The Untouchable

by Gerald Seymour

  The tape lay on the thick grass verge. Of course, Husein Bekir could have taken the one step onto the grass, picked up the two posts, worked them back into their two holes and tautened the yellow tape. He could have done it when he had walked up the track half an hour earlier to beard the men in their caravan.

  But he had made his point . How could they talk about clearing his land, more than two hundred and fifty thousand square metres of it, if they could not make two posts secure? He stood triumphant.

  The foreman barked, 'You brought me down here because of that?'

  Husein walked on.

  He heard the thump ol the sledge-hammer behind him. He stopped, looked behind him, and grinned slyly to himself. One post was in. The foreman stepped back onto the track, moved along it half a dozen strides, and paused by the second fallen post

  'I do not like to have my time wasted,' the foreman shouted after him.

  Husein was about to turn. From the corner of his field of vision, he saw the foreman's left boot on the track, but as the man leaned forward to retrieve the second post he settled his right boot half a metre beyond the track. As he bent and reached, his weight transferred to his right leg.

  The clap of the sound dinned into Husein Bekir's ears, the brightness of the flash seemed to blind him, the wind caught him, and he heard the foreman shriek.

  When the Eagle came out of the hotel's lift, Atkins saw his face: it was pale, wiped with a deathly pallor, and shock was written on it. His eyes were dulled and his mouth slack.

  They had killed the day on another tourist drive, but the Eagle hadn't been interested. They had driven, again, out towards Pale, and back again after lunch.

  At Reception there had been six message slips in the Eagle's pigeon-hole, and he'd taken them upstairs.

  'What's the problem? Seen a ghost?'

  'We're late.'

  They were late for the appointment to meet Ismet Mujic. They drove towards the old quarter. The Eagle's head was bowed.

  'Do you want to talk about it?' Atkins asked.

  'Talk about what?'

  'Talk about whatever your problem is.'

  'It is a problem,' the Eagle said quietly. 'A unique problem in my experience. My clerk's been on the phone for me. Under pain of death by garrotting, my clerk is not supposed to contact me unless the world's falling in.'

  'Has it fallen in?'

  'My home was raided .it dawn this morning. The Church came mob-handed with a warrant, all legal, and turned it over. Had my wife out of bed, woke the kids, stripped the place

  'What did they find?'

  'They found nothing, they look away nothing.'

  Atkins trieid to smile, to reassure. 'Then there's no problem.'

  'You know very little, Atkins. You jump when you should stand still. The Church - God, give them credit for a modicum ol intelligence know there's nothing in my home, and nothing in my grubby little office.

  I'm not that bloody stupid . . . What matters is in safety deposits, and in my head. They wouldn't have expected to find anything.'

  'So, what's the big deal?'

  'Posting a letter to me felling me where I stand. A man said lo my wife "We have to be lucky once, you have to be lucky every time." That was the text of the message, Atkins Wife traumatized, girls in shock, neighbours wondering what the hell's going on, at dawn, at good old Henry's pad, Turning the bloody screw, squeezing till it hurts. Going for the weak spot, tightening the wire to breaking point . . . That's my problem.'

  'Can you cope?'

  A wintry little grin played at the Eagle's mouth.

  'Probably not much better, but better than you.'

  'What does that mean?' Atkins turned, confused, gazed at the Eagle. Hadn't seen the pedestrian who screamed, waved a stick angrily at them.

  'Please, watch the road - the Church did your address yesterday.'

  Atkins hissed, 'Why wasn't I told? Christ! You didn't tell me.'

  'Mister's decision, because you're only on probation.'

  'That is so bloody insulting.'

  The Eagle pointed to a gap in the cars parked in the narrow street, overhung with narrow balconies.

  'There's a space there, you can get into it. You were on the treadmill, you could have got off, you didn't, so don't whine. I've been on the treadmill twenty-something years. It goes faster. Get off, and you fall on your bloody face.'

