The Untouchable

by Gerald Seymour

  Asylum seekers from China, Afghanistan, Iran, anywhere you want, are stacked here before being moved on. Tobacco is shipped in from Italy and resold in bulk. A luxury car is stolen in the street in the morning in Hamburg or Stuttgart, the next morning it's here and in a workshop where the numbers are filed off, and the morning after it's on its way via Slovakia to Moscow. The Balkan trail of the drugs route has reopened after the war; it's not being moved in kilos but in tonnes. I want to go home, back to that balls-freezing cold in Manitoba, because I can't do a damn thing here.

  'The country is held in a web of corruption. I cannot fight it. People like me are in place, and people more important than me, and we're all just pissing in the wind. Everyone's on the take. At the moment, we keep the corruption under the surface and nearly out of sight, but the Canadians are leaving and everyone else will be quitting, and then a whole country in the heart of Europe will be handed over to serious gangsters - the Turks, Russians, Albanians, Italians, and the local men. Have you heard of Serif? You have, OK.

  There isn't a senior politician here, or a senior official with any power, who is fighting the culture of corruption.

  'We were supposed to do some good by coming here, remember? We were going to teach a society that had endured the rape of war how to put that experience behind them. We came with a noble sentiment and generosity. About the tenth time you get your shin lacked you start to get the message. Little people are too frightened to come to us. The big people see us as being in the way and obstructing their snouts from going deeper into the swill troughs. Today I'm dealing with three million American dollars' worth of tractors, trailers, balers, plus a hundred tonnes of agricultural fertilizer, plus eighty tonnes of seed potatoes -

  donated by the UN, which is your tax-payers and mine - found upcountry in a warehouse owned by a politician. He'd have sold part of the loot on, and the rest he'd have distributed as largesse. That was a chance find by a bloody-minded patrol of Finns, who haven't been here long enough to have given up on the place. We are not even scratching the surface.

  'There's a bigger problem, Mr Cann, and it worries me a whole lot more. Who am I to stand in judgement? Where I come from in Manitoba we are getting into a culture of criminality. The Aboriginal kids are on dope, LSD and lighter fuel. They're drinking after-shave lotion, and the adults are smashed out of their minds on class A stuff. A city like Winnipeg, where your senior-citizen tourists come to start their coach trips of the Rockies, has what we classify as a "serious heroin problem". In British Columbia they now grow better marijuana than the Mexicans. On the US border, we're stopping perhaps one load out of twenty, five per cent, of hard drugs. It's not that we're losing, the war is already lost. We're in a sewer at home. So, who am I to tell these people that it's wrong for them to be in a cesspit? Perhaps thinking never helped a law-enforcement officer.

  'You said you were a busy man, Mr Cann. That's good, and I hope you can keep hold of your enthusiasm. I am prepared to authorize Frank Williams to continue liaison with you . . . I am also prepared to authorize the four officers, named by Frank, to be available to be with you as a part of a training exercise. You understand me, Mr Cann, a training exercise - and I wish to know nothing more. Good luck.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  Joey made a mental note to send him a pin or a tie when he was back, when he had finished. He ran from the stifling heat of the Portakabin city and hoped he was not late to link with Maggie.

  Mister said, 'I want a warehouse, full time and permanent.'

  'What you want, Packer, is protection.'

  They were around a circular glass table, Mister, the Eagle and himself on one side, and facing them were Ismet Mujic and two men. Atkins thought the older one, heavy-built, big-fisted, square-faced and crop-haired, might be an intelligence officer or senior in the police, but he was not introduced and he had not spoken. The other man, younger, without a name or a voice, had lank black hair with gel in it and the air of privileged connection. Atkins presumed the conversation was recorded, just as the Eagle had their device built into the base of his attache case. Laid on a side table at the back of the room, not hidden, was a loaded Kalashnikov assault rifle with two magazines taped together, and at the side of the table and positioned like a favourite new toy was the launcher still holding the missile tube. The Rottweilers were beside the door, stretched out and sleeping, occasionally pawing each other, then yawning to show their teeth. Sometimes, through the door, came the grating cough of one of the guards. The ambience - guns, dogs, guards - was intended to intimidate. Mister had left his PPK

  Walther in the Toyota, and said the Luger given to Atkins should be with it. It was the first time Atkins had been with Mister for a major negotiation, seen the style. Mister, the Eagle and he had countered the intention to intimidate by hooking their jackets on to the chair behind them, showing they were not armed.

