Dead of Night

CHAPTER TEN

In order to make time and get going, we skipped breakfast -except for whatever tea and coffee had already been brewed—and came down the hill, with the Australian television van following us. Once again we were in second place in the procession of vehicles, and Peter said, ‘Look behind us, why don’t you? That idiot Sanjay’s almost a klick away. Guess he doesn’t want to run up my arse again, huh?’

I folded my arms, decided not to ask him to turn up the heat. ‘Who would, Peter?’

Behind me Miriam didn’t say anything, but she did gently stroke the back of my neck, just a little touch, I guess to let me know that she was there. I remembered that kiss last night, a chaste kiss between a maiden and a smelly knight errant who was terrified and hungry and tired. I turned quickly and gave her a smile, and she said, ‘I don’t know why but I just feel happier, having that TV crew with us. And Aussies, to boot. They weren’t part of the intervention, they’re not taking part in any peacekeeping. It just seems like they’re a good thing to have with us.’

Peter said, ‘What? You think having a van like that is going to prevent some rogue militia unit from lobbing a couple of hand grenades at us?’

‘Maybe not,’ I said. ‘But it might buy us some time.’

Peter shook his head. ‘Dreamers. I’m surrounded by bloody dreamers.’

Miriam leaned up to him so close that I was horrified she was going to kiss him. But no, she was looking down between the two of us, at a map on the car seat. ‘Tell me again: where is Jean-Paul leading us?’

‘Well, he’s been leading us around in circles all this time, so I’m hoping his luck will change,’ Peter said. ‘We’re heading to a major north-south highway, just three or four klicks to the east. There’s an on-ramp from this road that enters the highway, and that gives us two options. Either head south, where there’s a major UN resettlement area, or just hang in there, wait for a UN convoy to stroll by, and catch a ride with them.’

‘Nice options,’ I said.

‘Nice to have them, for a change,’ Peter said.

Miriam, still leaning in between us, said, ‘What do you think about that TV crew, what that reporter said?’

Peter scratched at the side of his face. ‘You mean that stupid git with the perfect teeth? What about him? Sounded like the usual newsie nonsense.’

I said, ‘I think Miriam’s talking about what he said about the UN inspection teams being sabotaged.’

‘You mean, like this one?’ Peter asked. ‘How we’ve gone round in circles, not knowing where we were going, and how we haven’t found a bloody thing? Except for—’ He spared me a quick glance. ‘No offense, except for some dead cows. Sure, maybe we’ve been sabotaged, or maybe we’ve had some bad luck, or bad leadership. Trust me, if there was some serious sabotage going on we wouldn’t be breathing. No, sir, not at all.’

Peter looked down at the map, looked up again. ‘Brilliant. Here we go. That access road should be here, right above this rise.’

I had my hands clasped in my lap and was still enjoying having Miriam between the two of us. It seemed to me -perhaps I was being irrational—that she was leaning in my direction. I looked ahead and saw the road curve up and to the right, and the brake lights of the lead Land Cruiser. In the distance below us, off to the left and right, I could make out a four-lane highway, just like the map had indicated.

But there was still one problem.

The overpass, which should have led us to an on-ramp or some other sort of entrance to the highway, was gone.

Peter swore, and I just kept my hands still.

The three Land Cruisers and the Australian television van parked in a row at the crest of the rise. We all got out and stood, in front of the parked vehicles, and I had a sudden vision of some men with guns rising up and cutting us down with one wide sweep of their weapons. It would have been so easy to do, so easy to kill us all in a matter of moments.

In shocked silence I looked below where we were standing, saw where the overpass had ended up. Right across the highway. It seemed silly, seeing how a large piece of precision engineering consisting of tons of concrete and steel beams and pillars was now lying across the highway. It was too odd, it wasn’t right, and it made one think of looking around to see if a camera crew was on hand, some camera crew from a motion-picture studio, for something so huge and dramatic could only be some sort of special effect. That couldn’t be concrete and steel resting there. It had to be plywood and plaster and plastic.

I had my hands in my pockets, and said, ‘Bombing raid.’

‘Excuse me?’ Sanjay said.

‘NATO bombing raid, before the cease-fire,’ I said. ‘Smart bombs from three or four thousand meters up—must have dropped this overpass right across the highway. Do it right and you’ve managed to blockade a major resupply route, or a roadway that the militias were using to truck out refugee prisoners to the execution sites.’

Jean-Paul turned to our silent Marine escort. ‘Charlie?’

Charlie didn’t look too pleased but he answered anyway. ‘Could be. See down there, on the other side, the other ridge? Looks like some of it’s been cleared away. So at least the UN is using part of the highway now.’

