A Spy's Life (14 page)

‘Espionage? What has this got to do with espionage?’

‘Didn’t I mention that? Alan Griswald told me on the phone that the man he was investigating had important relationships with several intelligence services. I’m afraid I didn’t ask which intelligence services because I thought we would be able to discuss it in person.’

‘So what do you intend to do, sir?’

Jaidi paused and aimed a boyish smile at him.

‘Well’ – he took another biscuit – ‘I was hoping that you would help. Your report on the water resources must be nearly complete. Is that right?’

Harland nodded.

‘I was going to propose an extension of that contract, during which you’ll find out who Alan Griswald was investigating. I believe things will follow on from there. Get that evidence and the people who caused the crash will not have won.’

‘But,’ protested Harland, ‘even if I was to consider this, you’re being wildly optimistic about my chances of success.’

‘You underestimate yourself, Mr Harland. You’re already doing what I am formally asking you to do.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘But what?’

‘I have no authority.’

‘You have my authority. You will be my personal representative, which still carries a little weight in some places. You will have a letter that states you are my representative and requests the cooperation of the government of any member state or agency thereof that you believe can help in your inquiries. This should be used only as a last resort because I would prefer that our arrangement remains
sub rosa
. You will learn far more that way. Shall we say an extension of current terms for six months? Afterwards you can deliver the water ownership report to me. Of course, in the long run that is the more important issue, but I’m afraid this is the more pressing one.’

Harland couldn’t see a way out of it. Besides, he had already promised Sally Griswald that he would do much of what Jaidi was asking of him.

‘Suppose I agree to this, how will it operate? Do you want regular reports?’

‘You can call me any time, but you will liaise with Sean Kennedy. I suggest you go and see him now. He’s aware of the proposal I’m making to you and has your letter of authority.’

‘Okay, but I’ve got my doubts whether I’ll find out anything for you.’

‘Naturally you do.’ Jaidi stood up. The interview was clearly over. Harland rose also and followed him into the corridor. ‘I don’t know how to say this,’ Jaidi said, putting his hand out to shake Harland’s, ‘but it looks like this story is making its way to you. Call it what you will – destiny or just plain bad luck – but events seem to be reaching out to you, Harland. Much better that you go forward and meet them, don’t you think? We’ll be in touch after Christmas.’ With a fleeting smile he turned and slipped back into his office.

Harland looked at his watch. It was three o’clock – nine in Europe. He knew he had missed speaking to Sara Hezemanns; he would have to call the next day. Realising he now had little time before having to leave for JFK, he hurried off to find Sean Kennedy’s office in one of the backwaters of the third floor.

Boris was right. Kennedy had a distinctly Clintonian hairstyle, a bouffant of wire wool, obviously kept in place by a daily application of lacquer. Harland noticed a slight sheen as he stepped forward to greet him with a handshake that was meant to be eloquent of Kennedy’s no-nonsense masculinity.

‘I knew you’d agree to the Secretary-General’s proposal,’ he said. ‘Hell, this is the guy who persuaded a room full of Balkan mass murderers to demonstrate their national dances.’

Harland was already sure that he didn’t like Kennedy. ‘Has anyone spoken to Bézier’s number in France?’ he asked abruptly.

‘No.’

‘You mean his relatives haven’t been informed?’

‘No, not as yet.’

‘Well, who’s going to do that?’

‘I thought we could discuss that now.’

‘You mean you want me to do it?’

‘Well, if you’re going to be working on this thing, it would be for the best.’

Harland thought for a moment, then picked up the phone to Marika.

‘Cancel my flight to London. I want the first available plane to Toulouse in France.’

‘How do you know it’s Toulouse?’ asked Kennedy.

‘I checked the number. It’s from the Carcassonne area. Toulouse is the best airport at this time of year.’

‘Right.’

‘I’m going to call whoever is on that phone number this afternoon. Then I want some back-up. Whatever is available in the way of insurance or hardship allowance must go to these people. And I want someone to call and explain these benefits as soon as I have been to see them. That must happen before Christmas.’

