Avenger

1 The Hardhat

He leaned into the gradient and once again fought the enemy of his own pain. It was a torture and a therapy. That was why he did it.

Those who know often say that of all the disciplines the triathlon is the most brutal and unforgiving. The decathlete has more skills to master, and putting the shot needs more brute strength; but for fearsome stamina and the capacity to meet the pain and beat it, there are few trials like the triathlon.

The runner had risen as always on training days well before dawn. He drove his pickup to a distant New Jersey lake, dropping off his racing bicycle on the way, chaining it to a tree for safety. At two minutes after five, he set the chronometer on his wrist, pulled the sleeve of the neoprene wetsuit down to cover it, and entered the icy water.

It was the Olympic triathlon that he practised, with distances measured in metric lengths. A fifteen-hundred-meter swim-as near as dammit one mile-out of the water, strip fast to undershirt and shorts, mount the racing bike, then forty kilometres crouched over the handlebars, all of it at the sprint. He had long ago measured the mile along the lake from end to end and knew exactly which tree on the far bank marked the spot he had left the bike. He had marked out his forty kilometres along the country roads, always at that empty hour, and knew which tree was the point to abandon the bike and start the run. Ten kilometres was the run, and there was a farm gatepost that marked the twoclickstogo point. That morning he had just passed it. The last two kilometres were uphill, the final heartbreaker, the no-mercy stretch.

The reason it hurt so much is that the muscles needed are all different. The powerful shoulders, chest, and arms of a swimmer are not normally needed by a speed cyclist or marathon man. They are just extra poundage that has to be carried.

The speed-blurred driving of the legs and hips of a cyclist are different from the tendons and sinews that give the runner the rhythm and cadence to eat up the miles underfoot. The repetitiveness of the rhythms of one exercise does not match those of the other. The triathlete needs them all, then tries to match the performances of three specialist athletes one after the other.

At age twenty-five it is a cruel event. At the age of fifty-one, it ought to be indictable under the Geneva Convention. The runner had passed his fiftyfirst the previous January. He dared a glance at his wrist and scowled. Not good; he was several minutes down on his best. He drove harder against his enemy.

The Olympians were looking at just under two hours; the New Jersey runner had clipped two hours twenty. He was almost at that time now, and he still had almost two kilometres to go.

The first houses of his hometown came into view around a curve in Highway 30. The old, prerevolution village of Pennington straddles Route 31, just off Interstate 95, running down from New York, through the state, and on to Philadelphia, Baltimore, then Washington.

There is not much to Pennington, one of a million neat, clean, tidy, neighbourly small towns that make up the overlooked and underestimated heart of the United States. A single major crossroads at the centre where West Delaware Avenue crosses Main Street, several wellattended churches of three denominations, a First National Bank, a handful of shops, and off-the-street residences scattered down the tree-clothed byroads.

The runner headed for the crossroads, half a kilometre to go. He was too early for a coffee at the Cup of Joe or breakfast at Vito's Pizza, but even had they been open he would not have stopped.

South of the junction he passed the Civil War vintage, white clapboard house with the shingle of Calvin Dexter, attorney-at-law, next to the door. It was his office, his shingle, and his law practice, save for the occasions when he took time off and went away to attend to his other practice. Clients and neighbours accepted that he took fishing vacations now and then, knowing nothing of the small apartment under another name in New York City.

He drove his aching legs that last five hundred yards to reach the turning into Chesapeake Drive at the south end of town. That was where he lived, and the corner marked the end of his self-imposed Calvary. He slowed, stopped, and hung his head, leaning against a tree, sucking in oxygen to heaving lungs. Two hours, thirty-six minutes. Far from his best. That there was probably no one within a hundred miles who, aged fifty-one, could come near it was not the point. The point, as he would never dare to explain to the neighbours who grinned and cheered him on, was to use the pain to combat the other pain, the always pain, the pain that never went away, the pain of lost child, lost love, lost everything.

The runner turned into his street and walked the last two hundred yards. Ahead of him he saw the paperboy hurl a heavy bundle onto his porch. The kid waved as he cycled past, and Cal Dexter waved back.

Later he would take his motor scooter and go retrieve his truck. With the scooter in the rear, he would drive home, picking up the racing bike along the road. First he needed a shower, some high-energy bars, and the contents of several oranges.

On the stoop he picked up the bundle of mail and news-papers, broke them open, and looked.

Calvin Dexter, the wiry, sandy-haired, friendly, smiling attorney of Pennington, New Jersey, had been born with close to nothing in terms of a worldly advantage.

He'd been created in a Newark slum, rife with roaches and rats, and came into the world in January 1950, the son of a construction worker and a waitress at the local diner. His parents, according to the morality of the age, had had no choice but to marry when a meeting in a neighbourhood dance hall and a few drinks too many had led to things getting out of hand and his own conception.

His father was not a bad man, by his lights. After Pearl Harbour he had volunteered for the armed forces, but as a skilled construction worker he had been deemed more useful at home, where the war effort involved the creation of thousands of new factories, dockyards, and government offices.

He was a hard man, quick with his fists, the only law on many blue-collar jobs. But he tried to live by the straight and narrow, bringing his pay straight home unopened, trying to raise his toddler son to love Old Glory, the Constitution, and Joe DiMaggio.

But when the Korean War ended, the job opportunities gradually slipped away. Only the industrial blight remained, and the unions were in the grip of the Mob.

Calvin was five when his mother left. He was too young to understand why. He knew nothing of the loveless union his parents had had, accepting with the philosophical endurance of the very young that people always shouted and quarrelled. He knew nothing of the travelling salesman who had promised her bright lights and better frocks. He was simply told she had "gone away."

He had accepted that his father was now home each evening, looking after him instead of having a few beers after work, staring glumly at a foggy television screen. It was not until his teens that he learned his mother, abandoned in her turn by the travelling salesman, had tried to return but been rebuffed by his angry and bitter father.

When Calvin was seven, his father hit upon an idea to solve the problem of a home and the need to search for work far and wide. They moved out of the walkup tenement in Newark and acquired a second-hand trailer. This became his home for ten years.

Father and son moved from job to job, living in the trailer, the scruffy boy attending whichever local school would take him. It was the age of Elvis Presley, Del Shannon, Roy Orbison, the Beatles, over from a country Cal had barely heard of. It was the age of Kennedy, the Cold War, and Vietnam.

The jobs came and the jobs were completed. They moved through the northern cities of East Orange, Union, and Elizabeth; then on to work outside New Brunswick and Trenton. For a time they lived in the Pine Barrens while Dexter Senior was foreman on a small project. Then they headed south to Atlantic City. Between the ages of eight and sixteen, Cal attended nine schools in as many years. His formal education could fill an entire postage stamp.

But he became wise in other ways; streetwise, fightwise. Like his departed mother, he did not grow tall, topping out at five feet, eight inches. Nor was he heavy and muscular like his father, but his lean frame packed fearsome stamina and his fists a killer punch. Once he challenged the booth fighter in a fairground sideshow, knocked him flat, and took the twenty-dollar prize.

A man who smelt of cheap aftershave approached his father and suggested the boy attend his gym with a view to becoming a boxer, but they moved on to a new city and a new job.

There was no question of money for vacations, so when school was out, the kid just went to the construction site with his father. There he made coffee, ran errands, did odd jobs. One of the "errands" involved a man who told him there was a vacation job taking envelopes to various addresses across Atlantic City and saying nothing to anyone. So for the summer vacation of 1965, he became a bookie's runner.

Even from the bottom of the social pile, a smart kid can still look. Cal Dexter could sneak unpaying into the local movie house and marvel at the glamour of Hollywood, the huge rolling vistas of the Wild West, the shimmering glitz of the screen musicals, the crazy antics of the Martin and Lewis comedies.

He could see in the television ads perfect houses with stainless-steel kitchens and smiling families in which the parents seemed to love each other. He could look at the gleaming limousines and sports cars on the billboards above the highway.

He had nothing against the hard hats of the construction sites. The men were gruff and crude, but they were kind to him, or most of them were anyway. On site he, too, wore a hard-hat, and the general presumption was that once out of school he would follow his father in the building trades. But he had other ideas. Whatever life he had, he vowed, it would be far from the crash of the trip-hammer and the choking dust of cement mixers.

Then he realised that he had nothing to offer in exchange for that better, more moneyed, more comfortable life. He thought of the movies but assumed all actors were towering men, unaware that most were well under five feet nine. This thought only came to him because some barmaid said she thought he looked a bit like James Dean, but the building workers roared with laughter so he dropped the idea.

Sports and athletics could get a kid out of the street and on the road to fame and fortune, but he had been through all his schools so fast he had never had a chance to make any of the school teams.

Anything involving a formal education, let alone qualifications, was out of the question. That left other kinds of working-class employment-waiter, bellhop, grease monkey, delivery van driver-the list was endless, but for all the prospects most of them offered, he might as well stay with construction. The sheer brutalism and danger of the work made it better paid than most.

Or there was crime. No one raised on the waterfronts or construction sites of New Jersey could possibly be unaware that organised crime, running with the gangs, could lead to a life of big apartments, fast cars, and easy women. The word was, it hardly ever led to jail. He was not Italian American, which would preclude full membership in the Mob aristocracy, but there were others who had made good.

He quit school at seventeen and started the next day at his father's work site, a housing project outside Camden. A month later the driver/operator of the bulldozer fell ill. There was no substitute. It was a skilled job.

Cal looked at the interior of the cab. It made sense. "I could work this," he said.

The foreman was dubious. It would be against all the rules. Any inspector chancing along and his job would be history. On the other hand, the whole team was standing around needing mountains of earth shifted.

"There's an awful lot of levers in there."

"Trust me," said the kid.

It took about twenty minutes to work out which lever did what function. He began to shift dirt. It meant a bonus, but it was still not a career.

In January 1968, he turned eighteen, and the Vietcong launched the Tet Offensive. He was watching television in a bar in Camden. After the newscast came several commercials and then a brief recruitment film made by the army. It mentioned that, if you shaped up, the army would give you an education. The next day he walked into the U.S. Army office in Camden and said, "I want to join the army."

Back then every American youth would, failing some pretty unusual circumstances or voluntary exile, become liable for compulsory draught just after his eighteenth birthday. The desire of just about every teenager and twice that number of parents was to get out of it. The master sergeant behind the desk looked bemused.

"I'm volunteering," Cal said. That caught his attention.

The master sergeant drew a form toward him, keeping eye contact like a ferret that does not want the rabbit to get away. "Well, that's fine, kid. That's a very smart thing to do. Take a word of advice from an old sweat?"

"Sure."

"Make it three years instead of the required two. Good chance of better postings, better career choices." He leaned forward as one imparting a state secret. "With three years, you could even avoid going to Vietnam."

"But I want to go to Vietnam," said the kid in the soiled denims. The master sergeant thought this one over. "Right," he said very slowly. He might have said, "There's no accounting for taste." Instead he said, "Hold up your right handÉ"

Thirty-three years later, the former hard hat pushed four oranges through the juicer, rubbed the towel over his wet head again, and took the pile of papers with the juice through to the sitting room.

There was the local paper, another from Washington, and one from New York, and, in a wrapper, a technical magazine. It was this he went to first.

*Vintage Airplane* is not a big-circulation organ, and in Pennington it could only be obtained by mail order. It catered to those with a passion for classic and World War II aeroplanes. The runner flicked to the small want ads section. He stopped, the juice halfway to his mouth, put down the glass, and read the item again. It said: "AVENGER. Wanted. Serious offer. No price ceiling. Please call."

There was no Pacific War Grumman Avenger, torpedo dive-bomber out there to be bought. They were in museums. Someone had uncovered the contact code. There was a number. It had to be a cell phone. The date was May 13, 2001.

2 The Victim

Ricky Colenso was not born to die at the age of twenty in a Bosnian cesspit. It should have never ended that way. He was born to get a college degree and live out his life in the States, with a wife and children and a decent chance at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It went wrong because he was too kindhearted.

Back in 1970, a young and brilliant mathematician called Adrian Colenso secured tenure as an associate professor of math at Georgetown University. He was twenty-five, remarkably young for the post.

Three years later, he gave a summer seminar in Toronto, Canada. Among those attending, even though she understood little of what he was saying, was a stunningly pretty student called Annie Edmond. She was smitten and arranged a blind date through close friends.

Professor Colenso had never heard of her father, which both puzzled and delighted her. She had already been urgently pursued by half a dozen fortune hunters. In the car back to the hotel, she discovered that apart from an amazing grasp of quantum calculus, he also kissed rather well.

A week later he flew back to Washington, D. C. Miss Edmond was not a young lady to be denied. She left her job, obtained a sinecure at the Canadian Consulate, rented an apartment just off Wisconsin Avenue, and arrived with ten suitcases. Two months later they married. The wedding was a blue-chip affair in Windsor, Ontario, and the couple honeymooned in Caneel Bay, in the U. S. Virgin Islands.

As a present, the bride's father bought the couple a large country house on Foxhall Road, off Nebraska Avenue, in one of the most rustic and therefore sought-after areas of the District. It was set in its own wooded two-acre plot, with pool and tennis court. The bride's allowance would cover its upkeep, and the groom's salary would just about do the rest. They settled down into loving domesticity.

Baby Richard Eric Steven was born in April 1975 and was soon nicknamed Ricky.

He grew up like millions of other American youngsters in a secure and loving parental home, doing all the things that boys do: spending time at summer camps, discovering and exploring the thrills of girls and sports cars, worrying over academic grades and looming examinations.

He was neither brilliant like his father nor dumb. He'd inherited his father's quirky grin and his mother's good looks. Everyone who knew him rated him a nice kid. If someone asked him for help, he would do all he could. But he should never have gone to Bosnia.

He graduated from high school in 1994 and was accepted at Harvard for the following autumn. That winter, watching on television the sadism of ethnic cleansing and the aftermath of the refugees' misery and relief programs in a faraway place called Bosnia, he determined that he wanted to help in some way.

His mother pleaded that he should stay in the States; there was plenty to do right at home if he wanted to exercise his social conscience. But the images he had seen of gutted villages, wailing orphans, and the blankeyed despair of the refugees had affected him deeply, and Bosnia it had to be.

A few calls from his father established that the world agency for him was the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), with a big office in New York. Ricky begged that he be allowed to join for the summer at least and went to New York to enquire about procedures for enlistment.

By early spring of 1995, as the old federation of Yugoslavia tore itself apart, three years of civil war had gutted the province of Bosnia. The UNHCR was there in strength, with a staff of about four hundred "internationals" and several thousand locally recruited staffers. The outfit was headed up by a former British soldier, the full-bearded and restlessly energetic Larry Hollingworth, whom Ricky had seen on television. He wanted to join and help in some way.

The New York office was kind but less than enthusiastic. Amateur offers came in by the sackload, and the personal visits were several dozen a day. This was the United Nations; there were procedures; six months of bureaucracy, enough filledout forms to break the springs of a pickup, and as Ricky would have to be in Cambridge by autumn, probably refusal at the end.

The dejected young man was heading down again in the elevator at the start of the lunch hour when a middleaged secretary gave him a kindly smile. "If you really want to help in there, you'll have to get over to the regional office in Zagreb," she said. "They take people on locally. It's much more relaxed right on the spot."

Croatia had also once been part of the disintegrating Yugoslavia, but it had secured its separation, was now a new state, and many organisations were based in the safety of its capital, Zagreb. One of them was the UNHCR.

Ricky had a long call with his parents, got their grudging permission, and flew New York – Vienna – Zagreb. But the reply was still the same; forms to fill out; only long-term commitments were really sought. Summertime amateurs were a lot of responsibility and made precious little contribution.

"You really should try one of the nongovernmental organisations," suggested the regional controller, trying to be helpful. "They meet right next door at the cafŽ."

The UNHCR might be the world body, but that was far from the end of it. Disaster relief is an entire industry and, for many, a profession. Outside of the United Nations and individual government efforts come the nongovernmental organisations (NGOs). There were over three hundred NGOs involved in Bosnia.

The names of no more than a dozen would ring a bell with the general public: Save the Children (British), Feed the Children (American), Age Concern, War on Want, MŽdecins Sans Frontieres-they were all there. Some were faith based, some secular, and many of the smaller ones had simply come into being for the Bosnian civil war, impelled by TV images beamed endlessly into the West. At the extreme bottom end were single trucks driven across Europe by a couple of sturdy youths who had had a collection round in their local bar. The jumping-off point for the drive on the last leg into the heart of Bosnia was either Zagreb or the Adriatic port of Split.

Ricky found the cafŽ, ordered a coffee and a slivovitz against the bitter March wind outside, and looked around for a possible contact. Two hours later a burly, bearded man, built like a trucker, walked in. He wore a plaid mackinaw and ordered coffee and cognac in a voice Ricky placed as coming from North or South Carolina. He went up and introduced himself. He had struck lucky.

John Slack was a dispatcher and distributor of relief aid for a small American charity called Loaves-n-Fishes, a recently formed offshoot of Salvation Road, which itself was the corporate manifestation in the sinful world of the Reverend Billy Jones, television evangelist and saver of souls (for the appropriate donation) of the fine city of Charleston, South Carolina. He listened to Ricky as one who had heard it all before.

"You drive a truck, kid?"

"Yes." It was not quite true, but he reckoned a big off-road was like a small truck.

"You read a map?"

"Of course."

"And you want a fat salary?"

"No. I have an allowance from my grandpa."

John Slack's eyes twinkled. "You don't want anything? Just to help?"

"That's right."

"OK, you're on. Mine's a small operation. I go and buy relief food, clothes, blankets, mainly in Austria. I truck it down to Zagreb, refuel, and then head into Bosnia. We're based at Travnik. Thousands of refugees down there."

"That suits me fine," said Ricky. "I'll pay all my own costs."

Slack threw back what remained of his coffee and cognac. "Let's go, kid," he said.

The truck was a ten-ton German Hanomag, and Ricky got the hang of it before the border. It took them ten hours to Travnik, spelling each other at the wheel. Around midnight they arrived at the Loaves-n-Fishes compound just outside the town. Slack threw him several blankets.

"Spend the night in the cab," he said. "We'll find you a billet in the morning."

The Loaves-n-Fishes operation was indeed small. It involved a second truck about to leave for the north to collect more supplies with a monosyllabic Swede at the wheel; one small, shared compound wired with chain-link fencing to keep out pilferers, a tiny office made out of a workman's portable cabin, a shed called a warehouse for unloaded but not yet distributed food, and three locally recruited Bosnian staffers. Plus two new black Toyota Landcruisers for small-cargo aid distribution. Slack introduced him all around, and by afternoon Ricky had found lodging with a Bosnian widow in the town. To get to and from the compound, he bought a ramshackle bicycle from the stash he kept in a money belt around his waist. John Slack noticed the belt.

"Mind telling me how much you keep in that pouch?" he asked.

"I brought a thousand dollars," said Ricky trustingly, "just in case of emergencies."

"Shit. Just don't wave it around, or you'll create one. These guys can take the summer off on that."

Ricky promised to be discreet. Postal services, he soon discovered, were nonexistent. Inasmuch as no Bosnian state existed, no Bosnian post office had come into being and the old Yugoslav services had collapsed. John Slack told him any driver running up to Croatia or on to Austria would mail letters and cards for every one. Ricky wrote a quick card from the bundle he had bought at the Vienna airport and thrown into his haversack. This the Swede took north. Mrs. Colenso received it a week later.

Travnik had once been a thriving market town, inhabited by Serbs, Croats, and Bosnian Muslims. Their presence could be discerned by the churches. There was a Catholic one for the departed Croats, an Orthodox one for the also-departed Serbs, and a dozen mosques for the majority, Muslims, the ones still called Bosnians.

With the coming of the civil war, the tri-ethnic community, which had lived in harmony for years, was shattered. As pogrom after pogrom was reported across the land, all interethnic trust evaporated.

The Serbs quit and retreated north of the Vlasic mountain range that dominates Travnik, across the Lasva River valley and into Banja Luka on the other side.

The Croats were also forced out, and most went ten miles down the road to Vitez. Thus three single-ethnic strongholds were formed. Into each poured the refugees of that particular ethnic group.

In the world media, the Serbs were portrayed as the perpetrators of all the pogroms, though they had also seen Serb communities butchered when isolated and in the minority. The reason was that in the old Yugoslavia the Serbs had had dominant control of the army; when the country fell apart, they simply grabbed 90 percent of the heavy weaponry, giving them an insuperable edge.

The Croats, also no slouches when it came to slaughtering non-Croat minorities in their midst, had been granted irresponsibly premature recognition by the German chancellor Helmut Kohl; they could then buy weapons on the world market.

The Bosnians were largely unarmed and kept that way on the advice of European politicians. As a result, they suffered most of the brutalities. In late spring 1995, it would be the Americans who, sick and tired of standing by and doing nothing, would use their military power to give the Serbs a bloody nose and force all parties to the conference table at Dayton, Ohio. The Dayton Agreement would be implemented that coming November. Ricky Colenso would not see it.

By the time Ricky reached Travnik, it had stopped a lot of shells from Serb positions across the mountains. Most of the buildings were shrouded in planks leaning against the walls. If hit by an "incomer," they would be splintered to matchwood but save the house itself. Most windows were missing and had been replaced by plastic sheeting. The brightly painted main mosque had somehow been spared a direct hit. The two largest buildings in town, the gymnasium (high school) and the once famous music school, were stuffed with refugees.

With virtually no access to the surrounding countryside and thus access to growing crops, the refugees, about three times the original population, were dependent on the aid agencies to survive. That was where Loaves-n-Fishes came in, along with a dozen other smaller NGOs in the town.

But the two Landcruisers could be piled with up to five hundred pounds of relief aid and still make it to various outlying villages and hamlets, where the need was even greater than in Travnik centre. Ricky happily agreed to haul the sacks of food and drive the offroads into the mountains to the south.

Four months after he had sat in Georgetown and seen on the television screen the images of human misery that had brought him here, he was happy. He was doing what he came to do. He was touched by the gratitude of the weary peasants and their brown, saucereyed children when he hauled sacks of wheat, maize, powdered milk, and soup concentrates into the centre of an isolated village that had not eaten for a week.

He believed he was paying back in some way for all the benefits and comforts that a benign God, in whom he firmly believed, had bestowed upon him at his birth simply by creating him an American.

He spoke not a word of Serbo-Croat, the common language of all Yugoslavia, nor the Bosnian patois. He had no idea of the local geography, where the mountain roads led, where was safe and where it could be dangerous.

John Slack paired him with one of the local Bosnian staffers, a young man with reasonable, schoollearned English, called Fadil Sulejman, who acted as his guide, interpreter, and navigator.

Each week through April and the first two weeks of May Ricky dispatched either a letter or card to his parents; and with greater or lesser delays, depending on who was heading north for resupplies, they arrived in Georgetown bearing Croatian or Austrian stamps.

It was in the second week of May that Ricky found himself alone and in charge of the entire depot. Lars, the Swede, had had a major engine breakdown on a lonely mountain road in Croatia, north of the border but short of Zagreb. John Slack had taken one of the Landcruisers to help him out and get the truck back into service.

Fadil Sulejman asked Ricky for a favour.

Like thousands in Travnik, Fadil had been forced to flee his home when the tide of war swept toward it. He explained that his family home had been a small farm in an upland valley on the slopes of the Vlasic range. He was desperate to know if there was anything left of it. Had it been torched or spared? Was it still standing? When the war began, his father had buried family treasures under a barn. Were they still there? In a word, could he visit his parental home for the first time in three years?

Ricky happily gave him time off, but that was not the real point. With the tracks up the mountain slick with spring rain, only an off-road would make it. That meant borrowing the Landcruiser.

Ricky was in a quandary. He wanted to help, and he would pay for the gas. But was the mountain safe? Serbian patrols had once ranged over it, using their artillery to pound Travnik below.

That was a year ago, Fadil insisted. The southern slopes, where his parents' farmhouse was situated, were quite safe now. Ricky hesitated and then, moved by Fadil's pleading, wondering what it must be like to lose your home, he agreed. With one proviso: He would come, too.

In fact, in the spring sunshine, it was a very pleasant drive. They left the town behind and went up the main road toward Donji Vakuf for ten miles before turning off to the right.

The road climbed, degenerated into a track, and went on climbing. Beech, ash, and oak in their spring leaf enveloped them. It was, thought Ricky, almost like the Shenandoah where he had once gone camping with a school party. They began to skid on the corners, and he admitted they would never have made it without the four-wheel drive.

The oak gave way to conifers, and at five thousand feet they emerged into an upland valley, invisible from the road far below, a sort of secret hideaway. In the heart of the valley, they found the farmhouse. Its stone smokestack had survived, but the rest had been torched and gutted. Several sagging barns, unfired, still stood beyond the old cattle pens. Ricky glanced at Fadil's face and said, "I am so sorry."

They dismounted by the blackened firestack, and Ricky waited as Fadil walked through the wet ashes, kicking here and there at what was left of the place he was raised in. Ricky followed him as he walked past the cattle pens and the cesspit, still brimming with its nauseous contents, swollen by the rains, to the barns where his father might have buried the family treasures to save them from marauders. That was when they heard the rustle and the whimper.

The two men found them under a wet and smelly tarpaulin. There were six of them, small, cringing, terrified, aged about ten down to four. Four little boys and two girls, the oldest apparently the surrogate mother and leader of the group. Seeing the two men staring at them, they were frozen with fear. Fadil began to talk softly. After a while the girl replied.

"They come from Gorica, a small hamlet about four miles from here along the mountain. I used to know it."

"What happened?"

Fadil talked some more in the local lingo. The girl answered, then burst into tears.

"Men came, Serbs, paramilitaries."

"When?"

"Last night."

"What happened?"

Fadil sighed. "It was a very small hamlet. Four families, twenty adults, maybe twelve children. Gone now, all dead. When the firing started, their parents shouted that they should run away. They escaped in the darkness."

"Orphans? All of them?"

"All of them."

"We must get them into the truck, down to the valley," said the American.

They led the children, each clinging to the hand of the next eldest up the chain, out of the barn into the bright spring sunshine.

At the edge of the trees they saw the men. There were ten of them and two Russian GAZ off-roads in army camouflage. The men were also in cammo-and heavily armed.

Three weeks later, scouring the mailbox but facing yet another day with no card, Mrs. Annie Colenso rang a number in Windsor, Ontario. It answered on the second ring. She recognised the voice of her father's private secretary.

"Hi, Jean. It's Annie. Is my dad there?"

"He surely is, Mrs. Colenso. I'll put you right through."

3 The Magnate

There were ten young pilots in ÔAÕ Flight crew hut and another eight next door in ÔBÕ Flight. Outside on the bright green grass of the airfield, two or three Hurricanes crouched with that distinctive hunchbacked look caused by the bulge behind the cockpit. They were not new, and fabric patches revealed where they had taken combat scars high above France over the previous two weeks.

Inside the huts the mood could not have been in greater contrast to the warm summer sunshine of June 25, 1940, at Coltishall Field, Norfolk, England. The mood of the men of 242 Squadron, Royal Air Force, known simply as the Canadian squadron, was about as low as it had ever been, and with good cause.

Two Four Two had been in combat almost since the first shot was fired on the western front. They had fought the losing battle for France from the eastern border back to the Channel coast. As Hitler's great blitzkrieg machine rolled on, flicking the French army to one side, the pilots trying to stem the flood would find their bases evacuated and moved farther back even while they were airborne. They had to scavenge for food, lodgings, spare parts, and fuel. Anyone who has ever been part of a retreating army will know that the overriding adjective is that of chaos.

