They drove alongside the Drina river, passed the wreckage ol the front line, and went on through the flattened emptiness of no man's land.
Goraz.de was a finger town pressed down between the hills.
Mister never reached across her and looked into the mirror, never saw that he was tracked. He would sleep with her. After the meeting he would sleep whole night with her before going to the airport and taking the plane home. Because he would sleep with her, afterwards, he knew, was certain of it, he would be supreme at the meeting.
A methodical man, with a long training of counter-intelligence operations behind him, Sandor Dizo was a survivor. Eighteen years of his professional life had been in the service of the 111/111 State Protection Directorate, but in 1990 he had effortlessly changed allegiance - not desk, chair or working hours - and had become an executive of the Office of National Security. He had the same view of the roofs of Budapest, from the same room, as he'd had before the collapse of socialism. Then he had worked to stifle internal dissent, now he turned the same standards of intellect to combating the rise in newly democratic Hungary of the influence of organized crime. He had unlearned the practices taught him by the KGB
instructors, and had learned those of the Drug Enforcement Administration of the United States and the Security Service of the United Kingdom. He was today's man.
The work of that day, and many others past and many to come, was his surveillance of the movements of Russians who were active in the vory v'zakone crime group. If Sandor Dizo had had available to him today the powers of coercion he had enjoyed prior to 1990, the opportunities of the old days, there would have been no Russian criminals on Hungarian territory, but those powers had been withdrawn. He was now a creature of government by computer, provided by the Americans, and fieldcraft, taught by the British. Instead of broken noses and broken necks, he followed the new rules and provided the printouts listing the coming and going of the Russians and filled the files with their photographs. It was not a surprise to Sandor Dizo that the Russians now flourished in Budapest. They ran prostitution, controlled the clubs, moved and sold narcotics, laundered money through the recently opened hanks, directed the country's oil-distribution Mafia; they were behind every rip-off fraud of public and private enterprises, they trafficked weapons, and they killed. Being an exact man, Sandor Dizo could list each of the one hundred and sixty killings and attempted murders and bomb explosions on his capital city's streets since he had joined the Office of National Security.On the fingers of one of his plump hands he could count the minimal number of arrests and convictions of those responsible. Without interfering with their operations, he had gained a comprehensive knowledge of the Russian groups.
Nikki Gornikov had left Budapest that morning. He had been photographed leaving his apartment on Prater Street, and photographed again on Line 2 of the Metro. He had then been seen to take the classic anti-surveillance procedure of diving for a taxi, had been spotted at the airport and watched on to the Vienna flight. By the time those strands of information had been sifted on Sandor Dizo's desk, Nikki Gornikov could have driven a hundred miles from Vienna, or could have boarded any of a dozen flights. He called him ironically, when he thought of him, Baby Nikki because he was a forty-nine-year-old bear bull of a man with a face made ugly by smallpox and knife fights. On Baby Nikki there was a fifteen-page computer printout and a four-centimetre-thick file was laid down by the American and British tutors of a democratic intelligence service, he noted the departure of Baby Nikki Gornikov, of the vory v'zakone group, from Budapest, put another page in the file and hoped the man - wherever he had gone - might slip, stumble, fall under a convenient tram or trolley bus. The place for such a man, so sadistic, cruel and vicious a man as Nikki Gornikov, was the prison yard at dawn.
His tasks of the morning done, Sandor Dizo called to his secretary in the outer office for coffee, and some biscuits if there were any.
'It was their graveyard, but when the Muslims were put out of their homes, the Serb boys used it as a football pitch.'
After her death at St Matthew's hospice, after the funeral service in church, his mother's body had been cremated. Her ashes now lay in an oakwood casket in the crematorium's Garden of Remembrance. It was a lovely garden, clean-raked and dignified in winter, bright with flowers in summer. If kids had come into that garden, just across the North Circular from where he lived, to play football over her casket Mister would have taken a shotgun to them, or a pickaxe handle, or an industrial strimmer, or a chainsaw. None of the little tossers would have been in a state to kick a football again - none of the little bastards would have had the knees to walk again, let alone run. But that wasn't Monika's answer.
' I don't blame the Serb children,' she said. 'They know nothing else. They have never been shown another way.'
'Isn't there a proper pitch in the village where all the kids can play?'
'There was, but it was a park for tanks. It was destroyed. There is no pitch.'
He stood beside her and looked across the graveyard that was a soccer field
She had gone into the UNHCR field office in Gorazde, left him lor less than five minutes, which had seemed an age lo him. Then they'd driven on through the town and out of it. Beyond the old no man's land they'd reached a village where the majority ol the homes were intact, pretty, perched on hillsides, and had fields where cattle browsed on the first of the spring's fresh grass. The village was called Kopaci, she'd said.
He saw the gravestones, low, old and poorly carved, that had been used as goalposts. The other stones, which had been near the penalty spots, at either side of the penalty boxes and across the half-way line, had been uprooted and thrown aside. They marked the sidelines ol the pitch. She had changed him, he knew it A few kids stood with their parents and grandparents by two houses. The families had returned from exile lor their former homes, to find their graveyard was a football pitch, well worn and often played on, It had no grass but had been smoothed by boots and trainers into flattened wet mud.
