The Tuzla Run

by Robert Davidson

  The drivers of the vehicles obviously noticed the deficiencies, but due to the uncertain tenure of their employment, which Cheatham kept to the forefront of everyone’s mind, they did not make a big issue of the discrepancies.

  Yes, a nice little scam.

  He finished the cola. He would have murdered for a coffee but felt immensely better. He could now face the day.

  “Funny what wonders a few thou in the bank can do,” he mused aloud as he stood up and walked upstairs to get dressed for work, “and a lot more to come with this new deal.”

  * * * * *

  The rain had lessened, and the beam picked out the series of pontoons forming the bridge at Zadar. Ninety minutes later, he negotiated the road climbing through the trees up to the mountain pass.

  With Senj far below and behind him, before he knew it, engrossed with his mental spending spree, he joined the ring road that encircled Karlovac. After a minimal delay at the tollbooth—with his UNHCR identity card, he was exempt from paying the road toll—he passed onto the main highway to Zagreb.

  He had made excellent time and, although it was late, he would call Ovasco to confirm that the ‘cargo’ would be going.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The kiosk attendant deposited the bottle on the counter and reached for one of the Marlboro plastic carrier bags.

  “Is that everything?”

  The traveller nodded curtly and pulled his wallet out.

  “How would you like to pay?”

  “Deutschmark, bitte. Sie nehmen Kreditkarten?”

  “Aber natürlich.” She smiled and accepted the proffered card.

  Zagreb airport was not busy today—at least her tobacco counter was not. A glance at the Arrivals Area directly opposite had confirmed that the approaching customer was one of the disembarking passengers from the morning flight from Frankfurt. She swiped the card and waited for the receipt to emerge.

  “Schreiben Sie bitte hierunter.”

  She pushed the receipt across the counter and handed the ballpoint to the man who, after signing, took the copy and picked up the bag.

  As he left, her smile faded. She quickly examined the credit slip once more, and then followed him with her eyes. Thin, gaunt and with a pronounced stoop, he entered the main concourse and looked around as though expecting to see someone.

  She caught the movement as he straightened and lifted his arm. Following his gaze, she saw a short, stocky man hurrying toward him. Ovasco! They shook hands, and then hurried towards the exit to the car park.

  She picked up the telephone and dialled.

  “Colonel Paroski, Marika here, Stösser has arrived.”

  * * * * *

  Stösser leaned back against the leather upholstery.

  “How was the flight?” asked Ovasco in German, as he rolled down the window of the Volkswagen to pay the parking fee.

  “You have flown before?” asked Stösser in the same language without turning his head.

  “Yes, many times,” responded the Croat, somewhat puzzled.

  “Well, it was like that.”

  They were soon on the main road to Zagreb.

  “Where are we going first?” Stösser asked, as the car caught the traffic lights at green and climbed the incline of the slip road to the Autoput.

  “I thought we would lunch at the Gracanka. Cheatham will be there. Afterwards I can take you to your hotel.”

  “The hotel won’t be necessary. I am due back in Köln this evening. Have you fully discussed the transaction with this Cheatham?”

  “Yes. His vehicles will go to Tuzla any day now—definitely before the week is out.”

  “He’s aware that this is to be a long-term arrangement.”

  “He’s delighted.”

  They remained silent as the car travelled through the modern suburbs of Zagreb with its glass-fronted office blocks and utilitarian apartment high-rises. They followed the wide avenue shared by the city tramways until they saw the twin spires of St Stephen’s on the hill in the centre of the city.

  “You too have a church with two steeples in Cologne, no?” asked Ovasco to break the unnerving stillness.

  “Are we nearly there yet?” countered the German ignoring the question.

  The Croat shrugged as he took the road below the cathedral leading to the wooded slopes that bordered the city on its northern side.

  * * * * *

  Ovasco swung on to the gravelled car park and pulled on the brake. Both men climbed out of the car, circumvented the hedge, and climbed the steps of the main entrance. The restaurant, set back amongst the trees, was a low single storey building. As they entered, the maître d’hôtel hurried over to greet Ovasco.

  He beckoned the men to follow and led them through the main dining area. Ovasco, conferring with the restaurateur in Croatian, broke off to turn to Stösser, whose sharp ears had caught the name Cheatham.

  “He’s already here,” Ovasco said.

  The small group passed the open screening and moved on to the mezzanine floor to a table that had been reserved for them. As they approached, a short, plump man with bushy eyebrows stood up.

  Ovasco greeted Cheatham and made the introductions. Stösser extended a limp hand then sat down.

  They ordered drinks and, after some desultory small talk, examined the menus that the maître d’ had left. They said little as they ate the hors d’oeuvres and had begun the main course when Stösser interrupted the silence.

  “The proposition is acceptable to you? German marks?”

  Cheatham made a quick mental calculation and tried to envisage the amount of money Ovasco had mentioned. He stopped, smiling self-consciously, as he saw the Croat grinning knowingly at him.

  “So you have agreed to pay what we asked for the move?” he asked.

  “You are certain that your vehicles will depart within the next few days?” Stösser countered without taking his eyes off Cheatham.

  The convoy manager nodded.

