Vox Dei - Part 3: Monday

Vox Dei

Valentin Fortunov with Andrew Carey

Part 3: Monday

MONDAY

14––––– He knows he can stop this. He has done it before. He can stop the fucking pain. Where can he stop it? How did he stop it? That voice. Can he stop that voice? There is a way to control this. He struggles to remember, but the pain blinds his memory. Walking to the light. The pain is changing now. The pain is moving. Who moved the pain? He didn’t do it this time. Did he do it before? Still he hears that voice. Yes, he is coming forth. But he is having fucking trouble fucking walking. He asks, “What is this?” “Peace, El’azar. Peace be with you.” He remembers the greeting. “Oh God. What is this? What have you done to me?”

“Miriam, fetch water and lemons for your brother. Go now and fetch them from the house. Say nothing to the people.” “El’azar, you have been asleep. Soon you will be well again.” The pain is going. The man’s voice takes the pain away. That’s it. He has to ask the man to take away the pain by talking to him. “Please take away this pain.” “The pain will pass El’azar. When the time comes, everything will pass.” “Miriam! Who is this man? Why do I hate him so much? What has he done to me? Who are the others?”

15––––– Lazar opened his eyes. Was startled to see Salomon. Closed them quickly. What has he done to me? Who are the others? He opened his eyes again slowly and looked around. Sat up. Untucked and swilled his legs gracelessly. Waited for his feet to find the floor. ‘Why the crowd?’ he yawned. The Head of Operations, now irredeemably labelled Mr Boggy, special agent Ben Stanton and Major Salomon Dekalo had gathered in his office. His deputy leant against the desk: ‘Progress, Boss.’ Lazar stood up, put his hands behind his neck, and started unlocking his vertebrae, making the federal agent in particular shiver. ‘Jesus, that’s disgusting!’ Salomon glared at him with his good eye. ‘Have you looked in a mirror lately?’ Lazar parried, then shambled over to the roll-top coffee cabinet and

started to prepare coffee for himself. He made a happy grunting noise. ‘I’m listening.’ ‘Colonel’ the Head of Operations began, ‘you were right about Martha Friedman…’ Lazar put down the coffee jar and turned abruptly. ‘What?’ ‘Unknown assailants ambushed her as she left her house in Losenets last night at 20.06. My boys held them off. Friedman was obviously on the alert: she had the lights in her apartment on a time switch and left the underground garage with her headlights off. ‘Casualties?’ ‘None on our part. There were two attackers, one firing a kalashnik, the other a pistol. We found the submachine gun afterwards in the shrubs nearby, and a trail of blood. Obviously one of the assailants was wounded and bleeding heavily…’ ‘But you didn’t catch them?’ ‘No, Colonel. It was very dark…’

‘As it so often is at night. Must have made it tough for your boys.’ ‘… and their orders were to guard Friedman, so they didn’t stop to chase them but followed her car. Unfortunately, they lost her on Graf Ignatiev Street and she got away. We haven’t been able to find her yet.’ ‘You must be very pleased with your night’s work.’ ‘It’s not that simple, Colonel. There’s something else. The Israelis also think she is a target…’ Lazar tilted his head slightly and frowned. Bogomil deciphered the gesture: ‘If what you mean is, have I spoken to Major Bergman recently, the answer is no.’ ‘Fool.’ ‘Well, my boys identified an undercover Israeli Military Intelligence vehicle near the house. They took no part in the gunfight. Their main concern was that we might open fire on them as they drove after Friedman – they were waving white handkerchiefs and…

ridiculous… I believe she would have died, had it not been for our presence.’ Lazar heard the unspoken ‘Look, my boys are better than the Israelis.’ ‘Bravo,’ the Colonel snorted, walking back to his desk with a cup of coffee so full that the thick cream was oozing over the edge and threatening the carpet. ‘Will you consider some formal acknowledgement of their successful operation, Colonel?’ ‘Oh fuck. Look. The gunmen escaped. They lost Friedman. They haven’t found her. What aspect of their work would you like me to single out for special praise?’ ‘They saved the life of the Israeli diplomat placed in their care, sir,’ the normally calm Bogomil looked furious. ‘OK, OK, give them a pink rosette if you like,’ Lazar waved his hand. ‘Any more adventures?’ ‘Yes, I understand that a night bird flew into Sofia yesterday. Michelle Brasseur, she’s an AFP special

reporter under permanent cover. Thirty-eight years old, divorced, employed by French Intelligence for twenty years. They call her Michelle-le-Feu...’ ‘I know who she is. Men fall over themselves to pick her chestnuts out of the fire. And could you do me a favour Mr Boggy? Could you stop saying things like “a night bird” when you mean a woman who caught an aeroplane that landed after dark. The melodrama is killing me. So, what the fuck is she doing here?’ ‘I don’t know, Boss,’ Bogomil replied. ‘But you can ask her yourself. She’s staying at the Sheraton.’ ‘Not in an owl’s nest?’ ‘Save your breath,’ Salomon interrupted. ‘By tomorrow you’ll be reading all about it, whatever it is. The France Presse correspondent – the real thing - was killed in the bombing…’ ‘You think they’d send her from Paris to brief the press? Pavarotti come to sing with the magpie choir?’ Lazar snorted. ‘Never. What else?’

‘Colonel, if you’ll permit me, I have the field information that I promised you earlier,’ Ben Stanton’s face expressed satisfaction. ‘There are three names. Major Dekalo was kind enough to institute an inquiry. I suppose we’ll have some answers pretty soon.’ ‘Ben, whatever my deputy did, it was certainly not out of kindness.’ Salomon, who was pouring some ice from the fridge into a bag, applied the bag to his sore eye, and turned to Lazar: ‘Two Syrians, and a Palestinian. We’ve got all their details. I was kind enough to call in the berets on your behalf. We’ll be ready to go in 40 minutes. I suggest we arrest them immediately and get this over with.’ ‘Where are they?’ Lazar asked. ‘One of the Syrians and the Palestinian are in Studentskigrad. The other Syrian has got an apartment on Oborishte Street. He’s been in business – legitimate in Sofia for four years,’ Salomon removed the ice from his eye. The swelling was turning a yellow-blue colour.

Lazar looked at him vacantly for a while, then at the federal agent and, having finally made up his mind, said: ‘Arrest them. Mr Boggy, you take it...’ ‘I’ll do it myself,’ Salomon objected. ‘Will you? It strikes me that you haven’t answered my question.’ ‘What?’ ‘Have you looked in a mirror lately?’ ‘Colonel...’ Salomon was instantly livid. ‘OK, OK... Ben, will you go with him?’ ‘I certainly would like to, Colonel.’ Lazar grunted and turned back to his coffee.

16–––––

The water slopped thick and greasy under the spotlights at Batumi petroleum terminal. Jimmy-3 was dwarfed between two fifty thousand tonne tankers. Its pumps were still humming but loading was almost complete and the vessel lay low in the water. Two Gazelles, the first a van, the second a pick-up, slid onto the quay, diesels rattling.

The shipping agent jumped out of the van and, waving a folder of documents under the security guard’s nose, shouted over the noise of the pump: ‘We’ve brought the catering… Catering!’ and started up the ship’s ladder. The guard reached out, and caught him by the sleeve. ‘Got any cigarettes, comrade? Cigarettes?’ The shipping agent stopped, jammed the folder under his arm, took a packet of Marlboro out of his jacket pocket, and splashed it into the guard’s outstretched hand. ‘Here, kill yourself!’ The guard smiled, tore off the wrapper, took out a cigarette and lit it. The shipping agent had already disappeared up the ladder. One of the ship’s winches soon began creaking, slowly lowering a large platform onto the quay. Three men had jumped out of the Gazelles and started to load cases and cartons of food onto the platform. Then a second winch groaned two large slings down towards

the pick-up. The driver got out of the cabin and, stepping on the tyre, climbed onto the back of the truck. He attached the slings and signalled them to lift the long packing-case next to him. The shipping agent jumped down from the ladder and, just as both winches cleared their loads over the ship’s side, slapped the guard on the shoulder: 'I’m done!’ Then he climbed quickly into the first Gazelle, the vans performed a U-turn and disappeared round the corner behind the warehouse. Half an hour later the hoses were disconnected, the ladder lifted, and a small round-bellied tug, pulling at the tanker’s bow, tore her off the quay wall before propping up her stern and pushing her out of the harbour. Jimmy-3 got under way slowly, and made for the open sea. In an hour she was disappearing below the horizon and the lights of Batumi could hardly be seen in the mist. Platforms were lowered from both sides of the bow - two seamen, armed with buckets of paint and rollers,

on each one. In less than ten minutes the seamen had covered the letters ‘Jimmy-3’ with fast-drying paint and pasted on new templates. Jimmy-3 was born again as Penelope Bay. The platforms were pulled up and she sailed westwards at twelve knots, keeping parallel to the slight turns of the Pontus Mountains, which rose like a shield along the entire Turkish coast of the Pontus Euxinus. The Black Sea.

17––––– Like any big city at night, Sofia looked beautiful, he concluded. The night hides ugliness, trash and crumbling masonry; even the old Ladas parked on the pavements look enigmatic. Ben was excited. For the second time in only a few hours he was seeing action. Like Salomon, but perhaps for different reasons, he wanted to get this done. Catch the bastards, handcuff them, read them their rights and put them behind bars. He allowed himself to run the movie and tried to put out of his mind the Colonel’s sceptical humming and the scornful look on Salomon’s face. On Eagle Bridge the BMW turned sharp left beside the storm channel. Moments later the Cherokee took the turn, tyres hissing to keep up. Salomon had sent the berets with Bogomil to Studentskigrad while he, three men from the strike group and Ben took the Oborishte Street address.

By the Military Academy a yellow taxi coming from Shipka Street cut across the road, braked and skidded sideways. Salomon, delighted with the speed of his own reaction, swerved to avoid the stalled taxi. The clumsier Cherokee couldn’t match him and clipped the taxi with its roll bar. The taxi spun round, allowing the driver to watch his bumper rattle across the street without him. Salomon clicked the microphone hanging by his cheek: ‘Don’t stop!’ In the event, an unnecessary order, as his subordinate had no plans to exchange insurance details with the taxi driver. At the big crossroads, Salomon changed down into third, making the BMW roar in protest, and with the help of the handbrake screeched into Oborishte Street. The Cherokee could no longer keep up. Ben looked at the street numbers intently. The address belonged to a grey, cancerous, six-storey building, oozing with 1950s’ Stalinist charm. Salomon was already out of the car as the Cherokee drew up

behind them and its three officers raced after him. On the third floor – always the third floor - they found their apartment had a double door – the steel outer facing the corridor. Salomon crossed the landing and opened the dusty window overlooking the street. He leant out and, having looked round, signalled to one of the officers to join him. The officer stepped over the windowsill and, clinging to the wall like Spiderman, moved slowly down the ledge to the window of the nearest room in the apartment. Salomon waited for him to jump over the small balcony and followed. They had reached the kitchen. The small upper window was open but would have needed a midget to get through it.

The officer slipped a small, flat, black rucksack off his back and took out a wide roll of gaffer tape and a

diamond glass-cutter. Seconds later, making a cross on each, he had surgically removed both panes of glass from the balcony door, slipping them to the ground like oversized contact lenses. Then he reached in and opened it. They crept in and, while Salomon covered the doors of the other rooms, the officer unlocked the entrance door to admit his two colleagues. They surged in with Ben behind them. Salomon signalled to Ben to watch the main door. The group split and rushed into the two rooms. There followed a brief pause before a violent tumult set in. A plump, balding man with a moustache, and a much younger woman of Rubenesque proportions, were asleep on a large waterbed in the larger bedroom. In the torchlight the woman was the first to wake. She started to scream. The Major cursed, felt for the light switch and turned it on. Trying to stand, her husband caught his feet in the blanket and fell to the floor beside the bed. The officer jumped on him but, losing his balance,

crashed against the wardrobe with the Syrian in his arms. Now the woman was tearing at the officer’s hair, screaming frantically. The officer had dropped his gun in the struggle and the Syrian who had snatched it up, started shooting wildly. Salomon threw himself down on the other side of the bed and heard the officer’s shout of ‘Weapon clear’ as he kicked the gun out of the Syrian’s hand. Looking over the bed, Salomon saw a thin jet of water spraying over the woman’s apparently unconscious body. Then, with a somersault that deserved a wider audience, the officer stood upright and immobilised the Syrian with a familiar arm-lock before handcuffing his wrists behind his back. His captive roared once in anger, then went quiet. Salomon rose less dramatically. Now children’s screams came from the other room and he began to curse loudly again. Ben peered through the door in some embarrassment, backed out and went into the other

room where an officer was shouting over the cries of the children that it was a police action and they had nothing to fear. As the shouting finally subsided, the woman regained consciousness and the tumult began again. ‘Just you dare,’ Salomon raised his fist. ‘One more scream, and I’ll throw you out of the window! Got it?’ The threat apparently worked as all Ben heard was a stifled cry of ‘Help...’. ‘What do you want!?’ the Syrian finally stammered with a mouthful of blood. ‘My money is in the wallet... don’t kill anybody, you’re wearing masks, we have not seen your faces... take the money... My children!’ he suddenly shouted. At the same moment, his wife hurled herself inelegantly at the door. The officer reached out to stop her, but Salomon told him: ‘Let her go!’ then turned to the Syrian and snapped: ‘Keep your money! This is the National Security Service. You’re under arrest!’

The Syrian opened his eyes wide, then sat down on the bed. ‘You are not thieves?’ ‘Get dressed! Fast.’ The man tried to rise, but his handcuffs caught him off balance and he fell on the bed again. Salomon turned to the officer: ‘Unlock his handcuffs,’ then he pointed his Glok at the man’s head: ‘Get dressed now or I’ll kill you.’ The officer passed him his trousers, feeling the pockets for weapons, then took a shirt and jacket out of the wardrobe and threw them on the bed. When the Syrian had finished dressing, the officer grabbed him by the collar, dragged him to the far end of the room by the window and locked his handcuffs to the central heating pipe. ‘Check the kitchen,’ Salomon said. ‘When you’ve finished, put the woman and children in there and check the children’s room. I’ll search this room. Tell the FBI to make a start in the living room. Go and help him when

you’ve finished... and go easy on the children’s room. Well?’ ‘Yes, Boss!’ The search was over in less than an hour. Ben made the only find: a bunch of letters tied with an elastic cord. ‘These might perhaps be of interest, but unfortunately I don’t read Arabic.’ Salomon looked at the letters, closed a chest he was rummaging in, and said: ‘Give them to me.’ He took out a few at random, opened them and glanced at them quickly. Then he put them back in the bunch and threw it back to Ben. ‘We’ll take them.’ ‘You speak Arabic?’ ‘A little. Let’s get going. Bring the Arab,’ Salomon directed this last comment to one of the officers. ‘Wait,’ the Syrian began to protest, ‘There must be a mistake! I am a businessman... I’m a Bulgarian citizen.’

