Braco (22 page)

WEDNESDAY:
MICHAEL SAKIC

MIKE LOITERED NEAR
the edge of the tent city. Peacekeepers were stringing wires between the tents and others were passing out lanterns to the refugees. A truck pulled up and off-loaded poles and canvas next to a group of women waiting for shelter. Local Bosnian soldiers had shown up a few hours earlier and they were moving among the tents, carrying food and stretchers. Men stood around in small groups, chatting and smoking. The hills in the distance were dark and silent.

“Michael?”

He turned to see Jure walking towards him. Mike pulled out a pack of Player's and tossed them to the lanky translator. Jure's face broke into a broad smile.

“Oh, you are a god.”

Mike motioned to the tents. “What's on the go?”

“Buses are done for the night.” Jure opened the pack of cigarettes and tucked one between his lips. “There are still people trickling in from Tisca, but the Chetniks have stopped dropping them off. We expect just as many will be transported tomorrow. They should have plenty to tell you.”

“I don't think I need to hear the same story any more. Anything new from upstairs?”

Jure lit the cigarette and inhaled.

“Serb radio announced their glorious liberation of Srebrenica.” He rolled his eyes. “Said the population was free to stay or go and that they would all be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention.”

“I hear the Geneva Convention fits on a toilet roll very well around here.”

The translator coughed, sending a mouthful of smoke out into the air. “And it comes in triple-ply.”

Mike smiled. “What about the men?”

“They haven't heard anything certain.” Jure took another long draw, deep into his lungs this time, savouring the smoke before blowing it through his nose. “The Americans are saying nothing. The Dutch are not saying much. The French are pushing for a rapid reaction force to retake the enclave. The rest, I don't know. These guys aren't privy to what's going on behind closed doors right now, but frankly, if they haven't done anything by now, I don't expect anything. It's simply too late.”

“And Zepa?”

“The Chetniks are calling on them to surrender.”

“So it hasn't fallen?”

“Not yet.”

“Just a matter of time.”

“I imagine the men there are already heading for the hills.”

Mike grunted an affirmative.

“That's what I wanted to ask you about.”

“Shoot.”

“I need to get into the enclave.”

Jure choked again, spitting more smoke. “And I want a Ferrari for my birthday.” He held the pack of cigarettes up. “I do have a birthday coming up.”

“Seriously, Jure.”

“Who said I wasn't being serious? The enclave is cut off. Oric is pleading with the army to bring up troops to distract the Chetniks so the men can have a chance to break through. It's a bloody war zone. And I mean bloody. As in the red stuff you can't live without.”

Mike chewed on his lower lip. Naser Oric was the commander of the Bosnian forces in Srebrenica. He had left the enclave in April and hadn't been able to risk a return by air after one of their helicopters was shot down.

“You don't know anyone who could get me close?”

“What do you expect to see?”

“Jure, they're going to kill those men and quietly bury them somewhere. Unless there's proof, the Serbs will say the men were killed in combat or that they just left the country. Most of them are civilians, for God's sake.”

“You honestly think you can get close enough to see that?”

“Won't know if I don't try.”

“You're a stubborn son of a bitch.”

“Does that mean you can help me?”

“I don't know. Maybe I can get you close to Kladanj. The blue helmets are picking up the refugees there. Doubt you'll see much from there, though.”

“Nothing better?”

Jure blew out the last of the smoke from the cigarette and squashed it under his sneaker.

“I know someone but he's away right now. I expect him back before the end of the month.”

“Three weeks?”

“I doubt the corpses will rot by then. Besides, the Chetniks might want you to come visit their newly liberated town in a few days. It'll be an escorted tour but better than nothing.”

Mike sighed and pulled out another pack of Player's.

“See what you can do about something a little less escorted.”

He tossed the cigarettes to Jure.

“Ah, I foresee a happy birthday already.”

Mike slapped Jure on the shoulder. The translator walked towards the gate, showing off the cigarettes to the peacekeepers as he went.

THURSDAY:
JAC LARUE

JAC CROUCHED NEXT
to Marija, waiting for Maarten to return from the compound. He glanced under the bus where the three girls were sleeping. Marija and Ina sat in front of them. The moon lit their features.

“How are they doing?”

“Good,” Ina replied. “Lejla's rash is already breaking out.”

“I was talking to one of our guys a couple of hours ago. He said all the buses made it through to Tisca. But the Serbs searched the buses and took some men off.”

Marija's hand went to her mouth.

“We're not sure yet, but there's word some nurses are missing too.”

Ina laid a hand on Jac's arm. “What about the girls? Will they be okay?”

“I won't lie to you,” Jac said. “God knows you've heard enough lies already. I think what you're doing is good. My sergeant said we're going to escort one of the convoys in the morning. If you can, find a spot close to the carriers when the buses arrive and we'll try to hook up for the same convoy.”

