The EU monitors were mainly armed forces officers loaned by the EU defence ministries with nothing better to do. They were scattered through Bosnia where they had an office, a flat, a car and a living allowance. Some of the situation reports, or sitreps, read more like a social diary. The Tracker concentrated on anything filed 15 May or the three days following. There was one from Banja Luka dated 16 May that caught his eye.
Banja Luka was a fiercely Serbian stronghold well to the north of Travnik and across the Vlasic mountain chain. The ECMM officer there was a Danish major, Lasse Bjerregaard. He said that the previous evening, i.e. 15 May, he had been taking a drink in the bar of the Bosna Hotel when he witnessed a blazing row between two Serbs in camouflage uniform. One had clearly been in a rage at the other and was screaming abuse at him in Serbian. He slapped the face of the junior man several times, but the offending party did not answer back, indicating the clear superiority of the slapper.
When it was over the major tried to seek an explanation from the barman, who spoke halting English which the Dane spoke fluently, but the barman shrugged and walked away in a very rude manner which was unlike him. The next morning the uniformed men were gone and the major never saw them again.
The Tracker thought it was the longest shot of his life but he called the ECMM office in Banja Luka. Another change of posting; a Greek came on the line. Yes, the Dane had returned home the previous week. The Tracker called London suggesting they ask the Danish Defence Ministry. London came back in three hours. Fortunately the name was not so common. Jensen would have been a problem. Major Bjerregaard was on furlough and his number was in Odense.
The Tracker caught him that evening when he returned from a day on the water with his family in the summer heatwave. Major Bjerregaard was as helpful as he could be. He remembered the evening of 15 May quite clearly. There was, after all, precious little for a Dane to do in Banja Luka; it had been a very lonely and boring posting.
As each evening, he had gone to the bar around 7.30 for a pre-dinner beer. About half an hour later a small group of Serbs in camouflage uniform had entered the bar. He did not think they were Yugoslav Army because they did not have unit flashes on their shoulders.
They seemed very full of themselves and ordered drinks all round, slivovitz with beer chasers, a lethal combination. Several rounds of drinks later, the major was about to adjourn to the dining room because the noise was becoming deafening when another Serb entered the bar. He seemed to be the commander, because the rest subsided.
He spoke to them in Serbian and he must have ordered them to come with him. The men began to swig their beers back and put their packs of cigarettes and lighters in their uniform pockets. Then one of them offered to pay.
The commander went berserk. He started screaming at the subordinate. The rest went deathly quiet. So did the other customers. And the barman. The tirade went on, accompanied by two slaps to the face. Still no one protested. Finally the leader stormed out. Crestfallen and subdued, the others followed. No one offered to pay for the drinks.
The major had tried to secure an explanation from the barman with whom, after several weeks of drinking, he was on good terms. The man was white-faced. The Dane thought it might be rage at the scene in the bar, but it looked more like fear. When asked what it was all about, he shrugged and stalked to the other end of the now empty bar, and pointedly faced the other way.
‘Did the commander rage at anyone else?’ asked the Tracker.
‘No, just at the one who tried to pay,’ said the voice from Denmark.
‘Why him alone, major? There is no mention in your report as to possible reason.’
‘Ah. Didn’t I put that in? Sorry. I think it was because the man tried to pay with a hundred-dollar bill.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Volunteer
The Tracker packed his gear and drove north from Travnik. He was passing from Bosnian (Muslim) territory into Serb-held country. But a British Union Jack fluttered from a pennant above the Lada, and with luck that ought to deter long-range pot-shots. If stopped, he intended to rely on his passport, letter-proof that he was just writing about relief aid, and generous presents of Virginia-tobacco cigarettes bought from the Vitez barracks shop.
If all that failed, his pistol was fully loaded, close to hand and he knew how to use it.
He was stopped twice, once by a Bosnian militia patrol as he left Bosnia-controlled country, and once by a Yugoslav Army patrol south of Banja Luka. Each time his explanation, documents and presents worked. He rolled into Banja Luka five hours later.
The Bosna Hotel was certainly never going to put the Ritz out of business, but it was about all the town had. He checked in. There was plenty of room. Apart from a French TV crew, he judged he was the only foreigner staying there. At seven that evening he entered the bar. There were three other drinkers, all Serbs and all seated at tables, and one barman. He straddled the stool at the bar.
‘Hallo. You must be Dusko.’
He was open, friendly, charming. The barman shook the proffered hand.
‘You been here before?’
‘No, first time. Nice bar. Friendly bar.’
‘How you know my name?’
‘Friend of mine was posted here recently. Danish fellow. Lasse Bjerregaard. He asked me to say hi if I was passing through.’
The barman relaxed considerably. There was no thr
eat here.
‘You Danish?’
‘No, British.’