost. He was guided by the small blinking light of the beacon, sometimes intense and sometimes faint, on the screen in front of her splayed-out knees.
He had failed because he had no authorization for intrusive surveillance. He could gather no evidence because the authorization had been withdrawn. He could place the moment when the professionalism he prided had drifted to obsession and the Church culture had been shed. It was when Mister had walked to the cemetery, when he had seen his rolling, confident gait, and he had been outwitted, out-
thought; it was failure. Everything since had been the feeble, second-rate attempt to claw back from the failure. Joey Cann, and it battered in his mind, was the loser - always.
The beacon guided him and he let her sleep, and Frank.
Two pick-ups followed him. The Sreb Four had split into pairs. On the back of the second pick-up was a wire cage. In the cage was Nasir. Not that Joey gave a damn for the life history of the brute, but it was called Nasir Muhsin had told him the name and the history as if it were information of importance before they left Sarajevo, information to be nurtured. Nasir Oric had been the commander holding the perimeter line at Srebrenica who had been withdrawn on government orders, who was not there when the enclave fell, when the throats had been slit. When the beacon light dulled he stamped down on the accelerator pedal to coax the maximum speed from the van.
Joey fell deserted, alone with only the obsession for company.
The beacon led him to swing right at the main junction, towards Mostar - ahead of him, before he turned, a low line of hills shimmered in the haze. He did not know their name, or that of the valley they hid, and he lost sight of the ground that rose to meet an unforgiving, sun-drenched sky.
Husein Bekir had come down to the ford, but the water was too deep for him to cross. He wore the same protection from the sun as he did against the winter cold. His coat, which reached to his knees, was tightly fastened with twine over his stomach and he had on his heavy rubber boots. His beret cap shielded his scalp from the sun.
The de-miners sat on the track where an ash tree threw shade and their dog was stretched out against its trunk. They ate bread and drank from Coketins Husein had come down to the ford to see how far their yellow tape corridors had progressed in that morning's work - one, he estimated, was five metres further forward, one was seven metres, not one of them was more than ten. His fields were more than a thousand metres in length, and a few paces more than two hundred and fifty metres wide. He shouted across at them. Why did they need to stop to eat and to drink? Should they not work faster? How much were they paid to sit in the shade and not work? They ignored him, not a head turned towards him.
He turned. The quiet settled again on the valley. It had been God's place, and it was poisoned. In the heat's haze the fields drifted away from him, were cloaked in silence.
The location chosen by Ismet Mujic was in deference to the Italian. Marco Tardi had flown from Messina to Bari on the Italian mainland, then by light aircraft to Split on Croatian territory. On collection, he had been driven to Mostar.
It was all complications. It was in deference to the Italian because he was the biggest player in Ismet Mujic's business life. The Russian had said they should meet at Brcko, near to the Arizona market, where he had associates. The Turk had wanted Sarajevo, the base of his allies. Fuat Selcuk had reached Sarajevo's airport first and had complained for the entire thirty-five minutes he had waited for Nikki Gornikov's plane to arrive. The Turk and the Russian would not travel in the same car, each insisted that their bodyguards must be with them at all times.
The convoy from the airport to Mostar was three cars, and a fourth joined there. It was all shit . . . He had been on his mobile eleven times and the boy, Enver, had not been found.
He made the rendezvous. He watched the Russian and the Turk, not leaving their cars, peer with distaste at the Italian in his car. Small scorpions could be found in the dry hills in summer between Mostar and the coast, and it was the habit of local men to catch them, not wearing gloves for fear of damaging them, then to build a little prison for them of concrete blocks, let them fight, and wager big money on the outcome . . .
Ismet Mujic would not have bet on the Englishman.
His car led and, enveloped in the dust trail, their cars followed.
Mister walked, and Atkins stayed at a distance behind him.
Back at the Mitsubishi was the Eagle, who had said his feet hurt in his shoes. They'd left him, with his shoes off, massaging his feet. Atkins, seeing the Eagle's spindly white ankles, had wondered how the man managed at rough shooting over the fields, which he claimed he did. The vehicle was parked outside a big modern hotel, spotlessly clean, money lavished, about the only building Atkins had seen in Mostar that wasn't war-damaged. He'd never reached Moslar when he'd served his twin UN tours.
Mister had led and Atkins had gone after him.
Mister had gone off into the Muslim quarter on the east side of the city, down cobbled, shaded streets beneath overhanging balconies, and he'd paused lor a long time at the great gap where the Stari Most bridge had been. Atkins could remember when it had been brought down by explosives - on his second tour. The Croats had blamed the Muslims for an act of international vandalism; the Muslims had blamed the Croats for a war crime on a world heritage site. There were two workmen there, and a sign said the bridge was being rebuilt with Italian craftsmen and UNESCO
funding. Mister gazed down into the tumbling water below the gap the old bridge had spanned. Atkins thought his face was serene, calm. Had been ever since they'd arrived in the city.
Mister's eyes never left the water of the Neretva.
Atkins said, 'You know, Mister, kids used to jump off here for the tourists, dive off the old bridge, then crawl back up and get paid for it.'
Mister interrupted, his voice still and quiet, 'Can I tell you what's valuable, Atkins? It's time . . . time to focus, concentrate and think . . . Understand me, Atkins, I don't give a shit about whether kids jumped off here. I don't give a shit about this place, anything of it, anything of their war. You ever interrupt me again and it'll be the last time, because I'll have sliced your yapping tongue out of your mouth. You with me, Atkins?'
Atkins reeled. Mister's face never changed. The serenity stayed.
Mister leaned on the rail and stared another minute at the water. He turned, the affable smile on his face.
'Right, Atkins, I reckon we'll be late there, and that's just right. Let the bastards wait, I always say. Let them s w e a t . . . You all right, Atkins?'
