18) Crocodile Tears

DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

AUSTIN

TEXAS

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

In order to present the common touch, Senator McClusky had been moved into the Eisenhower Memorial Hospital. The media were informed about his tenure in FedCon Wing ("for obvious reasons details about the ward cannot be disclosed"), but were not told that in fact Room 616 was a private suite, attended by a private doctor, two private nurses, guarded by a rota of two officers from the Lone Star Guard, catered by McClusky's own personal chef and bugged by the FBI. Latter point unknown but suspected by the ever suspicious senator. The common touch was strictly for public consumption; McClusky actually held sway in a one-room domain where he ruled as best he could, injuries allowing.

Those injuries were relatively minor if one considered that the senator had been shot; broken ribs, extensive bruising, a fractured cheekbone where he'd hit the steps. Cheyne probably considered himself less fortunate, since he was dead, having been hit above the right eye by a bullet and killed instantly. Cordman and Stone escaped unscathed, as did the mystery assassin.

It was all a construction, of course, carefully planned by Cordman to divert, placate, stall and halt an Ethics Committee investigation of his superior. Four earlier investigations of McClusky came to naught, abruptly halted when Committee members discovered themselves mysteriously targeted by assassins, blackmailers, IRS, or simply disappeared outright. Nothing came back to McClusky, or his people, but the message was clear - if you investigated him, your life and career were both in danger.

However, Senator Orde was a persistent and determined opponent with a formidable bloc behind him. They prevailed upon the President to order the direction of the Ethics Committee's spotlight upon McClusky for a fifth time, following that Senator's recruitment of an infiltrating "weak link". This weak link, one Ralph Quillan by name, worked for Orde. His brief was to obtain dirt on McClusky by any means possible and effectively this meant involvement in what were called "paralegal" activities of McClusky's office. Many senators indulged in such business, since they needed to raise capital in large amounts for patronage, promotions, exclusions and all the unofficial debits involved in senatorial work. Voluntary contributions had dried up long ago under the detested State of Emergency and the insularity it ushered in. Mad Jack needed more income than most, since he was the sponsor of the Lone Star Guard to the tune of ten million dollars per year. His main paralegal prop consisted of large-scale importation of drugs from across the Mexican border (sweet irony). How did McClusky rationalise his drug-running activities? To answer that one would need to understand the mental processes of the man, and no-one did. The government agencies looked on drug-smuggling with ambivalent eyes; yes it was illegal, yes, it funded organised crime, but it also kept the inner cities quieter and more docile and lessened the number of anti-Emergency riots. Other senators carried out their own, equally schizophrenic schemes: Murdoch owned a string of Californian porn parlours (illegal since he came from Nevada), Wisbech had false holding companies trading with FedCon states, even the President, it was rumoured, has a dark, secret operation funding him.

The mystery assassin was Arnold Pressman, a member of Mad Jack's personal entourage, a man Cordman could trust for the job. When Pressman turned up at the pre-arranged rendezvous for payment, Sergeant Stone gave him a surprise present instead, a short burst of gunfire to the head. This apparently motiveless slaying went hand in glove with the assassination attempt on Mad Jack. Expertly manipulated by Dave Cordman, the press and television were able to get bedside footage and coverage of Senator Jack McClusky recovering from surgery. The injured man's brave responses came from careful rehearsal and an autocue.

'Who shot me? Damned if I know, gentlemen. I surely wish I did, then I could return the favour.'

'Have I any ideas about their identity? Well, they sure as hell weren't from the IRS, were they! That was a joke, if the IRS get to hear it. Play safe with those guys, eh?

'Dick Cheyne? Yeah, they told me. Arnie Pressman? No, that I didn't know. Jesus Mary and Joseph, what is this, open season on my staff? Do the rest of them have protection?'

Shortly after the above conversation was broadcast on prime-time national television Senator Orde put a call through to the Ethics Committee chair, even if such an action could bring severe penalties. Whatever the Senator heard didn't please him at all, because he threw his handset brutally at the wall.

Later that same day a known homosexual senatorial aide was found beaten to death in a Nevada hotel room. Also dead in the same room, a needle of pure heroin still stuck in a vein, was a comedian well-known in Chicago.

19) North of Transplutonia

BADFORT TOWERS

LONDON

OCTOBER

Alex returned to his apartment from Germany, feeling vaguely depressed that he and Olukaside were now removed from the Lothar-Theo case. Olukaside considerately warned him about this phenomenon; possibly the most annoying thing about working for UNION was not being able to follow a case to conclusion, since national agencies of member states within FedCon tended to intervene and take over. After that, need-to-know kept matters cloaked in secrecy and it took patience, time and influence to find out what happened in the end, if everyone lived happily ever after, and for most work it simply wasn't worth the time to investigate.

