The Tuzla Run

by Robert Davidson

  “Vorgestern, glaube ich.”

  Jimmy and the barman looked at each other as the latter shrugged and said, “Day before yesterday, he supposes.”

  “Have one for yourself, and Marcus,” said Rafferty laying twenty marks on the bar.

  He picked up the three glasses in a two-handed grip and took them over to the table. Both Rath and Siobhan had followed the conversation closely.

  “I want to know precisely when they left Frankfurt, where they’re headed and who they intend working for,” said Rath. His companions looked at each other over their glasses but made no response.

  After several minutes of silence, Siobhan broke it by asking Rath if he had accommodation.

  “No, but I’d appreciate it if something could be arranged.”

  She searched through her bag and took out a small notebook, which she leafed through then, holding it open, passed to Jimmy.

  “Ring the Ramada, Roedelheim. They’re big enough to still have rooms available.”

  Expressionless, Jimmy took the book and went towards the phone.

  * * * * *

  Every table was occupied. The crowd at the bar stood at least three deep. Smoke, thick and grey from the inevitable cigarettes, hung in slow eddies below the ceiling. Music from the jukebox, together with the electronic clattering of the pinball machines, vied with loud conversation and the shouted orders for drinks. The two men and the woman in the corner had said little to each other for most of the evening.

  Rath looked at his watch and, as he leaned forward to tell the others that he was going to his hotel, a sudden change in Jimmy’s posture made him pause.

  “The barman’s just pointed us out to a fella at the bar.” muttered Rafferty from behind his raised glass. Rath glanced at the throng at the bar but was unable to identify the individual. He remained outwardly relaxed but experienced a new inner tension.

  “Small guy, open-necked shirt, blue anorak,” Jimmy whispered head bowed over the table. Siobhan reached behind her for her shoulder bag and took out her cigarettes leaving the bag unzipped on her lap. The man described looked directly at the group then made his way towards them through the press of people. Stopping a couple of feet away, glass held at waist height, he examined them with a watery but direct stare from pale blue eyes.

  “Ye’s is lookin’ fer McDermot?”

  “Ah’m his cousin,” responded Siobhan with a brief smile before either of her male companions could answer.

  “Is that right now?” sneered the little man, placing his glass down, and pulling the ashtray towards him. Without asking, he stretched a none-too-clean hand to the opened cigarette packet on the table and took one. As he lit it, with her Zippo, he peered at each one of them in turn, one eye squinting under unruly grey eyebrows against the smoke. Siobhan took a cigarette herself then leaned towards him, inviting him to light it. As he did so, fumbling with the cover, she smiled.

  “And ye’d be knowing our Calum, would ye?”

  “I would,” the man responded, not smiling, “and I ast meself how his cousin disn’t know where he’s at?”

  “He wiz supposed te meet us here t’night,” Siobhan returned, broadening her vernacular to match his, with a subdued giggle. “Ah’m Siobhan and,” indicating Rath, “this is me fella and Jimmy’s a pal o’ his. So ye’re a close pal o’ Calum’s?”

  “How desperate are ye’s te know where he’s at now?” said the man as he ignored the question and addressed the silent Rath.

  Jimmy spoke for the first time. “What’s yer point, old man?” he snarled belligerently, locking his eyes on the other’s face. Rath remained expressionless as the older man examined his features, disregarding Jimmy, as though he were not there.

  “Is it worth anything te ye’s?” he persisted.

  Rath lifted his glass but said nothing. He nodded to Siobhan who said,

  “We’re generous by nature. Jimmy, get...” she paused and pointed an opened hand at the older man’s chest.

  “Niall.”

  “Get Niall another o’ whutever he’s drinkin’,” she directed, pulling her chair closer to the table.

  “So, Niall, what have ye got?”

