Braco (32 page)

THURSDAY:
NIKO BASARIC

NIKO STOOD ON
the road, staring at the house where Ivan had dragged the girl. The screaming had stopped an hour ago. Niko had no idea if the girl was dead or alive. Anton and Pavle remained next to the guardrail. Vladen sat on the front steps. Twice Drach had come out and stood on the porch, waving to them to join him and Ivan; twice they had declined.

“You see, Petar,” Niko whispered, leaning close to the recruit's ear. “They're all just talk.”

Petar jerked his head towards the house. “Yeah? What about Drach and Ivan?”

Niko straightened up and rubbed his nose.

What about them?
He watched for movement inside the house.
Are they asleep?

Sweat dribbled past his eyes. He took off his helmet and rubbed his head with a towel. Then he looked at the photo of his family.

The girl in that house is someone's daughter, someone's sister. What do I do?

Vehicles rumbled in from the east. Niko took a step forward; a train of buses crested the hill in the distance. He stepped back and tapped Petar on the shoulder.

“Get up.” Petar got to his feet and Niko led him across the street. “Do me a favour. Keep the last bus here.”

Petar stared at Niko, his eyelids heavy.

“What? Why?”

“Just do it,” Niko said.

He hopped over the short concrete fence and walked across the lawn. Vladen stood and held out his arm when Niko tried to climb the steps.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Inside.”

“Sergeant said to leave them alone.”

“He can go to hell,” Niko muttered, slapping Vladen's arm away.

The young soldier tried to block Niko's path.

“He said to leave them alone.”

Niko's nostrils flared. He shifted his rifle on his shoulder and then reached up and grabbed Vladen's collar, pulling him close enough to smell the rancid smoke and plum brandy on his breath.

“Listen to me, you loudmouth coward,” Niko whispered. “I'm not going to The Hague for something those two bastards did. I'm guessing you're thinking the same thing.”

“Fuck you.”

“News for you, little boy. They can get you for doing nothing to stop them, too.”

Niko released Vladen and pushed him away.

“Help or don't help, but don't stop me.”

Vladen sat back down on the steps. Niko licked his lips and then stepped inside. Silent and still. The floor creaked under his feet.

They must be asleep, but where?

Placing his feet heel to toe, he moved forward and peered inside the room on his right. It was empty; the pieces of a smashed table littered the floor. He sidestepped to the left, took two steps forward, and looked into a larger room. Drach was asleep on a couch on the far side. Niko leaned in. Ivan lay sprawled over a shorter couch, snoring.

But where's the girl?

Niko backed up into the hallway. He looked at the stairs.

Damn it.

He tiptoed towards the steps, grasped the banister, and shook it. Rock solid.

Staying close to the banister, he crept up the stairs, stopping to listen on each step. No one stirred. He reached the landing and moved towards the first room. The girl was curled up on a ragged mattress in the corner, covered with a filthy sheet. Niko shifted his rifle to his back and stepped inside. She didn't move.

Is she alive?

He crossed the room and touched her shoulder. She flinched and Niko jumped. He watched her pull the sheet up to her neck, whimpering.

My God. She's just a child. Sixteen? Seventeen?

Niko raised a finger to his mouth. The girl stared at him and then her eyes moved to the door.

“Asleep,” he whispered. “The buses are coming. I can put you on one, but we have to go now.”

She sat up, holding the sheet around her with one hand. He reached out, took the other hand, and helped her to her feet. When they were outside the room, Niko raised a finger to his lips and pointed to the stairs. The girl nodded and came closer; she leaned against him and he half-walked, half-carried her down the steps. When they reached the bottom, he looked inside the large room. Drach and Ivan were still asleep. He could feel the girl tense under his arms.

Niko pointed to the front door. Hand in hand, they walked quickly through it and down the front steps. She tripped, skinning her knee. Niko scooped her up and carried her over the concrete fence. Petar stood next to a bus. The door was open and the driver was waiting next to him.