Once he opened the apartment door Alex knew there had been a change. When he entered the living room he discovered just what; his telescope had gone. Nor was the computer sitting on his desk the same one he had left sitting there; instead it was a newer, more expensive model, doubtless minus Alex's painstakingly acquired chess games. UNION action.

Shit, thought the Serb, dropping into a comfortable chair. Thanks for asking me about that, UNION. Another wonderful aspect of the job, one that really brought home the fact that he worked as a spy in an organisation of spies. Picking up a remote handset he recalled the incoming message-dump on his phone. Nothing of interest there, so he went to make a cup of tea, hoping that his much-prized Min hadn't gone the way of telescope and computer. What he needed was company, and also milk.

There lay the rub. Since this was a secure dwelling you couldn't simply invite friends up on a whim. And - Alex lived kilometres out in the suburbs. He'd have to go to company rather than have it come to him.

His ankle hurt, so he rubbed it mindlessly for a few minutes, where the Zap Gun pressed into it ever since Customs had reluctantly returned it to him at Dover. He threw the weapon onto the three-seater and turned on the wall viewer.

Newschannel appeared, giving an economics review of the past quarter that scrolled upwards with lots of charts and diagrams, complete with pauses for hard copy offtakes. Alex frowned and killed the sound, remembering his days of practicing formal English by listening to Newschannel and the received pronunciation of its staff.

Aha! He thought, remembered his mail box, unemptied since he walked in. When he checked there was only one item, a message disk without a label (but a mysterious writer had scribbled "Play me!" on it).

'Good day, citizen,' said an animated face when the disk got played. The androgynous, anonymous, flawless and perfectly symmetrical face must be an animation, surely? Nor was Alex Petrovic a citizen of anywhere whilst he served in FedCon, so the disk had that wrong from the start. 'You have been specially selected for a mission, due to your special qualifications -'

Oh yes? pondered Alex with not a little suspicion, and what qualifications might those be?

'- for detailed hard copy please press F1, thank you. Remember that this is also a one-shot erase-as-it-plays disk and what you have heard will be gone forever. Good luck.'

Pressing F1 brought reams of print rolling out of the unit.

They must want me to complete an encyclopaedia … He read on. No, they wanted him to go to Moldavia.

'Moldavia!' guffawed Neil, almost blowing beer down his nose. 'Also known as the armpit of Europe.'

As far as Neil and Eric knew, Alex now worked as a relief officer of the MJO and had been required to travel abroad. Privately Neil doubted this cover, but when he started to question his friend a little more deeply, the Serb's eyes narrowed slightly, even if the smile remained. Neil, untypically, took the hint and stopped asking.

'It is supposed to be a little er, backward, out there, yes,' added Eric. '"Under-resourced" is the current phrase.'

Alex popped another can of beer.

'I have to check institutions dealing with orphaned children. Orphans. Children. Christ Risen, what I don't know about stray kids would fill volumes. I'm not married - despite Mama's best attempts - so I know nothing about children.'

The sound of "Mama" set Neil off again, since the word seemed so incongruous. Eric stared at each of them in turn, a little bewildered. Then he shrugged and took anther sip of beer.

Alex had earlier decided to abandon his apartment for the evening. It felt like a prison cell, designed to keep him in as much as keeping others out; you couldn't invite people around without an appointment and it didn't keep unwelcome visitors like UNION out.

'When do you leave?'

'Not straight away. If I leave on the shuttle to Belgrade I can see my family en route for a couple of hour, so I'm going late tomorrow on that. It'll be a surpise.'

'A what?'

'Surprise. I meant surprise. Shit, this beer is strong.'

Neil counted a dozen empty beer cans on the flooring, so inebria stalking amongst them wasn't unexpected. Eric decided to tune into the Adult Channel, which he did successfully via the remote, but he then dropped the device on the floor, where it bounced heavily and lay still. Neil swore heartily, Eric looking guiltily at him.

'Dickhead. You've set the anti-theft chip off now. We can't change channels now.' He explained to Alex that the set, second hand, came cheap because the remote, if handled roughly, would set the television working at full volume on the last channel selected for at least an hour. An anti-theft function.

'Look what's on! Blaster Squad. This is all your fault, Eric.'

Alex looked alternately morose then annoyed. "Blaster Squad" was a British home-grown entertainment, one of the ultra-violent cop shows that outlived their progenitors across the Atlantic; still enormously popular on this side. Nominally the programme in question lasted for thirty minutes of which the introduction and closing credits took up three minutes, adverts another three minutes, plot, characterisations, segues and landscapes took another four minutes. The remaining twenty minutes consisted of gunfire, killing, explosions and sudden death with a myriad variations every week. Alex detested the programme almost as much as "Pander'. To avoid watching it he borrowed a large towel from the kitchen and draped it over the screen.