Back across the Channel in England, they had fought the second battle, above the sands of Dunkirk, as beneath them the British army sought to save what it could from the rout, grabbing anything that would float to paddle back to England, whose white cliffs were enticingly visible across the flat, calm sea.

By the time the last Tommy was evacuated from that awful beach and the last defenders of the perimeter passed into German captivity for five years, the Canadians were exhausted. They had taken a terrible beating: nine killed, three wounded, three shot down and taken prisoner.

Three weeks later they were still grounded at Coltishall, without spares or tools, all abandoned in France. Their CO, Squadron Leader "Papa" Gobiel, was ill, had been for weeks, and would not return to command. Still, the Brits had promised them a new commander, who was expected any time.

A small open-topped sports car emerged from between the hangars and parked near the two timber crew huts. A man climbed out, with some difficulty. No one went out to greet him. He stumped awkwardly toward ÔAÕ Flight. A few minutes later he was out of there and heading for ÔBÕ hut. The Canadian pilots watched him through the windows, puzzled by the rolling walk with feet apart. The door opened and he appeared in the aperture. His shoulders revealed his rank of squadron leader. No one stood up.

"Who's in charge here?" he demanded angrily.

A chunky Canuck hauled himself upright a few feet from where Steve Edmond sprawled in a chair and surveyed the newcomer through a blue haze. "I guess I am," said Stan Turner.

It was early days. Stan Turner already had two confirmed kills to his credit but would go on to score a total of fourteen and a hatful of medals.

The British officer with the angry blue eyes turned on his heel and lurched away toward a parked Hurricane. The Canadians drifted out of their huts to observe.

"I do not believe what I am watching," muttered Johnny Latta to Steve Edmond. "The bastards have sent us a CO with no bloody legs."

It was true. The newcomer was stumping around on two prosthetics. He hauled himself into the cockpit of the Hurricane, punched the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine into life, turned into the wind, and took off. For half an hour he threw the fighter into every known acrobatic manoeuvre in the textbook and a few that were not yet there.

He was good in part because he had been an acrobatic ace before losing both legs in a crash long before the war and partly just because he had no legs. When a fighter pilot makes a tight turn or pulls out of a power dive, both ploys being vital in air combat, he puts heavy G forces on his own body. The effect is to drive blood from the upper body downward, until blackout occurs. Because this pilot had no legs, the blood had to stay in the upper body, nearer the brain, and his squadron would learn that he could pull tighter turns than they could. Eventually he landed the Hurricane, climbed out, and stumped toward the silent Canucks.

"My name is Douglas Bader," he told them, "and we are going to become the best bloody squadron in the whole bloody air force."

He was as good as his word. With the Battle of France lost and the battle of the Dunkirk beaches a damn close-run thing, the big one was coming; Hitler had been promised by his Luftwaffe chief Goering mastery of the skies to enable the invasion of Britain to succeed. The Battle of Britain was the struggle for those skies. By the time it was over, the Canadians of 242, always led into combat by their legless CO, had established the best kill-to-loss ratio of all.

By late autumn, the German Luftwaffe had had enough and withdrew back into France. Hitler snapped his anger at Goering and turned his attention east to Russia.

In three battles, France, Dunkirk, and Britain, spread over only six months of the summer of '40, the Canadians had racked up eighty-eight confirmed kills, sixty-seven in the Battle of Britain alone. But they had lost seventeen pilots, and all but three were Canucks.

Fifty-five years later Steve Edmond rose from his office desk and crossed once again, as he had done so many times down the years, to the photo on the wall. It did not contain all the men he had flown with; some had been dead before others arrived. But it showed the seventeen Canadians at Duxford one hot and cloudless day in late August at the height of the battle.

Almost all gone. Most of them KIA during the war. The faces of boys from nineteen to twenty-two stared out, vital, cheerful, expectant, on the threshold of life, yet mostly never destined to see it.

He peered closer. Benzie, flying on his wingtip, shot down and killed over the Thames estuary, September 7th, two weeks after the photo. Solanders, the boy from Newfoundland, dead the next day.

Johnny Latta and Willie McKnight, standing side by side, would die wingtip to wingtip somewhere over the Bay of Biscay in January 1941.

"You were the best of us all, Willie," murmured the old man. McKnight was the first ace and double ace, the "natural"; nine confirmed kills in his first seventeen days of combat, twenty-one air victories when he died ten months after his first mission, aged just twenty-one.

Steve Edmond had survived to become extremely rich, certainly the biggest mining magnate in Ontario. But all through the years he had kept the photo on the wall, when he lived in a shack with a pick for company, when he made his first million dollars, when (especially when) *Forbes* magazine pronounced him a billionaire.

He kept it to remind him of the terrible fragility of that thing we call life. Often, looking back, he wondered how he had survived. Shot down the first time, he had been in hospital when 242 Squadron left in December 1941 for the Far East. When he was fit again, he was posted to Training Command.

Chafing at the bit, bombarding higher authority with requests to fly combat again, he had finally been granted his wish in time for the Normandy landings, flying the new Typhoon ground-attack fighterbomber, very fast and very powerful, a fearsome tank killer.

The second time he was shot down was near Remagen as the Americans stormed across the Rhine. He was among a dozen British Typhoons giving them cover in the advance. A direct hit to the engine gave him a few seconds to gain height, lose the canopy, and throw himself out of the doomed aeroplane before it blew up.

The jump was low and the landing hard, breaking both his legs. He lay in a daze of pain in the snow, dimly aware of round steel helmets running toward him, more keenly aware that the Germans had a particular loathing of Typhoon pilots, and the people he had been blowing apart were an SS panzer division, not known for their tolerance.

A muffled figure stopped and stared down at him. A voice said, "Well, lookee here." He let out his pent-up breath in relief. Few of Adolf's finest spoke with a Mississippi drawl.

The Americans got him back across the Rhine dazed with morphine, and he was flown home to England. When the legs were properly set, he was judged to be blocking up a bed needed for fresh incomers from the front, so he was sent to a convalescent home on the South Coast, there to hobble around until repatriation to Canada.

He enjoyed Dilbury Manor, a rambling Tudor pile steeped in history, with lawns like the green baize of a pool table and some pretty nurses. He was twenty-five that spring and carried the rank of wing commander.

Rooms were allocated at one per two officers, but it was a week before his roommate arrived. He was about the same age, American, and wore no uniform. His left arm and shoulder had been smashed up in a gunfight in northern Italy. That meant covert ops, behind enemy lines, special forces.

"Hi," said the newcomer, "Peter Lucas. You play chess?"

Steve Edmond had come out of the harsh mining camps of Ontario, joining the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1938 to escape the unemployment of the mining industry when the world had no use for its nickel. Later that nickel would be part of every aircraft engine that kept him aloft. Lucas had come from the New England top social drawer, endowed with every advantage from the day of his birth.

The two young men were sitting on the lawn with a chess table between them when the radio through the dining hall window, speaking in the impossibly posh accent of the BBC newsreaders in those days, announced that Adm. Karl Doenitz had just signed the instruments of unconditional surrender; it was May 8, 1945.

The war in Europe was over. The American and Canadian sat and remembered all the friends who would never go home, and each would later recall it was the last time he cried in public.

A week later they parted and returned to their respective countries. But tley formed a friendship in that convalescent home by the English coast that would last for life.

It was a different Canada when Steve Edmond came home, and he was a different man, a decorated war hero returning to a booming economy. His father had been a miner and his grandfather before that. The Canadians had been mining copper and nickel around Sudbury since 1885, and the Edmonds had been part of the action for most of that time.

Steve Edmond found he was owed a fat wedge of pay by the air force and used it to put himself through college, the first of his family to do so. Not unnaturally he took mineral engineering as his discipline and threw a course in metallurgy into the pot as well. He was near the top of his class in both in 1948 and was snapped up by Inco, the International Nickel Company and principal employer in the Sudbury Basin.

Formed in 1902, Inco had helped make Canada the primary supplier of nickel to the world, and the company's core was the huge deposit outside Sudbury, Ontario. Edmond joined as a trainee mine manager. Steve would have remained a mine manager living in a comfortable but run-of-the-mill framehouse in a Sudbury suburb but for the restless mind that was always telling him, "there must be a better way."

College had taught him that the basic ore of nickel, which is pentlandite, is also a host to other elements: platinum, palladium, iridium, ruthenium, rhodium, tellurium, selenium, cobalt, and silver and gold also occur in pentlandite. Edmond began to study the rare earth metals, their uses, and the possible market for them. No one else bothered. This was because the percentages were so small their extraction was uneconomical, so they ended up in the slag heaps. Very few knew what rare earth metals were.

Almost all great fortunes are based upon one genius idea and the guts to go with it. Hard work and luck also help. Steve Edmond's idea was to go back to the laboratory when the other young mine managers were helping with the barley harvest by drinking it. What he came up with was a process now known as "pressure acid leaching." Basically, it involved dissolving the tiny deposits of rare metals out of the slag, then reconstituting them back to metal.

Had he taken this to Inco, he would have been given a pat on the back, maybe even a slap-up dinner. Instead, he resigned his post and booked a third-class train seat to Toronto and the Bureau of Patents. He was thirty and on his way.

He borrowed, of course, but not too much, because what he had his eye on did not cost much. When every excavation of pentlandite ore became exhausted, or at least exploited until it became uneconomical to go on, the mining companies left behind huge slag heaps called "tailing dams." The tailings were the rubbish; no one wanted them. Steve Edmond did. He bought them for pennies.

He founded Edmond Metals, Emsknown on the Toronto Exchange simply as Emmys-and the price went up. He never sold out, despite the blandishments, never took the gambles proposed to him by banks and financial advisers. That way he avoided the hypes, the bubbles, and the crashes. By forty, he was a multimillionaire; and by sixty-five, in 1985, he had the elusive mantle of billionaire.

He did not flaunt it, never forgot where he came from, gave much to charity, avoided politics while remaining affable to them all, and was known as a good family man.

Over the years there were indeed a few fools who, taking the mild-mannered exterior for the whole man, sought to cheat, lie, or steal. They discovered, often too late from their point of view, that there was as much steel in Steve Edmond as in any aeroplane engine he had ever sat behind.

He married once, in 1949, just before his big discovery. He and Fay were a love match, and it stayed that way until motor neuron disease took her away in 1994. There was one child, their daughter, Annie, born in 1950.

In his old age, Steve Edmond doted on her as always, approved mightily of Prof. Adrian Colenso, the Georgetown University academic she had married at twenty-two, and loved to bits his only grandson, Ricky, then aged twenty.

Most of the time Steve Edmond was a contented man with every right to be so, but there were days when he felt tetchy, ill at ease. Then he would cross the floor of his penthouse office suite high above the city of Windsor, Ontario, and stare again at the young faces in the photo, faces from far away and long ago.

The internal phone rang. He walked back to his desk. "Yes, Jean."

"It's Mrs. Colenso on the line."

"Fine. Put her through." He leaned back in the padded swivel chair as the connection was made. "Hi, darling. How are you?"

The smile dropped from his face as he listened. He came forward in the chair until he was leaning on the desk.

"What do you mean missing?ÉHave you tried phoning?ÉBosnia? No linesÉAnnie, you know kids nowadays don't writeÉmaybe it's stuck in the mail over thereÉyes, I accept he promised faithfullyÉalright, leave it to me. Who was he working for?"

He took a pen and pad and wrote what she dictated. When he put the phone down he thought for a moment then called his chief executive officer. "Among all those young Turks you employ, do you have anyone who understands researching on the Internet?" he asked. The executive was stunned.

"Of course. Scores."

"I want the name and private number of the head of an American charity called Loaves-n-Fishes. No, just that. And I need it fast."

He had it in ten minutes. An hour later he came off a long call from a gleaming building in Charleston, South Carolina, headquarters of one of those television evangelists, the sort he despised, raking in huge donations from the gullible against guarantees of salvation.

Loaves-n-Fishes was the pompadoured savior's charity arm, which appealed for funds for the pitiful refugees of Bosnia, then gripped by a vicious civil war. How much of the donated dollars went to the wretched and how much to the reverend's fleet of limousines was anyone's guess. But if Ricky Colenso had been working as a volunteer for Loaves-n-Fishes in Bosnia, the voice from Charleston informed him, he would have been at their distribution centre at a place called Travnik.

"Jean, do you remember a couple of years back a man in Toronto lost a couple of old masters in a burglary at his country home? It was in the papers. Then they reappeared. Someone at the club said he used a very discreet agency to track them down and get them back. I need his name. Call me back."

This was definitely not on the internet, but there were other nets. Jean Searle, his private secretary of many years, used the secretaries' net and one of her friends was secretary to the chief of police.

"Rubinstein? Fine. Get me Mr. Rubinstein in Toronto or wherever."

That took half an hour. The art collector was found visiting the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam to stare, once again, at Rembrandt's *The Night Watch*. He was taken from his dinner table, given the six-hour time difference, but he was helpful.

"Jean," said Steve Edmond when he had finished, "call the airport. Get the Grumman ready. Now. I want to go to London. No, the English one. By sunrise."

4 The Soldier

Cal Dexter had hardly finished taking the oath of allegiance when he was on his way to boot camp for basic training. He did not have far to go; Fort Dix was right there in New Jersey.

In the spring of 1968, tens of thousands of young Americans were pouring into the army, 15 percent of them unwilling draftees. The drill sergeants could not have cared less. Their job was to turn this mass of shorn-to-the-skull young male humanity into something resembling soldiers before passing them on, just three months later, to their next posting.

Where they came from, who their fathers were, what their level of education, was of glorious irrelevance. Boot camp was the greatest leveller of them all, barring death. That would come later-for some.

Dexter was a natural rebel, but he was also more streetwise than most. The chow was basic, but it was better than he had had on many construction sites, so he wolfed it down.

Unlike the rich boys, he had no problem with dormitory sleeping, open-doored ablutions, or the requirement to keep all his gear very, very neatly in one small locker. Most useful of all, he had never had anyone clear up after him, so he expected nothing of the sort in camp. Some others, accustomed to being waited upon, spent a lot of time jogging around the parade square or doing pushups under the eyes of a displeased sergeant.

That said, Dexter could see no point in most of the rules and rituals, but he was smart enough not to say so. And he absolutely could not see why sergeants were always right and he was always wrong.

The benefit of signing on voluntarily for three years became plain very quickly. The corporals and sergeants, who were the nearest thing to God in basic training camp, learned of his status without delay and eased up on him. He was, after all, close to being "one of them." Mama-spoiled rich boys had it worst.

Two weeks in, he had his first assessment panel. That involved appearing before one of those almost invisible creatures, an officer. In this case, a major. "Any special skills?" asked the major for what was probably the ten thousandth time.

"I can drive bulldozers, sir," said Dexter.

The major studied his forms and looked up.

"When was this?"

"Last year, sir. Between leaving school and signing on."

"Your papers say you are just eighteen. That must have been when you were seventeen."

"Yes, sir."

"That's illegal."

"Lordy, sir, I'm sorry about that. I had no idea."

Beside him he could feel the ramrod-stiff corporal trying to keep a straight face. But the major's problem was solved.

"I guess it's engineering for you, soldier. Any objections?"

"No, sir."

Very few said goodbye at Fort Dix with tears in their eyes. Boot camp is not a vacation. But they did come out, most of them, with a straight back, square shoulders, a buzzcut head, the uniform of a private soldier, a knapsack, and a travel pass to their next posting. In Dexter's case it was Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, for Advanced Individual Training.

That was basic engineering; not just driving a bulldozer, but driving anything with wheels or tracks, engine repair, vehicle maintenance, and had there been time, fifty other courses besides. Another three months later, he achieved his Military Occupational Speciality certificate and was posted to Fort Knox, Kentucky.

Most of the world only knows Fort Knox as the U. S. Federal Reserve's gold depository, fantasy Mecca of every daydreaming bank robber and subject of numerous books and films. But it is also a huge army base and home of the Fort Knox Armour School. On any base that size there is always some building going on or tank pits to be dug or a ditch to be filled in. Cal Dexter spent six months as one of the post engineers at Fort Knox before being summoned to the Command Office.

He had just celebrated his nineteenth birthday; he carried the rank of private first class. The commanding officer looked grim, as one about to impart bereavement. Cal thought something might have happened to his father.

"It's Vietnam," said the major.

"Great," said the PFC. The major, who would happily spend the rest of his career in his anonymous marital home on the base in Kentucky, blinked several times.

"Well, that's all right then," he said.

Two weeks later Cal Dexter packed his knapsack, said goodbye to the buddies he had made on the post, and boarded the bus sent to pick up a dozen transferees. A week later he walked down the ramp of a C-5 Galaxy and into the sweltering, sticky heat of Saigon Airport, military side.

Coming out of the airport, he was riding up front with the bus driver. "What do you do?" asked the corporal, as he swung the troop bus between the hangars.

"Drive bulldozers," said Dexter.

"Well, I guess you'll be an REMF like the rest of us around here."

"REMF?" queried Dexter. He had never heard the word before.

"Rear-echelon mother-f****r,' supplied the corporal.

Dexter was getting his first taste of the Vietnam status ladder. Nine-tenths of the GIs who went to Vietnam never saw a Vietcong, never fired a shot in anger, and rarely even heard one fired. The fifty thousand names of the dead on the memorial wall by the Reflecting Pool in Washington, D.C., with few exceptions, come from the other 10 percent. Even with a second army of Vietnamese cooks, launderers, and bottle washers, it still took nine GIs in the rear to keep one out in the jungle trying to win the war.

"Where's your posting?" asked the corporal.

"First Engineer Battalion, Big Red One."

The driver gave a squeak like a disturbed fruit bat. "Sorreee," he said. "Spoke too soon. That's Lai Khe, edge of the Iron Triangle. Rather you than me, buddy."

"It's bad?"

"Dante's vision of hell, pal."

Dexter had never heard of Dante and assumed he was in a different unit. He shrugged.

There was indeed a road from Saigon to Lai Khe; it was Highway 13 via Phu Cuong, up the eastern edge of the Triangle to Ben Cat, and then on another fifteen miles. But it was unwise to take it unless there was an armoured escort, and even then never at night. This was all heavily forested country and was teeming with Vietcong ambushes. When Cal Dexter arrived inside the huge defended perimeter that housed the First Infantry Division, the Big Red One, it was by helicopter. Throwing his knapsack once again over his shoulder, he asked directions for the headquarters of the First Engineer Battalion.

On the way he passed the vehicle park and saw something that took his breath away. Accosting a passing GI, he asked, "What the hell is that?"

"Hogjaw," said the soldier laconically. "For ground clearing."

Along with the Twenty-fifth "Tropic Lightning" Infantry Division out of Hawaii, the Big Red One tried to cope with what purported to be the most dangerous area of the whole peninsula, the Iron Triangle. So thick was the vegetation, so impenetrable for the invader, and such a protective labyrinth for the guerrilla, that the only way to try to level the playing field was to clear the jungle.

To do this, two awesome machines had been developed. One was the tankdozer, an M-48 medium tank with a bulldozer blade fitted up front. With the blade down, the tank did the pushing while the armoured turret protected the crew inside. But much bigger was the Rome Plough or hogjaw.

This was a terrible brute if you happened to be a shrub or a tree or a rock. A sixty-ton tracked vehicle, the D7E was fitted with a specially forged, curving blade, whose protruding, hardened-steel lower edge could splinter a tree with a three-foot trunk.

The solitary driver/operator sat in his cabin way up top, protected by a "headache bar" above him to stop falling debris from crushing him, and with an armoured cab to fend off sniper bullets or guerrilla attack.

The " Rome " in the name had nothing to do with the capital of Italy, but came from Rome, Georgia, where the brute was made. And the point of the Rome Plough was to make any piece of territory that had received its undivided attention unusable as a sanctuary for Vietcong ever again.

Dexter walked to the battalion office, threw up a salute, and introduced himself. "Morning, sir. PFC Calvin Dexter reporting for duty, sir. I'm your new hogjaw operator. Sir."

The lieutenant behind the desk sighed wearily. He was nearing the end of his one-year tour. He had flatly refused to extend. He loathed the country, the invisible but lethal Vietcong, the heat, the damp, the mosquitoes, and the fact that once again he had a prickly heat rash enveloping his private parts and rear end. The last thing he needed with the temperature nudging ninety was a joker.

But Cal Dexter was a tenacious young man. He badgered and pestered. Two weeks after arriving on post, he had his Rome Plough. The first time he took it out, a more experienced driver tried to offer him some advice. He listened, climbed high into the cab, and drove it on a combined operation with infantry support all day. He handled the towering machine his way, differently and better.

He was watched with increasing frequency by a lieutenant, also an engineer, but who seemed to have no duties to detain him, a quiet young man who said little but observed much.

"He's tough," said the officer to himself a week later. "He's cocky, he's a loner, and he's talented. Let's see if he chickens out easily."

There was no reason for the big machine gunner to hassle the much smaller plough driver, but he just did. The third time he messed with the PFC from New Jersey, it came to blows, but not out in the open. Against the rules. But there was a patch of open ground behind the mess hall. It was agreed they would sort out their differences, bareknuckled, after dark.

They met by the light of headlamps, with a hundred fellow soldiers in a circle, taking bets mostly against the smaller man. The general presumption was that they would witness a repeat of the slugging match between George Kennedy and Paul Newman in *Cool Hand Luke*. They were wrong.

No one mentioned Queensberry Rules so the smaller man walked straight up to the gunner, slipped beneath the first headremoving swing, and kicked him hard under the kneecap. Circling his one-legged opponent, the dozer driver landed two kidney punches and a knee in the groin. When the big man's head came down to his level, he drove the middle knuckle of his right hand into the gunner's left temple, and for the gunner, the lights went out.

"You don't fight fair," said the stakeholder, when Dexter held out his hand for his winnings.

"No, and I don't lose either," he said. Out beyond the ring of lights the officer nodded at the two MPs with him, and they moved in to make their arrest. Later the limping gunner got his promised twenty dollars.

Since Dexter declined to name his opponent, thirty days in the cooler was the penalty. He slept perfectly well on the unpadded slab in the cell and was still asleep when someone started running a metal spoon up and down the bars. It was dawn.

"On your feet, soldier," said a voice. Dexter came awake, slid off the slab, and stood to attention. The man had a lieutenant's single silver bar on his collar. "Thirty days in here is really boring," said the officer.

"I'll survive, sir," said the ex-PFC, now busted back to private.

"Or you could walk now."

"I think there has to be a catch to that, sir."

"Oh, there is. You leave behind the big, jerkoff toys and come and join my outfit. Then we find out if you're as tough as you think you are."

"And your outfit, sir?"

"They call me Rat Six. Shall we go?"

The officer signed the prisoner out, and they adjourned for breakfast to the smallest and most exclusive mess hall in the whole First Division. No one was allowed in without permission, and there were at that time only fourteen members. Dexter made fifteen, but the number would go down to thirteen in a week when two more were killed.

There was a weird emblem on the door of the "hootch" as they called their tiny club. It showed an upright rodent with snarling face, phallic tongue, a pistol in one hand, and a bottle of liquor in the other. Dexter had joined the Tunnel Rats.

For six years, in a constantly shifting sequence of men, the Tunnel Rats did the dirtiest, deadliest, and by far the scariest job in the Vietnam War; yet so secret were their doings and so few their number that most people today, even Americans, have hardly or never heard of them.

There were probably not more than 350 over the period, a small unit among the engineers of the Big Red One, an equal unit drawn from the Tropic Lightning Twenty-fifth Division. A hundred never came home at all. About a further hundred were dragged, screaming, nerves gone, from their combat zone and consigned to trauma therapy, never to fight again. The rest went back to the States and, being by nature taciturn, laconic loners, seldom mentioned what they had done.

Even the United States, not normally shy about its war heroes, cast no medals and raised no plaques. They came from nowhere, did what they did because it had to be done, and went back to oblivion. And their story all started because of a sergeant's tired ass.

The United States was not the first invader of Vietnam, nor the last. Before the Americans were the French, who colonised the three provinces of Tonkin (north), Annam (center), and Cochin China (south) into their empire, along with Laos and Cambodia.

But the invading Japanese ousted the French in 1942, and after Japan 's defeat in 1945, the Vietnamese believed that at last they would be united and free of foreign domination. The French had other ideas and came back. The leading independence fighter (there were others at first) was the Communist Ho Chi Minh. He formed the Vietminh resistance army and the Vietnamese went back to the jungle to fight on, and on and on, for as long as it took.

A stronghold of resistance was the heavily forested farming zone northwest of Saigon, running up to the Cambodian border. The French accorded it their special attention (as would the Americans later) with punitive expedition after expedition. To seek sanctuary the local farmers did not flee; they dug.

They had no technology, just their antlike capacity for hard work, their patience, their local knowledge, and their cunning. They also had mattocks, shovels, and palmweave baskets. How many million tons of dirt they shifted will never be calculated. But dig and shift, they did. By the time the French left after their 1954 defcaL the whole of the Triangle was a warren of shafts and tunnels. And no one knew about them.

The Americans came, propping up a regime the Vietnamese regarded as puppets of yet another colonial power. They went back to the jungle and back to guerrilla warfare. And they resumed digging. By 1964, they had two hundred miles of tunnels, chambers, passages, and hideouts-and all underground.

The complexity of the tunnel system, when the Americans finally began to comprehend what was down there, took one's breath away. The shafts were so disguised as to be invisible at a few inches' range at the level of the jungle floor. Down below were up to five levels of galleries, the lowest at fifty feet, linked by narrow, twisting passages that only a Vietnamese, or a small, wiry Caucasoid, could crawl through.

The levels were linked by trap doors, some going up, others heading down. These, too, were camouflaged to look like blank end-of-tunnel walls. There were stores, assembly caverns, dormitories, repair shops, eating halls, and even hospitals. By 1966, a full combat brigade could hide down there, but until the Tet Offensive that number was never needed.

Penetration by an aggressor was discouraged. If a vertical shaft was discovered, there could well be a cunning booby trap at the bottom. Firing down the tunnels served no purpose; they changed direction every few yards so a bullet would go straight into the end wall.

Dynamiting did not work; there were scores of alternate galleries within the pitchblack maze down there, but only a local would know them. Gas did not work; they were fitted with water seals, like the U-bend in a lavatory pipe.

The network ran under the jungle from the suburbs of Saigon almost to the Cambodian border. There were various other networks elsewhere but nothing like the tunnels of Cu Chi, named after the nearest town.

After a monsoon, the laterite clay was pliable, easy to dig, scrape back, and drag away in baskets. Dry, it set like concrete.

After the passing of Kennedy, Americans arrived in really significant numbers and no longer as instructors but for combat, starting in the spring of 1964. They had the numbers, the weapons, the machines, the firepower-and they hit nothing. They hit nothing because they found nothing, just an occasional VC corpse if they got lucky. But they took casualties, and the body count began to mount.

At first it was convenient to presume the VC were peasants by day, lost among the black pyjama-clad millions, switching to guerrillas at night. But why so many casualties by day and no one to fire back at? In January 1966, the Big Red One decided to raze the Iron Triangle once and for all. It was Operation Crimp.

They started at one end, fanned out, and moved forward. They had enough ammunition to wipe out Indochina. They reached the other end and had found no one. From behind the moving line, sniper fire started and the GIs took five fatalities. Whoever was firing had only old, bolt-action Soviet carbines, but a bullet through the heart is still a bullet through the heart.

The GIs turned back and went over the same ground. Nothing. No enemy. They took more fatalities, always in the back. They discovered a few foxholes, a brace of air-raid shelters, empty, offering no cover. More sniper fire but no running figures in black to fire back at.