'I'm going to meet them are you coming with me?'
He shook his head. 'More coffee with a spoonful of grit, more losing at cards? No, thank you.'
'A quarter of an hour they have to be reassured. If they give up, go back into Gorazde, then five years is wasted. It is important to spend time with them if only a few minutes . . . '
'I'll be here,' Mister said. 'Won't be going far.'
He started to walk down the hillside track The warmth was on his face and his back. He was humming his Elvis. He reached the end of the track, where it joined the road. He was strolling and had not a care. He could not remember when he had last walked on a country track, if he ever had
. .. Because of the warmth, he slipped out of his coat and carried it on his arm. He was at peace. He looked up the road, wondering how far he should walk and what he might see . . . and he saw the blue van.
It was parked a hundred yards up the road and faced the junction. The sun, reflected off the van's windscreen, dazzled him for a moment, but when he edged forward and twisted his body further, he could see through the windscreen.
He saw the small pale face, the tousled hair and the big spectacle lenses.
Mister thought the head would turn away, duck, try to hide itself, but it did not.
There was the howl of a klaxon horn. The lorry missed him by a foot, could have been less. Mister felt the sweat coming on his body. He saw the finger on the arm jutting from the window and the gesture of contempt from the lorry driver. He shouted back emptily, uselessly, at the lorry's tail. He had seen them leave the hotel - Cann trailing the woman, carrying the bag and the case - seen them going in time to catch the morning flight out. He looked both ways, up the road and down it, and there were no other vehicles parked, only the blue van.
He turned his back on it and walked off down the road.
Was Mister frightened? He was never frightened.
Who'd ever seen him frightened? No one had. He went at a good pace. He had no d
estination. He strode on the road, and knew he was followed.
He gained a target, had to have one. He was walking faster. Ahead of him, sheep and goats grazed by the road, watched by a shepherd and children.
Above the animals, up the slope, was the graveyard.
He stopped near the shepherd, who leaned on a long stick, a scarecrow figure in his loose clothing. The children had ceased their game, stood in a little knot and stared at him. He turned, looked back up the road.
He began to run towards the van, but it reversed.
When he ran faster, it backed faster away from him. When he slowed, it slowed. He stopped, the van stopped. The distance was a hundred yards. He knew he showed his anger . . . Christ, and it was beneath his dignity to show his anger. He ret raced his steps, over which he'd run and then walked, and the blue van followed him.
He nodded curtly to the shepherd, then tried to smile at the children through his anger. He sat down on the grass. The shepherd and the children watched him, and the animals grazed around him. As long as he could, he tried not to turn, but the compulsion beat him . . . Cann sat on a rock near to the blue van, cross-legged, like a pygmy bloody pixie. If he'd started to run towards him, he wouldn't have covered ten of the paces before Cann was back in the van, not twenty before the van was backing away . .. and he would have lost his self-respect. From what he knew of the Church and the Crime Squad, the greatest crime of surveillance was to show o u t - b u t Cann sat where he could be seen. Mister did not understand. Why wasn't the little bastard frightened of him?
She was standing at the top of the slope, at the edge of the graveyard, and waved to him. Round her were the few kids from the two families.
Cann was on the rock, a statue.
He walked to her, scrambled up the slope. Twice he slipped and mud smeared his trouser legs. She was laughing and said he was crazy. She held his hand.
'We have to leave, Mister,' she said. 'We need to be past Tvorno before night. We should not be on the ice in the darkness.'
'There's nothing to keep us here.'
Mister had his arm round her hip as they walked to her vehicle. She waved to the kids and to the older people at the graveyard, to the shepherd and the children with him. She was behind the wheel. She kissed his cheek. They drove away towards Gorazde.
The light had begun to fail as they cleared the finger town and began to climb, and her hand rested on his except when she changed gears. His face was turned away from her so that she would not see the fury that winnowed through him . . . No man stood against Mister, then walked away.
August 2000
It was their fourth morning, and that morning it rained.
It was incredible to Husein Bekir. He'd had to scratch in his memory to recall when it had last rained in that summer month. The clouds had gathered the previous evening and at dusk the storm had started.
The thunder had echoed into the valley from the west, the lightning had lit the valley as if it was the middle of the day, and the wind had gathered.
Through all of the night the gales had howled. By the morning, the fourth, the storm had passed and left only a steady drizzle in its wake.
When the mine-clearers had come on the first morning, Husein had immediately left his home, abandoned his breakfast, grunted at his wife as she'd hobbled after him down the track that he would not be long, and gone over the ford. He had bearded them where they had made their day camp, a battered caravan, a stinking portable lavatory and a parking space for their three pick-up trucks and the two ambulances, up the track from Dragan Kovac's house.
He'd asked the same question of the foreman on every morning since.
He asked it again. 'When are you going to start to clear my fields?'
And he had the same answer on the four con-secutive mornings: 'First we do the pylons. Your fields come after the pylons and the restoration of the electricity.'
'My fields are more important than electricity.'
'Your fields are next year, if there's the money.'