Eventually their conversation trickled to an end under a combination of fatigue and alcohol. Pleading tiredness, Alex got to crash out in the living room, under an old quilt that Neil dug out from a deep chest. It felt strange to fall asleep in an unfamiliar room in the dark, under a slightly musty blanket.

To the later torment of Alex, his dream came as a minutely detailed reconstruction of one day as "La Loco Motiva" near Nuevo Laredo, less a dream than a video replay, exact in all details. Alex playing the part of a mysterious fourth-wall camera.

This time there were no other volunteers in the market square at dawn, just Alex and a battered Volvo 6 by 10, with incongruously bright patches over bullet-holes in the bodywork. The vehicle, named "La Loca", possessed a legendary ability to keep going under any circumstances; rain, mud, bullets, mist, bombs or plain bad driving meant nothing to it, despite (or even because) the self-guidance unit being a jury-rigged relic, a decade older than the truck.

Alex ambled over to a stall, where the holder was setting up, and bought a small melon for breakfast. Raw and sweet, it made his mouth pucker, even in the dream. It had to be a dream because there didn't seem to be any colour in the world.

'Hi and good morning to you. Can't you sleep?'

It was Lanfranc, a Canadian responsible for the FedCon administration in Camp Two. Because of his nationality and accent he had been treated with considerable distrust and dislike by the refugees, until his unstinting hard work and self-effacing nature won them over. Still, he must be a brave man, daring to work along a border where his accent, skin and way of speaking might mean being mistaken for an American and murdered. Alex felt respect rather than like for the man, but he was sincere about what he did, to the point of taking supplies when drivers were in short supply.

'No. Once I awaken up I do not be getting back to sleep again. What are you being doing at this time?' Back then his English had been a bit erratic.

'I'm looking for volunteers. And do you know, I just found one.'

This oblique reference didn't apply to Alex. A new arrival had come to replace Sienkiewicz (last heard of departing west with a stolen truck, a stolen gun and an under-age Mexican girl). Eager to please, this arriviste promptly volunteered to do driving duty, unaware of what it involved. Lanfranc had come hunting an experienced driver who would either dissuade or adopt their new assistant.

'Who are they, this new person?'

'An Irish guy called McDonaghy. Young, enthusiastic, cheerful -'

'Already I hate him,' complained Alex, only half joking, since he felt old, resigned and glum. Sudden embarrassment: the Irishman appeared from nowhere, out of thin air in very dreamlike fashion.

'Aha. How are you, Mack Don Agee?' asked Alex, not only embarrassed but unsure of how to pronounce this Celtic interloper's name.

'I'm fine, thanks. How's yourself, Mister -'

'Petrovic, pronounced with a "vich". Just call me Alex, it is easier. I hope you are all ready'

'Ready? Ready for what?'

Lanfranc put a paternal arm around McDonaghy's shoulder.

'More of that later. Alex, will you come over to my office?'

All three trekked over to Lanfranc's office, a small adobe-plastered demesne filled with elderly furniture old enough to fetch a fortune in any European antiques shop. Newly installed screens, printers and interfaces were starkly out of place in this setting, which could have come from a century ago. A large bar chart on one cluttered wall showed the current condition of various aspects of Camp Two: Supplies, Edible: Violet. Supplies, Non-Edible: Blue. Water: Blue. Transport, Rail: OUT; Air: OUT; Road: Red. Due to the American rolling sabotage programme the transport of supplies by road was difficult, impossible by rail and suicidal by air.

'Good news or bad news first? Okay, good it is. The Lone Star Guard are sending an honour guard to Dallas for a civic parade of some sort. That's a thousand or so less to worry about.'

'And the bad news?' prompted Alex. 'There is always bad news.' Not that it seemed the sort of thing he'd actually said, perhaps that meant he was dreaming.

''There always is bad news. As you know, that idiot from Manchester crashed the water tanker en route to Camp Three. We couldn't salvage it and the Lone Stars used it for target practice last night, so all that's left of it are two axles and a transmission shaft.'

'That's very interesting. And?'

'Camp Two is short of water. Short of food but shorter on water. We are going to load up La Loca with water blivets and run a mercy mission to our thirsty neighbours.'

McDonaghy visibly beamed, eager to make the run between camps instantly if that were possible. Alex and Lanfranc became aware of their novice's dash when they were all three loading ten-litre water blivets into the Volvo. The Irishman thumped the side of the cargo compartment with a meaty fist.

'Is this armour-plated?' he asked. 'Only I noticed the springs are low on it's suspension.'

Alex laughed out loud with grim, veteran amusement.

'No, no. Armour plating? I am afraid not! This is just sheet metal and the springs are low because the suspension is -how is it?'

