And his report would not be used as a start point for a war crime investigation? "Good God, no .. ."
The gentle probing of the Intelligence Officer, Liaison, was done during the tour of the cease-fire line. The village of Turanj was across the Korana river near to where it joined with the Kupa river east of Karlovac. Not a house undamaged, every building hit by multiple machine-gun bullets and by tank fire, and artillery shells. The officer said, for the benefit of his visitor, that it was where the Serbs had been held, where their advance had been stopped. He was told of the battle, close-quarters fighting. He listened and looked around him. An old woman was picking at burned roof timbers in the yard behind what had been her home. They were past the defensive machine-gun nests. They walked in the village of Turanj as if it were a museum, but the old woman searching in her yard told him of present reality. The front wall was off the food shop. The roof was off the scorched interior of the repair garage. Flowers grew in overgrown front gardens, and the blossom was on the magnolia and the apple trees. He was shown the co-operative building, and he was told not to go past it because he would then be in the field of vision of the snipers, and the cease-fire was variable. A cold place and quiet.
The officer said, "In war itself there is an excitement, in combat there is an elation. Most men, you ask them, and if they give their secret answer, tell you that war, combat, should not be missed .. . But the war goes by. I know nothing more degrading than a former battlefield where there are no bodies, where there is no noise. The war passes by and the excitement is quickly forgotten. Only the vandalism of the war is left. It is the worst place you can be, Mr. Penn, an old fighting ground, with just the ghosts."
A cat saw him, was bent low and scurrying, but took the time to turn and spit at him. The poles that had carried the telephone wires were down. "Would it be the same in Rosenovici?" "Why do you ask?" "Just trying to get the picture .. ." "It would not be the same," the officer said. "Here the buildings are destroyed by war. In Rosenovici a few buildings would have been destroyed by war, the rest would have been destroyed by placed explosives. Here there is a chance to rebuild, one day. In Rosenovici there would be no chance to rebuild because nothing is left. In Rosenovici, villages like it, they went as far as bulldozing the graveyard. Here, there is still feeble life. In Rosenovici there is only the memory of death .. ." Penn thought he was being tested. He looked away. He stared up and beyond the jagged and broken roofs of Turanj and he could see the first line of trees. The officer anticipated him. '.. . It is where their guns are. They will be following you, through telescopic sights, maybe if they are bored they will shoot at you." "I am just here to make a report." He played ignorant. Penn walked back down the road, like getting his head shot off was no part of making a report. They drove away in the officer's car. They went back past the machine-gun positions and the soldiers waved to them, they went across the bridge over the Korana river and Penn saw, moored at the bank, two grey-coloured inflatables. He didn't like to look hard because frequently the officer slung a fast glance at him to see whether it was a trained eye or a rubber necker eye that examined the front line. There were tank obstacle teeth beside the road into Karlovac, and more defence positions, and there was the emptiness. They drove on, past the officer's headquarters in a new building where all the windows were taped against artillery blast. They climbed a winding road. They were above the town. On the summit of the hill was a fortress tower. They left the car. They walked along a path and in the grass beside the path were teenagers, cuddling and messing about and smoking. They looked out. The town was in front of them.
Beyond the town were the rivers, winding to their meeting point.
Beyond the meeting point of the Korana and the Kupa rivers was the green carpet of the forest.
Beyond the forest was the blue haze line of the high ground.
The officer said, "The high ground is the Petrova Gora, dense woodland, rock cliffs, sheer valleys. It is special to the Serb people because it was in the Petrova Gora that Tito had a field hospital for his Partizans, in the war with the Germans. The German army made many incursions into the Petrova Gora but they were never able to find the hospital. The failure was a source of frustration, that is why the Germans killed many of the people in the villages at the edge of the Petrova Gora. If you were to be there, Mr. Penn, which is impossible, then they would lie and tell you that it was Croatian people, fascists fighting alongside the Germans, who were responsible for the killings. Through the lies they justify what they have done, now, to villages such as Rosenovici .. ."
Penn had his hand across his forehead. He shaded his eyes. He thought he could see twenty miles, maybe more. Such peace. It was where Dorrie had been, Dome's place. It was like the place of his childhood, where he had been before the exams and the application forms, and work in London. Peace and beauty. He strained to see better.
