The Tuzla Run

by Robert Davidson

  The colonel ignored the covert hint of movement in the trees behind the approaching figure, who bent forward against the incline. Breathing heavily, the arrival looked up and pantomimed seeing the Croat for the first time. Paroski picked up his cap, with the pistol inside, before standing and moving toward the Serb with an outstretched hand.

  “Dobro jutro, Kalosowich.” He smiled, “Kako ste?”

  “Dobro,” answered the Serb, indicating that he was well. He took off his rucksack and laid it at the foot of a tree, then lowered himself to sit beside it. Taking his cigarettes from a breast pocket, he extracted one and returned the pack to his pocket. He did not offer one to Paroski. Lighting it with a Zippo, he exhaled, and then looked up at the still standing Croatian.

  “What do you have for me?”

  Paroski bent his knees and sank onto to his haunches beside the Serb. Both men looked into the distance. The Croat took his time in answering.

  “To be honest, I need your cooperation to accomplish something that is in our mutual interests.”

  “I’m always glad to promote my interests, but I assume that you mean national interests?”

  Paroski smiled sourly at Kalosowich and his wooden sense of humour.

  “But naturally.” He paused.

  “I have some information that you might want to act upon. In fact, if you didn’t, it could be very much to your disadvantage.”

  “I am listening, Comrade.”

  “For some time, the Bosnians have been receiving arms shipments in a manner that does not conform to the agreements established at the highest level—”

  “And are not sharing with you, as agreed at the same high levels,” Kalosowich interjected with a mirthless grin.

  “Be that as it may, I am prepared to identify an aid convoy for you that will be carrying arms for the Bosnians, if you agree to destroy the weapons.”

  “Since you offer me the opportunity to destroy and not confiscate these weapons, I assume that it will not be crossing any territory held by us at this time and that any attack on it will have to be made on Bosnian territory?”

  “Da. Exactly,”

  “And you will give me chapter and verse?”

  “Unfortunately, I am not able to say at this stage whether each vehicle has armaments as part of its cargo, but I will pass on this information nearer the time.”

  “It must be a UN convoy, if you are asking us to destroy it?”

  “But of course, Kalosowich. UNHCR.”

  The Serb was silent. He lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the first, grinding the stub into the pine needles beside him.

  “And U.N. military involvement? This convoy of yours will have no escort?”

  “How often do the convoys have military escorts nowadays? Still, if the thought of UN military is—”

  “You do not have to try childish goading, Paroski. It’s unnecessary. We, the Serbs, will do what the Croats are unable to do. We will catch your pig for you. I need the date, the proposed route and any other relevant information. I will have to clear this with Pale, but I foresee no problems.”

  * * * * *

  Calum baited the hook with the mussel, then swung the weighted end of the line round his head several times, before letting it go. The throw took the lead shot and hook ten or fifteen feet up into the air and thirty yards out into the bay before it started to drop. The plop made by the lure hitting the water sounded loud in the still evening air. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he settled back in the folding chair to wait for the fish to bite.

  A slight breeze was building and the surface of the water was ruffling in places, but it was still warm on the end of the jetty. It would not get cold until darkness fell.

  “Thanks, Kurt,” he said, as he accepted the cigarette from the German who was sitting to his left. Kurt lit both cigarettes before returning to the magazine, a tattered copy of Der Spiegel that he had picked up from the barber’s shop in Metkovic.

  “If it comes off, Kurt, do you think we’ll have problems on the run to Tuzla?” Calum watched the candy-striped float bobbing in the water. Kurt drew on his cigarette then, throwing the magazine to one side, sat forward level with the youth.

  “Honestly?”

  “Aye, of course, honestly.”

  “It’s going to be very difficult. No convoys got through for three months. We will not know from one minute to the next what is going to happen. To get to Tuzla, we’ve got to pass through them all.”

  “All who?”

