stretched down the street and round the corner. A few at a time were admitted to the hidden buildings behind the wall. Many of those who queued would fail to reach the front of the line before the offices closed. Few of those allowed inside would be given entry to a Promised Land. Down by the Miljacka river, a shorter queue of men jostled at the door of the Slovenian embassy, also looking for a route out of a doomed country.
There were no queues waiting for the shops to open on Mula Mustafe Baseskije and Saraci and
Bravadziluk Halaci. The windows displaying designer clothes brought in from outside were looked into, but the tills did not ring and the fitting rooms stay I'd empty. The boutiques gave an impression of vibrant wealth, but it was bogus. No one could afford the dresses, blouses, skirts and lingerie; most items would have cost a civil servant a year's salary.
The street markets were full from early morning when the stalls were set up to late afternoon when they were taken down and little pick-up trucks drove away with what had not been sold. The produce – cabbage, potatoes, carrots, beans, onions, peas – came from across the southern frontiers, because the country was still locked in winter's frosts. On other stalls there were clothes that had been smuggled in, no duty paid; they were cheap and thin, would not have kept out the morning's cold or the evening's rain. Everything in the markets came from abroad because the small factories, five years after the war's end, had not been rebuilt.
On the steps of the buildings appropriated for the use of the international community, foreign men and foreign women gathered to smoke their cigarettes, most of which had been bought on the black market.
Marlboro, Winston and Camel cigarettes, brought by high-speed launches from Italy or driven in from Serbia, were smoked on the steps of the buildings used by the Commission of Property Claims of Displaced Persons, the European Bank for Re-construction, the International Committee of the Red Cross, the International Labour Office and the International Monetary Fund… and the Office of the High Representative, the Office of the Human Rights Ombudsman and the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe… and the United Nations Children's Fund, the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia and the World Food Programme… and the United States Agency for International Development and the International Crisis Group. Men and women snatched short breaks, then ground out their cigarettes and went back to administering the country's every heartbeat. Roads, bus timetables, postage rates, sewage disposal, the design of banknotes, television programme schedules
– the life of the city was in the hands of those foreigners, this day and every day.
Romany beggars haunted the streets and crouched on corners beside war-maimed veterans who let their amputated limbs be seen, but their upturned caps and little cardboard boxes went unfilled. The city had no time for charity.
Government ministers swept between their homes and offices in bomb-proof cars. The black Mercedes of the gangsters raced on the narrow streets. Italian troops, bored near to sleep, patrolled as a show but had no power of arrest and had orders to avoid provocation.
In the street cafes, young men made a thimble of espresso or a can of Coca-Cola last an hour and swapped gossip on the best ways to gain admission to an Austrian, German or Scandinavian university.
Nothing much happened.
The Eel drove Mister along the Zmaja od Bosne, past the Holiday Inn, to Tower A of the UNIS building complex on Fra Andela Zvizdovica.
Compartments again ruled his mind. Stacked at the back of his thoughts, and ignored, were the matters involving Serif and the deal, the death of his friend and the blood-laced face of an addict. As they came down what Atkins had called Snipers' Alley past ruins and shell-holed blocks, Mister was pondering what lorries from Bosnia with Love could bring into the city, and what they could take out. He was rested and sleeping well, but he had slept well in his cell in Brixton. He slept well because the shadow of failure did not exist in Mister's mind.
From the Cruncher's calls to London, he had a name.
He dropped down from the lorry cab. It had been the Cruncher's idea to paint the slogan 'Bosnia with Love' on the trailer's sides. When the trade was up and running, the lorry, and others, needed to be recognized, known. He saw three towers. Two were still fire-gutted and open to the weather. Tower A had lights burning in the bottom half of its floors and above he saw men working precariously. He went into a cavernous hallway, gave the name at a reception desk and was told which floor he should go to, also that he should take the stairs as the lift wasn't operating. Before Cruncher had reported on it, Mister had never heard of the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. After five flights of concrete steps he came to a landing. He straightened his quiet tie and smoothed his hair. He felt good. He asked for her at the security desk, and said what he'd brought.
She came out through an inner door, and her smile of welcome and relief hit him – a bright light in darkness. 'I'm Monika Holberg, a field officer but based in Sarajevo canton, and you are my white knight. Your name is?'
'I'm Packer. Mister Packer.'
'I am so delighted to see you because you have the lorry, you have what I need.'
'I have a lorry, Miss Holberg, and it is filled to overflowing with clothes, toys, everything that people at home thought would be wanted in Bosnia by those less fortunate than themselves.'
It was only a small untruth. The lorry was not
'overflowing'. Against the bulkhead at the back of the trailer was the empty space where the launchers and missiles, the handguns and the communications sets had been. She gripped his hand. In business he dealt with few women… only the Princess, in whom he confided everything. He went to his sisters, with the Eagle, when their signatures were needed for property contracts and bond purchases. At an associate's house he made it crystal plain that the women should be out of the room. He was never sure about women, except the Princess – never certain that they felt the same ties of loyalty as men, and that in interview rooms, late at night, battered by the questions of detectives in relays, they would stare at the ceiling and stay quiet.
She dropped his hand and her enthusiasm gushed.
'I am so grateful, so happy – it is what your friend, Mr Dubbs, said you would bring?'
'Just what he said. Would you like to come and look?'
She bounded down the stairs. Her blond hair bounced on her anorak's collar. He had to scramble to keep up with her. She wore no makeup. His sisters, all past their fiftieth birthdays, and the brat girls they'd produced, all carried handbags full of powders and scent squeezers and mascara brushes. They tripped along on heels. She went down the stairs, two steps at a time, on muddied old walking-boots. He struggled to keep up. She was waiting for him at the bottom of the last flight, grinning and arching her eyebrows and he was laughing. He didn't laugh often, but the droll grin and the eyebrows forced it from him. They crossed the hall. On the outside steps he whistled for the Eel's attention in the lorry cab, and pointed to the rear doors of the trailer. When the Eel opened them for her, she scrambled up athletically, and began to rip the adhesive binding tape off the first cardboard box.
Sweaters, jackets, knitted woollen socks, coats, trousers, all were thrown up, then stuffed back. She looked into the depth of the trailer and her gaze hovered on the stacked boxes.
'They are all like this one?'
'Best as I know it, they are – but there's everything.
It's not just clothes, it's toys too.'
'Fantastic – it is marvellous!'
Her eyes were alight. Mister lived in a world where enthusiasm was forbidden, and gratitude made debts.
Mister shrugged. 'I'm glad it's all going to help.'
'It is what I needed.'
She dropped down from the trailer. He didn't offer his hand to steady her – she wouldn't have needed it.
Mister said, 'I'm pleased it's wanted. I honestly thought you'd have more of this sort of stuff than you could handle-'
She interrupted him, seemed to think nothing of cutting him short. 'Once, yes, but not now. It is 'donor fatigue'. People are tired, abroad, of giving to Bosnia.
They see no benefit and hear nothing good. They give to East Timor and Kosovo, and a little to Chechnya.
There was a window for Bosnia and people looked in, were sympathetic and gave, but the window is now closed. The refugees suffer as much now as when the window was open. The need is as great, but the goodwill does not exist.'
'I'm glad to be-'
'I used to have warehouses filled by the generosity of people in Europe, even in America, but they are empty