In the kitchen the woman began to scream again, and her children joined in a chorus of howling. Salomon grabbed the man by the throat and hissed in his ear: ‘Be quiet, or I’ll cut your throat,’ then he nodded at his subordinates to take him away. He took a deep breath and, combing the fingers of both hands through his fine, red hair, made for the kitchen. ‘Stop whimpering!’ he spat at the fat woman as soon as he entered. ‘What are you screaming for? You’re scaring your own children!’ They were two little boys. One of about three, the other a little older. Salomon sighed, squatted down beside them and, putting his hands on the children’s shoulders, looked them both, in turn, in the eye and said quietly: ‘You look like clever young men to me. Am I right? Well young men don’t cry. And besides there’s nothing to be afraid of, we are policemen...’ ‘I want daddy!’ the younger one answered.

‘Are you really policemen?’ the elder one asked, wiping away his tears. ‘Yes, really!’ Salomon nodded, took out his ID and showed it to the boy. ‘Can you read yet?’ ‘Yes,’ the boy replied. ‘I can read Bulgarian and Arabic!’ ‘Good for you! So can I...’ The boy was reading the words on the card, moving his lips silently. Suddenly he looked up terrified. ‘You are a Jew! You are a murderer.’ Salomon closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Well, I thought you were a clever young man, and you are. I don’t know what to tell you… First, not all Jews are murderers. In fact, very few Jews are murderers, you know. Not all Arabs are terrorists. In fact, very few Arabs are terrorists. And second, you and I, we live in Bulgaria, do we not?’ The boy nodded uncertainly.

‘Well, I was born in Bulgaria, I grew up here,’ Salomon went on, ‘and I feel Bulgarian, of course. What about you?’ ‘I was born in Bulgaria, I was born in Sofia.’ ‘Fine,’ Salomon smiled. ‘Since you were born and grew up in Bulgaria, I think you are Bulgarian, is that so?’ The boy shook his head vigorously, as if to confirm that even his gestures were Bulgarian: ‘Yes. Yes. That’s what I tell them, but they call me Ay-rab.’ ‘Who calls you that?’ ‘Well, in my school… they call me Ay-rab.’ Salomon smiled sadly. ‘Well, ignore them. Don’t worry. They are ignorant.’ ‘You... you’re a good uncle,’ there was a shy look in the boy’s eyes. ‘Please don’t hurt my daddy.’ ‘I will not,’ Salomon looked at the boy earnestly. ‘We just have to ask him a few questions.’

‘You won’t let the others hurt him, will you? You’re going to let him go after you’ve talked to him, aren’t you?’ ‘Nobody’s going to hurt him; and if he has not done any harm to other people, we’ll let him go; but if he has, he’ll have to go to court.’ ‘Then everything is OK. You’ll see, he is a good Arab... You are a good Jew and he is a good Arab.’ Salomon rose abruptly, patted the boys on the shoulders rather too hard and walked out of the kitchen. Ben Stanton bowed to the woman in silence, waved goodbye to the children, and hurried downstairs after the Major. He felt horrible.

18––––– The Chief Analyst was laboriously transferring information within and between files, cutting and pasting in an effort to give some structure to his newly created Flamingo folder. He had done most of the work and was now preoccupied with reading the initial technical report, when a deep breathing behind him disturbed his concentration. ‘Is it your midnight walk, Colonel?’ ‘A donkey can see all four of its legs when it stands at rest.’ ‘Thank you for the compliment, Colonel. It’s just that no-one but you would normally breathe down my neck in that way.’ ‘May you develop acute sinusitis, and recover only slowly, if at all. Chairlock, can we talk?’ ‘Well, I haven’t finished the statistical analysis, but I’m not counting on it turning up a white rabbit.’

Sherlock logged off and made for Lazar’s office. He had almost reached the door when he realised that the Colonel wasn’t there. Looking about in some surprise, he saw Lazar disappearing down the stairs. When he caught up with him, Sherlock asked, ‘Where are we going?’ ‘To The Cock.’ ‘Why are we going to the car park?’ ‘To get the car.’ ‘But it’s only a few metres.’ ‘It’s raining.’ ‘It’s no longer raining.’ ‘It may rain again. One can never be sure.’ The Mitsubishi dragged her vulturous muzzle onto the street, and stopped. Lazar looked left and right, the bird’s eyes, and drove forward. The street glistened in the headlights, but it was indeed no longer raining. Graf Ignatiev Street was busy. Young people were coming out of the disco on the corner.

‘What are they doing on the street? It’s half past one on a Monday morning.’ ‘Enjoying themselves, Boss.’ Lazar drove slowly to avoid splashing them. They were almost past the disco, when they both noticed a melée by the corner. Two youths were kicking a boy who was lying on the pavement. A girl was trying to protect him, but the larger of the youths slapped her in the face so hard that she hit the wall and fell to the ground herself. Lazar braked hard, reversed into the dark side street and blocked it so the youths could not get past. He leapt out in time to see Sherlock remove his glasses and perform his party trick, kicking one of the youths on the forehead with the sole of his shoe. The other yelled in surprise and pulled out a flick knife. Sherlock stood stock-still for a second, then hissed: ‘Pulling a knife on me? A knife! On me!’ He crossed himself. ‘Forgive me, Lord.’ ‘Enough,’ snapped Lazar, who had stepped behind the knife-holder. His nickel Sieg Sauer hiccoughed

discreetly as it swallowed a bullet in its barrel. ‘I’ll count to one. If you don’t drop the knife, I’ll spray the flowers on the balcony across the street with your brains.’ The knife rattled on the pavement. Lazar put the safety catch on, and put the gun back in its holster. Then he grabbed the youth by the hair and pushed his face against the wall. Sherlock helped the girl up and they both leaned over her bruised friend. ‘What have they done to you, Vandi? Talk to me. Are you OK?’ ‘Sherlock, get two pairs of handcuffs. In the locker between the seats.’ The youth that Lazar had pinned against the wall started shouting: ‘Let me go! Do you know who I am? Shit! My father is the Minister of Justice. I’ll report you for this.’ Lazar dropped him abruptly. ‘So, the little Shit Tonkov! We’re honoured, Sherlock.’

‘So this is the famous little action man who rapes the girls, beats up their boyfriends and has his daddy’s get out of gaol free card.’ ‘He wouldn’t leave us alone all evening. He was after me, and in the end he beat up Vandi,’ the girl explained in tears. ‘Arrest him.’ Lazar waved his hand. ‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’ ‘So they can let him go in half an hour? Not this time. Take him to our cells. To the old isolator.’ Sherlock grinned. ‘Get two men to take down details, witnesses, everything; make sure you get a picture of the boy,’ Lazar pointed at the young man groaning on the ground. ‘He won’t get away with it this time...’ ‘It’s not our jurisdiction, Colonel,’ the Chief Analyst said quietly. ‘Nonsense. This little shit is a menace to national security, suggesting to impressionable young people that some Bulgarians are above the law.’

Lazar turned to see one of his BMWs approaching, lights flashing. And a siren at the crossroads announced that the ambulance was on its way. Three officers jumped from the BMW and, seizing Tonkov, led him to the car. ‘Boss, he’s wet himself. The car’s going to stink.’ Lazar turned round: ‘Wet himself? Then it seems to me that he should go in the boot. Use your discretion.’ The small crowd of young people cheered and a girl, dressed from head to toe in leather, ran over, spat at the minister’s son, and slapped him in the face. ‘Steady,’ the officer pushed her away. ‘Take him away fast, before they lynch him,’ said Lazar before climbing back into the Mitsubishi. At that moment Salomon’s own BMW screeched to a halt in front of the disco. He leapt out, gun in hand, without turning off the engine, while Ben appeared from the other side with a truncheon he had taken out of

the door. The crowd rocked aside to make way for them and Sherlock raised his hand. ‘Sally, everything’s OK.’ Salomon put his Glok away and looked around. He saw the bruised boy and came nearer, squatting beside the girl who was still sobbing. He examined the boy’s head. ‘He’ll be alright.’ Sally put his hand on her hair. ‘They look bad, those bruises, but he’ll be alright...’ Then Salomon walked to Lazar’s car: ‘Are you going home?’ ‘No, I’m going to The Cock.’ ‘The Cock?’ ‘I’m hungry. Go and start the interrogation. Ben, are you hungry?’ Lazar turned to the federal agent who was walking towards them. ‘Thank you, Colonel, I’ll have supper later...’ ‘You mean, earlier,’ Sherlock laughed. ‘Actually, I mean that I’ll have breakfast instead,’ Ben said and hurried after Salomon.

‘Those two are snug as two buttocks all of a sudden,’ said the Chief Analyst. ‘I think you’ll find they’re just comparing the size of their cocks. And the American has very big feet.’ ‘In more ways than one…’ ‘Chairlock, that expression always seems to me completely fatuous.’ ‘I thought it might, Boss.’ They parked and walked into the bar. There was a drunken crowd in the main room, but the small one was empty, and Lazar and Sherlock took a seat at a long table. ‘So Colonel, have you got a preferred hypothesis?’ Lazar leaned back hard as if he was seeing if he could break the back of the chair. Then he began grinding his neck in slow circles. When the crackling was over he leaned forward again and looked indifferently at his analyst. ‘No, Chairlock. Not even a hypothesis. Never mind a favourite one. It’s twenty-five hours since the attack,

and we’ve got nothing more than a couple of dead-end leads. I’m just reminded that man is a polluted river. And one must be a sea to receive a polluted river. I get the sense that we have many polluted rivers to receive here.’ ‘Not even a theory, Colonel?’ Sherlock replied. ‘With your imagination, not even an idea? You must feel like the devil is riding you.’ Lazar said nothing. The waiter brought them an earthenware jug of wine and an enormous plate overflowing with tripe stewed in butter. Lazar set about sprinkling garlic, smashed in vinegar, and roughly crushed hot pepper onto it. ‘Well, I can’t agree that we haven’t got a single idea. It’s a bit vague,’ the analyst zigzagged his hand, ‘but it might do.’ ‘Let’s hear it.’ ‘Why should someone want to blow up a hotel club?’ Sherlock took a gulp of Suhindol Gamza. With the tripe it was perfect. ‘There might be a hundred reasons.

Starting with the hotel owner’s enemies, and including his brother-in-law’s brother-in-law to whom he had refused a loan. And of course, we shouldn’t exclude the idea that it’s a purely political act, just because the Americans believe it. In fact, there are any number of theories, if that’s what you want. But we, as I have sometimes mentioned, are servants to the facts…’ Lazar put down his fork and applauded soundlessly the last words with his mouth full, though apparently not without sarcasm. Sherlock made a modest bow, ‘and facts, although they seem to be few, we have more than enough of. Fact number one is that it wasn’t the hotel that was bombed. It was the hotel mezzanine, and specifically the Lions Club, which is on the mezzanine. We know this because the club is harder to get to than the hotel lobby, for example, not the easiest place to hide a bomb, and not the most effective place to put a bomb if you want maximum casualties.’ Sherlock paused to eat a forkful of tripe. ‘If we look deeper, it’s a club generally attended by reporters. To be

more specific, not just reporters, but international reporters. Some of them very good reporters. Ones with a nose. Ones who know that God has given them a nose so they can poke it into other people’s affairs. If we keep on sieving that little nugget, it turns out that there is still plenty of mud we can wash away. If we eliminate the dross, we’re left with just two names. Let’s leave the barman: he’s not in the game. The three Bulgarians are nothing special – why get them here? The French photographer, and the pretty young thing from AFP are too new – and they were doing a piece on Bulgarian wine. Johnny Gilmore just screws our whores – even if he’d given one of them the clap, this would look like an over-reaction. The German from Focus advises other Germans where to go for their summer holiday in his column. ‘That leaves two souls. The new ITAR-TASS correspondent Bezkonechniiy has a record you’ll like,’ Sherlock filled up the patterned glazed ceramic cups with wine. ‘He was kidnapped twice in Russia, once in

Vladivostok, and once in Moscow – to scare him. He was investigating diamonds in Siberia, got lost in the taiga and a big mother bear almost finished him off. Afterwards, they say, you could hardly tell what colour his car was. The bear took it out on the car as she couldn’t get at the driver. Volodia has been a thorn in many people’s flesh and they obviously sent him here to get him out of the way. But why kill him here? If they needed to, the Russians would just shoot him in the street. No-one would notice these days.’ The analyst returned to the tripe, savouring his moment. ‘That leaves one twenty-four carat target. Riley. What does he do, how does he do it, when does he do it? No-one knows. Once in a while one of the big American magazines publishes some exclusive and then everyone remembers that the old drunkard Riley, apart from being able to down a kilo a day, was asking some funny questions on exactly the same subject. He has made life hell for a lot of people. He is very, very good.

So lots of people must have been surprised and worried that he dropped anchor in Bulgaria a year ago. Of course, the drink is cheap. A kilo here costs him what he would have to spend on a glass somewhere else. Anyway, the curious thing is that these two are very closely linked to each other via the brotherhood of drinking. These two are the toughest drinking reporters in Sofia, differing in one, very essential respect – the one drinks whisky, and the other – vodka...’ Lazar gazed at him in annoyance. ‘Precisely, precisely,’ Sherlock shook his head grinning. ‘You guessed. The Englishman – vodka, the Russian – whisky.’ Unexpectedly, Lazar laughed out loud and, raising his glass, said: ‘Nasdrave!’ They clinked cups and sipped; then they both turned back to the steaming tripe. ‘Of course, it’s clear to you,’ Sherlock went on, ‘that today’s adventures at the Israeli Embassy, involving Riley’s lover, are looking awfully like fact number two,

which corroborates my rejection of the Russian lead. Of course, there is also the lead supplied by the FBI, but I don’t want to believe it. We could discuss it at breakfast, especially if the Major can get them talking tonight. I can see I am boring you, but that’s what the facts say...’ ‘All the time we have been here, Chairlock, you have told me one thing I didn’t know. That the Russian was nearly eaten by a bear. Listen to yourself. You have just proved nothing. You might as well say: ‘Pink is the only interesting colour. Therefore all other colours are dull. Therefore pink is the only interesting colour.’ You should work for the Church – they need theologians of your dialectical calibre. What about the Neutrosophists? Why can’t bad journalists get killed? Why shouldn’t Friedman phone her boyfriend? Was Riley working on anything? Who would care enough about Riley to use a sub-atomic bomb? Who would want to implicate the Americans by using it? Why don’t the Israelis just fly Friedman home? What about the FBI evidence? “I don’t want to believe it”. Inspired detective work Chairlock.’

