Memories were stirred.
On the map, at either side of the red line, Mladen wrote the names in pencil, made an avenue. He spoke gravely. The places awarded were to be held. There should be no stampede in pursuit of the man. He should be followed until he reached the place where the Widow’s husband, Petar and Tomislav’s sons and Andrija’s cousin had waited, where they had died and had been buried. Then it was work for the hired man. A query was raised, and a growled wave of approval followed it: why did they need the hired man, an outsider? He answered that complications might follow, that investigations would inevitably be started, that consequences might include arrest and trial, that payment had been made and that it was cleaner thus.
He looked around him. There was one man only from whom the leader would accept advice. Where was Josip? He searched the shadowed faces for the one-time fraudster with connections in the dark corners of organised crime and saw him, far back and against the counter. The face was impassive and the eyes showed neither support nor criticism… as if Josip disowned himself.
They shuffled off into the night.
Like him, many would go into their homes or down their gardens to sheds, or into bushes where a pavement slab was almost obscured and bring out or dig up the clothing they would wear and what they would carry.
Walking with Simun, Mladen could reflect that his planning for the morning would give the village what it craved: a spectacle. It was necessary for a leader to satisfy such cravings, but he couldn’t comprehend why Gillot would come.
She thought him undeserving of charity and herself without mercy. She was tipsy, but she could take a line on the carpet’s pattern and walk straight along the corridor. When she had left the group, she had gone past the desk and had asked Mr Gillot’s room number. She had been given it, and then had gone to her room.
What she would do was uncertain. That she would do something was not.
First thing, a hard knock on the door, repeated twice. She stood her ground and listened, heard a muffled voice: who was there? Megs Behan ‘was there’. What did Miss Behan want? To talk with him, to see him.
A clearer voice: what did she want to talk about?
‘About you, Mr Gillot, to see how you’re facing up to what’ll happen in the morning.’
She supposed the threat was implicit that she would stand four square in the hotel’s corridor, shout slogans, as she had outside the house on the Isle of Portland, and wake every guest not still in the bar. She had the slogans clear in her mind and the alcohol had loosened any inhibitions: she would bawl them – well, he was going to be killed in the morning and she had no compunction about making the last night of his life awful. She gathered her breath, readied herself, and the door opened. No warning, hadn’t heard a footstep. Just a sheet round him.
Almost a smile. A gesture: she should come in. Definitely a smile. She stared into it. The smile was on his lips, but also in his eyes, and it mesmerised her. There was half-light in the room from the moon. The sheet was loose and she couldn’t say how secure it was on his hips. Tried to sound casual: ‘Just wanted to know how you were. You know, because of what’s happening in the morning. They’ll kill you – no talk – just kill you. No fucking about. What I thought, Mr Gillot, was…’
She paused – gave him the opportunity to rail at her. Nothing.
‘What I thought was this. How many men, women and children, in Africa, the Middle East, Central America, Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iraq are going to die tomorrow having been killed by weapons that you supplied?’
Still the smile. No answer.
‘Come on, Mr Gillot, have a sporting guess. How many tomorrow? How many the same day that they kill you for cheating?’
‘A drink, Miss Behan?’
The sheet was lower at his waist, less secure, and he moved across to a cabinet, opened the door, revealed the built-in fridge and bent down.
She said, ‘I suppose the defence of people like you is, “If I don’t sell the guns someone else will.” That’s pathetic. Or are you going to say, “It’s not guns that kill but the people handling them”? It’s got mould on it. How about “I never do anything outside the law and I pay my taxes”?’
‘With ice or water, both or straight?’
‘Don’t you try and divert-’
‘Simple enough question.’
‘It’s a disgusting trade and anyone with half a degree of honesty and decency would acknowledge…’ She had barely realised it. The drink was in her hand. She thought that if he took another step the sheet would fall to the carpet, but he sat on the end of the bed. She hovered above him and launched in again: ‘But it’s not often that the biter’s bitten, and it’s you looking at the end of a barrel.’
She swigged, felt the whisky raw in her throat. She edged towards him as if that would help her dominate and destroy. ‘And maybe there’ll be a second, two seconds, when you’re in the same place as all the victims of those guns you sold, knowing what it is to be-’
She tripped. The Scotch flew up, the glass tipped in her hand and she was half on the bed. She saw what she’d stumbled on: a dark mass. He reached forward, picked it up and he held it where the silver moonlight came through the window. He said it was his vest. He pointed at the black blotches and said a handgun had fired twice at short range: without it he would at worst have been dead and at best a quadriplegic.
‘You lived. What of those who did not, killed by your guns? Any answers?’
The sheet was off him. He took the glass from her, crouched once more in front of the cabinet, tossed another miniature into the bin and gave it back to her. He sat on the bed and didn’t cover himself.
‘Have you seen what your profits achieve? Have you actually been to war yourself? Or do you just hide in luxury hotels and-’
‘Never. I’ve never heard a shot fired for real, except at me. Otherwise weapons are a commodity for me, Miss Behan.’
‘That is disgraceful, disgusting and…’ She hesitated, didn’t know what else would insult him.
‘I buy and sell, and most of those I sell to – ordinary people, not governments and army generals – are pretty grateful for what they get.’
‘Just despicable.’ That was the word. She was irked because he sat still and naked on the bed, in shadow, and didn’t respond. She drank, and wondered how it was to wear a vest and have two shots fired into your back.
‘I’ve never been in a battle. Sorry and all that.’ The smile broke through again, broad and almost affectionate. ‘You have, I’m sure, been in more battles, fights, conflicts, low-intensity stuff, insurgencies, border skirmishes than I’ve had hot dinners. You wouldn’t lecture me on the evils of arms dealing if you hadn’t known warfare at first hand.’
‘Utterly irrelevant.’
‘This isn’t some sort of interrogation, Miss Behan. You can decline to answer and keep your fingernails. I’ll try again.’
She flushed – might have been the sight of his body, or the Scotch. ‘You’re serving up bullshit, clever crap.’
‘You good on freedom, Miss Behan?’
‘What does that mean? More bull and crap?’
‘Freedom. You could say that I deal in freedom, Miss Behan.’ His head was down and his voice was soft.
‘That is ridiculous.’
‘Ever had a Guevara T-shirt?’
Doubtful, not knowing where it led, and brittle. ‘Once.’
‘And wore it until it fell apart, washing-machine fatigue. Great face, Che Guevara, great symbol. A “freedom fighter”, Miss Behan, heroically standing against Fascist dictatorships and military juntas, great guy. What did he fight with, Miss Behan? Might have been a toothbrush, might have been a hammer from a hardware shop, might have been a Scout’s knife… or it might have been the weapons that he was sold, likely at cut price, via the Cuban government.’
‘You can’t say that.’ She didn’t know what he could or couldn’t say. The whisky burned in her. Beyond the window the river ran silver, and the stone cross was proud, clean and brightly lit. And the smile on his face was for her.
‘The mujahideen in Afghanistan were fighting Soviet occupation and tyranny, and I was arming them. I’ve had