  “Well, who would you like first? There is the Croat Regular Army, then the Croatian National Guard, like reservists but with the same mentality as any other paramilitaries down here. There will be the Bosnian Croat Defence Council—the HVO—and, more of a worry, the HOS with their black uniforms, jump boots and ethnic cleansing. On the other hand, at any time at all, the Yugoslavian Army, the JNA, who are really the Serbs, could bump us. And, of course, there’s the Bosnian Serb Army and their Chetnik, the White Eagles, Arkan’s Tigers or any other bandits who’d cut your throat for your watch. There is a bunch of psychosomatic war victims, disgruntled zealots, sociopathic loners, drunks and intoxicated teens out for cheap thrills just waiting for us to come up country.

  “That is saying nothing about the Armija BiH, the Bosniacs, who are the Muslim Bosnians and have the Mujahedeen, Muslim fundamentalists from Iran, Afghanistan and other places. They run in packs. It’s even rumoured that there is a one-hundred-strong active unit of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard.”

  “Like Ben Hur. A cast o’ thousands.”

  Kurt grinned mirthlessly.

  “The biggest danger is not that they’re organized, but the fact that they are not!”

  The air became cooler when the sun, almost unnoticed, dropped behind the horizon. The surrounding black mountains edged closer. White horses pranced on the water and threw themselves at the piles supporting the pier.

  Calum stood up and started to reel in his line. He had left Ireland to avoid retribution from those who would wreak vengeance on him. Yet here he was, in danger from people who could not care less about him, but who would just as effectively destroy him.

  Liam would say he had deserved it. Aye, the brave Liam; that callous, calculating, cold-hearted bastard. Liam.

  Since he was a toddler in a soaked nappy playing on the warm concrete of their back yard, he had lived in awe of his big brother. As far back as he could remember, they had never been close. At first, it had been a child’s fear of ugliness and cruelty; he remembered a grimacing Liam tying him up and setting fire to his socks. His Mam, coming home unexpectedly early from work, had run screaming into the yard, ripped the socks from his feet, and then raised a hand to chastise Liam. His brother had just glowered at her, willing her to drop her hand. His Mam never attempted to rebuke the boy again.

  As Calum grew so did his fear of his dour, stocky sibling who never smiled.

  Feuds with the neighbours, culminating in the hospitalization of a man whom Liam had beaten unmercifully, brought the hated RUC to the door. When he was away in borstal, Calum and his Mam were never free of the malevolent presence; it hung over their house like a bad smell.

  Before long, Liam joined the hard men and became even more menacing. In an effort to conquer his fear of his brother, Calum foolishly tried to emulate him and also joined, but knew, deep down, that none of the others respected him. They used him as a ‘gopher,’ a message boy, and a watcher of trivialities.

  Then one day, because his regular driver was sick, the company commander had asked him if he could drive. He could but was not proficient. Surprisingly, it made no difference. Given the chance to drive, he replaced the other youth.

  Later, on his third run, he learnt that the C.O. had a penchant for young flaxen-haired boys. Moreover, to his amazement, despite his initial unease, Calum found that he was not averse to the man’s overtures.

  They had gone on trips together to the South, where he learnt evasive and proactive driving, while the C.O. had meetin
gs, and he was buggered every night. However, during the course of time, the physical side of the relationship palled.

  Several months later, propositioned by a well-spoken, middle-aged man in the bar of the Europa, he agreed to sleep with him. The man was the main speaker at a function in the hotel, but he was not a guest there. They went to his home in the Malone, where the more experienced lover had seduced him, gently and almost graciously, in the way that he knew it should be done. The pickup developed into a deepening relationship until Calum fell hopelessly in love.

  He had been driving his C.O. and a senior officer to a meeting when he overheard Macaulay’s name mentioned as a target. He knew he could not let it happen. Nevertheless, how could he, a lowly foot soldier—not even a soldier, he thought ruefully, just a driver—prevent it?

  Simple. He would grass, something that he never believed he would be capable of doing. He had been unprepared for the order tasking him to evacuate the gunman after the job, but it had helped to provide a cover for him.