19––––– ‘... so he sent you on a wild goose chase? Is that what you mean?’ Ben sighed deeply, moved the receiver to his other hand, and said in a high tone that she disliked whenever she heard it: ‘I can’t be certain of anything any more, Patty. OK? I have been involved in certain games, that’s all I know. At the Embassy they look at me like I’m an insect, as they say here. I feel they’re playing with me. You taught me to honour my convictions. The only thing I am certain of is that the Bulgarian team I’m working with are OK, professional to the core. I had some reservations about Lazar Palin’s deputy, who completely distrusted me...’ ‘Is that a crime?’ O’Connell asked. ‘I have already taken that one on board, Patty, but last night he tore my position to pieces. In about four hours, as I said, he destroyed it. I was with him all the

time, both during the arrests and the interrogation; it was all, from everything I could tell, completely fair... if a little unconventional. He’s like a bulldog. Once he bites, he won’t let go. He leant on them hard, Patty. There was nothing. Number one, they’re nonentities. Two, they have no connection with each other. Three, they have alibis. Two of them are students: the Syrian Nizar Idras, twenty-two years old, is training to be a dentist not a weapons expert. His father is the local governor of one of the Northern Syrian provinces. No record. He’s terrified. The other is twenty-six, a Palestinian,’ Ben paused to look in his notebook, ‘Amir Halauani. He’s studying to be a highway engineer. A poet. He’s published two books. He tried to show off at the interrogation, but he’s a dreamer. An intellectual. On Saturday night both of them were at a party, drunk. Not exactly Islamic Fundamentalists, Patty. Salomon’s officers, who were at the student hostel to keep an eye on things, immediately found a dozen witnesses. All of them are willing to testify that the two of them spent the

whole evening there…’ ‘Well they would.’ ‘Patty, only one of the other students is an Arab. These two aren’t even practising Muslims. Do you see? The third one in Crawford’s list is older... Mansur...’ Ben looked into his notebook again, ‘Mansur El Jeiroudi. He’s thirty-five, has been living in Bulgaria for thirteen years, graduated from the University of Economics at Varna, married to a Bulgarian girl. He has two sons of four and five, got Bulgarian citizenship three years ago. He’s a wholesaler; he KAFTA BI SSANIEH 2 1/2 lbs. lamb or beef imports clothes from 1 1/2 tsp. salt 1/2 tsp. pepper Dubai. He spent 3/4 cup samneh (or other shortening) 1 cup fresh tomato juice, or tomato paste diluted in 1 cup water Saturday evening with 11 tsp. cup chopped onions 1 egg white his family. He cooked Grind meat through a meat grinder several times until it is almost pasty. Now pass the ground meat through the food Kafta bi Ssanieh for chopper several times with the onions until thoroughly blended. Add salt and pepper. Spread meat mixture evenly about one inch thick on a large baking pan. Bake in moderate them, it’s a kind of oven until lightly browned. Spread the samneh over the meat and continue baking until well browned. Add tomato juice and meat loaf…’ bake until half the juice is absorbed. At this point place the pan on top of the stove to finish cooking. The sauce must be almost ‘Ben.’ entirely absorbed. Cut into squares to serve. Accompany with fried potatoes, cooked vegetables and a green salad.

‘But he told us the recipe and they had the ingredients in the kitchen and his fingerprints were all over the saucepans and then a Bulgarian friend of theirs came to visit them with his children... There’s nothing even remotely suspicious. Salomon sent a psychologist to question the children. Everything fits. In the morning we’re going to check the Bulgarian who visited them. But I can tell you now, there is no story. I’m really pissed, Patty. I’m shaking.’ ‘OK, Ben. Calm down. What time is it with you now?’ ‘It’s twenty to five.’ ‘Ben, go to bed now. You did a very good job. Leave the CIA to me. Get some sleep, and in the morning make sure that all the checks are continued and completed, every one. Then report to me again. Good night.’ ‘Good night.’ Ben said to the already humming line. He undressed, put his suit in the wardrobe, pushed his shirt into the washing bag and walked into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth until he could no longer

taste the gallon of coffee he had drunk over the last twenty-two hours, then he looked at himself while he flossed. The arcs below his eyes were grey to bluish. He splashed himself with cold water and rubbed his face dry with the hay-scented towel. Then he climbed into bed and found himself unable to sleep. Tonight of all nights.

20––––– Major Bergman was a reluctant passenger in his security chief’s Land Cruiser; his unease not helped by the knowledge that they were driving openly with diplomatic plates. The security group’s hitherto anonymous, silvery grey Opel Omega was some fifty metres ahead of them. Leaving the so-called motorway, they entered the kingdom of the autumn painter. The forest looked like a ridiculous sunset – the sort where you say ’if this were a painting, I wouldn’t believe it’, thought Bergman. He was surprised to see that what had been rain in Sofia was already turning to snow here. They passed a forest ranger’s truck with a couple of centimetres of snow on its roof. ‘Winter beckons, Eitan.’ ‘Well, it’s alright here, but if it starts snowing in town, it’ll be really unpleasant. It’s too warm and everything will turn straight to slush.’

Cottages nestling in the woods began to appear from left and right. ‘So, this is where she’s found herself a hideaway, clever girl.’ They had come to the village of Bistritsa. Almost none of the original houses was left. Everywhere they saw Alpine roofs sticking up, the chalets beneath them somewhere in the small palace category. The Opel ahead drove through the village without slowing and, after a few crossroads, turned right. They entered a labyrinth of little narrow streets. As Bergman tried to read the Cyrillic names of the streets they turned finally down a narrow track called Chereshova Gradina - Cherry Orchard. ‘Here we are.’ The Opel stopped at the far very end of the street and the Land Cruiser drew up behind it. This was the last chalet: the woods started immediately beyond it. The building was relatively old and rather stylish. Two

garages had been added at the front, whose concrete roof served as a huge veranda. The house itself had tall wooden shutters reinforced with wrought iron; to the northern side of the chalet there were three enormous spruce trees. Bergman decided they must be at least a hundred years old. Walking with studied carelessness, two of the security team went round behind the chalet, another went to the side, and Bergman and Eitan went up the small staircase and stood in front of the main entrance, a large oak door with a round barred window. There was no bell. Eitan reached for the big black iron knocker. Bergman nodded at him, and Eitan knocked four times. Three would have been enough. They waited almost a minute and Eitan knocked again. Then a key could be heard scratching inside and the door opened a little way. Martha stood in the opening, barefoot, wrapped in a green towel. She looked at them apathetically, and a little sadly.

‘Well, what happens now? Are you going to arrest me?’ Bergman studied her and said nothing. Eitan, embarrassed by the silence, eventually murmured, ‘What are you saying, Martha? Why should we arrest you?’ She did not reply. ‘We have to talk, Martha,’ the Major said at last. ‘You owe me an explanation.’ ‘I could just as easily have given you the explanation at the embassy, Bergy. Why did you have to come all this way with an army?’ Martha made a circle with her arm. ‘Why did you need all this, if we only need to talk?’ ‘We are not your enemies, Martha,’ the Major replied in an even voice. ‘Don’t keep us standing on the doorstep; it’s cold, and you’re almost naked, you’ll freeze.’ Bergman stepped forward, but Martha gripped the door tighter, and pressed herself against it, blocking the way.

‘No, Bergy, you’re not coming in.’ Bergman bent his head, leaned both hands against the door frame and looked at Martha closely. ‘Captain Martha Friedman, you place me in an awkward situation. I don’t know what there is inside, but I’m going to find out. Please, step aside. Now,’ the Major’s voice sounded metallic. Martha suddenly saw before her the eyes of the commando, whom she had met and worked with in the Iranian desert. She leaned against the wall. Bergman pushed the door wide open and walked in. There was a gun in his hand. Eitan embraced Martha and pushed her gently into the corridor. The big door closed softly behind them. Everything about was turning white.

21––––– As General Stoev reported the FBI’s lead and the previous night’s arrests, the Chief Secretary’s face visibly lightened. ‘You see, Stoev, when you pull out all the stops, you can still do it. In just twenty-four hours we’ve caught the assassins and we have every right to feel pleased with ourselves. Even the FBI should be impressed. Well done... and now perhaps we should think about a real medal for you.’ 'Chief Secretary,’ General Stoev said quietly, ‘I have no need of medals nor of your mockery. I’m afraid you interrupted me in the middle of my report. I have to tell you that the whole thing is a fabrication. Quite simply, the FBI has us chasing glass fish. Interrogations were conducted last night immediately after the arrests. It’s perfectly clear that these suspects had nothing whatsoever to do with the attack. Your joy is illfounded.’

The Chief Secretary walked slowly towards the General, hands in pockets. ‘You’re a fool, Stoev. Your beloved Special Operations Section, with a little help from our American friends, has done a perfect job, and yet you are determined to undo all their good work, to...’ he stammered in search of the right word, ‘to blacken, to vilify it all. What a mean little soul you have. Of course the first interrogation will prove nothing. These are professionals. Do you suppose they won’t have cover stories? Do you suppose they will roll over and tell you everything? Why do you suppose the Americans hold their prisoners at Guantanamo Bay for months? So they can get a suntan? Once we have roasted these Arabs for a week in the catacombs, imagine what they may confess. Imagine, Stoev. Everything... But, no, you’re ready to call it a day now.’ ‘I’m afraid, Chief Secretary, that we’re not talking about some polite first interrogation. I’m talking about rock solid alibis - alibis that no court would reject. All

three have unassailable alibis; all day on Saturday, and all evening. They were not at the Lions Club.’ ‘Alibis, alibis,’ the Chief Secretary mocked, ‘don’t you yet know the first law of alibis, Stoev? Who has always got an alibi, Stoev? Well? The man who needs one, of course. Do you not imagine that an international terrorist network might have given some thought to this question? Do you suppose they are beyond paying a few sympathisers to tell a good story?’ The Chief Secretary leant back and, raising his hands theatrically, besought the ceiling with a concluding cliché: ‘Lord, protect me from stupid subordinates, my enemies I’ll deal with myself…’ Then, turning back to the General, added: ‘By the way, Tonkov has been ringing me since early this morning; his boy has disappeared. I can’t say I’m too bothered. But I expect the media will be on to us any moment. He must have had another fight and met his match. They’ve checked

all the police stations, the hospitals… Do you happen to know anything?’ The General nodded. ‘I’m not aware of anything. But I haven’t read all this morning’s reports yet, I’ve been preoccupied with this other matter and, as you know, my agency deals with national security and not with missing persons… I suggest you try the Protection Service.’ The Chief Secretary looked away for a moment, then pressed the intercom button and announced importantly: ‘The two o’clock media briefing today will be a special one. I shall make a statement myself.’ ‘Chief Secretary, I warn you not to make the arrests public. We have nothing to go on yet. It could do enormous damage. This might result in an international scandal,’ General Stoev had raised his voice for the first time. ‘You warn me? You, warn me?! Are you threatening me?’

‘Of course not, Chief Secretary. Perhaps I should have said - I urge you…’ ‘Get out, get out before I do something I might regret. On second thoughts, I wouldn’t regret it. Get out!’

22––––– The raindrops clattered on the windscreen, leaving icy arrowheads clinging for a second before being wiped into unconsciousness. That’s all we need, Lazar thought to himself - snow. The weekend weather had been gorgeous. Lazar liked the autumn in Sofia, warm, soft colours. But today had brought with it a sharp wind and horizontal rain. The citizens of Sofia had pulled their hats over their ears and were again walking with their eyes cast down. How easily they settled into their hibernation. Lazar tried the wipers faster, then at normal speed, and finally settled on fast. He switched on the heater; the windows had started to sweat. From habit he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, but stopped. For some time he had been trying to get used to not smoking in the car. Salomon had become unbearable, and in most cases it was he who drove Lazar.

Lazar felt, like a soft punch, sudden remorse for having missed the summer. Then, with a duller thud, thought of the large picture window that had separated his daughter from the summer. The car bounced lightly over the hump at the entrance to the agency’s underground garage, and he drove down and in. While he looked about for a space, he noticed that both Salomon’s BMW and Ben’s Chevrolet were already there. Ben had been there all day: his Tahoe was dry; but his deputy had arrived only minutes before him: the BMW was dripping, but there were no puddles under it yet. The duty officer saluted, and Lazar nodded. He found a wide space and parked. As he entered the big office, he saw everybody crowded around the built-in monitor under the clock. Lazar coughed good morning and hurried towards his office. ‘Boss,’ Salomon called. Lazar grunted and went on without pausing.

‘Boss, don’t go into your office, you’ll interrupt the séance.’ Lazar took two more steps, then stopped, and turned round abruptly. ‘What?’ ‘Good Lord, old age is no joy,’ the red-head rolled his eyes and started to cross himself. ‘Don’t do that. It’s inappropriate,’ Lazar snapped, then he turned and gazed at his office, where the blinds were down. He remembered the hypnosis session and instantly looked disappointed. ‘You can’t get to your cabinet. Let me treat you to the coffee that the rest of us drink,’ Salomon said and slapped him on the back, enjoying Lazar’s evident despair. The Chief Analyst had dimmed the light in Lazar’s office. With the blinds down it made a restful scene. On the table in front of Shifter, who was reclining comfortably in Lazar’s leather chair, a small steel

gyroscope revolved slowly. The Systems Administrator was breathing lightly, his eyes closed. ‘Plamen, what colour would you say your hair is?’ ‘Red and blue.’ ‘Why, Plamen? Why did you choose those colours?’ ‘Red is a flame, like my name.’ ‘Do you like your name, Plamen?’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘Do you like to be called Shifter?’ ‘No.’ ‘Do you like to be called Wimberley?’ ‘No.’ ‘Would you like everybody to call you Plamen?’ Yes.’ ‘Any why blue, Plamen?’ ‘Blue is the colour of water. It might put out the flame. But it doesn’t.’ ‘Fine, Plamen. Now, thinking about yesterday, do you remember Riley’s laptop? ‘Yes, I do.’

