The Eyewitness Read Free

related, all Kosovar Albanian Muslims in an area populated by Serbs. No one had seen or heard anything. They might have been telling the truth, but Solomon knew that even if they had seen something, they wouldn't have told him. Right across the former Yugoslavia innocent civilians had been maimed and murdered, some in their own homes, others taken away at gunpoint, and no one had seen a thing. Houses had been looted and burned, cars stripped and set on fire, and those left unharmed those who had been of the right race or religion had turned their backs.
    “They've turned up, near the border with Serbia,” said Miller.
    “Alive?” asked Solomon. As soon as the question left his mouth, he realised how stupid it was.
    “Get a grip, Jack,” said Miller.
    “If they were alive, why would I be calling you? KFOR have found a truck in a lake about fifty kilometres from Pristina, close to the border with Serbia.” KFOR was the Kosovo Force, the multinational grouping of foreign armies that were in the country to ensure that the various factions lived together in relative harmony. A similar group, Stabilisation Force or SFOR, was based in Bosnia.
    “Do you want me there?”
    “Tim is up to his eyes in Belgrade. They're opening up two mass graves this week and he has to be there to co-ordinate. Can you go first thing? Take Kimete with you.” Kimete was one of the Commission's interpreters.
    “Sure. I'll swing by the office first thing and pick up the file.” Solomon screeched to a halt inches from the truck. He cursed profusely, then apologised to Miller and cut the connection.
    He got caught in early-evening traffic when he reached Sarajevo, and it was almost six o'clock when he parked in front of his apartment block, one of the first to be repaired after the four-year siege had ended. It was a modern brick block on Alipasina Street, home to many of the city's top politicians and businessmen. Barely had the fighting stopped than builders had moved in to renovate and repair it. Solomon's apartment had originally been owned by a Serbian businessman who ran a string of garages on the outskirts of the city. The Serb, along with many others, had left the week before the siege started, forewarned by relatives in the Serbian military. He had never returned and after the siege had sold the apartment to a Muslim landlord, who now owned several dozen up market homes that he let to internationals.
    Solomon walked up to the third floor and let himself in. He took a can of Heineken out of the fridge and walked on to the large balcony. There he lit a Marlboro and looked out over the huge Catholic graveyard that faced the apartment block on the other side of the road. The sun was going down and a cool breeze ruffled his hair. There were really only two seasons in Bosnia, summer and winter the transitions between too short to be considered seasons. Three days earlier it would have been too cold to stand on the balcony without a thick coat and gloves, yet already the city-centre cafe tables were full of students in summer clothes and sunglasses, smoking and drinking coffee as they discussed ways to study or work overseas.
    With the end of winter came the start of the exhumation season. The graves had been identified and marked, but it was only with the thaw that the digging could start. A few more days and more body-bags would have been filled and the photographers would be working overtime to capture clothing and personal effects on film.
    Kimete was in Solomon's office waiting for him, drinking coffee. She raised her paper cup in salute and asked if he wanted some. Solomon said no, he'd already had a Bosnian breakfast coffee and cigarettes at home. Kimete was tiny, barely over five feet tall, but she seemed taller because she always wore boots with high heels and thick soles. She was in her early thirties but looked a good ten years younger than that, with her shoulder-length curly black hair and boyish figure. Her English was close to