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  ‘Inquiries by a representative of the UN Centre for Human Rights, based in Zenica, produced “hearsay” evidence only. The men of Tulici who had been absent at the front, are convinced that the attackers were from a neighbouring Bosnian-Croat (Catholic) village. In particular they have named one man whose own family had been made refugees by the war with the Muslims. The man is called Milan Pravic, aged about thirty. He is known to have worked in Germany for several years, but had returned to Bosnia to support the HVO. He has acquired a reputation for being a tough, ruthless fighter and is said to have a deep hatred of Muslims.

  ‘All efforts to trace Pravic through the HVO have failed. They claim that on the day of the massacre Pravic was fighting on another front.

  ‘Without some direct evidence of his culpability, we have at this stage no case against Mr Pravic. The Bosnian forces however are convinced that he was in overall command of the attackers. Any extra resources the Tribunal is able to provide in trying to secure an interview with Mr Pravic would be most valuable.’

  Ms Zander smiled wryly. Extra resources? The money the UN had budgeted would scarcely cover the rent and the wages of the small staff until the end of the year.

  At times she despaired of the work she was doing. Yes, the politicians mouthed support for the Tribunal every time the television showed new horror pictures. But more money? Oh no.

  ‘I’m not sure we can get far with this one,’ she confided. ‘What do you all think?’

  ‘We have a name. That is a beginning,’ the Dutch policeman insisted. ‘We can alert EU countries to watch for him at their borders.’

  ‘I agree, but so far there’s no evidence against him,’ the French magistrate pointed out. ‘Unless we can find him and persuade him to confess.’

  The Englishwoman snorted with laughter.

  ‘Fat chance.’

  The Senegalese lawyer began to stir. His command of English was poor and it had taken him longer than the others to read the report.

  ‘The place . . . where they kill . . .’ His voice was laboured and slow. ‘The UN soldiers . . . they are British?’

  Ms Zander nodded.

  ‘Then maybe the British . . . they can do something? Ask the questions . . .? Maybe British military police . . . can find this Pravic.’

  ‘It’s not in UNPROFOR’s mandate . . .’ she explained.

  ‘I know, I know. But unofficially . . .’

  ‘Undercover, you mean? I’m not sure about that.’

  For a moment there was silence round the table.

  ‘Mind you, we could make something of the fact that this man’s a Bosnian Croat,’ she conceded.

  The others frowned. She wasn’t making herself clear.

  ‘As you know, some politicians think putting Bosnian war criminals on trial will undermine the peace process,’ she explained. ‘Because most of those we’ve identified so far are Serbs . . . They’re scared Milosevic will accuse the world of bias and pull out of the talks.’

  ‘But most of the criminals are Serbs . . .’ the Frenchman insisted.

  ‘I know, I know . . . But if we can persuade our government that prosecuting Mr Pravic, a Croat, would balance the books, it might encourage them to give us the help we would need to dig up enough evidence against him. I mean, my Foreign Secretary has called the Tulici massacre a stain on the conscience of humanity . . .’

  ‘Ooph, such strong words . . .’ the Dutchman mocked. ‘Caroline is right. It could work.’

  ‘But Bosnia is a sovereign state,’ the Frenchman objected. ‘We have no right to go and investigate there unless the Bosnians give us permission. This is not like Nürnberg.’

  ‘Permission . . .’ the Englishwoman pondered. ‘Of course that’s not something the intelligence services worry much about, is it? And I can’t imagine Britain has two thousand soldiers out there without a few spies watching their backs.’

  She stood up and grabbed her copy of the Tulici file.

  ‘Let me talk to my friends in London and see if I can pull a trick or two, gentlemen.’

  Berlin

  Lufthansa flight 3227 from Moscow was late. Due at ten to three on this wintry afternoon, it was after five when the 737’s tyres kissed the tarmac.

  Kommissar Gunther Linz of the Bundeskriminalamt, BKA, had been assured the two men were on the flight. Germany’s secret service had a man on board who’d radioed through. What they didn’t know was the precise nature of the stuff in the men’s bags, nor how dangerous it was.