‘Do you remember how you hacked the password? ‘Yes. It didn’t take me long.’ ‘You were very fast, Plamen. You did well. Now, do you remember opening Explorer?’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘Can you describe the screen for me?’ ‘Yes. It looked normal. Vertical split screen’. ‘Go on.’ ‘Standard directory organisation... My Documents was the first folder.’ ‘Did you open it?’ ‘Yes, I opened it straight away. I was too quick.’ ‘You acted quite correctly, Plamen. Now, did My Documents have sub-directories?’ ‘Yes, I expanded it in the left window with its subdirectories so I could see the file list in the right-hand window.’ ‘Then what did you do?’ ‘I selected Current. I assumed his working files would be there.’

‘So, you clicked on Current. Did the list of files open in the right-hand window?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Can you see that file list?’ Sherlock’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the arm rests. ‘Yes, I can see the file list.’ ‘Read it to me, Plamen.’ ‘First are two sub-directories called London and Washington. The first actual file is called AMBO. All caps. It’s a Word file. Then there are backup files. They’re grey. The next file is called Pipeline, a Word file again. Then Substances, also Word. Then Via Balkans, an Excel file. The Chief Analyst breathed out slowly and noiselessly, with a slight triumphant smile. ‘Can you see any other files?’ ‘No, I can’t.’ ‘What did you do next, Plamen?’ ‘I tried to open the AMBO file.’ ‘Did it open, Plamen?’

‘No. Word started to open then the Ronin program activated itself. It’s deleting the files one after another. It’s deleting everything.’ ‘It’s OK, Plamen. Ronin programs are unbreakable. Don’t worry; it’s OK. You are an excellent Systems Administrator, and a cool hacker, too.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Plamen, you’ve done really well. I’m going to count down to one. When I get to one you’ll wake up and feel bright and alert. You will remember that you have helped us a lot.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Plamen, I’m counting 4,3,2,1. Now wake up,’ the Chief Analyst said louder. Shifter opened his eyes and looked round. ‘Is it over?’ ‘Yes it’s over,’ the Chief Analyst smiled. ‘Did I remember anything?’ Sherlock stood up and put his arm round the boy’s shoulder.

‘Yes, you remembered everything. You did really well. The Colonel might even be pleased.’ Shifter seemed to blush. ‘Right, well I’ll get back to work.’ ‘OK, Plamen, get going.’ The lad paused then followed his trainers out of the door as Sherlock began to rewind the cassette recorder. Meanwhile, several of the braver souls in the office had found an excuse to gather discreetly around Lazar to watch him taste the coffee that Rossy, on Salomon’s instructions, had made him from the machine. The Colonel took a sip and smiled unexpectedly. There was a general sigh of disappointment. Lazar started to speak, but the Head of Operations, who was the only one still watching the monitor, called out: ‘Here we go,’ and turned up the sound. Everybody turned to see the Chief Secretary’s face in close-up. ‘... And after twenty-four hours of tireless work on the part of the Bulgarian Security Services, three men of Arab origin have been arrested on suspicion of being

involved in the cowardly attack on the Flamingo Hotel on Saturday…’ Salomon, who was standing by a desk near the monitor, banged his fist down so hard that the desk shook. ‘Bull…shit! I think he believes this shit.’ Lazar, meanwhile, contemplated the inevitable use of the word ‘cowardly’. There’s no braver man than a murderer. ‘… the clearest possible evidence of the effectiveness of high-level co-operation between Bulgaria and its Allies.’ ‘Bull…shit again.’ Lazar waved to the Head of Operations: ‘Turn it off Mr Boggy,’ then he walked slowly and sat down in Rossy’s chair, pushing the keyboard away. He put his coffee down, took the full ashtray and emptied it into the bin beneath the desk, took out a cigarette, lit it and threw the packet and his matches on the desk.

He made a semicircle with his arm indicating to his team to sit round the desk. Chair wheels rattled and squeaked from every direction. Ben Stanton, who had stood a little aside, now also pushed a chair closer and sat at the end of the semicircle to Lazar’s right. Ben was uncomfortable. His opinion had been heard in Washington, and disregarded. Somebody obviously wanted scapegoats. Wanted the business tidying away. That somebody obviously had considerably more influence than he did. He felt his own quiet, thick anger starting to well up. It wasn’t Salomon’s histrionics. It crept over him, wordless, like a dentist’s anaesthetic. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. He counted the times he could remember this feeling. Three, with his wife when, at the height of her success and topping the crimewriters’ list, she had begun to try and blame her depression, her loneliness, her dissatisfaction with everybody and everything onto Ben. Ending a honeymoon, ending a marriage, running to author’s conferences, book tours and lectures.

Two, coming home early from high school one day, ready as usual to make his invalid mother a pot of English tea and an early supper, only to see her standing unaided in the kitchen pouring herself a large whiskey. One… Ben looked up as Lazar’s office door opened and the Chief Analyst appeared, looking tired, walking slowly towards their group and interrupting Salomon’s continuing diatribe against pretty well everything. He took a seat to Lazar’s left and, sitting down on the desk edge, gave everybody a serious look, enjoyed their impatient glances, and said: ‘AMBO, Pipeline, Substances and Via Balkans. Those were the files. Those are our keywords.’ Ben repeated silently with strained attention what Sherlock had said, taking a moment to decipher his accent and unscramble the acronym: armbow; UNBO; AMBO. Adding to it the word Pipeline, it was clear what he was talking about. ‘Route Number Eight,’ Sherlock said. ‘In simpler terms, the oil pipeline from Burgas to Vlorë. Plus drugs.

That’s what Riley had got himself into. No wonder two Arab students and the entire al-Qaeda apparatus would want him dead. The Chief Analyst’s heavy irony was not lost on Ben. Into his head came tumbling cuttings and conversations about the AMBO oil pipeline project and its sponsorship by America’s petroleum giants. He felt tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘Is that all?’ Lazar asked, cracking his neck vertebrae at the same time. ‘Well…,’ he turned and stared with interest at the federal agent.

23––––– The white Audi-100 had been sitting for over an hour now on the expansive TIR truck-stop outside Aytos. Its three occupants were sprawled uncomfortably, dissembling sleep. From under half-closed eyelids they watched the passing traffic. At the steering wheel sat Yanko The Stutterer, formerly Bulgarian lightweight Graeco-Roman wrestling champion, but for some years now a confirmed heavyweight freestyle gangster. For him, this was an infrequent visit to Burgas, as his Chechen employers preferred to keep him busy securing each new consignment as it entered Albania. Short and starting almost square with wide shoulders before his body tapered to a still ridiculously slim waist, he was blessed with a small head, no neck and cauliflower ears. In spite of this, there was something of the dandy about him: always neatly shaven, he wore massive gold bracelets on both wrists. His fixedly empty gaze belied a

keen mind that had kept him out of gaol for the last ten years. Beside him sat a man of about forty, his large, round, unshaven face quite at odds with that of The Stutterer. Suslambek Yushaev’s straight black hair rarely tangled with a comb and generally bore the mark of the last pillow he had slept on. His unremarkable body, crooked legs and careless demeanour did nothing to suggest a Chechen high on the wanted-list of the Russian FSB but able to operate more or less undisturbed in Bulgaria. The third occupant of the car was an Albanian Kosovar who hardly spoke. He had turned up two weeks ago announcing himself to be Shefket Abazi. When he did speak, his awe-inspiring and mesmeric Adam’s apple, his broken Bulgarian and his thick Albanian accent made him almost incomprehensible to Suslambek who, in his turn, spoke a Bulgarian that was three parts Russian. However, communication seemed to be of little immediate importance, as the Kosovar

obviously knew precisely what to do. The three of them stirred when an antiquated and unarticulated Mercedes petrol tanker turned into the parking area. The truck stopped, turned on its warning lights and stood with its engine running. It was painted green and white, and oversized letters on one side announced it to be the proud possession of MakPetrol. It bore Skopje licence plates. Suslambek carefully examined the parking area and the passing cars, then turned his head to Shefket, and nodded to him: ‘Go!’ The Kosovar climbed unhurriedly out of the Audi, slammed the door and walked over to the truck. He

stopped by the driver’s door and, after a short exchange, the driver moved over to the right and Shefket climbed behind the wheel. The Chechen, who had been watching closely, now sat up and said to The Stutterer in an altogether unexpected voice: ‘Vamos a la playa.’ His intention was anyway clear enough and the Audi pulled away and out onto the main road. The tanker followed. Fifteen minutes later they turned right towards the colossal Lukoil refinery outside Burgas. Skirting the refinery for about twenty minutes, they came eventually to the outskirts of a small village. A sign that was obviously used extensively by the local youths for target practice identified it as

Lozovo. They turned again down an unmarked road that wound its way along the bottom of the gardens of the village houses – though with their log piles, hay stooks, corrugated tin barns and goat sheds they looked more like creations of the Brothers Grimm than gardens. Finally, they came to an enormous, rusting garage nestling among hills of tyres and wrecked cars. The Audi drove through the open gate and stopped in front of a low wooden shed which still betrayed some traces of a luxurious, green-painted past. Two men in blue overalls emerged from the shed and, leaning hard on the sliding door, pushed it, screaming, wide enough for the tanker to drive in. The men rapidly slid the door back, hiding the vehicle from the outside world. Suslambek got out of the Audi and spoke to a third man in overalls. ‘Paint?’ ‘The paint is here. Everything is here,’ the old man replied. ‘You’ve got two days.’

‘ОK, no problem.’ Leaving the Kosovar at the garage, Suslambek got into the Audi with the tanker driver and The Stutterer. The tanker driver, another Albanian, was introduced to The Stutterer, who made it clear that his delight at making the acquaintance of the Albanian was, at best, ephemeral. The Audi made for Burgas, unflinchingly overtaking everything in its way. They had just reached the city’s northern industrial zone when Suslambek’s phone rang. He said a few words in Chechen, put it away, and turned to The Stutterer: ‘Hit it… something’s wrong.’ Passing the football stadium at speed, the Audi entered Akatsiite. Once a fishermen’s settlement, now subsumed into the city of Burgas, its houses, invariably small and dilapidated, were all one-storey buildings with no cellars. They stood foundationless on mud and seawater. In the neighbouring gypsy ghetto of Komluka, criss-crossed with muddy unpaved streets, the Audi

stopped in front of a limed shack with a small yard in front, where asters were still blooming. ‘Don’t turn it off,’ Suslambek hissed to The Stutterer. Turning to the tanker driver, he said: ‘You stay here,’ got out of the car, leaving the door open, quickly crossed the yard, and disappeared into the house. A short, stout man with a big head and a pockmarked face decorated with a bushy moustache met him in the hallway: ‘Big trouble, Suslambek. Hanzat…’ ‘Him again,’ Suslambek bared his teeth. ‘What has he done this time?’ ‘He went to buy cigarettes and brought a gypsy woman back here. Then a man came demanding money. I heard them having an argument at the door. The man

tried to hit him… and Hanzat, you know, with his knife.’ A stabbing motion cleared up any possible confusion about what had happened next. Suslambek leaned against the door, looked up, and asked: ‘What about the whore?’ ‘We cut her throat, Suslambek. She started yelling…’ ‘May Allah be my witness, I’ll send the lot of you to join her.’ He pushed him aside and burst into the room. A tall, sallow young man sat uncomfortably on a small sofa, smoking. Another, this one no more than twentytwo or twenty-three, leant against the opposite wall hugging his own shoulders. As soon as he saw Suslambek he threw himself on his knees and bowed his head to the ground. ‘Forgive me, Suslambek… I was wrong…’ Suslambek took two big steps, seized him by the hair and jerked his head backwards. A knife blade flashed in his other hand and he cut the boy’s throat

with one clean swipe. Then he kicked the wriggling body against the wall. The smoker made no move. ‘Abdul, set explosives everywhere and let’s get out of here.’ The young man put out his cigarette and stood up quickly. He stepped over the blood-soaked carpet, and started taking plastic bags out of a rucksack in the hall. ‘Where are the gypsies, Amarbek,’ Suslambek asked the man with the cratered face. ‘I put them in the cupboard.’ ‘Make sure they’re dead.’ ‘No problem, Suslambek. They are very dead. They’re already with their gypsy god.’ ‘Then help Abdul with the explosives.’ Ten minutes later Abdul and Amarbek stole out of the house locking the front door. The Audi drove off, and the two men got into the rusty Lada parked on the pavement and followed it.

24––––– The internal telephone rang. Gerald Crawford put his newspaper down on the table beside him, levered himself out of the deep armchair and went to his desk. ‘Gerald, our friend from the FBI kindly requests you to see him in his office, now, if possible.’ ‘Does he indeed?’ ‘Indeed he does.’ Crawford put down the receiver, went to the triple glazed window and gazed out at the garden in front of the National Theatre. ‘Let’s see…,’ he said to himself as he put his lighter and cigarettes into his

shirt pocket and, without putting on his jacket, went downstairs. Ben Stanton was sitting at his desk and smiled courteously but didn’t stand up. Crawford scrutinised him and decided that, if anything, he looked even paler than usual. ‘Come in, Gerald, take a seat.’ ‘Will the interrogation be formal, Ben? Should I ask my attorney to be present?’ Crawford asked as he took the proffered chair. ‘Perhaps, Gerald, when the time comes,’ Ben fell in with the game. Crawford tried to lean back, but the tall, upright chair didn’t allow this so he bent forward and rested his elbows on the desk. ‘What’s up, Ben? Do you have a problem?’ ‘No, Gerald, I don’t have a problem but I’m afraid you do.’ Crawford carefully didn’t rise to the bait. ‘You know, Gerald, I’ve been accused, amongst other things, of over-estimating people and I’m starting

to think that I’ve just done it again. I expect people to be rather clever. I thought your manoeuvring yesterday must conceal some subtlety of purpose, but now it seems that it was a poor performance, pure and simple. I’m now absolutely convinced that, although you work with them, you don’t understand your counterparts here, in Sofia. And in our line of business it’s as dangerous to underestimate your friends as your enemies, as it were. I’m just astonished that you could have allowed this to happen, given your experience.’ Ben leant forward too and put his elbows on the desk, shortening the distance between them. His expression now betrayed the dull anxiety of a doctor examining a seriously ill patient. ‘Of course, there’s no question, it’s up to you and to your senior officers to decide how to behave with and towards people here. But trying to mislead, deliberately, the official representative of the FBI which, in the absence of any alternative explanation, is how I must construe your behaviour, is a federal crime.’

