South Africa. Yes, he’s a good friend of mine.”
“I’ve heard that name before,” the leader said thoughtfully.
“He was a fucking legend, sir,” the old voice said. “I met him a few times, my first tour here, ten years ago. I heard he was nominated for the VC. Just bloody politics he didn’t get it.”
“Hallam was nominated for the Victoria Cross?” I said, amazed. “For what?”
“We don’t have time for this,” the leader said sharply before the older soldier could answer. “Klein, this is not a gossip shop, and you will not waste our time exchanging war stories with one of our suspects.”
“Yes, sir,” the older voice said, chastened.
“And you, Mister Wood, tell me, how does one descend from being friends with a widely respected member of the finest military unit in the world to fraternizing with your current set of associates?”
I looked over at the Mostar Tigers, looked back towards the NATO jeeps, rolled my eyes, shrugged, and said in a regretful you-know-how-it-is voice: “My girlfriend.”
There were a couple of quickly smothered chuckles on the other side of the headlights.
“And where is she?”
“Asleep.”
The leader sighed, loudly. Then he said, “I’ll tell you what, Mister Wood. If you talk your friends here into following her example this very minute, then I shall arrest no one and confiscate nothing. This is your last and only chance.”
I turned to Josip, who was already translating. Dragan thought about it for a minute. I wondered just how big an idiot he was. Then he said something back, and Josip announced:
“Dragan says two things. First thing, we are already tired, so the party is over and we will go to sleep, fine. Second thing he says, he says fuck you, NATO. Fuck you all.”
Pretty big, I decided. A solid 7 on an idiot scale of 1 to 10. And there were more engines approaching. NATO’s reinforcements. If they decided to take offense, then Dragan, and possibly I, would probably spend at least the night in jail.
Fortunately, Lieutenant Taylor actually sounded amused. “Tell your friend that the feeling is more than mutual,” he said dryly. “Now put your guns away and go home. By the look of the lot of you, you need all the beauty sleep you can get.”
* * *
I followed Dragan back into his house. I was very tired, eager to sleep, but as I began to climb the stairs to the guest bedroom, he put a meaty hand on my shoulder and dragged me back to the front door. I tried to politely protest but the language barrier made the attempt futile. We waited, the door open a crack, until NATO’s headlights vanished. Then Dragan advanced into the night again, half-pulling me behind him. In the dim glow of the two functioning streetlights I saw shadows emerging from other houses. The party was not over. The Mostar Tigers were reconvening.
I followed Dragan and the others across uneven grassy fields, led by several darting flashlights. I thought uneasily of unexploded land mines. I wanted to turn back to the warm bed I had almost reached, but doing so would clearly be very rude, and offending Dragan and the Tigers seemed like a bad idea.
A building loomed out of the night, a big ruined house, its stone walls scarred and chipped, every window shattered. I followed the flashlights up old stone steps, through a doorway with no door, and into a big drafty room. Something scurried as we entered. I soon realized that the room was drafty because an irregular hole the size of a Volkswagen had been blasted into one wall. Shattered limbs of lacquered wood that had once been fine furniture were piled in a corner. A big and vaguely Persian rug remained, torn and covered with dust. Someone, presumably the Tigers, had redecorated the room with big logs and concrete bricks, and improvised a firepit out of the rubble beneath the hole in the wall.
The Tigers, who had been absolutely silent on the walk
“I’ve heard that name before,” the leader said thoughtfully.
“He was a fucking legend, sir,” the old voice said. “I met him a few times, my first tour here, ten years ago. I heard he was nominated for the VC. Just bloody politics he didn’t get it.”
“Hallam was nominated for the Victoria Cross?” I said, amazed. “For what?”
“We don’t have time for this,” the leader said sharply before the older soldier could answer. “Klein, this is not a gossip shop, and you will not waste our time exchanging war stories with one of our suspects.”
“Yes, sir,” the older voice said, chastened.
“And you, Mister Wood, tell me, how does one descend from being friends with a widely respected member of the finest military unit in the world to fraternizing with your current set of associates?”
I looked over at the Mostar Tigers, looked back towards the NATO jeeps, rolled my eyes, shrugged, and said in a regretful you-know-how-it-is voice: “My girlfriend.”
There were a couple of quickly smothered chuckles on the other side of the headlights.
“And where is she?”
“Asleep.”
The leader sighed, loudly. Then he said, “I’ll tell you what, Mister Wood. If you talk your friends here into following her example this very minute, then I shall arrest no one and confiscate nothing. This is your last and only chance.”
I turned to Josip, who was already translating. Dragan thought about it for a minute. I wondered just how big an idiot he was. Then he said something back, and Josip announced:
“Dragan says two things. First thing, we are already tired, so the party is over and we will go to sleep, fine. Second thing he says, he says fuck you, NATO. Fuck you all.”
Pretty big, I decided. A solid 7 on an idiot scale of 1 to 10. And there were more engines approaching. NATO’s reinforcements. If they decided to take offense, then Dragan, and possibly I, would probably spend at least the night in jail.
Fortunately, Lieutenant Taylor actually sounded amused. “Tell your friend that the feeling is more than mutual,” he said dryly. “Now put your guns away and go home. By the look of the lot of you, you need all the beauty sleep you can get.”
* * *
I followed Dragan back into his house. I was very tired, eager to sleep, but as I began to climb the stairs to the guest bedroom, he put a meaty hand on my shoulder and dragged me back to the front door. I tried to politely protest but the language barrier made the attempt futile. We waited, the door open a crack, until NATO’s headlights vanished. Then Dragan advanced into the night again, half-pulling me behind him. In the dim glow of the two functioning streetlights I saw shadows emerging from other houses. The party was not over. The Mostar Tigers were reconvening.
I followed Dragan and the others across uneven grassy fields, led by several darting flashlights. I thought uneasily of unexploded land mines. I wanted to turn back to the warm bed I had almost reached, but doing so would clearly be very rude, and offending Dragan and the Tigers seemed like a bad idea.
A building loomed out of the night, a big ruined house, its stone walls scarred and chipped, every window shattered. I followed the flashlights up old stone steps, through a doorway with no door, and into a big drafty room. Something scurried as we entered. I soon realized that the room was drafty because an irregular hole the size of a Volkswagen had been blasted into one wall. Shattered limbs of lacquered wood that had once been fine furniture were piled in a corner. A big and vaguely Persian rug remained, torn and covered with dust. Someone, presumably the Tigers, had redecorated the room with big logs and concrete bricks, and improvised a firepit out of the rubble beneath the hole in the wall.
The Tigers, who had been absolutely silent on the walk
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