  This was a public place. Innocent people everywhere. Couldn’t afford to slip up with the snatch. No chances being taken – sharpshooters on the balcony and, just seconds away, a medical team from the Bundeswehr’s nuclear protection unit.

  A tall man, with salt-and-pepper hair and close-set, hazel eyes, Linz wore a dark green raincoat and carried a Duty Free plastic bag. He was uneasy – always was when the security people set up a ‘sting’. If the two men he was about to arrest were committing an offence, it was because the intelligence services had put them up to it.

  The blue tail of the jet lined up with the gate. Linz began to sweat.

  As airports went, Berlin-Tegel was one of the best for arrests. Baggage collection, immigration, customs – all at the gate itself, and just a few metres beyond the barrier a door to an access road where police vans could wait.

  The first passengers emerged from the pier and lined up for the passport check. Linz watched his four BKA detectives mingle by the carousel.

  The two Italians stood apart, one in a business suit, the other in leather jacket and brown trousers.

  They’re good, Linz thought. Not a hint they’re together. Not a sign of concern. Natural gamblers. The contents of their cases could make them rich, or put them behind bars.

  A buzzer. The carousel about to move. Linz watched the plain-clothes men close in on the couriers. Near enough to move fast, but not so close as to be noticed.

  The Italians watched the bags emerge. Linz guessed they planned to travel separately to the hotel where their ‘customer’ was waiting.

  Leather Jacket grabbed a Samsonite then aimed his trolley for the exit. The Suit checked customs didn’t stop him, then took his own bag from the carousel.

  Two broad-shouldered BKA officers followed the first man out, and two more took position behind the second.

  Leather Jacket passed through the automatic doors. The Suit began to follow.

  Linz scratched his chin. The customs officer acknowledged the signal and stopped an African laden with boxes. The Suit found his way suddenly blocked. Linz saw fear flicker at this untimely delay.

  Outside in the concourse strong hands wrenched Leather Jacket’s arms from the bar of the trolley and pinioned them behind his back.

  ‘Che cosa fai . . .?’

  A tobacco-stained hand clamped his mouth. He saw his trolley and Samsonite disappear through the doors. Then his feet lifted from the floor and he hurtled after them.

  In Linz’s earpiece, a whispered voice. All was well. A scratch at his cheek this time – the customs man waved the African through.

  In the concourse, the Suit looked round for his companion, but for less than a second. Then he too felt metal cuffs, and his dream of wealth vanished like steam from a kettle.

  Across the airfield a small hangar had been cleared for operation Black Gold Schwarzes Gold. Black-clad snipers from the anti-terror unit watched, while the two Italians sat in separate vans seething.

  On trestle tables in the centre of the hangar, stood the two suitcases. X-Rays had shown they might be booby-trapped.

  Linz watched from a distance, while the bomb experts did their stuff. He puffed at a small cigar. Then a technician beckoned him over. They’d cut through the sides of the bags, to by-pass the locks.

  ‘They live well, these Italians,’ he quipped, holding a large tin of Russian caviar.

  Linz pulled on plastic evidence gloves.

  ‘Let me see.’ He spoke in a low mumble. He took the can, which
felt too heavy for caviar.

  ‘Plutonium probably,’ the technician suggested. ‘Twenty times as heavy as water. Permission to open it, Herr Linz?’

  The Kommissar handed back the tin and glanced at the truck-load of sophisticated gear they’d brought from headquarters.

  ‘But do we have a can-opener?’ he asked laconically.

  Heads shook. There was a ripple of embarrassed laughter. Linz sent someone to find the kitchens, then wandered onto the apron again to relight his cigar. He limped slightly, the result of an old gunshot wound when he’d been on the Drug Squad. He was joined by a man shorter than himself, whose shiny baldness looked premature.

  ‘Hardly worth opening the cans,’ Linz scowled. ‘I suppose you know what’s in them already.’

  ‘Of course we don’t. We only baited the hook. You never know what kind of fish you catch until you reel in the line.’