The two men looked at each other for fully 15 seconds. ‘Well, whatever next Ben? Are you going to read me my rights?’ Crawford raised his hands and imitated the putting-on of handcuffs. ‘I still can’t see your problem. I gave you names, you’ve arrested the Arabs. In fact, I’ve done your work for you. What more co-operation do you want?’ Ben leant backwards again and shook his head. ‘Gerald, is that all you have to say? I need to understand as far as is possible what is happening here. I need to understand the connection between the bombing and the AMBO pipeline. Did you eliminate Riley? And, if so, why? Is it simply that the firm is back in the drugs business again?’ Crawford looked at him scornfully but said nothing. ‘I need answers, Gerald. Did Riley know too much? Did the Firm really orchestrate this whole nasty little business just in order to deal with him? Did you do it?

Who did you use? I know you work with the Albanian mobs…Did you lose control over them, Gerald?’ Crawford was finally galled into speech: “Ben, Ben, I think you’re forgetting step three of your interrogation of suspects training. Let me remind you that, in the admittedly unlikely event that you were to pose a good question, it’s often helpful to allow time for your prey to answer.’ Ben looked at him expectantly and Crawford continued: ‘Ben, perhaps, I’ve underestimated you. Or at least your imagination. You seem to have concocted the mother of all conspiracy theories for no reason that I can understand. Did you invent it or was it your sainted Colonel?’ ‘So, you’ll at least agree that you’re in a mess?’ Ben said, shaking his head. Crawford stood up slowly and lit a cigarette as he walked towards the door.

‘Listen Ben,’ the CIA man stopped at the door, ‘AMBO isn’t some toy you can play with in your free time. It’s a long term American strategic priority, concerning vital American interests – and not only in the Balkans. I strongly advise you to stay well away from it if you don’t want to get your fingers burnt. Do you understand?’ Ben just continued shaking his head as Crawford opened the door and went out. After a moment, Ben dialled a combination on the small safe and pulled out an alphabetical file. He found the number he needed very quickly and dialled. ‘Camp Bondsteel? Put me through to Lieutenant Colonel John Trent.’ He waited a few seconds. ‘This is Trent.’ ‘Lieutenant Colonel John Trent?’ ‘The same. Who is this?’ ‘Special agent Ben Stanton from the FBI office in Sofia speaking, Colonel.’

‘Oh, hi, how is civilisation? I guess you’re pretty busy at the moment?’ ‘I am somewhat, Colonel, and I think I need your help.’ ‘I’m at your disposal, sir.’ ‘To get straight to the point, Colonel, it seems to me that it would be very helpful if we could meet.’ ‘No problem, just tell me when and how you’re arriving.’ ‘I’ll leave in an hour, by car. US plates, unless you advise otherwise?’ ‘No, that’s fine, sir. In an hour? I’ll meet you at the border.’ ‘Thank you Colonel, see you later.’ ‘Later, sir.’ Ben returned the file to the safe and prepared to leave.

25––––– His legs felt weak. He seemed to be floating in the narrow corridor. He had to lean against the wall. He couldn’t remember how he had reached the clinic. ‘Colonel, would you like to sit down for a minute in the TV room? Before you go in?’ Lazar closed his eyes. Does she think I’m drunk? He took a deep breath and slowly breathed out, then again, and again for a third time. He stepped back from the door of the intensive care ward and went to the corridor window, rubbed his face and stretched his neck several times. ‘You should consider physiotherapy, Colonel. Without treatment your neck could get so stiff that if you wanted to look at me now you would have to turn your whole body.’ ‘Were I to find that I wanted to look at you, that would indeed be intolerable,’ Lazar replied, suddenly calmer, then he opened the door of the ward decisively

and went in to see his daughter. He sat down on the edge of her bed and took her tiny, pale hands in his. He gazed at her intently. ‘You look so thin you’ve almost disappeared. Except for your eyes.’ She smiled at him uncomfortably, her mouth pinched by the oxygen mask. ‘Daddy-Bear,’ she whispered, but Lazar read it on her lips instead of hearing it. Maria felt for the handle of her mechanical bed, pulled it and the upper end began to rise with a quiet buzzing till she was in a half sitting position. Then she pushed the mask aside to allow herself to speak. ‘I told them not to ask you to come.’ ‘Why shouldn’t I be asked to come? How do you think I would feel if they didn’t ring me?’ ‘I love you Daddy-Bear…’ ‘I love you more.’ ‘Will you make them take me back to my room?’

‘No poppet, I can’t. You know they’ve got to keep you hooked up to these machines.’ ‘But I hate it here. I want to be with the other girls. I know I might feel a bit worse without the machines but if they keep me here on my own any longer, I’ll go mad.’ ‘You won’t go mad…. I’ll stay here with you.’ ‘You can’t. You’ve got work to do.’ ‘To hell with the work’ Her doctor appeared at the door, smiled and walked briskly in. ‘Aah, Daddy-Bear came and now you’re feeling better. The doctor sat on the other side of the bed and started examining the data from the cardiograph. ‘Well, that’s much better, well done.’ ‘My father says you must take me back to the ward,’ Maria whispered. ‘No, no, no, your father didn’t say anything of the sort and, even if he did, I wouldn’t take orders from him,’ the doctor smiled but looked firm.

‘Maria,’ Lazar interrupted sternly, ‘you’re a little rascal.’ She pulled her longest, sulkiest face and looked as if she might cry before hiding her face under the sheet. ‘Colonel, are all your family such good actors?’ the doctor exclaimed as he put down her notes and stood up to leave. Lazar smiled and turned back to his daughter. ‘Daddy-Bear, I dreamt about being at home. It was years ago and I was ill but we were all there together. Mummy was with me and you came back in the evening and then we played the film game. Do you remember? I wish it could be like that again. I hate it like this. You’re alone, mummy is alone and I’m alone…Poor mummy, she is the loneliest. At least you and me can see each other every day, but she is so far away.’ ‘You and I,’ said Lazar, ‘Sally would insist…’ but Maria could see tears in his eyes. She reached up and touched his cheek.

‘Sorry daddy. It was just a dream. I just wanted to tell you. I was very happy and I’m still happy. Don’t be sad please.’ ‘I know. And I know that we will all be happy again and together again.’ ‘I’m sure too. We are Lazarovs and we’ll survive everything… Now you must go to work. I’m a bit tired and I think I’ll try to sleep.’ ‘Do you want a story?’ Maria grinned. ‘The Duck spat on the ice and the steam rose. The steam frightened the Duck and he took to his heels and ran. He ran and ran and met the Rooster. The Rooster asked: ‘Where are you off to, Ducky?’ ‘We must run, Rooster, run – the king’s earth is on fire.’ They ran and ran and met the Rabbit The Rabbit asked:

‘Where are you off to, Rooster?’ ‘Ask Ducky.’ ‘Where are you off to, Ducky?’ ‘We must run, Rabbit, run – the king’s earth is on fire.’ They ran and ran and met the Fox The Fox asked: ‘Where are you off to, Rabbit?’ ‘Ask Rooster.’ ‘Where are you off to, Rooster?’ ‘Ask Ducky.’ ‘Where are you off to, Ducky?’ ‘We must run, Foxy, run – the king’s earth is on fire.’ They ran and ran and met the Wolf. The Wolf asked: ‘Where are you off to, Foxy?’ ‘Ask Rabbit.’ ‘Where are you off to, Rabbit?’ ‘Ask Rooster.’ ‘Where are you off to, Rooster?’ ‘Ask Ducky.’

‘Where are you off to, Ducky?’ ‘‘We must run, Wolf, run – the king’s earth is on fire.’ They ran and ran and met the Bear. The Bear asked: ‘Where are you off to, Wolf?’ Lazar stopped. Maria always fell asleep before they met the Bear. Always. He stood up carefully and pressed the button to lower the bed. The he adjusted the oxygen mask and tip-toed his big frame somewhat ludicrously out of the room, looking at the CCTV camera above the door to make certain once more. The indicator was working; its steady green light glowing.

26––––– Salomon, who had given his own report after all the others, finished and examined the faces of the senior officers in the department. Then his gaze came back to the Colonel. Lazar seemed more distracted than ever and the two vertical wrinkles on his forehead had deepened and darkened. Salomon resumed, this time as chairman: ‘In summary, we must conclude from the phone reports, interviews and interrogation, forensics and the alibis that the three suspects had no apparent connection whatsoever with the attack on the Lions Club on Saturday evening nor with the two attempts on Martha Friedman’s life on Sunday.’ He fell silent, looked at Ben’s empty chair and then turned to Lazar again. ‘We must also conclude that the investigation was deliberately misled for reasons that are unknown at this stage. Given that the disinformation immediately followed the start of our investigations into

Martha Friedman and Riley, it’s possible that it was meant to divert our attention from one or both of them. On the other hand, it seemed to confirm previous announcements from Washington and may have been unconnected with our investigation, which I suggest we now resume immediately. I propose we hear first from Chairlock.’ ‘Excuse me Sally, but I need to know what to do with the three Arabs?’ the Head of Operations said. ‘The Foreign Ministry has already telephoned twice. The Syrian ambassador and his Palestinian counterpart have apparently now sent their notes.’ The Major ground his teeth audibly: ‘We must release them. What else can we do?’ He looked at Lazar, who gave no sign of having heard even a word of this exchange. Finally, he reached out and shook his arm. ‘Colonel… decision.’ ‘What decision?’

‘OK. Before we start the meeting again can I ask you to turn your hearing aid on or buy a fucking trumpet. Chairlock needs to know how to avoid a major diplomatic incident. Your input…’ ‘What do you want? To set the Arabs free? Well…’ ‘So you were listening. What the fuck…’ ‘Well, you must set them free, obviously. If they are innocent, set them free. We’re not the Gestapo.’ ‘Nor is it Guantanamo Bay,’ chimed Sherlock. Salomon closed his eyes, took a deep breath and turned to Bogomil: ‘Colonel Palin’s considered orders are to release the suspects.’ ‘Should we apologise?’ Bogomil asked flatly. ‘You can do it with a curtsy for all I fucking care… right leg in front, back upright, head bent. Colonel, do you wish to add any refinements to the conventional curtsy procedure…?’ Lazar ignored him and the Head of Operations stood up and left muttering:

‘They’re mad. They’re completely mad.’ ‘Am I? I shall be!’ Salomon shouted after him. There was a pause and Lazar suddenly stood up and headed for the door. Salomon looked at him in surprise: ‘Boss. We haven’t finished yet.’ ‘For pity’s sake Sally, I’m going to the lavatory. I’m going for a piss.’ ‘Well, how should I know unless you tell me? I haven’t been issued with an infrared link to your bladder sensors.’ Sherlock laughed out loud, his chair slipped and the Chief Analyst found himself on the floor with his feet up and his spectacles sliding under the sofa. He rolled over and sat up groaning and holding his head. Lazar stopped at the door to observe the scene, made the sign of the cross and left the room. When Lazar returned with Bogomil two minutes later he simply took his seat but the Head of Operations

stopped at the door contemplating the upturned chair and Sherlock’s groaning with some bewilderment. ‘Was there a fight?’ he asked. Nobody answered him and he picked the chair up and bent over Sherlock anxiously. ‘I just fell off the chair. Can you see my spectacles?’ Distracted by the amateur dramatics, no-one but Lazar noticed the telephone ringing. So it was he who answered it. ‘Yes…Oui, c’est Lazar Palin….Mademoiselle Brasseur? Comment ça va? …pourquoi? …je comprends tres bien Mademoiselle …d’accord. Merci, au revoir,’ Lazar put down the receiver and ran his hand over his forehead. ‘Charmant, mon brave. Alors, qu’est-ce-qu’elle veut, Michelle le Feu?’ Salomon enquired. ‘An appointment. Tonight in the Sheraton jazz club.’ ‘Do you need a wire? Back-up? Anything?’ Bogomil asked, getting out his notebook.

‘No… Yes! Reserve a table in a quiet corner, delouse it 30 minutes beforehand and put in a waiter to watch it.’ The officer nodded. ‘The French have something to tell us,’ Sherlock said. ‘Something very important if they’ve sent her. Something that will upset the Americans perhaps?’ ‘That’s correct. Carry on Sally.’ Salomon looked in turn at the Chief Analyst. ‘Have you found your tongue again or are you concussed?’ ‘I could sue you for dangerous working conditions,’ he said before taking a pack of thin files which were in front of him and, as if he was dealing cards, gliding one to each of the three men there. He opened the fourth and adjusting his spectacles said: ‘I’ve prepared some brief background on AMBO, since we can’t read Riley’s files. Have a look at it first and then we can discuss it.’

Lazar took out a half empty packet of Camel and, paying no attention to Salomon’s glare, lit a cigarette and read: The Albanian-Macedonian-Bulgarian Oil Corporation LLC (AMBO) is the designated project designer and project manager of the US$826m Trans-Balkan oil pipeline, intended to transport crude oil from the Black Sea (Burgas) to the Adriatic (Vlorë) along the so-called Energy Corridor 8. The pipeline will be 907 kilometres long with a capacity of 750,000 barrels per day and is intended to transport oil from Southern Russia, Azerbaijan and Kazakhstan which has been piped to the Eastern Black Sea ports of Novorossiysk, Tuapsa and Batumi then shuttled by tanker to Burgas. The AMBO corporation has already been granted exclusive rights by the three countries crossed by the pipeline. The aim of the project is to by-pass the congested sea route through the Bosphorus, which is environmentally hazardous, subject to high taxes and the threat of closure by Turkey, slow (adds 5-6 days), and expensive (tankers using the Bosphorus are limited to a maximum capacity of 150,000 tonnes).

