“What?” Godan said, but automatically obeyed, going to the side. He peered along the track. They were passing telegraph poles so a jump would have to come just after passing one.

  Lonjic threw a small rock into the next wagon. De Klerk popped his head up. Lonjic pointed to the land to the side and mimed jumping. De Klerk nodded and indicated to Linderroth to pass the message on.

  Godan gauged the jump. The land was pretty thick with shrubs and the ground largely unknown. He took in a deep breath, then jumped. Lonjic saw him land heavily and roll, then vaulted over and landed just past him. As he crashed into the trunk of a large bush, bending it, he saw de Klerk slip over the side of his wagon, then spring off with an agility he envied.

  He got to his feet, automatic in his hands. He looked round. Godan was brushing mud off his jacket ten feet away. The train was still passing, and the sound of the wheels drowning out any other noise. Once it had gone, and the volume of sound dropped radically, Lonjic went to the railway lines and looked in both directions. It was clear. He crossed, still glancing round, and knelt in the shelter of the undergrowth on the far side.

  One after the other the rest crossed, one or two limping painfully. Ankles or knees had been bashed from the jump. “Everyone fit to walk?” Lonjic asked. He got nods or grunts. He continued. “Alright. Maybe the radio being broken is a good thing; I’m not happy with the security in Zagreb. This time we’ll do our own thing. Last message to them was that we were going to Tuzla. I’m willing to bet there’s a nice big reception waiting for us there.”

  The others nodded or pulled faces. They had no illusions that they were in a trap.

  “So, we do what is unexpected. We go north.”

  “North?” Mendez queried. “Into Serbian territory again?”

  “Yes. We cross these hills. Nobody expects us to do so. Our pursuers are going south-west. We go back into northern Bosnia, we know that no village will be friendly. So we stay away from any. We get to the border of Croatia and cross over. Once there we’re safe. The Serbs won’t expect us to go this way.”

  “We got enough food?” Toloba queried. “I’m nearly out.”

  “Then we get some. We’re still in non-Serb territory. Next village we buy food, right?”

  They grunted an assent and they set off in the drizzle once more. This time de Klerk led, Toloba next, Lonjic third. Godan brought up drag this time. They went until dark and sheltered uncomfortably in the rain on a slope amongst broken rocks. The next day they at least had no rain, and climbed a long slope, but the ground was slippery and they made slower progress than they wanted. Mid-morning they crested the rise and went down the other side.

  Through the trees they saw a collection of houses, smoke rising lazily from them. People were seen walking about, and a single un-tarmacked road led through it. A stream chuckled through the middle, and they spent a good thirty minutes studying the goings-on. Nothing seemed amiss, so they descended and filtered through vegetable patches and pig-sties and grazing sheep before coming up short just as they rounded a corner.

  A figure was standing in their way, a shotgun aimed straight at Godan’s guts.

  Godan put his hands up slowly. Lonjic had raised his gun and held it steady. Both eyed one another warily. “Shoot him and you get sprayed over that building behind you,” Lonjic promised.

  “At least you speak a civilized language,” the man said, lowering his gun. “I thought you were Hajduks.”

  Lonjic grunted with amusement. People here still used the old word for bandits. He let his gun drop too, and it hung from his shoulder by the strap. “We’re being chased by Serb militia led by a particularly bad man from Macedonia working for them. You’ve not heard any stories about us slaughtering huge numbers of villages and raping their chickens, have you?”

  “No – nor about raping villages and slaughtering chickens either,” the man chuckled with good humor. “You do not sound or look like Serbs, neither. Come, we must get you out of sight before Karadzic’s dirty brigades see you.”

  They were taken deeper into the village, the locals looking on with fascination, and perhaps a little fear too. Young children hid behind their mothers as the seven men passed by. Baja attracted the most attention; a black man in that part of the world was virtually unknown. He was pointed at and stared at, so the others largely passed by without any undue attention.

  The man took them to his home, a brick and stone construction, with a cleanly swept patio and chairs arranged neatly on the verandah in front. They climbed the four steps that led to this and then beyond to the door. It was open and a younger, slimmer version of the man with the shotgun stood aside to allow the men entry. Clearly the man’s son.

