Tuesday, April 30, 6:47 a.m.
Chapter 1
HE lions of Serbia stand at the
checkpoint, poised, ready. Traffic is very, very light. It has been this
way for weeks. The checkpoint sits in the very center of the Duna-
Menjuko Corridor, slightly to the north of the Pranendor Strip,
perhaps thirty-five miles east of Lupa and Viknuna. To be absolutely
precise: The first left past Bruga. Not even Serbs know where it is.
The four men know that they are in the process of being
downsized. When the war broke out, there was plenty of work to be
had cleansing the infant Republic of heathen blood. But now all the
heathens are gone. Lupa is deserted. Bruga is as silent as the crypt.
Menjuko has been repopulated with Serb nationals. There is no one
left to kill.
The men stand at the checkpoint in the center of the
Duna-Menjuko Corridor hoping that something will happen. Perhaps
a sniper. Perhaps a Belgian Red Cross truck that can be plundered.
Perhaps a Bosnian convoy that has taken the wrong turn at Dignor.
But their hopes are not high. Every life that a soldier takes brings
him one step closer to retirement. They have taken many, many
lives. And here, in the Duna-Menjuko Corridor, there are very few
lives left to be taken. Very few.
The lions of Serbia have done their jobs all too well.
How do they pass their time? Mostly by working out.
Usually, Ratko Krudzik, the squad commander, goes off to do his tai-
chi with Slobodan Malevic in a gully a few hundred yards away,
while Nesho Slubik and Radovan Vlasic stand guard along the road.
When they have finished, Slubik and Vlasic take their turn, usually
working out to Lucky Vanous: The Ultimate Fat-Burning System.
Then they take turns using the heat lamp. The men all have rippling
muscles, and well-oiled bodies that they pay loving care to. Every
four hours or so, they apply a bewildering array of unguents, creams,
and lotions to their chests and shoulders so that their massive frames
will gleam more brightly under the remorseless scrutiny of what the
great ninth-century Serb poet Sluvo Kovaks called the Magyar Moon.
They are proud of the contrast between their tanned flesh and the
jet-black leather of their oversized bandoliers. They are proud that
they look like bandits, mercenaries, professionals. They are proud
that they look like Rambo.
The lions of Serbia are well-armed. From their shoulders
hang the latest Kalenkivovs, the SK-56 with the built-in CD-ROM so
the user can play the theme from Also Sprach Zarathustra
while executing prisoners. On their hips sit Ruga .38s, pistols so
cunningly designed they have been known to go back into the heads
they have just come out of to make sure the job is done. Their boots
and trousers are bristling with knives, razor blades, imperceptible
trimming devices used by art directors the world over. These are
most effective during the final stage of an interrogation when a
certain degree of delicacy is called for. The lions of Serbia are hard
men, cruel men. But they are not incapable of delicacy.
Tonight the lions of Serbia stand at the checkpoint
waiting for traffic they know is not coming. It is late, very late now,
and as is often the case in the Duna-Menjuko Corridor, the night has
grown cold. The men should be thinking about putting on their shirts
and jackets, but no one will make the first move. On the odd chance
that someone will actually show up at the checkpoint tonight, they
want to make a big impression. The sight of naked, gleaming torsos
bulging with steroid-induced musculature, all adorned with leather
and steel, tends to impress people. Especially United Nations officials
who went to Cambridge. The look gives visitors an idea of who they
are dealing with. The men know that they look like Rambo. They
want to be treated like men who look like Rambo. And they want to
treat any women who turn up the way they know Rambo would
treat them. Even though they have a vague recollection that there
are never any women in any of the Rambo pictures.
It is three in the morning now, and there are no lights on
the road. Ratko tells Nesho and Radovan that he and Slobodan will
take the first watch. The two men nod, and retreat to their tents.
Then, a mile or two down the road, where the escarpment meets the
foothills, or vice versa, they see a pair of headlights. It is a jeep,
perhaps a Land Rover. The lions of Serbia have company. They smear
a bit more lotion on each others' flesh to give themselves that extra
luster. Then they sidle down to the road and take up their customary
positions. Under the remorseless scrutiny of what the great ninth-
century Serb poet Sluvo Kovaks called the Magyar Moon, they are
ready.
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