irregulars had brought. He walked away from the village. There were magnolia flowers in the gardens of the last houses of the lane, and tulips were open and the blossom was heavy on the fruit trees. It was so clear in his mind, the memory of how they had carried him on their shoulders when they had elected him as commander of the Territorial Defence Force, just as they had carried him on their shoulders when the team had come back with the cup won from Karlovac Municipality. And so clear in his mind how the men had begged him, pleaded with him, for weapons to use in the attack on the village of the Ustase bastards across the stream. Not a man in the village who had not slapped his back in congratulation when he had walked back over the bridge from Rosenovici with the mud of the pit on his body. He had been the leader, he had issued the guns, he had brought the bulldozer to the field, he was responsible.
He walked in the watered sunlight beside the gardens of flowers.
It was like a closeness at his throat, because he was responsible … The weight of the pistol chafed against his hip. There were no tractors out that morning, and the animals were still in the barns, and the village boys who were too old for school had not shepherded out the sheep. And he was responsible for the silence and emptiness of the fields, because he had brought this fear to the village, and what was done could not be undone… His eyes searched the tree line. He was wondering whether they would come again, some day, in a month or a year or in his old age, and he was wondering whether his son would carry the Makharov pistol on his hip and search the same tree line for their approach. He walked beside the stream. It was his home, it was a place of beauty, and the tree line hemmed him in. The sunlight played patterns on the slow movement of the deep pool, and he saw the ripples of the trout's rise… A shout carried to him. He saw, distant, back at the edge of the village, the waving arms of Branko, calling him. He left behind him the stream's deep pool and the gathering spread of the ripples from the trout's rise. The Canadian policeman watched him come. There were no flowers on the grave. The grave was a mound of earth and at the end of it was a single stake. There was not even a cross for the grave. He stood beside the grave and he held the spectacles in his hand. In five months he would be back in his beloved Ontario, back in the brick house in Kingston that Melanie's father had built for them, and he did not know what he could tell Melanie and her father about the place he had been posted to… Couldn't tell Melanie and her father about the cruelty, nor about the bulldozed graveyards, nor about the poisoned wells, nor about the rape of grandmothers and the disembowelling of grandfathers and the bludgeoning of grandchildren, couldn't tell them that the smile which was adhesive to his face hurt far down in the pit of his soul. The wet mud of the new grave cloyed at his boots… Nor would he tell Melanie and her father about the Headmaster of a village school who had had his spectacles broken.
A small crowd confronted him. There were the faces that he always saw when he came to Salika, weathered faces, and amongst them, scattered with them, were the cold bearded men of the Arkanovici… If he had not made his report, if the Professor of Pathology had not been available for one day's digging, if he had not taken the window of opportunity, then, and it hurt the Canadian, the Headmaster might, probably would, have been alive… Nor would he talk to Melanie and her father about the hideous price paid by those who had gotten themselves involved… He'd told them to go fetch Milan Stankovic.
When Milan Stankovic was close to him, the Canadian turned and laid the new pair of spectacles on the grave's mound. It was something he had been really most proud of, getting the new spectacles made in Zagreb from the prescription, passed to him by the Political Officer, in just twenty-four hours. He had radioed the prescription through from Petrinja to the Ilica barracks in Zagreb and he had begged for urgency and in twenty-four hours the new spectacles had been brought to the crossing point on the road north of Petrinja. The sun burnished the lenses on the grave where there were no flowers…
His commissioner, the big guy from Alberta, back in the Ilica barracks liked to tell a story to the new guys coming to serve with UNCIVPOL. The commissioner had been down to Sector South, a one-night stand, and on the first day had found three old Croat women whose home was wrecked and whose well was polluted and who were starving. The commissioner had given them the bread and cheese that was the next day's lunch for his team. The commissioner's gift was witnessed. Four nights later, in the story the commissioner thought worth telling the new guys, the three old Croat women were shot to death… It was a story about trying to help and a story about screwing up.
