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20
July 1992, The Balkans
Dan was
leaning out of the open window of the Landrover, letting the
minimal breeze cool the sweat on his body. Flimsy t-shirt
rolled up to his shoulders, he adjusted the shades, before
glancing at Vadim. "You think tomorrow's job will be
just like today's job, which is just like yesterday's job?"
Yawning, he reached for the lukewarm water, bottle squeezed
between the seats.
"Let's
hope so. No combat." Vadim wore shades, too, much better
for driving, as the sun was belting down and exploding on
every reflecting surface. He was sweating, even though he
wasn't wearing any body armour. "But the Balkans are
volatile", he cautioned. "Just when everyone thinks
it might get better and people get some sense back …"
"Where,
though, I ask you. I hear of shit happening, but all we see
is exactly … nothing." Tipping his head back as
he drank, Dan handed the bottle to Vadim, who rested it against
the wheel, took a curve, then drank on the straight bit of
the road. "I'd like to know what the fuck's going on
here. I mean, I know what we're being told, I know what I
hear, but what do we actually see? Nada. Bodyguarding for
what?" Yawning again, Dan settled back despite
the bad road, drumming his fingers against the outside of
the vehicle door. "Oh no," he rolled his eyes and
pointed forward, "not another road block with nothing
to show for. Bastards."
Vadim
gave a tired laugh, finished the bottle and handed it back.
"Guess they have to spend the time somehow", he
muttered, already fishing for the papers as he slowed down.
A couple
of men with AKs stepped closer when Vadim came to a stop.
Paramilitaries, not quite like the ones they'd met before,
and Dan frowned, but said nothing, remained in his seat, watching
them closely. Something different about them, something …
and then he spotted the two Cs and the cross, which left him
pondering.
The first
man hardly glanced at the papers and shook his head, telling
them in monosyllables, that there was no way they'd pass.
No, and no again, waving his hand as well, while the other
came closer, clearly menacing, the AK raised, while keeping
the Landrover and the two passengers in check.
Vadim
gritted his teeth, but then managed to get his papers back,
and drove backwards turning on the narrow dusty road. "Don't
like this", he murmured. "No bribes. That means
it's a bit more serious than their usual dick-waving."
"Yep."
Dan's frown had turned into a steeple between his eyebrows.
"Bad enough to go insane with absolutely nothing
happening, but this doesn't make me happy either. Suggest
we have a wee gander, aye?"
"Same
idea. Will be good to stretch the legs." Vadim drove
on, making sure he was out of sight before the turned off
the road into the trees, until they were protected from curious
eyes. "My best bet is they're trying to shield the road
right after that block, about two hundred yards down the road."
He murmured, consulting the map. "Not much of a road,
really, but there's a village down there. Here." Indicating
on the map.
"Aye."
Checking the map, Dan pushed the shades off his eyes. "Seems
to be a fairly small place, but what the fuck would they want
with that?" The frown wouldn't leave him, and with the
shades back down again, he grabbed his armoured vest and the
weapon. "I figure this is part of our official duty."
He winked, but without humour, "recon for tomorrow's
run, aye?"
"Oh
yes. Very official." Vadim took the armour as well, got
out of the car and got kitted up in no time, checking Dan's
kit once Dan was fully dressed, who returned the favour straight
away, then pocketed the map and grabbed his own weapon. "Let's
go." They headed off, fast, using the terrain for cover
and protection wherever possible, moving first parallel to
the street and then up the side of the hill, well above the
checkpoint.
Dan was
slightly slower, the knee had been bugging him more lately,
but he'd never uttered a word about it. Figured that ignoring
the pain was the best way forward. Once they had reached the
brow of the hill, vegetation was sparser, and they got onto
the ground, just in case. Tapping Vadim's leg to get his attention,
Dan asked quietly, "you think they got some illegal weapons
stores down there?" Before crawling forwards until they
had a fairly clear view of the village.
"Entirely
possible. Ever since the story with the German King Tiger
tank or whatever it was, I believe anything", Vadim murmured.
Rumour had it that when the Serbs had attacked a village,
the villagers had brought out a fully functional King Tiger
tank the Germans had left behind sometime in the Second World
War, and somebody in the village had kept it in working condition
for all those years. And true to the doctrine of deterrence,
the Serbs then left, not risking to find out whether the steel
monster could still spit death and destruction. It was just
one of those insane little stories that made Yugoslavia the
madhouse it was.
What
they saw, the moment they stuck their heads out enough to
look down, though, made them freeze. Dan disbelieved his own
eyes for a second, until he caught himself and got hold of
the binos, checking. That's when he took in a hissed breath.
"What the fuck!"
Zoning
in on dozens of bodies on the ground. Dead. Some torn to pieces,
others killed 'cleanly'.
Vadim's
eyes narrowed behind the binoculars. It was strangely familiar,
the obscene dance of armed men and unarmed people. The dance
of flashes of guns, slow, almost agonizingly slow advance,
no cover, nothing tactical about dropping bodies while walking.
Walking the survivors into a corner, and rounding them all
up. Men, women, children. No matter the age nor the gender.
"Fuck,
fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Dan breathed out, guts clenching.
No matter how many he'd killed, no matter how much he'd seen,
this was … this was Afghanistan all over again. Cleansing.
Mindless killing. Genocide. Just without the Hinds. "What
the fuck's going on here?"
Vadim
reached over and clasped Dan's shoulder. "Fucking the
Geneva Convention up the ass", he murmured, but his own
words rang hollow.
"What
the fuck are we going to do?" Dan turned to glance at
Vadim, but only for a moment, because he couldn't, just couldn't
stop watching the evidence. What the hell were they to do
indeed? What? What besides watching the survivors being
rounded up, over a hundred of them it seemed, and the paramilitaries
arguing amongst each other. Difficult to tell what they were
on about, but Dan had a guess. "Looks like they can't
decide if they should get rid of them there and then."
