“Where do you think he’s likely to be?”
“All the indications are still Frankfurt. He has probably taken work. With the number of Irish over there, it should not be too hard to get a line on him. He believes he is in the clear so it should not be too difficult. However, be that as it will, we want you to find him, wherever he is. While you are not fit for a full-scale operation, you could handle this. You will be out of the area and it will give you a low profile. So, find McDermot, and make sure he packs his wee suitcase and comes home.”
The thought that he could also be more secure abroad and out of the direct reach of his own organization was not lost on Rath.
“And if he doesn’t want to be persuaded?”
“It’s important to us, for the sake of discipline that he does. There is time enough, so no need to rush things, but we cannot condone flouting General Order 5 part 5. We punish treachery, with no ifs or buts. If he is innocent, he has nothing to fear and should come back willingly, undergo investigation and be a free man. On the other hand, if he persists and wants to stay there, you should make contact here and get fresh instructions. Things might change in the command structure, in which case we can cut the pussyfooting around, and you will have the go-ahead to make his stay permanent. That would be with the full backing of the Chief of Staff. So, are you ready to get back into action?”
He stared unblinkingly at Rath.
Rath tried, most of the time very successfully, not to allow personal feelings to affect his professional judgment or, more importantly, his ability to carry out his assignments. He believed he was devoid of feeling and had no emotional hang-ups, conscience or remorse over his actions for the Cause. His sister’s death, however, was the catalyst that changed everything and, together with his suspicions of those whose orders he carried out, had created a seismic re-evaluation of his beliefs. This assignment could very well facilitate his own personal ‘road to Damascus’ transformation and give him the opportunity for a new start.
“Make the arrangements and give me the details, I’ll be ready.”
CHAPTER THREE
Cheatham looked across the room, out into the descending gloom. Dark clouds of an impending storm gathered, blackening the sky and smothering the last rays of early evening sun. A rising easterly wind whipped spirals of sand across the deserted yards and chivvied them towards the cluster of vehicles gathered round the headquarters building of the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) depot in Metkovic.
Determined not to reveal his excitement, the convoy manager struggled to control his heavy features. However, he could not chase the thought of the money from his mind. This convoy would make him rich. The chance of a lifetime!
Just say it is going, just give us the word.
His tongue flicked over his fleshy upper lip as he glanced, with feigned disinterest, at the others and was reassured that none appeared too eager.
A wide oval of shadow surrounded the mahogany table centred in the conference room where seven other dark figures sat in overcast silence. The dim light from the wall lamps reflected both light and shadow from the dark pool of its surface, transforming strained faces into gargoyle masks.
Tension was palpable, accentuated by the occasional fidgeting of one or more of the seated figures. The grey-haired woman at the head of the table, slowly tapping a pencil on the pad in front of her, looked at each of the seated figures in turn. With one exception, they refused to meet her gaze. She cleared her throat and flicked the pencil onto the table.
“Gentlemen, the purpose of this meeting is to decide on the composition of a convoy to deliver food and medical supplies to Tuzla.” She paused, noting that the table top retained the unfocussed interest of several pairs of eyes, while one or two could not resist glances at the faces of their colleagues opposite.
“The situation up there has worsened considerably. The population has swollen to 250,000, and that does not include the recent influx of displaced persons from the east, mostly women, children and the elderly.
“There are 6,000 in makeshift shelters at the airfield alone. The Non-Governmental Organizations are barely able to cope,” the Head of Station continued in a monotone.
“An air-bridge has been established with helicopters ferrying relief supplies from Split, but it’s spasmodic and the capacity is limited. Zenica is also in a bad way although the numbers there are lower. As of today’s date, the airlift into Sarajevo has been out for three months. Surface convoys are reduced to a trickle, and the Serbs are adamant in their refusal to allow safe access.”
The majority of heads at the table were bowed; the rest attempted to meet her eyes but looked away sheepishly when they failed to answer the question mirrored there. Nearly every convoy manager wondered what justification he could put forward to avoid the commitment.
Only one waited with a sense of anticipation and eagerness that he struggled to subdue.
“This crisis is not characterized by a lack of food but by a denial of access. We have several thousand tons of food and medical supplies in the warehouses here, but each convoy is subject to attack. Delivery targets of 16,000 metric tons of food and at least 178 metric tons of non-food is just unachievable in the current situation. Despite assurances of safe passage, the Norwegian and Danish convoys of three days ago were shelled and turned back.”
“We had an UN military escort,” interjected the Danish convoy manager, “that drew fire it didn’t return.”
Heads around the table lifted to look at him, but the faces remained expressionless. The HoS raised an index finger to discourage further comment.
Cheatham shifted impatiently and waited with inward eagerness for her next words while trying to maintain a non-committal outward show of qualified interest.
“This morning I received a cable from Geneva. Everyone there is fully aware of the sterling efforts you have made to date and the importance of the contribution made by your convoys, despite our lack of success in recent weeks. We have asked much of your drivers up to now, and they have responded admirably. UNHCR is grateful.”
