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Horrified is the gaze of the world
While Mother Bosnia tears herself apart.
Offspring, brothers and sisters
Are set along the route to destruction
Deaf to Reason, blind to facts.
Mother Bosnia – a cradle of riches
Now becomes the spring of discord,
History repeating itself
Maiming, killing, displacing,
Robbing of land, the rule of the gun.
Seeds of a future conflict are sown,
Mother Bosnia is torn apart
The atomic age is with us,
But Bosnia is just another name for Lepanto:
Creeds disunited and waging war.
I often wonder how God must feel
When three sons with different flags
Crave for his attention:
‘In your name I kill,
Thy will be done.’
How? By killing the other son?
Mother Bosnia is bleeding
No quarter is given.
Hate is a chameleon of chauvinistic meanings,
And the World at large watches on TV
With an attitude of:
Provided it is you and not me
You can have my sympathy.
And so, Bosnians are
The perpetrators and the victims.
While the World watches on
Mother Bosnia is torn apart.
Bernardo Stella, London 1994
PART ONE (#ulink_d9ffb7f5-d7bf-5f8f-b7bf-080791e9175b)
1992–1993 (#ulink_d9ffb7f5-d7bf-5f8f-b7bf-080791e9175b)
Baby Blue (#ulink_d9ffb7f5-d7bf-5f8f-b7bf-080791e9175b)
You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun
Crying like a fire in the sun
Look out, baby, the saints are comin’ through
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.
‘It’s All Over Now Baby Blue’, Bob Dylan, 1966.
ONE Operation Bretton (#ulink_3ec5174a-9221-59de-ac7c-a96e18c5141b)
Thursday 16 October 1997 – Joint Services Command and Staff College, Bracknell, UK
‘Are you Major Stankovic?’ I catch the flash of a silver warrant badge encased in black leather and glimpse a pair of shiny handcuffs in one of the open brief-cases on the table. I nod – what the hell’s going on here?
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector —, Ministry of Defence Police. I have a warrant for your arrest under Section 2.2b of the 1989 Official Secrets Act …’ he’s reading from the warrant, ‘… on suspicion of maintaining contact with the Bosnian Serb leadership, of passing information which might endanger the lives of British soldiers in Bosnia, of embarrassing the British government and the United Nations …’
My stomach lurches. Instinctively I cross my arms.
‘… You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say can and will be used in evidence against you. Do you understand?’
My mind is racing – say nothing. ‘Mmm’ is my only response.
The day had started normally enough. I’d spent the previous night at home in Farnham reading up on various articles and reports in preparation for the following morning’s syndicate room discussion on getting women into front-line units. Normal Staff College stuff.
The alarm wakes me at seven – quick shave, throw on the leathers, twenty minutes threading my way through solid early morning traffic on the M3. My thoughts are given up to taking a radical line – get ’em into the Paras and Marines first. I leave the Suzuki in the car park, dump the leathers in my room, climb into Barrack Dress – brown shoes, green plastic trousers, shirt, green woollen jersey – don’t forget the wretched name-tag, they’re so anal about them here. I wander over to the syndicate room and leave my bag. Still ten minutes to go. Time for a quick coffee and a smoke.
It’s 0820. I’m standing outside the Purple Hall smoking a cigarette and chatting to James Stewart – something about women sticking bayonets into people and could they do it. Brigadier Reddy Watt walks past. He catches my eye and gives me a funny look. I carry on chatting to James for another couple of minutes. The Brigadier is back again.
‘Milos, could I have a quiet word with you?’ Nothing unusual in that. Probably something to do with last Friday’s syndicate room discussion which he’d sat in on.
‘Sure, Brigadier.’ I put out my cigarette and follow him in silence. It’s slightly uncomfortable and I’m wondering why he’s saying nothing. We round the corner of one of the large unused prefabricated lecture halls. He opens the door and motions me inside. The lights are on. The place is almost empty, but not quite – two men in dark suits on the left, brief-cases open on a desk. At the far end of the hall two more men in dark suits, also with open brief-cases on a desk. They’re chatting quietly. I take a couple of paces forward and turn to the Brigadier to say, ‘We can’t talk in here. There are people here.’ But I don’t – his right hand is stretched out, palm open. There’s a strange expression in his eyes, almost apologetic.
I walk towards the two at the far end. They’re watching me now. The one on the left is short and tubby with a pot belly hanging over his belt. The one on the right is slightly taller but not much. He is also slightly portly but not as flabby. Both men are wearing cheap, dark blue off-the-peg C&A-type suits. There’s a puffed up, officious air about the pair of them. As I approach the one on the right produces a warrant badge. Pot Belly does the same. The first one then starts reading from a piece of paper. Time stops dead.
The Taller One produces a warrant for the search of my house with authorisation to seize just about anything they want. It’s signed off at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court. I’m forced to hand over my house keys, car keys and motorbike keys. I sign some bit of paper to that effect.
‘You’ll now be taken to your room where you’ll be able to change. We want to minimise any embarrassment.’ That’s kind of you! I’m not really interested in them. Spying for the Bosnian Serbs! Where has this come from? I feel faint.
I change quickly – trousers, shoes, shirt, tie and blazer, all a bit grubby but so what. Pot Belly and The Taller One are in there with me. I’m told not to touch anything. They’re talking into their Cell phones,‘… is the car ready yet? … no! … ten minutes! … yes, that’s right, side entrance …’
There’s time to kill. They’re not ready for whatever’s coming next. I sit on the bed and smoke a couple of cigarettes.
