Scorpion Trail

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Mike. Time to go down to the Travel Agent and get the ticket done. You’ll need your passport.’

  Of course. His ticket home. He swung his feet to the floor. Half-past-five.

  The walk to the harbour took twenty minutes. Clustered at one end of the palm-lined promenade was a small parade of travel and souvenir shops. It didn’t take long to re-issue the air ticket in Alex’s name.

  Young couples in jeans and T-shirts strolled by the water’s edge. With the preserved remains of the old medieval town as a backdrop, they could have been on the French Riviera if it weren’t for the stench of sewage that rose from the oily waters of the port.

  ‘Gorgeous bloody women in this country,’ Allison purred. ‘Fancy a drink at one of those cafés to take in the view?’

  He was right about the pretty girls. There’d be plenty to look at.

  Suddenly, realizing where he was, Alex had a different idea. He glanced at his watch. Nearly half-past-six.

  ‘No thanks. There’s a friend of mine going on the ferry to Ancona tonight. Think I’ll try to catch her before she gets on board. . . .’

  Allison lifted one eyebrow then set off on his own.

  Alex hurried towards the docks, suspecting he might already be too late. The ferry sailed in less than an hour.

  It was further than he’d remembered to the terminal. He began to run. Dock workers waiting at a bus stop watched nervously. When people ran here, it often meant trouble wasn’t far behind.

  A short line of trucks still queued at the customs barrier, but no Land Cruisers.

  A quarter to seven. Must have missed her.

  He walked to the police pole. Without a ticket he could go no further. Two hundred metres beyond the control point, the lights of the ferry’s upper deck sparkled in the dusk.

  He saw figures on deck. Dark shapes taking a last look at the floodlit ramparts of the old town. He strained to make them out. Two tallish forms with a smaller one between them. Might be Lorna. Might not.

  Convincing himself it was, he waved. We’ll meet again soon, he decided.

  He hung around until the ship sailed, then made his way back to the promenade. The evening was mild, a temperature they’d have called ‘summer’ in Scotland. The crowds on the promenade had grown. Couples flirted at the cafés.

  He ambled through the bustle, relishing its sensuousness. He took a seat at a restaurant whose tables spilled onto the pavement. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he’d eat something.

  While waiting for service, he pulled the airline ticket from his pocket and studied it carefully for the first time. The flight was tomorrow afternoon. Split to Zagreb, then Zagreb-Frankfurt, and Frankfurt-London.

  Frankfurt! They’d made it easy for him.

  Twenty

  Zagreb, Croatia

  10.30 p.m. the same night

  THE MAN WITH the broken nose sat in his rented Golf, parked at Zagreb’s Pleso airport in a position where he could see the planes landing. At this time of night the place was almost deserted. No more scheduled flights were due in.

  Martin Sanders was more nervous than he had been for many a year. As a department head with the British Secret Intelligence Service, it wasn’t often he did field work any more. The activities of the Ramblers were so secret however, they were compelled to keep the use of subordinates to a minimum.

  Parked nearby, Marcel Vaillon from the DGSE was keeping an eye on the terminal building. Everything depended on their identification of the target. Without that there could be no killing.

  The advance intelligence the CIA had gleaned was skimpy. They had the Iranian’s name, but their only photograph was a family snap of him as a bearded youth, taken at the time of the Islamic Revolution. They knew he’d be on this flight, but didn’t know where he’d meet his contact.

  Information on the Russian was zero. No name, no data whatsoever. He must, they assumed, already be in Zagreb. Waiting somewhere with his lethal sample.

  For a jumbo jet to fly from Tehran, the hotbed of Islamic fundamentalism, to this the capital of militantly Catholic Croatia, was an odd event, but no odder than many that had happened in the former Yugoslavia.

  The flight was arriving in the dark of night and would leave again before dawn. Few people would ever know the plane had been here. Official sources would deny it.

  Balkan politicians had turned somersaults in the past few days. The Bosnian Croats and the mostly Muslim Bosnian government forces, who’d fought so bloodily over territory, had cemented their cease-fire by signing a confederation agreement. Pooling resources again to kill Serbs, instead of each other, had finally made sense to even the most stubborn.

  As a spin-off from that agreement, Croatia had given permission for Iran to re-arm the BiH Armija. The guns were being ferried through airfields on the coast, to be driven through Croatian territory into Bosnia.

  Tonight’s flight to Zagreb was the pay-off to Croatia – a plane-load of explosives and ammunition, a gift from the mullahs, which the Croatians wanted for the renewal of their own battle with the Serbs.

  On the return flight to Iran, the cargo would be much smaller but potentially much more lethal – a sliver of Russian plutonium.