  'It is not "Packer" it is "Mister". I don't need protection, I want co-operation.'

  'Can you be so sure, after so few hours here, Mister Packer, that you will not need protection?'

  'I have never needed protection in my life, but always try to find co-operation.'

  Before they'd left the Toyota Mister had said that it was all about body language. The body must never show fear. On the road into and out of Tuzla, when Atkins had worn the blue beret and been on food-convoy escort, he'd known that noise and

  determination, and an absence of fear, were the currency for getting through the road-blocks manned by drunk Serb, Muslim or Croat thugs. At the road-blocks were papaks, oafs, and they were bullies. He had learned it was a crime to show fear to the road-block kids. He thought the body language of Mister was a master class in itself. It was all about bluff and presence.

  'Mr Dubbs used that word many times. He spoke of co-operation.'

  'We'll talk of him when we have agreed on co-operation.'

  'You bring a lawyer with you - what is the value of a lawyer?'

  'My colleague is here to draw up a document of co-operation. I co-operate with you and you co-operate with me. It is put down on paper and we sign it, we both sign it. The document is our bond. You have a copy and I have a copy.'

  Around the table from him, at Mister's left shoulder, the Eagle had nodded decisively at the mention of his part in the matter. Atkins remembered the lonely outpouring of the previous evening in the atrium bar. He thought the Eagle's dependence on Mister outweighed a fear of the guns, the dogs and the guards. He thought also that Mister's quiet answers confused Ismet Mujic, and there were moments when he hesitated and glanced to either side of him before throwing his next question.

  'And if, Mister Packer, you should break the bond?'

  'It's just "Mister" - then you've lost nothing.'

  'And if I should break the bond, Mister?'

  'I'm not making threats, Serif. The launcher aimed at your lovely apartment was only my idea of a little joke. If you were to break the bond, go back on your word, you would lose more money than you can dream of. I pay well for co-operation.'

  Mister's voice was pitched low. To hear him they all had to lean across the table, which gave gravity to him. The Eagle had said that Mister was 'a very clever man'. The agenda was his, and Ismet Mujic followed.

  'Mr Dubbs did not say what you would pay.'

  'For me to decide, when we have discussed co-operation.'

  'The problem, Mister . . . '

  'There are no problems. When two men of business both seek to do a deal then there isn't a need for problems.'

  'If you do not have protection then it is possible that you have a difficulty with the police.'

  Each point made by Ismet Mujic was countered immediately by Mister, sometimes with a small off hand gesture of his arm, and diminished.

  'A part of the reward for your co-operation is that I don't have such a difficulty.'

  'Without protection, a foreigner here, you could face more difficulties with the political leadership.'

  'You would see to
it, Serif, that I had no difficulties with the police or with politicians. It is how you would co-operate.'

  'Would I be your partner?'

  It was slyly put. Atkins thought Ismet Mujic expected rejection, which would give him cause to bluster and take the high ground. Mister's smile was supreme, as if he dealt with an old friend.

  'I think that's the direction we're going.'

  'I have other partners to consider.'

  'A businessman such as yourself, Serif, would have many partners.'

  'There is a Russian gentleman. And an Italian gentleman from Sicily -1 am told that is a most beautiful island. I have partnerships with the Turks - they are very serious with business. It would be most expensive to satisfy all of my partners.'

  'Let's deal with yourself first, Serif, and others later.'

  Atkins saw the Eagle's eyes flit to the ceiling. It was a killer blow. A new strain was introduced. When he had been told on the aircraft what Mister planned, it had seemed easy, reasonable. The scale of the operation now being pursued by Mister hit him, slugged him, as it had the Eagle, but Mister's reply was gentle, as if nothing ambushed or surprised him.

