The Untouchable

by Gerald Seymour

  Under a street-lamp, Mister saw their faces. Hers was tight, his was depressed and lowered. They disappeared from his view, went round the corner of the hotel's block. Mister waited. He had seen enough, but his innate care and sense of caution ruled him.

  An old blue van came fast from the side of the hotel and accelerated past the steps to the foyer, then braked noisily at the traffic lights. She was driving. A lesser man than himself would have whistled and waved to them, or given them the finger. They were gone. He looked down at his watch to make the quick calculation. They were on schedule for the flight out.

  There was a bounce in his stride when he left the side-street. It would be a good day for him.

  She'd held her silence all the way down the old Snipers' Alley, past the destroyed newspaper building, past the ruins of what had been the front line protecting the airport corridor, and past the camp of the French soldiers. She'd said nothing and Joey hadn't broken into her mood.

  She parked, switched off the engine, then tossed him the keys.

  'Good luck,' she said.

  'I'll see you in.'

  'You don't have to - I'm capable of catching, on my own, an airline flight.'

  'I'll carry your case.'

  She pouted. 'The gentleman to the last.'

  Not that Joey had seen many but he thought it was like any early-morning airport anywhere. She took her place in the check-in queue. In front and behind them were the personnel of the international community. There was a buzz and a rippling of jokes in a mess of languages. They were getting out, they were getting shot of the place for ever, or had the lesser escape of a week's leave. Policemen, soldiers, Red Cross workers, United Nations officials, they all let the staff on the check-in know how they felt about a reservation on the silver freedom bird. Maggie Bolton wasn't a part of them. She was severe, cold, as if that were her protection. The laughter rang around her, over her. When she was one place short of the front of the queue, she turned to Joey. She didn't speak but pointed to her ticket, her eyes asking the question: was he coming? He shook his head. She knew nothing of the clamour of his bedside telephone. What I'm looking for, Joey, is mistakes, big ones, the ones that nail him. It had been a long time, many clocks' chimes disturbing the night quiet, before he had slept again.

  Maggie gazed at him, as if he were far away, then jabbed her elbow into his ribcage.

  'Right, that's it, that's me on board.'

  Both of her bags would go with her in the cabin.

  She left the check-in and started to walk towards the departure doors, let him carry the heavier bug case.

  'What happens when you get back?' Joey asked.

  'Is that supposed to be bloody sarcastic?'

  'It's merely a simple question, meant to be polite.'

  She paused at the doors and stood against the flow.

  'Into Heathrow about eleven thirty, if the Zagreb connection works. A car to meet me and take me into London - not because I'm important but because of the bag. A debrief - if they ask me why you didn't travel, I'll say you were waiting for the dry-cleaning to come back. Don't worry, I won't shop you.'

  Joey said softly, 'My instructions are to stay, carry on without you, as best I can.'

  Her composure broke. 'What? That is worse than bloody stupid.'

  'And when you've had your debrief?'

  'Check the bug into the workshop, see if it's past help. Go home. Look at the post, ring my mother. The usual. Then put my feet up. Then . . . We all fail, you know. We don't brood about it. Learn to accept failure.'

  'Have a good flight.'

  She swivelled away from him, joined the flow and went through the doors.

  'It's a tip,' Atkins said.

  'The right road, the right number.'

  'Can't be r i g h t . . . '

  'It's what Mister said,' the Eagle muttered. 'Are you going to whinge, or are you going to do what he told you to do?'

  'You bastard.'

  'Eating from his hand. A couple of little compliments - God, you come cheap.'

  Atkins flushed.

  They walked towards the half-intact, half-destroyed house. Where his parents were, down in Wiltshire, a dry cow or a useless lame gelding wouldn't have been kept in such a place. This building was lived in. Where the stumped rafters were lowest from the angle of the roof, what was left of it, a washing-line was suspended and it reached to the bottom branch of a bare tree. On the line, drying in the sunshine, were a young woman's flimsy pieces of underwear, and mixed with them was a ragged assortment of long baggy pants, thick vests, heavy check shirts and the darned socks of an old man.