‘Yes, I’m sure that’s possible. I’ll talk to the relevant department.’

‘Next, I want a complete run-down of Griswald’s cases from the War Crimes Tribunal – all his past investigations. I’ll also need an idea of the set-up at the War Crimes Tribunal – the structure and personalities. You can send both these to my e-mail address. Naturally, you will not give them any idea why this material is needed. They are bound to suspect something, but nobody should know I’m working on this.’

Kennedy nodded. ‘Pity about the disc,’ he said, trying to regain the upper hand.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Harland tersely. He wasn’t going to tell Kennedy there was a copy. ‘Now, can you talk to Ollins and tell him that we are all in this together. He needs to share any information he gets. And I will do likewise. Tell him I will call him in the next few days. I have his numbers. Now all I want from you is the letter of authority from the Secretary-General and the fax roll that you took from my office this morning, plus any copies you have made.’

A few minutes later, Harland was back in his own office. He shut the door and thought for a long time about what he was going to say. Then he picked up the phone and dialled the number in France.

10

TWO OFFICERS

The phone rang for a full minute before a woman answered. Harland asked whether he was speaking to Madame Bézier.

‘No,’ replied the woman, suspiciously. ‘There is no Madame Bézier. This is Colonel Bézier’s residence.’

‘Colonel Bézier?’

‘Yes, Colonel Bertrand Bézier.’

‘Not Luc Bézier?’

‘No!’ said the woman, a little crossly. ‘He does not live here. He is a grown man. He lives in Paris.’

‘I see,’ said Harland, now understanding that Colonel Bézier must be his father. ‘I am ringing from the United States. I think I should talk to the Colonel.’

‘Impossible. He is a sick man. He cannot be disturbed.’

‘It’s very important. It concerns Luc Bézier. Madame, is Luc Bézier his son?’

‘Yes, Capitaine Bézier is his son.’

‘I see. This is going to be very difficult, Madame. I think I will have to explain this to you. Can I ask who you are?’

‘Madame Clergues. I am the Colonel’s nurse and housekeeper.’

‘I see. I have some very bad news.’ He paused for a fraction of a second. ‘I believe that Luc Bézier was involved in a plane crash last week on Tuesday.’

There was a gasp at the other end. ‘Is this a joke?’

He explained who he was and told her about the crash, and after a little while she seemed to accept that he was telling the truth. ‘It will kill him,’ she kept on repeating. ‘It will kill him. He is very frail.’

Harland told her that he was prepared to break the news himself, if she could wait until he arrived in France the following day. On the whole she said she thought that it would be better if the Colonel heard it from someone he knew. She had been with him for two years. She would tell him in the morning in the presence of his doctor, who was visiting anyway and would be on hand if the Colonel suffered a collapse. They agreed that Harland should arrive in the afternoon and speak with the Colonel, having first telephoned her from the airport.

Harland didn’t ring off straight away but gently prompted the woman to tell him about Luc Bézier. It seemed that the Béziers were an old military family. During the Napoleonic wars, one of Luc’s ancestors had served in the Imperial guard and fought at Waterloo. Luc had refused to use his father’s contacts and had joined the French Foreign Legion, later transferring to the Parachute Regiment. He had left the military two years before and gone to work in Paris.

Harland rung off. He had been wrong about Bézier’s calls to a wife or girlfriend. No cigarette.

He did not drink for fear of worsening the surges of pain from the back of his head. A whisky or two might have done something to dull his newly acquired knowledge of how quickly a plane is reduced to charred scrap, but he went on board sober, and as he dropped into the aisle seat he was aware of two things: the illusion of reliability about him and the slight tremor in his right hand. He knew he had to distract himself fast because he realised that the faith – or whatever he had left out on the East River – had indeed completely deserted him.

He took out the transcripts and began to read. There were six interviews, all typed in single spacing. The first four were personal accounts of women whose menfolk had disappeared from a place in Eastern Bosnia called Kukuva, one of the ‘safe havens’ overrun during the Serb offensive in the summer of 1995. The last two were men who had apparently escaped execution and fled together through the hills to the Bosnian front line.