His voice was without inflection. Not sure if he felt anything
at all, anything beyond the horror. Had he turned old, soft,
mellow, sociable and human since Afghanistan and the slaughter
of the black crows and their children? He felt sick, a growing
anger like a red-hot fist in his stomach.
"Yeah."
Vadim shook his head. The banality. Arguing while the as yet
survivors watched, sweating blood and piss. He closed his
eyes for a long moment, hand still firm on Dan's shoulder.
"We can't take them on. Too many. We're not equipped
for it."
"Shit."
Dan was sweating. The man who'd never been bothered by extremes
of weather was dripping with sweat. Cold, clammy, and fuelled
by a rage that would never know an outlet.
Suddenly
movement, down there, and Dan adjusted the binos. "What
fucking bastards!" Hissed between clenched teeth when
he saw a sudden flurry of men beating with clubs and rifle
butts onto the helpless civilians. Like animals, corralled
and readied for the slaughter. When shots rang out, more bodies
lay slain, and the beating continued, until the survivors
were forced into waiting trucks. Limping, blood drenched,
and separated into men, women and children.
Dan was
breathing hard, rolling to the side when the trucks drove
off, leaving some of the paramilitaries with a handful of
civilian men behind. Obviously to clean the place and to dig
a grave where no doubt those as yet survivors would vanish
into as well. Despite his tan, the pallor was visible in Dan's
face. "Does the UN know about this?" His voice sounded
forced. "Shit, we have no fucking evidence."
"I'd
be fucked if I knew what they know." Vadim inhaled deeply,
tried to think straight. Bad enough they had no chance to
do anything about this now. "We need to get away."
He dug the map out of his pocket and marked the spot, the
roadblock, and noted down the time and date. "We need
to get back to base. Maybe they can send UN guys to check
the village."
"Aye."
Dan nodded hastily. "If I ever complain again that there's
nothing happening and we are just waiting around, tell me
to shut the fuck up."
"You
didn't make this happen." Vadim gave a half-hearted grin.
No, Dan hadn't, but he had. Not here, not now, but somewhere
else, in a land that everybody had now forgotten about, where
the sky was a unique shade of blue.
Dan looked
at Vadim and nodded once. "No. But I didn't stop it either.
I never stopped it." Not here, not there. Crawling backwards
to get up and away as quickly as possible. He didn't have
a clue what the peacekeeping forces could do, but they bloody
well had to do something.
Vadim
led the way, staying low, moving fast, finding the way back
that Dan only had to follow. His hands in the gloves were
sweaty. He wanted to do more than crawl away, there were lives
being lost, and there was absolutely no way to stop that now.
"They have to do something about it. This must be breaching
contracts, treaties or whatever."
"Aye,
they got to do something." Dan was limping for
a few steps when they had reached the lowest area, but soon
had himself under control. Damn the knee. "Let's get
cracking. Not a fucking clue what they are going to do, but
at least they need to know. Have to stop that happening again,
and where were they taking them anyway? The main detention
camp?" He got into the Lannie, leaving the armoured vest
on. For safety, now that they knew what was really going on.
"No
idea." They might just drive them somewhere better to
shoot them. It was impossible to predict. What if the naysayers
in the discussion won the upper hand on the way? These guys
didn't have a master plan, no grand design. It was random.
Vadim started the car and began to manoeuvre it back out of
the woods, then, with gusto, turned it into the other direction
and sped away, racing the way back they'd come, until they
got to the other road, and, after a long delay that they owed
to the fact this route went all the way around the valley,
got them into camp.
Yet their
discovery was not met with the reaction they had hoped for.
Meticulous noting down, of course, but otherwise ... nothing.
They had no orders to act. None that would mean interference.
On the contrary, the peace keepers were strictly in the region
to show strength - as deterrent - and to otherwise do nothing.
Intelligence and careful noting of data, but that was it.
They were not at war - even though the country was, according
to what they had witnessed.
"I
don't get that idea of deterrence", Vadim murmured, sitting
in the Mess, having a very subdued meal. He should let it
rest, but he could see in Dan's eyes that he was thinking
about it, and in that case, it was better to bring it out
into the open. "Deterrence means the enemy needs to believe
you do something. We are clearly doing absolutely nothing.
What's the deterrent value of that?"
"I
have no fucking clue." The answer came too quickly, too
violently. "What the fuck would you lot have done if
they'd had fucking blue berets parading the fuck around in
Afghanistan and do otherwise fuck-all?"
"Invite
them for a drink, take the piss out of them, then send them
home to mommy, drunk and dishevelled." Vadim gave a short,
coarse laugh. "Or my Colonel would have mopped the floor
with them, one way or the other. Or the politicians would
have accused them of anything we could dig out on them. Or
work with their backers. There are fifteen different ways
to get rid of them that I can think of."
"Yeah.
Precisely." Dan grunted, concentrated on the food with
far more effort than necessary. Shovelling it down until he
was almost done, suddenly raising his head. "Knowing
you, you'd probably just fucked the pretty ones."
Vadim
shook his head. "Couldn't do it. Not on the job. Not
with any real danger involved." He gazed at the plate,
thinking, for a moment, how these people had been dropped,
then shook his head. But it wasn't that easy. They were here
to prevent this kind of thing from happening, and it did happen,
and nobody cared?
"Well,
damn." Dan mopped up the rest of the sauce off his plate
with a leftover bite of bread. "Nothing for us to do
then right now. Just plan tomorrow's route and itinerary,
and check the teams. Aye?"
"Yeah."
Vadim reached across the table and took Dan's hand. "Let's
see what else we can come up with, hm?" He gave a wink,
and even if he wasn't in the mood for sex, it would take their
minds off things. Things like dying and mass murder.
"Yeah,
and I told you a couple of videos arrived that I ordered back
when?"
"No?"
Vadim glanced around. "What did you order?"
Dan's
grin was back from gloom and reality to the irreverent man
who'd waded in gore and came back mentally unharmed - and
physically a ragtag of scars. "Let's just say …
you'll like it. Want to watch? Right now?"