  Stösser closed his mouth around a forkful of grilled pork, then pointed the prongs towards Cheatham.

  “Of course, for the total payment there would eventually have to be several shipments. But I’m willing, as a measure of good faith, to make a substantial first payment with nothing more than your friend’s recommendation.” He indicated Ovasco with a nod of his head.

  “And for this I simply transport your items amongst the loads we take north?”

  “Exactly. The cargo is already packed, in palletized UN boxes and cartons, and guaranteed indistinguishable from the real thing.”

  Cheatham shot a quick look at Ovasco, who continued to grin. “How will you make payment?”

  “I already have made the first payment.” Stösser again indicated Ovasco with a brief nod.

  Cheatham tried to control his features but was unable to hide the frown. He stared myopically at Ovasco, who just smirked. He leaned forward and gripped Cheatham’s wrist with a powerful hand,

  “Be happy, my friend, we both share equal risk.” He squeezed, and then roared with laughter. “None at all!”

  Cheatham did not join in but continued to watch Stösser. There was truth in what Ovasco said. He would not be on the convoy. Even if the arms were discovered, no one could prove his involvement.

  “Where is the cargo now?”

  “I take it then that you agree?” asked Stösser.

  Cheatham nodded and reached across the white linen to shake Stösser’s hand. Stösser waved him away with an empty fork.

  “I will tell Ovasco later today, as soon as I confirm the details with my people at my storage point. I will phone with those details before five. However, understand, and understand clearly, delivery must be in Bosnia. Tuzla. Unequivocally.”

  Cheatham remained silent for several minutes, busy with his thoughts.

  * * * * *

  The darkened warehouses were spacious and wide with long rows of loaded pallets stacked to the roofs with diverse supplies. There were bulging jute sacks emblazoned with the bal
d eagle logo and filled with flour from the prairies of America’s mid-west, medical accessories from Stuttgart and Munich, down-filled sleeping bags and camp beds from Norway, and boots and shoes from Italy and the Czech Republic.

  Spider watched as the pallets of flour, lowered onto the cargo bed of his truck, completed his load. Waving to the driver of the forklift, he swung lithely up onto the truck. The forklift crossed to the side of the warehouse and slid its prongs under the stack of heavy metal truck sides, lifting them high in the air while on the move back to Spider’s vehicle.

  Several minutes later, they were back in place with the tarpaulin roped over them. He removed his work gloves and wiped a heavy sweat from his face and forehead. Although direct sunlight was only visible at the shed’s doors, the dry heat inside was oppressive. It seemed as though he waited for hours to get to the point of loading in these depots, but once the process started, ten or twenty tons of stores were loaded in fewer minutes.

  The powerful engine growled into life, and the loaded truck rolled slowly but easily into the white heat of the yard. Maintaining a walking pace so as not to create clouds of dust for the waiting drivers, he drove towards the gate and then onto the road back to Metkovic.

  In less than fifteen minutes, he would be back at the site and could have a meal before going for a swim. A sense of well-being that had until recently been absent rested easily on him and there now seemed to be a purpose to life. Feeling satisfied, he drove over the bridge spanning the Neretva in the centre of town and turned towards the firm’s site in Opusan.

  Despite his customary cynicism, the job of convoy leader had been fulfilling from day one. Prepared for a certain amount of disillusionment, he had been surprised when his doubts had not materialized. The variety in the work and the miscellany of tasks pushed the trauma of Belfast, and the period of mind-bending limbo that followed, to the back of his consciousness.

  Who would have thought that he would consider himself fortunate to have met up with Cheatham again? Yes, as the truck swung past the open vegetable market and accelerated into the long stretch towards the site in Opusan, it had certainly been worthwhile keeping the appointment in The Three Bells.

  * * * * *

  He stood at the bar in the lounge. Ingrained habit made him survey the other occupants of the room. The voice of the barmaid broke through his thoughts.

  “And you would like?”

  “Bitter. A pint, please.”

  The scar drew the woman’s eyes, and she started on seeing it for the first time. The barmaid did not, could not, look away and flushed to the roots of her tinted hair. She forced her attention to the taps. Placing the brimming glass in front of him, she took the proffered money to the till. Refusing to meet his eyes, she concentrated on his hands as she passed him the change.

  “Thanks,” he said curtly, and turned towards an empty table near the door.

  The scarred tissue on his lower face and neck, his own Phantom-of-the-Opera deformity, had this effect on strangers. Their aversion, mingled with pity, angered him.

  The wound had caused him physical pain for some time after the shooting and he wondered, especially when depressed, if it would have been better not to wear the Kevlar body armour that morning.

  The protective padding had shielded his torso but the discharge from the shotgun had shredded flesh and ligaments in his neck. It had shattered part of his jaw and torn up the lower side of his face, which had healed to a white toadstool, puckering the cheek below his left eye.

  The extensive treatment afterwards meant he had endured many painful hours. The ligaments were functional again and most of his face patched up, but the refusal to undergo further surgery, which would have brought some semblance of normality back to his features, did not stem from any dread of pain or misguided pride in his wounds.