Footsteps pounded the steps of the house behind them. Niko held his breath and crossed the shoulder.

“What are you doing, Turk?”

Niko dropped the girl into the driver's arms.

“Take care of her,” Niko said. The driver scaled the steps and passed the girl off to a woman who helped the girl inside. Niko waved at the driver as he sat in his seat. “Go. Now!”

The driver's eyes shifted to Ivan as he shut the door and hit the accelerator.

Ivan grabbed Niko and yanked him back.

“You stupid Turk.”

Drach swung his fist into Niko's jaw. He staggered back and collapsed where the bus had been sitting moments earlier. Drach and Ivan followed. They stood over him and Drach spit, just missing his face.

“Just what were you thinking, you goddamn fool?”

Niko climbed to his feet, rubbing his chin.

“There can't be that many buses left. I just thought it was better if she left now.” He gazed at Drach. “Or were you planning something else?”

Drach pulled his pistol and grabbed Niko by the collar, jamming the barrel into his temple.

“Do something like that again and dead Turk whores will be the least of your problems.”

Drach shoved Niko to the ground and stuffed the pistol back in its holster.

“Go sit with your pet and don't move.”

Niko got up, glared at the sergeant, and turned away. He walked across the street and lowered himself next to Petar. The sound of the accelerating bus in the distance made him smile as he rubbed his aching jaw.

THURSDAY:
MICHAEL SAKIC

MIKE LOOKED AT
the three photos drying on his bed. He raised the bottle of vodka to his lips and drank until his stomach protested. Then he walked to the end of the bed and stared into a fractured mirror on the wall.

“He said it wasn't your fault,” he shouted at the mirror.

He swallowed more vodka.

“But he died when he did because of me. I robbed him of the last minutes of his life.”

He slammed his hand against the wall. A piece of glass tumbled from the mirror.

Mike turned away and stared at the photos again. Jure had wanted to stay with the peacekeepers when Mike returned to Kladanj, so he dropped Robert off and drove straight to a man who had developed photos for him in the past. This time Mike paid extra to use the dark room himself. He didn't want anyone to see the pictures.

Not yet. Maybe never.

The Serb sergeant shooting the wounded man filled all three photos. Blurred but recognizable. As were the bits of brain and skull flying away from the man's head.

He drank again.

“I'm sorry. Goddamnit all. I'm so sorry.”

He backed up against the wall and slid to the floor, crying.

The door opened.

Mike's head flipped back and struck the wall, tears still wet on his cheeks.

“Christ, Mike, where have you been?”

Brendan dropped his bag on the floor. Mike kept his eyes low.

“You're drinking again?” He tore the half-empty vodka bottle from Mike's hands. “This isn't what I'm paying you for.”

Without a word, Mike crawled to his feet and stumbled, bent over, to the bathroom. He emptied his stomach into the toilet. A wet towel appeared next to him. Mike rubbed his face raw and then he threw up the rest of the vodka. When he went back into the bedroom, Brendan was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding up the damp photos.

“What the hell happened?”

Mike wanted to march across the room, rip the photos from Brendan's hands, and tear them into a million pieces, but his feet refused to cooperate. With the help of the wall, he managed to collapse into the closest chair.

“Where'd you get these shots, Mike?”

He told Brendan everything. The trip to Kladanj, the soldiers, the refugees, and the execution.

“The soldier is right,” Brendan said after a long pause. “It's not your fault.”

“It is my fault,” Mike shouted back. “I have no way of knowing if those shots were for the other two men. They were wounded. Maybe the Serbs got someone to carry them to Kladanj. Or back to the Dutch in Srebrenica. I don't know.”

“What about the men in the ditch? Christ, Mike, you've heard enough to know they were going to shoot them anyway.”

“He would have lived another ten minutes. Twenty minutes. He could have prayed. I robbed him of that. I robbed him of a chance to think about his family. Because of me….”

