Hart shook the abbot’s hand. ‘Can I ask you one final thing?’
‘You wish to know why I am helping you?’ The abbot smiled.
‘Yes.’
‘I am a Serb. I am a priest. I am a man. One day soon I shall be an archimandrite, and shall be called upon to oversee abbots such as myself in terms of their spiritual welfare. When this occurs I must, like the present archimandrite, occasionally go into retreat.’
Hart nodded in understanding. ‘Your conscience, you mean? You could not square not helping us with your conscience?’
‘Yes. Yes. My conscience. If that is what you call it.’ The abbot drew in a long breath. ‘I am horrified by what has been done in the name of Greater Serbia these last twenty years. If I were to say as much in certain circles, I would be lucky to make shepherd, far less archimandrite. Is that not how you say it? To make something? Instead, to make archimandrite, I hold my silence. This is necessary to secure the monastery. Otherwise men would be here who might abuse this priceless gift we have been given. But there is only so far one can keep silence. If you choose to write about what I am doing for you, then I accept this. But I would ask that you do not. It would be a catastrophe for us.’
‘I will not write about it, Father. Neither will anyone else.’
‘I thank you. This place is precious to me. Perhaps, before you leave, you will ask one of my monks to open the cask of St Stefan for you after all? You may touch the saint’s hand. He is very well preserved, I promise you, and he does not smell. If you crawl underneath the casket, you will be healed of all that ails you. Will you do this? Biljana too. It is a heavy burden that she is carrying. I would not see this in one so young.’
‘But she is a Muslim.’
‘Really? She is a Muslim? There is no God but God, is that not what the tahlila says? Muslim, Christian, Jew, where is the difference? We all bow before the same God, do we not?’ The abbot beamed. His smile that of a good man, in his element. ‘We forget this at our peril.’
FIFTY
‘I’m sorry. I cannot help you.’ Maria was drinking a cup of tisane in the abbey kitchens. Her hands were red and hard, her fingers gnarled with arthritis. Her white hair was drawn back tightly on her head, outlining the shape of her skull. Her cheeks were sunken from a lifetime of smoking, with lines escaping from her eyes in every direction but upwards, as if God had decided at some point in her life that the sadness of her interior demeanour must be adequately reflected on her face.
The young novice who was doing the translating for Hart hunched his shoulders apologetically, as if he was somehow responsible for his charge’s intransigence.
Hart took a sip of his tea. He met Biljana’s eyes and lowered his own melodramatically, so that she would know not to intervene.
‘That’s fine. I never quite believed the abbot when he said you were a relation of the Captain’s. A woman such as you, serving the monastery for – I believe the abbot said forty-seven years, did he not? – well, it would be unthinkable for a person such as you to be related to a war criminal.’
The young novice havered for a moment, as if he didn’t quite approve of what he was being asked to transmit. But then, with a small sigh, he translated what Hart had said.
‘A war criminal?’ said the old woman.
‘Didn’t you know?’ Hart put his cup down with a shocked expression on his face. ‘Yes. The Captain killed and tortured and raped in the name of Greater Serbia over a period of close on six years. His victims are beyond counting. He even raped this young lady’s mother. That is why she is here, you see. To confront her father.’
‘To confront her father?’ Maria seemed entirely out of her depth.
The young monk was looking more uncomfortable by the minute, as if he had stumbled into an orgy peopled by individuals he had previously thought better of. At the very least, Hart comforted himself, the abbot must have spoken to the young man beforehand and given him some indication of what he was entering into. Either that, or the boy would be experiencing a vastly accelerated moral education.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Hart decided at last.
‘We quite appreciate,’ he continued, ‘that if you were related to such a man, you would not be keen to acknowledge the fact. It is for this reason that we will fully understand if you decide not to cooperate with us.’
Maria looked startled. Her eyes, widened in shock, made her face look briefly younger, as if the lines her life had marked her with had temporarily been scrubbed away. ‘The Captain raped your mother?’