The officer said, "I am correct, you see nothing that threatens? The front line between here and Sisak is the Kupa river. It is seventy kilometres in length. Across there, on their side, where you see nothing, are minefields and strong points and defended villages. Across there, they have 300 guns that can flatten Karlo-vac and Sisak in a day. Across there, aimed at Zagreb are medium-range missile launchers. One day, I hope, we can take our territory back, but not today and not tomorrow. You see, Mr. Penn, it is important to us that, today and tomorrow, we do not anger them, across there. It is of strategic importance for the future of Croatia, military and economic, that the bastards, across there, are not antagonized .. ."
"Who did it?"
"Did what?"
"Who killed Dorrie Mowat?"
"It is important?"
"For my report, yes."
The officer smiled. Jovic was behind them, silent. Penn and the officer stood together and stared out across the Kupa river and the forest and towards the high ground. The sun beat at Penn.
"They do not scatter evidence, they do not leave eyewitnesses. I do not know."
"Who would have given the order?"
"Probably the commander of the militia. Perhaps the commander of the militia in the village close to Rosenovici .. ."
"What is his name?"
"I used to know him, not as a friend, but I knew him. My wife is a teacher and knew his wife. Why do you need the name?"
"For my report?"
"You can make up a name, take a telephone directory. Just for a report, for a mother who lost a daughter, you can invent a name. Why not?"
He had been led, subtly, to the trap. He had underestimated the quality of the Intelligence Officer. Perhaps a graduate would not have sprung the trap, not one of the young bloody graduates of the General Intelligence Group. He stumbled.
"Pick a name out of the air, why not?"
A light murmur of laughter from the officer. "He is Milan Stankovic. I see him at my liaison meetings, I used to play basketball against him. The militia in the attack on Rosenovici was commanded by Milan Stankovic."
"What will happen to him?"
"I saw him last month, at the liaison meeting. We talked about the electricity supply. They have our territory but they do not have power. We have lost our territory but we have power. Last month, he did not seem like a man afraid, but then the liaison meeting is always behind their lines. Today, tomorrow, nothing will happen to Milan Stankovic."
Penn said, "I will put that in my report."
On that night of the week it would have been usual for the Priest to have gone to the Headmaster's house and, by candlelight, played chess.
He had not made apologies, he had not given notice of his absence to the Headmaster, he had gone instead to the home of Milan Stankovic.
He was a quiet man and through the adult part of his seventy-four years he had seldom offered an opinion that he had not first known would fall on approving ears. Capable of intrigue but incapable of confrontation, he lived out the last years of his life in the intellectual backwater that was the village of Salika. He knew every man and every wom
an and every child in the village of Salika, but his only friend was the Headmaster with whom on that night he should have played chess and taken a glass of brandy weakened with water that would have lasted him through the game .. . and he had gone instead to the home of Milan Stankovic.
He could justify his abandoning of the game of chess.
They were coming in the village to the day when the population of Salika travelled to the church at Glina where so many had died. It was an important anniversary, the fiftieth. All of the village would travel to the site where the people had been herded by the Ustase fascists, where the fire had been lit, where a thousand had died. If the Priest had not been young, not been fit enough to survive, emaciated, in the Petrova Gora, if he had been inside the cordon, then he could believe that he would have been taken to the church and burned alive. But, to go to the church at Glina, it was necessary for the people of Salika to take two buses. The buses were in a barn near to the school. To take the buses there must be diesel fuel. To get diesel fuel he must have the help of Milan Stankovic. The gaining of diesel fuel was his justification for abandoning his appointment with his friend.
He had known Milan's grandparents, Zoran and Milica, and both had died in the fire at the church in Glina.
He had known Evica's grandparents, Dragon and Gospava, and both had been burned alive at the church in Glina.
He understood what he called, when he talked with his friend as they pondered the board, 'the curse of history'. There was not, in the village of Salika, a man, woman or child, who had not been fed, since the dawn of understanding, the story of what had been done by the Ustase fascists.
They sat in the kitchen, and he understood.
They were around the table and he had been given bitter coffee and juice, and he understood.
