‘We make it our business to root out kiddy fiddlers wherever we find them,’ said Strang. ‘Old fashioned of us, I know.’
‘You didn’t root it out, though, did you? You hushed it up. Bryan Harley helped you out by hanging himself. You thought I’d seen Vasilis Adjani at the Vegas Lounge, so you locked me up in Norfolk. I didn’t even know who he was, but you weren’t going to risk me blowing the scandal open just before the Rambouillet peace conference.’
‘You’d already embarked on a violent personal crusade,’ said Strang drily, ‘no doubt driven by the memory of handing over a twelve-year-old girl to a gang of child traffickers.’
‘We might have handled it differently,’ said Hillson, ‘but you went and got yourself videoed at the Vegas Lounge, for pity’s sake.’
I had no answer to this, and had to endure a moment of silent admonishment from the three men around my bed.
Hillson sighed. ‘One day, Palatine, you might have responsibility for issues of national security yourself. You’ll find it isn’t as straightforward as you seem to think.’
I stared at Silk. ‘And what were the issues of national security that sent you to Rambouillet to inform Colonel Adjani that his brother was in danger of arrest and should shut up shop and leave?’
Strang and Silk wanted more than anything to ask how I knew – but it would be impossible to do so without acknowledging the truth of my accusation. Neither of them spoke. Hillson, meanwhile, looked down at his knees and tapped them busily, in a game attempt to hide his confusion.
‘Such melodrama,’ said Strang eventually, smoothing back the already smooth hair over his temples. ‘Yes, there was a tactical decision to be made over when to move on Haclan, and Rambouillet came into the equation. And your point is?’
‘You warned Haclan off,’ I said hotly. ‘You let a child trafficker—No, you encouraged a child trafficker to pack up and leave Skopje in his own sweet time and with all his precious assets intact, including a consignment of underage girls who ended up on a ship heading out into the Med for God knows where.’
‘You put a stop to that and we’re all quite moist with gratitude,’ said Strang. ‘Unfortunately, your Incredible Hulk days seem to be over. Haclan Adjani’s gang has been broken up and we managed to prevent the international peace effort being disrupted by a scandal.’
‘Peace effort? You mean the NATO bombing campaign? Of course, that’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Your political masters are so keen to bomb the Serbs that before Rambouillet even started they had us skulking round Kosovo looking for Serbian AA guns. But the Kosovars had to play their part, too. They had to be the heroic underdogs. How would it have looked if the media was suddenly full of stories about brothels full of twelve-year-old girls? It was a risk too far, so you sat on it. Children were raped, Haclan and his club full of clients have all gone free, but that’s OK because at least the bombing could go ahead.’
‘I’m not going to justify myself to you, Palatine,’ said Strang. ‘This business is over. It’s finished. Digest that thought and then take a moment to consider what you’ve done. You smuggled a child out of Kosovo and into the hands of men who ran an especially depraved Skopje brothel, which you also happened to visit – something you’ve never explained. There are two unsolved murders in Skopje which I think have your pawmarks all over them. This is not to mention the shooting of two more men on a beach near Thessaloniki.’
Strang was not a tall man, but thickset and powerful. He leaned forward in his chair and the dark grey cloth of his suit stretched tight over his big, rounded shoulders and heavy thighs. He fixed me with eyes as bright and hard as polished marbles.
‘I say it again, Palatine. This is over. Keep your fucking mouth shut. Take a long sabbatical. Weep, wank, pray, whatever you like, but if you and your fucking halo ever cross me again, I’ll have you kicked to bits in a pub car park. The old boys you made fools of in Norfolk would relish the job. I might even join them.’
He held my eyes for a long, cold moment. I could feel the triumph coming off him like a tomcat’s stink, the groin-thrusting gratification of power exercised by the strong over the weak. But I wasn’t having it. I had a strength he hadn’t entered into the calculation: I really didn’t care what happened to me.