‘Yes,’ said Biljana. ‘He kept her in a rape house for three weeks. He raped her every day. He wanted her to become pregnant. Wanted her to have a child. I am that child.’
‘You are a Christian then?’ The old woman’s expression was pained, as if the question had had to be forced out of her.
‘No. I am a Muslim. My mother was Muslim. My father was a Serb. But one could hardly have called him a Christian, could one? Would you have expected me to take on the religion of my father given the circumstances surrounding my birth?’
Maria began to cry. Biljana ran to her, but the old lady brushed her off – kindly but firmly. ‘It is not because you are a Muslim,’ she said, awkwardly. ‘It is that I do not like to be touched by anyone.’
Biljana froze, her face stricken.
Maria glanced at the young monk, almost as if she were seeking his approbation for what she was about to say. ‘You see, I too was…’ she hesitated. Then the words came out in a rush, following each other like dice thrown onto a table. ‘What happened to your mother happened to me.’ Maria drew in a long breath. ‘In the war. The Germans. They created the Ustaše. The Croatian Fascist State. You have heard of the Serbian Genocide?’
Hart shook his head. Biljana sat down near the young monk, who was looking more stricken by the minute at what he was being asked to do. She shook her head too.
‘Five hundred thousand Serbs, Jews and Romanis killed. In one camp alone – Jasenovac, Heaven spit on its name – fifty-two thousand were murdered. In 1941 I was eighteen years old. Eighteen. How old was your mother, child, when the Captain touched her?’
‘Sixteen and a half.’
‘And how old are you?’
‘Fifteen.’
The old lady nodded slowly. ‘The Ustaše used a Srbosjek on their hands to quickly kill their victims. This is an agricultural knife worn over the hand like a glove, with the blade facing downwards, the palm protected by a copper plate. It is the sort of knife a small farmer will use in the fields even now to cut his wheat.’ She gave another quick glance at the novice monk.
He was sobbing. But still, through his sobs, he continued with the translation.
‘They nicknamed this knife the Serb Cutter. One downward blow on the neck and a person will bleed out to death within twenty seconds, like an animal. Of course, many times they missed. Then it would take many blows. Much longer to die.’
The young monk wiped his eyes on the sleeves of his habit.
The old lady handed him her cup of tea and he took a small sip and returned it to her, smiling gratefully.
Hart was gradually becoming aware of the multifarious tendrils of relationship available within the monastery environment. And of how close the young novice might be to this otherwise forgettable old woman.
‘But I was young and pretty,’ Maria continued. ‘Yes. It is hard to believe now. But so I was. And the Ustaše were young and all-powerful. And I did not want to die. By this time in the war the Ustaše were scared. They took to using the Granik to kill their victims. This is a special hoist traditionally used to unload goods from the Sava boats. The crane quickly transforms into a gallows. The Serb prisoner would be stripped and beaten and chained and carried to the Granik like dead meat. Weights would be tied to his chains so that his arms were bent out of shape. The Serb’s stomach would then be slashed so that hi
s intestines fell out. His neck would be slashed. Then he would be struck on the head and plunged into the river. Later, because this method was too slow, Serbs were tied in pairs. Then their bellies were cut and they were thrown into the river alive. One man, Petar Brzica, because of a bet, killed 1360 people in one day. He won prizes for it. A gold watch. A silver service. A bottle of Italian wine. A roast suckling pig. He was very happy. Another man, Mile Friganovic´, tried to make an old man called Vukasin bless the name of the criminal, Ante Pavelic´, who was the father of the Croatian fascist movement. The old man refused. Friganovic´ cut off Vukasin’s ears. When Vukasin refused again, he cut off his nose. Then he ripped out his tongue. Finally he cut out the old man’s eyes, tore out his heart, and slashed his throat until he died. You see, my dear,’ Maria held out her hand to Biljana. ‘You see why I let them touch me?’
Biljana, her eyes damp with tears, took the old lady’s hand.