The AMBO project is directly linked to the seats of political and military power in the US. The project feasibility study was carried out by Brown & Root (the British subsidiary of US Vice-President Dick Cheney’s firm Halliburton Energy). A senior executive of Halliburton is President of AMBO and another Halliburton subsidiary was awarded the contract to build Camp Bondsteel in Kosovo, the largest overseas American military base built since Vietnam. Camp Bondsteel is one of several US military bases along Energy Corridor 8. It is widely reported that the AMBO project is backed by the oil giants BP, Amoco, ARCO, Chevron and Texaco, which excludes the competing European oil interests of the TFE (Total-Fina-Elf) consortium. BG Foreign Ministry sources report that representations have been made by both the French and Italian Governments offering improved terms if our government withdraws from the agreement. Shortly before the Iraq war, the Chirac Administration also linked the date of Bulgaria’s admission to the EU to withdrawal from the agreement. Both the BG Foreign Minister and Trade Minister are thought to have received substantial payments at that time. The agreement holds.

Lazar put the file aside and lit another cigarette. ‘Nothing new here. What are you telling me?’ ‘Simply that this is what Riley was working on before he was killed,’ replied Sherlock. ‘Died,’ retorted Lazar. ‘This and the drugs,’ added Bogomil. ‘This and the drugs,’ agreed the Chief Analyst. ‘And?’ interjected Salomon, ‘What is the connection?’ ‘I don’t know what the connection is. I have no idea,’ Sherlock was experimenting with the range of canopy-like structures he could make with his hands. ‘There is a number of possibilities, but I haven’t got information to support any of them. And I don’t want to get into science fiction. Perhaps there is no connection and he was following two unrelated stories at the same time. Dick Cheney,’ he counted exaggeratedly with his thumb, ‘and the drugs mafia.’ Lazar broke in abruptly: ‘There is nothing about AMBO and Dick Cheney’s affairs worth investigating by

a reporter of his quality. Nothing. What could Riley write for his American readers? That their Vice President has oil interests? That the US administration is trying to extend and protect its oil interests in the Balkans to ensure long-term, low-cost supplies? That the Europeans are being squeezed out. That the US Army is being used to protect these same oil interests? The American people would expect their government to do this. They want them to do this. And why not?’ ‘I agree,’ Sherlock replied impatiently. ‘Then why are you trying to tell me that Dick Cheney ordered Riley’s murder?’ ‘Colonel, I’m not telling you that. I simply prepared a briefing note on the most concrete of the subjects that Riley was apparently researching. To help in our analysis of the situation. I draw no conclusions.’ Then Sherlock stood up, took his file and his notebook and left the office. There was an uneasy silence. ‘Excellent!’ said Salomon. ‘Another morale-boosting session for the team.’

Lazar said nothing. ‘What now?’ asked the Major. ‘What now?’ Lazar was suddenly angry. ‘Well, since we appear to know nothing, I suggest we start back at the very beginning.’

27––––– Martha was contemplating the building opposite, a dour but elegant 19th century solidness neatly studded with six rows of grand windows. The buildings in this part of Sofia reminded her of Paris. Perhaps they had used French architects – there had been a time when the fashion was to emulate the French in all things, here as in St Petersburg. The impression was only lost when she looked down at the potholed streets and the unimaginable disorder of the parked cars. Most were parked on the pavements, some so close to the buildings that pedestrians had to walk in the road in order to go round them. Absolute chaos. Looking back up, she thought with a smile of the Boulevard de Clichy where it ran beneath Montmartre and of her favourite little hotel, where she stayed when her work took her to Paris. There, too, she would stand by the open window in the hotel, looking down at the narrow Rue Fromentin, the cars parked as tidily as if

they had been winched in, and then across and up to the great luminous toad of the Sacré Coeur. She had never been to it, afraid of spoiling the impression. She had

learned, many times over, that looking too closely revealed only cracks, defects and wrinkles, invisible from a distance. So it had been on their reconnaissance trip to Egypt, where they had travelled as a New Zealand tour party. Trigger happy, she had clicked and saved every impression from Karnack, Luxor, the Valley of the Kings, Edfu and Kom Ombo. But what she

remembered when she closed her eyes was the signature of the sand and sun on the huge stones, the twists and cracks in the antique lifting equipment, half buried in the sand beside the long, sloping ramp up to the temple of Amon Ra. From the deep welts in the stone, her thoughts turned to the face of her old teacher, Moshe. Probably not more than forty-five or fifty years old, to little Martha he had seemed terribly old. Still did. Old and crushingly sad. A bomb had killed his family and he had accepted the place of a teacher in the kibbutz. For a short while he had become Martha’s support and hope, substituting for her real father, the commando who appeared twice a year. But he had been unable to bear the regime in the kibbutz and was expelled for some heresy. The arrival of Bergman in the darkened entrance to the building interrupted her reminiscences. Though the Major looked calm and formal as ever, Martha knew that things could hardly have been peaceful inside. He

had been gone for forty minutes, in discussion with his unwitting Palestinian agent who knew Bergman only as Mr Jones and supposed him to be MI6. Bergman had the most perfect British accent. ‘Drive to the Sevastopol,’ Bergman told her, getting into the Toyota. Martha drove without questioning him. ‘He didn’t feel like talking,’ the Major said eventually, ‘I decided that he was hiding something. I had to use s.p.’ ‘Did you learn anything? ‘Only that we are on the right track. The Arabs have nothing to do with it.’ ‘You drugged him and risked your contact only to learn something you already know?’ ‘Well he did have very useful ideas on how to proceed with the Albanians.’ ‘Oh really!’ Martha sneered. ‘Look Martha, there is no need for this. I have never poked my nose into your private affairs. You may think

what you like, but I am doing my job and no more than that…’ Martha lifted her hand from the gears and rested it on the Major’s hand. ‘Bergy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bitch. You have always been a good friend to me, and you know that I know that.’ ‘I do.’ ‘What’s the plan?’ ‘We are going to the Sevastopol to look for a man who rejoices in the name of Gogo Shipter. He seems to be the Bulgarian link used by the Albanian mob in Sofia.’ ‘And what shall we do when we find the Gogo boy?’ They had reached Rakovski Street and were caught, as usual, in a traffic jam. The vehicle in front of them, with its inevitable blackened windows, tried to pull out past everything and succeeded only in blocking all the oncoming traffic as well. They were only about thirty

metres from the Sevastopol but they had little hope of reaching it soon. Bergman opened the door, saying: ‘Find somewhere to park near the theatre. We may have to pull out in a hurry.’ Martha nodded and began to visualise the space she needed. And, though it was a metre shorter than the one she had anticipated, ten minutes later she finally managed to nose the car into a small gap opposite the theatre, leaving at least half the Toyota jutting out into the road. She whispered a short and grateful prayer. It was already getting dark as she approached Bergman, who was standing a little away from the entrance in front of the Drama Academy annexe. ‘Not easy,’ Martha said. ‘Now what?’ ‘Gogo is down there, in the bar. I’ve taken a room on the first floor, the last one along the corridor on the right. Here’s the key,’ he gave her the key, its heavy brass plate bearing the name of the hotel and the number 206. ‘I’ll be up there.’

‘How are you going to get in without a key?’ ‘I’ve already been up and left the door unlocked. Go downstairs, pick him up and bring him to the room. From there, I’ll take care of him.’ ‘Describe him to me.’ ‘I couldn’t size him exactly, because he was sitting at the bar, but he looks short, slim and tough. He’s in a plain black T-shirt, jeans and a beige leather jacket, made of patches. He’s got very obvious cheek bones.’ Bergman put his hand into his pocket and gave her four capsules. ‘Alcohol blockers, you may have to drink.’ Martha nodded and tipped the capsules into her mouth. ‘I’m afraid I forgot to bring any water.’ ‘God you make me suffer,’ Martha laughed, gulping once. ‘Good luck, Martha. I’ll wait for ten minutes out here, in case something goes wrong. After that I’ll be upstairs.’ Martha nodded and went into the Sevastopol.

The bar was almost empty. It was too late for coffee and still rather too early for the serious drinkers. She saw the man at once. He met Bergman’s description perfectly, only Martha had pictured him younger. In reality he looked to be in his forties. She sat at the bar three chairs away from him and ordered a glass of whisky. The fishing was easy. Within a few minutes the three chairs between them were gone and Martha was drinking her second whisky, this time bought for her by Gogo. In another twenty minutes Martha was looking quite drunk and Gogo was trying to enchant her with a combination of his broken English and the occasional and indiscreet display of a very thick wad of dollars. When she was almost sure that the plan would work and just as she was about to ask him to take her to her room, because she was rather too drunk to get there on her own, two men walked in. Their appearance alarmed her, even from a distance. They walked straight up to Gogo. Martha watched his reaction. Although he had drunk two very large whiskies with her and probably

had been drinking before, at the sight of the newcomers he became immediately sober and his face tightened visibly. Martha tried to lead him away, leaning towards him and mumbling temptingly: ‘Come on, let’s go, lover.’ Instead, he pulled away from her and climbed down from his high stool. ‘Gogo, let’s talk,’ one of the newcomers said in broken English. Then, looking contemptuously at Martha, added, ‘Get this whore out of here.’ Gogo turned to her in some embarrassment: ‘Well, baby, I need to talk to these guys. I’ll see you some other time.’ ‘A talk with friends. OK, talk, talk,’ Martha continued drunkenly. ‘I need to use the rest room…’ and, staggering slightly, she went to the exit where she had noticed the toilets. There was nobody except her in the ladies and as she stood by the cracked door, so she could watch the

entrance to the bar, she pulled out her mobile phone and called Bergman. ‘Change of plan.’ ‘What’s happened, Martha?’ ‘Two Albanians, if I’m not mistaken, have just arrived. They told him to get rid of me. They said they had to talk. I won’t be able to bring him upstairs, I’m almost sure.’ Bergman was quiet. ‘Martha, we have to hear this conversation. Have you got a bug with you? I mean, in the car?’ ‘I don’t know, Bergy, I think I had one but I haven’t used it recently. I don’t know how the batteries are.’ ‘Martha, run to the car and get it, please.’ Martha edged her way out close to the wall so as not to be seen from the bar, then ran upstairs to the exit and across Rakovski Street to the car, opened the boot, pulled away one of the side covers and pulled out a small silver-coloured plastic box. She looked around, then opened it. She switched on the microphone

transmitter and then the receiver, and tested them. They worked. She put both into her pocket, threw the box back into the boot, locked it and, running again, came back to the Sevastopol. Bergman was waiting for her at the entrance. ‘Is it working?’ ‘It is.’ ‘Have you got any chewing gum?’ Martha nodded, rummaged through her purse and took out a packet. ‘OK, Bergy, I’m ready,’ she set off, then came back and handed him the receiver. ‘If you think it’s getting too hot, call the barman. I’ll come immediately,’ Bergman said as she left. Trying to slow her breathing, Martha began to stagger down the stairs. She went into the ladies again, threw some water on her face and splashed some on her blouse. Then she took the chewing gum out of her mouth, wrapped the antenna of the microphone in it and, holding the appliance in her clenched left hand, she

swayed towards the bar. The three of them were sitting in silence at a small table while the barman served their beer and a large plate of cheese and cold meat. Smiling broadly, Martha went to the empty chair, stumbled as she tried to sit down, half fell and pulled herself up carefully. She tried again to sit down. ‘I told you to get rid of the whore.’ ‘Baby, I’ve told you I have work to do,’ Gogo said, not unkindly, and, leading her to the entrance, whispered in her ear: ‘Tell me your room number and I’ll come later.’ ‘No love, it’s now or never.’ Then she wrenched herself away from him and, laughing loudly, almost ran out. Bergman was standing at one side of the entrance with the receiver by his ear. He made a sign to her that everything was OK, and with another sign told her to fetch the Toyota. This time Martha crossed the road calmly, got into the car, started the engine and drove just past the bar, stopping almost

at the crossroads. She left the engine running without turning on the headlights. Her phone rang. ‘Martha, you did it. The conversation I’m listening to is just what we need. Wait...’ Bergman was silent for almost a minute. Then he continued. ‘I think we’ve got what we need. Just wait till the boys get here, then we can go.’ Bergman hung up. Martha did the same and put the phone into her pocket. She felt a little dizzy from the alcohol. She was impatient to get home and into the shower.

28––––– ‘Nasko, say it quickly. I’m going out,’ said the Chief Secretary, putting some documents in the safe next to his desk. ‘I doubt you’ll be able to go out.’ ‘What’s happened?’ ‘Half an hour ago Lazar Palin released the three suspects arrested after Saturday’s bombing…’ a smile crossed the face of Atanasov. It was not echoed on the face of the Chief Secretary. ‘Released who?’ ‘The three Arabs…’ The Chief Secretary grabbed at the intercom and pressing the button cried furiously: ‘Get Stoev and Palin here! Now! Double-quick!’ ‘You always said you should have fired them.’ The Chief Secretary felt himself going numb with anger. The next 24 hours of his life were rushing past him. The American ambassador would be on the phone.

There would be no recovering from that conversation. Then the ambassador would speak to the Prime Minister and then his career would be finished. He would become a footnote. If that. And why? Palin. He began to sweat heavily. It ran down his neck and under his collar. Now even the holy trinity and all the archangels will not be able to save me. ‘There’s something else Gospodin Secretary…’ he had forgotten that Atanasov was there. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ ‘It’s Tonkov’s son. Er, it seems that Lazar Palin has arrested him…’ Atanasov’s words were drowned by a roar that could be heard around the building. ‘Security! Arrest Lazar Palin immediately! Where is my Security Chief?’ Within moments, the Lieutenant Colonel commanding the Ministry’s Security Unit appeared at a run from his office down the corridor:

‘Gospodin Chief Secretary, Colonel Palin and Major Dekalo left the building ten minutes ago by car. We do not know where they were headed.’ Find him. Arrest him. He is wanted for murder.’ ‘Sir, he only arrested the Tonkov boy and put him in the old detention barracks… he didn’t kill him. Unfortunately…’ said Atanasov. ‘What?…. Never mind. Abuse of powers, kidnap, arrest him,’ the Chief Secretary roared again at his security chief. After he had left, he turned to Atanasov and looked at him with disgust: ‘He didn’t kill him “unfortunately”. We’re not at school now. This is the real world. This is politics. Don’t speak to me until you’ve learnt something. Anything.’

29––––– Ben Stanton offered his diplomatic passport to the KFOR officer. The man looked at him coolly: ‘Agent Stanton, we’ve been expecting you.’ A man of middle height with a remarkable figure detached himself from the group of officers who were gathered round the two KFOR jeeps. He swung his body as he walked and looked every inch the ex-Marine. As he came nearer, Ben saw from his face that he must be somewhere past fifty. Ben felt almost envious; the man looked fit and relaxed in his uniform shirt with short sleeves. In brief, Lieutenant Colonel John Trent, and it was he for certain, had had his usual effect. ‘Special agent Stanton,’ the man didn’t say it as a question, but rather as an assertion, in case Ben had become unsure of his identity. He took Ben’s hand and shook it firmly but carefully as if he was being careful not to break his fingers.

