He opened the phone and tried the number. No response. Closing the phone, he gnawed his bearded lower lip in thought. One thing was clear; Tadim would not want this convoy hijacked by the pig-droppings below.
What to do?
As the answer came to him, he dragged his knapsack toward him, pulled out the first of the mines, and then unwound the long strip of cloth that formed his headdress.
* * * * *
The leader of the HOS heard the growl of the trucks as they approached. The convoy was less than a mile away and closing rapidly. Almost time. He got to his feet and moved a couple of paces to the left to stand behind a nearby tree. He withdrew the pistol from its holster and cocked it. Peering around the trunk, he saw the first vehicle, closely followed by the others, climb towards them. He glanced around to ensure that his men were ready. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, then raised his pistol.
A searing white brilliance ripped through the darkness
The ground around him heaved, then erupted explosively.
Then again.
And again.
He dropped to his knees, covering his head with his hands as the tree behind him toppled.
* * * * *
Eyes straining to penetrate the night, Spider could feel the mountains waiting for them. The scant light from the night sky, hindered by the heavy patches of cloud, was diminishing, and the blackness ahead became even denser. The vehicle lights created the effect of a dimly-lit stage backdrop, with the dark figures of cloaked trees waiting in both wings.
Steady, Spider, steady.
They were making good time on a road surface that was relatively unbroken. It was just possible that Tuzla would not be—
Light flared, from the darkness to his right, silhouetting the pines and several wildly gesticulating figures. He swerved involuntarily and the vehicle swayed, tilted then righted itself. The force of the explosions buffeted the cab, and the dull thuds vibrated through the thin metal. Despite the close proximity of the eruptions, he knew intuitively that the convoy was not the target.
Grabbing the handset of the radio, he roared, “Convoy Leader to all vehicles. Don’t stop! Repeat, don’t stop! Go, go, damn it, go!”
* * * * *
Mahmud primed the last mine. Laying it as carefully as he had the others on the cloth, he gathered up the ends. Straightening, he lifted the looped sling and once again sidestepped cautiously to the edge of the drop.
He started to swing the loaded cloth like a pendulum in both hands, gradually increasing the momentum and speed. As the mine reached the end of the outward swing, he loosed one end and pulled his makeshift sling back towards him.
The bomb spun and arched through the air then seemed to hang before plummeting downwards.
* * * * *
Paroski slammed the telephone down on its cradle and swore through his clenched teeth. His sallow complexion suffused, and his jaw muscles bunched tightly. Veins in his neck throbbed as he tried to rein in his anger.
Bitch!
The supercilious tones of the secretary echoed in his ear.
“Please be prepared to brief the general at half past eight tomorrow morning with details of progress so far—if any.”
If any, damn her, if any!
He struggled to bring his rage under control. This was all he needed. Several moments later, his breathing slowed, became more even, and the colour in his face faded. Realist that he was, he had to admit to himself that there had been a singular lack of success.
But, why?
Yesterday, when Crowther had called, and he had spoken to the woman, it looked as if the matter was resolved. He would have wagered money on it. Then at half past two, the clown had rung to say that the whole thing had disintegrated. Kalosowich’s woman was dead, and his paedophile had run off in abject terror.
What had gone wrong?
He had identified all the courses of action open to the convoy. By a process of elimination, he had deduced the only viable options left to it. The conclusions that he had reached had been logical and rational. He had made all the necessary preparations to prevent its further progress. All the right things done, and all the right stops pulled out, but still the maverick convoy eluded him.
Perhaps he had been too consistent, too much in context, too systematic.
Pushing himself out of the chair, Paroski crossed the room to stand before the map. The overlay was marked with chinagraph pencil; black showing the convoy’s probable route or, more precisely, what had been his best guess as to its intended course, and red showing the actual road taken. The wide variance between the two lines highlighted just how wrong he had been. Despite the narrow choice of alternate passages, the two lines coincided for the first twenty-five miles only.
Eyes narrowed, he continued to stare at the topography of central Bosnia Herzegovina for several more minutes. The most recent information he had was that the convoy had rested up overnight in the woods south of Rankovici. Its goal—Tuzla—now lay only a few miles to the north. The convoy was within four hours of the town. His options became limited, since the nearer the trucks got to Tuzla, the less he could do with the curtailed resources he had left. The Army of Bosnia-Herzegovina controlled the countryside and the approaches to Tuzla from the north-west.
His attempts to destroy the convoy to date had depended on divining the course of travel, then positioning ambushes and artillery barrages in its path. The convoy’s presence in Rankovici showed how miserable a success that had been.
Something more direct, more drastic was required now.
He moved closer to the map and located Rankovici with his finger. Tracing the road north leading out of the village to the intersection on the tarmac road to Tuzla, he read the name of the next village. Mind made up, he reached for the red pencil and slashed a vigorous cross on the overlay. He could see from the information passed to him by his informant that the convoy would have to pass through or around this small town.
Vares.
