Joey saw the snipped-off rafters, and wallpaper was exposed, still showing a pattern of pink flowers. The beam flickered on to three old pallets covered by a length of sheet metal to make a ramp for the chair.
When the door was opened he had stayed outside and emptied the beer from his bladder. He had gone inside. He had to talk and purge himself.
The room was lit with an oil lamp. The walls were dark with damp stains and cracks ran in the plaster.
There was a cooker attached by a pipe to a liquid-gas barrel, and a sink with clean plates on a draining-board. They had no refrigerator, and no electric fire.
There were worn rugs on bare boards. It was a place of penury. They gave him wine from an opened bottle and he sipped it sparingly because it tasted foul, because he did not need to drink more, because he thought it all they had to offer a guest. She never interrupted her father, but wheeled herself round the table to a cupboard and back, and filled a sandwich for him. He had been given a place on a sofa that was covered by a blanket and propped up by old books.
He thought the judge's need to speak was greater than his own.
The judge sat on a low bed. 'We live, Mr Cann, in an Olympic city. Citius, Altius, Fortius. But there was another motto of the Games. We read about it as we prepared ourselves to welcome the world. In 1908
London was the host. There was a service at your great cathedral, St Paul's, and the Bishop of Pennsylvania was invited to preach to the congre-gation. Sitting there, listening to the bishop, was the founder of the modern Olympics, Pierre de Coubertin.
We are told that what de Coubertin heard thrilled him:
"The important thing in the Olympic Games is not so much to have been victorious as to have taken part."
Not every man can win.'
'I have been a loser enough times,' Joey said. He felt the cold around him, but it would have been rude for him, the guest, to shiver or pity himself. Till the summer, he thought, they would live in the house in their coats. 'I call him, I told you, Target One. He has been too many times a winner.'
'Am I a loser?'
Joey said simply, believed it, 'You are a man of dignity, you are not a loser.'
'And Jasmina, with a broken back? She has no mother. She has no carer but me. It is uncertain what is her future when I am dead. Is she a loser?'
'She has self-respect, she is not a loser.'
'May I tell you a story about what obsesses you, Mr Cann, a story of a winner and a loser?'
'I am in your home. You may tell me what you want.'
Jasmina gave him the sandwich. He did not know whether she wanted the story told or not. Her pale cheeks, sunken set eyes and her mouth, no lipstick, were without expression.
'The story has many characters, but at the end of it there was one winner and one loser . . . '
'Is it the story that is not to be told to a stranger -
about blood?'
'That story, Mr Cann. I broke my rule on involvement, and you have told me that because of you my involvement may be known, and I should take precautions. Very frankly, few are possible . . . You should know why I became involved, helped you.'
'Please.' He strained to listen and to hold concentration against the waves of nausea.
'My wife, Maria, Jasmina's mother, was dead. She had a backroom administration post at the Bosnia Hotel, but when she was killed she was another mother and wife out in the streets and parks, scavenging. It had rained in the morning and she had come to the Jewish cemetery, near to here, to add to the snails she had collected. If you can find enough snails and take them out of their shells, and you can boil water, you can make soup. She was killed by a sniper's bullet. We had been married for twenty-one years. Jasmina was nineteen. My wife, Maria, was buried in the football pitch of the stadium. I could have left the city, but to turn your back on your wife's grave is, I promise you, difficult. I went on with my work as a teacher in law at the university. Jasmina, the only jewel left in my life, was my student. We managed. She had a boyfriend, Mirko, another of my students. A Serb, what we Muslims call a Cetnik. In the war, at first, it was possible for Serb men to remain in Sarajevo, but later it became hard, and soon it was impossible. There was hysteria, they were thought to be spies for the enemy. Jasmina and Mirko were in love, as I and her mother had been. They had pledged to spend their lives together, as we had. I blessed them. I said they should go, escape the madness.
'There was a telephone engineer who, before the war, I defended on a charge of killing while driving.
My defence was successful. He went free. He was a rogue, he should have gone to prison. He said that if he could ever repay me he would. The telephone link from the main PTT building was cut when the fighting started, but the engineer kept one line open to Grbavica. It was possible if you waited, and if you paid, to use the line. First you called and asked the Serb operator to pass a message, for the person you would speak with to come to the sub-exchange in Grbavica at a certain time on a certain day. The day came, the time, you spoke to them. The engineer is now a wealthy man, he does not have to work. Mirko, with my money, made the calls and asked relatives on that side to help him, if he came over, to leave the country. The guarantee was given. But how to go over?
'There was the tunnel at the airport. It was impossible to use it. The military had it, the government, and they rented it to the gangsters - to Caco, Celo and Serif. They paid two thousand DMs an hour to use it.
They brought in sugar, coffee, cigarettes, alcohol, everything for the black market, but between the military and the gangsters there was a stranglehold on the use of the tunnel. I heard there was one other way.
'I went to see Serif. It was an agony to me to go to see such a man. I have to say it was because I loved my child, and she loved her boy. He named the price.