The Priest had baptized Milan Stankovic, just as he had baptized Evica Adamovic, and he had baptized little Marko who slept now above them. The bayonet was on the wall. Against the leg of the table, on Milan's side, was the automatic rifle. All of their lives, Milan and Evica and Marko, would have been battered by the curse of history. He thought himself a pragmatist, thought himself a realist. It was impossible that the curse of history should not fall upon the big shoulders, upon the wide face, upon the big heart of Milan Stankovic. The Priest thought it was the curse of history that had made inevitable the attack on Rosenovici, the fall of Rosenovici, the butchering at Rosenov-ici. The Priest did not apportion blame .. . But he had not gone across the stream, when many had gone, to watch the digging up of the grave and the recovery of the bodies. Perhaps, he had not wished to take the gaze of the old American, near his own age, who had come and directed the digging .. . Milan agreed with no dispute to allocate the diesel for the buses.
He considered Milan the best of the younger men in the village. The best basketball player, but he no longer had time for sport. The best organizer, such as the time he had led the other men in the village in the flattening of a football pitch, but he no longer had time for triviality. The best husband, but Evica walked around him as though a wall rose between them. Milan sat morose opposite him, his back to the window and the last light. The Priest thought that the curse of history made a treadmill for the best of men, and the drive of the treadmill was faster. Milan sat subdued opposite him, and never turned to look out across the stream to the corner of the field in the dusk distance. Walking briskly on the treadmill, elected by acclamation to head the village militia. Jogging, and the visit to the village of the barbarian Arkan who was a criminal from Belgrade and who had raised his own force of gaol filth and who had posed in front of the War Memorial with Milan. Running, when the attack, supported by the tanks and artillery, had been directed on the Croat neighbours of Rosenovici. Sprinting, when the wounded were taken from the cellar of Fran jo and Ivana, and he had played chess with Franjo, when the wounded were taken out and the girl. Pounding, when they had come with their spades and zipped bags and dug. Careering, when the Ustase spies had been captured .. . The Priest did not know how Milan could go faster, and he did not know what would happen to him if he fell from the speeding treadmill. The Priest offered his thanks for Milan's time, for the promise of the diesel and Evica let him out. He walked up the lane from Milan Stankovic's house, going slowly, but he speeded his frail stride where a wax lamp threw light across his path. He did not wish to see the opened window, to see if his friend sat alone in front of the board. It was like a bad pick-up in a bad bar. He had written up his notes of the day, good material. He had walked up into the old city and bought a good meal. He had come back to the hotel, striding and wondering what Jovic would pull on him the next day. He had taken his key at the reception, been handed the telephone message would he, please, please, call Mrs. Mary Braddock crumpled it and handed it back to reception to dispose of. Earlier, he had made his own telephone call, international, and no answer. He had gone into the bar for a last drink. He had ordered a beer, local, good, and cheap. He hadn't seen the man at first. His eye caught the clutch of journalists whose table was covered with filled ashtrays and emptied bottles. He was eavesdropping on them, they were back from Sarajevo and noisy. He was halfway down his beer when the man came off his stool and the movement caught Penn's attention. He saw the van driver from the camp for officer cadets, he saw the shadow shape from when he had stepped off the pavement to give the arguing hooker better space for her negotiation. A round full face, darting sharp eyes, close-cut fair hair, old acne scars on the cheeks and the chin, a bulging neck above an open white shirt and on the neck was the tattoo. A rolling swagger walk, a small man's walk, coming from his stool with his glass in his hand.
"Evening, squire bit far from the old smoke .. ."
"Evening." Penn offered him nothing.
"Don't see a lot of English here mind if I join you .. . ?"
"Please yourself," Penn said coldly.
"Nice to talk English better than all this foreign jabber .. ."
Like a bad pick-up in a bad bar. He thought of when he had been in Curzon Street, early days in the Service, close to Shepherds Market where the girls were, when he had gone out for a sandwich at lunch time, and he didn't think there would have been a hooker who would not have been ashamed at such a bad pick-up. The tattoo, close to him, was of the Parachute Regiment's wings. Penn didn't feel curious, only tired. He finished his beer, but the man was in fast.
"You'll have another? "Course you will .. ." The man was leaning across the bar and flicking his fingers at the barman. "Two more local piss. Move it, my boy .. . Dozy buggers, right? .. . I'm Sidney Hamilton. I get called "Ham" So, what brings you to this shit hole, squire?"
"Just a bit of work," Penn said.
"Out from UK, are we, squire? I packed it in there, no future. It's all niggers there, and slit eyes, and fucking Irish .. ."
"Why were you following me?" Penn said, quietly.
"Beg pardon .. ."
