The Untouchable

by Gerald Seymour

  ' . . . I told him he was indispensable. I gave him all the smarm he needed.'

  'You should watch him, Mister.'

  'He doesn't fart without me knowing it. Yes, I'm watching him.'

  'He's not one of us.'

  'Leave it, Eagle. I hear you. You're "one of us", aren't you?'

  'You know I am. You . . . '

  It was Mister's way, the Eagle recognized it, to win from the disciples, the acolytes, blustered, spluttered declarations of loyalty. It demeaned them, it gave him power over them. He looked into Mister's dull eyes as he made his protestation. His voice died. The Eagle had been left at the street corner above the house while Mister and Atkins had driven on up the hill to the open ground where they'd found the line of sight the day before. Now Mister had walked back, leaving Atkins, the Mitsubishi and the launcher there.

  The dusk was settling on the city.

  Mister said casually, 'His place was turned over this morning - Atkins's place was done by the Church.'

  'He told you?'

  'He doesn't know.'

  ' Is he going to know?'

  'Not sure . . . '

  'Who told you?'

  'Crime Squad - there's white heat between Crime Squad and the Church. The Church isn't sharing.'

  ' I don't want to know about "friends" in Crime Squad, but when did they tell you?'

  'A lot of questions, Eagle . . . I heard this morning.'

  'Shouldn't you have told me? I am your legal adviser, Mister.'

  'What you going to do about it? You're here, they're there. It'll keep.'

  'Mister, I am telling you, as your trusted adviser, we have been away too long. Be careful.'

  'You worry too much. I pay you to worry, but not to overdose on it.'

  The lights sprinkled below them were cut by the dark line of the river, which in its turn was bisected by the shafts of headlights criss-crossing the bridges.

  With the evening came the cold, but it was not the cold that made the Eagle shiver. The dark line was the abyss into which the Cruncher had fallen. Never could the Eagle have said or thought that he was fond of the Cruncher. Sometimes he'd said, to himself, that the Cruncher was a barrow-boy, sometimes a low-life little shit. The Cruncher had always competed with him, had intervened in matters that were not his. A contract was drawn up, but Cruncher wanted to check out each paragraph and each sub-section. Days of damn work and Mister would tear it up, because of the poison fed into his ear by the Cruncher. The Eagle had never had Mister's ear the way the Cruncher had. But that had not stopped the Cruncher from disappearing into the dark line that was the river cutting through the lights of the city below. He heard a distant squealing of wheels, the scrape of unoiled metal pieces. He shivered hard. He remembered the Cruncher the last time he'd seen him, in the Clerkenwell office over the launderette, and his feet as always on the Eagle's desk, his heels resting carelessly on files, his body tipped back in a chair, the monogrammed cigarette in his hand, and the scent, the conceit as he'd talked about his plan for Mister's future in Sarajevo, his vision: You're a businessman, Mister . . . any businessman who's top of the tree in the UK

  expands his interests, goes abroad, doesn't sit on his hands, goes looking for wider horizons. The Cruncher had been in the river for half a night and a day and another whole night, like a drowned mongrel, before he'd been pulled out. It had been a dog's death.

  'When are you going to do it, Mister - do something about the Cruncher?'

  'You think I'd forgotten about the Cruncher?'

  ' I didn't say you'd forgot—'

  'You think I'm scared to do something about the Cruncher?'

  ' I didn't say you were scared.'

  'You ever known me forget anything about disrespect? You ever seen fear in me?'

  ' I only asked when.'

  ' It'll happen, Eagle, when I'm ready. What I said, Eagle, you worry too much. A man with your brain, your brilliance, you don't have a call to worry.'