“Thank you,” Ina said.

Jac turned to Marija.

“You did the right thing.”

“I know,” she replied, motioning to the other end of the bus. “They've taken all the men from here. Some to the houses, others to the abattoir.”

Jac's eyes followed Marija's outstretched arm. He'd heard screams earlier in the evening but couldn't pinpoint their location.

“Do you have a knife?” Ina asked.

“A knife. For what?”

“We want to cut the girl's hair in the morning.”

Jac patted his pocket without thinking. “I don't have mine anymore.”

A pocket knife appeared next to him.

“They can have mine,” Maarten said.

Ina took the knife and thanked them.

“We'll check back.” Jac stood up and glanced around. “If any of the Serbs give you a hard time, just shout out my name as loudly as you can. We shouldn't be far away.”

“You know,” Marija said, “it's getting hard to tell you apart from the Chetniks. Some of them are wearing exactly what you are.”

“Well, none of us out here are carrying weapons anymore,” Maarten said.

“We'll be back,” Jac said.

As they left the wrecked buses, Maarten handed Jac a thermos.

“Just something to keep you warm,” he said. “But I warn you, it's a little strong.”

Jac poured himself a cup of coffee, wondering if he was ever going to get his second wind. He took a mouthful and choked.

“Jesus, Maarten. Did you put any water in with the coffee?”

“You'll thank me in about an hour.”

“I'll probably be flying to the moon in about an hour.”

Gunshots echoed from the hills. The pair stopped and looked north. Single shots and bursts of machine gun fire, which were not returned. Dogs barked.

The Serbs know the men are in the woods, Jac thought, glancing at his watch. Surely, Atif's with the men by now.

He finished the coffee and dropped the thermos into his pack, then checked his flashlight.

“This is going to be a long night.”

Where to start?
Jac's eyes rested on the zinc factory.
There.

When he started for the factory, Maarten tugged on his arm.

“Where do you think we're going?”

“I have to look,” Jac said.

“You're kidding, right? Losing the Uzi and our gear was not enough for you? Jesus, Jac, they really are stealing uniforms now. I don't exactly want to walk back into the compound in my underwear.”

Jac shook off Maarten's hand and kept walking. As dusk approached, the number of soldiers had declined. Many had returned to Bratunac to celebrate. Others were celebrating in nearby houses.

When they got to the perimeter, Jac talked with the two peacekeepers posted there and then moved around the factory, Maarten at his heels.

“Wait here. I'll just take a quick look.”

Maarten stopped and Jac made his way around the back of the factory by moonlight. Then he switched on his flashlight and scanned the ground.

Nothing.

Had they taken the body so quickly?

Earlier, Maarten had pointed out a van to him, which had been making trips to the area. Blacked out windows made it impossible to tell what the van carried. One of the refugees told them she had seen a line of men walking through the field towards some trucks. Jac wasn't sure if she was telling the truth. He'd asked around and none of the other peacekeepers could corroborate her story.

As if that means anything. We're watching the refugees, not the fields around us.

Jac returned to Maarten.

“Nothing there.”

“Maybe they dragged the body farther away, knowing we like to risk our lives, not to mention life-long embarrassment from walking around in our underwear.”

Jac turned around, facing the field stretching out behind the factory. Maarten moved closer to him.

“Keep looking out there and I will slap you.”

“I'm not quite that stupid,” Jac said. They turned around and headed back to the refugees and returned to patrolling the perimeter. They checked on the two-man teams stationed at intervals too far apart to keep the Serbs out. A man shrieked in the distance. Jac stopped. Marija was right. The sounds were coming from the abattoir.

The man shrieked again, the scream forming a word this time.

“What is he saying?” Jac asked.

“Sounds like ‘Sanja.' I think that's a woman's name.”

Jac stared into the darkness as the man's voice repeated the name over and over. He willed himself to move closer, but his second step brought him up against the tape.

“Damn it.”

“C'mon Jac. We should check on the other teams.”

Jac turned away, following Maarten. They walked the perimeter, returning to the zinc factory. There, they were bombarded by questions from the women in Bosnian, English, Dutch, German, and French.

“Where is my husband?”

“What are they doing to the men?”

“When can I see my son?”

“Have you seen my brother?”

“Where did the buses go?”

“Are they going to kill us?”

They answered what they could understand.

The next pair of sentries was on duty at the far end of the factory. Karel sat against the building, asleep, while Bram sat a few feet away from him. Jac tapped Karel with his foot.

“Get up!”

Karel stirred; Maarten leaned down, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him to his feet.

“He said to get up.”

“Get your hands off me,” Karel said, pushing Maarten. “Sergeant said we could take a break as long as one of us stayed awake.”

Jac turned to Bram.

“How long has he been on break?”

“About twenty minutes,” the tank driver said. He was on his feet now, kicking pebbles.