'Of course, Mister.'
The beacon led them from Mostar. They had been through a village marked on the map as Hodbina, a place of scattered homes, small tended fields and grazing livestock, and women worked with hoes and spades on vegetable patches. It was off the main road south to the coast. Smoke came from the chimneys, but diffused into the clean skies. A road, part tarmacadam and part steamrollered stones, took them on, until the beacon's pulse led them to a track veering right off the road, and they saw the fresh tyremarks. It was wild country; the cultivated fields were behind them. Old rock was scattered over the ground and clumps of thorny scrub had found shallow rooting. The sun beat down on it. Joey had slowed. The two pick-ups went by him. They stopped ahead then turned, and reversed into a small wood of dense birch, using a rutted path. He followed and parked beside them. Maggie Bolton went to the back of the van, opened its door, winked at Frank, then dropped her skirt to her ankles. She reached inside and rummaged, lifted out her pair of old jeans and slipped them on.
The dog, Nasir, was freed from his cage and allowed to wander in the trees, lift his leg, then was leashed.
They went into the depths of the trees.
The guns were cocked. Salko, Ante and Fahro carried Kalashnikovs, and Ante's had a night sight screwed onto the top of the barrel. Muhsin had a pistol at his belt alongside a big water bottle and the leash in his hand. The dog had a dried, weather-desiccated bone in its mouth. They were in front.
Frank lugged Maggie's box of magic tricks. She walked with Joey. They went towards the brightness where the sun hit against the last line of the trees. At the edge of the wood they looked down and saw the house.
The track with the tyremarks ran down the hill in front of them and reached an oasis of green. There was a rich garden around the house, clawed back from the stone and the scrub. Sprinklers played over it and made small rainbows. Four Mercedes cars were parked on swept gravel in front of the building, along with the white Mitsubishi. It was Spanish hacienda style, with walls of white stucco and closed shutters covering the windows. A carrion crow soared above it and cried gratingly. Two men, dressed in black, worked on the cars - but not the Mitsubishi - polishing away the roads' dust.
Frank was beside him, and murmured, 'Now we're here, can I ask something?'
'Ask away.'
'What are we here for?'
Joey thought before he spoke, as if an immediate answer eluded him. Then said, 'To force mistakes.'
'Yes, yes - OK, very funny man. I'll say it slowly - what do we hope to achieve by being here?'
Joey shook his head slowly. ' I don't know.'
'Wait a minute, steady down,' Frank said evenly. 'If you want to play this out, don't mini! me there are six of us here, and you. You must have an idea where this is going?'
'Regardless of whether you'd come, any of you, I'd have been here.'
Frank stared at him, brow furrowed, and the scratch was in his voice. 'Tell me, if you'd be so kind, what is there that I should know?'
'All you need to know right now is that Judge Delic has withdrawn the authorization for intrusive surveillance on Target One.'
The hiss. 'So, it's not legal, any of it? Jesus - you picked a fine time .. .'
Joey looked away, back to the house and the men cleaning the vehicles.
'Are you stupid, an idiot? What are you? No legality, can't gather evidence, can't put anything before a court, no time for handcuffs. Why are we here?'
'Because I gave my promise to follow this man wherever he led,' Joey said, as if that answer was adequate.
They scrambled down the slope towards the fence that hugged the green of the oasis. Joey saw that the dog never lost hold of the bone. The sun was at its zenith and threw their shadows down under their bodies. They closed on the fence. When one of their bodies, or the dog's paws, caused small stones to cascade down, they all froze, then went on when they saw that the two men had not broken from the work of cleaning, the cars. A dozen paces from the fence there was a gully and they sagged into it. Muhsin poured waler sparingly into the dog's throat. Masking them from the house was a flat stone, storm-smoothed.
Down on the earth, pressed close to him, Frank murmured, 'You know what? Obsession is dangerous for health yours and ours.'
' I gave my promise,' Joey said, open-faced.
It was, the Eagle recognized it, Mister's finest hour.
He did not apologize for his lateness. That they had waited for him was obvious from the used plates and dirty knives and forks on the table, the colter cups and glasses beside the empty water bottles. There had been no hint of apology. Effortlessly, he had created an atmosphere of an equal among partners. They would have fidgeted, cursed, they would have queried the arrangements of Ismet Mujic, they would have listened for the crunch on gravel of the late arrivals'
vehicle. 'Don't bend the knee to them,' Mister had said, as the front door was opened for them. 'Let them know it's their privilege to be meeting us.' It was high risk, the Eagle had thought, but Mister always won because he always risked. They'd gone inside, into the dim cool of a wide living room, and Mister had, per-functorily but with charm, shaken their hands. 'I'm Mister, and this is my legal adviser, Eagle, and I have also brought with me my associate, Atkins. They're fine men, both of them, and as committed as I am to the principles of honest business dealing.' He had been asked by Ismet Mujic if he wished to eat, and had brusquely declined. He had then belittled Ismet Mujic. 'Now, Serif, has this room been scanned?' It hadn't . . . Mister's eyebrows had been raised fractionally in surprise, and the others had gazed at him in a marginal moment of suspicion. Mister had nodded to Atkins. Atkins had left the room. Radios had started to blare through the ground floor of the building, and upstairs. Mister had said nothing until Atkins had returned, then Mister had pointed to the stereo system in the room; that had been turned on, volume up. 'Now can we get to work.' Then he had snapped his fingers at the Eagle and Atkins and had pointed to the table. They'd started to clear it, the Italian began to help, then the Russian and last the Turk, and Ismet Mujic was shouting towards the kitchen for his people, but by the time they came the plates were stacked and the cutlery gathered together, and Ismet Mujic was further belittled.