  I wonder if they have any idea where I am now? Turning to speak to Kurt, the black shape of a bulky figure standing behind his friend caused him to gasp and drop the reel, which he caught against his knees in a panicked, two-handed scrabble.

  “You’ve got more to worry about than them, Calum.”

  He had never heard this voice before and had only seen its owner once, but he recognized the man straightaway.

  His stomach somersaulted with dread and he felt winded. His mouth dried up and his legs trembled. Of their own volition, they folded and he dropped heavily into the chair.

  “Would you excuse us for a wee while,” the newcomer said in a firm tone to Kurt.

  “Are you alright?” the German asked standing over the seated Calum.

  “Take off, now!” the stranger bit off the words.

  Kurt, dubious and uncertain, turned and walked toward the café with frequent backward glances at the men on the jetty.

  The big man lowered himself into the seat that the German had vacated. The ensuing silence remained unbroken for several minutes until Calum raised his head and looked at Rath.

  “The Removal Man! Oh, Mother of God! How did you find me?”

  “Oh, there was no problem there. It was not as though you attempted to hide your tracks. If you did, it was so amateurish it was laughable. Anyway, that is not important. You know why I’m here?”

  The youth stared slack-jawed at Rath but gave no indication that he intended to answer.

  “Do you know?” the big man repeated.

  “You’re here to kill me,”

  “They want you back.”

  He could not take his eyes from the big man’s face, but shook his head in disbelief.

  “There are a lot of questions to be answered. You leaving when you did, and in the way you did, does not look good. You must see that. But if you go back—”

  “Why you? Why did they send you?”

  “That’s neither here nor there—”

  “Jesus, are you stupid or what?” Calum shouted, gripping the arms of the folding chair, his knuckles almost luminescent in the growing dusk. “I can’t go back. You know it. They know it. That’s why you’re here, to kill me.”

  “Grow up. You have no choice. You are going back. Make no mistake. I’m here to see that you do.”

  Calum’s breathing was still ragged, but his determination to control the shaking had a measure of success. He stiffened, pulling his shoulders back and tried to meet the big man’s gaze.

  “What sort of bastard are you? You owe me. I risked my life to pull you out of Queen’s.”

  Rath stared at the youth, his face blank, then puzzled, before comprehension dawned on him—

  Calum had been the driver!

  Why had they not told him?

  “You mean...” his voice faded as he comprehended the full impact of what the boy had done. “Christ, Calum...”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No, I didn’t know. Just let me think for a moment, just let me think.”

  The big man stared out across the bay his brows darkened in a frown.

  * * * * *

  The settlement of Nastri curled lazily around the edge of one of hundreds of inlets that serrate the narrow strip of Dalmatian coast of southern Croatia. The ruins of the old village, whose inhabitants were reputed to have blocked the advance of a fifteen-thousand-strong army of Turks in earlier times, nestled in a shallow valley high on the slope of the mountain that dominated the landward side of the hamlet.

  Adjacent to the derelict houses the ruined fortress of Smrden Grad stood near a Bogomil cemetery dating back to the fourteenth century.

  The road linking Split with Dubrovnik paralleled the coast and, bypassing the present day homesteads, followed the shoreline towards the nearby Bosnian town of Neum.

  From the edge of the road, near the rubble of the restaurant, destroyed by the Croats during an ethnic cleansing operation, the houses spilled in disarray through the greenery of ubiquitous fig trees and indigenous palms.

  The red roofs were intact, showing that, unlike the restaurant, their owners were not Serb. Adjacent to the beach of pale yellow gravel was a holiday camp complete with hotel, restaurant, chalets, and tennis courts. There were few residents and of those, the majority was Croatian police or military. Branched like a sapling from the main road on the south side of Nastri, a steep narrow lane gave access to the beach and the Villa.

