Goos visibly ricocheted off the idea.
“That’s heavy equipment, mate, and bunches of blokes to sort through the rubble. Registrar would spit the dummy if we proposed spending tens of thousands of Euros straightaway. Have to be absolutely sure of Ferko first.”
We made notes about several other investigative ideas, and I asked Goos what he knew about the incident with Kajevic in April 2004, since Goos had been visiting Bosnia regularly during that period.
“Big news at the time,” he said. “Bunch of Americans shot up. Four dead, as I recall. Everyone in NATO was cranky. But never heard a word about Roma.”
After we’d finished our first beer, Goos asked my impressions of The Hague and the Court.
“So far, so good,” I said, “except my hotel room, which could double as a coffin.” Goos had stayed in the same place when we arrived and grimaced at the memory, as if it had been a dental extraction. I asked how The Hague had worn on him over a much longer period.
“Like it most of the time.” He hunkered down and lowered his voice. “Suppose I don’t need to tell you about the Dutch.”
Americans were often mystified or impressed by ‘Ten Boom.’ These days, most guessed that I was Native American. (I’d never had the guts to ask if the senator was under the same misimpression when he chose me as US Attorney.) But ‘Ten Boom,’ like many European last names, simply designated a place. It meant ‘at tree’ in Dutch, like Atwater or Stonehouse in English.
“My parents were both born here,” I told Goos, “but they were thoroughly Americanized. They never spoke Dutch, never returned. They didn’t even seem to like windmills.”
Goos laughed heartily. I was pleased he had a sense of humor.
“Dutch are nice enough,” he said. “Let everyone be. You can see that with the pot bars and the molls putting themselves on display in the shop windows. But they’re to themselves and keep very tight with their own ways.” He made a fist. “Look up at the windows as you go walking. No curtains. That’s because a person should have nothing to hide. Don’t conceal their thoughts either. If I run across some neighbor I haven’t seen in a while, I want to go the other way on sight, because the bloke’ll say something to me like, ‘Oh my, your beard is getting so gray!’ As if I might not own a mirror. Baise-moi l’ail!” said Goos. French was another of the languages of Belgium. The derelict remnants of my high school education allowed me to puzzle out the phrase: ‘Kiss my garlic bulb.’ I guffawed once I understood.
“But all told,” said Goos, “it’s come good for me here. Nice salary. Comfy little flat. And less time for the wife and me to growl at each other at home. She stayed back in Brussels.” He glanced up from his beer glass. The alcohol had summoned color to his face, accentuating the contrast with the fair hair standing straight up on his head. His expression was impenetrable, almost as if he himself didn’t know how he felt about the living situation with his wife.
I was starting to like Goos. His strengths as a drinking companion were clear, although I still hadn’t seen much focus from him as an investigator. As I would have guessed, he wasn’t ready to depart when I slid off my barstool and grabbed my briefcase. I thanked him for the drink and left by myself.
The next afternoon, I called Esma with the news of the order. She had come to mind somewhat unwillingly over the weekend, and picking up the phone yesterday I had felt an odd lurch of feeling that had actually made me delay. With very little contact, we had already arrived on a strange footing.
Despite my promise to reciprocate for dinner, we did not get together after the hearing. On the way to court that morning, I had mentioned to Akemi, the deputy prosecutor, that Esma had briefed me the prior evening at her hotel. A tiny middle-aged woman with witchy stiff black hair shot with gray, Akemi was a person of few words, but she passed me a black look, which I took as reproof. Reflecting, I understood her point. Even though my initial meeting with Esma had been planned solely for business, future defendants would feel free to question my objectivity if I made a habit of private dinners with the prime advocate for the victims. Rather than explain my reservations to Esma when she approached me in the robing room after the hearing, I had relied on the lame excuse of having forgotten other plans.
‘Another time then,’ she answered cheerfully. She gave me a fleet Continental buss on each cheek before departing.
Now I offered to send a hard copy of the order to her chambers in London, but she said an e-mail would suffice. She asked about next moves in the investigation.
“He won’t like it,” Esma answered, when I explained that we’d want Ferko to show us Boldo’s grave in Barupra. “I told him that once he gave evidence, it would be the last he’d hear of this for quite some time. Returning to Barupra will be traumatic for him.”
“His testimony isn’t worth much, Esma, if we can’t corroborate it.”
“I shall have to persuade him,” she answered. “Please stay in touch about the schedule.” She was about to hang up, when she added lightly, “And when will the winds blow you to London or New York, Bill? I have not forgotten that you owe me dinner.”
With that, she rung off, leaving me staring at the handset. Having been single for going on five years, I was no longer completely blind to the signals if a woman was available and interested. But I was still reluctant to believe it of Esma. With her exotic looks and high style, she was well outside my range, more the kind of glamorous companion customarily seen on the arm of a billionaire or a senator, men of standing who had enough self-respect to pass on thirty-year-olds. The truth was that with her imposing self-assurance, Esma somehow seemed like too much for me. Cradling the receiver, I was actually a bit sheepish, because when I recalled the professional issues that were a barrier between us, I realized I felt relief.
5.
Settling In—March 11–April 8
I spent the next couple of days reading about the raid nearly eleven years earlier, on April 10, 2004, in which US forces under NATO command had failed to capture Laza Kajevic. By early 2004, the American troops were in their last days in Bosnia, because President Bush needed more boots in Iraq. In fact, the NATO Supreme Allied Commander, General Layton Merriwell, who had gone on to become a figure of some note, if not for reasons he would have chosen, had already been appointed to lead the coalition forces in Baghdad and was on the verge of departure from Europe.
As for Kajevic, he was universally regarded these days as the motive force of the Bosnian carnage. In line with his epic self-conception, he presented a somewhat majestic figure, large and imposing, with a virtual monument of black hair, distinguished by a wide skunk stripe that might have been the work of a hairdresser. The coiffure swept across his forehead down to eye level, in the fashion of an old-time rock ’n’ roller, and was the subject of frequent comment since it remained utterly undisturbed no matter how vehemently he delivered his race-baiting speeches.