The Tuzla Run

by Robert Davidson

  Only direct questions prompted responses, and even then his answers were lean and devoid of detail. Appearing ever watchful, he was always on guard and alert. Such constant vigilance indicated a conscious awareness of an undefined threat of danger.

  The root cause of his concern, Rath realized, was the complete and total absence of interest, feigned or real, that Webb showed in his existence. Since he had joined the convoy, they had not spoken to one another, despite working on the same team unloading supplies into the warehouse. Rath had not initiated any overture of friendship, but Webb had supervised and worked in his presence as if he had not been there. He had not met Webb’s eyes and although he had freely studied the man—and he knew Webb had been aware of his examination—he had not detected any reciprocal interest by the newcomer.

  Rath picked up the glass and sipped the warm beer. Since the shooting in Belfast, he was unable to suppress the tendrils of apprehension that sprouted when he thought of possible attempts by the British to locate him.

  On one side, as a practical man, he felt it unlikely that the British Army would search the world for him. Yet he knew they would view his attack on Macaulay and the resultant carnage as a defeat for the Special Air Service. That, they would not easily forget. He had left Ireland, ostensibly on an operation, but also to minimize the possibility of their finding him.

  He was not naive. Neither national borders nor another country’s sovereignty would prove a hindrance when they had a score to settle. Their much-vaunted respect for justice was, in reality, negligible; the assassinations in Gibraltar had shown the world that much. Rath thought it incongruous that the British called his people terrorists.

  Webb had been a soldier; of that, there was no doubt. Was he still a soldier? Could he—Jesus Christ!

  He felt as though his skull would rupture.

  The thought crashed through into his consciousness as realization exploded.

  The chair slammed forward onto all four legs. A shotgun wound!

  My shotgun!

  The newspaper reports of the action listed two deaths and a serious wounding on the Army side. There was no mention of the fourth member. Rath wiped the bead of sweat from his upper lip.

  Damn, there was no excuse for an oversight like this. Concentrating his attention on the matter in hand, McDermot’s treachery, he had overlooked the need to protect his own well-being. Forcing himself to relax, to decelerate, he tried to analyse his feelings. The realization that Webb could present a risk was not fanciful. However, the coincidence did stretch the imagination. He could not be sure that fear was not present.

  A strange elation and near savage joy was becoming predominant now that he had a defined challenge to face. Perhaps right from the start, he should have taken the Englishman for what he now suspected him to be; that would have been the safest and least risky option.

  Now, he would have to make up for lost time.

  Rising to his feet and taking a quick glance in the direction of the bay to confirm that Webb was not yet returning, he set off towards the house.

  * * * * *

  Spider reached up to the ledge and, without effort, pulled himself out of the sea. Seated, he turned in the direction of the beach, leant forward, and vigorously shook his long hair free of water. He leant back against the rock, his forearms resting on his knees, and watched the distant Rath walk toward the house.

  Even now, it was difficult to believe that this man had been the patrol’s Nemesis—and even more unlikely that the killer had not yet recognized him.

  During the previous months, in endless loops of recall, especially at night, he had relived each second of the debacle at that damned University. Breaking out of the cycles of recollection had been impossible. He imagined repeatedly what he would do, given the same opportunity again. What would his action be if he were to come face to face with the gunman now?

  Against all probability, with no effort or intent on his part to find him, the man of his nightmares had reappeared. Yet, despite the loss caused by the gunman and the destruction of his own ordered existence, he felt no passion, no hatred for the man; only respect for the single-minded dedication and sense of purpose displayed on the University steps.

  The advantage had been theirs, and somehow they had lost it—with disastrous consequences.

  Spider had been at the other side of the marshalling yard, partly obscured by his vehicle, as the new driver arrived. He looked up and was unprepared for the tidal wave of surprise that engulfed him on seeing the Irishman. Recognition flooded his consciousness, and a surge of emotions coursed through his being.

  To see the man here in Croatia, and in the same company that he had joined, defied belief. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as Spider realized that, as difficult as his primary emotion was to define, it mingled with a sense of trepidation. Not fear or dread, but intense alarmed anticipation. Forcing himself to think, calmly and logically, he had mechanically pulled the rolled tarpaulin to the front of the truck.

  He knew that there were other Irishmen employed by Cheatham. Was it inconceivable that the IRA men would use a convoy operation as a bolt hole or sanctuary? It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that they were not resting, but were in fact an operational team on a mission. Weapons, explosives, and ammunition were readily available due to the collapse of law and order in the region.

  It would be risky taking action against Rath, without determining whether the others were IRA soldiers or not.

  Even if they were not, he reasoned, he would have to be circumspect in any action against the Irishman, since his compatriots’ sympathies would most probably be with their fellow citizen. However, what action could he take? Faced with reality, he was not sure that he did want to precipitate or initiate a move against the man.

  How long would it be before Declan Rath recognized him? Would there be any overt signs? Not likely. What action would the gunman take? Spider stared at the Villa just visible in the trees.

  The obvious thing to do would be to confront the Irishman.