"Beats
the usual entertainment." Vadim gathered up the trays
and carried them back to rack, then walked at Dan's shoulder
to their room. Here, people knew they were 'an item', but
it was easier than in Kuwait. People tended to mind their
own business, even though Vadim missed the light touch of
Jean - even if he'd never admit that. Besides, that place
had brick-built low-slung buildings that housed two or three
men rooms for the affiliated personnel like Dan and Vadim.
Who, naturally, shared a room with its single beds pushed
together. Two men staying in one place was too normal to be
commented upon, and the camaraderie was far less evident than
it had been in the Gulf.
Watching
the porn, followed by the inevitable sex was enough to diffuse
the earlier horror, which had had more impact than anything
they'd seen or done in Afghanistan - because it had been unexpected.
And because this was brother against brother and neighbour
against neighbour. Not an enemy flown in from a foreign land.
They
didn't talk about it anymore, and the next day went by as
if it had never happened.
*
* * * * * *
25
July 1992, The Balkans
Dan was
on duty, watching some politician's back, while Vadim remained
in camp, partially because he'd got a whole range of immunization
shots. One thing the medical personnel amused themselves with
when they were bored, he reckoned, and consequently he felt
like he was fighting the onset of a flu or something. Tired,
washed out, and they'd told him he should give his immune
system a day off, which he did. Not quite voluntarily, especially
with Dan out in the field.
Nevertheless,
sitting on his bunk or sleeping was too boring, and he didn't
manage to focus on reading. So he headed over to the phones,
which were unoccupied - he could make five parallel calls
as everybody else was out and about - or in the Mess, which
he'd given a pass today. He had a notepad and a pencil, and
made a range of calls with the phone cards he'd purchased,
starting with one number he remembered, and then asking for
numbers he should remember but didn't. He felt detached and
unreal, until he heard a female voice answer the phone.
"Katya?"
"No."
The voice was petulant, annoyed that he wasn't who she'd wanted
to call. He was taken aback for a moment, then smiled. "Is
your mother home?"
"Who
are you?"
I'm your
father. Vadim smiled, shook his head. "Your mother, now."
There
was an audible intake of breath, then he heard Katya's voice.
"Who is it, honey?"
"He's
not telling."
Vadim
laughed, tonelessly, but covered the receiver. So petulant.
She sounded just like an ordinary teenager. His leaving hadn't
broken any spirits there.
"Hello?"
Katya.
Vadim's
grin faltered. "Hi. It's me."
There
was no response, and then he heard Katya tell Anoushka to
go, she was missing her lessons, then the door. A deep breath.
"I'm sitting down now", Katya said. "Are you
…?"
"In
trouble?"
"No.
But … yes. Are you?"
"Depends
how you define trouble." Vadim put the pencil down and
leaned back. "I'm in Yugoslavia. What's left of it. But
it's not my kind of trouble. I'm just a mercenary here."
Hearing
she wasn't going to ask or say anything, he gave a sigh. "I'm
okay. I'm just a bloody coward. I meant to call you much sooner,
but I just … kept pushing it away."
"Why?
Why now?"
"Plucked
up my courage, thought I could face it if you told me to put
down the receiver and never again call you."
"That's
why you didn't tell her it's you?"
"Yes."
So I can be just a mystery caller and not the father who's
not talking to her. Vadim closed his eyes. He really didn't
want to fuck this one up. "I'm not giving you any more
trouble, Katya. I already owe you too much. I don't want to
make this worse for you. I want to be …" the man
you deserved. You'd have liked to marry. "No more trouble
for you."
"Don't
be apologetic." Her voice was warm, like he remembered
it, when they had whispered plans for the future, at night
in bed, cuddled up, but chaste. Brother and sister. "It's
good to hear you're alive, I've been hoping for that, for
you. That you're alive and well."
Alive
yes. Are you well? He could still guess her questions. "I'm
doing alright. Starting to tire of the work."
"Yes,
you're not getting any younger. Poor darling." Gently
admonishing, her way of being tender, sometimes. "Did
you get injured? What do you look like these days? I cut my
hair. I can send you a photo."
"Just
older. More tanned, I guess - we spent a lot of time in Kuwait."
We. He winced slightly.
"That
means you're not alone?" Clever girl. As fast to riposte
as she was with the lunge. Her voice made him think of a kick-lunge,
when she threw the opponent with a change in rhythm. What
an elegant, tricky bitch she'd been on the piste.
"No.
Dan … the man I met in Afghanistan … he's still
around."
"Oh.
That's good to hear." Her voice tinged with something,
but it wasn't jealousy. Maybe something like surprise, expertly
hidden. "And you are happy?"
"Hmm-hm."
Somewhat non-committal, but it felt strange to talk to her
about it. He'd have preferred if she hadn't asked. He really
wanted to keep these two things separate. "The job's
a bitch, but we earn double the money. Enough to retire in
a few years. Do you … need anything?"
"No,
we're fine, Vadim, thanks for asking, I appreciate that. But
it's really time you look out for yourself. I'll get these
kids up to be good adults, I've managed so far, I'll get them
the rest of the way, too."
"I
know you will." He was relieved. The kids were doing
fine. He'd never have doubted that, but it was good to know
it now. Katya was managing, she was doing fine. Another unbroken
spirit. "You're living with Szandor still?"
"Not
… quite." There was a ringing silence for a long
moment. "I'm afraid, Vadim, that Szandor is dead."
"But
he was …"
"Two
years older than you, yes." Katya made a gentle sound.
"It was an illness. A disease, and it went on for almost
three years. In the end, it was pneumonia."
"Pneumonia?
Of all things?"
"No,
Vadim. He died of AIDS."