‘Good.’ Maria nodded her head a number of times. Then she raised Biljana’s hand in hers and kissed it. ‘Some touch is good. Your touch is good. Now, my child, I have something for you. Open your hand.’
Biljana opened her hand.
Maria slipped a piece of paper into it. ‘I am still in touch with my niece. The mother of the man you are seeking.’ She shrugged. ‘There are evil men everywhere. Of every race. Of every religion. No one is exempt. No country is without stain. One does not choose to whom one is related by blood. Remember this.’ She glanced at the young monk, as if willing him to pay particular attention to her words. ‘Remember this, too, Biljana, when you think of your mother. Remember what happened to me. And do not judge her too harshly.’
FIFTY-ONE
Hart and Biljana were seated in Hart’s bedroom, a table between them. The piece of paper, still folded, lay on the table like the reminder to the timing of an execution.
Hart pointed to the paper. His hand, without his knowledge, took on the shape of a pistol. ‘Before we open it, I want you to promise me something.’
Biljana was having trouble focusing on Hart’s face. Part of her was elsewhere. From her expression, it was not a comfortable place. ‘What is that?’
‘If this paper holds nothing of any use to us in finding the Captain, I want you to promise me that we finish this thing right here. In this room. That we let it rest. You come to England with me. I introduce you to my friend Amira, as we agreed. We do some nice things together. Then we decide on your future.’
Biljana lowered her head.
‘Can we agree this?’
‘What if there is something in it that we can use?’
Hart squared his shoulders. It took some effort. ‘Then I will do exactly as I promised, and help you to the best of my ability. But I will not kill the Captain for you. And I will not resort to violence of any sort. I will simply try and arrange a meeting between the two of you. After that we will decide where to take things. You know my feelings in this. You know that I would rather not do it. This man is filth. The lowest of the low. He tried to kill me. He raped your mother. He murdered your relatives. He tormented and killed many others. But I’m according you the courtesy of imagining that you know your own mind.’
‘Okay then.’
Hart straightened up, surprised. ‘Okay to everything I just said?’
Biljana nodded. ‘Yes. I promise. Okay.’
Hart flared his eyes for a moment, as if he didn’t quite believe her. Then he thought better of it, and inclined his head in grudging accord. ‘Then open the paper. Let’s see what she’s given us.’
Biljana spread the paper out on the table in front of her.
There were two words on it, written in pencil and capitalized.
FFL and DJIBOUTI.
Hart suspected that the old lady, accustomed only to the Cyrillic alphabet, had got the young monk to write the words out for her. And that she had elected to hold the paper back as a final resort until she had decided whether or not she wished to help the two foreigners.
For one dreadful moment Hart found himself interpreting the initials FFL as Freshly Fucked Look, which had formed part of a communal wish-fulfilment fantasy about girls at his school twenty-five years before. Then he saw the word DJIBOUTI, and he knew.
‘What does it mean?’ said Biljana.
‘It means that your father is a member of a branch of the French Foreign Legion which is based in Djibouti. This doesn’t surprise me. For a man like him it makes perfect sense. He’ll have known that he was a marked man after Kosovo. But you can join the Legion and mask your previous identity. I’ve visited Djibouti twice on assignment. We all have. It’s the arsehole of the world. The 13th Demi-Brigade of the Foreign Legion is stationed there. Alongside the Yanks, the Brits, the Japanese, the South Koreans and pretty much anyone else who can come up with enough moolah to interest the president. It’s a country you buy your way into. The place is strategically vital. The Gibraltar of the Red Sea. Which is lucky. Because it’s got nothing else to offer.’
‘But Maria has not given us the Captain’s true name?’
‘Foreigners hardly ever register under their own names when they join the Legion. They are allowed to choose pseudonyms. That’s part of the attraction. You can abandon your old life and start fresh. I think Interpol do check on each candidate now, though. But the Captain may have got in before that. And I doubt due diligence is retrospective. The French don’t faff about. They tend to make their own laws.’
