“However, because of the support that we receive from those countries and the perception that we are a reasonable people, President Tudjman does not want any overt action that is anti-Bosnian. Any move made to halt these arms deliveries must not be attributable to Croatia, nor can it take place in Croatia. Nevertheless, we must deny this pipeline to the Muslims in such a way that they comprehend we know of their duplicity and that arms will only reach them under the terms of the previous agreement.
“So, Colonel, how could this be achieved? Your thoughts, please.”
Paroski chewed his lower lip for a second, then, setting the cup down on the small table at the side of his chair, he clasped his hands between his knees, and leant towards the general.
“By destroying a convoy on passage through Bosnia on the way to its destination. Do we have any evidence of UN connivance or convoy drivers’ complicity?”
Radovic shook his head in answer to both questions.
Paroski continued.
“It could not be indiscriminate. Prior to any attempt to destroy them, we would need to know which convoy and which trucks were indeed carrying the contraband. We would also need details of the planned departure and route of the convoy. This in itself should not be difficult.”
“Develop it, Paroski.”
He reached for his pen, signifying that the meeting was at an end. Paroski stood, inclined his head in salute, and left the room.
He went down the wide stairway from the second floor, left the building and walked across the square. He turned right and entered St Mark’s church, where he sat in one of the pews at the rear.
The precise information needed to put an attack into action—times, loads, number of vehicles, updated and current—could only come from within the convoy administration. He would need access to an individual in the organization.
Several days later, good fortune smiled on him beyond his wildest imaginings.
* * * * *
Sweat oozed from Crowther’s pores, trickling through the hair on his back to form a rivulet, which flowed into the cleft of his naked buttocks and formed a puddle on the hard wooden chair. Slumped, with head bowed, his glazed eyes tried to focus on his genitals lying limp on the hard-callused palm of the guard. Sparse of hair they looked like a bald, legless squab. He hiccupped as he tried to stifle a hysterical giggle. The thick, teak talons flexed and he screamed, flinching in a futile attempt to escape the impending pain.
Mercifully, the hand did not close fully, and the agony seemed averted. Then, as his terror ebbed, the claw clamped shut, and the powerful fingers squeezed the flesh, grinding the gristle and his scrotum together. His captors’ coarse laughter, at his frightened anticipation, mingled with his screams of pain.
Through a haze of nausea, he sensed the mocking fade. They turned their attention to someone descending the wooden stairs to the cellar. His testicles flopped forlornly onto his wet thighs as the guard and his colleagues stood and braced to attention. Through his tears of shame and fear, he saw the camouflaged uniform of a Croatian Army officer.
The newcomer spoke briefly, and then the voices died as the men ascended the stairs together, leaving him alone to a god-sent respite from the torture.
What had he done to deserve this? He had not wanted to hurt the child. Children loved him, and he loved children. Could they not understand that? It was just that she had been so...well...trusting. Despite his present condition, he felt his penis twitch as the memory of the girl flooded his consciousness.
He had singled her out in the sea of clutching hands and supplicating eyes as the children begged for the candy and biscuits he carried in the plastic bag. Small, endearingly defenceless, she mimicked the actions and calls of the older children to attract his attention.
The suffocating bindweed of longing and desire, which he had restrained for so long and had tried to stifle, burgeoned and strangled his weakening and progressively feebler good intentions.
This had not been the first time the overwhelming urge to caress, cuddle, hug, and squeeze had swamped him. The sound of his grinding teeth broke through his reverie and dragged him back. He sniffed.
Back home, there had been several times when he had taken a little mite away to play with, to love, and had, inevitably, invariably broken.
They were so doll-like, so fragile.
One part, deep inside him, knew it was wrong, and he hated his perversion. However, his swelling lust could swamp decency, overwhelm righteous feelings and drown his conscience. In the company of others, he was able to make all the right sympathetic noises on hearing of the discovery of a tiny, shattered Thumbelina.
He dreaded the thought of capture but could not stop. Rumours that the police were to question all the drivers in the county where he lived caused him to end the lease on his flat and leave the area. Three weeks after his most recent lapse, the sight of an official-looking saloon car in the yard of the new transport firm, and the officious looking men with notebooks questioning the supervisor, spooked him.
Once again, he ran; this time much further afield.
He had come to Zagreb and within days had signed a contract to drive aid convoys in the former Yugoslavia. For several months, he was able to subdue the hunger and seriously began to believe that he had vanquished the desire. He convinced himself that given the chance, or rather deprived of the opportunity, he could conquer his weakness. Somehow, he believed that he would see very few children when working on the convoys, and in this new environment, he would be able to suppress the lust that threatened to destroy him.
He failed. The minute angels were everywhere.
The run to Banja Luka with the diesel tanker that day had been uneventful. He had driven the tanker back in the afternoon’s heat, conscious of a stirring of the old desires. Then, just outside Rugavica, he saw the group of children playing at the side of the road and, without conscious control of his faculties, like a robot, he had pulled over.