  * * * * *

  The din from the jukebox in the dim, red-lit café filled the night air. The place was already filling up. The drivers occupied adjoining tables in a corner. The Irish contingent, as he had come to recognize them, was absent, with the exception of Michael at the bar.

  After collecting a beer, Spider made his way across to the group. Several of the occupants of the table looked up and made some form of greeting. He raised his glass in a general response and pulled across an empty chair from the next table.

  Crowther, a small weasel of a man, who had obviously had more than his measure for that evening, was holding forth.

  “Everybody likes German cars—Mercedes, Porsche, and Audi. Their cameras and electronic gear are great. Look at yer Leicas, Carl Zeiss lenses and Braun shavers, and all that stuff.” He took a hefty pull at his glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Their beer ain’t too bad, either,” he paused, “as piss goes.” He guffawed and shoved the drinker sitting next to him to emphasize the witticism. “As piss goes.”

  “The D-mark’s strong, more acceptable down here than sterling, so the question is, why don’t anybody like the Krauts? D’ye know? Eh, d’ye know?”

  Spider thought that even Dennis Crowther hated Dennis Crowther. Kurt had expressed an opinion earlier that the problem was Crowther’s bad teeth and the poison their decayed roots generated.

  In appearance, Crowther invited comparison with a malevolent gnome. His wrinkled face with its hanging jowls and watery eyes, embedded in inflated pouches, destroyed any pretence of the intellectuality hinted at by his high-domed balding head. His wide mouth, permanently turned down at the corners, when not active, belonged to a sad circus clown. This state, however, occurred only rarely because Crowther was vociferous with an unforgiving and venomous garrulity.

  He detested the Balkans, his accommodation, his job, UNHCR and his fellow drivers, regardless of nationality, who were the
subject of many of his diatribes. His co-workers made an effort to believe that it was unintended, and that it was Crowther’s attempt, albeit heavy-handed, at wit.

  The three Germans listened politely, not quite coping with the speed and awkward rhythm of Crowther’s speech, smiling hesitantly and waiting for the typical, and often tiresome British put-down, with its hidden, caustic comedy.

  “Nah? All right, I’ll tell yer.” He paused to take several gulps of beer, then peered at his listeners through his wire-rimmed spectacles. “They’re a lying shower o’ two-faced bastards that we’ll have to slap down again in the bloody near future! Yer just ’ave to listen ter ’em going on ’bout not being responsible for the start o’ the war, the wreckin’ of Europe and trying to convince anyone who’ll listen that all the others in the war did the same things. Berks! How the hell can they possibly think they’re not tarred with the same bleeding brushes as their fathers?”

  The Germans stiffened and exchanged glances, uncertain that they had heard correctly. The other nationalities at the table looked down fixedly at their beers.

  “Christ, their fathers probably claimed they’d nothing to do with the atrocities that their fathers committed in Belgium during the First World War.”

  “Hold on, Crowther,” said Spider quietly, “even for you that’s a bit strong.”

  “Take any one of them wot’s here with us,” said Crowther, throwing a drunken look at Spider, then ignoring him. “How many Krauts are there driving? And, where do they drive to? The Serbs hate ’em with a passion and threaten to top ’em if any of their trucks show up trying to cross their territory.”

  Casting his arm wide to take in the bemused Germans, he continued, “Did you see how they reacted to the chance that a run might be on again? They’re crapping themselves! Well, tuvski shitska, I say.”

  “That’s unfair, Dennis—” began Kurt.

  “I think the educated ones are worse, especially in this outfit. Bleeding Cheatham, why the hell does he need any Huns on the team at all?”

  “That’s it, Crowther. Wrap it up.” Spider stood up. “You’ve had enough. Apologize to the lads here. Then leave.”

  With the slow deliberation and the exaggerated movements of a drunk, Crowther swallowed the last of his beer, set the glass firmly on the table, and then got to his feet unsteadily.

  Leaning forward he placed both hands on the table, knocking over his now empty glass, and grinned vacantly at the group.

  “If I’ve offended anyone here, I ‘pologize.” He turned and pushed his chair away with the side of his leg. “But I meant ever’ word.” With that, he faced the door and, with determined pseudo-steadiness, strode out of the café.

  The group visibly relaxed. Those sitting next to the German drivers began to make excuses for the outburst. Spider remained standing, and then reached for his untouched beer before making his way outside. He took a seat at an empty table on the veranda with his back to the café wall.

  It was hard at times to offset Crowther’s vitriolic outbursts against the need for drivers. Although he was not as proficient as many of the others, his availability made him as indispensable as the rest.

  Nevertheless, one of these days, thought Spider, one of these days...

  * * * * *

  Rath walked toward the café. He saw the solitary figure at the table outside and made an instant decision. The big man stopped, and swung a chair across the path, placing it at the empty side of the table. He sat down.

  Spider looked at him but made no comment. He lifted his glass to his lips and drank without taking his eyes off Rath. The Irishman returned the other’s stony look.

  Without preamble, he asked, “Are you still with the Army?”