  Sanders had the car windows down, listening. At two minutes to midnight he heard the roar of turbofans as a 747 flared out for landing. Through night-vision binoculars he watched the white-painted jumbo taxi to the far side of the airfield. No markings on it. No airline logo, no giveaway fin-flash. Vehicles clustered round the plane, their tail-lights forming a ruby crescent.

  He picked up the rented telephone and dialled the number of Marcel’s mobile.

  ‘The guests have arrived,’ he said cryptically.

  ‘I thought so,’ the Frenchman answered. ‘A car has just arrived at the terminal.’

  They disconnected.

  Sanders started the engine, switched on the lights and motored slowly to the car park exit. He paid the sleepy attendant with a wad of devalued Dinar notes then drove on and stopped just short of the terminal. He pretended to be consulting a map.

  The ‘car’ was a minibus. Might be for the aircrew, but there was no other vehicle in sight. No taxis at this time of night. If Akhavi had an appointment in town, the bus could well be for him.

  Vaillon was closer. The final identification would have to be his.

  Sanders drummed his fingers on the wheel. Too many uncertainties for his liking. Desperately under-resourced the whole operation was. Had to be, when officially the Ramblers didn’t even exist.

  Three minutes later a lone figure in a dark suit emerged from the terminal, accompanied by the uniformed driver of the minibus. Too shadowy for Sanders to make out, even through the glasses. Maybe Vaillon had more luck.

  His phone rang.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Cannot be certain. But I think,’ Vaillon’s voice.

  ‘I’ll go for it then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The minibus began to move. Sanders slipped the Golf into gear and took station about fifty metres behind, heading for Zagreb.

  Vaillon would remain at the airport in case someone else looking like Akhavi emerged, or the Russian arrived. If the rendezvous was on the airport itself however, they were screwed. No way they could take them out.

  Sanders followed the minibus for fifteen minutes, then called Vaillon again.

  ‘Crossing the Sava by the Freedom Bridge.’

  ‘Nothing new here,’ Vaillon acknowledged.

  The minibus turned left onto Vukovarska then right into Miramarska, Sanders letting a taxi slip in between himself and the van.

  Left and right past squares and fountains, then the target vehicle pulled up at the Martinova Hotel.

  Sanders stopped at the kerb. Parking no problem at this time of night. Lights out and onto his feet running, keeping in the shadows. He punched the buttons of the phone. A different number this time.

  ‘Ja?’ A German voice answered, the man Sanders
knew simply as Dunkel.

  ‘Hotel Martinova. Zehn Minuten.’

  ‘Jawohl!’

  Voices on the phone, that’s all they were. They’d never met. Never would. Dunkel hadn’t even been told who he was working for.

  Sanders pushed through the swing doors into the hotel. The man he’d followed from the airport stood at the reception desk holding one of those large black leather bags used by pilots.

  Sanders’ heart missed a beat, terrified he’d followed the wrong man.

  Iranian? Certainly looked it – dark hair, dark-framed spectacles, small moustache, and wearing one of those collarless shirts under a suit that was almost black.

  But was it Akhavi?

  Sanders walked up behind him as casually as he could. He hovered half a pace from the desk. There was just a night clerk on duty.

  Hearing him, the Iranian snapped his head round. Fear in his eyes – a good sign. Sanders smiled.

  ‘Good evening,’ he purred.

  The Iranian nodded and turned back to the desk. Sanders moved a little closer. The clerk had the reservation details already printed and pushed forward a form for the Iranian to sign.

  ‘You pay by credit card?’ the clerk asked in heavily-accented English.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I make print?’

  He made a wiping gesture with his hand. The Iranian understood and pulled an American Express card from his pocket-book.

  Sanders lurched forward, making a grab for a brochure from the display on the counter.

  ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, brushing against the Iranian.

  Just a quick glance. Enough to see the name Akhavi on the card.

  He backed off a pace and pretended to read the brochure.

  ‘Room 610. Sixth floor,’ the clerk said. ‘Is a letter for you. Have you baggage?’

  ‘I don’t need help,’ Akhavi answered, reaching out his hand for the key and the envelope.

  ‘Elevator is over there,’ the clerk added, pointing to the left.

  Sanders rested his hand on the counter and watched Akhavi walk away.

  The clerk coughed. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I want to know if a friend of mine has checked in already. A Herr Dunkel? From Germany.’

  The clerk shook his head.

  ‘Could you look again, just to be sure?’

  The clerk wheezed with annoyance, but glanced down at the register. Sanders peered past him at the room keys hanging on their hooks. 612 was missing, but 614 was there. Close enough.

  ‘There is no reservation for that name,’ the clerk grunted.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Must be the traffic. I’m sure he’ll turn up. Are you sure he hasn’t reserved room six one four? Always goes for that number if he can. Some stupid superstition.’