  There had once been a garden. Over the rubble of the house end lay the tangle of sprouting rose suckers, trying to crawl towards the open, wall-papered interior. What had been an inner door was barricaded with nailed planks. Atkins thought it a pitiful place, not a judge's home, not five years after the war had ended. He saw the nearly buried roof of a car. If he hadn't been examining the building, turning it over with his trained eye, he would not have seen it. It would have been parked beside the building when the artillery shell had struck home. Part of the roof and all of the outer wall had fallen on it, along with the last of the dirtied snow of the winter. There were narrow wheelmarks making tramlines to and from a ramp leading to the main door. It was the right address, the wheelmarks confirmed it. The door, with the paint weathered off it, was firmly shut. There were no lights behind the two remaining windows, which were covered with double layers of cellophane; he could not see inside . . . He was the best, quality. Mister had said it. He turned his back on Judge Delic's home.

  Over breakfast and before leaving for a vaguely explained destination, Mister had described the departure of Cann and a woman scuttling with their bags from a central hotel - without crowing - and then Atkins had been told of a 'little problem' that Mister wanted sorting out. He looked above the house. He searched the hillside for a place of elevation, where the tripod could be set up, that could be reached on tarmac.

  He thought the place would be near the Jewish cemetery.

  Atkins set off to find it, and the Eagle puffed after him.

  'Miss Bolton? I'm Ruthin, Eddie Ruthin. I came down from Vienna.' She thought him a vacuous-looking younger man, with a quiff of hair falling on his forehead below a trilby, thin under an oversized Burberry mackintosh.

  'What for?'

  She had come into the airside concourse at Zagreb.

  She felt wretched. It was not the turbulence that had hit the flight, but the glowering thoughts in her head that affected her. She was out, Cann was still in. She had found justification for it and had walked away, abandoned him. She hadn't even pecked him on the cheek, but had given him instead a homily on failure.

  'They thought, in London, after what you've been through, that a friendly face might help.'

  'Did they?'

  'Well, your life was in danger, wasn't it? So, how can I help?'

  'How long do I have here?'

  ' 'Fraid there's three hours to kill before the London flight. I suppose, also, they didn't want you lugging all your gear round on your own. May I take the case?'

  'I'm perfectly capable.'

  'Well, let's find a chair, somewhere to sit you down.

  What about a coffee?'

  Maggie sat in a chair and faced the plate-glass windows. She manoeuvred the heavy case under her thighs and behind her shins, stared out over the runways and saw a distant line of hills to the west.

  Beyond the hill was the border, and beyond the border was Joey Cann. The case holding the equipment that might have helped him was cold against her shins and thighs.

  'I'd like, please , if you can get them to make it, a pink gin'

  Gough listened. 'So, you came down to see old Finch, to see how the old beggar's surviving, and to pick the old brains. Surviving not too bad, actually, with a bit of help from ten year-old malt. You know the best-kept secret in the Custom House? There's a life outside. Fancy that. My life now is the
garden and the newspapers, and I do the housework because Emily's still working, and I've .a bit of time to think. You'll be wondering if I'm bitter and twisted. Can answer that easily enough - I am. What makes me bitterest, twists me tightest, is that Cann still works in Sierra Quebec Golf. I used to pity him, almost feel sorry for him. now I just detest him. I go to the wall at dawn, blindfold over my face, and the rest of my people get the Church's version of Siberia, but Cann survives.

  You want to know what I think? He's one of those empty people fuck-all in him. No life and therefore no balanced view, searching for a cause. The cause might have been God,, might have been Chelsea bloody Football club, might have been fuchsias in a green-house. but it was Packer. That sort of empty person needs a bloody cause, something to fill the hole.