So be it. Stop the convoy at Vares, permanently. But how? Before he worked that one out, however, he would take steps to roll up the smuggling operation here in Croatia. If Stösser, Ovasco and the English convoy manager were conveniently in custody, at least that would prevent any further developments at this end and might even provide some drastically needed answers.
He picked up the phone to initiate the round up.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Spider was crouching at the side of the road, over a map spread on the ground, as Rath approached with two mugs of coffee.
“What have we got in front of us?”
Spider took the mug offered, then located Tuzla with a forefinger and traced the route back to their present position.
“Thanks. Not far now. Another three, four hours maximum should do it to Tuzla.” He sipped the hot, sweet liquid. “We’ve come a long way but we’re not there yet.”
Rath chewed the inside of his cheek as he nodded, then bent over to look at the map.
“What’s the likelihood of being bumped again?”
“It’s hard to say. But if we work on the assumption that we’re fair game until we get to Tuzla. . .
“We’ve just passed through Sutjeska and the next place is Vares. There is a UNPROFOR unit there, so it might be worthwhile pulling over to see if there is any possibility of an escort. On the other hand, if we want to get this nightmare over it would make good sense to push on. What do you think?”
“From the beginning we thought we were likely to attract more attention with an escort than without one,” responded Rath. “Wrong! So, since we’ve got to go to Vares, let’s make up our minds about the escort when we get there.”
Spider shrugged, then nodded.
“We’ll get under way in...” he checked his watch, “ten minutes.”
Rath swung round, shouting to the members of the team that they should get ready, then moved towards his own truck.
The radio net crackled open.
“Mount up, and wh
eel ’em out.”
Seconds later, they were on the road to Vares, but one question dominated everyone’s thoughts.
Would they make it?
* * * * *
In the basement of the regional Headquarters of the OS-BH in Tuzla, Captain Zelim lay back in a chair with his booted feet on the cluttered desk. He held a magazine before him, but his thoughts were not on its pages. Zelim was bored. He lowered the tattered magazine, then abruptly threw it sideways across the room.
Another ennui-filled day stretched ahead of him.
The mortaring was prompt on the hour at six o’clock that morning. The Serbs on Mount Majevica, to the east of the town, always laid down fire on them at the same time each day—never more than three grenades. Quite desultory, really, almost as if they had something more interesting to do, but, since the programme called for mortar firing on Tuzla, then fire they would. It was three hours since that day’s quota, and there would be nothing more until early next morning.
No real diversions.
He sighed.
The telephone buzzed. Listlessly, he picked up the receiver and listened with no real interest.
“Zelim, 5th Company HQ.”
“Colonel Tabara here, Zelim. Is Major Abdic there?”
“No, sir. He was in Zenica yesterday but has not returned. Can I help?”
“I did particularly want Major Abdic, but yes, yes you can. I have a mujahedeen group, about thirty in all, due in any time now from Konjic. We have reassigned it for special duties under the command of Central, and I have instructions to brief them on those duties. After I have seen them, they will come to your compound. Major Abdic agreed they could draw rations. After that, they have billets back down in Breza with the Seventh. Do you have anyone who could go with them and act as liaison?”
Zelim thought it would be ideal to get out of the cellar for a few hours. He could act as escort himself. The major was due back anytime now, and the situation was quiet.
“Yes, sir. No problem.”
“Good. Fine. Make sure I get a call as soon as they reach the Seventh. Thank you, Zelim.”
The captain felt immeasurably cheered up. He belted on his pouches and holstered his weapon. Whistling and in higher spirits, he left the cellar and headed for the guardhouse at the main gate to await the arrival of the Afghans.
* * * * *
Paroski checked his watch. The time available to destroy the convoy and its cargo was dwindling.
Rapidly.
After a few moments of deep thought, he reached for the packet of Opatiya on the table and lit one. He blew the smoke into the tent of light made by the desk lamp and absently watched as it curled thinly upwards.
Every action so far had failed. He wished that he could be there himself, to make sure that his plans reached fruition. If only he could fly.
As the thought struck him, so did the fact that he did have wings.
* * * * *
The Air Detachment at Pleso had several helicopters. Three of these had been brought over to the Croatian side in the early days by the air wing’s current officer commanding, Major Peter Markovic, following Croatia’s declaration of independence. The Gazelle helicopters, manufactured by SOKO in Yugoslavia under licence and in service with the JNA, had been at the plant for refit. Markovic and two other Croat flyers in the JNA had agreed to steal three of the helicopters and bring them to Zagreb to be the nucleus of the fledgling Croatian Army Air Corps. The remaining seven stayed under the control of the Serbian-run JNA.
So, if a Gazelle without insignia or markings was to show up in Bosnia and create mayhem in a Moslem area, who could be sure that the Serbs were not responsible? The more he thought about it, the more the plan appealed to him. He pulled the phone towards him.
“Get me the airport at Pleso,” he told the operator, “then put me through to military aircraft section. I want to talk to Major Markovic.”