  They left the Mitsubishi, both sombre. They rang the bell, were let in and escorted up the stairs. They heard the dogs pawing the inner door. They saw the big teeth and the snarl in the set of the jaws. They were shown into the bedroom. The bed, Atkins thought, was big enough for a family. Enver was on his stomach and the sheet had ridden down to expose his bronzed back and his buttocks. Serif wore a T-shirt, and the sheet covered his groin. Serif said they were late, and they both apologized. He took a sheet of paper, rested it on a magazine, drew a map for them, said where they should be the next day, and at what time, and they both thanked him. Serif's question: where was Mister? The Eagle's answer: engaged in Ugandan practices. What were Ugandan practices? 'Oh, sorry, just slipped out, beg pardon, Ugandan practices are an expression we have in London for pursuing business contacts.' They were dismissed.

  On the pavement, Atkins asked, 'If I was to jump off the treadmill, what would I get?'

  'Mud on your face. If I were representing you, I'd urge you to plead. Seven years to ten years. But I wouldn't be representing you, I'd be beside you and looking at twelve to fifteen. That's why we don't jump.'

  The talk was in the bedroom when the visitors came, not the living room And after they'd gone, Maggie's frustration grew because the talk stayed in the bedroom. The giggles. gasps, and the whine of the springs were enough to activate the microphone in the living room's telephone, but the talk was too muffled, too dominated by the sounds of the loving and the bed's heaving for her to comprehend what was said. She'd given the earphones to Frank and his expression had screwed into a sneer. He'd passed the earphones to each of the Sreb Four. Frank was closest to her, in the rented room, and sometimes his hand rested on her hip. She knew now the names of each of the survivors of the Srebienica massacre, Salko and Ante, Muhsin and Fahro. They'd have seen Frank's hand on her hip, but they showed no sign of it. being with them, feeling the pressure of his hand, softened the frustration

  .. . Then the telephone bell. Then the padding of bare feet. Her pencil was poised.

  She scribbled,

  Da?

  Serif?

  Da.

  (Russian language) It is Nikki, I come tomorrow, the agreed schedule.

  (Russian language) OK, Nikki, I meet you. I take you.

  (Russian language) It is all OK?

  (Russian language) All OK.

  The call was cut. She heard the feet pad away, then the springs sang, and there was distant laughter.

  Maggie Bolton was fluent in Russian. She had an Italian coming to a meeting, and a Russian, but she did not yet know the location of the meeting. Quite deliberately, she took Frank's hand from her hip and laid it on her thigh.

  The lights had been in the mirror through Ustikolina, and when they'd gone by the nowhere turning to the bombed bridge of Foca, on the open roads before and after Milievina, and when they climbed on the ice surface for the gorge that led to Tvorno. Always the lights were with them, holding their intensity because the distance between them did not grow and did not close.

  Each time Mister looked in the mirror he saw the lights of the blue van.

  She did not speak. The road and its ice held her attention. She did not hold his hand any longer. She had the wheel and the gearstick and she searched ahead for the longer thicker stretches of ice. Water ran down the rock faces beside the road and spilled onto the tarmac.

  Always the lights were with him, and with the mirror.

  'Would you stop, please?'

  'What?'

  'Sorry - Monika, could you stop, please?'

  'What for?'

  ' I am just asking yo
u to stop, please.'

  'Ah, I understand. You want aa pee stop. You can say so.'

  'Please stop.'

  Very gently, not using, the foot brake but going down through her gears, she stopped. He stepped out.

  His feet slipped and he steadied himself against the vehicle.

  The headlights shone hard at him, and Mister walked towards the lights. If the Secretary of State had not been at the hotel, if there had not been a metal detector arch in the hotel lobby, if his pistol had not been left in the Mitsubishi, he would have had the weapon in his hand. The lights had stopped moving, and the interior lit as the door was opened. Cann came forward and stood in black silhouette in front of the lights The little bastard faced him. Mister blinked as he came closer to the lights. If he had had the weapon in his hand he would have used it. There was hate in his heart Men he had not hated were entombed in concrete foundations, were buried in Epping, were weighted on the sea bed, or walked on sticks. Cann stood ahead of the lights, his body diminished by their size

  'Got a problem, Mister?'

  He couldn't see the mouth, but light caught the rims of the big spectacles.