  The wheels' squeal came closer, was beyond the pool of light thrown down by the only high lamp on the street. The sweetest of all sounds is praise. He was not a man of violence; his own weapon was in his supreme understanding of the law . . . And yet he had made the devil's bargain. He had never hit a man in his life; he had reduced a grown man, an experienced surveillance executive officer - through the ammu nition given to the QC - to a muttering shambling wreck, destroyed him more effectively than if he'd been hit with a pickaxe handle, broken him. With his forensic intellect, it was the Eagle who had sprung Mister from the trial. But . . . but . .. but, for all his scruples, the violence inherent in Mister was strangely mesmerizing to the Eagle. He had a place there, beside the bully. He was sheltered by the bully. And it fascinated him. When he thought of the violence, he sweated hot excitement. He wanted to see the launcher fired, because that was Mister's response to a judge who had dared to stand against them . . . and he had the brain, knew it because Mister had told him so, and the brilliance. They came up the hill, into the pool of light, and the city was below them. Mister had seen them.

  The squeal of the wheels came with them.

  The Eagle doubted it was a labour of love, thought it a labour of duty. He didn't think he, with his weight, his stomach and his heart, could have pushed the wheelchair up the incline. They stopped on the nearer edge of the pool and the man leaned on the handles while the woman hung on to the wheels as if she feared she would slip back down the slope. There was a wheeze in the man's chest. If he didn't have a car it was because he was a fool. The Eagle didn't know a judge at the Bailey, or at Snaresbrook, Belmarsh, or at Uxbridge Crown Court, who treasured principles more than a black car and a driver. He saw the wheels hit a stone and the chair rocked, but it came on, came closer to them. And he didn't know a judge who would have lived in a hovel as the price of guarding his principles - certainly not his own bloody father, for whom the status, the robes, the bloody protocol were all that mattered.

  When they were level with their house, what there was of it, and half lit by the one street-lamp, the Eagle felt the punch of a fist in the small of his back, and Mister stepped from the shadows. The Eagle did not have to follow him. He was the voyeur, a mere observer.

  'Judge Delic?' Mister asked affably. ' I understand you speak English, that's what my friends say. And you're Miss Jasmina Delic? I'd like a word, please.'

  The judge stiffened. His daughter cringed, then straightened herself and her jaw jutted. The Eagle couldn't see Mister's face, but he would have been smiling. He always smiled when he pitchforked his way into people's lives.

  'What about? Who are you?' The words were almost obscured by the panting from his exertion.

  There was pride there, and spirit, but no strength.

  'One question at a time, Judge. About the past and the p r e s e n t . . . I am Albert Packer, Mr Packer, Mister.

  I am the subject, authorized by you, of an intrusive-surveillance order issued to Joey Cann of the Customs and Excise in London, and it has caused me serious inconvenience. That's what it's about and that's who I am.'

  Always the voice was quiet, and they would have had to strain to hear him, as the Eagle did, and in spite of the smile they'd have thought themselves locked in a ferret's gaze. There were no cars on the street, no other workers hurrying home, and they'd have known it. Mister walked to them, not hurrying, measured stride.

  'What do you want with us?'

  The Eagle thought the judge tried to marshal his courage. Mister, in his overcoat, would have seemed huge to them, and they'd have seen the size of his hands, and Cann would have told them the case history. They would know all about this man, the importance of the Church's Target One . . . Mister reached out to them. The Eagle saw his hands drop to the chair's armrest, and grip it. The chair shook, rocked gently by Mister. It would be so easy for him to tip it over, to spreadeagle her onto the street, and he would have been smiling.

  'I'd like you, Judge, and Miss Jasmina, to come for a short walk with me - nothing
too far, only take a few minutes.'

  'Do we have the choice?' she asked.

  ' I wouldn't want you to feel threatened, that's not my intention, sincerely . . . Come on, Eagle, come and lend a hand.'

  With Mister, he pushed the chair on up the hill and into the blanket of darkness. The street went parallel to the side wall of the Jewish cemetery. Above them was a black tree-line topped by clear evening skies and a scattering of stars. There were no lights in the ruined buildings they went past, no ears to hear him if he screamed for help. The judge could not protect his daughter, nor would he leave her. They went meekly together. Mister and the Eagle propelled the chair but the judge walked close behind it, had reached his hand forward and she held it. He wondered at their dignity, that neither shouted or struggled, however hopeless it was to shout, to struggle If Mo knew what he did, she would leave him, be gone in the hour, as would the girls. He smelt the sweat of the long-worn clothes on the judge's body, and the urine in his daughter's bag. They reached the small patch of level ground, where a shed had stood, where the Mitsubishi was parked. The shed's wooden walls were gone, blown away when the house was holed, but its concrete base remained.