  The Villa had become the home of the members of the convoy during the hot summer months. Three storeys of a white-stone building, with a spacious patio and a balcony for each of the rooms, faced the road.

  The ground floor, divided into two large chambers used as the restaurant and bar area, in more peaceful times, was the convoy’s kitchen and dining area. Individual rooms on the first and second floor, complete with shower and toilet, accommodated them. Behind the Villa was an enclosed area, level with the ceiling of the kitchen, used by the proprietor’s wife to dry her tenants’ laundry, and where the Convoy Leader parked the Jeep.

  The elderly property owner, his wife and grown-up family shared the house next to the Villa. Fronting the house were several fig trees and a small vegetable garden. On the concrete apron that lay immediately in front of their house were several fishing creels, nets, oars and their boat engine, which they removed and brought back in a wheelbarrow, after their early morning and evening fishing trips.

  The middle-aged wife always pushed the barrow.

  Less than a hundred yards from the house was a small jetty with several tiny slots to accommodate the fishing boats of their neighbours. Bordering the jetty, the local cafe was always busy, many of its clients, including on-duty police, coming in the late evening, from Neum, Opusan, and Metkovic.

  During the day and late into the night, the jukebox blared, reminding the residents of Nastri that the café, with its ample stock of beer and slivovitz, was open for business. The bistro looked out across the inlet, which stretched from the open sea to the small ghost town of Neum, with its luxurious but deserted hotel, situated on the curve of the bay. The servers were Muslims, young and darkly pretty, refugees from Sarajevo, separated from their families by the perverse nature of civil war. There was an envious suspicion among the drivers that both Scouse and Dawke had slept with the younger of the two girls.

  The far side of the inlet was contained by the barren hills of a peninsula bisected by the road that continued south across this narrow strip of Bosnia.

  * * * * *

  Spider spread his towel on the sand, kicked off his sandals and sat down. He opened a book and started to read, but after a couple of minutes, the heat of the sun started to burn his upper body and thighs. Closing the book, he threw it aside and rolled over to reach for the oil.

  He gave no indication that he was aware of Rath’s presence.

  Sprawled in the tilted chair against the café’s whitewashed wall, the Irishman’s relaxed posture belied the turmoil of his thoughts. The l
enses of his Raybans mirrored the Englishman. The watchful eyes saw Webb’s lithe silhouette move to the edge of the jetty, remain motionless for a second, and then launch itself into the cobalt-blue water. A long moment later, a head broke the surface and the man swam toward the cluster of rocks in the centre of the inlet.

  Rath’s misgivings had been strong right from the first time he had set eyes on the working manager. Later, as there had been nothing palpable on which to base his unease, he was prepared to concede that his Celtic temperament might be lending itself to foreboding. However, his mental agitation reappeared when he heard Cheatham quashing a desultory inquiry from one of the others about the man.

  The scarred neck and face intrigued Rath. The disfigurement was obviously the result of a relatively recent wound, at most no more than a year old. He knew enough of such things to eliminate an industrial or traffic accident as the cause; an explosion or blast had caused those raw weals and ridges of scar tissue.

  That the scars did not inhibit the man, that they caused him no embarrassment and he displayed no self-deprecation, showed strength of character that Rath respected.

  The signs that he was not a trucker, though not blatant, were obvious to Rath. Webb, an experienced and capable driver, devoted extra effort in his own time to improve the comfort of his cab and the standard of maintenance on his vehicle. A muscular body, with an enduring tan, revealed time spent in regions other than the temperate zone of northern Europe. His demeanour and bearing implied reliability.

  His quiet yet good-natured willingness to share daily tasks made him popular with the other drivers but it also revealed to Rath self-discipline and maturity not in abundance in ordinary occupations.

  The subject of Rath’s thoughts was not a stereotypical Londoner. Neither gregarious nor garrulous but also not withdrawn, he took no part in the gratuitous conversations that filled the group’s off-duty periods. He listened to the anecdotes, as they all did, but never contributed. Rath felt there were many he could have told.