‘So how do we find him once we’re out there?’
‘You really mean you want to go out to Djibouti and confront your father? You mean to take it that far?’
‘Yes.’
Hart threw up his hands. ‘Then that’s what we must do then. We’ll not find out about him through the Legion, though. I can promise you that much. They are notoriously difficult to penetrate. Once a man has been taken in he will be protected. They will not release his identity to anyone bar the police. And only then if there is good reason. I’ve run into the Legion fairly often while I’ve been on assignment. They are like the Marines. Or the combination locks at Fort Knox. A closed book.’
‘Then how do we find him?’
Hart shrugged. ‘There you’ve got me. We’d better pray for a mass parade and a high-powered pair of binoculars. Otherwise we’re going to need luck. And lots of it.’
FIFTY-TWO
The roads around Djibouti were like the roads at the ends of the earth. Slate-grey hills, slate-grey fields. A few scrubby trees. Electricity pylons marching into infinity. The occasional off-white town surrounded by a sea of plastic junk and litter. Not a crop. Not even a productive bush. The shadows on the mountains were the only things to remotely break the endless monotony.
The few local people visible outside town seemed to be nomads. A few sheep. A few half-starved camels. The occasional moveable hut sheathed in plastic and corrugated iron. Even the rocks seemed out of place. If she had had to describe the scene to someone who had never been there, Biljana would have said it was the death of landscape. The entrails of the earth. Sixty percent of the country and a hundred per cent of the animals lived below the poverty line. Eighty-five per cent of Djibouti’s urban population was out of work. Corruption. Inertia. Bad luck. The average life expectancy was forty-three years.
But the place was a strategic minefield. It was located close to the world’s busiest shipping lanes and to the oilfields of Arabia. Every army and every tin-pot security firm on the planet had a piece of Djibouti. During the twenty-minute drive from the airport to their hotel she saw Foreign Legionnaires from the 13th Demi-Brigade cruising the marketplace in their ridiculously abbreviated budgie-smuggler shorts. She saw Yankee officers in dress whites from the US-led Horn of Africa anti-terror force at Camp Lemonier emerging from shiny black limousines. She saw under-funded British soldiers in hand-me-down camos, shabby Number Twos, and emergency desert kit trying to kick start their
malfunctioning Land Rover Wolfs. She saw earnest Germans. Happy-go-lucky Dutch. Snap-happy Japanese. Even the South Korean military had got into the act. The bar fights, her guide book insisted, were legendary.
And the Djibouti government raked in the service dollars with an extra-long croupier stick and then sent ninety per cent of the cash abroad to a series of foreign bank accounts that had very little to do with national reconstruction and a heap of a lot to do with personal gratification. This was the country she had come to in search of her father.
‘Not a chance,’ Amira said to Hart down the phone. ‘You know that just as well as I do.’
‘Not even with your connections?’
‘Not even with my connections.’
Hart glanced at Biljana and shrugged his shoulders. She shrugged back. She started to unhook her earpiece, but he shook his head. He still wanted her to listen.
‘Any bright suggestions, then?’
‘Only the old one. You cut me and Rider in.’
‘Rider? The misery guts who was with us out in Tal Afar when we ducked out from under IS? Is he your new best mate?’
‘He might be a misery guts but he’s a first-rate journalist. And eight eyes are better than four. After Biljana gets to talk to her father, she lets Rider and me step in and grab him. That’s the deal.’
‘You grab him? You and Rider? And who else’s army?’
‘Djibouti allows citizen’s arrests.’
‘By foreigners?’
Amira made a sort of humph sound. ‘We hold him until the Yanks or the Brit military can take him off our hands. We get Biljana’s exclusive story for our Sunday issue. The newspaper gets full credit for running down a war criminal and bringing him to justice. The French get egg on their faces. Apart from him and them, everyone goes home happy.’
The Templar Succession Page 16