"Why were you following me? Why were you listening yesterday to my conversation?"
The darting bright eyes had narrowed, focused. The new beers were in front of them.
"Smartarse, eh?"
"Straight question, shouldn't be too difficult to manufacture a straight answer," Penn said.
But a diverted answer. "Just heard a word, the word triggered. You know how it is, squire? You hear a word said and you get to listen. It's not a crime .. ."
"What was the word?"
"Rosenovici, the Croat village in Sector North, you were talking to that hag about Rosenovici .. ." "You know Rosenovici?" Penn tried to stay casual, didn't know whether he succeeded. The confidence was flowing again. "I know Rosenovici, hell of a battle there, big fight. Warrior of Principle, squire, that's me. Bad fire fight there .. ." "You were in Rosenovici?" "The village was cut off. They'd brought tanks up, T-54s, wicked bloody things. They'd got the old Stalin's organ, that's the multiple rocket launcher .. ." "Were you in the village?" "They had artillery up there, howitzers. There was right shit going in there .. ." "You were there?
" "Well, I wasn't actually .. ." "Where were you?" The eyes darted away. "I wasn't actually there, would have been minced if I was there. We were close up. We'd been sent in to make contact with our guys who'd legged it into the woods. We had a corridor open for them to get out through. We had it on the radio. We had it on the radio when they signed off, put the flag up. I was near there .. ." "Not actually there?" "Near there, last week .. ." "Walked into Sector North?" "Didn't take the bloody Central line. "Course I bloody walked. Recce job. It's bad shit in there. We lost two guys .. . These fuckers, they've no bottle. We had two guys wounded but the other fuckers wouldn't stop for them, bottled out. No lie, I saw them killed. Their throats were slit. They used knives on them. I couldn't do anything because the other fuckers had bottled out .. ." "You can walk into Sector North?" The man was drinking faster, and flicking his fingers for the barman, and shovelling the banknotes onto the bar. "If you know what you're at, which I do. Know where to cross the Kupa river, know where the mines are, which I do, and the strong points .. . He's a bad bastard in there, he's the commander of the militia. He's at the village across the stream from Rosenovici. He's Milan Stankovic. He did it himself, used the knife. I could have dropped him, if the other fuckers hadn't bottled out .. ." Penn felt the pinch in his stomach. He swayed, slightly, on his stool. He held tight to his glass. '.. . Say, squire, you know where Nagorno Karabakh is? Where the hell is that fucking place?" Penn said, "It's a bit left of here. You know those little globes that kiddies have, where you put a pencil in the top to sharpen it, well on one of those it's about a half-inch to the left." "You pissing on me, squire .. . ?" "It's the other side of Turkey." "I heard there was a good little war there. I heard they wanted good men. Could be South Africa, security, but there's all those niggers. This is just fucked up here .. ." "Why did you follow me, Ham?" "Who said I bloody Penn cut him. "An answer to my question, Ham why did you follow me?" Like a ball being punctured. The bombast of the man went flat. He was standing, off the stool, and he was pulling a thin wallet from his hip. The photograph in the pouch of the wallet was of a skinny little woman, brunette, and the woman was holding a child in a party frock. "It's Karen, and that's Dawn, my little one." "Why me?" "You're a bloody gumshoe, you're a dick. That's what you are, a private detective." Then the story rolled. An old photograph, yes. She'd done a runner, yes. She'd taken the kiddie, yes. No contact and letters sent back "Not Known at this Address', yes. And he was far from home and when the bullshit was turned off then he wanted the love of his woman and his kiddie, yes. A lonely boring little man, yes. He wanted them found, his Karen and his Dawn, yes .. . Penn would not have known the answers before he had gone to work at Alpha Security. He had had his share already, bombastic men coming up the stairs to the office above the launderette, showing a photograph of a woman and a kiddie, and wanting them found .. . Basil had told him that looking for a woman who had quit with a child was a "Go Careful Area'. Basil had said it was necessary to go carefully or the woman might end up in the casualty section ... He looked into the woman's face, knotted, and the child's face, strained. He took an address, a police station in Karlovac, he wrote down a telephone number. He was told to ask for 2nd Bn, 110 (Karlovac) Brigade, then for "Ham', everybody would know Ham. He looked a last time at the photograph, then gave it back. "You didn't tell me your name, squire .. ." Penn eased off his stool. "I'll be in touch, maybe."
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