  “I know exactly where they’re now,” he answered, turning his hand to lie open on the table. Siobhan dropped a hundred-mark note onto the opened palm, enjoying the surprise that flickered across his face. She resisted the temptation to look at Rath but was prepared to bet that he had not seen her get the money out either. Niall put the note into a pocket of his soiled anorak. He pulled out a rolled-up newspaper from another pocket but did not pass it over.

  “Him and his pal were selling some things—watches, couple o’ rings, chains—to get the scratch together to go to Croatia.”

  “And did they say where in Croatia?” she asked, her brogue subdued knowing that Rath was hoping for, would indeed want, something more specific.

  “No,” said Niall, “but I picked this up after they left.” He laid the newspaper in front of her.

  “And . . .” she prompted, as Rath reached for the copy of the Frankfurter Zeitung and spread it open.

  “They’ve circled an ad in the jobs vacant. That’s where they would go first.”

  Rath located the circled entry, then looked reflectively at Niall. After a pause, he nodded his satisfaction to Siobhan.

  “So what d’ye want them fer?” Niall asked as he picked up the filled glass Jimmy had brought to the table.

  “Just keep your mouth shut about this,” Siobhan snapped, all pretence of friendliness gone. “Now fuck off, and remember what I’ve said.” She felt more assured than she had all night, now that they knew where Calum was. The success bolstered her confidence, and she no longer felt like the big man’s inferior. She took a long swallow of her drink.

  Hell, she was no man’s inferior!

  * * * * *

  Rath opened the hotel room door, then stood aside to let Siobhan pass. His nostrils trapped a pleasant warm waft of alcohol tinged with tobacco and a trace of jasmine. She stood in the doorway surveying the room, her dark hair level with his chest, her scent teasingly fading as she brushed past him. Throwing her handbag onto the bed she widened her eyes at him and gave a long drawn out ‘Hmm’ of fake delight as she pointed to the mini-bar next to the full-length mirror.

  “Drink?” she asked, opening the door and examining the contents of the small refrigerator.

  “Cognac, if there is any.” She pulled a plastic cup from the tube on the top shelf.

  “In a glass, if you don’t mind.”

  She threw the unwanted container into a nearby wastepaper basket and walked towards the bathroom, unscrewing the cap of the miniature bottle. He let his holdall fall at the foot of the bed and removed his jacket, which he dropped onto a chair, before stretching his arms in an expansive feeling of well-being. He flopped onto the sofa and removed his shoes, as Siobhan returned with the glasses. Each contained a measure of amber cognac.

  “Move up.” She lowered herself onto the couch beside him, kicked off her high heels, drew her legs up under her, and passed him his drink.

  “Slainté.” She sighed contentedly as they touched glasses.

  * * * * *

  Head tilted back against the sofa, with his long legs stretched out across the rug, he awoke in the darkened room feeling pressure on his upper body. Without changing position, he opened his eyes to squint downwards. Her head rested on his chest, rising and falling with his breathing, her face hidden in the profusion of burnished chestnut curls that billowed across his shirtfront. She must have turned the lights off when he had dropped off, then made herself comfortable. He smiled.

  Let her sleep.

  He pulled his arm clear and shifted his weight to a more comfortable position. He closed his eyes.

  Almost immediately, intense pleasurable warmth swept across his groin. He stiffened, but otherwise did not move as her open palm slid lightly across his lower stomach. Her fingers found his zip. As it was opened, it seemed as though
an expanding pressure had been vented; released from the restriction of his clothing his now-erect penis was freed by cool, searching fingers and pulled clear.

  Her hand was smooth and dry, moving slowly, delightfully slowly, up and down. She shifted her weight, and his involuntary gasp of ecstasy sounded loud as the fingers eased his flesh towards and into the moistness of her waiting mouth.

  Unable to control his breathing, he sank his fingers into her thick hair and pulled her, none too gently, up and away, from his groin. He took in her flushed complexion and the excited look in her eyes before crushing her mouth with his.