  The smaller man was from the internal security service BfV. This was their sting.

  ‘Where did you find these two types, anyway?’ Linz needled.

  ‘If you know the right bars, they’ll come to you,’ he replied. ‘One of my colleagues looks like an Arab. Said he had a rich friend who would pay a fortune for enough of the right stuff. And, what do you know? Up jumped the Mafia.’

  ‘And when they get before the judges, they’ll claim enticement . . .’

  ‘But, Herr Linz, does that matter?’

  Couldn’t see the bigger picture, policemen, the BfV man thought. Too focused on detail.

  ‘It matters to me!’ Linz growled. ‘Catching criminals and locking them away is what I’m paid for.’

  ‘Na schön! But what we need at this moment is information about the plutonium trade. And if you want to learn if there are poachers out there, you must wave a rabbit.’

  Behind them someone cleared his throat.

  ‘We have the can-opener, Herr Linz!’

  The policeman and the intelligence agent walked back to the hangar. Linz squeezed the glowing end from his cigar and put the rest in his pocket.

  They began to open the caviar, snapped by a police photographer.

  ‘What do all these things do?’ Linz asked, pointing to devices set up around the can.

  ‘They detect neutron radiation. Plutonium 239 is what people want for bombs, but it’s contaminated with 240, which gives off neutrons,’ explained the technician crisply.

  ‘So what will these toys tell you?’ Linz pressed, still confused.

  ‘Whether it’s dangerous to handle, and whether this stuff is weapons grade.’

  Linz grunted and let them get on with it.

  Gingerly they removed the cleanly cut lid. Inside, was layer upon layer of polythene sheeting, cut into discs to fit the can. A technician tore off a strip of Scotch tape, crumpled it then used it as a sticky handle to lift them out.

  ‘Polythene absorbs neutrons,’ the technician explained.

  As the last of the plastic was removed, he pointed the neutron detector into the can. There was a rise in the whine emitted by the machine.

  ‘That’s okay. The levels are safe. This stuff is high grade.’

  Black powder beneath the plastic.

  ‘Everything suggests weapons-grade plutonium,’ Linz was told. ‘We’ll know more tomorrow after we’ve analysed it fully.’

  ‘Morning, I hope?’ the BfV man queried, adding as an aside to Linz, ‘the press conference is planned for three in the afternoon.’

  The press conference had been scheduled since yesterday. That’s what Linz hated about this whole affair. Little to do with crime. Just politicians wanting Brownie points.

  ‘About midday,’ the technician confirmed.

  The second can of ‘caviar’ revealed the same contents as the first.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Linz said, grabbing the white-coated technician by his sleeve. ‘Someone could make an atom bomb with this stuff?’

  ‘Jawohl.’ He held out the can so Linz could see more clearly. ‘But you must convert the powder to metal and machine it to the right shape.’

  ‘Just this much? What we have here?’

  ‘No, this is a sample. You’d need eight kilos for one bomb.’

  Linz let them pack away their equipment. Just a sample. But in the wrong hands one that could lead to death and misery for millions.

  He looked at the vans where the Italians were being held. Small fish. Couriers. Might not even know who was pulling their strings.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said, taking the BfV officer by the arm. ‘Let’s see what your two jokers have to say for themselves.’

  Four

  Friday 18th March

  Scotland

  SLEEP, IN THE empty, ghost-filled house at Longniddry, was almost impossible. Alex’s mind raced like a toy train on a loop line. Even though he knew Jodie’s death was an accident, he couldn’t forget that the boy would still be alive if he’d acted differently.

  His decision to join the relief effort in Bosnia had lifted his spirits a little. Helping people who’d suffered more than himself had to be a good thing to do. Yet he knew too that to some extent he was running away, avoiding decisions he couldn’t face. Like whether to try again to reconcile things with Kirsty or to accept the defeat of letting it end this way.

  He tossed and turned, unable to shake off the feeling that he was responsible for Kirsty – and for Jodie, even though he had been old enough to vote.