On day four, Sgt. Stewart Green, massively fed up as were his comrades around him, had sat down for a rest. In two seconds he was up, clutching his butt. Fire ants, scorpions, snakes, Vietnam had them all. He was convinced he had been stung or bitten. But it was a nail head. The nail was part of a frame, and the frame was the hidden door to a shaft that went straight down into blackness. The U. S. Army had discovered where the snipers were going. They had been marching over their heads for two years.

There was no way of fighting the Vietcong living and hiding down there in the darkness by remote control. The society that in three years would send two men to walk on the moon had no technology for the tunnels of Cu Chi. There was only one way to take the fight to the invisible enemy.

Someone had to strip down to thin cotton pants and with pistol, knife, and torch, go down into that pitchblack, stinking, airless, unknown, unmapped, booby-trapped, deadly, hideously claustrophobic labyrinth of narrow passages with no known exit and kill the waiting Vietcong in their own lair.

A few men were found, a special type of man. Big, burly men were of no use. The 95 percent who feel claustrophobic were no use. Loud mouths, exhibitionists, look-at-me's were no use. The ones who did it were quiet, soft-spoken, self-effacing, self-contained personalities, often loners in their own units. They had to be very cool, even cold, possessed of icy nerves, and almost immune to panic, the real enemy below ground.

Army bureaucracy, never afraid to use ten words where two will do, called them "Tunnel Exploration Personnel." They called themselves the Tunnel Rats.

By the time Cal Dexter reached Vietnam, they had been in existence for three years, the only unit whose Purple Heart ratio was 100 percent.

The commanding officer of the moment was known as Rat Six. Everyone else had a different number. Once joined, they kept to themselves and everyone regarded them with a kind of awe, as men will be awkward in the company of one sentenced to die.

Rat Six had been right in his gut guess. The tough little kid from the construction sites of New Jersey with his deadly fists and feet, Paul Newman eyes, and steel nerves, was a natural.

He took him down into the tunnels of Cu Chi and within an hour realised that the recruit was the better fighter. They became partners underground where there were no ranks and no "sirs," and for nearly two tours they fought and killed down in the darkness until Henry Kissinger met Le Duc Tho and agreed America would quit Vietnam. After that there was no point.

To the rest of the Big Red One, the pair became a legend, spoken of in whispers. The officer was "the Badger" and the newly promoted sergeant was "the Mole."

5 The Tunnel Rat

In the army, a mere six years in age difference between two young men can seem like a generation. The older man appears almost a father figure. Thus it was with the Badger and the Mole. At twenty-five, the officer was six years older. More, he came from a different social background with a far better education.

His parents were professional people. After high school he had spent a year touring Europe, seeing ancient Greece and Rome, historical Italy, Germany, France, and Britain.

He had spent four years in college getting his degree in civil and mechanical engineering before facing the draught. He, too, had opted for the three-year commission and gone straight to OCS at Fort Belvoir, Virginia.

Fort Belvoir was then churning out junior officers at a hundred a month. Nine months after entering, the Badger had emerged as a second lieutenant, rising to first when he shipped to Vietnam to join the First Engineer Battalion of the Big Red One. He, too, had been headhunted for the Tunnel Rats, and in view of his rank, quickly became Rat Six when his predecessor left for home. He had nine months of his required one-year Vietnam tour to complete, two months less than Dexter did.

But within a month it was clear that once the two men went into the tunnels, their roles were reversed. The Badger deferred to the Mole, accepting that the young man had a sense for danger, the silent menace around the next corner, the smell of a booby trap, that no college degree could match and which might keep them both alive.

Before either man had reached Vietnam, the U. S. High Command had realised that trying to blow the tunnel system to smithereens was a waste of time. The dried laterite was too hard, the complex too extensive. The continuous switching of the tunnel direction meant explosive forces could only reach so far and not far enough.

Attempts had been made to drown the tunnels with flooding, but the water just soaked through the tunnel floors. Due to the water traps, gas failed as well. The decision was made that the only way to bring the enemy to battle was to go down there and try to find the headquarters network of the entire Vietcong War Zone C.

This, it was believed, was down there somewhere, between the southern tip of the Iron Triangle at the junction of the Saigon and Thi Tinh Rivers and the Boi Loi Woods at the Cambodian end. To find that headquarters, to wipe out the senior cadres, to grab the huge harvest of intelligence that must be down there-that was the aim and, if it could be achieved, a prize beyond rubies.

In fact, the headquarters was under the Ho Bo Woods, upcountry by the bank of the Saigon River, and was never found. But every time the tankdozers or the Rome Ploughs uncovered another tunnel entrance, the Rats went down into hell to keep looking.

The entrances were always vertical, and that created the first danger. To go down feet first was to expose the lower half of the body to any VC waiting in the side tunnel. He would be happy to drive a needle-pointed bamboo spear deep into the groin or entrails of the dangling GI before scooting backward into the darkness. By the time the dying American had been hauled back up, with the haft of the spear scraping the walls and the venompoisoned tip ripping at his bowels, his chances of survival were minimal.

To go down head first meant risking the spear, bayonet, or pointblank bullet through the base of the throat.

The safest way seemed to be to descend slowly until the last five feet, then drop fast and fire at the slightest movement inside the tunnel. But the base of the shaft might be twigs and leaves, hiding a pit with punji sticks. These were embedded bamboo spears, also venom-tipped, that would drive straight through the sole of a combat boot, through the foot, and out the instep. Being fishhook carved and barbed, they could hardly be withdrawn. Few survived them either.

Once inside the tunnel and crawling forward, the danger might be the VC waiting around the next corner but more likely the booby traps. These were various, of great cunning, and had to be disarmed before progress could be made.

Some horrors needed no Vietcong at all. The nectar bat and black-bearded tomb bat were both cave dwellers and roosted through the daylight in the tunnels until disturbed. So did the giant crab spider, so dense on the walls that the wall itself appeared to be shimmering with movement. Even more numerous were the fire ants.

None of these were lethal; that honour went to the bamboo viper, whose bite meant death in thirty minutes. The trap was usually a yard of bamboo embedded in the roof, jutting downward at an angle and emerging by no more than an inch.

The snake was inside the tube, head downward, trapped and enraged, its escape blocked by a plug of kapok at the lower end. Threaded through this was a length of fishing line, heading through a hole in a peg in the wall on one side, thence to a peg across the tunnel. If the crawling GI touched the line, it would jerk the plug out of the bamboo above him and the viper would tumble onto the back of his neck.

And there were the rats, real rats. In the tunnels they had discovered their private heaven and bred furiously. Just as the GIs would never leave a wounded man or even a corpse in the tunnels, the Vietcong hated to leave one of their casualties up above for the Americans to find and add to the cherished "body count." Dead VC were brought below and entombed in the walls in a foetal position before being plastered over with wet clay.

But a skim of clay will not stop a rat. They had their endless food source and grew to the size of cats. Yet the Vietcong lived down there for weeks or even months on end, challenging the Americans to come into their domain, find them, and fight them.

Those who did it and survived became accustomed to the stench as well as to the hideous life-forms. It was always hot, sticky, cramped, and pitch dark. And it stank. The VC had to perform their bodily functions in earthenware jars; when full, these were buried in the floors and capped with a plug of clay. But the rats scratched them open.

Coming from the most heavily armed country on earth, the GIs who became Tunnel Rats had to cast all technology aside and return to primal man. One commando knife, one handgun, one flashlight, a spare magazine, and two spare batteries were all that would fit down there. Occasionally a hand grenade would be used, but these were dangerous, sometimes lethal for the thrower. In tiny spaces, the boom could shatter eardrums, but worse, the explosion would suck out all the oxygen for hundreds of feet. A man could die before more could filter in from outside.

For a Tunnel Rat to use his pistol or flashlight was to give his position away, to announce his coming, never knowing who crouched in the darkness up ahead, silent and waiting. In this sense, the VC always had the edge. They only had to stay silent and wait for the man crawling toward them.

Most nerveracking of all, and the source of most deaths, was the task of penetrating the trap doors that led from level to level, usually downward.

Often a tunnel would come to a dead end. Or was it a dead end? If so, why dig it in the first place? In the dark, with fingertips feeling nothing ahead but laterite wall, no side tunnel to left or right, the Tunnel Rat had to use his flashlight. This would usually reveal, skillfully camouflaged and easily missable, a trap door in the wall, floor, or ceiling. Either the mission was aborted, or the door had to be opened.

But who waited on the other side? If the GI's head went through first and there was a Vietcong waiting, the American's life would end with a throat cut from side to side or the lethal bite of a garroting noose of thin wire. If he dropped downward feet first, it could be the spear through the belly. Then he would die in agony, his screaming torso in one level, ruined lower body in the next one down.

Dexter had the armourers prepare him small, tangerine-sized grenades with a reduced explosive charge from the standard issue but with more ball bearings. Twice in his first six months he lifted a trap door, tossed in a grenade with a three-second fuse and pulled the door back down. When he opened the trap door a second time and went through with his flashlight on, the next chamber was a charnel house of torn bodies.

The complexes were protected from gas attack by water traps. The crawling Tunnel Rat would find a pool of rank water in front of him. That meant the tunnel continued on the other side of the water.

The only way through was to roll onto one's back, slide in upside down, and pull your body along with your fingertips scrabbling at the roof. The hope was that the water ended before the breath in your lungs did. Otherwise, the Tunnel Rat could die fifty feet under, drowned, upside down, in blackness. The way to survive was to rely on a partner.

Before entering the water, the point man would tie a lanyard to his feet and pass it back to his partner. If he did not give a Dext reassuring tug on it within ninety seconds of entering the water confirming that he had found air on the other side of the trap, his buddy had to pull him back without delay because he would be dying down there.

Through all this misery, discomfort, and fear, there occurred a moment now and again when the Tunnel Rats hit the motherlode. This would be a cavern, sometimes recently vacated in a hurry, which had clearly been an important subheadquarters. Then boxes of papers, evidence, clues, maps, and other mementoes would be ferried back to the waiting Intelligence experts from G2.

Twice the Badger and the Mole came across such AladdinÕs caves. Senior brass, unsure how to cope with such strange men, handed out medals and warm words. But the Public Affairs people normally avid to tell the world how well the war was going, were warned off. No one mentioned a word. One facility trip was arranged, but the "guest" from PA got fifteen yards down a "safe" tunnel and had hysterics. After that, silence reigned.

But there were long periods of no combat for the Rats as for all the other GIs in Vietnam. Some slept the hours away, or wrote letters, longing for the end of their tour and the journey home. Some drank the time away or played cards or craps. Many smoked, and not always Marlboros. Some became addicts. Others read.

Cal Dexter was one of those. Talking with his officer partner he realised how blighted his formal education was and started again from square one. He found he was fascinated by history. The base librarian was delighted and impressed, and prepared a long list of must-read books, which he then obtained from Saigon.

Dexter worked his way through Attic Greece and Ancient Rome, learned of Alexander, who had wept that, at thirtyone, he had defeated the known world and there were no more worlds to conquer.

He learned of Rome 's decline and fall, of the Dark Ages, mediaeval Europe, the Renaissance, and the Enlightenment, the Age of Elegance and the Age of Reason. He was particularly fascinated by the early years of the birth of the American colonies, the Revolution, and why his own country had had a vicious civil war just ninety years before he was born.

He did one other thing in those long periods when monsoons or orders kept him confined to base. With the help of the elderly Vietnamese who swept and cleaned the "hootch" for them all, he learned workaday Vietnamese until he could speak enough to make himself understood and understand more than that.

Nine months into his first tour, two things happened. He took his first combat wound, and the Badger ended his twelve-month stint.

The bullet came from a VC who had been hiding in one of the tunnels as Dexter came down the entrance shaft. To confuse such a waiting enemy, Dexter had developed a technique. He threw a grenade down the shaft, then went in fast, hand over fist. If the grenade did not blow away the false floor of the shaft, then there was no punjistick trap down there. If it did, he had time to stop before he hit the spikes.

The same grenade ought to shred any VC waiting out of sight. On this occasion, the VC was there but standing well down the passage with a Kalashnikov AK-47. He survived the blast but was injured and fired one shot at the fast-falling Tunnel Rat. Dexter hit the deck with his pistol out and fired back three times. The VC went down, crawled away, but was found later, dead. Dexter was nicked in the upper left arm, a flesh wound that healed well but kept him above ground for a month. The Badger's problem was more serious.

Soldiers will admit it, policemen will confirm it; there is no substitute for a partner you can utterly rely on. Since they had formed their partnership in the early days, the Badger and the Mole did not really want to go into the tunnels with anyone else. In nine months, Dexter had seen four Rats killed down there. In one case, the surviving Tunnel Rat had come back to the surface screaming and crying. He would never go down a tunnel again, even after weeks with the psychiatrists.

But the body of the one who never made it was still down there. The Badger and the Mole went in with ropes to find the man and drag him out to be sent home for a Christian burial. His throat had been cut. No open casket for him.

Of the original thirteen, four more had quit at the end of their time. Eight down. Six recruits had joined. They were back to eleven in the whole unit.

"I don't want to go down there with anyone else," Dexter told his partner when the Badger came to visit him in the base clinic.

"Nor me if it were the other way around," said the Badger. They settled it by agreeing that if the Badger extended for a second oneyear tour, the Mole would do the same in three months. So it was done. Both accepted a second tour and went back to the tunnels. The division's commanding general, embarrassed by his own gratitude, handed out two more medals.

There were certain rules down in those tunnels that were never broken. One was: Never go down alone. Because of his remarkable hazard antennae, the Mole was usually up at point with the Badger several yards behind. Another rule was: Never fire off all six shots at once. It tells the VC you are now out of ammo and a sitting duck. Two months into his second tour, in May 1970, Cal Dexter nearly broke them both and was lucky to survive.

The pair had entered a newly discovered shaft up in the Ho Bo Woods. The Mole was up front and had crawled three hundred yards along a tunnel that changed direction four times. He had fingertip felt two booby traps and disconnected them. He failed to notice that the Badger had confronted his own personal pet hatred, two tomb bats that had fallen into his hair and had stopped, unable to speak or go on.

The Mole was crawling alone when he saw, or thought he saw, the dimmest of glows coming from around the next corner. It was so dim he thought his retina might be playing tricks. He slithered silently to the corner and stopped, pistol in his right hand. The glow also stayed motionless, just around the corner.

He waited like that for ten minutes, unaware that his partner was lying, frozen with fear, out of sight behind him. Then the Mole decided to break the standoff. He lunged around the corner.

Ten feet away was a Vietcong on his hands and knees. Between them was the source of light, a shallow lamp of coconut oil with a tiny wick floating in it. The VC had evidently been pushing it along the floor to accomplish his mission, checking out the booby traps. For half a second the two enemies just stared at each other, then both reacted.

With the back of his fingers, the Vietnamese flicked the dish of hot nut oil straight at the American's face. The light was snuffed out at once. Dexter raised his left hand to protect his eyes and felt the searing oil splash across the back of his knuckles. With his right hand he fired three times as he heard a frantic scuffling sound retreating down the tunnel. He was sorely tempted to use the other three rounds, but he did not know how many more there were down there.

Had the Badger but known it, they were crawling toward the headquarters complex of the Vietcong's entire Zone Command. Guarding it were fifty diehards.

Back in the States while all this was going on was a covert little unit called the Limited War Laboratory. Throughout the Vietnam War, they dreamed up splendid ideas to help the Tunnel Rats, though none of the scientists had ever been down a tunnel. They shipped their ideas over to Vietnam, where the Rats, who did go down in the tunnels, tried them out, found them gloriously impractical, and shipped them back again.

In the summer of 1970, the Limited War Laboratory came up with a new kind of gun for closequarter work in a confined space. And at last they had a winner. It was a.44 Magnum handgun modified down to a threeinch barrel so as not to get in the way, but with special ammunition.

The very heavy slug of this.44 was divided into four segments. They were held together as one by the cartridge, but on emerging from the barrel separated to make four slugs instead of one. The Tunnel Rats found it very good for close-quarter work and likely to be deadly in the tunnels because if fired twice it would fill the tunnel ahead with eight projectiles instead of two. They had a far greater chance of hitting the Vietcong.

Only seventy-five of these guns were ever made. The Tunnel Rats used them for six months, then they were withdrawn. Someone had discovered that they probably contravened the Geneva Convention. So the seventy-four traceable Smith amp; Wesson revolvers were sent back to the States and never seen again.

The Tunnel Rats had a short and simple prayer. "If I have to take a bullet, so be it. If I have to take a knife, tough luck. But please, Lord, don't ever bury me alive down there."

It was in the summer of 1970 that the Badger was buried alive. Either the GIs should not have been down there, or the B52 bombers out of Guam should not have been bombing from thirty-thousand feet. But someone had ordered the bombers, and that someone forgot to tell the Tunnel Rats. It happens. Not a lot, but no one who has ever been in the armed forces will fail to recognise a FUBAR-f*cked up beyond all repair.

It was the new thinking, to destroy the tunnel complexes by caving them in with massive explosions dropped by B52s. Partly this had been caused by the change in psychology.

Back in the States the tide of opinion was now comprehensively against the Vietnam War. The parents were now joining their children in the antiwar demonstrations.

In the war zone, the Tet Offensive of thirty months earlier had not been forgotten. The morale was simply dribbling away into the jungle. It was still unspoken among the High Command, but the mood was spreading that this war could not be won. It would be three more years before the last GI would board the last plane out of there; but by the summer of 1970, the decision was made to destroy the tunnels in the "free strike zones" with bombs. The Iron Triangle was a free strike zone.

Because the entire Twenty-fifth Infantry Division was based there, the bombers had instructions that no bomb should fall closer than two miles from the nearest U. S. unit. But that day the High Command forgot about the Badger and the Mole, who were in a different division.

They were in a complex outside Ben Suc, in the second level down, when they felt rather than heard the first "crump" of bombs above them. Then another, and the earth began to rock around them. Forgetting the VC, they crawled frantically toward the shaft going up to level one.

The Mole made it and was ten yards toward the final shaft up to daylight when the roof came down. It was behind him. He yelled, "Badger!" There was no reply. He knew there was a small alcove twenty yards ahead because they had passed it coming down. Drenched in sweat he dragged himself into it and used the extra width to turn around and head back.

He met the dirt pile with his fingertips. Then he felt a hand, then a second, but nothing beyond that except fallen earth. He began to dig, hurling the slag behind him but blocking his exit as he did so.

It took him five minutes to liberate his partner's head, five more to free the torso. The bombs had ceased, but up top the falling debris had blocked the air flues. They began to run out of oxygen.

"Get out of here, Cal," hissed the Badger in the darkness. "Come back with help later. I'll be OK."

Dexter continued scrabbling at the dirt with his fingertips. He had lost two nails entirely. It would take over an hour to get help. His partner would not survive half that time with the air flues blocked. He put on his flashlight and shoved the lamp in his partner's hand.

"Hold that. Direct the beam back over your shoulder."

By the yellow light he could see the mass covering the Badger's legs. It took another half hour, then the crawl back to daylight, squeezing past the rubble he had cast behind him as he dug. His lungs were heaving, his head spinning; his partner semiconscious. Then he crawled around the last corner and felt the air.

In January 1971, the Badger reached the end of his second tour. Extension for a third year was forbidden, but he had had enough anyway. The night before he flew back to the States, the Mole secured permission to accompany his partner into Saigon to say farewell. They went into the capital with an armoured convoy. Dexter was confident he could hitch a lift back in a helicopter the next day.

The two young men had a slap-up meal then toured the bars. They avoided the hordes of prostitutes but concentrated on some serious drinking. At two in the morning they found themselves, feeling no pain, somewhere in Cholon, the Chinese quarter of Saigon across the river. There was a tattoo parlour still open and available for business, especially in dollars. The Chinaman was wisely contemplating a future outside Vietnam.

Before they left him and took the ferry back across the river, the young Americans had each gotten a tattoo. On the left forearm, it showed a rat, not the aggressive rat on the door of the "hootch" at Lai Khe, but a smartass rat, facing away from the viewer but looking back over his shoulder with a broad wink, trousers down, a mooning rat. They were still laughing until they sobered up. Then it was too late.

The Badger flew back to the States the next morning. The Mole followed ten weeks later, in mid-March. On April 7, 1971, the Tunnel Rats formally ceased to exit.

That was the day Cal Dexter, despite the urging of several senior officers, mustered out of the army and returned to civilian life.

6 The Tracker

There are very few military outfits more secretive than the British Special Air Service, but if there is one that makes the tightlipped SAS look like the *Jerry Springer Show*, it is the Det.

The Fourteenth Independent Intelligence Company, also called the Fourteenth Intelligence or the Detachment or the Det, is an army unit drawing its recruits from right across the board, with (and unlike the all-male SAS) quite a proportion of women soldiers.

Although it can, if need be, fight with lethal efficiency, the main tasks of the Det are to locate, track to lair, survey, and eavesdrop on the bad guys. They are never seen, and their planted listening devices are so advanced they are rarely found.

A successful Det operation would involve tailing a terrorist to the main hive, entering secretly at night, planting a "bug," and listening to the bad people for days or weeks on end. In this manner the terrorists would be likely to discuss their next operation.

Tipped off, the slightly noisier SAS could then mount a sweet little ambush and, as soon as the first terrorist fired a weapon, wipe them out. Legally. Self-defense.

Most of the Det operations up to 1995 had been in Northern Ireland, where their covertly obtained information had led to some of the IRA's worst defeats. It was the Det who hit on the idea of slipping into a mortician's parlour where a terrorist, of either Republican or Unionist persuasion, was lying in a casket and inserting a bug into the coffin.

This was because the terrorist godfathers, knowing they were under investigation, would rarely meet to discuss planning. But at a funeral they would congregate, lean over the coffin, and, covering their mouths from lip readers behind the telescopes on the hillside above the cemetery, hold a planning conference. The bugs in the coffin would pick up the lot. It worked for years.

In years to come, it would be the Det who carried out the "Close Target Reconnaissance" on Bosnia 's mass killers, allowing the SAS snatch squads to haul them off to trial in The Hague.

The company whose name Steve Edmond had learned from Mr. Rubinstein, the Toronto art collector who had mysteriously recovered his paintings, was called Hazard Management, a very discreet agency based in the Victoria district of London.

Hazard Management specialised in three things and extensively used former Special Forces personnel among its staff. The biggest income earner was Asset Protection. As its name implies, their job was the protection of extremely expensive property on behalf of very rich people who did not want to be parted from it. This was only carried out for limited-term special occasions, not on a permanent basis.

Next came Personnel Protection, PP as opposed to AP. This was also only for a limited time span, although there was a small school in Wiltshire where a rich man's own personal bodyguards could be trained, for a substantial fee.

The smallest of the divisions in Hazard Management was known as L amp;R, Location amp; Recovery. This was what Mr. Rubinstein had needed: someone to trace his missing masterpieces and negotiate their return.

Two days after taking the call from his frantic daughter, Steve Edmond had his meeting with the chief executive of Hazard Management and explained what he wanted.

"Find my grandson. This is not a commission with a budget ceiling," he said.

The former director of Special Forces, now retired, beamed. Even soldiers have children to educate. The man he called in from his country home the next day was Phil Gracey, former captain in the Parachute Regiment and ten years a veteran of the Det. Inside the company, he was simply known as "the Tracker."

Gracey had his own meeting with the Canadian, and his interrogation was extremely detailed. If the boy was still alive, he wanted to know everything about his personal habits, tastes, preferences, even vices. He took possession of two good photographs of Ricky Colenso and the grandfather's personal cellphone number. Then he nodded and left.

The Tracker spent two days almost continuously on the phone. He had no intention of moving until he knew exactly where he was going, how, why, and whom he sought. He spent hours reading written material about the Bosnian civil war, the aid program, and the non-Bosnian military presence on the ground. He struck lucky on the last.

The United Nations had created a military "peacekeeping" force-the usual lunacy of sending a force to keep the peace where there was no peace to keep, then forbidding them to create the peace, ordering them instead to watch the slaughter without interfering. The military were called UNPROFOR, and the British government had supplied a large contingent. It was based at Vitez, just ten miles down the road from Travnik.

The regiment assigned there in June 1995 was recent; its predecessor had been relieved only two months earlier, and the Tracker traced the colonel commanding the earlier regiment to a course at Guards Depot, Pirbright. He was a mine of information. On the third day after his talk with the Canadian grandfather, the Tracker flew to the Balkans, not straight into Bosnia (impossible) but to the Adriatic resort of Split on the coast of Croatia. His cover story said he was a freelance journalist, which is a useful cover being completely unprovable either way. But he also included a letter from a major London Sunday newspaper asking for a series of articles on the effectiveness of relief aid-just in case.

After twenty-four hours in Split, enjoying an unexpected boom as the main jumping-off point for central Bosnia, he had acquired a second-hand but tough off-road and a pistol. Just in case. It was a long, rough drive through the mountains from the coast to Travnik, but he was confident his information was accurate; he would run into no combat zone, and he did not.

It was a strange combat, the Bosnia civil war. There were rarely any lines, as such, and never a pitched battle, just a patchwork quilt of monoethnic communities living in fear; hundreds of fire-gutted, ethnically "cleansed" villages and hamlets; and, roaming among them, bands of soldiery, mostly belonging to one of the surrounding "national" armies but also including groups of mercenaries, freebooters, and psychotic paramilitaries posing as patriots. These were the worst.

At Travnik, the Tracker met his first reverse. John Slack had left. A friendly soul with Age Concern said he believed the American had joined Feed the Children, a much bigger NGO, and was based in Zagreb. The Tracker spent the night in his sleeping bag in the rear of the 4X4 and left the next day for another gruelling drive north to Zagreb, the Croatian capital. There he found John Slack at the Feed the Children warehouse. He was not much help.

"I have no idea what happened, where he went or why," he protested. "Look, man, the Loaves-n-Fishes operation closed down last month, and he was part of that. He vanished with one of my two brand-new Landcruisers, that is, 50 percent of my transportation.

"Plus, he took one of my three local Bosnian helpers. Charleston was not pleased. With peace moves finally in the offing, they did not want to start over. I told them there was still a lot to do, but they closed me down. I was lucky to find a billet here."

"What about the Bosnian?"

"Fadil? No chance he was behind it all. He was a good guy. Spent a lot of time grieving for his lost family. If he hated anyone, it was the Serbs not the Americans."

"Any sign of the money belt?"

"Now that was stupid. I warned him. It was too much either to leave behind or carry around, but I don't think Fadil would kill him for that."

"Where were you, John?"

"That's the point. If I had been there, it would never have happened. I'd have vetoed the idea, whatever it was. But I was on a mountain road in southern Croatia trying to get a truck with a solid engine block towed to the nearest town. Dumb Swede. Can you imagine driving a truck with an empty oil sump and not noticing?"

"What did you discover?"

"When I got back? Well, he had arrived at the compound, let himself in, taken a Landcruiser, and driven off. One of the other Bosnians, Ibrahim, saw them both, but they didn't speak. That was four days before I returned. I kept trying his mobile, but there was no answer. I went apeshit. I figured they'd gone partying. At first I was more angry than worried."

"Any idea which direction?"

"Ibrahim said they drove north. That is, straight into central Travnik. From the town centre the roads lead all over. No one in town remembers a thing."

"You got any ideas, John?"

"Yep. I reckon he took a call. Or more likely Fadil took a call and told Ricky. He was very compassion driven. If he had taken a call about some medical emergency in one of the villages high in the backcountry, he'd have driven off to try and help. Too impulsive to leave a message.