  'Co-operation or protection, whatever you want to call it, how much do you pay?'

  'I pay for what I get.' Mister's voice was softly reasonable.

  'For no difficulties with the police, no investigations by government, for transport over the border without delays from Customs, for warehousing space rental, for the service of vehicle mechanics who are reliable, and guards to ride with the drivers because this is a country of many bandits, how much do you pay?'

  'I could pay a flat cash figure, or I could pay for each vehicle movement, or I could pay a percentage of profit.'

  'A percentage of profit?' A smear of derision from Ismet Mujic.

  Mister never hesitated. 'You'd have my word on it, Serif. We say in England, "My word is my bond."

  You've never been to England, to London. If you'd been there, met the people I do business with, then you'd hear that my word is good enough for anybody.

  In business I'm a good friend, but if I'm ripped off then I make a bad enemy.'

  'What is flat cash?'

  'A million American dollars for the first year, payable quarterly, the first payment on signature of the document, and I would suggest a Cyprus bank would be the most convenient. I'm not bargaining at this stage. At the end of the first year we renegotiate, but my guarantee is that the first year's payments will be less than the second year's. That's my offer.'

  They broke.

  Mister, the Eagle and Atkins were left in the room, watched by the Rottweilers. Atkins moved from the chair and stood casually near the low table on which the Kalashnikov lay. It was what he was paid to do.

  The Eagle wiped sweat from his forehead. He didn't say anything because Mister had closed his eyes, tipped himself back and catnapped, slept, as if there were no problems and no difficulties, only co-operation.

  From the coffee-house they could watch the building's street door. They had been there an hour and Joey had started to fidget. They were on the second cup of coffee. Every ten minutes one of the men in black, with the tattoos, the shaven head and the hanging belly, would walk to the end of the block and back, and each time would look into the shops, bars and the cafe window. They had to be beside the glass to have a clear view of the street door. They were the only foreigners in there.

  It was three years since Joey had done regular surveillance duties. On a good day, in London, the whole of Sierra Quebec Golf - twelve of them - would have been used for such a stake-out, and three cars; on a bad day there would have been eight, and still three cars. Now, there were the two of them and the van was parked up the street. The last two times when the man in black had examined them through the cafe window, Maggie had held his hand and looked Labrador-like into his eyes, as if they were lovers. It was called Jack and Jill at home, a male executive officer and a female executive officer attracted less attention than two men, and sometimes it went from handholding to kissing, and sometimes from kissing to groping, and sometimes to bed at the end of the shift. She had his hand again. The shadow of the man passed the window. It was not often that Joey looked into Jen's eyes and searched her face. The eyes and the face opposite him were lined, older. There was a coldness in them. He thought he didn't matter to her

  - they had no small-talk and no confidences. In the Sierra Quebec Golf vans and cars, and on the pavements when they did Jack and Jill, and in the pubs, in the office afterwards, they all learned about and prodded into each other's lives. The shadow passed again, and her hand slipped out of his. The touch of her fingers on his hand meant nothing to her, and they both watched the street door. He stared fiercely out through the window and sensed her amusement.

  Joey snatched her hand back, and gripped it. He thought she'd cry out, but she did not. 'In his life, Mister has won every time. I am Joey Cann and I have never won, not a bloody thing. Mister is a winner and Joey Cann is a loser. At home it would be no contest.

  We are not at home . . . Don't sell me short. If he's off his own ground, I think, I might just be a winner.'

  'I want to consider what you offer.'

  'Reasonable.'

  'Concern myself with details and then talk more.'

  'Accepted.'

  They should never have come, the Eagle had convinced himself. He should have been hosting a long-arranged meal, choosing the wines from the cellar, pottering in an apron behind Mo in the kitchen, pouring drinks for the president of the county's Law Society, a recently retired Home Office civil servant, a consultant surgeon, a land-rich farmer and their wives. Now, there would be an empty place at the end of the table. He was not there because without Mister there would be no gardener, no country house, no complacent fat bastards as guests. Mister called and the Eagle jumped . . .