  The sidelights of the vehicle were switched on and threw enough light for them to see Atkins standing beside the launcher, slung low on the tripod. Mister and the Eagle bumped her onto the concrete, wheeled the chair to the launcher.

  'Everything ready?' Mister asked.

  'All in place, Mister,' Atkins replied.

  Atkins's coat was neatly folded behind the launcher. It was what made Mister special, everything was thought through with care, was planned, down to a kneeling mat. Mister didn't have to say anything more, but tapped the judge's shoulder and pointed to the folded coat. Atkins steadied him as he dropped on to it. The view-finder was infra-red / image intensifies The judge would be looking at a monochrome image of the roof of his home. The detail of the view-finder would be sufficient for him to see each tile, the bricks of the chimney, the sagging guttering. The judge was whimpering, rattling words in his own tongue to her.

  It was a snapshot of all they owned: the half-house and each other. She was trying to push herself up from the chair, and couldn't achieve it. Mister caught at the judge's coat, pulled him back, marched him to the chair and turned him so that he faced his house.

  'Get on with it, Atkins.'

  Atkins crouched behind the launcher. One hand rested on the tripod, the other threw switches. There was a slight but piercing whistle. The Eagle covered his ears.

  They were lit in the moment of the firing, then the fire flash was gone. A bright line, with a thunderclap of sound, burst from the fire. The line travelled down the hill, cleared two broken buildings, then impacted.

  The roof fragmented below them.

  As if he were on duty, showing his paces and playing at a war game, Atkins dismantled the launcher, the spent tube and the tripod, and heaved them into the back of the vehicle.

  'You'll be all right from here with Miss Jasmina, won't you, Judge Delic?' Mister asked quietly. 'It's all downhill from here.'

  The air around them stank from the cordite firing charge. Atkins drove, Mister beside him, and the Eagle sat in the back clinging to the holding strap. The wheels crackled over the broken tiles that were debris on the street. At the bottom, where it joined the main road, two black Mercedes passed them and sped on up the hill.

  'Well done, Atkins,' Mister said. 'Expert and professional.'

  She read the message back.

  Dear 'Mister'(!),

  I have to go to Gorazde tomorrow morning. I am driving myself (my driver is sick, the other drivers are already allocated). If your business work allows it, would you consider accompanying me?

  It would be interesting and perhaps fulfilling. I apologize for the short notice. I will call by the Holiday Inn tomorrow at 8 a.m.. and I will look for you in the lobby. It is not possible please do not have concern for me.

  With good wishes, Monika (Holberg).

  PS: I very much enjoyed my day at Visnjica.

  She threaded her way from the table in the atrium, through the mass of people, to the overwhelmed clerks on Reception A woman broke away from attending, to the queue waiting to register, took her message, thrust it into the room's pigeon-hole, gave her a harrassed smile, and returned to filling in the cards.

  Skirling the X-ray machine and the metal detector arch, she walked out through the swing doors.

  Monika had heard the explosion, but there were often explosions in a Sarajevo night.

  It had taken more than forty minutes for the SFOR

  troops, Italians to find the source of the explosion.

  Some of those they asked said it came from inside the Jewish cemetary, some said it was in the tree-line above, some said they had heard nothing and had slammed doors in the troops' faces. The local police knew of no explosion, it had not been reported to the local fire brigade, no local ambulance had been called.

  Eventually their Jeep found a ruined house at the half-way point up ,steeply canted street. They saw two Mercedes limousines parked, and found an old man and a young woman, who was in a wheelchair, and a group of men. One of those men - shaven-headed, black-dressed, a gold chain heavy on his throat -

  explained courteously to the mareschallo that the street had been the front line in the war, that munitions were habitually stored in the roofs of such building, but were then, sadly, forgotten. It was possible that the roof beams had shifted and in doing so had detonated a mortar bomb. The old man and the young disabled woman had not spoken. The mareschallo was thanked for his attention to the matter, but was told with polite firmness that his presence was not required. The jeep drove away.