'Screwed?' suggested Lanfranc, not seeing anything humorous.

'Exactly, yes, the suspension is screwed. We get a very bumpy ride in La Loca but she is fast. Armour plates would slow her down too much.'

'Couldn't you have just a little armour plate?'

Alex scowled.

'What do you think that this is the army! Christ Risen, we drive fast to miss the bullets, not slow to let them hit us.'

By now a few refugees with nothing else to do had gathered in the market square, watching the truck being loaded and the three strangers loading it. Alex went through a test of the vehicle, going so far as to run the engine for ten minutes. McDonaghy was appalled by the noise and smoke produced during the warm-up, to the amusement of Alex, who considered this morning's test to be quieter than usual.

Before allowing McDonaghy in to the cab, Alex stressed a few ground rules. One, do as you're told. Two, always keep moving. Three, if you're stopped for any reason at all, get out of the cab on the side opposite the Americans. Four, if you got out of the cab then take cover behind the road camber and keep crawling towards the nearest camp. There were all sorts of tales of people who didn't follow those rules and died from neglect.

Camp Two slowly came to life when Lanfranc stopped the loading and gave Alex a roster greenscreen to sign, a release form that said he departed freely and without duress, knowing the dangers the situation involved. McDonaghy signed too. The pair climbed up into the cab, Alex patting the St Christopher's medal Mama had sent him and which hung from the rear-view mirror. The Irishman looked curiously at his partner, then muttered a benediction and touched the medal himself. After all, he told himself, what harm can it do - a little good luck never goes amiss. There were other good luck charms, too - a crucifix wired to the radiator, a sprig of heather stapled to the back of the driver's seat, other medals that Mrs Petrovic had sent nestling in the glove compartment, the good wishes of Camp Two and "their" driver.

Lanfranc tapped on the driver's door. Alex rolled the window down.

'Which route are you taking? Any idea?'

Alex shrugged his shoulders. He considered it to be bad luck to decide or make a choice in advance, based on his past experience, and he was still in one piece.

Still warm from the test run, the Volvo's engine started first time, ticking over with an impressive rumble. Alex selected manual for the gears, then pulled his safety cradle down.

'Web in, we are going off.'

The trick was not to raise dust. Therefore, no harsh acceleration or wheel-spinning take off. Instead, a steady calm acceleration up to ninety.

'This is the easy part,' yelled Alex over the engine thunder. Almost straight away they left the metalled surface of the exit road and hit the track that now ran to Camp Three. McDonaghy stared in surprise at the potholed track that he knew to be a metalled road, on the maps at least. What he didn't know was that the contractors refused to risk American cross-border shooting in order to build the road, an omission that the cartographers, sadly, didn't know about. The track made for a punishing ride even with good suspension. For a weary old trouper like La Loca and anyone inside the journey felt much worse.

'Oof!' said McDonaghy. 'I hope it's not all like this.'

Only where it got worse was it any different. The driver didn't wish to waste his breath on redundant facts so he waited, thinking that time would tell, even if this happened to be dream. And, dreamlike, they were suddenly ten kilometres from Camp Two, the ridge that shielded them from American eyes gradually decreasing in height, letting the northern bank of the Rio Bravo come into view. This portion of track constituted the first dangerous stretch, where hostile observers could see any movement on the track from there onwards. The truck would remain in plain sight until they reached the Shooting Gallery. At that point the track divided in two, the better surfaced part leading up a small hill, the cruder path travelling behind the hill. It would have been an appropriate time to explain this if the Lone Star Guard had not intervened with their customary venom and vigour. An inverted cone of earth with a brief bright flash at its base leapt into the air, twenty metres ahead and just off the road edge.

'ARTILLERY!' yelled Alex, suddenly panicky. He braked sharply, his leg seeming to take an age to depress the pedal, then he dropped down a gear to accelerate better, weaving across the whole of the road while doing so.

One after the other, three explosions scarred the road behind the truck, the last being close enough for bits of dirt to rattle on their cab roof. Alex braked again, dropped two gears, then accelerated and braked in swift succession, using engine braking too. His passenger looked grimly ahead with one hand clutching the safety cradle and the other locked onto a door handle.

Another explosion, off towards the river bank, followed by another on the opposite side of the road, threw up more smoke and gravel. BANG! Went the off-side fender, causing McDonaghy to jump in fright and nearly leap out of the cab, but the collision was only with the remains of a burnt-out truck. Unable to see properly, Alex had clipped the rusty wreck in his haste.

Now came the worst part: The Shooting Gallery. Alex didn't let the fear surface to where it might become a threat, but he still worried enough for the two of them. He didn't take the turn-off, just carried on up the hill road, still erratically stamping the accelerator. Variation and inconsistency, that's what you needed to avoid being ranged by American predictor gunsights (craftsman constructed in Southern California).