  For ten minutes there had been whispered voices in the hall, then Serif had led his people back in, and Mister had jerked awake.

  'And I suggest that we meet tonight for dinner, to talk of the details.'

  'Serif, I'm afraid I can't do that.'

  'I am offering you dinner at my restaurant, where the best food in Sarajevo is served, and the best wine.'

  'I never mix eating with business.'

  The dogs were whining at the door. They'd slept until the meeting had broken but had roused themselves the moment Serif had left the room. The Eagle listened but his eyes never left the dogs and their jaws.

  The Rottweilers showed their teeth as they whined, and the air in the room and the carpets stank of them.

  Serif turned to the door, clapped his hands then shouted a name. The young man who came in was not in the uniform of the guards. The Eagle thought the name shouted was 'Enver'. He was pale, smooth-skinned and not tattooed; his shirt was burgundy silk and blond hair rested on its collar; his trousers were tight and white. Little escaped the Eagle. The young man, Enver, sauntered into the room, while the guards' every movement was abrupt. He carried two short, woven leashes, crooned softly to the dogs, clipped the leashes to the studded collars, and took the strain as they bounded ahead of him through the door. Down in the country, at dinner with his friends, the Eagle would have used the word faggot, but never in Mister's hearing. Ismet Mujic's heavy eyes were watching him and could not have failed to notice his relief that the brutes were gone from the room.

  'You don't like dogs? Do dogs make you nervous? I tell you they are very gentle. They are strong but they are soft. I call them Michael and Rupert. They were generals here from the British army, leading the UN

  forces. Like your generals, they make a show of aggression but will not use their teeth. They left us to do the fighting while they hid behind their sandbags.

  It was Celo, Caco and I who held the city. Without us it would have fallen.'

  The withering eyes turned back to face Mister. 'You do not wish to have dinner with me?'

  ' Always best to do business with a clear head and an empty stomach.'


  'Tomorrow at the same time, is that acceptable?'

  'The same time tomorrow, and after the business is finished, I would be delighted to eat with you .. .'

  Mister paused. Then said, as if it were an afterthought,

  'What happened to my friend?'

  A study of concern slipped on to Serif's face. 'It was very sad . . . I am still sad to this day . . . I feel a responsibility.'

  'Why do you feel a responsibility?'

  He had been with Mister since 1972. In twenty-nine years he had learned to read each inflection of Mister's voice. The question was put so softly, without malice. What he knew of Mister, a question was never asked for the sake of him hearing his own voice. His questions either searched for information or set a trap.

  'He was my guest, I was his host. We had eaten in my restaurant. He was very happy. He drank freely.

  He left us. I had offered him a driver to take him to the hotel, he refused. He said he would prefer to walk. I think he wanted the air.'

  The Cruncher never walked when he could ride He'd take a taxi to go the length of a street. The Cruncher was a barrow-boy at heart and his delight was to be driven. In the back of a chauffeured limousine he was the kid from Attlee House who had made it good . . . The Eagle thought, for dinner with Ismet Mujic and the rest of the low-life scrotes, the Cruncher would have spent a full half-hour dressing himself. The best clothes for the best impression. On a mission for Mister, the child of his own brain, it was inconceivable that the Cruncher would have taken to the sauce.

  'I have friends in the police. There was a most thorough investigation, and an autopsy was done.

  You have friends in the police? As a businessman it is necessary, you understand. I have copies of the autopsy report, and the statements of the witnesses who saw him going towards the river. If you would like them . . . ?'

  'I think I would. That's very thoughtful of you.'

  A chair was spun, a cabinet of antique rosewood was opened to reveal a safe. Ismet Mujic's hips hid the combinations he turned to unlock it, and hid them again as it was relocked. The papers were passed to Mister, who handed them on to him. He dropped the four sheets into his attache case.