He picked up where he had left off in the account of Selma Simic. She was a dentist’s assistant who lived with her husband and two boys in the town, which she described as a neighbourly place where everyone knew and helped each other. On a July evening her husband had taken her two boys, aged twelve and fourteen, into the hills overlooking the town. Knowing that she did not possess the stamina for what would be a gruelling march to Muslim territory, she had stayed behind with the older women and helped the mothers who were nursing babies.

The Serbs arrived early the next day, many of them reeking of plum brandy. The women were rounded up in the town square and questioned about their men, most of whom had taken flight in the previous twenty-four hours. By now the sun was beating down on the square and the women implored the soldiers to give them water and to allow the young children to rest in the shade. Selma Simic had been one of the women who had gone forward and talked to an officer. He told her and a friend that they could fetch water from a nearby bar. Inside she found a dozen Serb soldiers resting up. They let the women make four trips with a bucket and ladle, and then without a word they barred their way out.

The soldiers took turns with them, at first casually, as if they had nothing better to do. There was a TV on and some of them watched a news bulletin while the rape was in progress. Simic and her friend refused to cry out because they didn’t want to alarm people outside, especially the children. This enraged the men and drove them to more barbarous acts; they seemed to want to hear the women cry out. But still they refused. Selma remarked to the tribunal investigator that she endured by concentrating on some flies that were milling round a piece of food on the floor.

When eventually the soldiers had done with them they were thrown out into the square. The soldiers, she noted, were apparently sickened by their own behaviour, as though Selma and her friend had somehow encouraged them. At that moment, she felt they would be killed. But the men sloped away. They rejoined the group in the square and found that most of the younger women had been taken away and given similar treatment. One woman suffered a miscarriage and another died after an assault which Selma could not bring herself to describe to the interviewer.

The day wore on and eventually a bus drew up in the square. Fifty-eight people were pushed on board. Many of the older women were suffering from heat exhaustion and the children were hysterical. Before the bus set off, the women saw some of the older men who had remained in the town driven out of their hiding places at gunpoint. They stared at the ground and would not look up when the women called out to them. Selma Simic saw her neighbour, a widower of sixty-five who grew roses and carved wooden ornaments in his spare time. She could tell by the expression of terror in his eyes that he knew he was going to be killed, even though the Serbs insisted that they would be reunited after the men had been interrogated about terrorist activities. She said that among the group of men there were two boys a little younger than her sons. In all, there were forty-six men and boys. Not one of them was ever seen again.

As the bus departed, the women believed they were going to be killed and sent up a terrible cry. But instead they were taken on a meandering journey westwards, which included several stops while the Serbs debated which route to send them. At one crossroads they sat for nearly two hours watching columns of men and armour moving forward in the dusk for the assault on the Muslim stronghold to the north. During this time they caught sight of an infamous Serb general whose face they’d seen often on television. He was unmistakable, a huge, sweating man with a wide, red face and a beer drinker’s stomach. She was shocked at seeing the author of the evil all around them standing so near. His voice carried across the road to the open windows of the bus and the women could hear his commands barked at a radio. These were interspersed with remarks about women and what he was going to eat that night.

At that time she did not know about the slaughter that would occur over the next few days. But thinking back on it, she could not get over the fact that he was talking about food and drink at the very moment that he must have been planning the operation to murder thousands of people. She told the interviewer that she could never rid herself of the image of him standing there in the sweltering summer evening. He perplexed and appalled her at the same time. He was not part of the universe she knew.

The other three women had equally harrowing stories of being separated from their men, terrorised and raped. The rawness of the experiences made Harland read them with more than an eye for possible leads in Griswald’s investigation. He had seen plenty of similar things along the southern borders of Russia, but nowhere had he witnessed the pointless violence that they described. These women had been brutalised by their neighbours, men who lived a few kilometres away and who visited their towns; by mountain boys who had once brought their livestock to Kukuva market and who had given vent to their darkest desires and fears.