With genuine dreamlike, aching slowness they crested the hill. Ahead a thin, smokey meander rose from an obliterated truck further down the track, the water-carrier carcass. Strangely, they were not under fire now; perhaps their tormentors had become bored, or run low on ammunition?

No! shouted Alex to himself as a mortar bomb, a nasty black-finned thing, plopped savagely into the track ahead. And stayed there, dud. Did this take place when he drove with McDonaghy the first time or could this be a dream?

Time didn't allow any manoeuvres. Having a high ground clearance, the Volvo thundered directly over the dormant projectile as the driver straightened his leg to get maximum leverage on the accelerator. If the bomb was a dud then it probably wouldn't go off and if it had a delay or trembler then the only escape was to outrun it.

It must have been faulty, decided Alex, because I'm still here thinking about it.

More express deliveries were fully functional and bracketed the track on both sides, so Alex left it for a short stretch, hammering the suspension further and punishing both occupants into the bargain. Then it was back onto the track with a sudden hush making their ears ring hollowly, a sign of blast pressure effects and an indirect warning about how close they came to being killed. Alex jinked once or twice before reaching the hill's downward sloped where the road zigzagged in slow, lazy bends.

'God Almighty!' yelled McDonaghy as they raced straight off the road, in an approximately straight line for the point, much further ahead, where the road became less wandering. He seemed more scared of his partner's driving than of the American ordnance.

A percussive crack made La Loca quiver momentarily and for a bleak second Alex thought a structural member had failed, until they reached the Gallery's end, by which time he realised that if there was a problem with the truck then it wasn't terminal.

On this stretch he kept their speed high, varying between eighty to a hundred and twenty. Better traction kicked this up by another five until La Loca suddenly skidded into the outskirts of Camp Three, it's croupy klaxon blaring in deserved triumph. Driving past the slums brought a sense of contradictory relief and grief to Alex, mingled in a way difficult to disentangle or explain, made worse by the irrationality of the dream.

When they rolled to a halt McDonaghy let out a painfully constrained sigh of relief, long held in suspense. Both driver and passenger jumped down from the cab without a word, McDonaghy feeling his knees give unexpectedly as he jumped down from the running board, but Alex, long experienced at such missions and feelings, stayed upright; his stomach was a clenched knot and there he had cramp in both shoulders, but he stayed upright.

Swarms of thirsty 'Canos came to collect water blivets handed out by supervisors from La Loca's read loading ramp. Alex noticed a small hole low down on the cargo compartment's nearside; he went around to the off-side and saw a much larger hole, edges splayed out in jagged flanges. Still curious, he peered into the rear, past a lone supervisor smoking a lone cigarillo. Yes, the two holes were opposite each other; a handful of empty water blivets lay on the floor in a puddle.

'You were lucky, man. The Virgin likes you, Mister Loco,' drawled the supervisor.

Alex nodded slowly. From the look of it, a Mexican soldier told him, an armour-piercing cannon shell had gone straight through the truck body; perhaps a tenth of a second sooner and it would have gone through the driver's cab and the driver.

'Thank God that's over,' exclaimed the Irishman. 'Your driving scares me - what?'

'It is not over. We have to go back. They need this truck at Camp Two.'

The dream faded into darkness.

POLICY STATEMENT

DRAFT 3

SECTION 3:2

1) When in transit it is established practice that FedCon employees will travel at the Most Economic Rate on the most economic mode of transport.

2) Due to existing transportation schedules, it will normally be expedient for FedCon employees to travel on previously organised FedCon transport.

3) Under exceptional circumstances it will become necessary for special arrangements to be made for the transport of personnel; wherever possible, FedCon transport will be utilised.

4) If during 2) above, it is not possible to procure FedCon transport then suitable, appropriate and alternative transport will be chartered from other sources (see Appendix 17 for list of Approved Sources)

There were no special flights this time for Alex, no, it was back to a more mundane level of operation and it showed. From London to Yugoslavia, he certainly didn't feel like driving the Khan all that way, then on to Moldavia, then returning again.

After checking through TACT he discovered a four vehicle convoy due to leave from London, bound for Kosovo with thirty tonnes of mixed white goods. Time was short, though. He had to get from Neil's home back to his own, sort out travelling arrangements and gear, get down to the appropriate vehicle park in South London and park before the convoy left - assuming that they would take him without quibbling.

'Morning. Coffee?' asked Neil, suddenly appearing from upstairs, clad in a remarkable garment that looked like exotic wrapping paper.

'Yes please. Black -'

'- with two sugars, yes, I know you by now.'

'You look like a Christmas present come early.'

Neil shouted in reply from the kitchen.

'It's a heater gown. You know, from the space-suit liners. It keeps you warm when the batteries are switched on..' He reappeared with two cups. 'Neat, HM? Saves turning on the central heating.'