Within minutes, the operator rang back, and he had a surprisingly clear line to the head of the Army’s air reconnaissance troop.
“Paroski, Head of M.I. I have a tasking for you, Markovic. It will not be a recce. I need one of your birds, without markings. Yes, without markings, fully fuelled and with a full complement of air-to-ground missiles. The destination is Vares. That’s—hold on.” Peering at the map, he read off the coordinates to the waiting Air Corps officer.
“How long do you need to get ready? Good. Excellent. I will be with you in forty minutes. Yes, you heard correctly. I will be aboard.”
* * * * *
The three long-wheelbase Land Rovers, all sitting low over their axles due to the weight they were carrying, climbed the hill, then pulled up before the barrier. The drivers of the second and third vehicles jumped out almost immediately but remained by their Rovers.
Tadim climbed out of the leading vehicle, signalling to his driver, Mahmud, to remain behind the wheel. As he strode to the gate, a young officer left the adjacent building, and walked towards him. The Afghan shook the grinning Bosnian’s hand, but he felt no need to return the smile. They conferred in English; Tadim was pleased and surprised that his usage of the language surpassed that of his host.
After observing the normal courtesies and greeting protocol, they agreed that, while the mujahedeen collected and loaded the food held ready for them, the officers would drink coffee. The Afghan leader passed the loading instructions to his men, then followed the Bosnian officer into the guardhouse.
After loading, which would take at most fifteen minutes, and then a meal, the party would set out for Breza.
* * * * *
Captain Zelim opened his map case, located Breza on the map and pointed it out to the towering mujahedeen leader.
“Breza. Not far from here. Very easy to find.”
Tadim was expressionless as he looked at the proffered map. He nodded as he sipped the thick black coffee. They had already passed through Breza that morning on their way to Tuzla.
“I will come with you. To your new camp.”
Tadim raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. If the Bosnian thought it necessary, why not? He finished his drink and, setting down the cup, casually saluted the young captain then left the guardhouse to return to his vehicle, which was now loaded with combat rations. Mahmud leaned over the passenger’s seat to open the door for him. Tadim stepped aside to allow Zelim to get in first so that the captain could climb over into the back of the vehicle. The load area was full of boxes, cooking utensils, folded blankets, tarpaulins, jerry cans and ammo boxes.
Two other vehicles arrived, but before they came to a stop, Tadim made a circle in the air with his index finger and pointed to the gate of the compound. He lowered himself into his seat in the Land Rover and stared straight ahead, as Mahmud glanced quickly in his side mirror, then pulled out.
The smell of cigarette tobacco from the rear of the vehicle caused Tadim to look round and frown at the young Bosnian. He shook his head, then pointed at the equipment filling the bed of the vehicle. Zelim sighed but nodded. He cupped the cigarette in his hand, and putting his hand out through a gap in the canvas, flicked the butt away.
* * * * *
Cheatham, preoccupied, toyed with the soupspoon. Despite attempts over the last few days, he had been unable to contact Webb or any other members of the convoy. He had no idea where the vehicles were or, more importantly, their cargo. He was the first to admit he was not a “people person” and did not lose any sleep worrying about his employees, but the lack of information did place him in a quandary.
Cheatham half turned to look for what seemed the umpteenth time across the other tables at the entrance to the restaurant. Stösser and Ovasco were twenty minutes late. When they did arrive, Stösser would want to know about his property, and that presented Cheatham with a dilemma.
He would have to lie so as not to jeopardize future business opportunities. He spent some time revising and honing the story he would tell the German arms dealer.
They still had not appeared,
and he was hungry, but it did not make sense to order without them. Irritated, he flipped open his mobile phone and selected Ovasco’s number on speed dial. He had tried twice already, and this time was no different.
There was no reply.
He waited a further ten minutes with ill-disguised impatience before pushing his chair back and leaving the restaurant. Once in his car, he decided to drive to Ovasco’s home and find out exactly what was amiss.
He knocked at the front door.
As Cheatham waited, he looked over at the workshop but could see no sign of any movement or activity. He turned as the door opened, and Ovasco’s wife stood before him. Her face was red, and he could see she had been crying.
Before he could say anything, she burst out:
“They took him away. The police took him away!”
Cheatham blinked rapidly and felt the panic swoop upwards inside him. Without a word, he spun round and staggered awkwardly to the car. Fumbling with his keys, he managed to insert the ignition key and start the engine. His instincts told him that this was it.
Time to move on.
* * * * *
Cheatham put the bulky envelopes containing the money he had just withdrawn into his briefcase. While it was open, he checked the plane ticket and his passport in the other envelope. It would take forty minutes to reach the airport. A taxi could take him there, and he would leave his car where he had parked it, a few hundred yards from the bank. It was a company car, so it was no financial sacrifice.
He took off his sunglasses, polished them, returned them to his face, took several large deep breaths and headed across the marble floor of the bank to the door.
* * * * *
The Tuzla Run Page 19