Vadim
couldn't speak. Thought of Szandor, the old-fashioned gentleman
that had belonged into a French fencing salon somewhere in
the late eighteenth, early nineteenth century, maybe. He'd
always had something dandyish about him, tall, elegant, long,
strong legs made for fencing. One of the first men who'd ever
kissed him. The second man to fuck him. The first man who
had allowed him to fuck him. Szandor of the noble brow, the
aristocratic nose, lean, deadly, drop dead gorgeous in the
white dress. The same man who had a way to salute you on the
piste that breathed a decadent elegance that must have made
any communist fencing bureaucrat apoplectic.
He cleared
his throat. "Sorry. I … I just don't know what to
say."
"It
was hard on all of us", she said. "He'd have liked
to meet you one last time, sorry to say that, that must seem
cruel now. But he did care a great deal about you. I hope
he felt I was there for him enough towards the end."
"Thank
you." She'd been there, and he hadn't. Vadim rubbed his
face. "Was it … very hard?"
"It
wasn't pleasant. I think you might want to come and look at
the things he left for you. If you want to and find the time.
I'll keep them for you, if you'd rather not."
"Let
me guess … the weapons?"
"Yes,
and a box full of memorabilia. Some collector has been trying
to get in touch, but I'm not selling it before you've decided
what to do with it."
"Thank
you." The blow resonated like a vicious hit he hadn't
seen coming. And he'd only called to check on her and the
kids. That Szandor was dead - that was something he could
hardly grasp. AIDS. Holy fuck. His ex-lover. Courting death,
until it got him. And he'd have thought being a soldier was
risky - but being good-looking, gay, and easy to drag into
bed was even riskier, apparently. The papers were full of
people dying of the 'gay disease'. But Szandor? Of course,
he hadn't been enough of a celebrity to get his own obituary
anywhere where Vadim could have read it. "When did he
die?"
"About
ten months ago." Katya's voice was warm, mellow, tender.
"During the night." She waited, but picked up that
he didn't want to talk about it any more. "Is there any
way I can reach you?"
"Yes.
We have a postal address. I could call you … more often."
She smiled
audibly. "I'd like that very much. What about this …
you give me your postal address, and I'll send you some photos?
I might even send you some of the letters I never posted.
Silly me, it's a habit hard to break. I guess it was my way
of keeping a diary - writing you all those long letters."
"A
habit."
"Absolutely.
A habit."
"I'd
like that."
"Then
it's sealed." Katya smiled again. "Should I tell
the kids?"
"If
you think that's … the good thing to do?"
"You
are still a memory in this family, Vadim. We never decided
you were dead. You were just far away, but never dead."
Vadim
swallowed hard, felt his eyes blur and wiped at them. "Tell
the kids. I might … come for a visit, maybe, but in the
meantime, letters … letters would be good."
"You'll
live to regret that, Vadim Petrovich", she joked, "There
are so many letters waiting for you."
He thought
it was banter. But she did speak the truth. He did live to
regret that.
*
* * * * * *
6
August 1992, The Balkans
They
were glued to the television set. The Mess TV room was crowded,
and deadly silent. Silent except for the voice of the presenter,
talking about a camp that had been declared by the paramilitary
as a prisoner of war camp, and was a kick in the face of the
Geneva Convention and the International Committee of the Red
Cross - and a place of terror to all inside.
"The
men are at various stages of human decay and affliction; the
bones of their elbows and wrists protrude like pieces of jagged
stone from the pencil thin stalks to which their arms have
been reduced."
Dan was
pulling nicotine into his lungs, watching the pictures that
did not hit him as much as some of the others - not after
what he'd seen in his life - but which clenched his guts once
more, the helpless rage returning, and with it the realisation
he was human after all.
"There
is nothing quite like the sight of the prisoners desperate
to talk," the presenter went on, "and to convey
some terrible truth that is so near yet so far, but who dares
not." Images now flickering across the screen that were
unlike anything any of the men had ever witnessed. Including
Dan and Vadim, and Dan tensed in his seat. Metal crates, stacked
on top of each others, and prisoners existing in hundreds
in their own filth, which ran through the metal grids and
dripped on skeletal bodies with vacant stares.
"Their
stares burn, they speak only with their terrified silence,
and eyes inflamed with the articulation of stark, undiluted,
desolate fear-without-hope."
The reporter trailed off and let the images speak for themselves
before carefully selected prisoners were allowed to talk -
and yet didn't. They didn't need to, though, it was all too
clear. This was no war. This was systematic killing, terrorising
and torture.
Dan suddenly
snapped, the sound of his fist hitting the armrest of his
chair a sudden explosion in the silence. "Fuck!"
Jumping up. "Fuck that!" When he stormed out with
the air of frustration and utter, helpless rage around
him, many eyes followed. They all knew what he'd been thinking
and what he hadn't said, nor asked: why the fuck was no one
doing anything about this?
Vadim
was right behind, swallowing empty bile that kept rising in
his throat. He'd grown up with images like that. The Glorious
Soviet Army liberating the Nazi death camps. Very hard to
resist the parallel, even though the Serbs had been the Brother
Nation, and that alone made him angry, that these men had
been allies, brothers, had a similar culture, a similar image
of themselves. Slavs. But he couldn't even utter these thoughts
anywhere here, where a Russian name conjured up the wrong
ideas, even though people accepted he was on their side and
for all intents and purposes a Brit. Only that he wasn't.
He reached
for Dan's neck, pulled him close, in the middle of camp. "Dan."
"Fuck!"
Dan was fuming, but the burning fire in his eyes had no outlet.
"What the fuck is anyone doing about this? Why
the fucking fuck does everyone sit here, unable to do any-fucking-thing?"
Taking a breath that didn't reach his lungs. "Damn!"
He was shaking with frustration. "I want them to give
me some fucking orders to go out there!"
"We
don't need orders." Vadim's words were cold, fully rational.
"We're made for this kind of war, Dan. We've done it
all our lives. We can give them a piece of hell back."
"What
are you talking about?" Dan stared at Vadim, fists clenched.
Vadim
opened his lips, then closed them, frowning, instead used
more strength to hold Dan, trying to convey the meaning without
words. Let's go. Let's kill them. Kill them all.
