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from Bulgaria, what it would cost, and an arrival date. Ahead of him lay a long afternoon, evening and night of detailed discussions. Why did the Georgian government want weapons from Bulgaria through the back door? Simple enough. After the mauling Georgia had received from Russian tanks and artillery in the summer of ’08, the government would have wanted to rearm on their own terms, not on American or European Union terms, and Harvey Gillot was the man they had turned to and would pay handsomely for the privilege of independent action. Not that he cared anything for the politics of East and West. It was a hell of a good deal he’d brokered.
    The car went fast. A blue lamp flashed on the roof and traffic swerved to give it space. He was among people who valued him, saw him almost as a saviour, the knight in shining armour, at the top of his game. Here, far from home and his country’s law-enforcement agencies, he could savour his importance. He couldn’t at home. On trains or in aircraft he would find himself besidemen and women who insisted on spilling their life stories to him, but he never reciprocated. He maintained a wall of privacy around himself. Could hardly respond, ‘Dealer in death,’ when asked what his trade was. Would have been the same for an undertaker. He didn’t recognise loneliness, but was a man alone. Maybe a blessing, and maybe a carried cross, but isolation went with the work.
    Harvey Gillot felt good here, almost closed his eyes and almost dozed.
    The man came in a Land Cruiser that trailed a plume of dust behind it. Petar saw it from far back. The priest was almost a stranger to them at this moment; the police already were. He thought of the Land Cruiser and its passengers as an intrusion. Tomislav had threatened earlier to walk back to the village, collect half a dozen ditching spades and start the job himself. Others had growled support and sworn they would help to excavate their own from the ground. Andrija had supported Tomislav. Petar had not known what was best or what he wanted. The priest had said, diffidently, that they should wait. The Croat policeman had ordered that no digging should be done, and had said that the field where the hand protruded was now a potential crime scene. The Serb policeman was in the patrol car but Petar had believed he smirked while the argument went on. Tomislav had not gone to get the spades. The grave had not been touched.
    The Land Cruiser braked, soil flying up from the wheels. A girl climbed out of the front passenger seat and a man from the back. The villagers did not surge forward or seek introductions, and the priest caught their mood.
    The girl had a good voice. ‘I’m sorry you’ve all had to wait so many hours for expert help to reach you. I’m grateful for your patience. I’m Kristina, from the Department of Pathology and Forensic Science at the university hospital in Zagreb. Under government statutes it is required that all graves from the Homeland War, those with the possibility of genocide, a crime against humanity or a war crime, must be investigated with rigourand care. I was delayed because I went to the airport and was fortunate enough to meet one of the principal experts in his field today. He was due here in two days’ time, after giving a lecture in the hospital in Zagreb tomorrow to government and media, but this situation is more important and the lecture has been postponed. He has come directly from the airport following his flight from the west coast of America. He is Professor William Anders.’
    Petar saw a big man, solid, muscular, without surplus weight. He had a strong chin with two days’ growth on it. Petar had never been on an aircraft. The furthest he had travelled from the village was to the refugee camp for displaced persons near Zagreb. There were big bulges under the man’s eyes and the lower rims of his dark glasses rested on them. He wore lace-up walking boots, a creased pair of jeans, a shirt and a cotton