leaning, was safe while they remained in Kosovo.
Cano gained experience in the use of explosives. It became his preferred method of attacking his enemy, and it was after one such deadly ambush that he ran foul of a small group of British SAS troopers. This encounter left him with scars both mental and physi cal, and another private hate for him to nurture.
Cano was very particular about his explosive ambushes: he went to great lengths to calculate the maximum death and destruction that he could inflict. His preferred locations were busy roads with earth banks in which large holes could be dug and filled with ordnance such as artillery shells and mines. There were plenty of those in Kosovo. An electrical deton ator was then attached to a camouflaged command wire that trailed to a point of concealment where Cano and his men could safely hide while simultaneously observing the ambush location. All they needed to do then was wait for a convoy to pass by. Cano tried to avoid hitting NATO vehicles – not that he cared about killing their soldiers. However, some NATO outfits made an effort to find the perpetrators of such ambushes whereas killing just Serbs seemed to provoke little reaction.
One particular afternoon, on seeing a convoy of NATO-protected cars, lorries, tractors and vans winding its way along a valley road towards his ambush spot, Cano selected for destruction several tarp-covered old military trucks in the centre of the column. They were, of course, filled with civilians.
The detonation ripped through the vehicles, shredding their canvas coverings and the occupants. On paper the action did not appear uncommonly spectacular since the report simply described an explosion that killed seven, including two children, and wounded twenty-four. For the survivors who had to deal with the carnage it was horrifying beyond belief. More than a dozen of the wounded died within days of the report, and though none of the NATO escort had been physically hurt, several were later sent home suffering from psychological trauma.
Most of the seriously injured were women and children – faces torn off, burst eyes, numerous ampu tations – and then there were those who had lost their minds. Few sights are more disturbing than a mother holding the shattered body of her child, so utterly bereft that her life has lost all meaning.
Six men from G Squadron 22 SAS, all carrying heavy backpacks and webbing laden with ordnance and equipment, happened to be in the area and arrived at the scene twenty minutes after hearing the explosion. They quickly set about helping the wounded while the team commander, a sergeant, made a security sweep.
It was not long before he found the detonation wire and traced it to the command site in a clump of bushes on the crest of a hill a couple of hundred metres away. The troop’s operational directive was to set up an observation position by dawn the following day in an area several miles away. Since they had ample time, and to a man were appalled by the attack, they agreed to spend the daylight they had left carrying out a follow-up on the off chance of finding the killers.
The tracks from the command post headed across soft, moist ground towards a wood on a crest that overlooked the next valley. It was estimated that there were no more than seven or eight different sets of boot prints. Shortly before last light the team emerged from a wood on the flat valley floor to see the tracks leading towards a small hamlet of half a dozen assorted brick and wooden buildings a quarter of a mile away. The ground was open for several miles beyond, with no sign of life. Having calculated that the team was little more than ten minutes or so behind their quarry, the SAS men thought it was fair to assume the ambushers had stopped in the hamlet.
The SAS troopers spread out as they crossed the open field, weapons ready in their hands, fingers on the guns’ trigger guards, safety catches off. NATO troops had been ambushed in the past by KLA units – wrongly identified as such, according to the Albanians afterwards – and the troopers were not about to get caught unawares. They traversed a fence and a ditch before closing in again on one of the nearest buildings, a dilapidated breeze-block structure. They went to ground to listen and observe, the first pro cedure on arrival at a target, and remained still, as if they were part of the landscape, not making a sound.
Five minutes later a man walked out of the largest building in the centre of the hamlet, a barn or warehouse with a rotting wooden roof, and stood in the open to urinate. He glanced around as he did his business but not with any great interest, unaware that several pairs of eyes were watching him through telescopic rifle sights. The man’s military fatigues were old and in need of a wash and the shoulder flashes immediately gave him away as a member of the KLA. He was joined by a similarly dressed man from the other side of the hamlet who was carrying firewood. As they went back into the barn-style building the SAS sergeant signalled his team to close in on the structure from two sides. As they reached the corners of the wall where the door through which the men had entered was situated they could hear voices coming from inside.
There was no sentry outside, indicating the group’s lack of professionalism as well as their confidence that they had not been followed. The door was the only entrance to the building: there was no other escape route except for a window at the rear which was high in the wall and more of a vent and source of light than anything else. No one would have time to get through it, anyway.
The troopers removed their large packs, left them in two piles back from the building’s corners, moved forward to gather either side of the door and, after a brief test to check that it was unlocked, on the sergeant’s nod pushed the door open and walked in. They quickly cleared the doorway so as not to be silhouetted in it and spread out along the interior wall their mixture of M203 (M16s with under-slung grenade launchers) and M3 assault rifles levelled as the last man turned to cover the outside just in case an unexpected visitor arrived.
The KLA fighters, seven of them, all men, were sitting around in various states of relaxation and undress, most with their boots off, obviously planning on staying the night, while a couple were lighting a fire in the centre of the dirt floor. Cano was in a far corner, leaning back against a bare breeze-block wall and lighting a slender cheroot when his dark-eyed gaze shot towards the door as it opened.
The Albanians faced the unwelcome intruders, a couple of the KLA men reaching automatically for their weapons. Then they suddenly froze as they realised that these soldiers were NATO – and not run-of-the-mill squaddies, either. This group had a battle-honed maturity about them and a confidence to match. More dangerous even than that, something about their postures and expressions conveyed a willingness to open fire at the slightest provocation.
‘Go ahead,’ said the tall, powerfully built red-headed sergeant, a man whose experience in SAS matters spanned some fifteen years, from Central and South America in the late 1980s and the first Gulf War in the early 1990s to various minor operations since in the Middle East and Africa. ‘This sodding country may be lawless but that works both ways – and no one’s gonna miss you fuckers for a second.’
The Albanians stayed still. Although only a couple of them understood what the English north-countryman with his strong accent had said they all seemed to have got the gist of it.
The sergeant was aware that his assessment of the legal aspect of the conflict was not entirely accurate. If he carried out his threat the result would, if discovered, be denounced as a British atrocity. But he was confident that the Albanians would apply their own brand of common sense to the statement and believe every word of it.
‘Who’s the leader here?’ the sergeant asked.
Cano was far smarter than the rest of his men: he actually understood the legal basis of the NATO occupation. But the sergeant had assessed him accurately insofar as Cano had no respect for any law and trusted no one who said they did. He got slowly to his feet, watching the sergeant, wondering what kind of man he was and if murder was something that came easily to him. Cano had spoken hardly a word of English before NATO had arrived in his country but as the first American F16s screamed across his skies he had started to learn. He realised that it would be a wise Albanian who at this point in history knew the tongue of the most recent invaders, the language of the richest and most powerful country in the world.
Cano had guessed that these men, though, were British rather than American even before the leader had spoken. Furthermore, their unusually long hair and several days of facial growth, plus their webbing and weapons indicated that they were special forces. He himself had been trained by American special forces and knew the difference. He had seen men like these on the roads and in the countryside when they had usually been carrying large packs. It was known that they often patrolled for days, sometimes weeks, in all weathers, doing what he had no idea, although of late he had suspected that they were spying on KLA activities. Now he knew for sure and cursed himself for not being more vigilant when he and his men had escaped from the ambush site.
‘I am in charge,’ Cano answered in broken English as those of his men who had been sitting got to their feet. They were all strong and hard-looking. Had this been a bare-fist fight they might have given the SAS a run for their money. But that was never going to happen.
The red-headed sergeant let his gaze fall on Cano. He did not look pleased to see him. ‘Come ’ere,’ he