‘Lieutenant Colonel Trent, I’m glad to meet you. Call me Ben.’ ‘Ben, I suggest you leave your vehicle here. There’s no point in us both driving. In any case I’ll see you to the border when we’re done.’ Ben agreed, got into his car and parked it next to the jeeps. Meanwhile Trent had pulled out onto the road in an enormous green-brown Humvee with an open tarpaulin roof. Ben climbed in. ‘What a vehicle, Lieutenant Colonel,’ Ben smiled. ‘I confess, I’ve never been in one.’ ‘Everyone calls me Trent, Ben. Please feel free. I always travel in one. I guess anything else just doesn’t seem right any more.’ The Humvee roared forwards, following the chicanes of the uneven road. ‘We’re driving on the saddleback, the so-called Black Forest is on our right and the Shar mountains on the left. The mountains are truly beautiful, the only beautiful thing in this region. The boundary between

Macedonia and Kosovo stretches all along the ridge of the Shar Mountains. Are you going back straight away?’ ‘Yes, immediately,’ nodded Ben. ‘It’s about ten miles to Uroshevats and Bondsteel is nearby.’ Trent fell silent and concentrated on the road as they climbed up to a low summit and then began to drop down again. ‘OK then, tell me. Tell me your story and let’s see what I can do for you.’ Ben set to and told him in detail everything he knew of the events of the last two days, giving his usual, thorough explanation of the facts. Trent inspired confidence in him and he had already been told by Washington that he would support him totally. Trent interrupted Ben’s story several times to ask questions. When Ben finished he was sure that he had made the situation absolutely clear. Uroshevats appeared to one side in a deserted plain studded with bushes. Then what looked like another

small town loomed up in front of them. It was already getting dark and Ben couldn’t make out anything in detail. They stopped near a two-storey building. The answer to Ben’s unasked question was evident from the

thick metal grilles covering all the windows of the building. It was the main office of the military police at Camp Bondsteel. When they got into Trent’s office it had already grown completely dark and he turned on the lights. ‘We generate the electricity ourselves and we have our own water resources. The base is completely self-

contained,’ Trent explained. ‘And it’s big. There are more than seven thousand people here. We don’t allow alcohol in the camp, but the guys go to Skopje and even to Sofia to get drunk and keep me busy fetching them back.’ ‘And how do you get along with the locals?’ Ben asked. ‘At first we had no problems. It seemed they realised they shouldn’t bite the hand that fed them. However, lately, things have changed…’ Ben had a look around Trent’s office. Everything was new. The furniture reminded him of a bank. On the wall was a large topographic map of Kosovo and the area around it. It was hung behind glass and lit from the inside. Some of the routes to Serbia and Macedonia were marked in colour. ‘Sit down, have a rest after your journey, take a shower if you want…’ Trent opened wide a door at the far end of the office and a narrow corridor and another room could be see beyond it. ‘There’s a tiny apartment

here you can use. We’ll go to the canteen for dinner in half an hour and we can talk there.’ Ben thought there was something strange in the man’s voice. Did he fear that they would be listened to in his own office? The world felt twitchy. Old dogs like Trent, Lazar and Gerald Crawford had turned this twitchiness into a reflex – to trust nobody, to check everything, to assume they were listened to, followed, watched until they knew for certain that they weren’t. But Ben’s work until now had been far from this world. He knew the principles, drummed into him at Quantico; but for Ben it was just academic. To be always careful whom you speak to, what you say, when you say it; to watch yourself in shop windows; never to look back when walking along the street; to arrange your desk always in one and the same way; to keep the same folder always on top of the pile and the rest always in the same order. What paranoia. But he must learn it. ‘Thank you, Trent, I won’t take a shower but I’ll wash up.’

‘The bathroom is at your disposal, Ben.’ The canteen was about fifty metres behind the Military Police building. They both helped themselves to a sizeable steak with stewed vegetables, sweetcorn with butter, and pumpkin pie, since it was the season. They sat at a small table in the far corner of the canteen and began eating. Ben realised that he hadn’t eaten all day. Trent ate methodically, cutting everything into small pieces. He didn’t speak until he had cleaned his plate thoroughly with the last piece of bread. Then he fetched two big cups of coffee and asked: ‘Do you like our cuisine?’ ‘It was wonderful,’ Ben grinned. He felt his stomach heavy. ‘I rarely eat so much and I feel replete now.’ Trent nodded. ‘You don’t take enough exercise Ben.’ ‘It’s true. I try at least not to miss my jogging in the morning…. But I’m so fond of sweetcorn and that one just melted. And the pie took me back to my childhood.

My grandmother would often prepare a pie like that when I went to visit.’ ‘Where are you from?’ ‘I’m from small town Iowa.’ ‘And I’m from small town Arizona…’ ‘I was just wondering what was missing,’ Ben interrupted. The Lieutenant Colonel drew a halo round his head and added: ‘A cowboy hat and the boots?’ The two men became silent. The canteen was slowly emptying. Weather beaten faces with crew cuts, and women, still strange to Ben in their uniforms, were dining and then leaving in groups. ‘What do you all do in the evenings?’ Ben asked nodding at the surrounding crowd. ‘There are cafés and a couple of discos. And, of course, fitness rooms and gyms,’ Trent explained. ‘It’s not much but you can meet and talk, instead of just going to your sty.’

Trent sipped from his coffee and leant forward to speak: ‘Listen, Ben, you and the counter-intelligence people in Sofia are on the right lines. Bearing in mind your story and my information so far it smells to me like an Albanian affair. I don’t know what your resurrected Colonel is thinking, but Riley wasn’t investigating the CIA – he was after the Kosovo mobs. You know they’re ethnic Albanians for the most part. Of course, it’s not immaterial that most of then did their six month training course in the CIA camps that were here before Bondsteel.’ The Lieutenant Colonel was quiet again and sipped his coffee. ‘I have some old information that may be useful, and today I’ve been asking around. I can give you just the facts if you want, but you’ll have to excuse me – they’re aren’t many. Or, if you prefer, I’ll give you my own picture. I’ve been a policeman for twenty years.’ ‘Give me your picture, Trent.’

‘The Kosovars don’t act alone, they’ve been linked with the mafia in Albania proper for a long time. The guys from the CIA, whatever you think of them and under orders or not, were desperate to show that there was a national uprising in Kosovo to give our intervention in ‘99 some legitimacy. So they formed the KLA, training any of the local lads who’d volunteer without checking their background. Of course, their first recruits were gangsters. And now they’re so dependent on each other that the Agency couldn’t extract themselves from the mess if they wanted to. You can’t touch them. The Albanians, I mean. They cross the border as often as they want, they’re armed to the teeth, and they know they’re safe. You have no idea. All their political slogans disappeared the moment we occupied Kosovo. They just fell into banditry, like I haven’t seen since Panama. They smuggle everything you can think of, and some stuff you wouldn’t believe, but mostly drugs and whores. And, of course, the CIA has absolutely lost control of them. So now it’s my problem.

Not only do they drive trucks – I mean heavy-duty trucks - packed with contraband, from Bulgaria and Greece through Macedonia to the Albanian ports. But they’ve filled the villages round here with whores who wouldn’t know a doctor if they screwed one and now we have a real disease problem. The last straw was when they began to offer drugs to the troops. I had to build my own network of agents. From time to time I supply them with transport, confiscate things to keep their respect and to show them who’s running the show. But it’s a drop in the ocean, Ben. I can’t police the entire country.’ Trent swallowed his coffee: ‘You want another, Ben?’ ‘Please. Your coffee is excellent too.’ ‘It’s calculated to be excellent, Ben,’ Trent said without smiling, ‘the coffee machine calculates it scientifically to be excellent.’ The Lieutenant Colonel got up and returned shortly holding two cups of steaming coffee.

‘Now we are going to see some people,’ Trent said quietly. ‘They’re going to tell you something they know about this guy Riley…’ ‘The Kosovars can give me information about Riley?’ Ben asked in surprise. ‘He must have got in deep.’ ‘That’s why I was delighted when you rang, Ben. I have absolutely reliable information that a week ago Riley was in Prishtina, then in Prisen. He had a number of secret meetings. But not much is secret round here. Riley tried to travel incognito. But, you know, reporters never make good agents. They can’t ever stop asking questions. I believe he was investigating their drugs channels.’ ‘So, Riley was here last week?’ Ben rubbed his forehead. ‘Yes, Ben, he was and if I’m not mistaken he got in so deep that they killed him. The way you told me it, the attack on the hotel is typical of the Kosovars.’

‘But the bomb, Trent, I can understand what you’re saying but, to be blunt, it wasn’t an amateur job.’ ‘Ben, these are not amateurs. I can understand you’re surprised that they could have an implosion bomb. But, here money can buy anything. It’s a supermarket, you load your basket, pay the bill and go away.’ Trent looked at his watch and said: ‘It’s time to go.’ Ben swallowed his coffee at one gulp and, as they stood up, said, ‘But that means it was sold to them by US Army personnel right here in Bondsteel.’ Trent looked over his shoulder at Ben and raised his eyebrows. They left the canteen, walked to the Humvee, climbed in and followed its headlights out through the main gate, past two more sentry points, before finally coming to a forest and stopping where the road ran out. The lights of a village glimmered about two kilometres away. Trent drove the vehicle off the road and stopped

under a tree. He turned off the engine and the headlights. ‘We’ll wait here.’ Ben opened the window, put his head out and listened to the night chorus. All manner of twittering, whistling, screeching, cawing and screaming. He knew the frogs, but the rest of the sounds were foreign to him. In no more than ten minutes they heard the roar of an engine. Ben looked around but couldn’t see any headlights. Eventually he made out a dark, shapeless mass which had appeared on the other side of the road. It crossed towards them and stopped about ten metres away. As far as he could judge in the darkness it was an old Land Rover. Two figures emerged from it and slowly approached them. ‘Hi, Colonel, is he here?’ one of them asked in broken English. ‘He’s here,’ Trent answered, getting out of the car and waving his hand at Ben to do the same.

Only then did Ben realise why, no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t make out the faces of the newcomers. They both wore balaclavas with slits for the eyes and the mouth. Trent put his hand on Ben’s arm and led him to the tree where the figures had stopped. ‘We had an agreement that you shouldn’t see their faces,’ he said quietly to Ben. ‘I forgot to warn you about that.’ Then, turning to the newcomers: ‘Tell my friend about Riley.’ ‘We didn’t know his name was Riley,’ said the shorter one. ‘We only found out after they killed him. We saw his picture in a newspaper. The guy was here a week ago; he was with a guide and translator from Prishtina. He said he was an American journalist and that he would write about our lives and the unemployment here. It’s true; we have great unemployment here… eight or nine men out of ten have no work. But he… gave himself away. He was looking for information about how we live, how we earn money and he kept asking about smuggling and drugs. I didn’t

see him but I know people who met him.’ He pointed at the man beside him. ‘This Riley talked to him. He gave him whisky, tried to make him drunk and then began asking about drugs.’ The second man now broke into the conversation abruptly and they both spoke a few sentences in Albanian. Then the shorter one began explaining in English again: ‘He says Riley asked him if he often went to Bulgaria and if he knew people who often went there, to Burgas. We found out that he had asked other people the same question. He asked about our way of living but then it turned to drugs and smuggling every time. That’s all we know.’ ‘And do you know who killed him?’ Ben asked. ‘No, no we don’t know anything about this,’ the shorter one answered quickly. ‘The Mafia killed him because he was asking too many questions. But we don’t know anything more.’ ‘The mafia. But aren’t you from the mafia?’ ‘Oh, no we are from other group…’

‘Which group?’ Ben asked. Trent intervened: ‘It’s something like division of labour, Ben. Here a family or a clan tends to deal with just one thing, for example women; another will handle alcohol, another drugs. And so on. Usually they stick to what they know.’ ‘But they are from the mafia anyway too?’ ‘Well, they don’t consider themselves to be mafia. But the mafia is just a name. Are you with me?’ ‘Yes…. And how could we find out which clan killed Riley?’ Trent was silent and the Kosovar who spoke English was forced to answer reluctantly: ‘No way. We don’t know…’ ‘If they knew they wouldn’t tell you. Nobody from Kosovo would tell you. Homertà. Family honour,’ added Trent. ‘The Colonel is right,’ confirmed the Kosovar. ‘Whatever you do – give money, skin us alive, nobody would tell you. We agreed to come here for the Colonel

because we are grateful to him, but we came only to tell you what we know about Riley coming here a week ago…. Nothing else,’ the man emphasised these last words. ‘That’s all we know and now, Colonel, we must go.’ Trent didn’t speak and the two of them disappeared into the darkness. In a minute the Land Rover started reluctantly, roared into life, turned itself round, crossed the road and disappeared into the night. ‘Well, that’s all, Ben. Now, I think, you have your own picture of events…’ Trent suddenly was quiet, grew tense and listened. Ben also listened but couldn’t hear anything beyond the night sounds of the forest and the fading roar of the Land Rover. ‘What’s the matter?’ Ben whispered his question but Trent touched him to make him stop talking. Then he took his arm above the elbow and led him to the Humvee.

