she wasn't an interpreter, and that any judge spoke English. He heard a light squealing sound, metal on metal without oil, before the door was opened.
Inside, the room was chaos. It was a disaster area of failed organization, a home for lost files. A dull single bulb, without a shade, hung from a ceiling that was a trellis of cracks. What he could see of the walls, above the piled files, showed more cracks but wider ones.
There was a desk at the far end and, half hidden by more files that formed a barricade to mask his chest, a small man peered at him over half-moon spectacles.
Above the man, behind him, was a faded framed photograph, spider's web lines in the glass, showing the man in younger days, a handsome woman and a girl child, with pretty hair and in a party frock, holding flowers. Near to the photograph, hanging from a nail, was a calendar with last year's date on it, now being recycled because there were fresh ink notes in the days' boxes. At the side of the room, under a narrow window that was smeared on the inside where failed attempts had been made to clean it, and opaque on the outside, was a smaller desk dominated by an old computer screen, something from the Ark or a museum. From the ceiling to the floor, from the crack lines and the dim light to the worn apology for a carpet, the boards that needed staining and the electric fire where a single bar glowed dismally, he took in the scene. The man wore an overcoat and the smell of damp and dirt clogged in Joey's nostrils.
'Zdravo… Da?'
Maggie had told him what to say. 'Zovem se Joey Cann. Gavorite li engleski, molim?'
'Yes, I speak English, a little. My daughter speaks it better.'
Joey heard the squealing sound. He turned his head sharply. The young woman had been hidden by the open door. It was the wheelchair that needed oil. He would not have recognized her but he knew in-stinctively that it was her face in the photograph. Her complexion was so very pale and there was a desperate tiredness in her eyes. He felt ashamed of staring at her. Her thin blonde hair was tied loosely behind her head, and he saw the power of her shoulders, which would have strengthened to compensate for her disability. The smile was radiant.
'I am Jasmina. You have come to see my father, Judge Delic. We do not have much time before court.
How may we help, Mr Cann?'
'I'll try not to waste your time.' He remembered what he had been told. 'I'm an executive officer of British Customs and Excise. I work in the section that's called the National Investigation Service. Our work deals with the most serious cases of organized crime involving the importation into Great Britain of class A drugs. When we go abroad, in order that any evidence we obtain should be legally admissible in our court, we must have the appropriate permission from a local person in authority, who can be a judge.'
He breathed out, tried to relax.
'I was given your name. I need your help. In the UK we have a Target One, Albert William Packer. He is first among equals for trafficking in class A narcotics.
He would regard himself as an untouchable. We are clutching at straws, having most recently failed to convict him. He arrives in Sarajevo this afternoon. We don't know why he is coming here, what he is attempting to set up, or who he will meet. Our experience has shown us that when our major criminals are abroad they behave with greater confidence. It's when they make mistakes. I have to say that Packer makes mistakes rarely. He may open a small window for us, and he may not. We need the authorization for what we call 'intrusive surveillance'. I'm asking you for that authorization.'
Maggie Bolton had told him that a judge who co-operated with the Mafia drove a big car and lived in a big apartment – and that a judge who did not co-operate was machine-gunned or car-bombed.
'He's a bad man, sir. His place is in prison with the key thrown away. His wealth, from the drugs trade, is estimated at around one hundred and fifty million American dollars. We regard him as a prime enemy of our society. If I had done this properly, by the book, the Justice Ministry of Bosnia-Herzegovina would have been contacted by our embassy and – being frank with you, sir – the probability is that I would have been shuffled into the office of a senior civil servant, given cups of coffee, and put off while bureaucracy slowly turned over, and there would have been requests for more information, and I'd have kicked my heels and our Target One would have done his business and gone home. I accept, sir, that we have taken a liberty in involving you. I am in your hands.'
And Maggie had also told him that one judge was useless, insignificant, did not get involved, lived in squalor, and was a judge to trust.
'Last week, the day that our case against Target One failed, the body of his financial associate was taken from the river in Sarajevo. He would have been preparing the ground for his chief man. At the time the associate flew here, Target One was on trial, but his network of intimidation and corruption in Britain guaranteed that he would be freed. This is, possibly, a considerable opportunity for us.'
The voice of the judge growled at him. 'What was the name of the associate?'
'Duncan Dubbs. If you refuse me, then I quite understand. I'm poorly informed on Sarajevo but informed enough to appreciate the difficulties I'm creating for you. There is no threat to me in the UK. I have never felt in personal danger. You will not see me standing in judgement if you tell me that you cannot help and do not wish to be implicated in an investigation of this sort. I have to assume that our Target One will meet, deal with, a principal figure in this city's organized-crime network. That makes for involvement. I'll be going home. I won't be here if there are consequences.'
'An authorization for surveillance from me?'
'That's what I'm asking for, sir.'
Joey didn't know whether he had won through or whether he had failed. He felt the silence in the room press around him. If a judge had come to London from Sarajevo or Zagreb, Budapest or Bucharest, Sofia or Prague, he would have been passed round the Foreign and Commonwealth or the Home Office, pushed into obscure corners of New Scotland Yard or the Custom House, would have been treated with the dignity accorded to an unwelcome blow-in. Judge Delic, wearing the deep frown of a troubled man, ferreted among the papers on his desk. Then came the persistent and rhythmless tapping of his pencil point on the desk top. He looked at his daughter. Joey heard the scrape of the wheels behind where he stood. Then she propelled herself to her father and handed him a file. Joey did not dare to hope. The judge's face was expressionless as he opened the file, but Joey saw her face and the way her jaw jutted out as if in a demonstration of defiance. The piece of paper in the judge's hand was small enough to have been torn from a notepad, and it was encased in a cellophane sachet.
He looked at the piece of paper for a long time.
She asked, 'Da?… Ne?'
Joey had said that he would be going home and would not be there to see the consequences. He thought he had asked too much.
Judge Delic nodded. 'Da.'
She said, 'My father says yes. I will type it for you, Mr Cann, and my father will sign it, the authorization.'
'Thank you.'
She wheeled herself to the small desk by the window, switched on the computer. After an age while it warmed, the machine clattered under her fingers. Joey had nothing to say. The judge never raised his eyes, but he shivered under his overcoat.
Joey stared at the floor, following the lines of the carpet's trodden-down threads, and thought of the man due to arrive in Sarajevo, who reckoned himself an untouchable.
She worked the printer and brought the pages to him. He leaned over the desk and wrote his and Maggie Bolton's names in the spaces provided, then she gave them to her father and he signed each sheet briskly, before pushing them away as if they were a nagging dream that might wound him. She put the stamp on the document of authorization.
'Thank you, sir.'
'To be used with discretion.'
'Of course, sir.'
Joey Cann's promise of discretion was worth nothing. If evidence were found, if Target One were held, then the authorization would be in the public domain in open court. There were telephone lines, fax lines, e-mail lines between London and Sarajevo. With his scrawled signature, Judge Delic had compromised himself, and would have known it. The promise was empty. The judge had turned away and was staring up at the photograph of a family. Jasmina told Joey of the telephone number on the pad beside Duncan Dubbs's hotel bed, that the number had been