‘Arrest Haclan Adjani,’ I said. ‘Charge him. Do it yourself or make it happen some other way. You have fourteen days. After that, I’m giving what I know to the media.’
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve,’ said Hillson.
‘I’m calling your bluff, Strang. Put me in court if you like, but I can prove you and your poodle here tipped off a child trafficker.’
I’d been watching his face, at first immobilised by rage, then darkening to the colour of an overripe plum. But for all their devotion to the dark arts by which power is exercised, men like Strang are pragmatists, too, and nothing quells them so quickly as the prospect of their own downfall.
His face rearranged itself painfully into a semblance of good humour, and he said: ‘We’ve caught you at a bad time, yes? You blame yourself for what happened to the girl. It’s understandable. But Haclan was always going down – you know that. I’ll make it happen, but on my terms, not yours. Deal?’
‘Fourteen days. Be careful, Strang. I don’t like you.’
Now it was my turn to give him the eye. He stood, thrusting his knees against the seat of his chair so it clattered across the floor, and barrelled out through the swing doors, with Silk trotting along behind him.
‘What was all that about Silk going to Rambouillet?’ said Hillson, momentarily forgetting that he was my CO and I was due a dressing down.
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Probably not. We should call it quits, anyway.’
I looked up. His expression was mortified – a man who had witnessed something shameful.
‘Make an appointment to see me as soon as you get out of here. I take a share of the blame for this – expected too much of you. We’ll find something that’ll keep you out of the spotlight for a while, yes?’
47
It wasn’t over. How could it be? I wasn’t so sure that Strang would respond to my threat and deal with Haclan Adjani. This was a case of child trafficking as foul as anything that had happened in Bosnia, and everyone would feel tainted by it. So much easier to turn away, quoting higher powers, strategic interests, the greater good. . . Strang wouldn’t recognise the greater good if it descended from heaven and sat in his lap. However, he knew how to lift the edge of the carpet and summon Clive Silk with a broom.
Father Daniel was still at large. And what really happened at the farmhouse? I still didn’t know. It wasn’t that I thirsted for every last gruelling detail – no, only one detail, and it was this: who was the boy I had killed? I did not think he was a Bura – I didn’t even believe it was them we’d disturbed at the farmhouse that day. The Bura were fast-cars-and-shotguns types, not the sort to arrive on foot and scurry away up a hillside when disturbed. So who were they? And who was the boy?
I left hospital two days later, took the train back to Skopje and went to Maria’s to pick up the spare key to my apartment.
‘No.’
‘Come on, Maria. Why not?’
‘You are sick. Look at you. Stay in Tomasz’s room. When you are OK, I give you the key.’
‘I don’t want to stay in Tomasz’s room. Tomasz doesn’t want me to, either.’
‘Anyway, I have lost the key. I don’t know where. I’ll find it – in a few days, maybe.’
The prospect of returning to my dismal apartment was unenticing enough, so I didn’t argue any further. I asked her about the pages from Father Daniel’s Book of Prayer. ‘Did you take them to the UNHCR? What do you think I should do?’
‘We. What should we do. You cannot deal with this by your own, James. Already you are trying too much. It is not your fault. You did not hurt anyone.’
‘Well, in actual fact—’
‘Not innocent people.’
‘Should I tell Anna now?’
‘Tell her what?’
‘Oh, I was thinking maybe the truth?’
‘Ha. I know what you want. You want her to forgive you for trusting this priest.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of myself, believe it or not,’ I said, offended – but at the same time wondering if the accusation might be justified. ‘We all trusted him.’
‘It will be better if the girl tells her mother, when she is ready. Anyway, there is nothing definite here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He does not write down exactly what he did.’
‘It’s obvious what he did, Maria.’
‘Perhaps. We will visit the UNHCR and see what they say. Then we can decide.’
I told her how I’d blackmailed Iain Strang.
‘This is good,’ she said. ‘I approve. Adjani and Father Daniel must be dealt with in an official way and I will help you. You are not to go running off and killing them yourself. Do you promise, James?’