He was not supposed to show emotion. He was not allowed to shout and curse. He stood to attention beside the grave, above the new spectacles. He turned smartly, his heel squelching the mud. He was supposed to smile, to celebrate little victories, he was allowed to smile. He fixed his smile at Milan Stankovic, then walked away from him, went to his jeep. He had made the bastard come from wherever, come running and panting, for a fucking smile. 'Good God…' The supercilious grin played at the mouth of the First Secretary. '… So the Warrior of Principle is pimping… The Soldier of Conscience is providing some home comforts…' He stood in the doorway, holding the passkey that the floor maid had given him, paid for with a packet of cigarettes. The curtains were still drawn and he saw the shape of the man on the bed, bare-chested, asleep, and there was a woman crouched over him who stared back like a cat cornered with a rabbit. '… And fancy finding you here, my little friend, fancy finding your little snout in the trough.' But Hamilton, the loathsome Sidney Ernest Hamilton, code-named 'Freefall' on the file header, was between the First Secretary and the bed, and 'Freefall' Hamilton had a damned ugly rifle across his knees. Before he'd seen the rifle, his intention had been to get across the room, shake the sleep off the bloody man, and kick him smartest out into the corridor, down the stairs, to reception for account settling, and a sharp drive to the airport… that was his intention, before he saw the rifle. He saw the empty bottles close to Hamilton, and he recalled the file in the safe of his room at the embassy with six pages on an incident in a bunker at Osijek, a drunken shooting. The First Secretary held back. The growling hungover voice, 'What do you want?' 'I want him on the plane. I'm going to put him on the first plane.' 'He's going this afternoon.' 'First plane, my little friend… and I don't have time for a debate.' Which was truth. The First Secretary had little time. He had a meeting with the monitoring officers, and he was late for it, and they had access to useful areas of raw intelligence. And he had a session, which had taken him seven weeks to fix, with the brigadier commanding Croatian military intelligence who was a bad old bastard from Tito times and who knew his trade. But he was wary of a rifle in the hands of a man who was hungover drunk. 'So, a bit of action, please.'
'You should let him sleep.'
Hamilton, horrible little 'Freefall', crabbed his way to the window and the rifle was dragged with him. Horrible little 'Free-fall' caught the curtains and pulled them apart, letting light into the hotel room. The woman, the cat cornered with a rabbit and threatened, hovered over the sleeping man.
'Christ… who did that to him?'
The First Secretary saw the wounds and the discoloured bruises and the scars. He felt sickness in his throat. Penn's breathing was regular and his face was at peace. The First Secretary knew enough of what happened in sunny former Yugoslavia to an enemy. He gagged the vomit back. He remembered Penn, coming to his office.
The First Secretary said, 'You will bring him to the airport, the 1500 hours flight. I'll see him onto the plane. You get him there.. .'
The curtains were pulled shut again.
'… He'll be there, Hamilton, or I'll break you.'
The aircraft banked.
She was reading the bones of '(2) Ambit of Criminal Jurisdiction, Paragraph 62I/Extra Territorial Jurisdiction', and slipping on to 'Paragraph 622/Sources and Rationale of Territorial Jurisdiction'.
The aircraft levelled out, west from Zagreb.
She was reading for the last time the pencilled written notes under the heading of '3. Offences Against the Person, (1) Genocide, Paragraph 424', and her eyes slid across the pages to 'H. Offences Committed Abroad', and 'sub-section 4, sub-paragraph 1 Murder (see para 431 and sec post)'.
The aircraft was losing height.
She was reading quickly, reminding herself of '(3) Geneva Red Cross Conventions, 1864'. Turning through 'The Geneva Conventions, (3) The Convention Relative to the Treatment of
Prisoners of War'. Riffling through '(4) The Convention Relative to the Protection of Civilians in Time of War'.
The aircraft wallowed over the end of the runway.
She was reading the last page of the young barrister's notes, learning them so they were ingrained, Treatment of the Wounded etc, Paragraph 1869/General Protection… At all times, and particularly after an engagement, parties to a conflict must take measures to search for and collect the wounded, sick and shipwrecked,
