Read Online The Dealer and the Dead by Gerald Seymour - Free Book Online Page B

jacket. He looked as though he had slept rough. On his head, shading his face from the sun, now low, was a wide-brimmed leather hat. As he was introduced to them he was lighting a cigar.
    Smoke eddied towards them. The man spoke, the girl translated when he paused: ‘I understand. I know how you feel. There are bodies, perhaps of loved ones, and they have not been laid to rest with due dignity. Now they have been discovered and everybody says, “Hey, hold on, wait. An important man is honouring you with his skills and his presence. Be patient.” I’m going to tell you some facts, and then I want to make a promise to you.’
    Petar thought his voice similar to many he had heard on programmes broadcast on Croatian TV. He noted control, authority and sincerity.
    ‘The facts. A judge said of the big crime down the road at Vukovar, “Silence condones. Once awareness exists it is unthinkable to remain silent.” He went on, “The families demand truth and justice.” A colleague of mine who worked here and across the border at Srebrenica liked to say, “Bones are often our last and best witnesses. They never lie and they never forget.” Maybe there was a crime and maybe there wasn’t. If there was a crime, it will be me who says so.’
    The man and his translator threw long shadows.
    ‘I said I would make you a promise. I am now about to do that. I promise I will investigate this grave – I’m told it’s likely to hold the bodies of four local men – to the best of my ability. If there has been a crime I will discover it and search for evidence that will convict those responsible. My work is to find the guilty. Men swaggered when they had victory behind them and a loaded rifle in their hands. They murdered and believed themselves safe from justice. I tell you, those men cringe when confronted with the weight of evidence I produce. They piss their pants. You have my promise.’
    He flicked ash from the cigar’s tip, let it fall to the ground. He had them all, Petar understood, in the palm of his hand.
    ‘I don’t know this village, but I know the town. I was there thirteen years ago. I came to Vukovar to help in the excavation of the war-crime site at Ovcara. I forget nothing. My promise then was to search for the evidence of murder. I continue to honour the promise. Better than I, you know the figures. There is a difference between the numbers taken forcibly from the hospital, when Vukovar fell, and transported to the farm at Ovcara and the numbers of bodies recovered from the mass grave. Somewhere, on that farm land, there is another grave that holds the bodies of sixty men. Because of my promise I come back each year and help to hunt for that grave. I gave my promise, the same promise I make to you.’
    The shadow of the man’s hat covered Petar’s boots, had climbed towards his knees. Perhaps that was why Petar was chosen. The eyes fastened on him.
    The translator asked, ‘What happened here?’
    ‘I drove the tractor with the plough. For nineteen years this ground has been mined. We have been told it is cleared. We looked for the bodies.’
    ‘You knew bodies were here?’
    ‘We knew that here, where it was mined, was where our men had been. They waited on the path.’
    ‘On the Cornfield Road that linked Vukovar to Vinkovci?’
    ‘They were on it.’
    ‘Who was there?’
    ‘Our schoolteacher. He had gone out three weeks before to buy weapons. We received nothing from Zagreb. We were betrayed by Zagreb.’
    The priest tutted but received an acid glance from the American, muttered, hung his head and was quiet.
    ‘Continue, please.’
    ‘Everything we owned in the village was collected and given to Zoran, the teacher. He asked for our trust. What we collected was taken to a meeting and given to a supplier of weapons. A deal was made. That night, Zoran went with three others to receive the missiles and launchers that our valuables had bought. Everything was given as payment. We waited for their return.