"You seen that country, pal? You ever driven through it? Mountains and valleys and rivers. I figure they went over a precipice and crashed into a valley. Come winter, when the leaves fall, I think someone will spot the wreckage down below among the rocks."

The Tracker went back to Travnik, set up a small office-cum-living quarters, and recruited a happy-to-be employed Ibrahim as his guide and interpreter.

He carried a satphone with several spare batteries and a scrambler device to keep communications covert. It was just for keeping in touch with his head office in London. They had facilities he did not.

He believed there were four possibilities, ranging from dumb via possible to likely. The dumbest of the four was that Ricky Colenso had decided to steal the Landcruiser, drive south to Belgrade in Serbia, sell it, abandon all his previous life, and live like a bum. He rejected it. It simply was not Ricky Colenso, and why would he steal a Landcruiser if his grandpa could buy the factory?

Next up was that Sulejman had persuaded Ricky to take him for a drive then murdered the young American for his money belt and the vehicle. Possible. But as a Bosnian Muslim without a passport, Fadil would not get far in Croatia or Serbia -both hostile territory for him-and a new Landcruiser on the market would be spotted.

Three, they ran into person or persons unknown and were murdered for the same trophies. Among the out-of-control freelance killers wandering the landscape were a few groups of Mujehadin, Muslim fanatics from the Middle East come to "help" their persecuted fellow Muslims in Bosnia. It was known they had already killed two European mercenaries, even though they were supposed to be on the same side, plus one relief worker and one Muslim garage owner who declined to donate gas.

But way out on top of the range of probabilities was John Slack's theory. The Tracker had taken Ibrahim and, day by day, followed every road out of Travnik for miles into the backcountry. While the Bosnian drove slowly behind him, the Tracker scoured the road edges over every possible steep slope into the valleys below.

He was doing what he did best. Slowly, patiently, missing nothing, he looked for tire marks, crumbled edges, skid lines, crushed vegetation, wheel-flattened grass. Three times, with a rope tied to the Lada offroad, he went down into ravines where a clump of vegetation might hide a crushed Landcruiser. Nothing.

With binoculars he sat on road edges and scanned the valleys below for a glint of metal or glass. Nothing. By the end of an exhausting ten days he had become convinced that Slack was wrong. If a vehicle of that size had swerved off the road and over the edge, it would have left a trace, however small, even forty days later; and he would have seen that trace. There was no crashed vehicle lying in those valleys around Travnik.

He offered a big-enough reward for information to make the mouth water. Word about the prize spread in the refugee community, and hopefuls came forward. But the best he got was that the car had been seen driving through town. Destination unknown. Heading unknown.

After two weeks he closed his operation down and moved to Vitez, headquarters of the newly resident British army contingent.

He found a billet at the school that had been converted into a sort of hostel for the mainly British press. It was on a street known as TV Alley, just outside the army compound but safe enough if things turned nasty.

Knowing what most army men think of the press, he did not bother with his "freelance journalist" cover story, but sought a meeting with the commanding colonel on the basis of what he was, ex-Special Services.

The colonel had a brother in the elite Parachute Regiment of the British army. Common background, common interests. Not a problem. Anything he could do to help?

Yes, he had heard about the missing American boy. Bad show. His patrols had kept a lookout, but nothing. He listened to the Tracker's offer of a substantial donation to the Army Benevolent Fund. A reconnaissance exercise was mounted, a light aircraft from the artillery people. The Tracker went with the pilot. They flew over the mountains and ravines for more than an hour. Not a sign.

"I think you're going to have to look at foul play," said the colonel over dinner.

"Mujehadin?"

"Possibly. Weird swine, you know. They will kill you as soon as look at you if you're not a Muslim, or even if you are but not fundamentalist enough. May 15th? We'd only been here for two weeks. Still getting the hang of the terrain. But I've checked the Incident Log. There were none in the area. You could try the ECMM sit-reps. Pretty useless stuff, but I've got a stack in the office. Should cover May 15th."

The European Community Monitoring Mission (ECMM) was the attempt of the European Union based in Brussels to horn in on an act they could influence in no way at all. Bosnia was a UN affair until finally, in exasperation, taken over and resolved by the Americans. But Brussels wanted a role, so a team of observers was created to give them one. This was the ECMM. The Tracker went through the stack of reports the next day.

The EU monitors were mainly armed forces officers loaned by the EU defence ministries with nothing better to do. They were scattered throughout Bosnia, where they each had an office, a flat, a car, and a living allowance. Some of the situation reports, or sit-reps, read more like a social diary. The Tracker concentrated on anything filed May 15th or the three days following. There was one from Banja Luka dated May 16th that caught his eye.

Banja Luka was a fiercely Serbian stronghold well to the north of Travnik and across the Vlasic mountain chain. The ECMM officer there was a Danish major, Lasse Bjerregaard. He had written that the previous evening, i.e., May 15th, he had been taking a drink in the bar of the Bosna Hotel when he witnessed a blazing row between two Serbs in camouflage. One had clearly been in a rage at the other and was screaming abuse at him in Serbian. He slapped the face of the junior man several times, but the offending party did not answer back, indicating the clear superiority of the slapper.

When it was over the major tried to seek an explanation from the barman, who spoke halting English, which the Dane spoke fluently; but the barman shrugged and walked away in a very rude manner, which was unlike him. The next morning the uniformed men were gone, and the major never saw them again.

The Tracker thought it was the longest shot of his life, but he called the ECMM office in Banja Luka. Another change of posting; a Greek came on the line. Yes, the Dane had returned home the previous week. The Tracker called London suggesting they ask the Danish Defence Ministry. London came back in three hours. Fortunately, the name was not so common. Jensen would have been a problem. Major Bjerregaard was on furlough, and his number was in Odense.

The Tracker caught him that evening when he returned from a day on the water with his family in the summer heatwave. Major Bjerregaard was as helpful as he could be. He remembered the evening of May 15th quite clearly. There was, after all, precious little for a Dane to do in Banja Luka; it had been a very lonely and boring posting.

Every evening he had gone to the bar around 7:30 for a predinner beer. About half an hour later a small group of Serbs in camouflage had entered. He did not think they were Yugoslav army because they did not have unit flashes on their shoulders.

They seemed very full of themselves and ordered drinks all around, slivovitz with beer chasers, a lethal combination. Several rounds of drinks later, the major was about to adjourn to the dining room because the noise was becoming deafening when another Serb arrived. He seemed to be the commander because the rest subsided.

He spoke to them in Serbian, and he must have ordered them to come with him. The men began to swig their beers and put their packs of cigarettes and lighters back in their uniform pockets. Then one of them offered to pay.

The commander went berserk. He started screaming at the subordinate. The rest went deathly quiet. So did the other customers and the barman. The tirade went on, accompanied by two slaps to the face. Still no one protested. Finally the leader stormed out. Crestfallen and subdued, the others followed. No one else offered to pay for the drinks.

"Did the commander rage at anyone else?" asked the Tracker.

"No, just at the one who had tried to pay," said the voice from Denmark.

"Why him alone, Major? There is no mention in your report as to any possible reason."

"Ah. Didn't I put that in? Sorry. I think it was because the man tried to pay with a hundred-dollar bill."

7 The Volunteer

The Tracker packed his gear and drove north from Travnik. He was passing from Bosnian (Muslim) territory into Serb-held country. But a British Union Jack fluttered from a pennant above the Lada and with luck that ought to deter long-range potshots. If stopped, he intended to rely on his passport, proof that he was just writing about relief aid, and generous presents of Virginia-made cigarettes bought from the Vitez barracks shop. If all that failed, his pistol was fully loaded, close to hand, and he knew how to use it.

He was stopped twice, once by a Bosnian militia patrol as he left Bosniacontrolled country and once by a Yugoslav army patrol south of Banja Luka. Each time his explanation, documents, and presents worked. He rolled into Banja Luka five hours later.

The Bosna Hotel was certainly never going to put the Ritz out of business, but it was about all the town had. He checked in. There was plenty of room. Apart from a French TV crew, he judged he was the only foreigner staying there. At 7:00 that evening he entered the bar. There were three other drinkers-all Serbs, and all seated at tables-and one barman. He straddled the stool at the bar.

"Hallo. You must be Dusko."

He was open, friendly, charming. The barman shook the proffered hand. "You been here before?"

"No, first time. Nice bar. Friendly bar."

"How you know my name?"

"Friend of mine was posted here recently. Danish fellow. Lasse Bjaerregaard. He asked me to say hi if I was passing through."

The barman relaxed considerably. There was no threat here.

"You Danish?"

"No, British."

"Army?"

"Heavens no. Journalist. Doing a series of articles about aid agencies. You'll take a drink with me?"

Dusko helped himself to his own best brandy. "I would like to be a journalist one day. Travel. See the world."

"Why not? Get some experience on the local paper, then go to the big city. That's what I did."

The barman shrugged in resignation. "Here? Banja Luka? No paper."

"So try Sarajevo. Even Belgrade. You're a Serb. You can get out of here. The war won't last forever."

"To get out of here costs money. No job, no money. No money, no travel, no job."

"Ah yes, money, always a problem. Or maybe not."

The Englishman produced a wad of U. S. dollars, all hundreds, and counted them onto the counter.

"I am old-fashioned," he said. "I believe people should help each other. It makes life easier, more pleasant. Will you help me, Dusko?"

The barman was staring at the thousand dollars a few inches from his fingertips. He could not take his eyes off the money. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "What you want? What do you do here? You not reporter."

"Well, I am in a way. I ask questions. But I am a rich asker of questions. Do you want to be rich like me, Dusko?"

"What you want?" repeated the barman. He flicked a glance toward the other drinkers, who were staring at the pair of them.

"You've seen a hundred-dollar bill before. Last May. The fifteenth, wasn't it? A young soldier tried to settle the bar bill with it. Started one hell of a row. My friend Lasse was here. He told me. Explain to me exactly what happened and why."

"Not here. Not now," hissed the frightened Serb. One of the men from the tables was up and walking toward the bar. A wiping cloth flicked expertly down over the money. "Bar close at ten. You come back."

At half-past ten, with the bar closed and locked, the two men sat in a booth in half darkness and talked.

"They were not the Yugoslav army, not soldiers," said the barman. "Paramilitary people. Bad people. They stay three days. Best rooms, best food, much drink. They leave but not pay."

"One of them tried to pay you."

"True. Only one. He was good kid. Different from others. I don't know what he was doing with them. He had education. The rest were gangstersÉgutter people."

"You didn't object to them not paying for three days' stay?"

"Object? Object? What I say? These animals have guns. They kill, even fellow Serbs. They all killers."

"So when the nice kid tried to pay you, who was the one who slapped him around?"

He could feel the Serb go rigid in the gloom.

"No idea. He was boss man, group leader. But no name. They just call him 'Chief.'"

"All these paramilitaries have names, Dusko. Arkan and his Tigers. Frankie's Boys. They like to be famous. They boast of their names."

"Not this one. I swear."

The Tracker knew it was a lie. Whoever he was, the freelance killer inspired a sweat-clammy measure of fear among his fellow Serbs.

"But the nice kidÉhe had a name?"

"I never heard it."

"We are talking about a lot of money here, Dusko. You never see him again, you never see me again, you have enough to start up in Sarajevo after the war. The kid's name."

"He paid the day he left. Like he was ashamed of the people he was with. He came back and paid by check."

"It bounced? Came back? You have it?"

"No, it was honoured. Yugoslav dinars. From Belgrade. Settlement in full."

"So, no check?"

"It will be in the Belgrade bank. Somewhere, but probably destroyed by now. But I wrote down his ID card number in case it bounced."

"Where? Where did you write it?"

"On the back of an order pad. In ballpoint."

The Tracker traced it. The pad, for taking long and complicated drink orders that could not be memorised, only had two sheets left. Another day and it would have been thrown away. In ballpoint, on the cardboard back, was a seven-figure number and two capital letters. Eight weeks old, still legible.

The Tracker donated a thousand of Mr. Edmond's dollars and left. The shortest way out of there was north into Croatia and a plane from Zagreb airport.

The old six-province Yugoslavia Federation had been disintegrating in blood, chaos, and cruelty for five years. In the north, Slovenia was the first to go, luckily without bloodshed. In the south, Macedonia had escaped into separate independence. But at the centre, the Serbian dictator Slobodan Milosevic was trying to use every brutality in the book to cling to Croatia, Bosnia, Kosovo, Montenegro, and his own native Serbia. He had still lost Croatia, but his appetite for power and war remained undiminished.

The Belgrade into which the Tracker had arrived in 1995 was still untouched. Its desolation would be provoked in the Kosovo war yet to come.

His London office had advised there was one private detective agency in Belgrade, headed up by a former senior police officer whom they had used before. He had endowed his agency with the not too original name of Chandler, and it was easy to find.

"I need," the Tracker told the investigator, Dragan Stojic, "to trace a young guy for whom I have no name but only the number of his state ID card."

Stojic grunted. "What did he do?"

"Nothing, so far as I know. He saw something. Maybe. Maybe not."

"That's it. A name?"

"Then I would like to talk to him. I have no car and no mastery of Serbo-Croat. He may speak English. Maybe not."

Stojic grunted again. It appeared to be his speciality. He had apparently read every Philip Marlowe novel and seen every movie. He was trying to be Robert Mitchum in *The Big Sleep*, but at five feet, four inches and bald, he was not quite there.

"My termsÉ" he began.

The Tracker eased another ten one-hundred-dollar bills across the desk. "I need your undivided attention," he murmured.

Stojic was entranced. The line could have come straight from *Farewell, My Lovely*.

"You got it," he said.

To give credit where credit is due, the dumpy ex-inspector did not waste time. Belching black smoke, his Yugo sedan, with the Tracker in the passenger seat, took them across town to the district of Konjarnik where the corner of Ljermontova Street is occupied by the police headquarters of Belgrade. It was, and remains, a big, ugly block in brown and yellow, like a huge, angular hornet on its side.

"You'd better stay here," said Stojic. He was gone half an hour and must have shared some conviviality with an old colleague, for there was the plummy odour of slivovitz on his breath. But he had a slip of paper.

"That card belongs to Milan Rajak, aged twenty-four. Listed as a law student. Father a lawyer, successful, upper-middle-class family. Are you sure you've got the right man?"

"Unless he has a doppelganger, he and his ID card bearing his photograph were in Banja Luka two months ago."

"What the hell would he be doing there?"

"He was in uniform. In a bar."

Stojic thought back to the file he had been shown but not allowed to copy.

"He did his National Military Service. All young Yugoslavs, aged eighteen through twenty-one, have to do that."

"Combat soldier?"

"No. Signal Corps. Radio operator."

"Never saw combat. Might have wished he had. Might have joined a group going into Bosnia to fight for the Serbian cause. A deluded volunteer? Possible?"

Stojic shrugged.

"Possible. But these paramilitaries are scumbags. Gangsters all. What would this law student be doing with them?"

"Summer vacation?" asked the Tracker.

"But which group? Shall we ask him?"

Stojic consulted his piece of paper. "Address in Senjak, not half an hour away."

"Then let's go."

They found the address without trouble, a solid, middle-class villa on Istarska Street. Years serving Marshal Tito and now Slobodan Milosevic had done Mr. Rajak Sr. no harm at all. A pale and nervous-looking woman in her forties, but looking older, answered the door.

There was an interchange in Serbo-Croat.

" Milan 's mother," said Stojic. "Yes, he's in. What do you want? she asks."

"To talk to him. An interview. For the British press."

Clearly bewildered, Mrs. Rajak let them in and called to her son. Then she showed them into the sitting room. There were sounds of feet on the stairs and a young man appeared in the hall. He had a whispered conversation with his mother and came in. His air was perplexed, worried, almost fearful. The Tracker gave him his friendliest smile and shook hands. The door was still an inch open. Mrs. Rajak was on the phone speaking rapidly.

Stojic shot the Englishman a warning glance, as if to say, "Whatever you want, keep it short. The artillery is on its way."

The Englishman held out the notepad from the bar in the north. The two remaining sheets on it were headed Hotel Bosna. He flicked the cardboard over and showed Milan Rajak the seven numbers and two initials.

"It was very decent of you to settle the bill, Milan. The barman was grateful. Unfortunately the check bounced."

"No. Not possible. It was clÉ" He stopped and went white as a sheet.

"No one is blaming you for anything, Milan. So just tell me; what were you doing in Banja Luka?"

"Visiting."

"Friends?"

"Yes."

"In camouflage? Milan, it's a war zone. What happened that day two months ago?"

"I don't know what you mean." Then he broke into Serbo-Croat, and the Tracker lost him. He raised an eyebrow at Stojic.

"Dad's coming," muttered the detective.

"You were with a group of ten others. All in uniform. All armed. Who were they?"

Milan Rajak was beaded with sweat and looked as if he was going to burst into tears. The Tracker judged this to be a young man with serious nerve problems.

"You are English? But you are not press. What are you doing here? Why you persecute me? I know nothing."

There was a screech of car tires outside the house, running feet up the steps from the pavement. Mrs. Rajak held the door open, and her husband charged in. He appeared at the door of the sitting room, rattled and angry. A generation older than his son, he did not speak English. Instead, he shouted in Serbo-Croat.

"He asks what you are doing in his house, why you harass his son," said Stojic.

"I am not harassing," said the Tracker calmly, "I am simply asking. What was this young man doing eight weeks ago in Banja Luka, and who were the men with him?"

Stojic translated. Rajak Senior began shouting.

"He says," explained Stojic, "that his son knows nothing and was not there. He has been here all summer, and if you do not leave his house he will call the police. Personally, I think we should leave. This is a powerful man."

"OK," said the Tracker. "One last question."

(At his request, the former director of Special Forces, who now ran Hazard Management, had had a very discreet lunch with a contact in the Secret Intelligence Service. The head of the Balkans Desk had been as helpful as he was allowed.)

"Were those men Zoran's Wolves? Was the man who slapped you around Zoran Zilic himself?"

Stojic had translated more than half before he could stop himself. Milan understood it all in English. The effect was in two parts. For several seconds there was a stunned, glacial silence. The second part was like an exploding grenade.

Mrs. Rajak emitted a single scream and ran from the room. Her son slumped in a chair, put his head in his hands, and started to shake. The father went from white to puce, pointed at the door, and started shouting a single word, which Gracey presumed meant "Out." Stojic headed for the door. The Tracker followed.

As he passed the shaking young man, he stooped and Slipped a card into his top jacket pocket. "If you ever change Your mind," he murmured, "call me. Or write. I'll come."

There was a strained silence in the car back to the airport. Dragan Stojic clearly felt he had earned every dime of his thousand dollars. As they drew up at International Departures he spoke across the car roof at the departing Englishman.

"If you ever come back to Belgrade, my friend, I advise you not to mention that name. Not even in jest. Especially not in jest. Today's events never took place."

Within forty-eight hours the Tracker had completed and filed his report to Stephen Edmond, along with his list of expenses. The final paragraphs read: *I fear I have to admit that the events that led to your grandson's death, the manner of that death or the resting place of the body will probably never be discovered. And I would be raising false hopes if I said I thought there was a chance that your grandson was still alive. For the present and the foreseeable future, the only judgment has to be: missing, presumed killed.*

*I do not believe that he and the Bosnian accompanying him crashed off some road in the area and into a ravine. Every possible such road has been personally searched. Nor do I believe the Bosnian murdered him for the truck or the money belt or both.

*I believe they inadvertently drove into harm's way and were murdered by person or persons unknown. There is a likelihood that these persons were a band of Serbian paramilitary criminals believed to have been in the general area. But without evidence, identification, a confession, or court testimony, there is no possibility of charges being brought.*

*It is with the deepest regret that I have to impart this news to you, but I believe it to be almost certainly the truth. I have the honour to remain, sir, Your obedient servant, Philip Gracey.*

– It was July 22, 1995.

8 The Lawyer

The main reason Calvin Dexter decided to leave the army was one he did not explain because he did not want to be mocked. He had decided he wanted to go to college, get a degree, and become a lawyer. As for funds, he had saved several thousand dollars in Vietnam and he could seek further help under the terms of the GI Bill.

There are few "ifs" and "buts" about the GI Bill; if an American soldier leaving the army for reasons other than dishonourable discharge wishes to apply, then his government will pay to put him through college. The allowance paid, rising over the past thirty years, can be spent by the student any way he wants, so long as the college confirms he is in full-time attendance.

Dexter reckoned that a rural college would probably be cheaper, but he wanted a university with its own law school as well, and if he was ever going to practice law, then there would be more opportunities in New York than in New Jersey. After scouring fifty brochures, he applied to Fordham University, New York City. He sent in his papers in the late fall, along with the vital discharge document, the DD214 with which every GI left the army. He was just in time.

In the spring of 1971, though the sentiment against the Vietnam War was already high, and nowhere higher than in academia, the GIs were not seen as being to blame, rather as victims.

After the chaotic and undignified pullout of 1973, sometimes referred to as a scuttle, the mood changed. Though Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger sought to put the best spin on things that they could, and though a disengagement from the unwinnable disaster that Vietnam had become was almost universally welcomed, it was still seen as a defeat.

If there is one thing the average American does not want to be associated with too often, it is defeat. The GIs coming home post-1971 thought they would be welcomed, as they had done their best, they had suffered, they had lost good friends; instead, they met a blank wall of indifference, even hostility. The Left was more concerned with My Lai.

Dexter's papers were considered, along with all the other applicants that summer, and he was accepted for a four-year degree course in political science. In the category of "life experience," his three years in the Big Red One were considered a positive, which would not have happened twenty-four months later.

The young veteran found a cheap, one-room walk-up in the Bronx, not far from the Rose Hill campus. He calculated that if he walked or used public transport, ate frugally, and used the long summer vacation to go back to the construction industry, he could make enough to survive until graduation. Among the construction sites on which he worked over the next three years was the new wonder of the world, the slowly rising World Trade Centre.

The year 1974 was marked by two events that were to change his life. He met and fell in love with Angela Marozzi, a beautiful, vital, life-loving Italian-American girl working in a flower shop on Bathgate Avenue. They married that summer and, with their joint income, moved to a larger apartment.

That autumn, still one year from graduation, he applied for admission to the Fordham University School of Law, a faculty within the university, but separate in its location and administration, across the river in Manhattan. It was far harder to get into, having few places and being much sought after.

Law school would mean three more years of study after graduation in 1975 to the law degree, then the bar exam, and finally the right to practice as an attorney-at-law in the state of New York.

There was no personal interview involved, just a mass of papers to be submitted to the Admissions Committee for their perusal and judgment. These included school records right back to grade school, which were awful, more recent grades from college, a self-written assessment, and references from present advisers, which were excellent. Hidden in this mass of paperwork was his old DD214.

He made the short list, and the Admissions Committee met to make the final selection. There were six of them, headed by Prof. Howard Kell, at seventy-seven well past retirement age, bright as a button, a professor emeritus, and the patriarch of them all.

It came to one of two for the last available place. The papers marked Dexter as one of those. There was a heated debate.

Professor Kell rose from his chair at the head of the table and wandered to the window. He stared out at the blue summer sky.

"Tough one, eh, Howard? Who do you favour?"

The old man tapped a paper in his hand and showed it to the senior tutor. The tutor read the list of medals and gave a low whistle.

"He was awarded those before his twenty-first birthday."

"What the hell did he do?"

"He earned the right to be given a chance in this law school, that's what he did," said the professor.

The two men returned to the table and voted. It would have been three against three, but the chairman's vote counted double in such a contingency. He explained why. They all looked at the DD214.

"He could be violent," objected the politically correct dean of studies.

"Oh, I hope so," said Professor Kell. "I'd hate to think we were giving these away for nothing nowadays."

Cal Dexter received the good news two days later. He and Angela lay on their bed; he stroked her growing belly and talked of the day he would be a wealthy lawyer and they would have a fine house out in Westchester or Fairfield County.

Their daughter, Amanda Jane, was born in the early spring of 1975, but there were complications. The surgeons did their best, but the outcome was unanimous. The couple could adopt, of course, but there would be no more natural pregnancies. Angela's family priest told her it was the will of God, and she must accept His will.

Cal Dexter graduated in the top five of his class that summer and in the autumn began the three-year course in law. It was tough, but the Marozzi family rallied around; Mama babysat Amanda Jane so that Angela could wait tables. Cal wanted to remain a day student rather than revert to night school, which would extend the law course by an extra year.

He laboured through the summer vacations in the first two years but in the third managed to find work as a legal assistant with the highly respectable Manhattan law firm of Honeyman Fleischer.

That summer of 1978 his father died. They had not been close after Cal 's return from Vietnam, for the parent had never understood why his son could not return to the construction sites and be content with a hard hat for the rest of his life.

But he and Angela had visited, borrowing Mr. Marozzi's car, and shown Dexter Senior his only grandchild. When the end came, it was sudden. A massive heart attack felled the building labourer on a work site. His son attended the humble funeral alone. He had hoped his dad could attend his graduation ceremony and be proud of his educated son, but it was not to be.

He graduated that summer and, pending his bar exam, secured a lowly but fulltime position with Honeyman Fleischer, his first professional employment since the army seven years earlier.

Honeyman Fleischer prided itself on its impeccable liberal credentials, and to prove its lively social conscience, fielded many pro bono assignments for the poor and vulnerable.

That said, the senior partners saw no need to exaggerate and kept their pro bono work to a few of their lowest paid newcomers. That autumn of 1978, Cal Dexter was as lowly in the legal pecking order at Honeyman Fleischer as one could get.

Dexter did not complain. He needed the money, he cherished the job, and covering the down-and-outs gave him a wide spectrum of experience, rather than the narrow confines of one single speciality. He could defend on charges of petty crime, negligence claims, and a variety of other disputes that eventually went to a court of appeal.

It was that winter that a secretary popped her head around the door of his cubbyhole office and waved a file at him.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Immigration appeal," she said. "Roger says he can't handle it."

Dexter's supervising associate chose the pro-bono cream, if ever any cream appeared, for himself. Immigration matters were definitely the skimmed milk.

Dexter sighed and buried himself in the details of the new file. The hearing was the next day.

9 The Refugee

There was a charity in New York in those years called Refugee Watch. "Concerned citizens" was how it would have described its members; do-gooders was the less admiring description.

Its self-appointed task was to keep a weather eye open for examples of the flotsam and jetsam of the human race who, washed up on the shores of America wished to take literally the words written on the base of the Statue of Liberty and stay.

Most often, these were forlorn, bereft people, refugees from a hundred climes, usually with a most fragmentary grasp of the English language, and who had spent their last savings in the struggle to survive.

Their immediate antagonist was the Immigration and Naturalisation Service, the formidable INS, whose collective philosophy appeared to be that 99.9 percent of the applicants were frauds who should be sent back whence they came, or at any rate somewhere else.

The file tossed onto Cal Dexter's desk that early winter of 1978 concerned a couple fleeing from Cambodia, Mr. and Mrs. Hom Moung.

In a lengthy statement by Mr. Moung, who seemed to speak for them both, translated from the French-which was the Frencheducated Cambodian's language of choice-his story emerged.

Since 1975, a fact already well known in the United States and later to become better known through the film *The Killing Fields*, Cambodia had been in the grip of a mad and genocidal tyrant called Pol Pot and his fanatical army, the Khmer Rouge.

Pot had some harebrained dream of returning his country to a sort of agrarian Stone Age. Fulfilment of his vision involved a pathological hatred of the people of the cities and anyone with any education. These were destined for extermination.

Mr. Moung claimed he had been headmaster of a leading lycŽe or high school in the capital, Phnom Penh, and his wife a staff nurse at a private clinic. Both fitted firmly into the Khmer Rouge category for execution.