Eager, sparkling, greedy eyes soon spotted him. They surrounded him. Before long, tiny, grubby hands stretched out, for the candy they knew all foreigners carried.
He had thrown several hard candies amongst them, then, after pulling out two bars of chocolate, had thrown the bag with its contents into the woods at the side of the road. The pack of feverish children, shrilly baying in triumph, with much pushing and shoving, had turned and run after the sweets, leaving the little one, the chosen one, pushed over, at his feet.
Making sympathetic sounds, he stooped over her and held out one of the bars. Her dark-lashed, brown eyes widened as though she could not believe her good fortune. She snatched the chocolate from his hand. Attention fully on the candy, she did not resist as he scooped her up in his arms to carry her to the truck.
The small rounded form under her ragged dress, her only piece of clothing, smelt sweet, clean and milky. He nuzzled his face in the softness of her hair. His body’s hunger was so strong he could taste it on his lips. God, how long had it been since he had last fondled...?
Several miles from the village, he pulled the vehicle over into the trees and switched the engine off. As she munched the second bar of chocolate, he furtively unzipped his trousers and then reached stealthily over to tug the frayed hem of her frock above her doll-like waist. He grasped her frail shoulders and pulled her over onto his lap. Her hair hid the soft, doe-like eyes that glanced up at him, then, reassured by his furtive smile, she returned to her prize.
Thick, blunt fingers closed, slowly, gently but as inexorably as a poacher’s trout-strangling grasp. He parted her soft, minute, baby-velvet thighs, one in each hand, and then leant back to close his eyes in ecstasy, as the thick, warm redness engulfed him.
* * * * *
Much later that afternoon—he could never be sure how much time had elapsed when the hunger held him—as dusk was gathering, he had tried to hide the small body in a copse. Filled with panic, fear of discovery and the self-disgust that followed, he had not heard the hunters approach.
Their angry eyes had taken in the torn body of the child and read the poster of guilt on his face. They had not believed his protestations that the child had run into the road and that he was unable to avoid her. They went berserk. Battered with the butts of their shotguns he had fallen to his knees.
They had tied his hands behind his back with a belt and beaten him again, relentlessly, before driving him to the police station in the village.
Within minutes, the police had thrown him down the steps into this cellar. They stripped his clothes from his body, even his glasses, without which he was sightless. Their callous, mocking laughter as he had tried to hide his smallness behind cupped hands, echoed in the whitewashed cellar.
They had manacled him to this chair and would not release him even to void his bowels. That must have been at least three days ago, he thought, but he could not be sure...
He started at the sound of voices and returning footsteps on the stairs. Rough hands untied him, dragged him to his feet, spun him round, and pushed him face down onto the rough, unfinished surface of the table.
Horror flooded through him as the largest of the three men grasped one of his wrists in each hand and pulled him forward, pressing his face hard against the table top. Another had secured his wrists and ankles with leather straps to the table legs. Rough hands forced his clenched buttocks apart and another groped beneath him to gather up his genitalia. He heard the snapping sound of elastic and moments later felt the rubber bite into his penis and scrotum. His sphincter shrank as it met a cold, hard round object.
“It is a hose,” said the Croatian officer as he pulled a chair to the side of the table, reversed it and leaned forward with his chin on his arms. Expressionless dark eyes inches from his own held him mesmerized like a stricken rabbit.
“Not a very large one.” The accent was heavy, but the words were clear.
His head snapped up, and he felt ripped apart as several inches of the hard tube brutally penetrated his rectum.
Through the wall of pain, he saw the officer nod, felt a hand on his left buttock then, immediately, his rear passage bulged and rippled as liquid surged through his colon. His chest constricted as his jaws sprang apart in a silent scream, and his ears caught the sound of tutting.
“Behave. Control yourself. It is only water.”
Subdued, gurgling rumbles echoed from his abdomen and his ears popped violently as the water pushed and stretched his bowels. He felt his ballooning stomach harden against the table.
He gagged.
Then a wide strip of adhesive sealed his mouth.
The expansion became unbearable.
He felt his eyes widen, and then bulge.
The shape of the face in front of him lost its definition.
It swam before him.
Upward, increasing pressure squashed his lungs.
He sucked and snorted at the air through his nostrils.
Then, blessedly, relief came with the rough extraction of the tube. The speed, due to the abrupt reduction of pressure, at which the well of pain receded, was a reprieve that was short-lived. He struggled to control his bowels.
And failed. The smell assailed his nostrils, and only terror quelled the shame he felt.
He heard several words of Croatian and then felt another insertion before the man asked in a level tone, “Do I have your full attention?”
He stared blankly at the officer.
The shock was horrific.
His body bucked and thrashed so violently that his nose broke when his face hit the surface of the table. Blood filled his mouth. His chest heaved. Lungs sucked, like punctured bellows. He could not breathe.
He felt the dispassionate eyes on him. He nodded. Mingled with the reek of excrement was a strong odour of burnt flesh.
“If others had done what you have done, they would be taken out and shot. But you, fortunately, have an avenue of redemption.”