Dan stared
at him for a long time, until he finally shook his head. Lowering
his voice, aware they were in the middle of camp. "That's
vigilantism, Vadim. We've been soldiers …" not killers,
he wanted to say, but it got stuck in his throat. "We
can't do that."
I'm
a soldier. Words that, once upon a time, had saved his
life. Vadim's face twitched and he looked towards the camp
gate. It would be so easy. Operating behind enemy lines. Not
with those kids, but alone. Wolves. Hunting. He shook his
head, rested his forehead against Dan's. "Maybe we should
leave", he murmured. "We're wasting our time here.
They don't let us off the leash."
"But
what are we going to do if we leave?" Dan murmured. "We
haven't got enough money yet for the farm. But … if that's
what you want, shit, I'd leave. This place is …"
He trailed off, shaking his head.
Vadim
moved closer, embracing him, holding him close and tight,
not caring for a moment if anybody saw it and what they were
thinking. Dan was right. They couldn't just walk out of the
job. "If it's too … much shit for you, Dan, we go.
Okay? We find some other place. Somewhere where we can actually
do some proper work." Whatever that was.
"No,
I'm okay." Dan grimaced. "What about you?"
"As
long as I have you, I manage. Whatever. Anything." Vadim
ran his fingers through Dan's hair, kept holding him like
that, tried to fuse their strength, Dan's with his, his own
with Dan's. Hard steel, soft steel. Combined, they were a
weapon to behold.
Dan smiled,
didn't think about anything else that moment than Vadim, and
how they'd been the lucky ones so far - despite everything.
*
* * * * * *
11
September 1992, The Balkans
The letters
came. It was a brown padded envelope, and it was full and
heavy with paper. Vadim took it with him to their room, sat
down on the bed and reached inside, making sure he'd get the
whole lot in one hand. He didn't want it to spill over, then
put the envelope to the side. Letters, individually sealed
and dated, like she did, so he knew in which order to read.
Laid out much like chapters in a book, ordered, with their
own internal logic that he could only grasp when he followed
the rules. Her neat handwriting. He checked the dates. One
every few months. Twelve months ago, one every week. Szandor's
dying and death. Vadim swallowed hard, wasn't sure he wanted
to confront that, didn't know whether to follow the rule or
leave those out that he knew were bad.
He sorted
the letters on one pile, ordered by date. Old ones on top,
new ones below. The photos showed the kids. Fourteen and twelve
years old. Anoushka was growing up to be a beautiful girl,
just like she had been beautiful as a child, even as a baby.
Silvery blond hair, fair, pure complexion, teeth white and
straight. The very image of health, and he smiled when he
saw a semi-formed frown that made her face darker than it
should be. One photo showed Anoushka, flushed and victorious
in fencer's kit. The second and third 'winners' framed her,
and Vadim could see that they were positively intimidated
still. Or maybe they had just been soundly beaten - or he
was imagining things. He knew for sure that Katya wouldn't
have sent the photo if Anoushka hadn't won. A family of winners,
at all costs. It would certainly build her character, he thought,
especially dealing with setbacks and superior forces. At that
age, it did no harm to feel invincible. Quite the opposite.
Nikolai.
He looked so much like his father that it was painful. The
shattered body of a pilot, smashed against Afghan rocks. Disfigured,
dismembered by wild dogs, both humans and animals.
A certain
sweetness about him, deep thoughts, a withdrawn boy, lanky
and clearly not at peace with himself, or anybody else. Vulnerable.
Vadim tried to divine what he was like. His father had had
an infectious, open laugh, the easy charm of a pilot, removed
from the dirty war below, a rider on the flying steed, coming
in to punish and rescue. Nikolai had nothing of that, he seemed
honest, but not open, and he, too, would be growing up to
be attractive, if very differently from Anoushka. She'd break
hearts, he might just mend them. But there was little else.
Nikolai clearly didn't like to be photographed.
Vadim
placed the photos back into the envelope. He couldn't carry
any of those with him, that would look funny, and, besides,
in Yugoslavia, he didn't want them that close. And he could
hardly pin them to the wall, either. It just didn't feel right.
He didn't want to remind Dan of the time Before. In a way,
this was a new life, keeping visible tokens of a past - that
was a parallel present - didn't feel right. Maybe one day.
Maybe it was easier not to be reminded every single day. He
didn't see any photos of her, though. Maybe she had sent it
right away and didn't have any photos on hand that showed
her with the new haircut. That would be very Katya.
He looked
at the pile of letters. That would be the hard work. Part
of him feared it. It took him forever to read, and often enough
he didn't grasp any of the meaning at all and had to read
a simple text several times. These letters had meant so much.
His protection, his connection, the reminder that there was
a world that was not Afghanistan. Wasn't madness and heat
and the insane need to take, plunder, destroy. Humanity could
be letters. Vadim groaned and got up. He'd take this slow.
Be careful. Her letters always had an effect, he'd have to
be careful with the dosage.
*
* * * * * *
23
September 1992, The Balkans
Dan was
standing outside in one of the few relatively dark corners
that weren't awash with the constant floodlights. The night
was blissfully cool, and he leaned against the outside wall
of the accommodation block, smoking. Yet there was nothing
tranquil about it, nothing at all, because the sounds in the
night were everything but peaceful.
He shook
his head, as if to clear his ears and mind, but the sounds
were still there, and would haunt him throughout the night.
In his dreams, during waking hours. He wasn't the only one
affected, he knew that, and he nodded to one of the British
soldiers who walked past and whose facial expression was as
clouded and angry as his body language was tense. They'd all
suffered the sounds - and the helplessness.
Dan looked
up when a shadow darkened the corner of his eyes, and he smiled
at Vadim, but the smile never reached his eyes. "Guess
it's better to watch a video, aye?" Stubbing out the
fag as he turned towards Vadim, "and make sure it's loud."
When
they walked inside, the screams of the girls and women were
still echoing in his mind, and his fist remained clenched
for a long time to come.