She shuffled a pile of papers in front of her, then, as she carefully chose her next words, returned them to the manila envelope.
“But it’s not enough, not nearly enough,” she continued quietly. “We’ve got to make a breakthrough. The world is watching our efforts and, more importantly, the survival of thousands of Bosnians demands it. They are waiting for us.”
The pause caused the others in the room to glance in question at each other. Would it be a direct tasking or would she ask for a volunteer convoy?
Get to it, thought Cheatham, get to it! Just give us permission to go.
“Our convoys here have the best chance of reaching Tuzla and, despite the perceptible dangers that exist, I intend to get one through. Therefore, an initial convoy of twenty vehicles will be loaded on Wednesday, to remain on standby to pull out with a maximum of three hours’ notice.
“We will take two actions to reduce the risk to the safety of that convoy. Firstly, stemming from the recent experience of the Scandinavians, there will be no UNPROFOR escort. Secondly, we have offered several large convoys of food and material out of Belgrade, to Pale, transported by the Russians, as an inducement for safe passage. There has been no definitive response from the Serbs, but we are confident that our overture will be successful. Based on that optimistic, but realistic premise, we have decided not to wait for their response. I will authorize a move at the first optimum moment.”
An immediate buzz of agitation was stifled at once with an admonitory forefinger from the Head of Station.
“Do I have any volunteers?”
She expected the ensuing silence to be long and drawn out; since they would not volunteer men and vehicles lightly. However, the pause was brief. Cheatham stood without hesitation, and in a firm voice, accepted the assignment.
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
The managers got to their feet and started to file out of the room.
>
“Roy,” the director said, with a smile, using Cheatham’s given name for the first time, despite ten months of previous association, “stay behind. I’ve some more details for you.”
* * * * *
Cheatham was jubilant as he swung the jeep around the sharp curves of the coastal road northwards to Gradec on his way to back to Zagreb. A heavy hood of low cloud shortened the vehicle’s main beam, already diffused by the sheeting rain. He had a drive of several hours ahead of him, but nothing could deflate the sense of exhilaration he felt.
The glass of whisky shared with a delighted Head of Station had left a warm and pleasant glow, despite the smallness of the measure. He could not believe his good fortune. How could it all have fallen into his hands like this? The tentative arrangement made by Ovasco and his German contact, Stösser, worth thousands to himself and the Croat, had been brought to the verge of fruition by his efforts in Metkovic at that all-important briefing.
“You’re rich,” he told himself, “you’re rich!”
* * * * *
That morning, several weeks earlier, things had not looked so bright.
He had woken to stare blearily at the ceiling, his mouth and throat parched from the nicotine and alcohol of the previous night. What had started as a periodic review of the company’s invoices, with a courtesy cold beer, had developed into a hard drinking session lasting until well into the early hours of a vile wet morning. Nothing that stormy, wet and bleak bore any relation to the start of a day. How he had driven back through those walls of sleet he would never know. A bed for the night would have been preferred, but despite all the outward bonhomie, the backslapping and laughter, Ovasco, his Croatian host, had not invited him to stay.
“Probably just as well,” he thought as he stretched. Throwing the duvet to one side, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He scratched his stomach as his feet searched for the trainers that doubled as slippers.
He quickly pulled them back onto the bed, his face forming a grimace, as his bare soles met with the cold vomit congealed on the bedside rug. With distaste, he remembered that he had woken from a stupor during the night but could not get out of bed before the gush of evacuating beer and steak tartare drenched the floor.
The abrupt movement caused a well of dizziness to fill his skull, and waves of nausea ebbed and flowed in his empty stomach. Taking a deep breath, he stood unsteadily to go into the bathroom.
He stepped into the shower cubicle hoping that hot water would dispel the fuzziness in his head. Turning on the tap, he peered at the showerhead, waiting with scant patience for the water. When the water did not materialize, he twisted the tap viciously, first in one and then in the other direction.
Damn and blast! This was not the first time the system had failed, but the property owner had said that he had checked it and repaired the defects. Proved how deceptive the locals could be!
Bloody Croats!
“Careful, Cheatham!” he warned himself. “Don’t ever say that out loud.” A few drinks too many, like last night, and that could slip out. That would never do. If they did not all speak English, they certainly understood enough.
They were a volatile, unforgiving bunch and thought nothing of using knives to settle a debate. Moreover, Ovasco was probably the most implacable of them all.
Back in England, he would never associate with anyone as dangerous as the hard drinking Croat. Here, however, a very productive relationship made them the most unlikely of bedfellows.
As a convoy manager, with the quantity of trucks that he controlled, he had the opportunity to make money, lots of money. However, to make that amount of cash, he had to make sacrifices. If it were not for the stakes, he certainly would not keep company with the service station owner. Still, there would be time enough to be selective in his choice of friends when he returned to England.