Mike trailed off, wiping a tear from his cheek. Brendan pointed to the photos, shaking his head.

“No. You didn't rob him of anything.” He held up one photo. “Do you know the last thing to go through his mind?”

Besides the bullet?

Brendan held the photo closer to Mike.

“Look at the picture. Look at his eyes. He's looking at you. He knew you were going to take the picture. He knew it was going to be evidence. A record of what the Serbs are doing to them. Don't you think he gladly gave up those twenty minutes, knowing it meant the world would see this?”

“I can't publish that.”

“Yes, you damn well can publish this. You have to. The French and Americans are sitting with their thumbs up their asses because they don't know who to believe. The Serbs are saying they are only fighting the soldiers. They're saying the men are going to be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention. The French and the Americans are drinking that Kool Aid and they're going to keep drinking it while the Serbs march into Zepa and Gorazde. Hell, there are rumours now the Ukrainians are being pulled from Zepa.”

Mike looked up.

“What?”

“Yeah. They're giving up the safe areas. Just like that general wanted them to when he spoke to the UN in May.”

“You think this was all planned?”

“Look, I don't know. But when something stinks, there's usually a lot of shit around.”

“Publishing that photo won't make any difference. The Serbs will just say they executed a war criminal. Or they'll call it staged. Heck, they still think Capa staged his photo.” Mike drew in a long breath. His stomach settled. “No. All this will do is call my objectivity into question. None of them would trust me anymore. I'd be thrown out of the country.”

Mike leaned forward, rubbing his face in the towel. His thoughts made sense again. He wouldn't publish the photo, but he wasn't going to give up. He couldn't help the men out there now. That much was clear, but he could ensure the Serbs didn't get away with it. Somewhere, somehow, he was going to prove to the world the Serbs were murdering thousands while Western leaders sat back and did nothing.

He dropped the towel and walked over to the bed. He took the photos from Brendan's hand and tore them up. Brendan leapt forward, trying to stop him.

“What are you doing?”

“I still have the negatives, but this is going nowhere for now. I'll get something else. Something better.”

Something that will honour that man's death.

THURSDAY:
ATIF STAVIC

THE TRUCK BUCKED
and Atif felt his tailbone crack against the metal floor. He clenched his teeth, pulling in a sharp breath against the pain. His arms pulled his legs tighter against his chest and he kept his eyes away from the two Serb soldiers standing next to the tailgate. He looked over at Ratib, bruised and bleeding from a gash on his jaw. Atif had said nothing to him since the soldiers loaded him into the truck. Tarak lay between him and Ratib, still unconscious. Blood trickled from his nose.

Tarak stirred. A Serb kicked him in the leg.

“Wake up, filthy pig.”

Tarak's hand crossed his face, wiping away the blood. He opened his eyes, blinking.

“I think they broke your nose,” Atif whispered.

Tarak pulled himself up next to Atif. “No, it's fine. Where are we?”

“No idea.”

“Ratib?”

“I don't know.”

“What about Salko?” Tarak asked.

“Got away, I guess. We separated. I haven't seen him.”

One of the Serbs stepped back, kicking Tarak.

“Shut up,
balije
.”

“Alija abandoned you.” The second soldier laughed. “He's in Sarajevo sipping American beer.”

The soldier kicked Tarak again and then returned to the tailgate.

The truck turned onto a dirt road. Dust enveloped the vehicle behind them. They passed two wooden buildings and then swung around. The truck went into reverse. Atif looked up. The dust settled as they backed towards a brown barn. One soldier released the tailgate and jumped to the ground.

“Out,” the other soldier screamed, pushing them over the edge.

Atif hit the ground hard and rolled. Tarak and Ratib landed behind him. Soldiers who had been loitering next to the barn entrance descended on them. They stripped off Tarak's shirt and boots, leaving him only his khaki pants and T-shirt. One of the soldiers dug through the pockets of his shirt but found nothing. They had better luck with Ratib's shirt which contained Deutsch marks. A sergeant smacked Ratib across the back of his head and then turned his attention to Atif.