  Bastard didn't have one iota of the ethic of law enforcement, not like I had and the rest of my people

  - and look where it's got us. It was more like that pitiful sort of dedication those sick creatures have who stalk celebrities, photograph them, stand outside their homes and go through their rubbish , all wrapped up in some shitty justification that he was the only one who cared about the job. I ran a good team. We worked for each other. He didn't. To the other guys, girls, he was a pain. He wanted to be alone, wasn't a part of us, he had his mission. His mission made him a big boy, gave him a reason for living. People with a mission, they come unstuck, don't know when to stop. You shouldn't have sent him there, not to Bosnia. Wouldn't that be the sort of place where you'd need to know when to stop, and back off?'

  Gough left Brian Finch in his conservatory with the first glass of the day in his hand. He had heard what he wanted to hear.

  'It's a neck of the world I don't know.' Mister's con-fession of ignorance felt like an apology.

  'I promise you, there is no place more beautiful, more pure, Mr Packer, or more sad. Perhaps one day you will go there, yes?'

  'Maybe. The way you tell it maybe I should - but not to see the sad part.'

  Monika Holberg was like no woman he had ever known. But, then, the Lofoten Islands, north of the Arctic Circle, was a place he had never heard of. As she'd told him about her home and a life of farming small fields, and of dragging cod out of the sea, he'd thought grimly that they didn't grow poppies in their fields or coca bushes, didn't have laboratories that manufactured E tablets or amphetamines, had nothing for him to buy, nothing for him to sell. Not good fertile territory for trading. She was like no woman he'd known because she talked. From the time she'd |picked him up, with her driver, sitting in the back of the UNHCR jeep she had barely drawn breath, He knew about her home village, Njusford on the island ol Hakstodoya. He knew about her parents, Henrik and Helge. About her brother and sister, Johan and Hulde. He knew the names of their cows that lived eight months of the year in a heated barn, and the annual weight of the cod they caught in the nets.

  He knew about the brother, Knut, who had hanged himself aged sixteen, twelve years before as an escape from the demon depression' of the winter's darkness.

  She told him everything and asked him nothing. Her life cascaded over him. It was so rare for him to be treated to such trusting, personal confidences. Then, when she had finished with the Lofoten Islands, and the hanging of her brother, she switched effortlessly to her career working with refugees in Somalia and East Timor, Mozambique and Kosovo; he knew where Kosovo was, had a vague idea of where Somalia and Mozambique were positioned on the African continent, but had never heard of East Timor. He didn't like to display his ignorance, thought it lessened him. He didn't want to be small in her eyes.

  They turned off the main road and the jeep began to bump up a rough track. 'You are all right, Mr Packer?'

  'I'm fine, I'm really enjoying myself.'

  'I am not talking too much?'

  'Not at all You fascinate me. You make me think that I've led a very sheltered life . . . Everyone calls me Mister. I'd like you to, please.'

  She pulled a face, then she giggled. 'It is a very strange name but it that is what you w a n t . . . We are nearly there. The village is called Visnjica. You will remember that? Visnjica in Opstina Kiseljak.'

  Mister said, didn't think about it, 'They all sound the same to me, these names.'

  'But you must remember the name and the district Mister. Surely, when you go home, you will tell the charities who have made the gift where their generosity has gone. It is important, surely.'

  'Yes,' Mister said. 'It is important.'

  On the yellowed grass between the track and a small river, in spate, were the heavy tyremarks of the military vehicles parked up. He saw armoured personnel carriers, flying the German flag, an ambulance and jeeps. Beyond them, over the river, above the trees where snow was scattered, two heavy helicopters hovered, then descended.

  'Typical of the Germans to strike completely the wrong note. We are trying to tell frightened people that it is safe to come back to their homes. The people have been the victims of war, perhaps the most savage Europe has seen, and we are telling them that the danger is over. But this is the area of responsibility of the German military, and they have VIPs coming by the helicopters and it is necessary for them to make a show. They are so clumsy, so bovine . . . In Norway we do not have a good experience of the Germans.'