  “I’m Stumac,” the man introduced himself once they were all standing in the kitchen, around a stoutly made wooden table. A woman hovered close to the cooker, nervously eyeing the men who filled the room. Big men, dirty, bruised, wet, cut and tired. They also smelled. “I’m the village leader. We were told of your approach – a woodsman saw you coming down towards us and warned me.”

  “Brave of you facing us alone.” Lonjic spoke for the group.

  Stumac shrugged. “We have little in the way of a militia here. The nearest place is Humci to the west. We try to keep to ourselves here. Everything is changing, and the people are afraid, as I’m sure you will understand. The old prejudices are coming back and we worry the Chetniks will come again. So, please tell me, what are you doing here and why?”

  Lonjic gave him a condensed version of their tale, making it simpler. He made it out to be a straightforward kill mission against the warlord and his group. “So we failed – twice – to kill this man who has the luck of the devil. He has support of Belgrade but we think Belgrade is more interested in the war than sending more to help this man.”

  “That is just as well. We don’t want the army here. They’re not popular in these parts anyway. So, you need to return to Croatia? It’s a long way my friends.”

  “We were hoping to make out way through the valleys and mountains north to the Sava again and cross over somewhere... oh let me show you.” He fished out the map and spread it over the table. Stumac and his son peered at it while the woman kept well away. Lonjic pointed to the area around the Sava. “Between Samac and Orasje where the river winds and bends a lot.”

  “I agree, but how to get there? You must go through Serb territory. I would not put much in the way of a chance for you without being seen. You will have to cross some rugged terrain too. What you need is a vehicle. However the roads all cross into Serbian lands and you’ll have to pass as Serbs. How? None of you have their accents.”

  Lonjic sighed. “We must somehow do it. We have little food.”

  Stumac grinned. “Leave that to us. You will be shared out amongst the people here for the next day or so. I will have to find out the feasibility of you getting across to Croatia. It’ll take a day or two.” He looked at his son. “Go get Igor and Marko. They will take two each. Pass the word round, have these men settled in and housed for two days.”

  Within an hour the group were spread out round the village. Lonjic remained in Stumac’s house where the wife finally decided he wasn’t going to eat her and prepared a soup for him out of meat and vegetables she called Begova corba. There was a filling side plate of somun bread too, which Lonjic ate with gusto.

  The daughter appeared at that point, a dark haired, dark eyed twenty-something year old with wide hips and a pointed nose. She took one look at Lonjic and her eyes lowered, a slight flush appearing on her cheeks. Lonjic grinned and then continued to consume his soup.

  “Please, you must bath,” the wife said. “You must have been outside for many days.”

  Lonjic grunted. “Yes, over a week – perhaps two.”

  “Are you wounded? There is blood.”

  “No – a few cuts which have healed. It looks worse than it is. This is delicious.”

  The wife smiled. “Thank you. Maritza will show you where you can change. Do you have other clothes?”

  “Sorry no.”

  “Then we will put you in some of the men’s and I will wash these. Maritza, go show our guest where he can change and sleep.”

  The daughter beckoned, her eyes roving over his body. Lonjic reckoned she was a little overawed by his build. How they were going to find clothing to fit him was anyone’s guess, but he was certainly looking forward to a bath. It would soak off the kinks and bumps and make him feel more human.

  She showed him the spare room and he was handed a towel and wash cloth. Then she took his clothes once he had taken them off and thrown them out onto the landing. He stood in the doorway, towel wrapped around him, his torso on view. Maritza took her time looking at it, her eyes as wide as they could be. Whether it was the scars or the muscles – or both – he didn’t know. He quite enjoyed the feeling of her almost drooling over him. The ego needed such a boost from time to time.

  “It’s alright,” he said with a smile, “these are not deep cuts. I’ve been a little unlucky in the past with cars.”

  “Oh, it looked as if…” she tailed off. Clearly she was overcome with her inner feelings at the sight of his body.

  “The bath is where?”