  Seconds later, she pulled away to stand upright before him and, with her eyes locked on his, unzipped her jeans, then kicked them free. Her naked legs, feet apart, joining the firm swell of her lower belly and fulfilling the earlier promise were inches from his face, with the tantalizing scent of her womanhood full and alluring in his nostrils.

  Grasping her buttocks, his fingers spread wide across the resilient flesh, he pulled her forward and pressed his face in the cushion of soft, wiry hair. He heard her stifle a moan of unadulterated pleasure before she wrenched his head away.

  Grasping both his wrists, she pulled him towards the waiting bed.

  * * * * *

  Moving slowly, so as not to wake her, he reached across her naked back for the cigarettes and lighter. Lying with one arm behind his head, he watched the smoke spiral upwards, feeling more relaxed than he had felt for months. If things had been different, he would have liked to stay here longer, get to know Siobhan better and, he smiled, get to ‘know’ her many more times. However, the hunt for Calum was not yet behind him, and in a few hours, he would have to move on.

  She stirred and laid a soft forearm across his chest, drawing her body closer to his. Moments later, she made a soft purr of contentment then lifted her head to look at him in the grey morning light.

  “Hmm—breakfast,” she murmured, taking the cigarette from his hand and taking a shallow drag. “What are you thinking?” She turned to lie on her back.

  “About what’s got to be done next,” he answered, stubbing out the cigarette.

  “When it’s done, will you be coming back through Frankfurt?” When he did not answer immediately, she sat up to swing her feet to the floor.

  “Forget I asked that.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said, stretching out a hand to touch her shoulder, “it’s just that—”

  “If anyone should understand, it’s me, especially in our line of work,” Her voice had hardened.

  “Just—please,” moving his hand from her arm, “no excuses.”

  He sat up his mind made up.

  “Siobhan, for what it is worth, I’ll be back. I’d like to see you again.”

  She looked at him from under her tousled hair and a slow smile lit up her face. It changed into a pout of mock injury, hiding her delighted laughter, when he said, straight-faced,

  “And I will respect you in the morning.”

  She grabbed one of the pillows and began to pound him, with a delighted burst of laughter.

  * * * * *

  The long train journey from Frankfurt, with a short stop in Munich, across Austria and through Slovenia was uneventful. He had tried to sleep, but with limited success.

  During the long periods of wakefulness, he thought of how he would approach his assignment.

  While his doubts certainly did not qualify as a quandary, he was not quite sure how he would accomplish it. He knew he was not going to kill McDermot. Would he, however, coerce the man into returning to Ireland? With force, if necessary?

  He knew even that was unlikely, although not doing so would increase the risk to his own well-being. It had occurred to him that he had no great desire to return home. If he did not carry out his assigned task, going home would make it easier for the organization to exact retribution for his dereliction of duty.

  His enthusiasm for The Struggle had waned. He had belatedly doubted the utility of the bombing campaigns and now he questioned the validity of his own part in The Troubles. What had he or the IRA achieved by the disappearance of those individuals he had eliminated?

  He winced as he mentally substituted murdered for eliminated.

  Nevertheless, he had accepted the task and had almost caught up with the errant McDermot. Perhaps, he would be able to clarify his thinking and decide on a course of action when he confronted the man.

  * * * * *

  Arriving in Zagreb mid-morning on the day following his departure from Germany, he stood outside the railway station and waved to a waiting taxi. He showed the driver the newspaper clipping with the address. The driver threw his bag into the opened boot and within seconds, they had pulled out into the traffic and were heading out on the main road to Varazdin and the base camp of the convoy organization.

  He decided that his best option to gain time would be to seek employment with the very outfit that McDermot intended to join. If McDermot had failed to get a job, he would continue to track him, but if McDermot were now working for the aid convoy, then he too would try it. When he found the runaway, he would probably have to implement Plan B, which, at this moment, he had still to devise.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Colonel Paroski looked at the former Communist behind the desk. His father had served with Radovic long before the general became Head of Intelligence for the Croatian Army. The older officer did not acknowledge his presence, despite the passage of several minutes, but continued to write.