When things became impossible, they went underground, moving from safe house to safe house among friends and fellow professionals, until the latter had all been arrested and taken away.

Mr. Moung claimed he would never have been able to reach the Vietnamese or Thai borders because in the countryside, infested with Khmer Rouge and informers, he would not have been able to pass for a peasant. Nevertheless, he had been able to bribe a truck driver to smuggle them out of Phnom Penh and across to the port of Kompong Son. With his last remaining savings, he persuaded the captain of a South Korean freighter to take them out of the hell that his homeland had become.

He did not care or know where the *Inchon Star* was headed. It turned out to be New York harbour, with a cargo of teak. On arrival, he had not sought to evade the authorities but had reported immediately and asked permission to stay.

Dexter spent the night before the hearing hunched over the kitchen table while his wife and daughter slept a few feet away behind a wall. The hearing was his first appeal of any kind, and he wanted to give the refugee his best shot. After the statement, he turned to the response of the INS. It had been pretty harsh.

The local INS Almighty in any U. S. city is the district director, and his office is the first hurdle. The director's colleague in charge of the file had rejected the request for asylum on the strange grounds that the Moungs should have applied to the local U. S. Embassy or Consulate and waited in line, according to American tradition.

Dexter felt this was not too much of a problem; all U. S. staff had fled the Cambodian capital years earlier when the Khmer Rouge stormed in.

The refusal at the first level had put the Moungs into deportation procedure. That was when Refugee Watch heard of their case and took up the cudgels.

According to procedure, a couple refused entry by the district director's office at the exclusion hearing could appeal to the next level up, an administrative hearing in front of an asylum hearing officer.

Dexter noted that at the exclusion hearing, the INS's second ground for refusal had been that the Moungs did not qualify under the five necessary grounds for proving persecution: race, nationality, religion, political beliefs, and/or social class. He felt he could now show that as a fervent anti-Communistand he certainly intended to advise Mr. Moung to become one immediatelyand as head teacher, he qualified on the last two grounds at least.

His task at the hearing in the morning would be to plead with the hearing officer for a relief known as Withholding of Deportation, under Section 243(h) of the Immigration and Nationality Act.

In tiny print at the bottom of one of the papers was a note from someone at Refugee Watch that the asylum hearing officer would be a certain Norman Ross. What he learned was interesting.

Dexter showed up at the INS building at 26 Federal Plaza to meet his clients over an hour before the hearing. He was not a big man himself, but the Moungs were smaller, and Mrs. Moung was like a tiny doll. She gazed at the world through lenses that seemed to have been cut from the bottoms of CocaCola bottles. His papers told him they were forty-eight and forty-five, respectively.

Mr. Moung seemed calm and resigned. Because Cal Dexter spoke no French, Refugee Watch had provided a female interpreter.

Dexter spent the preparation hour going over the original statement, but there was nothing to add or subtract.

The case would be heard not in a real court but in a large office with chairs imported for the occasion. Five minutes before the hearing, they were shown in.

As he surmised, the representative of the district director represented the arguments used at the exclusion hearing to refuse the asylum application. There was nothing to add or subtract. Behind his desk, Mr. Ross followed the arguments already before him in the file, then raised an eyebrow at the novice sent down by Honeyman Fleischer.

Behind Dexter, Mr. Moung muttered to his wife, "We must hope this young man can succeed, or we will be sent back to die." But he spoke in his own native language.

Dexter dealt with the DD's first point; there had been no U. S. diplomatic or consular representation in Phnom Penh since the start of the killing fields. The nearest would have been in Bangkok, Thailand, an impossible target that the Moungs could never have reached. He noted a hint of a smile at the corner of Ross's mouth as the man from the INS went pink.

His main task was to show that faced with the lethal fanaticism of the Khmer Rouge, any proven anti-Communist like his client would have been destined to torture and death. Even the fact of being a head teacher with a college degree would have guaranteed execution.

What he had learned during the night was that Norman Ross had not always been Ross. His father had arrived around the turn of the century as Samuel Rosen, from a *shtetl* in modern Poland, fleeing the pogroms of the tsar then being carried out by the Cossacks.

"It is very easy, sir, to reject those who come with nothing, seeking not much but the chance of life. It is very easy to say 'No' and walk away. It costs nothing to decree that these two Orientals have no place here and should go back to arrest, torture, and the execution wall.

"But I ask you, supposing our fathers had done that, and their fathers before them, how many, back in the homeland-turned-bloodbath, would have said, 'I went to the land of the free, I asked for a chance of life, but they shut their doors and sent me back to die.' How many, Mr. Ross? A million? Nearer ten. I ask you, not on a point of law, not as a triumph for clever lawyer semantics, but as a victory for what Shakespeare called the quality of mercy,' to decree that in this huge country of ours there is room for one couple who have lost everything but life and ask only for a chance."

Norman Ross eyed him speculatively for several minutes. Then he laid his pencil down on his desk like a gavel and pronounced, "Deportation withheld. Next case."

The lady from Refugee Watch excitedly told the Moungs in French what had happened. She and her organisation could handle procedures from that point on. There would be administration, but no more need for advocacy. The Moungs could now remain in the United States under the protection of the government, and eventually a work permit, asylum, and, in due course, naturalisation, would come through.

Dexter smiled at her and said she could go. Then he turned to Mr. Moung and said, "Now let us go to the cafeteria and you can tell me who you really are and what you are doing here." He spoke in Mr. Moung's native language, Vietnamese.

At a corner table in the basement cafŽ, Dexter examined the Cambodian passports and ID documents. "These have already been examined by some of the best experts in the West and pronounced genuine. How did you get them?"

The refugee glanced at his tiny wife. "She made them. She is of the Nghi."

There is a clan in Vietnam called Nghi, which for centuries supplied most of the scholars of the Hue region. Their particular skill, passed down through generations, was for exceptional calligraphy. They created court documents for their emperors.

With the coming of the modern age, and especially when the war against the French began in 1945, their absolute dedication to patience, detail, and stunning draughtsmanship meant the Nghi could transmute to become some of the finest forgers in the world.

The tiny woman with the bottle glasses had ruined her eyesight because, for the duration of the Vietnam War, she had crouched in an underground workshop creating passes and identifications so perfect that Vietcong agents had passed effortlessly through every South Vietnamese city at will and had never been caught.

Cal Dexter handed the passports back. "Like I said upstairs, who are you really, and why are you here?"

The wife quietly began to cry, and her husband slid his hand over hers. "My name," he said, "is Nguyen Van Tran. I am here because, after three years in a concentration camp in Vietnam, I escaped. That part at least is true."

"So why pretend to be Cambodian? America has accepted many South Vietnamese who fought with us in that war."

"Because I was a major in the Vietcong."

Dexter nodded slowly. "That could be a problem," he admitted. "Tell me everything."

"I was born in 1930, in the deep south, up against the Cambodian border. That is why I have a smattering of Khmer. My family was never Communist, but my father was a dedicated Nationalist. He wanted to see our country free of the colonial domination of the French. He raised me the same way."

"I don't have a problem with that. Why turn Communist?"

"That is my problem. That is why I have been in a camp. I didn't. I pretended to."

"Go on."

"As a boy before World War II, I was raised under the French lycŽe system, even as I longed to become old enough to join the struggle for independence. In 1942, the Japanese came, expelling the French even though Vichy France was technically on their side. So we fought the Japanese.

"Leading in that struggle were the Communists under Ho Chi Minh. They were more efficient, more skilled, more ruthless than the Nationalists. Many changed sides, but my father did not. When the Japanese departed in defeat in 1945, Ho Chi Minh was a national hero. I was fifteen, already part of the struggle. Then the French came back.

"Then came nine more years of war. Ho Chi Minh and the Communist Vietminh resistance movement simply absorbed all other movements. Anyone who resisted was liquidated. I was in that war, too. I was one of those human ants who carried the parts of the artillery to the mountain peaks around Dien Bien Phu where the French were crushed in 1954. Then came the Geneva Accords and also a new disaster. My country was divided-North and South."

"You went back to war?"

"Not immediately. There was a short window of peace. We waited for the referendum that was part of the Accords. When it was denied, because the Diem dynasty ruling the South knew they would lose it, we went back to war. The choice was the disgusting Diems and their corruption in the South or Ho and General Giap in the North. I had fought under Giap; I hero-worshiped him. I chose the Communists."

"You were still single?"

"No, I had married my first wife. We had three children."

"They are still there?"

"No, all dead."

"Disease?"

"B52s."

"Go on."

"Then the first Americans came. Under Kennedy. Supposedly as advisers. But to us, the Diem regime had simply become another puppet government like the ones imposed under the Japanese and the French. So again, half my country was occupied by foreigners. I went back to the jungle to fight."

"When?"

"Nineteen sixty-three."

"Ten more years?"

"Ten more years. By the time it was over, I was forty-two and I had spent half my life living like an animal, subject to hunger, disease, fear, and the constant threat of death."

"But after 1972 you should have been triumphant." remarked Dexter. The Vietnamese shook his head.

"You do not understand what happened after Ho died in 1968. The party and the government fell into different hands. Many of us were still fighting for a country we hoped and expected would have some tolerance in it. The ones who took over from Ho had no such intention. Patriot after patriot was arrested and executed. Those in charge were Le Doan and Le Duc Tho. They had none of the inner strength of Ho, which could tolerate a humane approach. They had to destroy to dominate. The power of the secret police was massively increased. You remember the Tet Offensive?"

"Yes."

"You Americans seem to think it was a victory for us. Not true. It was devised in Hanoi, wrongly attributed to General Giap, who was in fact impotent under De Doan. It was imposed on the Vietcong as a direct order. It destroyed us. that was the intent. Forty thousand of our best cadres died in suicide missions. Among them were all the natural leaders of the South. With them gone, Hanoi ruled supreme. After Tet, the North Vietnamese army took control, just in time for the victory. I was one of the last survivors of the southern Nationalists. I wanted a free and reunited country, yes, but also with cultural freedom, a private sector, farm-owning farmers. That turned out to be a mistake."

"What happened?"

"Well, after the final conquest of the South in 1975, the real pogroms started. The Chinese. Two million were stripped of everything they possessed, either forced into slave labour or expelled, the Boat People. I objected and said so. Then the camps started for dissident Vietnamese. Two hundred thousand are now in camps, mainly southerners. At the end of 1975, the Cong Ang, the secret police, came for me. I had written one too many letters of objection, saying that for me, everything I had fought for was being betrayed. They didn't like that."

"What did you get?"

"Three years, the standard sentence for 'reeducation.' After that, three years of daily surveillance. I was sent to a camp in Hatay Province, about forty miles from Hanoi. They always send you far away from your home; it deters escape."

"But you made it?"

"My wife made it. She really is a nurse, as well as being a forger. And I really was a schoolmaster in the few years of peace. We met in the camp. She was in the clinic. I had developed abscesses on both legs. We talked. We fell in love. She smuggled me out of there; she had some gold trinkets, hidden, not confiscated. These bought us a ticket on a freighter. So now you know."

"And you think I might believe you?" asked' Dexter.

"You speak our language. Were you there?"

"Yes, I was."

"Did you fight?"

"I did."

"Then I say as one soldier to another: You should know defeat when you see it. You are looking at complete and utter defeat. So, shall we go?"

"Where had you in mind?"

"Back to the Immigration people of course. You will have to report us."

Cal Dexter finished his coffee and rose. Maj. Nguyen Van Tran tried to rise also, but Dexter pressed him back into his seat. "Two things, Major. The war is over. It happened far away and long ago. Try to enjoy the rest of your life."

The Vietnamese was like one in a state of shock. He nodded dumbly. Dexter turned and walked away.

As he went down the steps to the street, something was troubling him. Something about the Vietcong officer, his face, the expression of frozen astonishment.

At the end of the street, passersby turned to look at the young lawyer who threw back his head and laughed at the madness of fate. Absently he rubbed his left hand where the one-time enemy's hot nut oil in the tunnel had scalded him.

It was November 22, 1978.

10 The Geek

By 1985, Cal Dexter had left Honeyman Fleischer, but not for a job that would lead to that fine house in Westchester. He joined the Legal Aid Society. It was not glamorous and it was not lucrative; but it gave him something he could not have achieved in corporate or tax law, and he knew it. It was called job satisfaction.

Angela had taken it well, better than he had hoped. In fact, she did not really mind. The Marozzi family were as close as grapes on the vine, and they were Bronx people through and through. Amanda Jane was in a school she liked, surrounded by her friends. A bigger and better job and a move upmarket was not required.

The new job meant working an impossible number of hours in a day and representing those who had slipped through a hole in the mesh of the American Dream. It meant defending in court those who could not begin to afford legal representation on their own account.

For Cal Dexter, poor and inarticulate did not necessarily mean guilty. He never failed to get a buzz when some dazed and grateful client who, whatever else his inadequacies, had not done what he was charged with, walked free. It was a hot summer night in 1988 when he met Washington Lee.

The borough of Manhattan alone handles over 110,000 criminal cases a year, and that excludes civil suits. The court system appears permanently on the verge of overload and a circuit blowout, but somehow it seems to survive. In those years part of the reason was the twenty-four-houraday conveyor-belt system of court hearings that ran endlessly through the great granite block at 100 Centre Street.

Like a good vaudeville show, the Criminal Courts Building could boast "We never close." It would probably be an exaggeration to say that "all life is here," but certainly the lower parts of Manhattan life showed up.

That night in July 1988, Dexter was working the night shift as an oncall attorney who could be allocated a client on the sayso of an overbusy judge. It was 2:00 A.M. and he was trying to slip away when a voice summoned him back to Court AR2A. He sighed; one did not argue with Judge Hasselblad.

He approached the bench to join an assistant district attorney already standing there clutching a file.

"You're tired, Mr. Dexter."

"I guess we all are, Your Honour."

"No dispute, but there is one more case I'd like you to take on. Not tomorrow, now. Take the file. This young man seems to be in serious trouble."

"Your wish is my command, Judge."

Hasselblad's face widened in a grin. "I just love deference," he rejoined.

Dexter took the file from the ADA, and they left the court together. The file cover read: People of the State of New York v. Washington Lee.

"Where is he?" asked Dexter.

"Right here in a holding cell," said the ADA.

As he had thought from the mug shot staring at him from the file, his client was a skinny kid with the air of bewildered hopelessness worn by the uneducated who are sucked in, chewed up, and spat out by any judicial system in the world. He seemed more bewildered than smart.

The accused was eighteen years old, a denizen of that charm-free district known as Bedford-Stuyvesant, a part of Brooklyn that is virtually a Black ghetto. That alone aroused Dexter's interest. Why was he being charged in Manhattan? He presumed the kid had crossed the river and stolen a car or mugged someone with a wallet worth stealing.

But no, the charge was bank fraud. So, passing a forged check, attempting to use a stolen credit card, even the old trick of simultaneous withdrawals at opposite ends of the counter from a dummy account? No.

The charge was odd, unspecific. The district attorney had laid a barebones charge alleging fraud in excess of ten-thousand dollars. The victim was the East River Savings Bank headquartered in midtown Manhattan, which explained why the charge was not being pursued in Brooklyn. The fraud had been detected by the bank security staff, and the bank wished to pursue with maximum vigour according to corporate policy.

Dexter smiled encouragingly, introduced himself, sat down, and offered cigarettes. He did not smoke, but 99 percent of his clients dragged happily on the white sticks. Washington Lee shook his head.

"They're bad for your health, man."

Dexter was tempted to say that seven years in the state pen was not going to do great things for it either, but forbore. Mr. Lee, he noted, was not just homely, he was downright ugly. So how had he charmed a bank into handing over so much money? The way he looked, shuffled, slumped, he would hardly have been allowed across the Italian-marble lobby of the prestigious East River Savings Bank.

Calvin Dexter needed more time than was available to give the case file his full and proper attention. The immediate concern was to get through the formality of the arraignment and see if there was even a remote possibility of bail. He doubted it.

An hour later Dexter and the ADA were back in court. Washington Lee, looking completely bewildered, was duly arraigned.

"Are we ready to proceed?" asked Judge Hasselblad.

"May it please the court, I have to ask for a continuance," said Dexter.

"Approach," ordered the judge. When the two lawyers stood beneath the bench, he asked, "You have a problem, Mr. Dexter?"

"This is a more complex case than at first appears, Your Honour. This is not hubcaps. The charge refers to over ten thousand dollars, embezzled from a blue-chip bank. I need more study time."

The judge glanced at the ADA, who shrugged, meaning no objection.

"A week from today," said the judge.

"I'd like to ask for bail," said Dexter.

"Opposed, Your Honour," said the ADA.

"I'm setting the bail at the sum named in the charge, ten thousand dollars," said Judge Hasselblad.

It was out of the question, and they all knew it. Washington Lee did not have ten dollars, and no bail bondsman was likely to give him the time of day. It was back to a cell. As they left the court Dexter asked the ADA for a favour.

"Be a sport, keep him in the Tombs, not the Island."

"Not a problem. Try and grab some sleep, huh?"

There are two short-spell remand prisons used by the Manhattan court system. The Tombs may sound like something underground, but it is in fact a highrise remand centre right next to the court buildings and far more convenient for defence lawyers visiting their clients than Rikers Island, way up the East River. Despite the ADA 's advice for a bit of sleep, the file probably precluded that. If he was to confer with Washington Lee the next morning, he had some reading to do.

To the trained eye the wad of papers told the story of the detection and arrest of Washington Lee. The fraud had been detected internally and traced to Lee. The bank's head of security, one Dan Mitkowski, was a former detective with the NYPD, and he had prevailed on some of his former colleagues to go over to Brooklyn and arrest Washington Lee.

He had first been brought to, and lodged in, a precinct house in midtown. When a sufficient number of miscreants were gracing the cells of the precinct house, they were brought down to the Criminal Courts Building and relodged there on the timeless and unvarying diet of baloney and cheese sandwiches.

Then the wheels had ground their remorseless course. The rap sheet showed a short litany of minor street crime: hubcaps, vending machines, shoplifting. With that formality complete, Washington Lee was ready for arraignment. That was when Judge Hasselblad demanded that the youth be represented.

On the face of it, this was a youth born to nothing and with nothing, who would graduate from truancy to pilfering and thence a life of crime and frequent periods as a guest of the citizens of New York State somewhere "up the river." So how on earth had he sweet-talked the East River Savings Bank, which did not even have a branch in Bedford-Stuyvesant, out of ten thousand dollars? No answer. Not in the file. Just a barebones charge, and an angry and vengeful Manhattan-based bank. Grand larceny in the third degree. Seven years' hard time.

Dexter grabbed three hours' sleep, saw Amanda Jane off to school, kissed Angela goodbye, and came back to Centre Street. It was in an interview room in the Tombs that he was able to drag his story out of the Black kid.

At school he excelled at nothing. His grades were a disaster. The future offered nothing but the road to dereliction, crime, and jail. And then one of the schoolteachers, maybe smarter than the others or just kinder, had allowed the graceless boy access to his HewlettPackard computer. (Here Dexter was reading between the lines of the halting narrative.)

It was like offering a young Yehudi Menuhin a chance to hold a violin. He stared at the keys, he stared at the screen, and he began to make music. The teacher, clearly a computer buff when personal machines were the exception rather than the norm, was intrigued. That was five years earlier.

Washington Lee began to study. He also began to save. When he opened and gutted vending machines, he did not smoke the proceeds or drink them or shoot them into his arm or wear them as clothes. He saved them until he could buy a cheap computer in a bankruptcy sale.

"So how did you swindle the East River Savings Bank?"

"I broke into their mainframe," said the kid.

For a moment Cal Dexter thought a jimmy might have been involved, so he asked his client to explain. For the first time the boy became animated. He was talking about the only thing he knew.

"Man, have you any idea how weak some of the defensive systems created to protect databases really are?"

Dexter conceded it was not a query that had ever detained him. Like most nonexperts, he knew that computer-system designers created "firewalls" to prevent unauthorised access to hypersensitive databases. How they did it, let alone how to outwit them, had never occurred to him. He teased the story out of Washington Lee.

The East River Savings Bank had stored every detail of every account holder in a huge database. As clients' financial situations are regarded by most clients as very private, access to those details involved bank officers punching in an elaborate system of coded signals. Unless these were absolutely correct, the computer screen would simply flash the message "Access Denied." A third erroneous attempt to break in would start alarm signals, which would flash at the head office.

Washington Lee had broken the codes without triggering the alarms, to the point where the main computer buried below the bank's headquarters in Manhattan would obey his instructions. In short, he had performed coitus noninterruptus on a very expensive piece of technology.

His instructions were simple. He ordered the computer to identify every savings and deposit account held by clients of the bank and the monthly interest paid into those accounts. Then he ordered it to deduct twenty-five cents from each interest payment and transfer it into his own account.

As he did not have one, he opened one at the local Chase Manhattan. Had he known enough to transfer the money to the Bahamas, he would probably have gotten away with it.

It is quite a calculation to ascertain interest due on one's deposit account because it will depend on the ambient interest rate over the earning period, and that will fluctuate; and to get it to the nearest twenty-five cents takes time. Most people do not have that time. They trust the bank to do the math and get it right.

Not Mr. Tolstoy. He may have been eighty, but his mind was still sharp as a pin. His problem was boredom, whiling away his hours in his tiny apartment on West 108th Street. Having spent his life as an actuary for a major insurance company, he was convinced that even nickels and dimes count, if multiplied enough times. He spent his time trying to catch the bank in error. One day, he did.

He became convinced his interest due for the month of April was twenty-five cents short. He checked the figures for March. Same thing. He went back two more months. Then he complained.

The local manager would have given him the missing dollar, but rules are rules. He filed the complaint. Head office thought it was a single glitch on a single account but ran random checks on half a dozen other accounts. Same thing. Then the tech staff were called in.

They established that the master computer had done this to every checking account in the bank and had been doing so for twenty months. They asked it why.

"Because you told me to," said the computer.

"No, we didn't," said the techies.

"Well, someone did," said the computer.

That was when they called in Dan Mitkowski. It did not take very long. The transfers of all these quarters were to an account at the Chase Manhattan over in Brooklyn. Client's name: Washington Lee.

"Tell me, how much did all this net you?" asked Dexter.

"Just shy of a million dollars."

The lawyer bit the end off his pencil. No wonder the charge was so vague. "In excess of ten thousand dollars" indeed. The very size of the theft gave him an idea.

Mr. Lou Ackerman enjoyed his breakfast. For him it was the best meal of the day-never hurried like lunch, never overrich like banquet dinners. He enjoyed the shock of the icy juice, the crunch of the cereal flakes, the fluffiness of well-scrambled eggs, the aroma of the freshly perked Blue Mountain coffee. On his balcony above Central Park West, in the cool of a summer morning before the real heat came upon the day, it was a joy. And it was a shame for Mr. Calvin Dexter to spoil it.

When his Filipino manservant brought the pasteboard card to his terrace, he glanced at the words "attorney-at-law," frowned, and wondered who his visitor might be. The name rang a bell. He was about to tell his manservant to ask the visitor to come to the bank later in the morning, when a voice behind the Filipino said, "I know it's an impertinence, Mr. Ackerman, and for that I apologise. But if you will give me ten minutes, I suggest you will be glad we did not meet in the glare of attention at your office."

Ackerman shrugged and gestured to a chair across the table.

"Tell Mrs. Ackerman I'm in conference at the breakfast table," he instructed the Filipino. Then to Dexter, "Keep it short, Mr. Dexter."

"I will. You are pressing for the prosecution of my client, Mr. Washington Lee, for having allegedly skimmed almost a million dollars from your clients' accounts. I think it would be wise to drop the charges."

The CEO of the East River Savings Bank could have kicked himself. You show a little kindness and what do you get? A ball breaker ruining your breakfast.

"Forget it, Mr. Dexter. Conversation over. No way. The boy goes down. There must be deterrence to this sort of thing. Company policy. Good day."

"Pity. You see, the way he did it was fascinating. He broke into your computer mainframe. He waltzed through all your firewalls, your security guards. No one is supposed to be able to do that."

"Your time is up, Mr. Dexter."

"A few seconds more. There will be other breakfasts. You have about a million clients, checking accounts and deposit accounts. They think their funds are safe with you. Later this week a skinny Black kid from the ghetto is going to stand up in court and say that if he did it, any half-assed amateur could empty any of your clients' accounts after a few hours of electronic probing. How do you think your clients are going to like that?"

Ackerman put down his coffee and stared across the park. "It's not true, and why should they believe it?"

"Because the press will be there and the TV and radio media will be outside. I think up to 25 percent of your clients could decide to change banks."

"We'll announce we are installing a whole new safeguard system. The best on the market."

"But that's what you were supposed to have had before. And a kid from Bed-Stuy with no school grades broke it. You were lucky. You got the whole million dollars back. Supposing it happened again, for tens of millions in one awful weekend, and it went to the Caymans. The bank would have to reinstate. Would your board appreciate the humiliation?"

Lou Ackerman thought of his board. Some of the institutional shareholders were people like Shearson Lehman and Morgan Stanley, the sort of people who hated to be humiliated, the sort who might have a man's job.

"It's that bad, uh?"

"I'm afraid so."

"All right. I'll call the DA's office and say we have no further interest in proceeding, since we have all our money back. Mind you, the DA can still proceed if he wants to."

"Then you'll be very persuasive, Mr. Ackerman. All you have to say is: 'Scam, what scam?' After that, mum is the word, wouldn't you say?"

He rose and turned to leave. Ackerman was a good loser.

"We could always do with a good lawyer, Mr. Dexter."

"I've got a better idea. Take Washington Lee on the payroll. I'd have thought fifty thousand dollars a year is about right."

Ackerman was on his feet, Blue Mountain staining the table linen brown.

"What the hell should I want that lowlife on the payroll for?"

"Because when it comes to computers, he's the best. He's proved it. He sliced through a security system that cost you a mint to instal, and he did it with a fifty-dollar sardine can. He could instal for you a totally impenetrable system. You could make a sales point out of it: The safest database outside of Switzerland. He's much safer inside the tent pissing out."

Washington Lee was released twenty-four hours later. He was not quite sure why. Neither was the ADA. But the bank had had a bout of corporate amnesia, and the District Attorney's Office had its usual backlog. Why insist?

The bank sent a town car to the Tombs to pick up their new staffer. He had never been in one before He sat in the back and looked at the head of his lawyer poking in the window.

"Man, I don't know what you did or how you did it. One day maybe I can pay you back."

"OK, Washington, maybe one day you will."

11 The killer

When Yugoslavia was ruled by Marshal Tito it was virtually a crimefree society. Molesting a tourist was unthinkable, women safely walked the streets, and racketeering was nonexistent.

This was odd, considering that the six republics that made up Yugoslavia, cobbled together by the Western Allies in 1918, had traditionally produced some of the most vicious and violent gangsters in Europe.

The reason was that, post 1948, the Yugoslav government established a compact with the Yugoslav underworld. The deal was simple: You can do whatever you like, and we will turn a blind eye under one condition-you do it abroad. Belgrade simply exported its entire crime world.

The speciality targets for the Yugoslav crime bosses were Italy, Austria, Germany, and Sweden. The reason was simple. By the mid-1960s, the Turks and the Yugoslavs had become the first wave of "guest workers" in richer countries to the north, meaning that they were encouraged to come and do the mucky jobs that the overindulged indigenes no longer wanted to do.

Every large ethnic movement brings its own crime world with it. The Italian Mafia arrived in New York with the Italian immigrants; Turkish criminals soon joined the Turkish "guest worker" communities across Europe. The Yugoslavs were the same, but here the agreement was more structured.