“Let the boy go,” Tarak said. “He's only fourteen.”

The sergeant raised his hand to keep one of the soldiers from striking Tarak with his rifle.

“Fourteen? No. He looks older. Sixteen. Seventeen,” he said, gesturing at Atif's clothes and boots. “He certainly looks like a soldier.”

“I gave that to him. He had nothing on his feet.”

“If he is what you say he is then he will be okay. We have to check your names. War criminals will be tried and punished. The rest of you we will exchange for prisoners.”

A soldier pulled off Atif's green shirt, leaving his neon yellow T-shirt alone. Another soldier took his boots, checking to see if they were his size.

“Inside,” the sergeant said.

The soldiers pushed them through the barn door. Two dozen heads turned in their direction. Atif looked around. The men sat in small groups in the empty stalls. There were no boys and only three of the men were wearing military green. Ratib dropped to the ground near the door. Tarak led Atif to the back of the barn, to a stall with a window too high for Atif to reach. He sat down. Tarak peered over the window sill for a moment then lowered himself down beside Atif.

“They're watching out there.”

“Do you know anyone?”

Tarak shook his head. “Don't think so.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Yeah,” Tarak replied. “I grew up not far from here. We're just south of Zvornik. They've brought us a lot closer to the front lines.”

“What's going to happen to us?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you think he told us the truth? That they'll exchange us?”

“Could be,” Tarak said then met Atif's gaze. “I'm sorry I didn't get you to Tuzla.”

“You got me farther than I would have on my own. I'm not sure I would have made it through that minefield without you. I would have stepped on a mine or turned back when I saw the flags were gone. Or I would have gotten lost after Kamenica and walked into an ambush.”

“Or the
blautsauger.
”

Atif smiled.

Or I would have given up, he added to himself, his smile fading.

A Serb soldier stepped inside. “Who's from Cerska?” he shouted. “I'm looking for anyone from Cerska.”

Four men put up their hands. The soldier told them to follow him outside.

Another soldier entered. “I'm looking for anyone from Lolici or Kravica?” He motioned to a man near the front. “Are you from Kravica? Lolici?”

Atif looked at Tarak.

Tarak shook his head. “Don't raise your hand.”

“But why do they want to know? Where are they taking them?”

A man shrieked outside the barn.

Pop. Pop.

Atif flinched and looked up at the window. Tarak stood up and peered through it. The screams continued. He dropped down.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he replied, staring straight ahead. “They're just celebrating. Shooting into the air.”

“I'm not a child, Tarak. What did you see?”

Another man screamed. Tarak's next breath was long and hard.

“They have some sort of gauntlet out there. The soldiers are beating the men. One man has a pitchfork in his head.”

Atif shrank against the wall as the soldier called again for anyone from Kravica.

What if they find out I'm from Kravica?

“They're going to kill us, aren't they?”

Tarak said nothing.

“Aren't they?”

“I honestly don't know, Atif. I really don't. The exchange may be real. They've done it before, many times.”

“Then why are they killing those men?”

“Revenge, I guess.”

In the opposite stall, a group of men were praying.

“My mother won't know,” Atif said.

Tarak stared at him for a few moments and then reached inside his sock and pulled out the laminated ID he had shown Atif earlier.

“Put this in your back pocket.”

“Why?”

“Like I said yesterday, if anything happens to me, you can give it to the army in Tuzla.”

“What good will that do? If anything happens to you, it'll happen to me, too.”

Tarak shook his head with purpose.

“No. You'll be okay. I made a promise. I intend to keep it.”

“But….”

A man's voice begged for death on the other side of the wall.

“Take it, Atif. Please.”

Atif took the card, poking it into his back pocket.

“You will see your mother again.”