for sport there.
More on the agenda concerning the electricity supply across the cease-fire line: deadlock. The sort of agenda item on which Stankovic would usually have shouted his opposition, hammered the table. The matter of the woman, Croatian-American, who had travelled from Chicago for her mother's funeral at Topusko, and been kept waiting three days in Zagreb with no permission for entry into Sector North granted, until after the burial and no explanation. The sort of matter on which Stankovic would usually have sneered contempt.
The Intelligence Officer anticipated sport.
They had been through the litany of cease-fire violations. A sentry, frozen and lone, looses off a single shot. A section, bored, responds with a mortar round. A platoon, angry, replies with an artillery piece. A company, furious, loads up an Organj multiple rocket launcher… The sort of litany on which Stankovic would usually shoot his mouth off.
There had to be good sport because Stankovic was sullen, head hanging.
The Intelligence Officer came round the table and he held the coffee cup in his hand. He eased himself onto the table, sitting casual, beside the big bowed shoulders of Milan Stankovic.
'Hello, Milan… Bit quiet today… How's Evica? My wife always tells me to ask after her… Managing, is she? I heard her school was short of books, but then you're short of everything… Must have been shit, through the winter, without the power…'
He watched the hands fidgeting and the body hunched, and the Serb's eyes avoided his own.
'… We're quite well on with the new co-operative building, out on the Ilovac road, good position and close to the Zagreb highway… Your farmers happy? You built a new co-operative? No? Well, maybe next year, maybe some time…'
There was clearly a personal burden there for the Intelligence Officer to scratch at. He probed, and sipped his coffee.
'… You know what people ask me, friends who know I come to the meetings, the ones who used to know you? What they ask is this. That Milan Stankovic, the clerk once but the big man now, what does he think his future is? I've an idea of the future, long-term, because nothing will be forgotten. What I tell my friends, the people who ask me, it may not happen in my lifetime nor in yours, the vengeance, but my son will come for your son because it will never be erased…'
He wondered if it was shame that he saw, or whether it was fear. He imagined his quiet voice as a knife between the blades of Milan Stankovic's shoulders.
'… I nearly forgot to say. I'd have kicked myself if I'd forgotten to say it. There are questions being asked about you, your name is mentioned. I suppose if you hadn't been in Belgrade then you would have been able to prevent it, but you were in Belgrade when they dug for the bodies of our wounded that were killed after Rosenovici fell. That was a mistake, you being away in Belgrade. I'm told they're filling a file on you, Milan… There was a bigger mistake…'
The Intelligence Officer was bent over Milan Stankovic. Good sport. He whispered the words into the ear of Milan Stankovic.
'Time I was getting on, time I was back in Karlovac. Not too bad there because we've got power. Please tell Evica that my wife wanted to be remembered to her… They're asking questions, filling a file. Killing the English girl, Milan, that was a serious mistake…'
They talked quietly in the guardroom. They sat away from the scratched steel door of the cell.
Branko, passing his cigarettes: 'It was the same bag in the police jeep… the same bag, white plastic, as was in the Dubelj hag's home. The goddamn bastards brought more food.'
Milo, stubbing his own cigarette, taking another: 'It wasn't that fucker's hands. You saw his nails, I saw his nails. Wasn't his bastard nails, was a woman's.'
Stevo, striking the match: 'We go back tonight, skip the music shit, we go back tonight until we find her, until she comes back down into that pig place…'
They smoked, they flicked their hands of playing cards on the table, they ignored the man behind the steel door of the cell, they waited for the return of Milan Stankovic.
She had come back to the crossing point at Turanj.
She had again left the Transit Centre and driven to the crossing point and parked her car, and waited. The convoy of the aid lorries, returning empty, should have been through an hour before. If the convoy had left Knin promptly and made good time, then it might have been through an hour and a half before. She stared up the road from where the Croat militia stood, and the light had started to dip. She looked up the hill, up beyond the small san gar of whitewashed sandbags where the troops of the Nigerian battalion had their machine gun, up towards the defence positions of the Serb militia, where their flag flew, and on the hill, greying in the low light, would be their trenches and their strong points and their mortars and artillery. Each time she glanced down at her watch and realized the convoy was delayed, then the fear tripped in her. If the convoy was late then it would be because of a security alert… if there was a security alert it would be because of a discovered infiltration… if there was a discovered infiltration it would be because Penn was hunted… Each time she looked at her watch the ratchet of her fear turned. If nobody did anything, if everybody just wrung their hands, if nobody acted, if everybody said that action was impossible, then the camps of the Neuengamme Ring could be built again, then the wickedness could come again. She saw the car come slowly to the far checkpoint and stop… If the big men of the chancelleries and ministries did nothing, then only the little men could try to halt the wickedness… The car came on from the far checkpoint and stopped again at the NigBatt san gar.. . Penn was the little man and was alone, and behind the lines, and trying… The car came forward, going faster, between the rubble of the fought-over village of Turanj.
She was apart from the militia checkpoint, and when the car reached them the militia men pointed to her, and there were smiles on their faces and she imagined they called her the 'silly bitch' or the 'daft whore'.
The door of the car opened. She knew the Liaison Officer. He was often at the meetings she attended at the Karlovac Municipality.
He came to her. Perhaps it was something in her face, but the smirk was wiped off him.
'You have a problem, what is the problem?'
'Why is the British convoy late?'
'A difficulty down the road…'
Said breathily, 'What difficulty?'
'A route interference, they have had to divert. Why do you ask?'
'What is the interference?'
'Some kids, mines, near to Slunj… Why do you ask?'
'No difficulty in the Glina area, nor near to Vrginmost?'
'It is the usual interference, and the Glina area is quieter than the grave…'
'You are sure…?'
'I am returning, Miss Schmidt, from the liaison meeting with the people from Glina Municipality. There is no difficulty in that area, the difficulty is at Slunj. May I repeat, please, my question… Why do you ask?'
'It's not important.'
It was only the first beating.
Starting with a slap, then punches, then kicks.
But he had not been burned.
It was the fire that the Headmaster dreaded. The flame would be the worst.
He had known Milan Stankovic through all of the young man's life, known his mother and his father before they had gone to live in Belgrade.
The Headmaster had once liked Milan, when the boy was the basketball star of the village school, when the young man had been the hero performer of the Glina Municipality team. He had always had time for Milan Stankovic before the war…
All through that day he had lain in his cell and waited for Milan Stankovic's return from the liaison meeting, and he had thought of the fire against his body… It had been just slapping and punching and kicking so far, and he had held the secret tight in his mind.
Only staccato questions, not an interrogation.
When the interrogation came, then there would be the fire against his skin… But he did not understand why Milan Stankovic had shown no appetite for hurting him, and he had seen between the slaps and punches and kicks