Of course we did not have such money. The price was five thousand American dollars, for him, and three thousand American dollars for the gangsters on the other side. I sold everything I had that was of material and sentimental value, my wife's jewellery, the ring I had given her, and the ring she had given me, even the watch on my wrist that had been my father's, and a loan from relatives, and I mortgaged my pension.
Everything went to pay the thug for Jasmina's and Mirko's freedom.
'I remember the evening. I will never forget it. She took a small sports bag and Mirko had a little ruck-sack. It was all they owned. They had such confidence in a new world, their new life, away from the killing.
When we came near to the bridge I was told to stay back. I kissed them both. I saw Serif. She had the money, all we could raise, and she gave it him, and he seemed to sneer because it was so little to him, and so much to us. I heard him say to her that all the arrangements were made. They went away into the darkness.
They were to cross the Miljacka river at the Vrbanja bridge, it was the no man's land between the front lines. They were desperate, as I was, so we took on trust what we were told. I imagined every stride they took towards the bridge.
'I heard the shots. There were two long bursts of automatic gunfire, as if one for each of them. First it was Serif's men who held me back, then the police came, and they prevented me from going to the bridge. French troops came to the ends of the bridge but they would not go forward because, I heard it a week later, they considered it too dangerous. They were on the bridge, Jasmina and Mirko, through the night. At dawn, a Ukrainian army corporal drove by, and saw them. He walked onto the bridge. The French told him to stop but he refused. The Serbs on the other side told him to go back but he would not.
He brought them back, carried them one under each of his arms. I never learned his name, was never able to thank him. Their lives were saved in the Kosevo hospital. Mirko had stomach wounds, his shoulder was damaged and he cannot run. My Jasmina, my jewel, was paralysed . . . A year afterwards there was another shooting on the Vrbanja bridge, what the foreign pressmen called the Romeo and Juliet shooting when two similar lovers paid to cross, and they both died, were betray
ed, but their bodies were on the bridge for many days, exposed to the elements and to the foreign TV. Everybody knows about them, but Jasmina and Mirko were only another statistic of the injured. You will want to know what happened to their romance . . . Mirko is now in Vienna and has studied to be an architect. We have no jewellery and my pension belongs to the bank.
'I took part, as the bishop said in London that I should. I lost, and Jasmina lost. Yes, Mr Cann, while she was in the hospital, while I did not know whether she would live or die, I went to visit Ismet Mujic -
Serif. He refused to return the money and refused to take responsibility for the betrayal. He said that if I came near him again or made trouble for him he would set his dogs on me, and that he would see to it I never worked again. He had that power. It is the symptom of the loser, you might find it hard to believe it of me, but for nine years I have cultivated a wish to be avenged. There is something in our faith that tells us, one day - however long in the future - the chance of vengeance comes. You walked, in your innocence, through my door. I told you that the man found in the r i v e r . . . '
'He was murdered,' Joey said, through the last mouthful of the sandwich. 'He was hit, then thrown over the bridge.'
' . . . was linked to Ismet Mujic - Serif. It was when I thought, for the first time in long years, that I could be the winner . . . Citius, Altius, Fortius . . . could run faster than him, jump higher, be stronger - could crush him. I discarded the mentality of a judge.'
'Threw off the uniform.' Joey drained the last of the wine in his glass.
'Became the competitor. Demanded to win.'
'It is very human, it is the way we are.'
'To gain respect for myself.'
'At the expense of charity - it is not a time for mercy.'
'It is a passion to me.'
Joey said, 'We learned about it at school. Shylock, the Jewish money-lender in The Merchant of Venice, said: "The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction." 1
promise nothing but my best - that, at the end, it is we who are standing.'
Joey Cann left them, stumbled away down the street. He thought that a father would be helping a crippled daughter to prepare for bed. He fell twice but picked himself up and went on into the night. He was humbled. He crossed the bridge, where she had been shot and the dream had been lost, and headed towards the hotel. He heard his own words and wondered if they were just the beer's brave talk. He wore no uniform, the ID in his wallet he thought was worthless. If he was the loser he would not be left standing, for their sakes.
They ate off bone china. Mister was their honoured guest. His reputation had travelled with him from Green Lanes to Sarajevo.
The villa was on a hillside and faced west over the city. The introductions had been made in front of a blazing log fire. Serif and the men who had sat with him at the negotiations were there: the older man with his superior, announced as a brigadier in the intelligence agency, the younger man showing deference to his uncle, the politician. The villa was the politician's. If it had been damaged by war, repairs had been made: there was no sign of the war, only of the affluence, and the influence. Mister was not interested in the display of wealth, but while the talk eddied around him, he glanced at the photographs on one wall showing the politician, always wearing a quiet suit, meeting visitors to the city on the outside steps of buildings, cocooned in flak jackets and with military helmets on their heads. Serif did not speak but lounged in a carver chair at the end of a long oak table on which bounced reflections from the candles'
flames. The politician and the brigadier spoke rarely, and conversation was maintained by the nephew and the junior officer. There was no small-talk. Mister listened, which was his talent, and he watched and learned, which was his skill. While he listened he looked to understand the relationship between Serif and the politician: if Serif were the subordinate he would have spoken, Mister thought. He assumed everything around him, the luxury of the furniture, the drapes, the paintings, the glasses on the table, the food served, came to the politician from Serif. He was told of a meeting that would take place in four or five days, where he would meet partners, and that invitations to them had been sent. He replied with a shrug that if the business were important he had the time to give. And he was told of a problem, and his help was asked, and he said that he was always anxious to help a friend in difficulty. He drank nothing .. . They would all have known of the death of the Cruncher, and he wondered which of them had sanctioned it, and which of them would suffer.