  “Oh! O-Over there,” she pointed, her hand shaking. Lonjic smiled a thanks and deliberately brushed her as he passed, a wide grin over his face as he walked to the door. She was behind him so she couldn’t see. The poor girl was clearly a lamb to the slaughter. He wondered briefly if she would agree to bathe him… then decided it would not be a good idea as Stumac and Mrs. Stumac would certainly object.

  The soak in the porcelain bath did him good. He had been initially surprised that a place like this had hot running water, but then he chided himself; why shouldn’t this place have it? It may be in the middle of a former communist country away from the main centers of population, but hell, in his day in the Roman Empire places like this had it. Go to any villa on some gods-forsaken hill in the far-flung outposts and you could find hot running water.

  His wounds were examined. The couple of bullet wounds he’d gotten were red but healed, and the scars were merely small ones to add to the large collection he’d amassed over the years.

  He heard Stumac return downstairs so he got out, dried himself, looked in the small wall mirror and decided he needed a shave. No shaving gear. Ah well, maybe a knife? He’d done that on thousands of occasions and one more wouldn’t go astray. He returned to his room and saw to his surprise a set of clothes neatly piled in the middle of the bed.

  He tried them on and they did fit. They must have gotten them from the village lumberjack or something. The shirt was a little tight but a couple of buttons at the top undone made it easier. He went down without socks or shoes on but it was warm enough. Stumac, his wife, who was called Enisa, Maritza and Godan were seated at the table, plus a couple of swarthy men he didn’t know.

  “Come, sit,” Stumac waved him to an unoccupied chair. “Enisa, coffee for our guests.” He grinned. “I’m sure you won’t mind our type of coffee; it’s often too strong for foreign palates but you seem to be men who can handle that kind of thing.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s similar to Turkish coffee. I’ve had plenty in my time. I’d love some.” Lonjic looked briefly at Godan whose Croatian tastes often were favored to the exclusion of other cultures, but the man nodded. He knew when to be diplomatic, and besides, there was no alternative. Lonjic smiled to himself at an expression that popped into his head. When in Rome…. funny how his old nation survived in expressions or words to this day. It sometimes made him nostalgic.

  “So, Stumac clapped his hands together and rubbed them with relish. He seemed mightily pleased with himself. “Here are Igor and Marko, two of my cousins. They own a couple of trucks, one they – ah – acquired from the Serb militia a few months ago when the question of Croatian independence first reared its head. Now our situation here is complicated, because of the number of Serbs, Croats and Muslims living in Bosnia. I’m sure you know that the Serbs mostly have the east and north, while the Croats the west and south-west. We don’t know yet what will happen to Bosnia but apart from the Serbs, we do not wish to remain in Yugoslavia anymore.”

  He took a deep breath, took a sip of coffee, smacked his lips, then continued. Enisa put a small cup of coffee in front of both Godan and Lonjic. “Most of us – Croats and Bosniaks – have no wish to remain under Serbian rule. Now the different republics of Yugoslavia are going their own way we wish for that too – but we fear the Serbs will do what they did in World War Two when they used the Chetniks to murder and slaughter non-Serbs.”

  Lonjic kept silent. He knew that the same went on from the Croats and the Ustasha but it wouldn’t be politic to mention that here. Divisions were so entrenched that to argue against them would be futile, and earn the enmity of his hosts, when he needed their help.

  Stumac got approving nods from his cousins. “Therefore anyone causing harm to our historical enemies we will help, even if it’s only through giving them a truck and food. Your fight against this Vardaric and his cohorts is just what the people here need to hear, to know that there are others beyond our borders who will fight our enemies. So, Igor, you have your truck.”

  Igor, a slim, lithe man with a couple of day’s stubble, nodded. “In my garage. I will service it and make sure there is fuel in the tank, then you can take it and drive north-west along the road until you get to the main Srebenik road.” He used Lonjic’s dog-eared map as a guide, pointing with an oil-ingrained finger. “From Srebenik take the Brcko road north, then at this fork here,” he jabbed a point on the map, “keep north on the Orasje road. This way you avoid much of the Serb-dominated towns and villages. Unfortunately there is no avoiding it north of Alienz here, and a short way south of Orasje.”