Alex nodded. One of the less profound FedCon spin-offs that continually popped up as consumer products. Such as his prized German knife collection; mono-molecular lined blades, derived from German micro-engineering research.

The coffee burnt his tongue, which made him pay attention to the here and now. He finished the drink, then left, politely but rapidly.

He made it to, of all places, South London Sorting Office for the rendezvous with the trucks before they left, arriving by taxi. Expensive and necessary. He suffered a brief argument with the driver before he got a receipt, since he wanted to try and claim the cost as a legitimate travelling expense, all the while thinking that a secret spy never had to suffer such banal indignities in films.

There were now four trucks travelling to Kosovo, making eight drivers who had got together in a huddle to discuss matters. When they say their additional charge the discussion stopped and one driver greeted him.

'Hello! Are you this Russian fella? Going to Belgrave?'

'Yes. I am Serbian, actually.'

'Yeah, from Serbiria, right!'

The driver turned to his fellow truckers and announced "The Russian's arrived". Try as he might, Alex was never able to explain to them convincingly that Serbia was not a part of Russia. Memories were short in London, it seemed. Still, they were friendly enough and stowed his cases away in the blink of an eye.

Being a passenger, it was bad form to speak to the driver unless he talked to you first, so there were long periods of silence, since the relief driver slept whilst his comrade drove. Thus they passed rapidly through France, into Switzerland, then Italy and to the Yugoslav border with Slovenia. Rapid and efficient, the two-driver system, even if it meant little in the way of conversation. Pit stops were infrequent, limited to calls of nature, refuelling, food restocks and border checks. Alex came into his own when they drew up in the customs lane of the Yugoslav border post, each truck halted with motors stopped.

An officious patrolman in blue-gray uniform strolled up an alongside the lead vehicle, carrying a white baton tucked under one arm. He stopped, took the baton and used it to push the peaked cap back a little on his head; this appeared to be customs-official body language for "I am going to inspect you"

'Bloody hell. This one's going to be difficult. I can tell, you know, and the run's been dead easy so far,' grumbled the driver, a Cockney called Pete. He powered the window down.

'You are English, yes?'

'Yeah. English.'

'I am customs officer from Border Customs Inspectorate for this region. I am wanting to see your vehicle, also your papers.' He tapped the radiator grille with his baton. 'I am also meaning this thing. Car - wagon -' He swore briefly in Serbian, unhappy at having to converse in English.

'Hey, mate, no need to swear. What's the problem?' enquired Alex cheerfully in his mother tongue, to the considerable surprise and relief of the customs officer.

'Who are you - no, never mind, I won't ask. Look, what's going on here; all of a sudden four British trucks turn up out of nowhere. I'm curious.'

Alex shrugged.

'We're from FedCon, going all the way to beautiful Beogradska, that's all. We're carrying general office supplies. Terminals, cabling, interfaces, hard cards, that sort of stuff.'

The other cocked his head to one side quizzically.

'Well, I don't know. Oh, sod it, you've got an honest face and it's lunch time.' He switched back to English. 'Okay, you okay, go now.'

Pete expressed his surprise and satisfaction. Clever lad, coming from Russia and able to speak Yugoslav! If only he knew. Alex had spent every waking minute ever since his assignment came through, learning Romanian. He now possessed a limited vocabulary, some idiom and a good accent.

Since his last visit home there had been considerable rebuilding and reconstruction work in Belgrade, a lot of the ugly Revisionist architecture going under the demolition ball, to the extent that he failed to recognise certain districts that they passed through.

Ah, beautiful Beogradska, your least favourite son is back, he said to himself, also aloud in English.

Pete looked at him curiously.

'You lived here?'

'For eighteen years. Aha, look, there's the television tower. At least that's not changed. Look, could you drop me near the central bus terminal?'

Luckily the roads leading to the station had not changed overmuch and the expatriate was able to find his way there easily enough, guiding the trucks. Pete dropped him off, plus baggage, with a cheery wave, and each truck gave a loud blast on its horn as it rolled past.

'Take care, mate, you're a long way from home!' was Pete's parting line.

Alex could tell he was back in his homeland by the difference in people's attitudes; by now he had gotten used to the politeness and rule-following of the English, though the islanders didn't see themselves that way. Serbs and Belgradians by contrast were rude. Perhaps if he'd spoken English to them, they would have been politer.

'I'm busy. Get lost,' snapped the first bus driver he dared to approach.

'I screwed your wife last night,' riposted Alex tartly, getting into the swing of things straight away. The bus driver glared ferociously but couldn't leave his cab, busy taking fares from passengers. Eventually Alex found an information kiosk staffed by a surly attendant, who grudgingly let him have a bus timetable. Locating the correct bus wasn't easy; you had to take day, time, holiday, location and availability into account before going to the correct gate.

