The Threat

Fevrier gestured, leaving a trail of smoke in the air. “A 120 mortar … We too would very much like to have the situation ‘clarified.’ Unfortunately we are attempting to police a state of five million people with seven thousand troops, while both Croats and Serbs are trying to tear it in two. Envision two starving wolves, and a tasty piece of fillet. We simply cannot get you to Srebrenica. The peacekeepers there have been ejected. Local resistance has collapsed. Which means Ratko Mladic is in control. We would like to know what is going on there as much as you would. Naples may know more than we. That is where your Predators are controlled from. Have you checked with them?”

Dan had gone over the pictures the remotely piloted surveillance drones had taken. They showed crowds. Detainees. Then empty fields. But no graves. No clue where they could have gone. That was the mystery. But he just said, “May I speak with this Nikolai?”

“Impossible. Far too busy. It might just have been possible to get you in last week. The various factions would let an occasional truck through with supplies for UN Bravo. The Dutch unit there. But now — no. I am so sorry.”

“What happened in Srebrenica, Colonel Fevrier?”

The Frenchman blew out and scratched his scalp hard. “The local commander had seven hundred fifty men to cover the perimeter around the enclave. The Muslims refused to disarm. Went out at night raiding. Burned people alive, in their homes. These people are not as helpless as they portray themselves. Nasser Oric — ugly piece of work. Videotapes his victims. Both sides sniped at Bravo. Then three days ago the BSA — Bosnian Serb Army, Mladic’s troops — began to push in the perimeter. To try to stop the raids. The Dutch tried to call in air strikes, but they could not be provided until the town had been overrun.”

So far every account Dan had heard differed. Sebold had said the UN special representative had refused to give permission for the air strikes, from the on-call carrier force in the Adriatic, until after the town fell. The reserve captain in Naples had said NATO air had actually been aloft, staged out of Italy and orbiting over the Adriatic; but by the time the request was approved in Zagreb, they were too low on fuel to go in. The Dutchman on the plane had said bitterly that his country’s contingent had requested support repeatedly and never gotten a reply. And Larreinaga had said the Dutch had cut and run, but admitted they had no heavy weapons, while the Serbs had tanks.

He could see why Clayton wanted eyes on the ground, an unbiased report, if such a thing was possible.

“I’m not here to assign blame,” he told Fevrier. “I don’t care who’s responsible. That’s a UN matter. All I want to do is get out there and see what happened.”

“Once again, I can’t help you.” Fevrier stood. “We’ll fly you back to Naples tomorrow. Be ready an hour before dawn. That is the safest time. Before they have enough light, on that mountain over there, to aim.”

* * *

Larreinaga, encountered again downstairs, told him the only place to find a bed was the Holiday Inn. Dan walked over, staying close to the wrecked trucks and buses. The hills reverberated now and then to a falling shell or exploding mine. No one shot at him on the way, though.

“You get one of the good rooms. No view,” the clerk joked. In the corridors he saw most had been wrecked, burned, their windows shattered. Some lay open to the wind, and all were unheated. The hallways smelled of shit. The few other guests who passed him wore coats.

He was hungry and realized he’d missed a bet. He should have eaten at the headquarters. He had an MRE pack and a Snickers from his briefcase instead. Tried the faucet, but nothing came out. He changed into civvies, jeans, and a down-filled jacket. Looked at himself in the cracked mirror. Thought about shaving, then figured he’d blend in better if he didn’t.

The electricity was out in the first-floor bar, but somebody had an accordion, and candles flickered on the tables. It felt like a bunker in Stalingrad. He got fruit juice that tasted as if it had been canned under Brezhnev. There were a lot of customers, all smoking harsh-smelling local tobacco and talking very loudly above the Polish-sounding music.

He’d thought about this as he was changing, and decided he wasn’t going to be on the plane back in the morning. He wasn’t going to give up just because the French wouldn’t give him a ride. Or because he was scared, though he was. Somebody else must want to find out what had happened. He asked several people if they knew anybody who was trying to get to Srebrenica. They looked at him as if he were nuts and waved him off. Except the last, a gray-haired old man with one eye. He muttered, “The Gypsy bitch. See her? The one drinking shots, in the corner.”

* * *