‘No, Maria, I don’t.’
‘No dinner for you, then. Look after the restaurant now, while I check on my children. This thing has made me sick with worry.’
The next evening, I was invited to Eleni’s apartment for a celebratory meal of traditional Balkan dishes prepared by our hostess. A big man with shaggy hair was perched on the wrought-iron chair by the telephone – Anna introduced him as her brother-in-law Piotr, who had made the journey down from Pristina to be with us. Our chef was being positive – hysterically positive, you might say. The little apartment echoed to a sequence of bangs, crashes, curses and sighs, and she hurried from kitchen to balcony and back again, trailing tobacco-scented panic in her wake. Away from the field of action, which had brought out her courage and sangfroid, Eleni’s neuroticism had quickly reasserted itself.
Anna made polite conversation. Were my wounds healing OK? What was I doing with myself in Skopje? Would I go back to London? Her heart wasn’t in it. Mine wasn’t, either. I gave airy answers, attempting to make light of it all.
We ate burek with spinach and feta, smoked pork stew, a pear and fig strudel, then vanilla biscuits served with Mursalski tea infused with honey. All of it delicious, but the extravagance of the feast could not disperse the air of awkwardness and gloom that hung over the little room. The eating and the small talk were diversions performed because the question we all wanted answered could not even be asked. What happened to you, Katarina?
She sat in silence, crushed by the weight of that unasked question, miserable and still as no child should be. We fussed and tiptoed around her, our voices loud with falsehood. Do you want more bread, darling one? Just say if you need a rest. We’ll get a DVD out later – would you like that? She picked at her food and communicated only with a nod or a shake of the head.
I found her staring at me once – staring up from the bottom of a dark pit from which she didn’t expect to escape. She turned away, back to that lonely place, and I understood then why Maria had said I should not speak about Father Daniel. It was not for me to force the matter into the open. It was Katarina’s knowledge, not mine. I had rescued her from Haclan Adjani, yes, but I should not indulge myself with the notion that it was in my power to do more. There was not going to be a rosy ending – not for any of us. I felt like I had when I’d first met them here – a big, clumsy stranger who would not tell them the truth. Whatever Katarina needed to help her tackle the long climb back to normal life, it wasn’t me. As soon as the meal was over, I made an excuse and stood up.
‘Let me give you a lift somewhere,’ said Anna.
‘Thanks, but I’d like to walk.’
Piotr stood up and looked as if he would like to go too, but Eleni directed him back to his chair and switched on the TV. We left him with Katarina in the sitting room and stood in the cramped hallway where I had dressed up as Father Daniel Cady. The mood then had been nervous, but also determined and full of brave optimism.
‘She is doing very well, James, don’t you think?’ Eleni asked. ‘Just as well as can be expected?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She seems to be coping.’
‘She isn’t,’ said Anna. Her face was riven with despair – all the despair she’d suppressed while Katarina was missing. ‘She hasn’t spoken to me at all, James. Not a single word.’
‘She needs time,’ I said. ‘We all do.’
‘I so wanted it to be all right – and it isn’t. It isn’t at all.’
She cried and I wrapped her in my arms. It was awkward because I’m nearly eighteen inches taller than her.
‘We do this better lying down,’ I said, remembering how we had comforted each other on that snowy night when we’d found Adjani’s den on the outskirts of town. ‘In the back of a freezing cold van.’
She gave a snuffly laugh and pulled away from me. I thought I saw regret in her eyes, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.
‘Goodbye, James. Don’t. . . You know, don’t be too hard on yourself.’
My role in Katarina’s story had ended. I stood in the street outside and literally did not know what to do.
I went to a bar and couldn’t get drunk. I went to the river and found no solace in the oil-black water that slid between the pillars of the Stone Bridge. When I got back, the restaurant was shut up and Maria had to get out of bed to let me in, which gave her a good excuse to scold me. Did I say that Maria is beautiful? Most people see a woman of forty, fat and forbidding, her square face counterpointed by a pair of mannish spectacles unevenly perched on an aristocratic nose. Actually, what you see is not fat but strength, and the wonky glasses distract from eyes plumbed with kindness and intelligence.