  Joey had heard it. The windows to his room were double-glazed, but the force of the explosion from up the hill across the Miljacka river was insufficient to rattle the glass panes. The sound was muffled, more of a stuttering clap than a crisp detonation. He drifted back to sleep. Maggie had forbidden him to go to the Holiday Inn, sit in the van and watch. It was as if, he thought, for a day he had stepped back over the line, retrieved the die, worn the uniform, forgotten Mister, who was his Target One . . . He thought of Jasmina, she was the dream in his mind as he drifted, and the faint words carved in the stecak stone five centuries before: 'I stood, praying to God, meaning no evil, yet I was struck to death by lightning.' His fingers had flickered over the lichened grooves of the writing. The words on the stone were as a talisman to him.

  Whatever a man or a woman did, however well they lived their lives, the lightning could strike, burn them.

  There was a light rap on his door. His name was called.

  'Coming, Maggie.' He opened the door.

  'You're still a sight, Joey, but it's an improvement.'

  'I feel better . . . What sort of day have you had?'

  'I've heard the Welsh hero's life story. I think he wants to get his hand up my skirt. He's rather sweet

  . . . His wife chucked him out. His kids are pining for him. Both sets of parents are on Megan's side of the fence. Yes, sweet and sad, but I think his hands are getting itchy Most of what I'm hearing is that young man talking with the dogs, or down on the floor playing with them and cuddling them. There was some sort of rendezvous tonight that took Ismet Mujii and his gorillas out, but there wasn't an explanation then , going to be a meeting the day after tomorrow I don't know where. Sounds like the big meeting, where the territory's cut. An Italian's coming.

  All the talk's in a code.'

  'Diry talk? " 'She raised her eyebrows - 'talking dirty' in the Church vernacular was conversation with criminal involvement, talking social' was about going to the supermarket or the corner shop for fags, or about telling the wife that the new hairpiece suited her. 'Code talk is criminal talk, right?'

  ' I think an Italian's coming, and there are others. I think it's the meeting that matters.'

  She'd kept the meat to the last, had teased him. If the meeting, was the day alter tomorrow, som
ewhere, then she was inside the time limit set by her own people She thought that she was out on a parapet, over a precipice, as much as he was; if she fell it would be his, Joey Cann's, bloody fault.

  'Thanks.'

  'Sleep well, Joey - oh,'she dropped it as if it was an afterthought, 'do you know much about the Italians?'

  He grinned ruefully. 'No, not a hell of a lot.'

  She thought she was safe, thought it because a belief in her survival made life easier, but it was now two years since she had rejected the vita blindata and dismissed her police bodyguards. She had rejected the protective screen and had said to her husband, 'When the Mafia is intent on revenge it will always find a way.' She always made a joke with her husband. Who would want to pay for sex with a woman of forty-nine who was fat, had heavy, dropping breasts, and gross ankles? But last night the word prostituta had been daubed in paint on the white exterior wall of their house.

  She was Giovanna. She was in her second term as the sindaca of the mountain village of San Giuseppe Jato on the western side of the island of Sicily. It was the women's vote that had elected her, again, to the mayor's office. When her deputy, Luciano, had found a bomb lodged under the front wheel hub of his car he had resigned, and she had not been able to find a man to replace him. Her ticket for re-election had been: the Rejection of the Cosa Nostra Path of Violence and Death. She did not give herself sufficient importance, if she were murdered, to be listed as an 'illustrious corpse', but she believed, had to, that she irritated the Family who controlled the village. She irritated them enough for a polio squartato to have been left on her doorstep four months before. She had found the disembowelled chicken, picked it up, and walked with it down the main street. Women had shouted to her from their windows, 'Brava, Giovanna', and she had placed the bleeding bird carefully on the step of the fine house near the church that was the principal residence of the Family. That gesture, more than anything else she might have done, ensured that women came to her, talked to her of the secrets of the Family.