Belgrade got it both ways. Its thousands of Yugoslavs working abroad sent their hard currency home each week. As a Communist state Yugoslavia was always an economic mess, but the regular inflow of hard currency hid the fact.

So long as Tito repudiated Moscow, the United States and NATO remained pretty relaxed about what else he did. Indeed, he ranked as one of the leaders of the nonaligned countries right through the Cold War. The beautiful Dalmatian coast along the Adriatic where the sun shone became a tourist Mecca, bringing in even more foreign exchange.

Internally, Tito ran a brutal regime where dissidents or opponents were concerned, but he kept it quiet and discreet. The compact with the gangsters was run and supervised not so much by the civil police but by the secret police, known as State Security or DB.

It was the DB that laid down the terms. The gangsters preying on the Yugoslav communities abroad could return home for R and R with impunity, and they did. They built themselves villas on the coast and mansions in the capital. They made their donations to the pension funds of the chiefs of the DB, and occasionally they were required to carry out a "wet job" with no invoice and no trace back. The mastermind of this cosy arrangement was the longtime Intelligence boss, the fat and fearsome Slovenian Stane Dolanc.

Inside Yugoslavia there was a little prostitution, but well under local police control, and some lucrative smuggling, which again helped official pension funds. But violence, other than the state kind, was forbidden. Young delinquents reached the level of running rival district street gangs, stealing cars (not belonging to tourists) and brawling. If they wanted to get more serious than that, they had to leave.

Those hard of hearing on this issue could find themselves in a remote prison camp with the cell key dropped down a deep well. Marshal Tito was no fool, but he was mortal. He died in 1980, and things began to fall apart.

In the blue-collar Belgrade district of Zemun, a garage mechanic had a son in 1956 and named him Zoran. From an early age it became plain that the boy's nature was vicious and deeply violent. By the age of ten, Zoran Zilic's teachers shuddered at the mention of him. But he had one thing that would later set him apart from other Belgrade gangsters like Zeljko Raznatovic, alias Arkan. He was smart.

Skipping school from fourteen onward Zilic became the leader of a teenage gang involved in the usual pleasures of stealing cars, brawling, drinking, and ogling the local girls. After one particular "rumble" between two gangs, three members of the opposing team had been so badly beaten with bicycle chains that they hovered between life and death for several days. The local police chief decided that enough was enough.

Zilic was hauled in, taken to the basement by two stalwarts with lengths of rubber hose, and beaten till he could not stand. There was no ill will involved; the police felt they needed him to concentrate on what they were saying.

The police chief then gave the youth a word of advice, or several. It was 1972, the boy was sixteen, and a week later he left the country. But he already had an introduction to take up.

In Germany, he joined the gang of Ljuba Zemunac, whose surname was adopted, taken from the suburb of his birth. He also came from Zemun.

Zemunac was an impressively vicious mobster who would later be shot to death in the lobby of a German courthouse, but Zoran Zilic stayed with him for ten years, earning the older man's admiration as the most sadistic enforcer he had ever employed. In protection racketeering, the ability to inspire terror is vital. Zilic could do that and enjoy every moment of it.

In 1982, Zilic left and formed his own gang at the age of twenty-six. This might have caused a turf war with his old employer, but Zemunac shuffled off the mortal coil soon afterward. Zilic remained at the head of his gang in Germany and Austria for the next five years. He had long ago mastered German and English. But back home, things were changing.

There was no one to replace Marshal Tito, whose war record as a partisan against the Germans and sheer force of personality had kept together this unnatural six-province federation for so long.

The decade of the eighties was marked by a series of coalition governments that rose and fell, but the spirit of secession and separate independence was raging through Slovenia and Croatia in the north, and Macedonia in the south.

In 1987, Zilic cast his lot in with a shabby little ex-Communist Party hack whom others had overlooked or underestimated. He sported two qualities Zilic liked: an absolute ruthlessness in the pursuit of power, and a level of cunning and deviousness that would disarm rivals until it was too late. Zilic had spotted the coming man. From 1987, he offered to "take care" of the opponents of Slobodan Milosevic. There was no refusal and no charge.

By 1989, Milosevic had realised that communism was dead in the water; the horse to mount was that of extreme Serb nationalism. In fact, he brought not one but four horsemen to his country, those of the Apocalypse. Zilic served him almost to the end.

Yugoslavia was breaking up. Milosevic posed as the man to save the union, but he made no mention that he intended to do this through genocide, known as "ethnic cleansing." Inside Serbia, the province around Belgrade, his popularity stemmed from the belief that he would save Serbs everywhere from non-Serb persecution.

To do this, they first had to be persecuted. If the Croatians or Bosnians were slow on the uptake, this had to be arranged. A small local massacre would normally provoke the resident majority to turn on the Serbs among them. Then Milosevic could send in the army to save the Serbs. It was the gangsters, turned paramilitary "patriots," who acted as his agents provocateurs.

Where up until 1989 the Yugoslav state had kept its gangster underworld at arm's length and abroad, Milosevic took them into full partnership at home.

Like so many second-raters elevated to state power, Milosevic became fascinated by money. The sheer size of the sums involved acted on him like a snake charmer's pipe to a cobra. It was not, for him, the luxury that money could buy. He remained personally frugal to the end. It was money as another form of power that hypnotised him. By the time he fell, it was estimated by the successor Yugoslavian government that Milosevic and his cronies had embezzled and diverted to their own foreign accounts about twenty billion dollars.

Others were not so frugal. These included his ghastly wife and equally appalling son and daughter. The Milosevic household made *The Munsters* look like *Little House on the Prairie*.

Among those "full partners" was Zoran Zilic, who became the dictator's personal enforcer, a killer for hire. Reward under Milosevic was never in cash. It came in the award of franchises for especially lucrative rackets, coupled with the assurance of absolute immunity. The tyrant's cronies could rob, torture, rape, kill, and there was absolutely nothing the regular police could do about it. He established a criminal-cum-embezzler regime, posed as a patriot, and the Serbs and Western European politicians fell for it for years.

In all this brutality and bloodshed, he still did not save the Yugoslav Federation or even his dream of a greater Serbia. Slovenia left, then Macedonia and Croatia. By the Dayton Agreement of November 1995, Bosnia was gone; and by July 1999, he had not only effectively lost Kosovo, but he had also provoked the partial destruction of Serbia itself by NATO bombs.

Like Arkan, Zilic also formed a small squad of paramilitaries. There were others, like the sinister, shadowy, and brutal Frankie's Boys, the group of Frankie Stamatovic-amazingly not even a Serb, but a renegade Croat from Istria. Unlike the florid and ostentatious Arkan, gunned down in the lobby of the Belgrade Holiday Inn, Zilic kept himself and his group so low-profile as to be invisible. But on three occasions during the Bosnia war he took his group north and raped, tortured, and murdered his way across that miserable province until American intervention put a stop to it.

The third occasion was in April 1995. Where Arkan called his group his Tigers and had a couple of hundred of them, Zilic was content with Zoran's Wolves and he kept the numbers small. On the third sortie, he had no more than a dozen. They were all thugs who had operated before, save one. He lacked a radio operator and one of his colleagues, whose younger brother was in law school, said his brother had a friend who had been an army R/T operator.

Contacted via the fellow student, the newcomer agreed to forego his Easter vacation and join the Wolves.

Zilic asked what he was like. Had he seen combat? No, he had done his military service in the Signal Corps, which was why he was ready for some "action."

If he has never been shot at, then he surely has never killed anyone," said Zilic. "So this expedition should be quite a learning experience.

The group set off for the north in the first week of May, delayed by technical problems in their Russian-made vehicles. They went through Pale, the tiny former ski resort now established as the capital of the self-styled Republika Serbska, the third of Bosnia now so "cleansed" that it was uniquely Serb. They skirted Sarajevo, once the proud host of the winter Olympics, now a wreck, and went on into Bosnia proper, making their base at the stronghold of Banja Luka.

From there Zilic ranged outward, avoiding the dangerous Mujehadin, looking for softer targets among any Bosnian Muslim communities that might lack armed protection.

On May 14th, they found a small hamlet in the Vlasic range, took it by surprise, and wiped out the inhabitants, spent the night in the woods, and were back at Banja Luka by the evening of the 15th.

The new recruit left them the next day, screaming that he wanted to get back to his studies after all. Zilic let him go, after warning him that if he ever opened his mouth, he, Zilic, would personally cut off his dick with a broken wine glass and stuff both down his throat in that order. He did not like the boy anyway; he was stupid and squeamish.

The Dayton Agreement put an end to sport in Bosnia, but Kosovo was coming into season; and in 1998, Zilic was operating there also, claiming to be suppressing the Kosovo Liberation Army, in fact concentrating on rural communities and some seriously interesting looting.

But he never neglected his real reason for allying with Slobodan Mibosevic. His service to the despot had paid rich dividends. His "business" dealings were a gangster's charter, the right to do what every mafioso has to dodge the law to achieve and yet do it with presidential immunity.

Chief among the franchises that paid dividends of several hundred percent were cigarettes and perfumes, fine brandies and whiskies, and all forms of luxury goods. These franchises he shared with Arkan, the only other gangster of comparable importance, and a few others. Even with sweeteners for all the necessary police and political "protection," he was a millionaire by the mid-nineties.

Then he moved into prostitution, narcotics, and arms dealing. With his fluent German and English he was better placed to deal with the international crime world than the others, who were monolinguistic.

Narcotics and arms were especially lucrative. His dollar fortune entered eight figures. He also entered the files of the American Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), the CIA, the Defence Intelligence Agency (DIA), and the FBI.

Those around Milosevic, fat on embezzled money, power, corruption, ostentation, luxury, and the endless sycophancy to which they were subjected, became lazy and complacent. They presumed the party would go on forever. Zilic did not.

He avoided the obvious banks used by most of his cronies to store or export their fortunes. Almost every penny he made, he stashed abroad but via banks no one in the Serbian state knew anything about. And he watched for the first cracks in the plaster. Sooner or later, he reasoned acutely, even the awesomely weak politicians and diplomats of the United Nations and the European Union would see through Milosevic and call "time out." It happened over Kosovo.

A largely agricultural province, Kosovo ranked with Montenegro as all that was left of Serbia 's fiefdoms within the Yugoslav Federation. It contained about 180,000 Kosovars, who are Muslims and hardly distinguishable from the neighbouring Albanians, and 200,000 Serbs.

Milosevic had been deliberately persecuting the Kosovars for a decade until the once moribund Kosovo Liberation Army was back in being. The strategy was to be the same as usual. Persecute beyond toleration, wait for the local outrage, denounce the "terrorist," enter in force to save the Serbs, and "restore order." Then NATO said it would not stand by any more. Milosevic did not believe them. Mistake. This time they meant it.

In the spring of 1999, the ethnic cleansing began, mainly accomplished by the occupying Third Army, assisted by the Security Police and the paramilitaries: Arkan's Tigers, Frankie's Boys, and Zoran's Wolves. As foreseen, hundreds of thousands of Kosovars fled in terror over the borders into Albania and Macedonia. They were supposed to. The West was supposed to take them all in as refugees… But they did not. They started to bomb Serbia.

Belgrade stuck it out for seventy-eight days. Up front, the local reaction was anti-NATO. Behind their hands, the Serbs began to mutter that it was the mad Milosevic who had brought this ruin upon them. It is always educational to note how the war fever fades when the roof falls in. Zilic heard this muttering.

On June 3, 1999, Milosevic agreed to terms. That was the way it was put. To Zilic it was unconditional surrender. He decided the moment had come to depart.

The fighting ended. The Third Army, having hardly taken a casualty from NATO's high-altitude bombing inside Kosovo, withdrew with all their equipment intact. The NATO allies occupied the province. The remaining Serbs began to flee into Serbia, bringing their rage with them. The direction of that rage began to move from NATO to Milosevic as the Serbs contemplated their shattered country.

Zilic began to slip more and more of his fortune beyond reach and to prepare for his own departure. Through the autumn of 1999 the protests against Milosevic grew and grew.

In a personal interview in November 1999, Zilic begged the dictator to observe the writing on the wall, conduct his own coup d'etat while he had a loyal army to do it, and do away with any further pretence at democracy or opposition parties. But Milosevic was by then in his own private world, where his popularity was undiminished.

Zilic left his presence wondering yet again at the phenomenon that when men who have once held supreme power start to lose it, they go to pieces in every sense. Courage, will power, perception, decisiveness, even the ability to recognise reality-all are washed away as the tide sweeps away a sandcastle. By December, Milosevic was no longer exercising power; he was clinging to it. Zilic completed his preparations.

His fortune was no less than 500 million dollars; he had a place to go where he would be safe. Arkan was dead, executed for falling out with Milosevic. The principal ethnic cleansers of Bosnia, Karadzic and General Mladic of the Srebrenitsa massacre, were being hunted like animals through Republika Serbska where they had taken refuge. Others had already been snatched for the new war crimes tribunal in The Hague. Milosevic was a broken reed.

As a matter of record, Milosevic declared on July 27, 2000, the coming presidential elections for September 24th. Despite copious rigging and a refusal to accept the outcome, he still lost. Crowds stormed the Parliament and installed his successor. Among the first acts of the new regime was to start investigating the Milosevic period: the murders and the 20 billion missing dollars.

The former tyrant holed himself up in his villa in the plush suburb of Dedinje. On April 1, 2001, President Kostunica was good and ready. The arrest team moved in at last.

But Zoran Zilic was long gone. In January 2000, he just disappeared. He said no goodbyes and took no luggage. He went as one departing for a new life in a different world, where the old gewgaws would have no use. So he left them all behind.

He took nothing and no one with him, save his ultraloyal personal bodyguard, a hulking giant called Kulac. Within a week he had settled in his new hideout, which he had spent over a year preparing to receive him.

No one in the intelligence community paid attention to his departure, save one. A quiet, secretive man in America noted the gangster's new abode with considerable interest.

12 The Monk

It was the dream, always the dream. He could not be rid of it, and it would not let him go. Night after night he would wake screaming, wet with sweat, and his mother would rush in to hold him and try to bring him comfort.

He was a puzzle and a worry to both his parents, for he could not or would not describe his nightmare; but his mother was convinced that he had never had such dreams until his return from Bosnia.

The dream was always the same. It was of the face in the slime, a pale disk ringed with lumps of excrement, some bovine, some human, screaming for mercy, begging for life. He couldn't understand English, as could Zjljc, but words like, "No, no, please, don't," are pretty international.

But the men with the poles laughed and pushed again. And the face came back, until Zilic rammed his pole into the open mouth and pushed downward till the boy was dead under there somewhere. Then he would wake, shouting and crying, until his mother wrapped him in her arms, telling him it was all right, he was home in his own room at Senjak. But he could not explain what he had done, what he had been a part of, when he thought he was doing his patriotic duty to Serbia.

His father was less comforting, claiming he was a hardworking man who needed his sleep. By the autumn of 1995, Milan Rajak had his first session with a trained psychotherapist.

He attended twice a week at the grey-rendered, five-story psychiatric hospital on Palmoticeva Street, the best in Belgrade. But the experts at the Laza Lazarevic could not help either because he dared not confess.

Relief, he was told, comes with purging; but catharsis requires confession. Milosevic was still in power, but far more frightening were the feral eyes of Zoran Zilic that morning in Banja Luka when he said he wanted to quit and go home to Belgrade. Much more terrifying were the whispered words of mutilation and death if he ever opened his mouth.

His father was a dedicated atheist, raised under the Communist regime of Tito and a lifelong loyal servant of the Party. But his mother had kept her faith in the Serbian Orthodox Church, part of the Eastern communion with the Greek and Russian churches. Mocked by her husband and son, she had gone to her morning service down the years. By the end of 1995, Milan started to accompany her.

He began to find some comfort amid the ritual and the litany, the chants and the incense. The horror seemed to ebb in the church, just three blocks from where they lived and where his mother always went.

In 1996, he flunked his law exams to the outrage and despair of his father, who raged up and down the house for two days. If the news from the academy was not to his taste, what his son had to say took his breath away.

"I do not want to be a lawyer, Father. I want to enter the church."

It took time, but Rajak Senior calmed down and tried to come to terms with his changed son. At least the priesthood was a profession of sorts. Not given to wealth, but respectable. A man could still hold his head up and say, "My son is in the church, you know."

The priesthood itself, he discovered, would take years of study to achieve, most of that time in a seminary, but the son had other ideas. He wanted to live in seclusion and without delay. He wanted to become a monk, repudiating everything material in favour of the simple life.

Ten miles southeast of Belgrade he found what he wanted: the small monastery of Saint Stephen in the hamlet of Slanci. It contained no more than a dozen brothers under the authority of the abbot or *iguman*. The monks worked in the fields and barns of their own farm, grew their own food, accepted donations from a few tourists and pilgrims, meditated, and prayed. There was a waiting list to join and no chance of jumping it.

Fate intervened in the meeting with the *iguman*, Abbot Vasilije. He and Rajak Senior stared at each other in amazement. Despite the full black beard, flecked with grey, Rajak recognised the same Goran Tomic who had been at school with him forty years before. The abbot agreed to meet his son and discuss with him a possible career in the church.

The abbot's shrewd intelligence divined that his former schoolmate's son was a young man torn by some inner turmoil that could not find peace in the outer world. He had seen it before. He could not create a vacancy for an instant monk, he Pointed out, but men from the city occasionally joined the monks for the purpose of a religious "retreat."

In the summer of 1996, with the Bosnian war over, Milan Rajak went to Slanci on an extended retreat to grow tomatoes and cucumbers, to meditate, and to pray. The dream ebbed away.

After a month Abbot Vasilije gently suggested that he confess, and he did. In whispered tones, by the light of a candle by the altar, under the gaze of the man from Nazareth, he told the abbot what he had done.

The abbot crossed himself fervently and prayed-for the soul of the boy in the cesspit and for the penitent beside him. He urged Milan to go to the authorities and report those responsible.

But the grip of Milosevic was absolute, and the terror inspired by Zoran Zilic no less so. That the "authorities" would have lifted a finger against Zilic was inconceivable. And the killer's promised vengeance would, when carried out, raise not a ripple on the water. So the silence went on.

The pain began in the winter of 2000. He noticed that it intensified with each bodily motion. After two months he consulted his father, who presumed it was some passing "bug." Nevertheless, he arranged for tests at the Belgrade General Hospital, the Klinicki Centar.

Belgrade has always boasted medical standards among the highest in Europe, and the Belgrade General Hospital was up there among the best. There were three series of tests, and Milan was seen by specialists in proctology, urology, and oncology. It was the professor heading the third department who finally asked Milan Rajak to visit his suite of rooms at the clinic.

"I believe you are a trainee monk?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then you believe in God?"

"Yes."

"I sometimes wish I could also. Alas, I cannot. But you must now test your faith. The news is not good."

"Tell me, please."

"It is what we call colorectal cancer."

"Operable?"

"I regret. No."

"Reversible? Chemotherapy."

"Too late. I am sorry, deeply sorry."

The young man stared out of the window. He had been sentenced to death. "How long, Professor?"

"That is always asked, and it's always impossible to answer. With precautions, care, a special diet, some radiotherapyÉa year. Possibly less, possibly more. Not much more."

It was March 2001. Milan Rajak went back to Slanci and told the abbot. The older man wept for the one who was now like the son he had never had.

On April 1st, the Belgrade police arrested Slobodan Milosevic. Zoran Zilic had disappeared. Milan 's father had used his contacts high in the police force to confirm that Yugoslavia 's most successful and powerful gangster had simply disappeared more than a year earlier and was now living somewhere abroad, location unknown. His influence had disappeared with him.

On April 2, 2001, Milan Rajak looked among his papers for an old business card. He took a sheet of paper and, writing in English, addressed a letter to London. The burden of the letter was in the first sentence.

"I have changed my mind. I am prepared to testify."

Within twenty-four hours of receiving the letter three days later, and after a quick call to Stephen Edmond in Windsor, Ontario, the Tracker came back to Belgrade.

The statement was taken in English, in the presence of a certified interpreter and notary public. It was signed and witnessed.

*Back then in 1995, young Serbian men were accustomed to believe what they were told, and I was no exception. It may be plain today what terrible things were done in Croatia and Bosnia, and later in Kosovo, but we were told the victims were isolated communities of Serbs in these former provinces, and I believed this. The idea that our own armed forces were carrying out the mass murder of old people, women, and children was inconceivable. Only Croats and Bosnians did this sort of thing, we were told. Serbian forces were only concerned to protect and rescue Serbian minority communities.*

*When in April 1995, a fellow law student told me that his brother and others were going to Bosnia to protect the Serbs up there and needed a radio operator, I suspected nothing.*

*I had done my military service as a radio operator, but miles from any fighting I agreed to give up my spring vacation to help my fellow Serbs in Bosnia.*

*When I joined the other twelve, I realised they were rough types, but I put this down to their being hardened combat soldiers and blamed myself for being too spoiled and soft.*

*The column of four off-roads contained twelve men, including the leader, who joined us at the last minute. Only then did I learn he was Zoran Zilic, of whom I had vaguely heard but who had a fearsome and shadowy reputation. We drove for two days, north through Republika Serbska and into central Bosnia. We arrived at Banja Luka and that became our base, notably the Bosna Hotel where we took rooms and ate and drank.*

*We made three patrols north, east, and west of Banja Luka but found no enemy or threatened Serbian villages. On May 14th, we drove south into the Vlasic range of mountains. We knew that beyond the range lay Travnik and Vitez, both enemy territory for us Serbs.*

*In the late afternoon we were driving along a track in the woods when we came across two little girls in front of us. Zilic got out and talked to them. He was smiling. I thought he was being nice to them. One told him her name was Laila. I did not understand. It was a Muslim name. She had signed her own death warrant and that of her village.*

*Zilic took the girls aboard the leading vehicle, and they pointed out where they lived. It was a hamlet in a valley in the woods, nothing much, about twenty adults and a dozen children, seven cottages, some barns, and railed paddocks. When I saw the crescent above the tiny mosque, I realised they were Muslims, but they clearly posed no threat.*

*The others poured out of the off-roads and rounded up everyone in the hamlet. I suspected nothing when they began to search the cottages. I had heard of Muslim fanatics, Mujehadin from the Middle East, Iran, and Saudi Arabia, who also marauded through Bosnia and would kill any Serb on sight. Perhaps there were some hiding there, I thought.*

*When the search was over, Zilic walked back to the lead vehicle and took a position behind the machine gun mounted on a swivel behind the front seats. He shouted to his men to scatter and opened fire on the peasants huddled in the railed cattle pen.*

*It happened almost before I could believe it had happened. The peasants began to jump and dance as the heavy bullets hit them. The other soldiers opened up with their submachine guns. Some of the peasants tried to save their children, throwing their bodies over them. A few of the smaller children got away in this manner, darting between the adults and reaching the trees before the bullets took them. Later I learned there were six who had escaped.*

*I felt violently sick. There was a stench of blood and entrails in the air-you never get the stench in films from Hollywood. I had never seen people die before, but these were not even soldiers or partisans. One old shotgun, perhaps for killing rabbits and crows, had been found.

When it was over, most of the shooters were disappointed. There had been no alcohol found nor anything of value. So they torched the houses and the barns, and we left them burning.*

*We spent the night in the forest. The men had brought their own slivovitz and most got drunk on it. I tried to drink, but brought it all back up. In my sleeping bag, I realised I had made a terrible mistake. These were not patriots around me, but gangsters who killed because they enjoyed it.*

*The next morning, we began to drive down a series of mountain tracks, mainly along the face of the range, back toward the pass that would lead us over the mountains to Banja Luka. That was when we found the farmhouse. It was alone in another small valley amid the woods. I saw Zilic in the first off-road rise from his seat and hold up his hand in a "stop" signal. He gestured that we should cut our engines. The drivers did that, and there was silence. Then we heard voices.*

*Very quietly we got down from the vehicles, took guns, and crept to the edge of the clearing. About a hundred yards away were two grown males leading six children out of a barn. The men were not armed and not in uniform. Behind them was a fire-gutted farmhouse and to one side a new, black Toyota Landcruiser with the words "Loaves-n-Fishes" on the door panel. Both turned and stared when they saw us. The oldest of the children, a little girl of about ten, began to cry. I recognised her by her headscarf. It was Laila.*

*Zilic advanced toward the group with his gun raised, but neither made any attempt to fight. The rest of us fanned out and formed a horseshoe round the captives when we got close to them. The taller of the men spoke, and I realised one was American. So did Zilic. None of the others spoke a word of English. The American said, "Who are you guys?"*

*Zilic did not answer. He strolled over to examine the brandnew Landcruiser. At that moment the child Laila tried to make a run for it. One of the men grabbed but missed. Zilic turned from the off-road, drew his pistol, aimed, fired, and blew the back of her head away. He was very proud of his marksmanship with a pistol.*

*The American was ten feet from Zilic. He took two strides, swung a fist with all his power, and caught Zilic on the side of the mouth. If he had had any chance of survival, that finished it. Zilic was caught by surprise, as he might have been, because no one in all of Yugoslavia would have dared do that.*

*There were two seconds of complete disbelief as Zilic went down, blood pouring from his split lip. Then six of his men were on the American with boots, fists, gun butts. They beat him to a bloody pulp. I think they would have finished him off, but Zilic intervened. He was back up, dabbing the blood off his mouth. He told them to stop the beating.*

*The American was alive, shirt ripped open, torso red from kicking, face already swelling and cut. The open shirt revealed a broad money belt at his waist. Zilic gestured with one hand, and one of his men ripped it off. It was stuffed with one-hundred-dollar bills. Zilic examined the man who had dared hit him.*

*"Dear me, " he said, "so much blood. You need a cold bath, my friend, something to freshen you up." He turned to his men. They were bewildered at his apparent concern for the American. But Zilic had seen something else in the clearing The cesspit was brimming full, partly from animal slurry but also from human waste. It had once served both purposes. If the passing years had solidified the mixture, the recent rains had reliquefied it. On Zilic's orders the American was thrown into it.*

*The shock of the cold must have brought him to his senses. His feet found the bottom of the pit, and he began to struggle. There was a cattle pen nearby with post and rail fencing It was old and broken, but some of the long poles were still whole. The men grabbed several and began to poke the American under the surface of the slime.*

*He began to scream for mercy each time his face appeared above the slime. He was begging for his life. About the sixth time, maybe it was seven, Zilic grabbed a pole and rammed the end into the American's gaping mouth, smashing most of the teeth. Then he pushed downward and kept pushing until the young man was dead.*

*I walked away to the trees and vomited up the sausage and black bread I had eaten for breakfast. I wanted to kill them all, but they were too many and I was too afraid. While I was being sick, I heard several volleys. They had killed the other five children and the Bosnian aid worker who had brought the American to that spot. All the bodies were thrown into the slime pit. Slowly they slithered below the surface and were gone. One of the men found that the words "Loaves-n-Fishes" on each front door of the Landcruiser were simply decals with adhesive backing They peeled off quite easily.*

*When we drove away there was no sign, except the startlingly bright splashes of red, the children's blood on the grass, and the twinkling of a few brass cartridges. That evening Zoran Zilic divided up the dollars. He gave a hundred dollars to each man. I refused to take them, but he insisted that I take a minimum of one note to remain "one of the boys."*

*I tried to get rid of it in the bar that evening, but he saw me and really lost his temper. The next day I told him I was going home, back to Belgrade. He threatened that if I ever spoke one word of what I had seen, he would find me, mutilate, and then kill me.*

*As I have long known, I am not a brave man, and it was my fear of him that kept me silent all these years, even when the Englishman came asking questions in the summer of 1995. But now I have made my peace and am prepared to testify in any court in Holland or America, so long as God Almighty gives me the strength to stay alive.*

*I swear by Him that all I have said is the truth and nothing but the truth.*

*Given under my hand, Senjak District, Belgrade, this 7th day of April 2001.*

*- Milan Rajak.*

That night the Tracker sent a long message to Stephen Edmond in Windsor, Ontario, and the instructions that came back were unequivocal: "Go wherever you must, do whatever it takes, find my grandson or whatever is left of him and bring him home."