  'What's a nice girl like that doing with a piece of shit like you?'

  He walked through the question. Mister faced his persecutor. He towered over the shadowy shape in front of him. The lights blazed in his face, made tears in his eyes.

  'Not going to have a weep on me, are you, Mister?'

  Mister lashed out. Right fist, low, short arm punch.

  The fist buried itself in the slight stomach. The body jack-knifed, would have fallen if the fist hadn't caugt the coat collar. He dragged Cann round the side of the blue van, to the back of it. He threw Cann against the doors, then punched him again, first the solar plexus, and as the head dropped, the upper-cut to the jaw. Cann went down. Mister kicked him. Kept kicking him. Nearly fell on the ice. Should have had heavier shoes, should have had the boots the Cards wore when they went out for a kicking, with lead or iron caps. He reached down, found the coat, pulled the body up. No resistance. Arms trying to protect the upper body, hands over the face. He punched until his hands hurt, put Cann down, then kicked until his toes hurt in his handmade shoes. It was hard for Mister to see the small figure on the road behind the van.

  He walked away.

  The voice was small behind him. 'That was a mistake, Mister, a mistake.'

  Mister went back to the van. She said, laughing, that it was a long pee stop. His knuckles bled and he hid them from her.

  Joey reached his room. He knew she was back. Ante was in the lobby and Muhsin lounged on the landing near her door. He'd been off the road twice, but he'd been lucky: a tractor had pushed him back from the drift once and a pick-up had towed him clear the second time. He'd gone twice into the snow because his spectacles' arms were broken and when the frame had fallen from his nose he'd swerved. There wasn't a part of his body that wasn't in pain.

  He went into the bathroom. He held the spectacles, and his hand shook. The mirror showed him his face

  - blood, scratches, rising wels. He managed his coat, shirt and vest, but the pain in his stomach wouldn't allow him to bend and unfasten the laces of his trainers, He pushed his trousers down, and his underpants, to his ankles. He stood in the shower, clinging lo the chrome support. Without it he would have collapsed The water ran over him and drenched his trousers, pants, socks and puddled in his trainers.

  He heard the room door open.

  'You're back?'

  'Yes.'

  'A good day?'

  'A useful day,' Joey croaked.

  'I needed a new pair of knickers and clean tights.'

  'Good'

  There must have been a sob in his voice. He held tight to the support She was in the bathroom doorway. The curtain wasn't drawn. She was looking at him. The water ran in rivers across his spectacles.

  'What happened to you?'

  Through the lenses her face was blurred. He didn't know whether she cared, or not. He grimaced, but that hurt his mouth, his jawbone, his cheeks and his brain.

  'I walked into a door.'

  'Did the door have boots and fists, or just boots?'

  'If the door had had a gun I think it might have been rather more serious.'

  She came into the bathroom and knelt beside the shower. The waler splashed from his body onto her.

  'Packer?'

  He nodded.

  She untied his trainer laces and pulled them off his feet, then the sodden socks, then his underpants and his trousers, and threw each of them into the bath, the water had plastered her careful hair and had made streams of her more careful makeup. She sat on the bath edge, pulled a towel off the rack and rubbed her hair and face.

  'You're not the world's most beautiful sight - is there blood in your urine?'

  'Don't know.'

  'Are you going to live?'

  ' I hope so.'

  'There's a Russian coming.'

  'Coming where?'

  'Coming for a meeting, for tomorrow's meeting.'

  'Where's it to be?'

  ' I don't have the location . . . Clean tights don't matter, not like knickers. I've got to get back. Do you want a doctor?'

  'Tomorrow, then, I follow where he leads. My bloody bumper against his exhaust - no, no doctor.'

  'We go mob-handed, Joey. I'll not take argument on it.' She said it as if she were his mother, his aunt, or his teacher.

  'It's my show.'

  'We go in numbers - it's not about whose show it is.'

  'Yes, ma'am, three bags bloody full, ma'am.'