*
* * * * * *
17
October 1992, The Balkans
"Hey,
Mad Dog!" One of the guys was calling out from the admin
block, cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
"Aye?"
Dan stopped walking, had been in the process of rubbing the
remains of his fried breakfast off his sweater, eyeing the
egg yolk with distaste. "What's up?"
"Letter
for you." The chap was waving a brown, battered looking
A4 envelope.
Curiosity
piqued, Dan gave up on the egg and turned 90 degrees to march
up to the admin HQ instead. "Can only be from my brother."
He shrugged, reaching for the envelope.
"Don't
think so," Blowing cigarette smoke in Dan's face, the
guy dropped the letter into waiting hands, "funny stamps."
"Trust
you bitches to snoop around." Pulling lips back from
his teeth, Dan mock-snarled.
"Don't
get your heckles up, diva." The guy laughed, rolled his
eyes and spat the end of the fag to the ground, "that
weird-ass stamp is too obvious even for you lot."
Dan made
a rude gesture in front of his groin. "Wanker."
Half-heartedly. He liked the admin guys, and the continuous
banter between 'fags' and lower end of HQ had established
itself like a comfortable custom.
"Not
that funny anyway, it's …" Dan turned the envelope,
peering at the stamp, he could make out a bird and its nest,
which looked like an eagle, but also the word 'Magyar Posta'.
He shook his head, snorting. "Bullshit, that's a stamp
from Hungary. It's for Vadim. You lot are such dickheads you
got it wrong again. Do I look like a Russian hunk?"
The guy
was fishing for another fag, couldn't get the cigarette fast
enough out of the packet when Dan had already snatched it,
under no more than eye-rolling protest. "No, but like
an aging pimp."
"Arsehole."
"With
pleasure."
"Lighter?"
The guy
lit Dan's cigarette after lighting his own. "It's your
name on the envelope, mate, despite what you're going to tell
me in a second, yes, I do know how to read and write."
"Yeah,
whatever." Dan took a deep drag, keeping the smoke in
his lungs until he spotted the tell-tale blond head turn round
the corner, straight out of the Mess.
"Hey,
Vadim!" Calling out and waving the envelope, before he'd
even looked at it properly. "Got a letter for you."
Dan could
see that Vadim would rather have gone straight to the toilet
blocks, but he approached anyway, nodding at the admin guy
who seemed to suddenly have something important to do, retreating
back into the low building, leaving Dan and Vadim alone.
"For
you." Dan handed the envelope over, but it took less
than a glance for Vadim to hand it straight back.
"Your
name."
"Huh?"
Fag secured in the corner of his mouth, Dan finally took a
proper look. His name, no doubt. Daniel McFadyen. Dan frowned.
'Daniel'? Who the fuck … and Hungary? The frown deepened,
he knew only one person in Hungary, and that couldn't be.
He hadn't heard from the bitch since January 1990, no reason
why now. "Makes no sense."
Looking
at Vadim, who shrugged, Dan wiped his nose with his sleeve,
skilfully avoiding the burning cigarette. Autumn was getting
cold in the Balkans and his nose kept running. "OK, let's
see, then." Turning the letter in his hands, "no
sender. Ach well, only one way to find out."
Dan ripped
the letter open, but his finger slipped and he tore most of
the envelope in two, scattering a few pieces onto the ground.
"Shit." Mumbled, they both knelt down to catch the
three pieces of paper before they got blown into a puddle.
One white, two …
"What
the fuck?" Dan picked up what seemed like a very short
letter and one photo, the second photo ended in Vadim's hand.
Standing back up, Dan stared at the photo, uncomprehending.
A girl. A toddler, no more than possibly two. He had no clue.
Grinning impishly into the camera with her dark hair wild
and lose, in long curls, with dark eyes and a few freckles
on her nose.
"What
…? Who …?" Dan stared, turned the photo, another
angle, but always the same face and same grin, shook his head
again. "Who the fuck?" He felt his hand slapped,
the one that held the letter, reminding him of its existence.
Casting his eyes over the few lines, he froze.
Mr
McFadyen,
I
think it's only proper to inform you about my daughter Kisa.
She is a healthy, happy child with a temper that appears altogether
un-Russian. These were taken on her second birthday on 13
September, a bright day for all. You can see her presents
and a friend in the background. I am not sure how much of
an interest you take in this, without whom this would not
have been possible. I will keep you updated, just in case
you do.
Kind
regards
Katarina
"Oh
fuck." That was all. Frozen with shock. "Fuck."
Vadim
frowned, looked at the photo. Katya sending this to Dan? But
realization hit him like a sniper's bullet. Heavy calibre,
right to the brain. Immediately shutting him down, off, and
he knew in all clarity, like a dying man, what had happened.
Katya. And. Dan.
"You
bastard", Vadim snarled, the anger so pure, so red-hot,
so darkly pleasant, something that burned everything
else away, something strong and hot and all-consuming. Rage.
His fist went right into Dan's face, who didn't have much
time to react, taken by surprise. Elbow following as Vadim
went close quarters, knowing instinctively his bulk and strength
were his advantages. Had always been.
Dan lost
balance, pain exploding in his face, chest, and he lost his
grip on photo and letter. Stumbling backwards, too shocked,
too surprised at the violence. Grunts of pain, unable to think,
understand, nothing at all. Reactions delayed, never got his
defence up fully, he crashed to the ground, on his back, below
Vadim.
Lying
bastard. Lying cheating fucking bastard. Vadim's mind was
empty, there was no horror that this was Dan, and what he
was doing to him - punching and kicking him like his worst
enemy - no reasoning beyond the feeling he'd been massively
and unforgivably betrayed.
Dan shouted
Vadim's name, once, twice, and then nothing but groans when
his survival sense kicked in, but too late, he could do nothing
but protect himself best he could. Getting in the odd punch
or kick of his own, but his defence had been weakened from
the start, and his mind was reeling, unable to find one clear
thought, while his body could not grasp what was happening
to it, could only rely on the most basic instincts of fighting
to survive.