  Lonjic memorized the places. “So, to cross into Croatia, we can use this region here from Orasje westwards?”

  “Yes, to around Bazik there. But bear in mind the border will be defended and there is a war going on across the river.”

  “I know that,” Lonjic muttered. “We’ll have to cross at night away from population centers. The JNA will be garrisoning those towns.” He looked up at Godan. “Two days, you think?”

  “Two – three at the most. Depends if we get held up anywhere.”

  “Don’t stop in any of the towns – the army still controls them, and they will stop you if they think you look suspicious.” Stumac nodded to emphasize his words.

  “Thank you for your assistance. We’d never get through it without your help.” Lonjic smiled at the three Bosnian men.

  They sat discussing other things for the rest of the day while Igor and Marko went and others came, occasionally passing on snippets of news. Linderroth and de Klerk visited and left, then Godan yawned, checked his watch and declared he was turning in, and left.

  Stumac insisted Lonjic had a supper so the eternal mercenary gave in, especially when Maritza said she was going to prepare it for him, and began helping her mother at the cooker. A plate of tarhana was presented, a soup of vegetables, stock and smoked sausage with home-made pasta. Lonjic had seen similar dishes in Greece. It was filling and warm, and he retired to bed feeling pretty comfortable.

  The room wasn’t very large, but comfortably furnished, with a stout wooden bed, a wardrobe, chest of drawers and a chair. There were thick curtains that blocked out any light that came through the windows and the rectangular woolen rug that covered the middle part of the floor was soft and warm.

  The pillows were firm and the blankets clean. Clearly Enisa ran a tidy ship. He lay with his hands under his head, staring up at the ceiling. He was concerned that they hadn’t killed Vardaric, and he wondered if they’d get another chance. Bad luck had dogged them, but there was also the matter of the one amongst them who was sabotaging their efforts, for whatever reasons he had.

  The door opened slowly and silently. His eyes switched immediately to the widening crack of light and he held his breath, tensing, but then he saw the slim figure of Maritza and smiled to himself. She couldn’t resist visiting him. The door closed and she came to the bed slowly, mostly so as not to kick the bed or other objects as her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness.

  She stood before him, a dark, half-seen figure in the night, and there came a rustling sound and he caught movement, something dropping from her to the floor. Her clothing. He pulled the blankets aside and waited as she slipped onto the bed and he covered her over.

  The familiar feeling of a woman’s body against his made his heart begin to beat faster. He may be two thousand years old but he never got tired of the pleasures a woman could bring him. Maritza put an arm round his stomach and rolled onto her side. “Please, no noise,” she whispered close to his ear, then began to suck on his earlobe.

  Some fucking hope, Lonjic thought as she began to turn him on. The blood coursed through his veins. This was going to be some performance. Shit, did the bed creak? he thought suddenly. If it did, then the rug was the alternative. She was definitely hungry for him, for she wasn’t wasting any time. Now she was astride him, sensually writhing against him and he was definitely getting very interested.

  What was her story? Did she not have a boyfriend, or fiancée? He hadn’t even asked her, or her mother and father. There again, asking those two would have possibly alerted them to him being interested in her, and they’d’ve either thrown him and the rest of the group out of the village or had him married to her in no time.

  No, marriage was absolutely not on his radar. He was more interested in the immediacy of lust. He took hold of her by the hips and guided himself in. She gasped, tensed, then threw her head back and began riding hard. God she was desperate! He wondered why. It wasn’t as if he was the only man who had suddenly appeared, or been around in the village for years. To hell with it, who cared? He didn’t. He ran his hands over her sides, then back. Maritza sucked in a deep breath and carried on, lost in her passion.

  When she sated herself she collapsed onto him. Lonjic then turned her over and continued, and she had to bite back some noise but finally grabbed a sheet and bit on it to stop the next room from hearing. Thankfully the bed was well made and not from some pre-pack mass manufactured outlet. It took the love making well and never squeaked, which was more than could be said for Maritza. She locked her legs round his back, and finally drummed her heels into him and shook again and again until Lonjic himself finished with a huge burst of satisfaction.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19