  Paroski’s eyes moved to the framed photograph on the wall behind the man, which showed Radovic with three others in the company of Marshall Tito. Although Paroski and Radovic were both Croats, Radovic had been born in Belgrade, while he came from Mostar, in southern Bosnia. He knew of the soldier from stories his father told and from similar legends perpetuated by other older military men. Radovic was what was referred to, but never derisively, by the younger element in the Army, as “one of the old school”.

  The general, educated in Russia, had served in the Red Army before returning to the Balkans immediately after the Second World War. He became a member of the Central Committee of the Yugoslavian Communist Party and played a major part at the party meeting that passed the sentence of death on the leader of the defeated Chetniks.

  After the collapse of the Axis powers, the Communists had captured Mihailovic in 1946. Radovic showed his ruthlessness with his outspoken and passionate support for the death penalty. The party executive dutifully ratified Tito’s demand for the execution of the Chetnik leader.

  Radovic’s subsequent progress in the Army and the Party was confirmation of Tito’s appreciation.

  Paroski’s father had been an active member of the Partisans but was too junior to have a say in the workings of the Party. He had not been political, or even astute enough to pretend he was. He remained a tool to implement policies made by others. However, he had caught the attention of Radovic who chose him as the officer in charge of the firing squad responsible for Mihailovic’s execution, and secret burial.

  Despite the passage of time, and the many changes that post-war Yugoslavia experienced, General Radovic continued to have great influence in the Party. He believed implicitly in the one-nation concept, provided it was under Croatian leadership.

  With the present turn of events, his vigour in promoting ethnic cleansing, with particular regard to the calculating terror with which it was enforced, showed that the elapse of time had not diminished his zeal. His place on the decision-making cartel, pursuing the war against the Serbs, ensured that his position of power was stronger than it had ever been.

  The colonel had been surprised when he received orders to join Radovic’s group in Zagreb. He was even more surprised to learn that Radovic had personally made the request for the transfer.

  The general signed the last of the papers in front of him and placed the pen in the skull-shaped holder. Without raising his head, he peered at Paroski from under his bushy grey eyebrows,
and then held up his left index finger, indicating a pause for one further action. He reached over to the intercom, pressed a button and said, “Kava.”

  “Well, Colonel,” he met Paroski’s gaze as he leaned back in his chair, “how is your father?”

  The sound of the door opening behind him caused Paroski to withhold his reply. Radovic maintained his level stare as the secretary set the coffee tray on the desk. The general poured two cups from the ornate silver pot and indicated the sugar with a nod and upraised eyebrows. Paroski shook his head and reached for the proffered cup.

  “He is not well, but at his age that is to be expected.”

  The general gave no indication that he was aware that Paroski’s father was three years younger than he was. He continued to look fixedly at Paroski, without a word, for some time, before he spoke.

  “I want you to help resolve concerns we have about a standing arrangement with the Bosnians that allows passage of weapons across Croatian territory into Bosnia. As every schoolchild knows, they have no ports of their own.

  “It is also common knowledge that, in order to circumvent the embargo on Bosnia, much of the weaponry and military equipment arrives at our ports of Split, Rijeka and Ploce, to be transported by road into Bosnia through the Neretva valley.

  “We authorize passage in return for a percentage of the total. We know that the Bosnians are reneging on the agreement. They still want the weapons but are reluctant to pay the price. Lately, they have also been receiving weapon consignments clandestinely by air. One assumes that this is to avoid parting with any state-of-the-art materiel, such as the Stingers we believe they have, and to prevent the growth of our arsenal.

  “We now also know that they have received some covert consignments that do not land at our ports but pass by road through Croatia. This in particular cannot continue. It must cease.

  “Charity transports get the weapons and ammunition into Bosnia. Much of the cargo comes from Germany and Austria. We know who is organizing the shipments in those countries and which aid enterprise is carrying the weapons.