Charlie was right. On the other side of the roadway, piles of crumpled concrete and twisted re-bar had been bulldozed away, clearing part of one highway lane. Just our luck, though, that it was on the other side, and not nearby.

Peter kicked at a chunk of pavement. ‘Damn NATO was too efficient,’ he said. ‘See how chewed-up the hill is? They must have come in with another load of bombs, taken out the exit ramps to the highway and pounded up the hill. Tornadoes.’

‘What? What do you mean, tornadoes?’ Karen demanded. ‘I thought bombs did this, right?’

Peter didn’t say anything and I felt sorry for Karen, so I said, ‘Peter meant a type of aircraft. Tornadoes. And if I’m right, they carry a type of munitions that is used to cut airfields and roads in half. Correct, Peter?’

‘Uh-huh,’ he said.

‘Who the hell flies Tornadoes?’

I decided I liked the sour look on Peter’s face. ‘That’s where the irony comes in. Tornadoes are mostly flown by the British. Am I right, Peter?’

‘Or the Germans,’ Miriam said. ‘I’ve seen them at an air show, outside Rotterdam.’

‘Well,’ said the sharp voice of John, the Australian reporter. ‘This is all bloody well and nice, enjoying the view up here, but what the hell are we going to do about it? Mister Cloutier?’

Jean-Paul seemed lost in thought, standing there with the folded-over map under his arm. ‘Yes, what is it?’

‘I said, what in hell are we going to do? Just sit up here?’

‘It’s an idea,’ Jean-Paul said.

‘An idea, the man says!’ John said, turning to us all, talking in that cultured television voice. ‘His sole idea is to have us sit on our arses up on this bloody hill all morning!’

If the comment bothered Jean-Paul he sure didn’t show it. Instead, he said, ‘Yes, an idea. This is a highway used by UN forces. We stay up here long enough, a convoy or column will show up.’

‘And if the militias see us out here in the open, then we’re all dead, right?’

Sanjay’s turn. ‘We could move back down the road, find a wooded area. One or two of us could stay up here and keep watch.’

Peter had a smile at that suggestion, and I knew what he was thinking: Sanjay wouldn’t mind being up here alone with just Karen to keep him company. But the Australian correspondent wasn’t having any of it.

‘Look, Cloutier,’ John said, walking over to him, his correspondent coat flapping around his legs. ‘You’ve got four-wheel-drive vehicles there, right? Let’s all pile in and go down this hill, and then hook up with the road. OK?’

Jean-Paul said, ‘Charlie?’

But Charlie wasn’t rising to the bait. So I said, ‘Unexploded munitions.’

John turned on me. ‘What did you say, kid?’

‘Unexploded munitions,’ I said, seeing how the guy’s face was getting more red. ‘Look at the access ramp. Look at the hillside. Has to have been a number of air strikes here. Which always means a number of unexploded munitions. Chances are, we start barreling down that hillside in our vehicles, we’ll set something off.’

‘Hell, that’s a chance I’m willing to take,’ John said. Alice came up to him, tugging at his arm, and he brushed her off angrily. Mick was standing there, silent, with his camera at his feet like an obedient dog curled up before its master, and Peter leaned across and said, ‘Guess nobody else wants to take this chance.’

John said, ‘Well, hell, there should be another way of getting onto this highway, and we’re gonna take it. Alice, Mick, let’s saddle up.’

Mick looked over at me, shaking his head just slightly, and grabbed his camera. Alice, however, grabbed at John again and dragged him away a few feet. From that distance, I could only make out snatches of their conversation, which fast deteriorated into an argument:

‘…Why can’t we just wait with these folks…’

‘…You heard what they said, they’re gonna wait all day…’

‘…Where’s the problem with that, we’ve been lost since we got here…’

‘…You’ve been lost, Alice, not me. If you let me drive…’

‘…The rush? We stay here and…’

‘…Miss a big story. We’re not staying. We’re moving out…’

‘…Safer here with them, John, and you…’

‘…That’s it, right. You’re scared. Right? Should have asked Don to come…’

‘…OK, I’m scared. I want to see my two-year-old again. Is that a crime…’

‘…Done with this and done with you…’

John broke free from Alice, nodded in Mick’s direction, and they started walking back to the white van. Alice stood there, clipboard hanging from her hand, looking at them and then looking back at us. Her face was pale and she was trembling, and I did not want to think of what was going through her mind. Should she stay with us or go along with her crew? Possible safety with us and certain career disaster. Or maybe a few uncomfortable moments in the van, and then finding a way onto the highway, and sharing some funny stories with other television crews at the UN refugee camp, less than an hour away. What a choice. Karen whispered something and I thought maybe Alice heard her, and then the van started up, with John driving. He honked the horn and Alice brought a hand up to her face, turned around and walked to the van.