When they talked of the meeting he smiled at them, and smiled again when they told him of their problem. He thought he was at the top table, a player in the league where he wanted to be. He was alert, on guard, but he felt himself wallowing in self-induced satisfaction. He had arrived where he wanted to be.
The Eagle would be with him for the meeting, and Atkins could solve their problem.
He was treated with due respect, and that was precious to him.
Atkins came into the restaurant, which was empty but for the table where the Eagle sat. 'I thought I was late, but I've beaten him in.'
'Not joining us.'
'Where is he?'
'Been whisked away to dine with the great and the good.' The Eagle grimaced. 'I, thankfully, was not included in the invitation.'
'I thought I was late . . . Do you fancy something slightly better? There are decent restaurants in Sarajevo.'
'I've already ordered. You go off if you want to.'
But Atkins sat down and a waiter sprinted forward to offer him the menu - the same as the previous night, and the night before that, and . . . He chose soup and the schnitzel, as he had the previous night, and the night before . . . He had been lying on his bed, without the light on, the curtains undrawn, in the gloom, and had been thinking, pondering, about the two or three inches by which he had missed the responsibility for the murder of a Customs officer.
'A good choice, what I'm having,' the Eagle said.
' W e l l . . . '
'Well what?'
'Who's going to tell him?'
'I don't follow you.'
'Who is going to tell him that it's time we quit?'
A liltle smile flickered on the Eagle's face. 'Quite a big speech.'
Atkins felt a reckless calm. 'Will you tell him?'
'I hadn't planned to.'
'Me? Do you leave it to me, the new boy on the block? We were guilty of attempted murder.'
The Eagle's open hands were up, as if to display the purity of innocence. 'I wasn't, you were. I don't recall driving the vehicle.'
'What's going to be asked of us next? How long are we stuck here? I didn't reckon on kicking my heels. In and out, that's what I thought. Christ knows what's next on his list for us.'
'Then you should tell him you've had enough.'
'Would you back me?' Atkins hissed across the table.
'That is a very difficult question.'
'Are you with me or against me?'
The Eagle's lips pursed, the answer was whispered.
'In principle, with you.'
'Damn you . . . Not fucking "principle". For me or against?'
'I would have to say that I'm beginning to feel we have overstayed the very limited welcome shown to us. Do I have work in London that would better employ me? Yes. Would I prefer to be at home and eating my dinner quietly? Yes. Would I pick a fight with Mister, rubbish his ideas, at the moment he believes he stands on the threshold of triumph? That poses a difficult question. I know how difficult.'
'Are you always this fucking spineless?'
The Eagle smiled the same sad, tired smile. 'I doubt you've seen him crossed. It is not a pleasant sight. I am told that grown men, confronted with a view of it, are prone to lose control of their bladders. It's fatuous to refer to "spine". I walk out on him, or you do, or we both do, and where do we go? Home? To our loved ones? Back to living our lives without him, and without his money? He has a long arm. Do
we live in the company of a battalion of paratroops? You'd be in a gutter, I'd be down on a pavement, in blood, in pain.
He always hurts first, it's the message he likes to send.'
Atkins, not play-acting, said simply, 'I'm frightened.'
'Aren't we all?'
'I'm being sucked down, so are you. Will you back me, support me? A clear answer.'
'There is rarely a right moment to gainsay Mister.
If such a moment arises, yes. That moment is not now. Do you think we can try to enjoy our meal?'
The waiter brought the soup. The vegetables floating in it, carrot and celery, leek and parsnip, had all been sliced into small pieces. Atkins gazed at them and wondered at the sharpness of the knife that had cut them.
The computers had the power to dig into the registrations of births, property sales, electoral rolls, income-tax returns, council-tax lists and telephone numbers. The trace was done by SQG8 and handed to Dougie Gough.
'You can go home now,' Gough said. 'I appreciate you staying on.'
'Home' for SQG8 was a single room in a guest-house behind King's Cross terminus, far from her husband and kids in the Manchester suburbs. He dismissed her because he did not wish his call to be overheard. He trusted nobody, not even those he had picked with his own hand. He never quoted it to a second person, but Dougie Gough lived as a senior investigation officer on the maxim of an Irish judge who had said, in 1790: 'The condition upon which God hath given liberty to man is eternal vigilance.'
John Philpot Curran had spoken for him.
He thought it a reasonable assumption that a young woman in terror would not have run to a work friend or a college colleague, but to her mother.
The track through the computer's records by SQG8
gave him the telephone number of the parents of Jennifer Martin. He waited until the room was empty, then dialled. The message sifting in his mind should not be shared.
The Untouchable Page 31