  His unwillingness defied definition. He had tried to analyse, rationalize, his reluctance, but that only resulted in the vague feeling that somehow it was the price of survival.

  Expressed verbally, the rationale would be suspect, but he could not shake the notion that the burden of the scar in some minor way ameliorated the lost lives of the others.

  The Regiment played down deaths and serious injuries of a frequency not known to the public or the rest of the Army. Dark humour and caustic cynicism were masks used to disguise the faces of emotion and grief. They rarely displayed raw anguish, sorrow or distress. A professional force dealing with death and destruction on a daily basis could not afford the debilitating and eroding effect of overt grief. The morale of those remaining would not, could not, survive it.

  Nevertheless, the sense of loss, when told that two of his closest friends were dead, was total and immutable. Try as he might, he was not able to build a protective facade. Morbid mental replays of the action disturbed nights of long—interminable—hours. What if... if only I had... what if... played in constant loops in his thoughts. Then, on visiting his sergeant in hospital for the first time, several weeks after the action, he broke. The NCO’s total paralysis from the neck down, with a zero recovery prognosis for this family man with the sweetest kids he knew, caused a wave of extreme nausea that engulfed him. Tears blinded him. Spider believed that disfigurement was not equal to the price the others had paid, but it was his contribution.

  Wounded twice before, he had healed, but this time it had destroyed something irretrievable; shredded fibres left his psyche unsupported. It engendered a vulnerability, not linked to physical fear, but one that shrank from the challenges of fate. He could not go on with a motivation no better than that of a mercenary. He needed more, a belief, a greater moral purpose; but none existed in an abstract political concept. There was no shame, and he had felt none, in being a warrior, but now he needed a belief to sustain him; a personal justification for pride other than being a professional, trained to kill, for pay and pension. His attention came back to the beer. It should now be warm enough to drink. The scything pain usually prodded into action by cold liquids was absent. After a tentative sip, he took a longer swallow.

  After hospital, the return to Hereford made him aware all too soon that the sense of belonging, previously felt as an active member of the elite special force, had gone. Nevertheless, he had felt hurt when his Commanding Officer told him that psychiatric examination had determined him to be unsuitable for continuing active service.

  Refusing the offer of a position on the instructing staff, he had opted instead for a clean break. He had not exercised his option to extend, and left the Army.

  Although he had been back in Basildon for three weeks, he had not tried to get work. Despite contacts with old friends and acquaintances, some of whom had offered him jobs, there was no desire to start something new. His financial situation would not allow him to remain unemployed forever, but tomorrow, or the next day, would be soon enough.

  Each day had passed in a slow drift of lethargy. Although he rose early, by force of habit, sound sleep had been rare. An initial cup of coffee, the newspaper, and more coffee until midday had become routine. Then, providing the weather was dry, he would leave the flat and wander through the town, invariably ending up in one or other of the local pubs.

  Today would be slightly different.

  A couple of days earlier a friend from his pre-Army time had mentioned that Roy “Cheat” Cheatham had expressed an interest in looking him up and gave Spider a contact number for the man. With only mild curiosity, he had rung Cheatham and they had agreed to meet in The Three Bells.

  * * * * *

  “Spider? Spider Webb?” The voice broke into his reverie. He looked up to see a vaguely familiar face, and took the proffered hand as full recognition flooded to the fore.

  “Cheat,” he said half-standing, “how’s it going?”

  “Can’t complain.” The newcomer took a seat opposite Spider. “So what’s been happening? Working yet?”

  Spider shook his head as he raised his glass and looked at Cheatham over the rim.

  They had bee
n members of the same childhood gang as boys, worked in the same garage on leaving school, but the relationship had waned during their mid-teens. A security check at the garage, initiated because of extensive losses, had uncovered theft but no culprit.

  Nevertheless, both had to leave. Cheatham had gone to work at the Ford factory in Dagenham. Spider had seen less and less of him, and they had finally gone their different ways, losing touch just before his enlistment.

  “So what are you doing now?” asked Spider.

  “I’m on a break from Zagreb for a few days. We’re running relief convoys down there. I go back on Thursday.”

  “Big change from Rennie’s Garage, then?”

  Cheatham coloured and looked at Spider to see any intended malice. Satisfied there was none, he grinned, almost shyly.

  “Yeah, you could say that. I’m the main man now with twenty ten-ton trucks and twenty-five people working for me. Keeps me busy, but it’s got its compensations.”

  “Where d'you run the convoys to?”

  “All over. It’s mostly in the north of the old Yugoslavia. We’ve done some runs to other parts of Bosnia, but not so much. Mind you, I’m rarely on the road with them. There’s enough to do organizing things and that,” said Cheatham.

  “That’s a fair old gash you’ve got there, Spider; looks painful.”

  “It has its moments.”

  “Are you going to leave it as it is?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Understood. No sweat.”

  There was a break in the conversation as both men turned their attention to their beer.

  “So, any plans for the future?” Cheatham asked in a conciliatory manner.

  “Not really.”

  “Married?”

  “No. And you?”

  “No. Never really fancied it.” Cheatham appeared ill at ease with the question and looked around the bar as though to deflect further questions. The noise level had increased as the lounge started to fill.