If this was Holland or England the info would all be on a voice-activated display board. Shit, we can put men on Mars but public transport is too difficult. Shit again, if this were England the bus would go on time and not pull out just as you got to the stand …

He interrupted his internal fuming to consult the timetable and caught the next bus, forty minutes later. It took over an hour to reach his family's housing project since the bus wandered over a meandering route. A few children threw stones when the passed into the Voivode estate. Eventually they reached the Trajanov project, a series of huge curving housing blocks. They were looking rather shabby, pondered Alex. No paint since last time I visited, in fact.

Paint might have been lacking but the symmetrically-laid flower beds were immaculately maintained, doubtless by the project's Flower and Plant committee (which seemed to consist of all the elderly residents).

The Petrovic flat was on Floor Three, low enough to avoid problems with stairs or lifts, high enough to avoid problems from vandals.

As usual, the lift didn't work. It hadn't worked the last time he came home, either. In fact there seemed to be a rule, in any country, that whenever a public housing project existed with stairs or lifts the lifts would be broken and the stairs would be awkward.

A middle-aged man wearing an equally aged homburg was descending the stairs while Alex ascended. They passed on a landing and nodded before moving on.

Just a minute, I know him, realised Alex.

The other stopped in mild astonishment and looked upward from the flight below.

'What? Do I know you?' Then he squinted. 'A minute, a minute. Ah! It's Mrs Petrovic's son, isn't it - Alexander. Well, well, home again, young voyager. Give my regards to your mother. Goodbye.' Off he went, at a nervous pace, remembering who Alexander worked for.

Alex walked along Floor Three to apartment Eighteen. His stomach flipped over briefly before he pressed the bell. It had been a long time since his last visit, which made for a little reflective nervousness.

The door swung open and a small, grey-haired woman with glasses and a worn face stood there.

'Mama!' shouted Alex, dropping his cases and giving her an arm-wrapping hug, kissing her on both cheeks. She gasped as he squeezed the air out of her lungs.

'Alexander Dragan! Oof, put me down, you don't know your own strength. When did you arrive in the city? Are you staying? You should have called to tell me you were coming. Why didn't you call from the airport?'

Throwing up his hands to fend off this barrage of questions, Alex managed to get into the apartment. His mother led him into the kitchen. Kitchen and dining room combined, really, the largest single room of the whole apartment. Branko used to make his models there, Katerina still did her homework on the table, Zdanko played card games at the weekend with friends from the AeroFabrik (though he made sure the slivovitz and cigarette butts were gone by morning).

Zdanko sat at the table now, eating a pastry and drinking some coffee.

'Hello there,' said Alex politely. He and elder brother didn't get on, hadn't done so for a decade. Zdanko nodded politely in reply, carrying on eating and drinking.

'You wait here, Alexander, Ante is upstairs, I'll go and get him for you.'

Alex sat down at the table. Much to his surprise Zdanko poured him a cup of ersatz coffee instead of ignoring him.

'Ta - I mean, thanks. Are you still living here? I heard you'd moved out.'

That earned him a scowl.

'Cheeky little bugger! Yes, I have moved out but I come here for lunch from the AeroFabrik. If Mama needs any odd jobs doing then I help her.'

Alex waved the barbed riposte away, took a sip of coffee and looked around as another person bounded into the room.

'Hello stranger! You're looking old!' That was Ante, making his usual abrupt entrance. The two brothers shook hands and embraced.

'You watch your mouth, Ante Milos,' said their mother, hitting him smartly on the back of the head.

'Ow! Pack it in, Mum, it's just a joke, he can take it. Hey, how long are you staying - are you on leave from FedCon?'

'No, I can't stay long. I'm on assignment to Moldavia so this is only a flying visit. I have to catch a shuttle flight out of Belgrade to get there. Hey, just a minute, what do you mean, "old"? Twenty eight's not old!'

'It comes to us all,' commented Zdanko, drily.

'How's college going for you. No compulsory conscription yet, I hope.'

A pained silence fell for a second or so. Even now, over a decade after a bitterly reluctant Alexander entered the army, the subject could still raise hackles.

'Er, they can defer it for three years, now,' mumbled Ante. Mama saved the day by providing a plate of honey biscuits, which she knew Alex dearly liked and couldn't find in London.

Ante ran like a fountain with a constant stream of questions about life in England. Partly this was due to their long separation, partly due to the younger Petrovic's boundless curiosity, partly due to Alex's reluctance to go into detail about his host country. Zdanko waited until Mama left to do some unavoidable chores upstairs, amongst which was probably making Ante's bed, then he leaned over and hissed at Alex.