  “I am not,” said Spider. “I’m here as a civilian to get a job done, and that job only concerns convoys. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t settle with you at the first opportunity after we’ve stood down.”

  “That’s a bit brash, being so open about your intentions. I thought your lot were supposed to be professional?” Rath held Spider’s gaze.

  “Don’t worry about my professionalism. You’ll have evidence of that soon enough, but first and foremost there’s a job to do.”

  The Irishman was silent then looked away across the darkened inlet.

  “For what it’s worth, that’s all it was to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Back home, when I came up against you and the others at Queen’s.”

  Spider said nothing. Rath continued.

  “You Brits have never accepted that some of us believed in what we were doing, that we considered ourselves to be more dedicated and committed, if not as professional as you saw yourselves to be. Most of the men did what they did for a cause that they believed in—and still do.” He ignored Spider’s gesture of disbelief.

  “Not for money or prestige; not as mercenaries, but as volunteers. We are fighting for an ideal that in any other circumstances you would applaud and support, if it were not for the fact that we are fighting against you. We’re as much soldiers as you are.” The big man leaned back in the chair and shook his head sadly. “You’ve a terrible habit of seeing your opponents as lesser beings.”

  He had spoken quietly but with a deadly passion. Spider shifted in his chair and made no comment while the Irishman stopped to light a cigarette.

  “You and yours have been standing on Irish necks for generations now. Well, it is ending. Your decrepit colonial system, a system that is openly biased, nasty and corrupt, is going to be pushed off the island.”

  He fell quiet. The silence became heavy and uncomfortable as it hung over the table. Both men’s eyes remained locked together. Spider broke the stillness, by setting his unfinished beer on the table and standing to lean over towards Rath.

  “You butchered three of my friends on those steps and blasted an unarmed academic to kingdom come. If the shoe were on the other foot and I were to say to you it was only a job, done with competence, that there were no hard feelings, no hatred—that you should take your loss philosophically—your unforgiving, sectarian, perverse megalomania would scream ‘No surrender’.”

  “That’s not one of our slogans,” Rath interjected, smiling slightly.

  Spider ignored the interruption.

  “Despite what you’ve said—and maybe you do believe it yourself—for me that business was personal, very personal. As I said, I am here to do a job, and my professionalism overrides my own feelings.

  “But,” he said as he leaned even further over the table, “make no mistake, once it’s over there’ll be a reckoning. Bank on it.”

  Spider turned and strode towards the Villa Nastri. Rath, expressionless, remained seated for several minutes then went to join Michael at the bar.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Due to the intransigence of the Serbs, and often of the Croats, changes to procedures and projects prevented regular scheduled transports, on many occasions. Each relief run was determined on its own merits and the self-interests, and not-so-secret agendas, of the controlling bodies of the areas through which the convoys had to pass.

  As a result, the supplies from the donating countries were restricted to an ever-narrowing conduit. Huge amounts of essential food and medical relief poured into warehouses—and stayed there.

  Crowther looked down at the mountains of pallets filled with supplies in the central receiving area of the darkened warehouse and wondered how on earth he would be able to pick out those Colonel Paroski wanted him to find.

  He switched on his torch, keeping the beam of light directed at the floor. It was doubtful, he thought, that the old man at the main gate, deep in a slumber induced by long daylight hours of labour in his fields, would awaken and notice anything. Most of the convoy personnel, including Spider, were in the cafe.

  Stopping at the foot of the wooden stairs, he was undecided as to where to start.

  He looked along the rows of racking. Professionals had assembled most of the pallet lo
ads; neat compact cubes of strong carton containers, enveloped in thick polythene wrapping and bound in place by substantial steel or plastic banding. However, keen but unskilled amateurs had assembled the others. Many of those boxes were torn, squashed and battered. Quite a few had burst and their contents protruded like the intestines of an alien. These would require repacking by the warehouse people before they could go anywhere.

  Wouldn’t like any of my stuff to be in those.

  Of course! He knew immediately where to look! No one shipping clandestine cargo could afford the risk of exposure by rough handling; therefore, it had to be in the well-packed containers. He scanned the rows. Pulling his knife from his pocket, he snapped it open and climbed up the outside of the racking of the nearest batch.

  Soon after he started, Crowther realized that he would find what he was looking for by feel and common sense. He need not open any boxes that looked too small or felt too light. Having climbed down and collected the material he would need to close the boxes, he soon developed a method of checking. He was pleased with his progress. However, it was only after three hours of searching, cutting each box open, removing the contents, examining and repacking, and finally resealing with heavy-duty adhesive tape, that he found the first items.

  Pulling aside the huge flaps of one pack, which the stencils stated contained processed peas, he removed the top layer of cartons and was about to remove the second when the weight indicated something far more substantial than peas. He undid one of the individual boxes and was nonplussed to see that it did indeed contain tins, each with a colourful illustration of peas.

  However, as he lifted the tins out, he noticed that the individual cans were too heavy.

  He glanced at his watch. Damn! It would soon be dawn. Fumbling in his haste, he clawed the tin opener blade free and gouged one of the tins open. Crowther almost whooped with glee but stifled it.