The colonel unbuttoned his shirt pocket to extract a cigarette without bringing out the packet. Placing the cigarette in his lips, his black eyes flicked an order in the direction of the prisoner’s feet.
The wall of pain was tremendous. The shock thrashed his body and shook it like a demented rag doll. The violence of the tremors faded but flames of agony scorched his rectum and buttocks. His testicles felt crushed. Through his tears, puzzled, he could see the colonel’s questioning look.
Another biting wave surged through his flesh as someone threw the switch yet again.
Awareness flooded through him, before the forest of pain receded. He was supposed to ask why, how?
“Tell me, yes, for Christ’s sake, tell me,” he screamed.
“You are a driver on the convoy that will make the next UNHCR effort to reach Tuzla?”
He didn’t know if he would be or not, as he wasn’t a good enough cross-country driver to be selected as a natural first team choice, but God, what would happen if he said no? Scarcely daring to breathe in a vain effort to mute the pain, and clenching his teeth to hide the lie, he gave a weak nod.
“Dobro. I am prepared to allow you to return to the comparative safety of that organization, providing you are prepared to cooperate. Wholly and without question. You understand?”
The meaning of the words filtered through the wall of agony. Safety? Oh my God, yes, yes, his eyes begged as understanding struck home. He blinked rapidly in question.
How? Please, tell me how?
“Good. This evening, before you are released, you will be brought to me and I will instruct you in what I require you to do.” The Croat stood and pushed the chair to one side. “Make no mistake. I own you now. To ensure you accept this, you will remain here for,” he glanced at his watch, “the next hour while the lesson is reinforced.”
The prisoner saw the index finger pointing in the direction of his feet before a breath-blocking, smothering sheet of raging pain enveloped him and his consciousness exploded.
Much later, the buckets of icy cold water revived him but did nothing to disperse the reek of human waste matter. Still face down on the table, he felt the rub of the coarse towelling as they dried his body, manhandling him as easily as an infant. They left him on the table, slumped in a sitting position, with his clothes in a sodden heap under his dangling legs.
He did not remember dressing.
His next recollection was of the session with Paroski, the Croatian colonel. Concentration was difficult; he felt nauseous and his rectum ached, but fear of the man who had the power to hurt him overcame his inattention.
“I am going to retain your passport.” The officer flicked the small red book into the open mouth of an orange-coloured manila folder.
“Together with these.”
He winced, but could not avert his eyes as the Croat threw several large black and white prints, onto the desk in front of him, of a small, frail, broken corpse, its lips and cheeks smeared with dark chocolate. He shook his head, when the colonel offered him copies of the confession he did not remember making. The statements joined the passport and photographs.
“The situation is simple, extremely simple. Once clear of this building, should you decide not to cooperate, I will charge you with the child’s murder in a Croatian court. You will find the questioning vastly more...” the seated officer searched for the right words, “...more robust than what you have experienced so far. Should you decide to flee Croatia, these documents,” he flicked a hand in the direction of the folder, “would be handed over to your country’s embassy with the strongest demand for extradition.”
Could they extradite him?
He could not afford the passing of those documents to the authorities of his own country. They would be damning, even if the police there did not already want him for questioning.
“Your work for me will be elementary and straightforward. Put simply, I require you to report periodically the precise location of your convoy on its way north into Bosnia. It is no more complicated than that.”
He could not believe his ears; he woul
d soon be free. Overwhelming relief filled him, removing any doubts he might have had about the practical difficulty of reporting the convoy’s position. Why they would want to track relief supplies, he did not know, but thank Christ they did. His sense of survival buried any reservations about the logic of the Croatian’s reasoning.
“This mobile phone has been pre-programmed.” The officer held up a small compact instrument. He pulled out the short aerial and pointed to a button. “One depression and it will ring my number. It has a very wide range. When I call you, it will not ring but vibrate quietly. Carry it with you at all times. Also, here is a map to be used when reporting the convoy’s location to me.” The Croat sat back, placing both hands wide upon the table. “No questions? Good, you will have no problems. Just do as you have been told.”
The interview ended; he had taken the plastic bag containing the map and the mobile phone, and he had been, even by his own standards, sickly subservient.
Please do not call me back, a voice pleaded in his head, as he backed towards the door and freedom. Please.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Paroski watched the Serb climbing through the pines towards him. Despite the appearance of being unaccompanied, he knew that the bearded soldier was not alone. Confident that their meeting would be straightforward and problem-free, he nevertheless drew his pistol, thumbed off the safety and concealed the weapon under his hat on the ground beside him.
Even in the days before the war, while both served in the JNA, Kalosowich and he had never been close. They were never friends, just colleagues with respect for the other’s strengths and skills. Each believed he knew the weaknesses of his fellow soldier. Neither had any love for the Bosnians.
Paroski was confident that the Serb would be willing to help. Kalosowich was possessed of the same ruthlessness and cunning as he himself. Despite the Serb being on the other side, he knew he could rely on him to keep his word, provided the return was sufficient. The assistance would be forthcoming.
The Tuzla Run Page 8