Jac turned to Karel.

“Break is over.”

Someone tugged on Jac's sleeve and he wheeled around.

“What?” he shouted, but the air in front of him was empty. He looked down: a young woman was sitting at his feet with a sleeping baby in her lap. She stared up at him. Jac raised his hands and produced a smile. “It's all right. It's all right. Did you want something?”

The woman pointed at the factory.

“What is it?”

The woman whispered in her language.

“I don't understand.”

She glanced at the factory and then wrapped her scarf around her neck like a noose. She pointed at the building.

“Damn it,” Jac said under his breath. “Come on, Maarten.”

They stepped over people and walked through a doorway, the metal door wrenched off its hinges and lying on the floor. The stench assaulted them as soon as they were inside. Urine, feces, and vomit had been simmering in the heat all day. Jac pulled his towel up over his mouth and took a few steps. He played his flashlight over the interior. People scattered or turned their heads away. Women covered their daughters.

“They think we're Serbs,” Maarten said.

Jac let the towel drop from his face and tried not to retch.

“It's okay,” he said, mustering the strongest Dutch accent possible.

A woman pointed towards the staircase. Maarten led the way, stepping carefully. He started to climb the stairs and then stopped.

“Jesus, Jac. Under the stairs. There's something tied here”

Jac froze and stared. Maarten tugged on a piece of fabric tied to an open tread.

“Jac?” Maarten tapped his shoulder. “Go back down.”

Jac took a long breath and then nodded. He went back down the stairs and climbed over a family huddled at the base. His flashlight illuminated a wooden door that accessed the area under the stairs.

Maarten's voice came from behind him.

“I'll get it.” He grabbed the door with both hands and pulled it aside, scraping the floor. One hinge fell off.

Jac stepped forward and raised the flashlight. A boy, no more than fifteen, hung from one of the steps. Eyes as blue as his face stared straight ahead. Smurfs decorated the sheet around his neck.

“Goddamn it.” Jac reached for his pocketknife. “I don't have a knife to cut him down.”

“I'll hold him up,” Maarten said. “You can untie him from above.”

“Okay.”

A woman's scream stabbed through the darkness, sending goose bumps down Jac's back.

“Where's it coming from?” he said, stepping in front of Maarten. The next scream echoed inside the metal frame of the factory.

“Jesus, Jac. What's happening here?”

Jac raised his flashlight, scanning the crowd until it settled on the back corner.

“There's an office there.”

People leaned away as the peacekeepers threaded their way through the crowd.

Another shriek.

I can't go any faster, damn it!

The office door was closed, but the large window frame next to it was empty, except for some jagged shards of glass. There was movement inside. Jac shone the light on the door. Maarten touched his shoulder and then Jac drove his foot against the doorknob.

The door swung open, struck the wall, and bounced back at Jac's face. He raised his hand in time to catch it and flung it back. A man wearing a Dutch flak vest passed through the doorway, knocking him back.

“Hey,” Maarten's voice said.

Jac ignored the man and stepped inside. There were two men there, both wearing camouflage uniforms. One man's pants were around his ankles. Before Jac could react, the man grabbed his pants, pulled them up, and shoved past Jac. The second followed his friend.

“Forget them,” Jac said to Maarten. He raised his flashlight; a young girl was struggling to pull her skirt down. The flashlight lit up the girl's nakedness. Her long curly hair partly obscuring her breasts. Her blouse lay in shreds beside her on the floor

My God, she's beautiful.

“Damn it,” Jac muttered, swinging the flashlight away. “I need a blanket.”

“You got it.” Maarten disappeared into the crowd.

He turned back to the girl, pointing his flashlight at the floor.

“It's okay, it's okay.”

The girl looked at him and screamed again. Spittle clung to her lip. She grabbed at her torn shirt, trying to cover herself. Maarten handed Jac a blanket.

“Find someone who speaks some English. Quick.”

Maarten vanished. The girl kicked out wildly as Jac tried to wrap the blanket around her.

“I'm not a Serb. Not Chetnik. UN.” He reached inside his shirt, pulled out his identification card, and pointed the flashlight at it. He placed the card next to his face. “Look! Blue helmet. Look.”

A plump woman pushed her way past Jac and grabbed the blanket. She covered the girl, speaking to her in soothing tones.

“Tell her we're Dutch,” Jac said, showing her the ID. “We can take her to see a doctor.”

“Her ankle is hurt,” the woman said. “Can you carry her?”

“Is she okay with that? She knows we're not Serbs?”

“With an accent like that? I will go with you.”

Maarten volunteered to carry the girl. She held on to him tightly, sobbing into his shoulder. Jac led them through the factory.

Outside, he sent Maarten ahead with the women and turned to Karel.

“Did three men just leave here?”

“Might have,” Karel said. He drew on a cigarette. “I don't know.”