'Don't go filling his head with bloody rubbish about how wonderful your job it, you stupid ass. You had enough trouble when you joined the Concordat, didn't you? Well, didn't you!'

True. Alex found the hard way that, once you had worked for the FedCon, it was difficult to obtain employment outside it, owing to the innate suspicion of employers and governments in respect of potential loyalty.

Ante put his view forward.

'I don't want to join up. Not yet, anyway. And I want to get onto the Applied Biophysics course at the university, so I'd never join up until after that.'

His elder brothers harrumphed at him in chorus.

Unfortunately Katerina was at college and wouldn't be home in time to see Alex before he left; Branko was still at work and wouldn't be home until at least six, so Mama brought Alex up to date with information about his brother and sister.

Come time to leave, Mama left to get a bottle of vodka from the freezer, jogging her son's memory - he had several presents brought all the way from England, which he might otherwise have forgotten to unpack. There was a copy of "Tess of the d'Urbervilles" in English for Katerina, a black plastic construction kit of the MoonDog for Branko, a Welsh lace shawl for Mama, a state-of-the-art Swiss calculator for Ante ("too cool!"), a bag of best Dutch rolling tobacco for Zdanko. Alex also broke the news about future royalties from his sole publication: there wouldn't be any more since (white lie) FedCon had decided that it had been naughty of him to keep money from a pre-Contract source without having declared it in full. So, no more monies. To sweeten the pill he promised to try and be home for Christmas, although he couldn't guarantee that because he might end up doing emergency cover.

Zdanko saw him out of the flat, to the landing of Floor Three, Alex expecting a critical shaft upon departure.

'Watch yourself in Belgrade. They called out the army to keep the streets controlled and some of them are still there, so be careful. They're mostly in the centre.'

An embarrassed pause fell, as if the sentence hadn't finished yet.

'Look, I know we've never got on, Big Brother acting the father and all that, but until last year no-one mentioned the royalties to me. Mama never told me.'

Alex looked curiously at his older brother.

'How d'you think she could afford the apartment and still send Katerina and Ante to college?'

The other shrugged.

'I thought it was Dad's pension. I was wrong. Look, what I'm trying to say - I'm not doing this too well - I'm grateful for what you did, I thought you'd just disappeared abroad to have a good time and forget about the family. Shake.'

For the first time Alex could remember, they shook hands. A strange feeling, reconciliation with his brother. Not unwelcome, but definitely strange and it stuck in his mind on the bus back into Belgrade.

As recounted, there were army units out on the streets, clustered especially at street corners with plastic shields and shock sticks, loitering with casual, bored attitudes, still looking for student rowdies to baton. Nevertheless, everyday affairs still seemed to be rolling along much as usual; there was even a gypsy band playing outside the central bus station as there had been every other time when Alex visited Belgrade. Accordion, violins, double bass and a guitar; an opened violin case lay in front of them filled with dinars of every denomination. Since he had to pass by them to get on the airport bus Alex threw them all the loose change he had - he didn't want to take any Yugoslav currency into Moldavia. A violinist bowed to him and the band inserted a flurry of chords into their song as a thank you.

Because the airport bus would be seen by international travellers at the terminal it was a well-maintained air-cushion vehicle, all polished chrome and immaculate mock-leather upholstery, quite a difference from the tired workhorse that plied the Trajanov estate. The stewardess who warmly but insincerely greeted each passenger lacked the symmetrical surgery that was so beloved of major service enterprises in Western Europe. Good. A human touch.

The bus waited for quarter of an hour after its departure time to allow any laggards to arrive, because those using it to travel to the airport were likely to be foreigners, tourists, businessmen and the like, all with lots of nice foreign currency that needed to be spent. If they weren't looked after then they might not come back next time, and if they were late then they had probably been spending their money.

Incorporated into the seat back facing Alex was a flat-screen, showing a melodramatic soap opera with bad actors and bad acting. Crap, judged Alex. All that wonderful technology being used for a dismal soap. Well, it could be worse, it could be Pander.

The stewardess wondered why one of the passengers punched off his video screen later when that new British program started.

Alex reported to the FedCon office maintained in Novi Bucuresti, where several branches of the organisation were represented on different floors.

Up on Floor Four: the Mandated Judicial Overview office. A clerk ushered Alex into a sparse room, where he faced a woman sitting stark upright behind a desk. She had piercing, angry eyes.

'Flexibility!' she snapped. Sparks almost shot out of those angry eyes.

'Pardon?' asked Alex, at a loss for a second or so.

'Flexibility, that's the word, that's what we need. Do you have flexibility?'

'Why - my nickname is Mister Flexible,' replied Alex firmly, playing a part.

The woman opened a desk drawer and produced a ziplocked police evidence bag, full of magazines.

'Then take a look at these. Here's a bag if you feel sick.'