Sanjay said, his voice shaking a bit, ‘Oh, they’ll be all right. You’ll see.’

‘Sure,’ Karen said. But I couldn’t agree with him, not at all. The van backed down the road, made a reverse U-turn, and then was gone, the little Australian flag flapping bravely in the wind from the radio antenna.

We stayed up there by the blasted on-ramp for most of the morning, and, surprisingly enough, Jean-Paul accepted Sanjay’s suggestion about keeping watch on the highway. We brought the Land Cruisers down and found a place to park them, behind a high stone wall, and while Karen and Sanjay took the first watch, we waited. And waited. A slight mist was forming and for a while I sat in one of the Toyotas, playing cribbage with Miriam. Then I decided I had to walk around. Besides the fact that Miriam beat me, four games to nil, I felt enclosed and trapped inside the vehicle. Charlie was out on a high point of the perimeter, keeping watch, and he was wearing a black wool watchcap instead of his usual UN blue beret. Jean-Paul was sitting on a tarp, leaning back against the stone wall, working on his own laptop. When he spotted me he said, ‘Samuel?’

‘Yes?’

‘A moment, if you please.’

I came over and he said, ‘Peter went down the hill a couple of minutes ago, for a bathroom break. If you don’t mind, it’s time for Karen and Sanjay to get relieved. I’d like to send Peter and you up there.’

‘I’d rather go with Miriam.’

‘Yes, and I’d rather be in Marseilles having a wonderful hot bowl of fish soup, but that’s not going to happen, now, is it? Now. Please run along and get Peter. He went down that trail, over by the far Land Cruiser.’

So I went, droplets of mist dripping down on me from the trees. Miriam was inside the Land Cruiser I had just left, reading a paperback. She waved at me and I waved back.

The trail was wet and covered with grass and patches of soft mud, so I didn’t make much noise as I went into the woods. Peter and me, keeping an eye on the highway. What fun. I shivered from the cold and remembered that wonderful motel we had stayed at, what now seemed ages ago. A roof and electricity for a while, and even a hot shower. Paradise. The woods I was in were a mix of hardwood and pine, but there weren’t many leaves on the ground. I felt sure it was different back home in Ontario. All the leaves would have fallen by now.

I went in a few meters and was going to call out for Peter when I heard a voice. I stopped, waited, and then walked some more, slowly. Yes, a voice all right, muttering something at a rapid pace. I crept forward a bit, listened. The wind shifted and I could make out individual words, but not enough to make sense. But it was enough to determine that the voice belonged to Peter. But was he talking to himself?

Another couple of steps. No, he was talking to someone, it seemed like, for there would be a pause, a reply and then another pause.

The voice sounded closer. I went off the trail and into the woods, walking as slow as possible. There was a shape, crouched by the trunk of an evergreen tree that had fallen. The wood was beginning to rot, falling away from the trunk in chunks of gray and brown. And there was Peter, on his knees, talking into his hands. The wind seemed to shift and I heard the word ‘grace’. It struck me as odd: could he be praying before a meal? Peter?

I watched and saw him move his head. Then I noticed the little plastic earpiece, snug in his right ear, with a wire running down to something clasped in his hands.

Radio. Peter was talking, all right, but not to himself. And who was he talking to, and why?

Well, that was a puzzler, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to find the answer now. Maybe Charlie could have gone in there, demanding to know what was what, or maybe Jean-Paul. But not me. I had a creepy spine-tickling feeling that if I went in right there and confronted Peter about what he was doing, then something quite bad would happen. To me. And Peter would amble back up alone to Jean-Paul, and I would be missing, and would remain missing, and my father would hear from the UN in a month or so that I had disappeared, and he would harrumph and say, ‘Figures.’ And that would be that.

So I crept away back onto the trail, and then moved a couple more yards further away. I called out, ‘Peter! Hey, Peter! You around here?’

Then Peter came crashing through the underbrush, zipping up the front of his blue jeans.

‘Yeah?’

‘Jean-Paul’s looking for you,’ I said. ‘He wants us to relieve Karen and Sanjay, up on the rise.’

‘Lucky me,’ he said, finishing his business.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ I said.