  She left the driver with the jeep. They walked into the village, a long ribbon of scattered buildings that stretched up the hill on both sides of the track. Behind them the helicopters disgorged generals, men in suits and women in smart dresses. Some houses showed no war damage, cattle bellowed from the barns behind them, and smoke puffed from the chimneys. But most were destroyed, their roofs sunk between the four upstanding walls, the undergrowth high around and inside them. A few had bright new tiled roofs and new walls of red brick or concrete blocks, new windows and doors, and washing draped in front of them. Men, women and children walked from them towards the track and formed a thin line of welcome.

  ' The village, before the war, was home to Croats and Muslims It is easy, Mister, to believe the war was only made by Serbs. The Croats were as bad as the Serbs They waited until the Muslims were defenceless then attacked them. Before the war there were three hundred Muslim families here, and sixty Croat families then there was the ethnic cleansing. The Muslims were expelled, their houses were destroyed -

  not m lighting but by explosives after they had gone.

  Most went toGermany, but they have been expelled again, so they try to return to their old homes and to live beside their old neighbours, who became their enemies. Of three hundred, we now have the first twenty families back. They find their homes have been looted, everything of value has been taken, and is now inside the houses that are not damaged-TVs, stoves, baths, bulbs, even the electric wires, and the cattle, sheep and goats. It is not easy, but my job is to help to rebuild the relations between neighbours.'

  Women with small children and babies, and old men With dulled laces, stood in a knot outside a square set building, that had no roof, no glass in the tall windows, and a wide hole where the door should have been They had their backs to the ruin as if it did not exist The women wore old coats against the chill, and the wind snatched .at their headscarves; the men wore berets and thick sweaters, had weathered faces that were expressionless, and the children stared back at Mister and held limply to toys. In the field beside the building were short, freshly painted white pegs.

  'It could have been worse, Mister. If it had not been for your generosity I do not think they would have come out of their houses to see the VIPs. The coats scarves, sweaters and toys came from Bosnia with Love. At least they are warm, and the little ones have something to amuse them. It is too much, I am sorry, to expect them to smile, but at least they have come

  . . . The building is their mosque. It was not a military target, it was destroyed by their neighbours as an act of vandalism, and the graveyard, all the stones were smashed with sledge-hammers and pickaxes. In such circumstances, it takes great courage and determination to come home. If I ask t
he Croats who live here, who today hide, who destroyed the mosque, they will tell me it was outsiders who came, criminal scum, under the control of warlords. Perhaps in Sarajevo you have heard of the Muslim scum - Caco, Celo, Serif. The Croats had Tuta and Sela. The Serbs had many criminals - Arkan and Selsjek. I am not supposed to hate, it does not fit with the principles of the UNHCR, but I loathe those scum - they've sucked the blood from good, decent, simple people.'

  There was a desultory clapping behind them. She held his arm, did it naturally and without premeditation, and turned him round. The uniforms, suits and smart-styled women were glad-handing their way up the track and through the village. Women were nodded to, men's shoulders were slapped, the babies'

  cheeks were tweaked in the show of solidarity. He watched the cameras. It was an event. Earnest conversations started up and lasted long enough to be recorded and witnessed on film. A little scrum had developed at the front of the VIPs, and a sergeant of the German army, red-faced, attempted to push back the cameras and microphones, succeeded, then was outflanked to the right, drove the right back, and was outflanked to the left. Twice when he thought a lens was aimed towards him, that he would figure in the background of a picture, Mister did what was reflex to him and presented his back to them.

  'We have to have them here because we need the publicity Id go round the world. The need for money for these people has to be reinforced with the pictures and the interviews - but it is degrading. They take the dignity from people. How can people talk, with honesty, about their situation when they have a camera in one nostril and a microphone in the other?

  The media has no discipline. They are like frogs, slimy frogs, and you collect them in a bucket but as you put one in another slips out.'

  They were both laughing. It was their own moment, and private. She took his hand. She was holding his hand as they laughed, and their faces were close, and he saw the while cleanness of her teeth and the tan of her skin. She led him further up the hill.