13 The Pit

Peace had come to Bosnia with the Dayton Agreement of November 1995, but over five years later, the scars of war were not even disguised, let alone healed.

It had never been a rich province. No Dalmatian coast to attract the tourists; no mineral reserves, just low-tech agriculture in the farmlands between the mountains and the forests.

The economic damage would take years more to recover from, but the social damage was far worse. Few could imagine that in less than a generation or two, Serb, Croat, and Bosnian Muslims would accept to live side by side with each other again, or even a few miles apart, save in armed, watchful compounds.

The international bodies spouted the usual blather about reunification and restoring mutual trust, thus justifying the doomed attempts to put Humpty Dumpty back together again rather than facing the necessity of partition.

The task of governing the shattered entity went to the United Nations high representative, a sort of proconsul with near absolute powers, backed by the soldiers of UNPROFOR. Of all the unglamorous tasks that fell to the people who had no time for posturing on the political stage but who actually made things happen, the least charming went to the ICMP-the International Commission on Missing Persons.

This was run with impressive and quiet efficiency by Gordon Bacon, a former British policeman. To the ICMP fell the task of listening to the tens of thousands of relatives of the "disappeared ones" and taking their statements on the one hand, and tracing and exhuming the hundreds of mini-massacres that had taken place since 1992. The third job was to try and match statements with relics and restore the skull and bundle of bones to the right relatives for final burial according to the religious creed or none.

The matching process would have been completely impossible without DNA, but the new technology meant that a swab of blood from the relative and a sliver of bone from the cadaver could provide proof of identity beyond doubt. By 2000, the fastest and most efficient DNA laboratory in Europe was not in some wealthy Western capital but in Sarajevo, set up and run on tiny funds by Gordon Bacon. It was to see him that the Tracker drove into the Bosnian city two days after Milan Rajak had signed his name.

He did not need to bring the Serb with him. Rajak had revealed that before he died, the Bosnian aid worker, Fadil Sulejman, had told his murderers that the farm had once been his family home. Gordon Bacon read the Rajak statement with interest but no sense of novelty.

He had read hundreds before, but always from the few survivors, never from one of the perpetrators, and never involving an American. He realised the mystery of what he knew as the Colenso file might be solved at last. He contacted the ICMP commissioner for the Travnik zone and asked for the fullest cooperation with Mr. Gracey when he arrived. The Tracker spent the night in his fellow countryman's spare bedroom and drove north again in the morning.

It is just over two hours into Travnik, and he was there by midday. He had talked with Stephen Edmond, and a swab of the grandfather's blood was on its way from Ontario.

On April 11th, the exhumation team left Travnik for the hills, aided by a local guide. Questions at the mosque had quickly discovered two men who had known Fadil Sulejman, and one of them said he knew the farm in the upland valley. He was in the leading off-road.

The digger team brought with them protective clothing, breathing aids, shovels, soft brushes, sieves, and evidence bags, all the needs of their grisly trade.

The valley was much as it must have been six years earlier, but a bit more overgrown. No one had come to reclaim it; the Sulejman family appeared to have ceased to exist.

They found the sewage pit without difficulty. The spring rains had been less than in 1995, and the contents of the pit had hardened to malodorous clay. The diggers pulled on garments like a fly fisherman's waders and jackets but seemed immune to the smell.

Rajak had testified that on the day of the murder, the pit was full to the brim, but if Ricky Colenso's feet had touched bottom, it must be about six feet deep. Without rain, the surface had receded two feet downward.

After three feet of slime had been shovelled out, the ICMP commissioner ordered his men to throw down their shovels and resume with hand trowels. An hour later the first bones were visible, and after a further hour of work with scraper and camel-hair brush, the massacre site was exposed.

No air had penetrated to the bottom of the pit, so there had been no maggots at work, since they depend on air. The decomposition was uniquely due to enzymes and bacilli.

Every fragment of soft tissue was gone, and when wiped with a damp cloth, the first skull to emerge gleamed clean and white. There were fragments of leather, from the boots and belts of the two men; an ornate belt buckle, surely American, plus metal studs from jeans and buttons from a denim jacket.

One of the men on his knees down below called out and passed up a watch. Seventy months had not affected the inscription on the back: "Ricky, from Mom. Graduation.1994."

The children had all been thrown in dead, and they had sunk on top of, or close to, each other. Time and decomposition had made a jumble of the bones of the six corpses, but the size of the skeletons proved who they had been.

Sulejman had also gone in dead; his skeleton lay on its back, spread-eagled, the way the body had sunk. His friend stood and looked down into the pit and prayed to Allah. He confirmed his former classmate had been around five feet, eight inches tall.

The eighth body was the big one, over six feet. It was to one side, as if the dying boy had tried to crawl through the blackness to the sidewall. The bones lay on their side, hunched in a foetal position. The watch came from that pile and the belt buckle. When the skull was passed up, the front teeth were smashed, as Rajak had testified.

It was sundown when the last tiny bone was retrieved and bagged. The two grown men were in separate bags; the children shared their own, the reassembly of six small skeletons could be done in the mortuary down in the town.

The Tracker drove to Vitez for the night. The British army was long gone, but he took a billet with the guesthouse he had stayed in before and which he knew. In the morning he returned to the ICMP office in Travnik.

From Sarajevo, Gordon Bacon authorised the local commissioner to release the remains of Ricky Colenso to Captain Gracey for transportation to the capital.

The swab from Ontario had arrived. In a remarkably fast two days, the DNA tests were complete. The head of the ICMP in Sarajevo attested that the skeleton was indeed that of Richard "Ricky" Colenso. He needed formal authority from the next of kin to release the remains into the care of Philip Gracey of Andover, Hampshire, UK. That took two days to arrive.

In the interval, on instructions from Ontario, the Tracker bought a casket from Sarajevo 's premier funeral parlour. The morticians arranged the skeleton with other materials to give heft and balance to the casket as if it contained a real cadaver. Then it was sealed forever.

It was on April 16th that the Canadian magnate's Grumman IV arrived with a letter of authority to take over. The Tracker consigned the casket and the fat file of paperwork to the captain and went home to the green fields of England.

Stephen Edmond was at Dulles to receive his own executive jet when it touched down on the evening of the 16th after a refuelling stop at Shannon. An ornate hearse took the casket to a funeral parlour for two days while final arrangements for interment were completed.

On the 18th, the ceremony took place at the very exclusive Oak Hill Cemetery on R Street in Georgetown. It was small and private, in the Roman Catholic rite. The boy's mother, Mrs. Annie Colenso, nŽe, Edmond, stood with her husband's arm around her, weeping quietly. Professor Colenso dabbed at his eyes and occasionally glanced over at his father-in-law as if he did not know what to do and sought some guidance.

Across the grave the eighty-one-year-old Canadian stood in his dark suit like a pillar of his own pentlandite ore and looked unblinkingly down at the coffin of his grandson. He had not shown the report from the Tracker to his daughter or son-in-law and certainly not the testimony of Milan Rajak.

They knew only that a belated eyewitness had come forward who recalled seeing the black Landcruiser in a valley, and as a result, the two bodies had been found. But he had to concede that they had been murdered and buried. There was no other way of explaining the sixyear gap.

The service ended, the mourners moved away to let the sextons work. Mrs. Colenso ran to her father and hugged him, pressing her face against the fabric of his shirt. He looked down and gently stroked the top of her head, as he had when she was a small girl and something frightened her.

"Daddy, whoever did this to my baby, I want him caught. Not killed quickly and cleanly. I want him to wake up in jail every morning for the rest of his life and know that he is there and will never come out again, and I want him to think back and know that it is all because he cold-bloodedly murdered my child."

The old man had already made up his mind. "I may have to move heaven," he rumbled, "and I may have to move hell. And if I must, I will."

He let her go, nodded to the professor, and strode away to his limousine. As the driver eased up the slope to the R Street gateway, Stephen Edmond took his phone from the console and dialled a number. Somewhere on Capitol Hill a secretary answered.

"Put me through to Sen. Peter Lucas," he said.

The face of the senior senator for New Hampshire lit up when he got the message. Friendships born in the heat of war may last an hour or a lifetime. With Stephen Edmond and Peter Lucas, it had been fifty-five years since they had sat on an English lawn on a spring morning and wept for the young men of both their countries who would never come home. But the friendship had endured, as though they were brothers. Each knew that, if asked, he would go to the wire for his friend. The Canadian was about to ask.

One of the aspects of the genius of Franklin Delano Roosevelt was that although a convinced Democrat he was quite prepared to use talent wherever he found it. It was just after Pearl Harbour that he summoned a conservative Republican, who happened to be at a football game, and asked him to form the Office of Strategic Services.

The man he summoned was Gen. William "Wild Bill" Donovan, the son of Irish immigrants, who had commanded the Fighting Sixty-ninth Regiment on the western front in World War I. After that, as a trained lawyer, he had become deputy attorney general under Herbert Hoover, then spent years as a Wall Street legal eagle. It was not his law skills that Roosevelt wanted; it was his sheer combativeness, the quality he needed to create the United States ' first foreign intelligence and special forces unit.

Without much hesitation, the old warrior gathered around himself a corps of brilliant and well-connected young men as his gofers They included Arthur Schlesinger, David Bruce, and Henry Hyde, who would all go on to high office.

At that time Peter Lucas, raised to New England wealth and privilege, was a sophomore at Princeton, and he decided on the day of Pearl Harbour that he, too, wanted to go to war. His father forbade any such thing.

In February 1942, the young man disobeyed and dropped out of college, all taste for study gone. He raced around trying to find something he really wanted to do; toyed with the idea of fighter pilot and took private flying lessons until he learned that he was constantly airsick.

In June 1942, the OSS was established. Peter Lucas offered himself at once and was accepted. He saw himself with blackened face, dropping by night far behind German lines. He attended a lot of cocktail parties instead. General Donovan wanted a first-class aide-de-camp, efficient and polished.

He saw at short range the preparations for the landings in Sicily and Salerno in which OSS agents were wholly involved and begged for action. Be patient, he was told. It was like taking a boy to a sweet shop but leaving him inside a glass box. He could see, but he couldn't touch.

Finally he went to the general with a flat ultimatum. "Either I fight under you, or I quit and join the Airborne."

No one gave "Wild Bill" Donovan ultimatums, but he stared at the young man and maybe saw something of himself a quarter of a century earlier. "Do both," he said, "in reverse order."

With Donovan's backing, all doors opened. Peter Lucas shrugged off the hated civilian suit and went to Fort Benning to become a "ninety-day wonder," a fast-track commission to emerge as a second lieutenant in the Airborne.

He missed the D day Normandy landings, being still in parachute school. When he graduated, he returned to General Donovan. "You promised," he said.

Peter Lucas got his black-faced parachute drop one cold autumn night into the mountains behind the German lines in northern Italy. There he came across the Italian partisans who were dedicated Communists, and the British special forces who seemed too laid back to be dedicated to anything.

Within a couple of weeks he learned the "laid back" bit was an act. The Jedburgh group he had joined contained some of the war's most skilled and vicious killers.

He survived the bitter winter of 1944 in the mountains and almost made it to the end of the war intact. It was March 1945 when he and five others ran into a staybehind squad of no-surrender SS men they did not know were still in the region. There was a firefight, and Lucas took two slugs from a Schmeisser submachine gun in the left arm and shoulder.

They were miles from anywhere, out of morphine, and it took a week of marching in agony to find a British forward unit. There was a patchup operation on the spot, a morphine-dazed flight in a Liberator, and a much better reconstruction in a London hospital.

When he was fit enough to leave, he was sent to a convalescent home on the coast of Sussex. He shared a room with a Canadian fighter pilot nursing two broken legs. They played chess to while away the days.

Returning home, the world was his oyster. He joined his father's firm on Wall Street, took it over eventually, became a giant in the financial community, and ran for public office. In April 2001, he was in his fourth and last term as a Republican senator for New Hampshire, and he had just seen a Republican president elected.

When he heard who was on the line, he told his secretary to hold all calls.

"Steve. Good to hear you again. Where are you?"

"Right here in Washington. Peter, I need to see you. It's serious."

Catching his mood, the senator dropped the bonhomie. "Sure, pal. Wanna tell me?"

"Over lunch. Can you make it?"

"I'll clear the calendar. The Hay-Adams. Ask for my usual corner table. It's quiet. One o'clock."

They met when the senator strode into the lobby. The Canadian was waiting there.

"I just came from an interment up in Georgetown. I just buried my only grandson."

The senator stared and his face creased with shared pain. "Jesus, old friend, I am so sorry."

"Let's talk at the table. There's something I need you to read."

When they were seated, the Canadian answered his friend's question. "He was murdered. In cold blood. No, not here, and not now. Six years ago. In Bosnia."

He explained briefly about the boy's age, his desire back in 1995 to help alleviate the pain of the Bosnians, his odyssey through the capitals to the town of Travnik, his agreement to try to help his interpreter trace his family homestead. Then he passed over the Rajak confession.

Dry martinis came. The senator ordered smoked salmon platter, brown bread, chilled Meursault. Edmond nodded, meaning, the same.

Senator Lucas was accustomed to reading fast, but halfway through the report he gave a low whistle and slowed down.

While the senator toyed with the salmon and read the last pages, Steve Edmond glanced around. His friend had chosen well, a personal table just beyond the grand piano, secluded in a corner by a window through which the White House was visible. The Lafayette at the Hay-Adams was unique, more like a house set at the heart of an eighteenth-century country estate than a restaurant in the middle of a bustling capital city.

Senator Lucas raised his head. "I don't know what to say, Steve. This is perhaps the most awful document I have ever read. What do you want me to do?"

A waiter removed the plates and brought small black coffees and for each man a snifter of old Armagnac. They were silent while the young man was at the table.

Steve Edmond looked down at their four hands on the white cloth. Old men's hands, cord veined, sausage fingered, liver spotted. Hands that had thrown a Hurricane fighter straight down into a formation of Dornier bombers; that had emptied an M1 carbine into a taverna full of SS men outside Bolzano; hands that had fought fights, caressed women, held firstborns, signed checks, created fortunes, altered politics, changed the world. Once.

Peter Lucas caught his friend's glance and understood his mood. "Yes, we are old now. But not dead yet. What do you want me to do?"

"Maybe we could do one last good thing. My grandson was an American citizen. The United States has the right to require this monster's extradition from whereever he is. Back here. To stand trial for Murder One. That means the Justice and State Departs acting together on any government that harbours this swine. Will you take it to them?"

"My friend, if this government of Washington, D. C., cannot give you justice, then no one can."

He raised his glass. "One last good thing."

But he was wrong.

14 The Father

It was only a family spat, and it should have ended with a kiss and make up. But it took place between a passionate Italian-blooded daughter and a doggedly tenacious father.

By the summer of 1991, Amanda Jane Dexter was sixteen and knockout attractive. The Naples-descended Marozzi genes had given her a figure to cause a bishop to kick a hole in a stained-glass window. The blond Anglo-Saxon lineage of Dexter had endowed her with a face like the young Bardot. The local boys were over her like a rash, and her father had to accept that. But he did not like Emilio.

He had nothing against Hispanics, but there was something sly and shallow about Emilio, even predatory and cruel behind matinee-idol looks. But Amanda Jane fell for him like a ton of bricks.

It came to a head during the long summer vacation. Emilio proposed to take her away for a holiday by the sea. He spun a good tale. There would be other young people, adults to supervise, beach sports, fresh air, and the bracing tang of the Atlantic. It sounded good; it sounded normal; it sounded innocent. But when Cal Dexter tried to make eye contact with the young man, Emilio avoided his gaze. Dexter's gut instinct told him there was something wrong. He said, "No."

A week later she ran away. There was a note to say they should not worry, everything would be fine, but she was a grown woman now and refused to be treated like a child. She never came back.

School holidays ended. She still did not appear. Too late, her mother, who had approved her request, listened to her husband. They had no address for the beach party, no knowledge of Emilio's background, parentage, or real home address. The Bronx address he had used turned out to be a lodging house. His car had Virginia number plates, but a check with Richmond told Dexter it had been sold for cash in July. Even the surname, Gonzalez, was as common as Smith.

Through his contacts, Cal Dexter consulted with a senior sergeant in the Missing Persons Bureau of the NYPD. The officer was sympathetic but resigned. "Sixteen is like grown-up nowadays, Counsellor; they sleep together, vacation together, set up house togetherÉ" The department could only send out an all-points if there was evidence of threat, duress, forcible removal from the parental home, drug abuse, whatever.

Dexter had to concede there had been a single phone message. It had come at a time Amanda Jane would know that her father would be at work and her mother out. The message was on the answering machine.

She was fine, she said, very happy, and they should not worry. She was living her own life and enjoying it. She would be in touch when she was good and ready.

Cal Dexter traced the call. It had come from a mobile phone, the sort that operates off a purchased SIM card and cannot be traced to the owner. FIe played the tape to the sergeant, and the man shrugged. Like all Missing Persons Bureaus in every force across the States, he had a case overload. This was not an emergency.

Christmas came, but it was bleak-the first in the Dexter household in sixteen years without their baby.

It was a morning jogger who found the body. His name was Hugh Lamport; he ran a small IT consultancy company; he was an honest citizen trying to keep in shape. For him that meant a three-mile run every morning between 6:30 and as near to 7:00 as he could make it, and that even included cold, bleak mornings like February 18, 1992. He was running along the grass verge of Indian River Road, Virginia Beach, which was where he lived. The grass was easier on the ankles than tarmac or concrete. But when he came to a bridge over a narrow culvert, he had a choice: cross via the concrete bridge or jump the culvert. He jumped.

He noticed something below him as he jumped, something pale in the predawn gloom. After landing, he turned and peered back into the ditch. She lay in the strange disjointed pose of death, half in and half out of the water.

Lamport glanced frantically round and saw, four hundred yards away through some trees, a dim light, another early riser brewing the morning cup. No longer jogging but sprinting, he arrived at the door and hammered hard. The coffee brewer peered through the window, listened to the shouted explanation, and let him in.

The 911 call was taken by the night-duty dispatcher in the basement switchboard at Virginia City 's police headquarters on Princess Anne Road. She asked as a matter of urgency for the nearest patrol car, and the response came from the First Precinct's sole cruiser, which was a mile from the culvert. It made that mile in a minute, to find a man in sweats and another in a bathrobe marking the spot.

It took the two patrol officers no more than two minutes to call in for homicide detectives and a full forensic team. The householder fetched coffee, which was gratefully received, and all four waited.

That whole sector of eastern Virginia is occupied by six cities with contiguous boundaries, a community that extends for miles on both banks of the James River and Hampton Roads. It is a landscape studded with naval and air bases, for here the roads run out into Chesapeake Bay and thence the Atlantic.

Of the six cities- Norfolk, Portsmouth, Hampton (with Newport News), James City, and Chesapeake -the biggest by far is Virginia Beach. It covers 310 square miles and contains 430,000 citizens out of a total of 1.5 million. Of its four precincts, the Second, Third, and Fourth cover the builtup areas, while the First Precinct is large and mainly rural. Its 195 square miles run right down to the North Carolina border and are bisected by Indian River Road.

Forensics and Homicide arrived at the culvert around the same time, thirty minutes later. The medical examiner was five minutes after that. Dawn came, or what passed for dawn, and a drizzle set in.

Lamport was driven home to shower off and make a full statement. The coffee brewer made a statement, which is to say he could only aver that he had heard and seen nothing during the night.

The ME quickly established death, that the victim was a young Caucasian female, that death had almost certainly occurred somewhere else and the body been dumped, presumably from a car. After the police photographer took shots of the body in situ, he ordered the attendant ambulance to take the cadaver to the state morgue in Norfolk, a facility that served all six cities.

The local homicide detectives took time out to muse that if the perpetrator or perpetrators, who seemed to have a moral code on the level of a snake's navel and an IQ to match, had driven three miles farther on, they would have entered the swamp country at the head of Back Bay. Here, a weighted body could disappear forever and no one be the wiser. But they had seemingly run out of patience and dumped their grisly cargo where it would be found quickly and start a manhunt.

At Norfolk, two things happened with respect to the corpse: An autopsy was done to establish cause, time of death, and if possible, location, and an attempt was made to secure identification. The body itself yielded nothing to the second search: some skimpy but no longer provocative underwear, a badly torn and slinky dress. No medallions, bracelets, tattoos, or purse.

Before the forensic pathologist began his task, the face, which bore lesions and contusions compatible with a savage beating, was again photographed. The photo would be passed around the vice squads of all six cities, for the girl's clothing seemed to indicate a possibility that she had been involved with what is euphemistically called "night life."

The other two details the ID hunters needed and got were fingerprints and blood type. Then the pathologist started. It was the fingerprints the police pinned their hopes on.

The six cities came up negative on the prints. Details went to Richmond, where prints covering the whole of Virginia are stored. Days went by. The answer came back. Sorry. The next step up was the FBI, covering the entire United States. It uses IAFIS-the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System.

The pathologist's report made even hardened homicide detectives queasy. The girl appeared not much more than eighteen, if that. She had once been pretty, but someone, plus her lifestyle, had put an end to that. Vaginal and anal dilation was so exaggerated that she had clearly been penetrated, and repeatedly, by instruments far larger than a normal male organ. The terminal beating had not been the only one; there had been others before. And heroin abuse, probably dating back no more than six months.

To both Homicide and Vice detectives in Norfolk, the report said "prostitution." It was no news to any of them that recruitment into vice was often accompanied by narcotic dependency, the pimp being the only source of the drug. Any girl trying to escape the clutches of such a gang would certainly be punished; such "lesson learning" could involve forced participation in exhibitions featuring brutal perversions and bestiality. There were creatures prepared to pay for this, and thus creatures prepared to supply it.

The postautopsy body went into the cold room, while the search for the girl's identity continued. She was still Jane Doe. Then a Vice detective in Portsmouth thought he recognised the circulated photograph, despite the damage and discoloration. He thought that she might have been a hooker going under the name of Lorraine.

Enquiries revealed that " Lorraine " had not been seen for several weeks. Prior to that she had worked for a notoriously vicious Hispanic gang, who recruited by using goodlooking gang members to pick up girls in the cities to the north and entice them south with promises of marriage, a lovely vacation, whatever it took.

The Portsmouth Vice Squad worked on the gang but with no result. The pimps claimed they had never known Lorraine 's real name, that she had been a professional when she arrived, and that she had left voluntarily to return to the West Coast. The photograph was simply not clear enough to prove otherwise.

But Washington did identify the girl. They came up with a firm ID based on the prints. Amanda Jane Dexter had tried to fool the security of a local supermarket and shoplift an item. The security camera won. The juvenile court judge accepted her story, backed by five classmates, and let her go with a caution. But her fingerprints were taken. They were with the NYPD and had been passed on to IAFIS.

"I think," muttered Sergeant Austin of the Portsmouth Vice Squad when he heard the news, "I might be able to get those bastards at last."

It was another filthy winter morning when the phone rang in the apartment in the Bronx, but perhaps a good enough morning to ask a father to drive three hundred miles to identify his only child. Cal Dexter sat on the edge of the bed and wished he had died in the tunnels of Cu Chi rather than take this kind of pain. He finally told Angela and held her while she sobbed. He rang his motherinlaw, and she came over at once.

He could not wait for a flight out of La Guardia for Norfolk International; he could not have sat and waited if there had been a flight delay due to fog, rain, hail, or congestion. He took his car and drove. Out of New York, across the bridge to Newark, O through the country he knew so well as he had been hauled from one construction site to another: out of New Jersey, through a chunk of Pennsylvania and another of Delaware, then south and ever more south past Baltimore and Washington, D. C., to the end of Virginia.

At the morgue in Norfolk he stared down at the once lovely and much loved face and nodded dumbly to the homicide detective with him. They went upstairs. Over coffee he ascertained the basic outlines. She had been beaten by a person or persons unknown. She had died of severe internal haemorrhaging. The "perps" had seemingly put the body in the trunk of a car, driven into the most rural part of the First Precinct, Virginia City, and dumped it. "Enquiries are proceeding, sir." He knew it was a fraction of the truth.

He made a long statement, told them all about "Emilio," but it rang no bells with the detectives. He asked for his daughter's body. The police had no further objections, but approval had to come from the Coroner's Office. It took time. Formalities. Procedures. He took his car back to New York, returned, and waited. Eventually he escorted his daughter's body, riding in the hearse, back home to the Bronx.

The casket was sealed. He did not want his wife or any of the Marozzis to see what was inside. The funeral was local. Amanda Jane was interred just three days short of her seventeenth birthday. A week later Dexter returned to Virginia.

Sergeant Austin was in his office in the Portsmouth police headquarters at 711 Crawford Street, when the front desk phoned to say there was a Mr. Dexter who wished to see him. The name did not ring a bell. He did not connect it with his recognition of a battered face in a photograph as the departed hooker, Lorraine. He asked what Mr. Dexter wanted and was told the visitor might have a contribution to make in an ongoing enquiry. On that basis, the visitor was shown up.

Portsmouth is the oldest of the six cities; it was founded by the British well before the Revolution. Today it slumps on the southwest side of the Elizabeth River, mainly lowbuilt redbrick buildings, staring across the water at the high-rise modern glitz of Norfolk on the other side. But it is the place many of the servicemen go if they are looking for "a good time" after dark. Sergeant Austin's Vice Squad was not there for decoration.

The visitor did not look like much compared to the muscular bulk of the former linebacker turned detective. He just stood in front of the desk and said, "You remember the teenager, turned to heroin and prostitution, gang raped and beaten to death four weeks back? I'm her father."

Alarm bells began to tinkle. The sergeant had risen and extended a hand. He withdrew it. Angry, vengeful citizens had his fullest sympathy and could expect nothing more. To any working cop, they are tiresome and can be dangerous.

"I'm sorry about that, sir. I can assure you that every effortÉ"

"At ease, Sergeant. I just want to know one thing. Then I'll leave you in peace."

"Mr. Dexter, I understand what you must be feeling, but I am not in a positionÉ"

The visitor had put his right hand in his jacket pocket and was pulling something out. Had front desk security screwed up? Was the man armed? The sergeant's own piece was an uncomfortable ten feet away in a desk drawer.

"What are you doing, sir?"

"I'm putting some bits of metal on your desk, Sergeant Austin."

He went on until he was finished. Sergeant Austin had been in the military, for they were of a similar age, but had never left the States. He found himself staring down at two Silver Stars, three Bronze Stars, the Army Commendation Medal, and four Purple Hearts. He had never seen anything like it.

"Far away and long ago, I paid for the right to know who killed my child. I bought that right with my blood. You owe me that name, Sergeant Austin."

The Vice detective walked to the window and looked across at Norfolk. It was irregular, completely irregular, worth his job on the force.

"Madero. Benyamin 'Benny' Madero. Headed up a Latino gang. Very violent, very vicious. I know he did it, but I just don't have enough for an arrest warrant."

"Thank you," said the man behind him. He collected his bits of metal.

"But in case you're thinking of paying him a private visit, you're too late. I'm too late. We're all too late. He's gone. He's back in his native Panama."

A hand pushed open the door of the small emporium of Oriental art off Madison at Twenty-eighth Street, Manhattan. Above the portal a bell jangled with the movement of the door.