  'Mob-handed, hardware, protection - safe. I wouldn't want to look like you look . . . Just so you know - the woman, she's Monika Holberg. She's a Norwegian tree-hugger. She does good deeds for unfortunates, out of UNHCR. You'll find her in Novo Sarajevo, third floor, apartment H, Fojnicka 27. Be a shame, wouldn't it, Joey, if she didn't know what Mister was, what he did? Wouldn't be a shame if, when she's learned it, she kept her legs together and Mister didn't get his over You up for that?'

  'Could be.'

  'You want me lo dry you?'

  'I'll manage.'

  She closed the door after her.

  Joey staggered to the bed. He was dripping wet. He collapsed onto it. He might have passed out but for the pain and the memory. He was back on the ground, squirming on the ice the Tarmac to make himself smaller, as the lists and boots rained in on him. That was a mistake, Misler, a mistake. The hammering, in his body and his head, was on the door.

  He shouted, 'Yes?'

  'Are you Cann. Customs and Excise?'

  He crawled off the bed, leaned on the wall and then the wardrobe to steady himself, held the towel across his privates and opened the door. The man wore a grey suit, was five or so years older than Cann, had a good shirt and a nice tie. He looked at Cann with contempt, a replica of the sons of the landowner his father managed for superiority buried under a caked veneer of politeness.

  'Sorry to disturb you, Mr Cann - by God, you've been in the wars. Don't tell me, let me guess, tripped down some steps, did you? I'm Hearn, from the embassy. I've been asked to pass to you a message that came to us via the Ministry of Justice. I do apologize for the inconvenience of calling on you so late, but we thought it the sort of matter that should not have been passed, for fear of misunderstandings, by telephone.

  You had written authorization from Judge Zenjil Delic for "intrusive surveillance" of the UK national Albert William Packer during that gentleman's visit to Sarajevo. You can go home now, Mr Cann, which might save you another accident. Judge Delic informs us, through the Ministry of Justice, that he has with drawn such authorization. He's cancelled it. There's no mistake. I have it in writing, couriered to the embassy, over his signature.'

  Joey gagged,'But that's impossible.'

  ' 'Fraid n o t . . . ' He paused. 'We do have a list of doctors, should you wish for medical attention. If you'd gone through us in the first place then things might have been different, but you
chose not to . . .

  The authorization for you to operate here is withdrawn. Good night.'

  The X-ray machine had gone, and the metal detector arch. They walked, flanking Mister, across the empty atrium bar.

  Mister said, again, 'I don't want to talk about it.'

  Atkins persisted, 'His place has been turned over, searched, so's mine.'

  ' I'm not talking about it. Don't you listen?'

  He gestured with his hand, into Atkins's face, made a cutting motion across Atkins's throat.

  They went out through the doors, and the night frost's blast, carried in the wind, caught them. They went along the side of the hotel heading for the city and the old quarter.

  'He was my friend,' Mister said. 'We don't ever forget that he was my friend.'

  The Cruncher hadn't been the Eagle's friend, and Atkins hadn't known him. Small matter, the Eagle thought. It was enough that the Cruncher had been the friend of Mister. Atkins wouldn't have understood, was frightened, wouldn't have known when to close his mouth and keep it tight shut. They were walking briskly, filling the pavement of an empty street. Atkins would have seen the cuts on the knuckles when Mister had his fist near to his throat.

  'What have you done to your hand, Mister?'

  'I've done nothing to my hand.'

  'The skin's all broken, it's '

  Mister stopped. He turned to the Eagle. He held his hands under the Eagle's nose. The scars were angry, weeping, where the skin was split. 'Do you see anything wrong with my hands, Eagle?'

  The Eagle said quietly, 'I don'I see anything wrong with your hands, Mister.'

  He was Mister's man. He did not then and had not ever dared to be anything else They walked past the shops with the steel shutters down, and the benches where couples cuddled hopelessly in the cold, past the cafes where the waiters sluiced the floors and lifted the chairs onto the tables They came to the small park. Round the grass were thick bushes, bare of leaves but heavy enough to loss shadows on to the grass. They saw the boy. He had the earphones on his pretty head, and was gyrating with the music he listened to. The dogs smiled the grass, meandered between the shadows Their leashes were hooked to their collars and trailed on the ground after them. He was watched and he did not know it.