The Taller One turns to Pot Belly. ‘What did the suspect say when he was arrested?’
Pot Belly checks his notes. ‘He said quote “Mm” unquote.’
‘Is that with two Ms or three?’ his companion asks.
Pot Belly looks confused.
I rescue them. ‘It’s three “Ms”.’ Jesus! These boys really are Keystone Cops. And they’re flapping too, nervous almost. Curious.
Eventually they’re ready. I’m bundled into the back of an unmarked car along with The Taller One. There’s a woman driving. Pot Belly follows in another car. Apparently we’re off to Guildford Police Station – quite what for I still don’t know.
The Taller One asks what my neighbours are like and whether they’re likely to cause trouble. I tell him that they’ll all be at work. He continues asking questions about the house almost bashfully.
‘Is there anything we need to know about your house before we enter?’
‘Like what? What do you mean?’ Now he’s got me baffled.
He says almost shyly, ‘Well you know … some people leave things in their homes, when they’re out …’
‘What sort of things?’ Now I’m interested.
‘Well … unexpected things …’
‘Unexpected things?’
‘You know … booby traps and things like that,’ he says quickly. Booby traps! Does he really think I’ve dug a bear pit in my mid-terrace two-up two-down?
‘No, no, don’t worry. Just turn the key. You’ll be fine,’ I reassure him.
With nothing else to talk about he tries to engage me in idle conversation, ‘So, you’re a biker then. What type do you ride?’
‘Suzuki … eleven hundred,’ I reply automatically.
‘Eleven hundred, eh. What’s the servicing interval then?’ I’m stunned. I can’t believe this is happening. Motorbikes! Servicing intervals … who givesa shit! Here am I arrested for spying and this clown wants to know about servicing intervals.
I make a huge effort, ‘… er … every six thousand miles …’ He nods knowledgeably and the stupid conversation continues. He’s got an accent, West Country or something. I ask him.
‘Devon actually.’
‘Oh, right.’ What next?
‘Have you come far?’ Now I’m doing it, asking stupid questions, ‘Do you come here often?’
‘From Braintree, in Essex. Early start this morning. We were up at five.’ Poor thing! Must have been terrible for you. It’s the early copper who catches a spy. Braintree? Essex? What the hell happens there? And, anyway, who are these people? The only MoD Police I’ve ever seen are those rude, unfriendly uniformed knobs who lurk at the main gates of MoD establishments. Those buggers at Shrivenham are particularly odious – gits without a civil word in their heads.
On the outskirts of Guildford the inane conversation stops. The Taller One’s voice changes, goes up by perhaps half an octave, quicker too. ‘Right, when we get to the police station this is what will happen …’ He quickly outlines a sequence of events adding almost breathlessly,‘… I don’t want to make a mistake at this stage!’ I don’t want to make a mistake at this stage!? You’re flapping. For the first time I realise he’s nervous. You’ve just made your first mistake … never reveal a weakness.
The car swings right through a rear entrance followed by Pot Belly. We’re out of the cars. Flanked by both suits I’m marched into a dark entrance leading to a custody suite with a long, raised counter. There’s an unshaven scruffy drunk slumped against one end of the counter. There’s a large desk sergeant and a young PC behind the counter. The Taller One approaches the PC who is partially hidden behind a computer screen. He produces him his warrant card and explains who he is. The PC looks a bit bewildered. The civilian police don’t know anything about this. They’re not expecting us.
The Taller One starts to read out the arrest warrant. The PC taps furiously on his keyboard – ‘Hold on. Slow down. I’ve got to type all this in.’ He slows down … Official Secrets Act … Bosnian Serbs … passing information … endangering lives … blah, blah, blah … The PC glances at me. His eyes are popping out of his head. Even the drunk perks up.
I’m told to empty my pockets of everything. Wallet is emptied, coins, an old train ticket, Zippo lighter, twenty B&H – ten left. Everything is itemised and recorded in triplicate by the sergeant. My meagre bits and pieces are stuffed into plastic bags.
‘Please remove your belt and tie.’ I do as I’m asked. I can’t believe this is happening!
‘Do you want my watch?’
‘No. You can keep that and your cigarettes. Not the lighter. You’ll have to buzz if you want a light.’ What the hell do they think I’m going to do? Set fire to myself with a Zippo!
‘Have you ever been arrested before?’ asks the PC, eyes still popping. What do you think?
‘No. Never.’
‘Didn’t think so somehow.’ He casts an eye over my blazer with its brass buttons of the Parachute Regiment.
All puffed up, The Taller One pipes up, ‘We don’t want him to make any phone calls at this stage … because of the seriousness of the arrest … not until we’ve searched his house …’ What! What does this asshole think I’m going to do? Pick up the phone to some fictitious contact and say ‘The violets are red’! They really do think I’m a spy.
The PC looks uneasy. ‘No phone call?’
The Taller One nods, ‘… because of the serious nature of the arrest …’ Oh, you’re so bloody sure of yourself aren’t you!
The PC looks troubled and turns to me. ‘Who would you call?’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘Dunno.’
‘Well, don’t you want to phone a lawyer?’
‘A lawyer? I don’t know any lawyers. What do I need a lawyer for?’