On the first three mornings, Husein had then shuffled down the track to Dragan Kovac's home, had beaten on the door and demanded fresh coffee and a substitute breakfast. Then he'd launched into a criticism of the foreman, and the six de-miners, and he'd denounced the priority of the electricity pylons, but he had won no sympathy. His friend, the idle fool, Dragan, had as little interest in the fields as they showed.
That fourth morning he was not going to visit Dragan Kovac. The morning before, when he had launched into the complaint that his fields were not given enough priority, his friend - the old fool - had remarked that Husein was now too aged, too feeble, to work the fields; Dragan had said it was a dream, no more than a fantasy, that Husein, with his withered muscles, would ever be able to plant the new apple orchard that would eventually be harvested by his grandson; Dragan had said that the fields were his history, that his present should be a game of chess, a seat in the sunshine and a glass of home-brewed brandy, or two glasses. The morning before, blinking tears and shouting curses, he had left Dragan's house and waded back over the ford.
The foreman stood in the caravan's door. Behind him the men read newspapers, smoked and drank coffee. In the ambulances the medics had their feet up on the dashboards and their radios played loud music. All his life, Husein Bekir had worked his fields in storms, hail showers, and in the heat that blistered his skin. To Husein Bekir, the foreman, his men and the medics seemed lazy and complacent, showed no understanding of his need to go back to his fields.
On the other side of the track from the junction where the caravan and the trucks were parked was the bunker that had protected the right flank of Ljut village. Leaning against its stone wall, beside its cave entrance, was a new sign. On a red-painted background was a white skull with crossed bones behind it, and one word: Mina. All the way down the track, on both sides, little posts had been put into the ground and yellow tape slung between them. There was no tape on his fields, only a slim corridor to the nearest of the pylons from which power cables dangled. He would not speak to Dragan Kovac until he had received abject apologies for the insult that he was too old, too feeble and the frustration fed his anger.
'Do you not work if it rains?'
'It will clear soon. We will work when the rain stops.'
'Do you have no sense of urgency?'
'What I have is five toes on each foot, four fingers and a thumb on each hand, eyes in my head, and two balls. I have them, old man, because I don't hurry.'
'If you used those machines, I have seen them on television, you could clear my fields. Why don't you bring the machines?'
The foreman said patiently, as if talking to an idiot,
'We have flails, fastened to the fron of a vehicle that is reinforced with armour plate. They don't clear ground to the standard necessary for a certificate of clearance.
We only use them to cut back scrub.'
'What about those things you carry, the things that find metal? You could go faster if you had them.'
'We have metal detectors but they're about useless in this situation, for two reasons. First, there is minimal metal in the PMA and PROM mines, they are made from plastic. Second, there are minerals in the ground, in the rock strata, which contaminate the signal, also there are the pylon cables, which confuse the machine.'
Husein Bekir snorted. He was being backed, and he knew it, into a cul-de-sac from which there was no retreat. His voice rose in strident attack. 'How, then, will you - one day, when it is convenient to you - clear my fields?'
'Perhaps we will bring dogs, but the greater part of the work will be on hands and knees, manually with the probe. We can push the probe four inches into the ground. That is how we do it.'
The foreman's quiet rebuttals seemed as insulting as Dragan Kovac's sneer that he was too old and too feeble.
'I don't know how you can clear the land if you cannot even put in posts, stakes, that will survive one night's storm weather,' Husein said.
'What do y
ou mean?'
'Down past Kovac's house, your posts are already blown over by the wind, because you did not sink them deep enough.'
'The ground is very hard.'
'Oh, the ground is hard. It is too hard in the summer, too wet in the winter. I am sorry you do not find perfect ground, not hard, not wet. I work in my fields when it is hot, when it is cold . . . '
' I'll look at the posts. Do me a favour, go home.'
'When I have shown you the posts that you cannot put in the ground because it is too hard?'
' I will walk with you.'
To rid himself of Husein Bekir, the foreman, as if making a great sacrifice in the interests of peace, threw away the dregs of his coffee and went to the nearest of the pick-up trucks. When he reappeared he was carrying a small sledge-hammer. They walked in silence down the track. The clouds were breaking over the high ground in the west, and at the limit of Husein's eyesight were small patches of blue sky. He thought that within an hour there would be a rainbow and then the day would clear: they would have no excuse any longer to shelter in their caravan. In spite of the drizzle the birds were calling sharply. A thrush flew with the trophy of a wriggling worm to an elder bush, a sparrow was chased by finches, and there were little showers of redwings wheeling in formation. The storm in the night had greened his fields. If he had had cattle he would have blessed the rain that gave life to the fields that had been burned by the sun, but he did not have cattle and there was now a yellow tape strip to separate the fields from the track.
If he had had crops maize or wheat or vegetables -
the storm rain would have brought them to a peak before the September harvest, but the fields were not ploughed and he had no crops.
With his rolling gait, his hip and knee both aching, Husein hurried towards the lord and the foreman's boots thudded behind him
There were two posts down, not more than twenty-five centimetres from the chipped stones of the track.
The Untouchable Page 39