She managed to keep me for three days, and the combination of copious meals and her forthright views on my poor behaviour over the previous month were as soothing as clean cotton sheets to weary limbs. Meanwhile, her children ensured that I had not a single moment to myself. The two girls liked to play weddings and quickly cajoled me into taking the role of priest – displacing an old and very dirty teddy bear and so adding immeasurably to the authenticity of the ritual. I must have said the words I now pronounce you man and wife (in English, which didn’t seem to matter) twenty or thirty times during my brief stay. Tomasz and his two brothers, meanwhile, having failed to find any weapons amongst my meagre belongings, engaged me on sight in bouts of hand-to-hand combat. More than once I found myself having to interrupt a solemn intonation of the nuptial rites in order to detach a small boy who had taken a mortal grip on my epiglottis.
My physical wounds healed quickly, if not very neatly, once the infection had gone, and I slowly regained the sense that there was a normal world, and even that I might shortly re-enter it. I met with Colonel Andy Hillson, who attempted to debrief me. He was unenthusiastic about the task, and – having no doubt been himself debriefed by Iain Strang – merely confirmed what I already knew.
‘I don’t have a project for you right now because, frankly, we haven’t decided what kind of work you can be trusted with. But I don’t want you sitting around feeling sorry for yourself,’ he concluded.
‘I’m still in the Int Corps, apparently?’
‘Not my decision,’ he said pointedly, and brought the meeting to an end.
I moved back into my apartment, upon which Maria continued her campaign to keep me busy by declaring that I must pay for my three days’ board and lodging by watching the restaurant for her at times when business was slow and my linguistic shortcomings would not be too badly exposed. I was standing obediently behind the counter in mid-afternoon a day or so later when two Coincasa shop girls came in for coffee – the same two who had giggled at me when I’d eaten here the day after our attack on the Bura. They took a table by the window. One of them drew faces on the steamed-up glass while the other flicked through a magazine. After a moment, the one with the magazine beckoned me over.
‘You is American, yes?’
‘No, English.’
‘Ah, yes. We want sp
eak English. You – um – here?’
She patted the bench next to her. She was pretty, with a full mouth and sharp, quizzical eyes beneath not very kempt brown hair. I did as she asked.
‘My name is Karela. You name?’
‘James.’
The conversation pottered along. Karela slid along the bench until I could feel her warmth as she brushed against me. Her skin had the soft, salty smell of freshly popped popcorn. I answered her questions and smiled at her, and she lowered her eyelids and ever-so-slightly wriggled her hips. Her friend looked annoyed, and I fancy Karela got a kick under the table, though she did a good job of hiding it.
I was just agreeing a time and place to meet her for a drink when Maria returned.
‘Soldiers,’ she said, affecting a censorious glare, though there was approval in her eyes. It was Maria’s firm belief that there were few afflictions a man could suffer that would not be much ameliorated, if not cured altogether, by a bout of good-hearted lovemaking.
‘See you, James,’ sang Karela as I left the restaurant to go back to my apartment. I wasn’t at all sure I should be playing around like this, when what I truly longed for was the company of Anna. But how could I court her now? And what could be more comforting than a fling with Karela? I’d been back in my apartment for less than twenty-four hours and already I’d discovered that, left to itself, my mind circled stealthily back to the lurid scene in the farmhouse loft. Or if not that, then to the poisoned pages of Father Daniel’s Book of Prayer. Even when I slept – and I’d been sleeping a lot – I woke up feeling dazed and wary. A fling with Karela was Maria’s prescription, and when had she ever been wrong about anything?
48
I pursued my career as junior assistant manager at Maria’s restaurant, and every day or so met with Eleni to hear that not much had changed. Anna couldn’t join us because she was spending all her time with Katarina.
Say A Little Prayer (A James Palatine Novel Book 2) Page 32