The ruckus
alerted a team of other mercs who came running and it took
five men to pull Vadim off Dan, and even they struggled. The
frustration in camp often gave way to violence, so people
reacted immediately, and once Vadim knew he was bested, he
stopped and got to his feet. Several guys now between him
and Dan, who'd scrambled to his feet, refusing help. Face
bleeding, bruised, dark eyes betraying the shock that had
rendered him numb, incapable of reacting. No feeling. No understanding.
Just pain. Body … his mind hadn't grasped the full extent
of terror yet.
Vadim
stared at Dan, rage still burning in him, his knuckles hurt,
the anger pounded like a red flood against his throat.
"Vadim!
Fuck!" Dan managed, tried once more, emotions in such
disarray, not a thought left. No sense of reality. A bad dream,
a nightmare in broad daylight. This couldn't ... didn't ….
Ignoring the men around him. The stares, the questions. He
had no answers.
Vadim
switched to Russian, immediately, code reasons and all that,
breathing so hard it took him several moments to put together
syllables and words. "You bastard fucked my wife!"
he snarled, noticed his error, "Ex-wife, whatever! You
bastard did it!"
Dan jerked,
as if he'd received another punch. Fuck, since when had he
turned into a victim? Since his goddamned world had collapsed
and become a nightmare, a few minutes ago. "You don't
understand!" Wiping blood out of his eye, spitting blood
onto the ground. Russian, too, the switch came without thinking.
"Listen to me!"
"There's
nothing to understand. You fucked my wife, while I was fucking
dying. And you thought I wouldn't find out? Fuck you."
The betrayal was worse. Both. It wasn't just jealousy, he
could deal with that, he'd proven that over and over. It was
the fact it was Katya, his past, his children, and Dan had
just broken into that world and … fucked around with
it. His world, his anchor, at least back then. And that Dan
had become one of Katya's men - that was even worse. Again,
sharing. His lover and his wife, and now this. A child. As
if to mock him and remind him he'd never been much of a husband,
not much of a father, not even much of a lover. Katya had
taken something that had been his, alone, his, and the barrier
between old life and new life had been torn down and created
… what? Pain.
Mouth
open, Dan paled beneath tan and smears of blood. You fucked
my wife. No sound came out, as an ice cold fist slammed
into his guts. While I was dying. I know. I remember.
And it killed me, too. He stood frozen on the spot, no more
words, no attempts. She'd done it. She'd won. He felt so sick
he wanted to throw up, and it wasn't because of the kicks
and punches.
Vadim
hadn't given him a chance.
"Leave
me the fuck alone", Vadim roared, unable to contain that
pain, and he forced his way through the other mercenaries
who tried to hold him back, but he would have none of that.
Dan didn't
move. No reaching out, no calling Vadim's name. Nothing. You
fucked my wife. He shuddered, stared at Vadim running
away. No chance. No questions. No chance for explanations.
Believing he'd done it. Betrayed him. Expected the worst,
convinced he was a traitor. Twelve years … and nothing.
No chance.
He shook
his head violently when some of his mates tried to talk to
him, and pushed them away when they grabbed hold of his arms.
Didn't want to hear them, no voices, no well-meant taking
him to the medic to patch him up. No queries, couldn't bear
it. Just alone. Leave me the fuck alone. He could do
that. Mind reeling, world shattered, and Vadim believed he
was a traitor. She'd won. He hoped she would rot in a hell
he didn't believe in.
He looked
around on the ground, gathered the letter, muddy and torn,
then found the photos. Dirty, crumpled, and he straightened
them, wiped the specks of blood off the kid's face with his
sleeve. Still in the front of the admin block, the mercs and
soldiers were starting to scatter, when he ignored each of
them.
Staring
at the picture of the girl, he couldn't grasp what he saw.
A child. Laughing. Dark hair, dark eyes. A girl. The kid that
had destroyed his world.
He hated
the mother. Hated that bitch with more fervour than he'd ever
hated anyone. Even Vadim. Back when … no. Not going there.
He hated
the bitch but he could not hate the kid.
His daughter.
*
* * * * * *
Vadim
received a major dressing down just two hours later. The CO,
his own nerves clearly frayed by the images of a reality outside
that none of the soldiers could actually deal with, coldly
told him his punishment, after he'd asked whether Vadim had,
in fact, without provocation, attacked a fellow soldier. A
fellow soldier. The word the CO did not use was 'partner',
or 'lover', but Vadim knew exactly what he was thinking. That
their kind of bond could only lead to this kind of quarrel.
That two gay soldiers would always turn against each other,
and be not only a nuisance, but a liability. Not professional.
Emotions had no space in places like these, least of all two
faggots punching each other up.
Vadim
took the pay cut stoically. He was really expecting, hoping,
to be kicked out. Only so he could go outside. And. Do. Something.
He had nothing left to lose, nothing but the pain. He remembered
he'd been in that kind of mindset before, one hundred percent
soldier, zero percent human. He knew how effective he could
be. What a force. And there'd always been something that had
held him back. Doubts. A family. A man he'd meet as a lover.
Very rarely had these been there and not impeded him - when
they had paled, or he'd been so tired that he couldn't feel
them, but right now, they were gone. Now all that baggage
had fallen off him, he was free to do whatever he pleased.
And that gave him a sense of purpose, cut loose the chain
that had grown into his flesh so deep he'd really believed
it was part of him. It wasn't. He was free.
He acted
properly repentant, which meant he kept silent, didn't protest,
just accepted that bastard telling him he'd expected him to
be more professional and he'd hoped that would be the last
time.
Vadim
saluted, and went back to his room. Their room. Pushed the
beds back to where they'd been at the start, took the envelope
with letters and photos, his own beginnings of letters he'd
never finished, and burned the lot outside, where nobody could
watch. Let it go up in smoke, Szandor's death, the stories
from school of his kids, the local fencing association stories.