  Funny thing responsibility. Get it wrong and it stays with you for ever. Like the time he’d taken Jodie deer stalking and the boy had been traumatized by the bloody gralloching of the carcase. Hadn’t realized how sensitive a twelve-year-old could be. The worry that he might have harmed Jodie’s mind never left him.

  Alex had loved watching the deer, and accepted the need to hunt them for the cull. He’d identified with the way the beasts used cover to avoid detection, but had been chastened by how often they rewarded the stalkers’ patience with a fatal mistake. A warning not to drop his guard against those who were hunting him.

  It was after three a.m. when he finally nodded off. Then at six-thirty the alarm went. He staggered from the bed to make himself a mug of tea. There was much to do still.

  He’d telephoned Kirsty’s brother last night to say he’d be away for a few weeks. Told him about the redundancy, but not about Bosnia. Just said he was going to London to look up old friends. Better to keep it vague. Old habits – born out of twenty years in hiding.

  There was a train at twelve-thirty that would get him into London at five p.m.. Had to get everything sorted by then.

  He opened the refrigerator. Kirsty kept it well stocked. Eggs and bacon should get him going. Hadn’t often cooked his own breakfast. She’d seen it as her job.

  After he’d eaten, he showered, dressed and packed a couple of holdalls with the few things he thought he’d need. Warm clothes, his walking boots and a strong torch. Moray had said to bring a sleeping bag. The only one in the house had been Jodie’s. Couldn’t bear the thought of using that, so he resolved to buy a new one in London.

  He phoned the local taxi company and booked a car for eleven-thirty. Then he sat at the kitchen table with a notepad and pen. His first letter was to the firm where he’d worked for twenty years, accepting their terms and telling them he’d not be back. Citing personal reasons for his sudden departure, he asked to send best wishes to his colleagues and for the redundancy cheque to be paid into his bank.

  Then he took another sheet.

  Dear Kirsty . . .

  He sat for ten minutes, unable to write. What should he tell her? That he loved her? True enough, even if he’d never been in love with her. That he wanted her back? That was the hard part. He wasn’t sure it could work again.

  He screwed up the page and threw it in the basket.

  He wrote cheques for the handful of outstanding bills, found some stamps for the envelopes and took the letters to the box a short distance down the street. On the way back, a neighbour who’d been Kirsty’s c
losest friend popped her head out to ask how things were. He told her he’d be away for a few weeks, asked her to keep an eye on the house, and said she should help herself to the contents of the ‘fridge.

  The car came five minutes early, but he was ready. With a lump in his throat, he didn’t look back as they headed west along the coast towards Edinburgh.

  At Waverley Station, police were putting up posters of the thirteen-year-old girl who’d been murdered nearby. A woman sergeant with a clipboard asked Alex if he’d been in the area the previous week. He shook his head.

  He bought a one-way ticket to London Kings Cross, a newspaper and some sandwiches. Having breakfasted so early, he was hungry again.

  Then, one important call from a pay phone to an address he’d never known, where MI5’s ‘C’ Branch ran the minders who kept an eye on his back. He’d put off ringing them until now, knowing they’d urge him to stay where he was and not break cover.

  ‘Don’t think it’s a good idea, this, Mr Crawford,’ the voice at the other end told him. ‘Understand your predicament, but you’ll be on your own. We can’t keep an eye on you if you’re moving around all the time. Haven’t got the staff.’

  ‘You think the risk’s that great any more?’ Alex queried.

  ‘File says you’re still current. Tell you what, give me another ring from London before you leave the country would you?’

  Then he found a window-seat in the smoking section and settled down for the journey.

  The train pulled out five minutes late. He stared out of the window watching the Lothian landscape that had concealed him so hospitably for twenty years, slip past with increasing speed.

  His eyes moistened, his heart ached with a deep sadness. If only he could wind back the clock . . .

  Beyond the border, he slept, his overstressed brain lulled by the rhythm of the wheels.

  He’d not been to the capital for twenty years. He’d expected change, but the crush of traffic and the sullenness of the packed Underground came as a shock.