‘Strange,’ said Trent, ‘I’m sure I heard the engine of a motorcycle…’ They got in and Trent turned on the motor immediately but didn’t switch on the headlights. He lowered the window and put his head out to see well. In a while they were up on the road, and Trent drove back still without headlights. He switched them on in the forest. Paying no attention to his passenger, Trent put his hand in the pocket of his trousers, produced a mobile phone, pressed one and waited for an answer. ‘Hi. I’m in quadrant 11K and in seven or eight minutes I’ll enter 13K. Meet me as quickly as possible with an armed convoy.’ Ben couldn’t hear the answer but Trent continued: ‘Yes, there’s something going on… no, don’t send choppers for now.’ Trent ended the conversation and put the phone back into his pocket. Meanwhile they had driven out of the forest and reached a primitive T-junction. He threw the heavy machine round the corner without slowing

down. The squeal of tyres seemed almost commonplace to Ben and a thick curtain of dust rose from the ground. After a mile they reached another crossroads where Trent was about to turn left. At the same instant, they both caught a glimpse of a car silhouetted in the bushes. The next moment they were blinded by two powerful headlights and automatic weapons began firing on them from three sides. Trent turned the wheel fast, pulled the hand brake and the Humvee lurched dangerously and spun in the opposite direction showing the attackers its back. ‘Lie down,’ shouted Trent as he pulled Ben under himself, holding him by the neck. Glass shattered over them and their vehicle tilted first to one side then to the other, its tyres punctured. Half suffocated under Trent’s heavy body, Ben could only hear the cracking of the guns and the whistling of bullets above their heads. Without lifting his head Trent reached behind the seats for the M-16 that he kept there on its own clamp. He pulled it out,

clicked the safety catch free, raised it carefully and, turning it behind him, began to shoot at random. Now the shooting moved to their left. Trent yelped and dropped the gun. ‘Bastards…they’re moving round us.’ Then God, for it was he, turned the light on. In the distance the muted motors of two vehicles could be heard and the roar of a heavy machine-gun muffled everything around. An explosion cracked above them, followed by another. The bullets stopped and Trent immediately lifted his head, blinking at the lights. A convoy of five vehicles had arrived and was spreading out like a blessing. A small APC approached at speed, pulverising with its anti-aircraft guns the low bushes that hid their attackers. The other convoy vehicles had driven to the dip on each side of the road and the military police were raining lead over everything around them. A searchlight from the APC held the Humvee in its beam. Trent opened the door with a kick and began pulling himself out dragging Ben behind

him. As the two rolled onto the road Trent caught his wounded shoulder and cursed. In a minute the convoy had gathered about thirty metres from them and ceased fire. Twenty or so helmets jumped out and rushed to the burning car that had lain in ambush. Trent stood up and, leaning against the Humvee, looked at the devastation around him. At that moment a black sergeant, at least six foot seven tall, ran up to them. ‘Lieutenant Colonel, sir, are you alive?’ ‘I’m alive, Al, and partly healthy. I’ve scratched my shoulder.’ The Sergeant unhooked a big torch from his belt and examined Trent’s shoulder, tearing his shirt away. Then he smiled broadly. ‘Thank God, sir, it surely has only scratched you.’ Then he turned away and shouted: ‘Get me a bandage.’ It was only when he turned back that he noticed Ben:

‘And how are you, sir? Are you OK? Are you wounded?’ Ben stood up slowly and nodded to the Sergeant: ‘Thank you, Sergeant, there seems to be nothing wrong with me,’ then, gesturing at Trent, added, ‘the Lieutenant Colonel shielded me completely’ ‘That’s just typical of the Lieutenant Colonel, sir,’ smiled the Sergeant broadly. ‘Once a Marine, always a Marine.’ Trent shook his head and, looking at the attackers’ burning car, asked the Captain standing beside it: ‘Anything, Rich?’ ‘They wriggled out, sir. And do you know what the bastards did? Two of their guys were wounded and they’ve thrown them in the fire. They’ve burnt them alive, one of them was still moving when I got here…’ Trent turned away as a young policeman ran up to him with the bandage in his hand. The Sergeant helped him to open it, clean the wound and cover it.

‘We’ll take care of it properly in hospital, sir,’ the young man said. ‘Let’s go.’ Trent turned to Ben: ‘Are you going to stay the night at Bondsteel now, Ben, or do you still want to get home?’ ‘Honestly, Trent, I’d like to get out of this place as soon as possible… Of course, if it’s not a problem for you and your people?’ ‘No problem, Ben,’ answered Trent before turning to the captain and ordering, ‘Rich, take the convoy and drive the federal agent to the border. His Chevrolet is there… no, not to the border, escort him to Skopje. Al can take me to Bondsteel in one of the Humvees.’ ‘Aye sir,’ the captain beamed. ‘Would you like us… to undertake routine inspection duties in Skopje while we’re there?’ Trent shook his head benevolently. ‘Inspect it, Rich…. Only no nonsense. And don’t forget to warn the Macedonians that you’re coming in a heavy convoy.’

‘Yes sir,’ the captain saluted enthusiastically and ran double-quick to gather his private army. ‘Well, Ben, I hope I have been of some use to you… and please excuse the fireworks.’ Ben moved closer, and grabbing Trent’s left hand tightly with both his hands, shook it energetically. ‘Trent, you’ve been extremely helpful and, besides, you saved my life… Thank you, I’m truly obliged to you.’ Trent prised his hand free from Ben’s grip and holding him by the neck with his palm said: ‘You owe me nothing, Iowa. In any case, if these bastards think we’re going to die in this wilderness of theirs, they’ve got us all wrong.’

30––––– It was past six. Supermarket rush hour. They were shunted from all sides by the shopping trolleys of the hectic. ‘Fuck your drusenkebap. We only came to get eggs and vegetables. But no, now you want to prepare drusenkebap according to the ancient and authentic recipe.’ Paying no attention, Lazar - snorting with quiet pleasure - was bent over the meat cabinet assessing the foil-covered delights. At last he stood up straight holding a huge piece of pork. ‘Here we are,’ he waved his catch proudly, ‘pork shoulder-blade, the most tender meat and it’s juicy unlike a fillet. It’s a kilo and a half; it’ll be enough, don’t you think?’ Salomon tried impatiently to move him on but just then a pretty young woman, her hair falling out of a leather grip, who had been standing near them for the

last few minutes, summoned up her courage and spoke to Lazar: ‘Excuse me, I… have to prepare pilaf,’ she blurted out. ‘I can see you are a connoisseur… could you please help me…’ ‘To cook it?’ ‘Oh, no, you don’t understand. I’m sorry. I mean tell me what kind of meat I should buy… and how much… for two.’ Lazar scrutinised her for a moment and then smiled. A great big sunflower of a smile. ‘I see.’ ‘We are newly… you know…’ ‘You are a newly-married couple and your mother is not here to help?’ the Colonel continued smiling. ‘Yes, something like that… I mean, yes,’ the girl smiled disarmingly and, realising the comic situation, she began to laugh out loud. ‘Have you got any idea of how exactly you are going to cook this pilaf?’

‘Well, I’ll do it from the book,’ the girl looked at him with confidence. Lazar snorted with disgust. ‘Oh, for god’s sake. You’re not going to give her your recipe, are you?’ ‘That’s correct.’ Salomon took a deep breath and turned his back. ‘Right, listen carefully, my dear. You must take a little more than half a kilo of meat from the shoulder, a leg of pork is possible too but shoulder is best. Like this one. We shall find you one. Cut it into small pieces, cubes. But you have to bear in mind that the meat shrinks to almost half its size when you cook it. This would not happen with your own pig, of course. You must remove the sinews and ligaments – slow and tedious work, but very necessary.’ The girl nodded. ‘Put it into a large saucepan, one with a thick bottom is very important. Add some salt but not too much. Sprinkle some red pepper, hot black pepper, a little savoury and some olive oil on it and add half a cup of wine and cook

it over a gentle heat, covered with a lid. Now the rice…. Have you got a milk pan, double walled?’ the girl nodded brightly. ‘Good. Well, take the milk pan, put half a cup of rice in it, that’s enough for two, and add water three to one: that is half a cup of rice – a cup and a half of water. Sprinkle more salt but be careful; it’s better to add too little than too much. You can add more later. Put it on the other hot plate. When the milk pan starts whistling, add a large spoonful of butter to it, and cover it with the lid and a tea towel. And immediately switch off the hot plate. When the meat is ready the rice will be ready too. The meat will take an hour, or a little more. Test it with a knife – if it cuts easily, it’s ready. Well, that’s it…’ Lazar wiped his forehead with his hand. ‘Now wait.’ And he dived back into the cabinet, emerging quickly with a shoulder that he had seen and rejected earlier as too small. The girl jumped triumphantly:

‘Thank you. Thank you very much,’ then she drew nearer and impulsively kissed Lazar’s cheek. ‘If I weren’t just married, I would certainly marry you.’ She burst into laughter again. Lazar blushed and was about to respond when Salomon grabbed his arm and led him to the checkout. ‘You don’t give up, do you? And at your age. A regular kitchen Casanova,’ Salomon was shaking his head unbelievingly. But Lazar’s look, which was intended to make reference to Salomon’s earlier performance in the office with Rositsa and the ice pack, had its desired effect.

Salomon lived in a flat in a towering Communist building with an open lift in the centre of the stairwell. Through the bars you could see the ropes - one moving up and the other down while the oak cage with its folding wooden door creaked up and down the greasy rails. He never used the lift and even now, loaded with

shopping bags in both hands, he ran up the stairs taking two at a time. Lazar followed him at a more temperate rate, grumbling. ‘Did you notice the Citroën and the surveillance guys in the street?’ asked Salomon while pressing the doorbell with his forehead. ‘I bet they’re from the OSU.’ ‘That’s correct. No doubt the neighbourhood is full of vagabonds like you.’ The door was flung open and two little red-haired one-man torpedoes nearly knocked Salomon down as they flew out of the flat. ‘Daddy’s here! Daddy’s here!’ The seven-year-old Victor snatched the bags from his father’s hands and dragged them inside while the younger one cried joyfully at the sight of the Colonel: ‘Uncle Lazar, uncle Lazar! Put me on your shoulders.’ Lazar smiled, seized him, picked him up and carried him inside. ‘I can’t be a horse today, Emo, my shoulder is hurting a bit. But next week definitely. OK?’

‘Ohhh. Alright, uncle Lazar,’ the boy put his arms around Lazar’s neck, looking down on the world happily. Salomon’s wife was still in her suit. She stood tall and slender with long fair hair and glittering blue eyes. She was head of department at the Institute of Criminology, an excessively clever woman in Lazar’s opinion and one that he very much wanted to join his team. But he knew better than to suppose that he could employ both husband and wife. Salomon was in no doubt that, if Lazar were free to choose between them, he would have certainly chosen her not him. Though he invariably attributed this to her looks rather than anything else. ‘Goodness, you’re beautiful,’ Lazar put down the little Emil and embraced Elena. She kissed him and ruffled his hair. ‘Will you stop eating the old man’s cheeks? He’s only just finished seducing a blushing bride in the supermarket.’ Salomon told the story.

‘But, can’t you see it Sally? This evening at the house of a newly married couple there will be a party full of sweet tastes and passion… while just around the corner here, the cooker will stand cold and the fridge empty,’ she pretended not to have seen the shopping bags piled beside the fridge. ‘Ah, now that is not correct,’ Lazar broke in, taking off his coat. ‘In a little while you’ll find the most delicious drusenkebap awaiting you, a dish that I haven’t prepared for you, if I’m not mistaken, since last winter and which I wouldn’t be preparing if your surly husband had his way.’ Lazar took the meat out of the bag and started cutting it into portions. Elena stood behind him, closed her arms around his comfortable stomach and tickled him: ‘You’ve put on weight. Shame on you. Нє җлав. No bread for you this evening,’ she reproached him, propping her chin on his shoulder. ‘Anyway, how is Maria today? Have you been to the clinic?’

Lazar put down the knife and leaned against the table. Elena turned him round and stared at his wet eyes. ‘What’s the matter? What has happened?’ ‘It got worse…this morning… She was moved to intensive care.’ ‘Why didn’t you call me immediately? Did you go?’ ‘Yes…I told her a story... about the Duck…’ ‘The Duck spat on the ice and steam rose…’ Elena recited with a sad smile. ‘Listen, I’m going to the clinic. You’ll be at least an hour and a half preparing the dinner. I’ll take the little Salomons with me, is she… able to talk?’ ‘Yes, that’s fine. She was just wired up…’ ‘I’m off… Victor, Emil,’ she called the children who were playing with their father noisily in the living room, ‘We’re going to visit Maria. Now.’ At that moment the doorbell rang insistently. ‘Aha, now who is that?’ Elena went to answer the door.

Three men in uniforms, armed and wearing berets, and one civilian policeman, faced her as she opened it. Elena blinked in surprise. The policeman moved towards the door but Elena instinctively blocked it and cried: ‘Sally. Come now.’ At that moment one of the uniforms pushed the policeman aside and lifted his visor. He was sweating and angry: ‘Excuse us, madam, for this foolishness. Would you ask the Major to come out…’ At that moment Salomon appeared in the corridor dragging the children by his trouser legs. ‘Madam, would you take the children inside, I need to have a talk with the Major.’ ‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on here,’ Elena said quietly but firmly. Salomon held her gently by the shoulders and pushed her from the door.

‘Take the children inside, darling. It’s OK, they’re colleagues.’ ‘You could have fooled me. They tried to force their way into the flat,’ she was starting to raise her voice. ‘Sally, please, let’s not have a scene. I’m already in breach of my orders… let me explain.’ ‘Elena,’ repeated Salomon without raising his voice. This time his wife obeyed and took the children to the living room. The Sergeant, the same one that Lazar and Salomon had met the previous day at the road block next to the Flamingo hotel, was covered in embarrassment. ‘Sally, we are under orders. I have instructions to arrest Colonel Palin. It’s an incredible mess… some story about kidnapping. At first I didn’t want to come with this lot but then decided that if they sent somebody new who doesn’t know the Colonel, there could be trouble. This one is from the Ministry’s security unit,’ he pointed at the civilian, ‘he was about to break in, that’s why your wife is angry. Excuse me, Sally.’

‘I’ll report this, sergeant,’ the inspector interjected. ‘Shut up.’ For once, Salomon was speechless. He was brought back to reality by the sound of steps behind him. Lazar was coming down the corridor putting on his coat. ‘Salomon, go in to your children,’ he said quietly. Then he turned to the Sergeant and nodded seriously, ‘thank you for coming yourself, sergeant, I won’t forget it. I heard everything, let’s go. I hope you won’t handcuff me…’ ‘That’s what I’m here for, Colonel. To avoid…’ ‘Sergeant, it’s already gone too far,’ the inspector had regained his courage. ‘We have orders, put on the cuffs.’ At that moment Elena flew up and pushed her husband out of the way: ‘How dare you insult a Colonel from Bulgarian counter intelligence like this,’ she stormed at the inspector. ‘One more word and I’ll hold you personally responsible. I’ll go to the Minister right now.’

‘Calm down, madam,’ intervened the Sergeant. ‘I give you my word that while Colonel Palin is with me he will be treated with due respect.’ The group went down the stairs. Salomon stood numbly. Elena was crying from anger and impotence. Victor stood beside his father, frowning at the departing group. When Emil saw that his mother was crying he held her leg and began sobbing too.