The firm, having entered a cost reimbursement contract with UNHCR, left him pretty much to his own devices. On the ground, he determined who got the business for repairs and maintenance, and, because of the illicit returns offered by Ovasco, they were now partners. It meant profit for both of them and, because of that, Cheatham could tolerate less than ideal personalities.
As he stepped out of the shower cubicle, he stubbed his toe against the galvanized bucket that held the cleaner’s rags and brushes. Slamming the opaque plastic door shut, he snatched up his watch from the windowsill. Blood rushed to his face and pounded in his head. The movement brought on another giddy spell. He grasped the sink to steady himself. Inhaling deeply he turned, reached for the toilet lid, slapped it down and sat on it to put his trainers on.
No water! Bloody inconvenience of it all. Godforsaken armpit of Europe.
Still, he reminded himself, it was worth it for the money. He started to feel better.
Yes, the money! And with more to come... He was glad now that he had had the balls for Ovasco’s proposition.
But then, what balls are needed?
A problem did exist, however. Hardly any convoys had been able to complete their assignments and get through the Serbian blockade. True, they had made successful runs into Bihac, Cazin and other destinations relatively near to Zagreb in the North, but Sarajevo, Zenica and Tuzla were a different kettle of fish due to distance and the proximity of the Serbs. These were the main urban centres of Bosnia Herzegovina, and the Serbian military, commanded by General Mladic, had a stranglehold on the arteries into them.
The Serbian focus seemed to be on Sarajevo because of its cultural and political importance. This only lessened, but in no way eliminated, the risks or dangers involved in trying to break through to Tuzla or Zenica. Too many times in the past, convoys had set out only to return fully loaded at the first sign of hindrance or obstruction. This action met with the full approval of UNHCR, who dreaded casualties.
However, Cheatham was aware that UNHCR could not sit on its hands for much longer. Geneva was not happy with the apparent impasse. The bigwigs there were applying pressure to the local management of the aid organization.
There would be a change of direction and the norm of caution would be abandoned. Of this Cheatham was certain. He just had to be ready when it happened.
He would need someone to lead the convoy, an individual prepared to press on; a leader who had the guts, the will to succeed, and who would not balk at the first hurdle. He remained confident that he would find someone.
More important, at this point, was that UNHCR should start the convoys again.
In the kitchen, he grabbed the unplugged kettle and stuck it under the tap before he remembered that the water was off. With a curse, he dropped the kettle in the sink and turned to the fridge.
There had to be risks involved but he could not think of any.
So why the unease?
Leaning forward, he gripped the neck of a plastic Coca Cola bottle and, leaving the door open to enjoy the coolness on his lower body, he unscrewed the top, adjusting his one-handed grip on the bottle to compensate for the change in its shape as the pressure equalized. After a long, greedy swallow, he burped noisily. The effect of the alcohol he had consumed the night before, especially the shots of travarica, the local ‘poteen’, had taken its toll. He was drinking too much and promised himself, yet again, that he would stop, or at least cut down.
The telephone rang, breaking into his reverie.
Picking it up on its third ring, he said politely, “Good Morning, this is the Aid Convoy. How can I help you?” One never knew when it might be the head office.
“Roy, Dayan. Kako ste?”
Cheatham deflated to curtness, now that this was not an important call but merely one of his employees at the site office. Despite the boy’s physical attractions, he had no intention of relaxing the manner in which he treated employees; at least not during working hours.
“Never mind how I am. What’s up, Dayan”
“There are some people here asking about the drivers’ vacancies. They saw the advertisement in a Germa
n paper and travelled down from Frankfurt. Hold on.”
Cheatham heard Dayan ask someone in the background what type of licence he held.
“Yes, they say they’ve both worked with heavy vehicles. When do you want to see them?”
Cheatham expelled his breath with impatience.
“Later, not now. About ten. Do they have paperwork? References? Previous employment? No, do not ask them now if you don’t know. Check ‘em out, and I will get together with you before I see them. Send them over to the drivers’ restroom until I get there. Okay?”
Cheatham replaced the phone and stood for a moment looking out of the window that faced onto the main road. Despite his curtness on the phone, he was glad that these applicants had turned up in person.
He had deliberately not included the telephone number in the advertisement, so choice was limited. It said come in person or write, and the drivers he knew would not rely on a letter to get them a job. This way it saved him a lot of time and inconvenience. There was rarely the need for letters responding to an initial inquiry. There were no appointments to arrange.
If they were not suitable, there was no need to refund return travel costs since no offer or agreement to do so existed. The advertisement had not invited personal visits.
He dragged a chair away from the table, and sat down. He did not feel like work yet.
He reflected on the invoices examined the previous night. As agreed, Ovasco was billing for maximum labour hours for every job completed. Unused repair parts and replacements that had not actually taken place all helped to inflate the cost of the work. Vehicles went to the service station with their main tanks, and reserve tanks, filled with diesel, and with oil levels topped off.
When they came back, each truck had no fuel and no oil. The return on the fuel and oil, on the black market, due to national shortages and high prices, was substantial.
Every little bit helps.
The Tuzla Run Page 4