It was soon gone. The last of the photos that browned and
crumbled to ashes was a photo of his other cuckoo's child,
Nikolai, whose withdrawn, sceptical and soft face seemed to
say: I knew it wouldn't last, so I didn't smile at you.
*
* * * * * *
When
Dan finally returned to the room - since he had nowhere else
to go - he'd been cleaned up. The dark bruises vivid in his
face, and the split at his brow kept together with butterfly
strips. He froze when he opened the door. The beds - pushed
apart. He'd have thought he was prepared for anything by now,
but the sight slammed into his guts like another fist.
Vadim
was sitting on a chair, polishing the boots, cleaning his
whole kit, it smelled of boot polish, soap, and metal. While
it was a ritual, part of everyday duty, Vadim was fully focused
on the task, didn't look up, just worked through the leather
of the boots to keep them waterproof and in fighting condition.
Precious little else they could do. Aching inside, though,
it fucking hurt, but he was good at keeping a straight face,
just pretended the muscles in his face were not connected
to anything else.
Dan's
mouth opened, old habit, but no sound came out. No word of
greeting. Everything he might have wanted to say was silenced
by traitor, liar, and no chance. He walked
over to the bed that he assumed was 'his', and the fist in
his guts was churning his insides. Beds. Not bed. One bitch
had destroyed that and he couldn't see a way out. Too hurt
to try and explain, too proud to talk, and too shattered inside.
He turned
his back to Vadim, carefully placing the photos amongst his
kit. He'd destroyed the letter. Nothing in there he wanted
to ever see again. Not the bitch's writing, not her words.
September thirteen was all he needed to know, and Kisa. 'Kitten'.
Lapushka. How fucking ironic if it didn't hurt so much. Taking
his muddy and bloodied clothes off, he reached for towel and
soap bag. He needed a shower, had to ease the soreness and
ache and had to try to wash away what could never be cleansed.
No chance. After twelve years. Assuming the worst and
proving that no matter what, the ex-wife, the bitch,
was more important than him. She'd won. Well and truly, at
last.
He was
out of the door without a sound.
Vadim
looked up when Dan was gone. Being in the same room was hard.
He didn't want to see him, hear him, smell him, ever again
feel him. Stupid fucking need. Sex. Men made themselves fools
for sex. Gave up their honour. Gave up everything. He shook
his head, stowed away the kit. He'd have to arrange something,
so he took a wad of money and went to the NCO who planned
the shifts. The staff sergeant had already heard the story,
and it didn't take much convincing to be put on opposite shifts.
Vadim was fairly sure the man had no idea how serious it was
- he played along to "give both of them space",
as he called it, and Vadim took the boon that came for free.
It was understood he owed him, but that was fine. As long
as they would spend as little time in the same area as possible.
Bad enough he couldn't ask for different accommodation, but
he left that move to Dan. Dan was the man who made friends
and who found other lovers, like Jean. Tough luck, no Jean
in sight in Yugoslavia.
When
Dan returned to the room Vadim was out. Better that way, it
hurt less. Mind numb, he couldn't get one single coherent
thought, let alone string several together. All of this had
to be a nightmare, couldn't be true, utterly impossible that
Vadim would have done that, would have condemned him like
that. Like trash. Worth nothing. Twelve years just gone.
He dressed,
had to somehow get ready for nightshift. A couple more nights
of that, how the fuck was he going to function though? Beside
Vadim? But even on his own, how was he going to keep himself
from getting killed, because he just couldn't focus? Damn.
He was a soldier, still. Mercenary, PMC, whatever. He was
still a professional. And if he got killed … right now,
what did it matter? Wouldn't make things worse. Perhaps in
the light of the morning, but at the moment, it seemed a damn
viable option, and he didn't care.
Managing
to get some food down, Dan smoked fag after fag, popped a
couple of painkillers the medic had pushed into his hand,
and then it was time to get kitted out and back onto shift.
But when he got into the Landrover, one of the other mercs
was standing there, claiming he had taken over the shift and
that Dan had been put onto permanent night shift. Dan just
nodded, didn't ask questions, didn't complain, didn't give
a damn. Figured it was easier to work with anyone but Vadim,
and existing at different times without seeing each other.
That
night, he hardly talked and he did his job. No more, no less.
*
* * * * * *
Vadim
found a new rhythm, a faster rhythm. Doing his duty, he was
silent, the type that did the job by the book. There was no
sign of fraying about him, and people seemed to believe that.
Running security, showing weapons, guarding compounds, watching
the blue berets do nothing but show off their pristine uniforms
below haunted eyes. Vadim wasn't haunted. He was possessed.
The area
around them swarmed with irregulars. The same men who killed
and murdered and raped and tortured, living like wild dogs
off the land, feeding on human flesh and blood. Breaking the
soul of a people, shattering a land so it would never grow
together again. They feared nothing. They ruled the land by
force of arms, by force of brutality, and that reinforced
their fearlessness. The feral dogs feared nothing.
Vadim
wore black camo on his hunting expeditions. He went to bed
like anybody expected, waited for the camp to calm down and
Dan to leave, then got dressed again. A boring, pointless
day gave way to the thrill of the hunt when he put on the
unmarked black camo, ammunition, knife, garrotte, gloves,
something deadly or useful in every pocket. Getting out of
camp was easy enough - he knew the routines, he was an insider.
Any insider can fool the system. He'd fooled the Soviet Army
for years, deep in enemy territory. This wasn't so different,
now.
He followed
the noise they made, waited in the dark for them to fall asleep.
Took out their guards, then killed the sleeping men. For I
have become death, the destroyer of worlds, he thought, smiling,
after he had done the work. Killing sleeping men was easy.
Just the finale to the stalking, the watching, fanning the
flame of anger inside and getting ready. Feeling alive inside
while he hunted, and calm, focused, centred, after it was
over.
He returned
to camp past midnight, slept for four or five hours, then
did his day shift. He couldn't go out hunting every night,
but he made it a priority to go out at least twice a week.
Leaving bodies behind when he'd found peace.
|