The visitor looked around at the shelves stacked with jade and celadon, stone and porcelain, ivory and ceramic; at elephants and demigods, panels, wall hangings, parchments, and innumerable Buddhas. At the rear of the shop a figure emerged.

"I need to be someone else," said Calvin Dexter.

It had been fourteen years since he had given the gift of a new life to the former Vietcong jungle fighter and his wife. Major Nguyen did not hesitate for a second; he inclined his head. "Of course," he said, "please come with me."

15 The Settlement

The fast fishing boat *Chiquita* slipped away from the quay in the resort port of Golfito just before dawn and headed down the channel for the open sea.

At her helm was owner and skipper Pedro Arias, and if he had reservations about his American charter party he kept them to himself. The man had turned up the previous day on a trail bike with local Costa Rican plates. In fact, it had been bought, secondhand but in excellent condition, farther up the Pan American Highway at Palmar Norte where the tourist had arrived via a local flight from San Jose.

The man had strolled up and down the pier, checking out the various moored gamefishing boats before making his choice and his approach. With the trail bike chained to a nearby lamppost and his haversack over his shoulder, the man looked like a mature backpacker.

But there was nothing "backpacker" about the block of dollars he laid on the cabin table. This was the sort of money that caught a lot of fish. However, the man did not want to go fishing, which was why the rods were all racked along the cabin ceiling as the *Chiquita* cleared the headland at Punta Voladera and emerged into the Golfo Dulce. Arias set her head due south to clear Punta Banco an hour away.

What the gringo actually accounted for were the two plastic drums of extra fuel strapped onto the stern of the fishing deck. He wanted to be run out of Costa Rican waters, around the headland at Punta Burica, and into Panama. His explanation that his family was vacationing in Panama City and that the visitor wished to "see some of the Panamanian countryside" by riding the length of the country struck Pedro Arias as being as substantial as the sea mist now dissolving in the rising sun.

Still, if a gringo wanted to enter Panama on a trail bike off a lonely beach without passing through certain formalities, Se-or Arias was a man of wide tolerances, especially where neighbouring Panama was concerned. At the breakfast hour the *Chiquita*, a thirty-one-foot Bertram Moppie, cruising happily at twelve knots over calm water, cleared Punta Banco and emerged into the swell of the real Pacific. Arias pulled her forty degrees to port to follow the coast two more hours to Burica Island and the unmarked border.

It was 10:00 A.M. when they saw the first finger of Burica Island lighthouse jutting above the horizon and half past the hour as they turned the corner and veered back to the northeast.

Pedro Arias swept his arm toward the land to their left, the eastern coast of the Burica Peninsula. "Now all is Panama," he said.

The American nodded his thanks and studied the map. He jabbed with a forefinger. "*Por aqui*," he said.

The area he indicated was a stretch of coast where no towns or resorts were indicated, just a place that would have some abandoned empty beaches and some tracks back into the jungle.

The skipper nodded and changed course to cut a straighter and shorter line across the Bay of Charco Azul. Twenty-five miles, a tad over two hours.

They were there by 1:00. The few fishing boats they had seen on the broad expanse of the bay had taken no notice of them.

The American wanted to cruise along the coast a hundred yards offshore. Five minutes later, east of Chiriqui Viejo, they saw a sandy beach with a brace of straw huts, the sort local fishermen use when they wish to stay overnight. That would mean a track leading inland. Not feasible for a vehicle, even an offroad, but manageable with a trail bike.

It took some grunting and pushing to get the bike down into the shallows; then the haversack was on the beach, and they parted company. Half at Golfito and half on delivery. The gringo paid up.

*He is a strange one*, thought Arias, but his dollars were as good as everyone else's when it came to feeding four hungry kids. Arias backed the *Chiquita* off the sand and headed out to sea. A mile offshore he emptied the two drums into his fuel tanks and gunned her south for the headland and home.

On the beach Cal Dexter took a screwdriver, unfastened the Costa Rican plates, and hurled them far into the sea. From his haversack he took the plates a Panamanian motorcycle would carry and screwed them on. His paperwork was perfect. Thanks to Mrs. Nguyen he had an American passport, but not in the name of Dexter, which already bore an entry stamp apparently applied a few days earlier at Panama City airport, plus a driver's licence to match.

His halting Spanish, picked up around the courts and remand centres of New York, where 20 percent of his clients were Hispanic, was not good enough to pretend to be Panamanian.

But a visiting American is allowed to ride upcountry to look for a fishing resort.

It was just over two years since, in December 1989, the United States had turned parts of Panama into an ashtray to topple and capture the dictator Noriega, and Dexter suspected most Panamanian cops had retained the basic message.

The narrow trail led back from the beach through dense rain forest to become, ten miles inland, a track. This turned into a dirt road with occasional farms, and there he knew he would find the Pan American Highway, that feat of engineering that runs from Alaska to the tip of Patagonia.

At David City he filled the tank again and set off down the Pan American for the 310-mile run to the capital. Darkness came. He ate at a wayside stop with truck drivers, tanked up again, and rolled on. He crossed the toll bridge to Panama City, paid in pesos, and cruised into the suburb of Balboa as the sun rose. Then he found a park bench, chained the bike, and slept for three hours.

The afternoon was for the extended survey. The huge-scale city map he had purchased in New York gave him the layout of the city and the tough slum of Chorillo where Noriega and Madero had grown up a few blocks from each other.

But successful lowlifes prefer the high life, if they can get it, and Madero's reported watering holes were two he part owned in upscale Paitilla, across the bay from the slums of Old Town.

It was two in the morning when the repatriated thug decided he was tired of the Papagayo Bar and Disco and wished to leave. The anonymous black door with discreet brass plaque, grille, and eyehole opened and two men came out first-heavily built bodyguards, his personal gorillas.

One entered the Lincoln limousine by the curb and started the engine. The other scanned the street. Sitting hunched on the curb, feet in the gutter, the tramp turned and grinned a smile of rotting or missing teeth. Greasy grey locks fell to his shoulders; a foetid raincoat clothed his body. Slowly he eased his right hand into a brown paper bag clutched to his chest. The gorilla slipped his hand beneath his left armpit and tensed. The hobo slowly pulled a bottle of cheap rum from his bag, took a swig, and with the generosity of the very drunk, held it out to the gorilla.

The man hawked, spat on the pavement, withdrew his own hand empty from beneath his jacket, relaxed, and turned away. Apart from the wino, the pavement was empty and safe. He tapped on the black door. Emilio, who had recruited Dexter's daughter, was the first out, followed by his boss. Dexter waited till the door closed and self-locked before he rose. The hand that came out of the paper bag a second time held a shortened-barrel.44 magnum Smith amp; Wesson.

The gorilla who had spat never knew what hit him. The fired slug broke into four flying parts; all four penetrated at the tenfoot range and performed considerable mischief inside his torso.

Drop-dead handsome Emilio did exactly that, mouth open to scream, when the second discharge took him in the face and neck, one shoulder, and one lung simultaneously.

The second gorilla was halfway out of the car when he met his Maker in an unforeseen rendezvous with four spinning, tumbling metal fragments entering the side of his body exposed to theshooter.

Benyamin Madero was back at the black door, screaming for admission when the fourth and fifth shots were fired. Some bold spirit inside had the door two inches open when a splinter went through his marcelled hair and the door shut in a hurry.

Madero fell, still hammering for admittance, sliding down the highgloss panel work, leaving long red smears from his soaked Guayabara tropical shirt.

The tramp walked over to him, showing no panic or particular hurry, stooped, turned him on his back, and looked into his face. He was still alive but fading.

"Amanda Jane, *mia hija*," said the gunman and used the sixth shot to shred the entrails.

Madero's last ninety seconds of life were no fun at all.

A housewife in an upper window across the street later told the police she saw the tramp jog away around a corner and heard the put-put of a scooter engine moving away. That was all.

Before sunrise the trail bike was propped against a wall two boroughs away, unchained, ignition key in place. It would survive no more than an hour before entering the food chain.

The wig, the prosthetic teeth, and the raincoat were bundled into a trashcan in a public park. The haversack, relieved of its remaining clothes, was folded and tossed into a builder's Dumpster.

At 7:00 an American business executive in loafers, chinos, Polo shirt, and lightweight sports jacket, clutching a soft Abercrombie and Fitch travel bag, hailed a cab outside the Miramar Hotel and asked for the airport.

Three hours later the same American lifted off in Club Class on the regular Continental Airlines flight for Newark, New Jersey.

And the gun, the Smith amp; Wesson adapted to fire slugs that split in four lethal fragments for close-quarter work; that was down a storm drain somewhere in the city now dropping beneath the wingtip.

It might not have been allowed in the tunnels of Cu Chi, but twenty years later it worked like a dream on the streets of Panama.

Dexter knew there was something wrong when he entered his latchkey in his own door in the Bronx. It opened to reveal the face of his motherinlaw, Mrs. Marozzi, her cheeks streaked with tears.

Along with the grief, it was the guilt. Angela Dexter had approved of Emilio as a suitor for her daughter; she had agreed to the "vacation" by the sea that the young Panamanian had proposed. When her husband said he had to leave for a week to take care of unfinished business, she assumed he meant some legal work.

He should have stayed. He should have told her. He should have understood what was in her mind. Leaving her parents' house where she had stayed since her daughter's funeral, Angela Dexter had returned to the apartment with an oversupply of barbiturates and ended her own life.

The ex-hard hat, soldier, student, lawyer, and father went into a deep depression. Finally he came to two conclusions. The first was that he had no further life in the Office of the Public Defender, scurrying from court to remand centre and back again. He handed in his papers, sold the apartment, bid a tearful farewell to the Marozzi family, who had been good to him, and went back to New Jersey.

He found the small town of Pennington, content in its leafy landscape, but with no local lawyer. He bought a small, one-man office and hung up his shingle. He bought a frame house on Chesapeake Drive and a pickup truck in lieu of the city sedan. He began to train in the brutal discipline of the triathlon to take away the pain.

His second decision was that Madero had died too easily. His just deserts should have been to stand in a U. S. court and hear a judge sentence him to life without parole; to wake up each day and never see the sky; to know that he would pay until the end of his days for what he had done.

Calvin Dexter knew that the U. S. Army and two tours in the stinking hell under the jungle floor of Cu Chi had given him dangerous talents. Silence, patience, nearinvisibility, the skill of a hunter, the relentlessness of a born tracker.

He heard via the media of a man who had lost his child to a murderer who had vanished abroad. He made covert contact, obtained the details, went out beyond the borders of his native land and brought the killer back. Then he vanished, becoming the genial and harmless lawyer of Pennington, New Jersey. Three times in seven years he hung the CLOSED FOR VACATION notice on his Pennington office and went out into the world to find a killer and claw him back into the range of "due process." Three times he alerted the United States Marshals Service and slipped back into obscurity.

But each time it landed on his mat, he checked the small want ads section of *Vintage * the only way the tiny few who knew of his existence could make contact.

He did it again that sunny morning of May 13, 2001. The ad read: "AVENGER. Wanted. Serious offer. No price ceiling. Please call."

16 The File

Sen. Peter Lucas was an old hand on Capitol Hill. He knew that if he were going to secure any official action as a result of the file on Ricky Colenso and the confession of Milan Rajak, he would have to take it high, right to the top.

Operating with section or department heads would not work. The entire mindset of civil servants at that level was to pass the buck to another department. It was always someone else's job. Only a flat instruction from the top floor would achieve a result.

As a Republican senator and friend over many years of George Bush Sr., Peter Lucas could get to the secretary of state, Colin Powell, and the new attorney general, John Ashcroft. That would cover State and Justice, the two departments likely to be able to do anything.

Even then, it was not that simple. Cabinet secretaries did not want to be brought problems and questions; they preferred problems and solutions. Extradition was not his speciality. He needed to find out what the United States could do and ought to do in such a situation. That needed research, and he had a team of young interns for precisely that purpose. He set them to work. His best ferret, a bright girl from Wisconsin, came back a week later. "This animal Zilic is arrestable and transferable to the United States under the Comprehensive Crime Control Act of 1984," she said.

The passage she had discovered came from the Congressional Hearing on Intelligence and Security of 1997. Specifically the speaker had been Robert M. Bryant, assistant director of the FBI, addressing the House Committee on Crime.

"I've highlighted the relevant passages, Senator," she said. He thanked her and looked at the text she laid before him.

"The FBI's extraterritorial responsibilities date back to the mid1980s when Congress first passed laws authorising the FBI to exercise federal jurisdiction overseas when a U.S. national is murdered," Mr. Bryant had said four years earlier.

Behind the bland language was a staggering act that the rest of the world had largely ignored and most U.S. citizens as well. Prior to the Comprehensive Crime Control Act of 1984, the global presumption was that if a murder was committed, whether in France or in Mongolia, only the French or Mongolian governments had jurisdiction to pursue, arrest, and try the killer. That applied whether the victim was French, Mongolian, or a visiting American.

The United States had simply arrogated to itself the right to decide that if you kill an American citizen anywhere in the world, you might as well have killed him on Broadway. Meaning U. S. jurisdiction covers the whole planet. No international conference conceded this; the United States simply said so. Then Mr. Bryant went further.

"Éand the Omnibus Diplomatic Security and Antiterrorism Act of 1986 established a new extraterritorial statute pertaining to terrorist acts conducted abroad against U.S. citizens.

*Not a problem*, thought the senator. *Zilic was not a Yugoslav army serviceman nor a policeman. He was freelance, and the title of terrorist will stick. He can be extradited to the United States under both statutes.*

He read on: "Upon the approval of the host country, the FBI has the legal authority to deploy FBI personnel to conduct extraterritorial investigations in the host country where the criminal act was committed, enabling the United States to prosecute terrorists for crimes committed abroad against U. S. citizens."

The senator's brow furrowed. This did not make sense. It was incomplete. The key phrase was, "Upon the approval of the host countryÉ" But cooperation between police forces was nothing new. Of course the FBI could accept an invitation from a foreign police force to fly over and help them out. It had been going on for years. And why were two separate acts needed, in 1984 and 1986?

The answer, which he did not have, was that the second act went a mile farther than the first, and the phrase, "Upon the approval of the host countryÉ" was just Mr. Bryant being comforting to the committee. What he was hinting at but not daring to say was the word "rendition."

In the 1986 act, the United States awarded itself the right to ask politely for the murderer of an American to be extradited back to the States. If the answer was, "No," or seemingly endless delay amounting to a snub, that was the end of "Mr. Nice Guy." The United States had entitled itself to send in a covert team of agents, snatch the "perp," and bring him back for trial.

As FBI terrorist-hunter John O'Neill put it when the act was passed, "From now on, host country approval has got jack shit to do with it." A joint CIA/FBI snatch of an alleged murderer of an American is called a rendition. There have been ten such very covert operations since the act was passed under Ronald Reagan, and it all began because of an Italian cruise liner.

In October 1985, the *Achille Lauro*, out of Genoa, was cruising along the north coast of Egypt, with further stops on the Israeli coast in prospect, and carrying a mixed cargo of tourists, including some Americans. She had been secretly boarded by four Palestinians from the Palestine Liberation Front, a terrorist group attached to Yasser Arafat's PLO, then in exile in Tunisia.

The terrorists' aim was not to capture the ship but to disembark at Ashdod, a stopping point in Israel, and take Israeli hostages there. But on October 7th, between Alexandria and Port Said, they were in one of their cabins, checking their weapons, when a steward walked in, saw the guns, and started yelling. The four Palestinians panicked and hijacked the liner. There followed four days of tense negotiations. In from Tunis flew Abu Abbas, claiming to be Arafat's negotiator. Tel Aviv would have none of it, pointing out that Abu Abbas was the boss of the PLF, not a benign mediator. Eventually a deal was struck; the terrorists would get passage off the ship and an Egyptian airliner back to Tunis. The Italian captain confirmed at gunpoint that no one had been hurt. He was forced to lie. Once the ship was free, it became clear that on day three the Palestinians had murdered a seventy-nine-year-old, wheelchair-bound *New Yorker*, Leon Klinghoffer. They had shot him in the face and thrown him and his chair into the sea.

For Ronald Reagan that was it; all deals were off. But the killers were airborne, on their way home, in an airliner of a sovereign state, friendly to America and in international airspace; that is, untouchable. Or maybe not. The flattop USS * Saratoga * happened to be steaming south down the Adriatic carrying F14 Tomcats. As darkness fell, the Egyptian airliner was found off Crete, heading west for Tunis. Out of the gloom four Tomcats suddenly flanked the airliner. The terrified Egyptian pilot asked for an emergency landing at Athens. Permission was denied. The Tomcats signalled the pilot that he should accompany them or face the consequences. The same EC2 Hawkeye, also off the * Saratoga *, that had found the Egyptian plane, passed the messages between the fighters and the airliner.

The diversion ended when the airliner, with the killers and Abu Abbas, their leader, on board, landed under escort at the U. S. base at Sigonella, Sicily. Then it became complicated.

Sigonella was a shared base: U. S. Navy and Italian air force. Technically it is Italian sovereign territory; the United States only pays rent. The government in Rome, in a pretty high state of excitement, claimed the right to try the terrorists. The *Achille Lauro* was theirs; the air base theirs. It took a personal call from President Reagan to the U. S. Special Forces detachment at Sigonella to order them to back off and let the Italians have the Palestinians.

In due course, back in Genoa, home city of the liner, the small fry were sentenced. But their leader, Abu Abbas, flew out free as air on October 12th and went on to hide for years on the outskirts of Baghdad.*

*(Abbas was captured by American special forces on April 14, 2003.)

The Italian defence minister resigned in disgust. The premier at the time was Bettino Craxi. He later died in exile, also in Tunis, wanted for massive embezzlement while in office.

Reagan's response to this perfidy was the Omnibus Act, nicknamed the "Never Again" Act. It was not finally the bright kid from Wisconsin but the veteran FBI terrorist hunter, Oliver "Buck" Revell, in retirement, who took a good dinner off the old senator and told him about "renditions."

Even then it was not thought that for Zilic a "rendition" would ever be needed. Post-Milosevic Yugoslavia was keen to return to the community of civilised nations. She needed large loans from the International Monetary Fund and elsewhere to rebuild her infrastructure after seventy-eight days of NATO bombing. Her new president, Kostunica, would surely regard it as a bagatelle to have Zilic arrested and extradited to the United States. That certainly, was the request Senator Lucas intended to proffer to Colin Powell and John Ashcroft. If worse came to worst, he would ask for a covert rendition to be authorised.

He had his writer team prepare from the full 1995 report of the Tracker a onepage synopsis to explain everything from Ricky Colenso's departure to Bosnia to try and help pitiful refugees to his presence in a lonely valley on May 15, 1995.

What happened in the valley that morning, as described by Milan Rajak, was compressed into two pages, the most distressing passages heavily highlighted. Fronted by a personal letter from Lucas, the file was edged and bound for easy reading.

That was something else Capitol Hill had taught him. The higher the office, the shorter the brief should be. In late April, he got his face-to-face with both Cabinet secretaries.

Each listened with grave visage and pledged to read the brief and pass it to the appropriate department within their departments. And they did.

The United States has thirteen major intelligence-gathering agencies. Among them they probably garner 90 percent of all the intelligence, licit and illicit, on the entire planet in any twenty-four-hour period.

The sheer volume makes absorption, analysis, filtration, collation, storage, and retrieval a problem of industrial proportions. Another problem is that they do not talk to each other.

American intelligence chiefs have been heard to mutter in a late-night bar that they would give their pensions for something like the British Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC).

The JIC meets weekly in London under the chairmanship of a veteran and trusted bureaucrat to bring together the smaller country's four agencies: the Secret Intelligence Service MI-6 (foreign), the Security Service MI-5 (home), the Government Communications Headquarters (SIGINT satellites, the listeners), and Scotland Yard's Special Branch.

Sharing intelligence and progress can prevent duplication and waste, but its main aim is to see if fragments of information learned in different places by different people could form the jigsaw puzzle that makes up the picture everyone is looking for.

Senator Lucas's report went to six of the agencies, and each obediently scoured their archives to see what, if anything, they had learned and filed about a Yugoslav gangster called Zoran Zilic.

The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, known as ATF, had nothing. He had never operated in the United States and ATF rarely if ever goes abroad.

The other five were the Defence Intelligence Agency (DIA), which has an interest in any arms dealer; the National Security Agency (NSA), the biggest of them all, working out of their "Black Chamber" at Fort Meade, Maryland, listening to trillions of words a day, spoken, emailed or faxed, with technology almost beyond science fiction; the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), which has an interest in anyone who has ever trafficked narcotics anywhere in the world; the FBI (of course); and the CIA. Both the latter spearhead the permanent search for knowledge about terrorists, killers, warlords, hostile regimes, whatever. It took a week or more, and April slipped into May. But because the order came right from the top, the searches were thorough.

The people at Defence, Drugs, and Fort Meade all came up With fat files. In various capacities they had known about Zoran Zilic for years. Most of their entries concerned his activities since he became a major player on the Belgrade scene as enforcer to Milosevic, racketeer in drugs and arms, profiteer, and general lowlife.

That he had murdered an American boy during the Bosnian war they had not known, and they took it seriously. They would have helped if they could, but their files all had one thing in common; they ran out fifteen months before the senator's enquiry. Zilic had vanished, vaporised, disappeared. Sorry.

At the CIA, enveloped in summer foliage just off the Beltway, the director passed the query on to the deputy director of operations. He consulted downward to five subdivisions: Balkans, Terrorism, Special Ops, and Arms Dealing were four. He even asked, more as a formality than anything else, the small and obsessively secret office formed less than a year earlier after the massacre of the seventeen sailors on the USS *Cole* in Aden Harbour, known as ÔPeregrineÕ.

But the answer was the same. Sure we have files; but nothing after fifteen months ago. We agree with all our colleagues. He is no longer in Yugoslavia, but where he is, we do not know. He has not come to our attention for two years, so there has been no reason to expend time and treasure.

The other major hope would have been the FBI. Surely, somewhere in the huge Hoover Building at Pennsylvania and Ninth, there would be a recent file describing exactly where this coldblooded killer could now be found, detained, and brought to justice?

Dir. Robert Mueller, recently appointed successor to Louis Freeh, passed the file and request downward with his "Action Without Delay" tag, and it found the desk of Assistant Director Colin Fleming.

Fleming was a lifelong Bureau man who could never remember the time, even as a boy, when he did not want to be a G-Man. He came from Scottish Presbyterian stock, and his faith was as unflinching as his concept of law, order, and justice. On the work of the Bureau, he was a fundamentalist. Compromise, accommodation, concession-in the manner of crime these were mere excuses for appeasement. This he despised. What he may have lacked in subtlety, he made up for in tenacity and dedication.

He came from the granite hills of New Hampshire where the boast is that the rocks and the men vie for toughness. He was a staunch Republican, and Peter Lucas was his senator. Indeed, he had campaigned locally for Lucas and had made his acquaintance.

After reading the skimpy report, he rang the senator's office to ask if he might read the full report by the Tracker and the complete confession of Milan Rajak. A copy was messengered over to him that same afternoon. He read the files with growing anger. He, too, had a son to be proud of, a navy flier, and the thought of what had happened to Ricky Colenso filled him with righteous wrath. The Bureau had to be the instrument of bringing Zilic to justice either via extradition or a rendition. As the man heading the desk covering all terrorism from overseas sources, he would personally authorise the rendition team to go and get the killer.

But the Bureau could not because the Bureau was in the same position as the rest. Even though his gangsterdom, drugs, and arms dealing had brought him to the attention of the Bureau as a man to watch, he had never been caught in an act of anti-American terrorism or support thereof; so when he had vanished, the Bureau had not pursued it. Its file had run out fifteen months before. It was with the deepest personal regret that Fleming had to join the others in the intelligence community in admitting they did not know where Zoran Zilic was.

Without a location, there could be no application to a foreign government for extradition. Even if Zilic were now sheltering in a "failed" state where the writ of normal governmental authority did not run, a snatch operation could only be mounted if the Bureau knew where he was. In his personal letter to the senator, Assistant Director Fleming apologised that it did not. Fleming's tenacity came with his Highland genes. Two days later he sought out and lunched with Fraser Gibbs. The FBI has two retired senior officers of almost iconic status, who can pack the student lecture halls at the Bureau's Quantico training facility when they go.

One is the towering ex-footballer, former marine pilot, "Buck" Revell; the other is Fraser Gibbs, who spent his career penetrating organised crime as an undercover agent, about as dangerous work as you can get, crushing the Cosa Nostra down the eastern seaboard. When restored to Washington after a bullet in the leg left him with a limp, he was given the desk covering freelancers, mercenaries, and guns for hire. He considered Fleming's query with a furrowed brow.

"I did hear something once," he conceded. "A manhunter. Sort of a bounty hunter. Had a code name."

"A killer himself? You know government rules absolutely forbid that sort of thing."

"No, that's the point," said the old veteran. "The rumour was, he doesn't kill. Kidnaps, snatches, brings them back. Now, what the hell was his name?"

"It could be important," said Fleming.

"He was terribly secretive. My predecessor tried to identify him. Sent in an undercover man as a pretend client. But he smelled a trick somehow, made an excuse, left the meeting, and disappeared."

"Why didn't he just fess up and come clean?" asked Fleming. "If he wasn't in the killing businessÉ"

"I guess he figured that as he operated abroad, and as the Bureau doesn't like freelancers operating on its own turf, we'd have sought top-level instruction and been ordered to close him down. And he'd probably have been right. So he stayed in the shadows, and I never hunted him down."

"The agent would have filed a report."

"Oh, yes. Procedure. Probably under the man's code name. Never got any other name. Ah, that's it. Avenger. Punch up 'Avenger.' See what comes up."

The file the computer disgorged was indeed slim. An ad had to be run in a technical magazine for vintage aeroplane buffs, seemingly the only way the man would communicate. A story had been spun, a rendezvous agreed upon.

The bounty hunter had insisted on sitting in deep shadow behind a bright lamp, which shone forward away from him. The agent reported he was of medium height, slim build, probably no more than 160 pounds. He never saw the face, and within three minutes the man suspected something. He reached out, killed the light, leaving the agent with no night vision, and when the agent had quit blinking the man was gone.

All the agent could report was that as the bounty hunter's hand lay on the table between them, his left sleeve had ridden up to reveal a tattoo on the forearm. It appeared to be a rat grinning over its shoulder while showing the viewer its bottom.

None of this would have been of the slightest interest to Senator Lucas or his friend in Canada. But the least Colin Fleming thought he could do was pass on the code name and the method of contact. It was a one-in-a-hundred chance, but it was all he had.

Three days later in his office in Ontario, Stephen Edmond opened the letter sent by his friend in Washington. He had already heard the news from the six agencies and had virtually given up hope.

He read the supplementary letter and frowned. He had been thinking of the mighty United States using its power to require a foreign government to bring forth its murderer, snap handcuffs on his wrists, and send him back to the United States.

It had never occurred to him that he was too late; that Zilic had simply vanished; that all the billion-dollar agencies of Washington simply did not know where he was and therefore could do nothing.

He thought it over for ten minutes, shrugged, and pressed the intercom.

"Jean, I want to run an ad in the wanted section of an American magazine. You'll have to check it out. I've never heard of it. It's called *Vintage Airplane*. Yeah, the text. Make it: 'AVENGER. Wanted. Serious offer. No price ceiling. Please call.' Then put my cellphone number and private line. OK, Jean?"

Twenty-six men in intelligence agencies in and around Washington had seen the request. All had responded that they did not know where Zoran Zilic was.

One of them had lied.