Kara’s Game. Gordon Stevens

sherry and watched the news bites from Vienna.

      ‘I think we have a way forward,’ the Bosnian-Serb spokesman told the TV cameras.

      ‘The latest ceasefire might well give cause for optimism,’ one of the West’s negotiators told the press.

      Quite nicely worded, one of Langdon’s advisers commented. Almost gets round the problem of the ceasefire that wasn’t. Almost but not quite.

      ‘What about the UN refusal to launch an air strike at Maglaj?’ one of the BBC team asked.

      ‘You could say that the UN decision led to the situation we’re able to report today.’

      The report switched to Langdon leaving the Brussels meeting.

      ‘If the UN and the West had taken firmer action earlier, perhaps the conflict might not have escalated to the present situation?’

      ‘Perhaps yes, perhaps no,’ he had replied. ‘It’s always easy to be wise, or at least wiser, with hindsight.’

      ‘What about the reports of a hospital being shelled in Tesanj?’

      Langdon had nodded, as if sharing the reporter’s concern. ‘We have received reports of this … At present we’re still trying to get confirmation.’

      Wrong time to say that first reports suggested that children had been among the dead, he and his advisers had decided. Wrong time also to take away from the impact of the surprise he had in store at Westminster.

      Pity about the kids, of course, but kids were always the victims. And victims were an inevitable price of practically everything.

      The bulletin went back to the studio, then live to the House. He leaned forward and paid closer attention.

      The Speaker was calling him; he was rising from the front bench and taking his position at the dispatch box.

      ‘There has been a breach of the original ceasefire, especially in the area of the Maglaj – Tesanj pocket.’ He glanced at the advisers and nodded his approval of the wording they had chosen for him. ‘The renegotiation of the ceasefire, however, is to be welcomed.’

      Why not an air strike – the intervention from the Opposition front bench had been predictable. Why not more direct military intervention?

      ‘The decision whether or not to launch an air strike is the sole prerogative of the United Nations.’ His delivery emphasized the point. ‘It is not the responsibility of Her Majesty’s Government.’

      He had held up his hand at this point, stopped the heckling from the other side of the House.

      ‘What is the responsibility of Her Majesty’s Government is not only to ensure that its commitment to the United Nations Protection Force is fulfilled, but also to ensure the safety of the British contingent in UNPROFOR.’

      One British life is a life too many, the Opposition knew he was going to say, and prepared its response. Why not a more positive position on Bosnia, he knew they would throw at him.

      ‘I have to tell the House …’ his voice was sombre now ‘… and it is right and proper that the House is the first to know, that there have been a number of British casualties during an incident in the Maglaj – Tesanj pocket.’

      Even now, even on television, he could sense the sudden tension, the moment the mood in the chamber swung in his favour.

      ‘It is my sad duty this afternoon to inform the House that, in a reconnaissance operation ordered by UNPROFOR, and acting in their role as authorized military observers, two members of the Special Air Service have been killed in an incident near the town of Maglaj, and two others seriously injured. The injured men have been flown home and we are in negotiation to retrieve the bodies of the two others.’

      Of course it wasn’t quite news; of course the press had been sniffing at the rumour. But he had done what he always did: got his retaliation in first, so that it was the others, rather than himself, who were now on the defensive.

      ‘I have nothing further to say.’

      And then he had sat down. And no one, not even the Opposition front bench, had moved even a finger to ask him another question.

      

      Tesanj was spread below him.

      Most people were still keeping away from the areas known to be exposed to rifle fire, those that didn’t still darting furtively between doorways. A few hours of peace, then they’d come out, though.

      Valeschov shifted his position slightly and studied the town, fixed in his mind the streets and the places they would be entering and leaving and where, therefore, they would be exposed to him. The food centres, of course, the radio station, the hospital.

      

      All night, after they had returned from the graveyard on the hillside, Kara and Adin had slumped together in the corridor, occasionally talking, though not often, most of the time staring into the black and trying to struggle back from the abyss which engulfed them.

      A nurse brought them tea, a mug each, made sure their hands were firmly gripping the handles, sat with them without speaking before she was needed elsewhere.

      Perhaps they should have begun the journey back to Maglaj last night, after they had laid little Jovan to rest; perhaps it was right that they had delayed till this morning. There was, after all, a ceasefire, and the shells and mortars had stopped.

      They finished the tea, fastened the backpack Adin had brought with him, and began to leave. Thanked the doctors and nurses who were on duty, and asked for their thanks to be passed to those who were resting. Then they left the hospital and stepped into the cold, shuffled rather than walked down the street.

      An old couple leaving the hospital – Valeschov targeted them through the crosswires. At least a couple who looked old, but nowadays you couldn’t tell. Range four hundred metres, wind speed not enough to worry about. He followed them, played with them, as they walked down the street. But played with them without them knowing, and that was the problem.

      Interesting job, being a sniper, gave you such power. Plus the decision of life and death over them, almost like being God, really. Like being the emperor in the old Roman games, thumb up or thumb down. But for you to have that power people needed to at least know you were there. Only then were they afraid, and that was what gave you the power.

      And that was the problem today.

      The old couple, for example. Hadn’t been his enemies before the conflict and wouldn’t be after. But they weren’t afraid of him, because they didn’t know he was there. And that irked. He didn’t need to kill them, perhaps didn’t even want to kill them. This morning, anyway, because last night he’d eaten well and slept better than he’d done for days. But unless they knew he was there they weren’t playing the game. Nobody was. And there was only one way people could be persuaded to play the game.

      ‘You want to see Jovan before we leave?’ Adin suggested. ‘You want to say goodbye to him, tell him we’ll be back?’

      Because we will be back, because we’ll never leave him.

      They were tight together, holding and supporting each other.

      ‘Yes,’ Kara told him. ‘I’d like to see Jovan before we leave.’

      ‘Me, too.’ Adin tried to smile.

      The man or the woman, Valeschov wondered. It was like tossing a coin at the start of a football match, see who decided which way they’d play. Nothing personal, of course. Just part of the game. And the one thing he liked was the game. So after he’d killed them, or at least killed one of them, everybody would know he was there. And after that people would play the game again. He moved the rifle slightly, swung from the man to the woman then back to the man. The woman, he decided, and swung back again.

      Kara heard the shout and turned. The doctor was standing in the doorway, his white coat flapping slightly and his hand