He grunted and looked at me, and I avoided his gaze. I don’t know. It just seemed that if he kept on looking at me, then he could figure out that I had been observing him earlier, speaking into a radio, doing God knows what. Or maybe he’d reckon I’d been watching him that other night, in the motel parking lot, when he had come back alone as though he had been somewhere secret. I remembered the stand-up interview with the Australian television crew earlier today. Saboteurs at work, making sure that none of the UN groups working out here would ever find out anything about Site A.

Saboteurs.

‘Well?’ Peter demanded.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Let’s get back up there, unless you want the group thinking you and I are doing what Karen and Sanjay are no doubt doing.’

‘There’s a thought,’ I said, and my back tingled again, looking at those big hands of his. ‘Tell you what, after you.’

‘Whatever,’ he said, and I felt just a bit safer, following him instead of having him follow me.

Just a bit.

We went through the area where the vehicles were parked, and this time Miriam didn’t see me, her head still buried in her paperback. Charlie and Jean-Paul were still at their same stations, hard at work, Jean-Paul on his laptop, Charlie with his binoculars, weapon and hunter’s eye. We got back on the road and Peter had his hands in his pockets, whistling a little tune I didn’t recognize. Our boots sounded loud on the asphalt, and up ahead, by a pine tree on the right, I could see Karen and Sanjay, keeping watch on the quiet highway below them.

‘Beautiful sight, isn’t it?’ Peter said. ‘Woman from California, married man from India. Finding true love in the service of the United Nations, investigating war crimes.’

‘I guess a poet would say you love where you can find it,’ I said.

Peter looked over at me, the light catching the stubble on his face. ‘Poetry? You’re going to start quoting poetry at me?’

‘I wasn’t thinking about it.’

‘Good.’

‘But,’ I went on, ‘if it seems to tick you off so much, maybe I will, after all.’

‘Hah,’ he said.

I looked around at the countryside, at the bare trees and falling oak leaves, thought about Halloween coming up. One of my favorite holidays as a child. Going out trick-or-treating, deciding what kind of costume to wear. Talking to schoolmates, learning which homes gave out the best candy, and which homes should be avoided because they gave out apples or—shudder!—granola bars. I was going to ask Peter if he had ever trick-or-treated as a youngster, and decided not to. I couldn’t imagine this sour man having a childhood, not at all, and I was still flustered at having seen him earlier, talking low into a radio.

‘Christ,’ Peter said, ‘if something doesn’t come by on that highway in…’

I heard something, but Peter was still yammering, and I said, ‘Hey, shut up for a sec, will you?’

That surprised him into silence. I thought he was going to snap back at me when maybe he heard something as well. We both turned and looked down the road. Nothing.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘I thought I heard something,’ I said.

‘Something or someone?’

I shrugged. ‘Not sure. Hold on.’

So we did. A breeze came up, blowing dead leaves across the equally dead road. From behind us I could make out the voices of our two comrades, up by the tree.

‘Come on,’ Peter said, ‘We’ve got to get to Karen and Sanjay.’

‘Wait,’ I said, seeing something move along the side of the road. ‘There’s something there.’

‘Jesus,’ he said, turning away from me. ‘You can stand here and just wait. I’ll go on and relieve those two.’

I didn’t say anything. Peter took a step, and then stopped. I held my breath, thinking maybe I would lose focus otherwise. Then the shape took form. It was a man. Walking slowly up the road as if he was an old man who’d been freed from a rest home or a hospital, moving with great dignity and purpose, but slow, all the same. His hair was a mess but his clothes were good, nice pair of slacks and a trench coat that came down to his—

‘Damn it, that’s the Aussie TV guy,’ I said. ‘It’s John.’

Peter didn’t say anything but he followed me as I started walking towards the slowly moving man. He walked right up the middle of the road, and he looked tired, like he had been walking quite a distance. Breakdown, I thought. Their van must have broken down and he was coming back here for help. That was all. Just walking back for help.

He slowed down, looked up and saw us. He gave us a weak wave.

‘Peter, it’s—’

‘I know who it is,’ Peter said. ‘I’ve got eyes, haven’t I?’

John slowed even more and began to weave some, as though he had been drinking. I started walking towards him and then speeded up. Peter was behind me. More voices could be heard as Karen and Sanjay finally spotted us.

‘John,’ I called out. ‘You OK? Where’s the rest of your crew? Where’s Mick and Alice?’

He managed a smile. But just as I got close enough to see the chalky color of his face he collapsed on his knees and said weakly, ‘There’s trouble.’

Then John fell forward full-length onto the ground before I could catch him. I knelt down beside him, looking at him, looking at the blood covering the back of his coat.