  ‘Is no reservation!’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll leave a note anyway.’ He snapped his fingers, irritably. ‘You have some paper?’

  The clerk gave him a sheet and an envelope.

  ‘Plenty room, if your friend he come. Nema problema.’

  Sanders sealed his note, scribbled Dunkel’s name on the outside and pushed it across the counter.

  ‘Where’s the toilet?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The toilet. The washroom,’ Sanders repeated, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Round the corner. Next the bar.’

  The clerk pointed.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Sanders followed the directions but ignored the Gospoda sign.

  He was in luck. Stairs next to the toilets led up to a mezzanine floor. He climbed them, pushed on a door marked Izlaz and found the emergency stairs.

  He climbed two more floors, then listened. Silence. He took the phone from his pocket and called Vaillon again.

  ‘It’s our man. Definite,’ he said. ‘Hotel Martinova, room six-ten. Our boys are on the way. They’ll be in six fourteen.’

  Then he rang off.

  Sanders continued up to the sixth floor. Easing open the door to the corridor, he slipped past Akhavi’s room. No sound from inside. He turned back and hid behind the exit door, waiting and watching through a crack.

  Down at the reception desk, Konrad signed the name Dunkel, giving an address in Munich. He paid cash in advance for the room and left his false passport so the clerk could complete the documentation.

  Konrad and Pravic waited for the lift. The clerk glanced at them knowingly. The one who’d registered looked to be nearly sixty, but his blonde, blue-eyed companion was younger. Picked him up in a bar shouldn’t wonder.

  Konrad led the way along the silent sixth floor corridor. He stopped at 614, his key slipping into the lock. Pravic crept forward to check the other numbers. 610 was two doors further on.

  Inside their room, Konrad unzipped his bag and carefully removed the equipment. Pravic watched uneasily. Konrad had told him only the bare essentials of what this job was about. Just enough to know why his particular skills were needed.

  Poisoning was not the way Pravic liked to kill. Too remote, too uncertain. When he’d murdered a man for Konrad in Berlin six years before, it had been with a knife.

  He saw the strain on Konrad’s face. He’d refused to say who they were working for, but he guessed it was somebody in Zagreb. There’d been two phone calls with instructions.

  Pravic placed a chair in the entrance lobby, beside the bathroom. Above his head was a wire grill and a humming fan. He found the control for the air-conditioning and turned it off. Then he climbed on the chair and lifted the grill which was nearly a metre square, turning it diagonally to lower it through the aperture.

  ‘What do you think?’ Konrad asked under his breath.

  ‘Maybe okay,’ Pravic whispered, stepping to the floor again. ‘Old hotel. Plenty space.’

  His German was halting, but adequate.

  From Konrad’s tool kit, Pravic took a torch, a screwdriver and a drill.

  ‘Help me,’ he said, locking his hands together in a stirrup to show what he meant.

  Konrad stood beside the chair, and gave him a leg up into the ceiling space.

  For years Pravic had worked with ventilation systems, but fear of these cramped spaces never left him. The gap concealed by the false ceiling was just half a metre high, its metal frame and crawling boards built for access.

  Pravic shone his torch upwards. An aluminium duct extended in from the corridor. From its open end he felt the cool draught of fresh air.

  The fan, when switched on, sucked air from the room, mixed in the fresh supply, then blew it back into the bedroom through a vent.

  Every room the same – including 610.

  Pravic wriggled into the roof space. Separating him from the void above the corridor was a square access panel, held in place by four screws. He removed them and the panel came away easily. Then suddenly it slipped from his grip, thudding onto the ceiling below him.

  He froze. Beneath him Konrad swore, then switched on the television to drown his noise.

  Two doors down, Dr Hamid Akhavi dialled the room number written on the note he’d been given at reception.

  ‘Pavel?’ he asked timidly.

  ‘Da.’

  ‘Hamid. In room six hundred ten,’ he said in heavily-accented Russian.

  ‘I’ll come up.’

  Three minutes later they were shaking hands and embracing.

  ‘I’m very pleased to see you, my friend,’ Akhavi said.

  ‘I too.’

  They embraced again, their first meeting for four years.

  ‘How much time do you have here?’ Kulikov asked.

  Akhavi looked at his watch. Ten minutes past one in the morning.

  ‘The car comes at four.’

  They sat and Akhavi offered an orange juice from the minibar. The Russian would have preferred something stronger.

  ‘You weren’t followed?’ Kulikov asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. An Englishman downstairs – I believe he was drunk.’ His lips pouted with distaste.r />
  He asked about Kulikov’s family. Time was short, but the social courtesies his culture had taught him could not be by-passed. Eventually he was ready to grasp the nettle.

  ‘So, you have brought me something?’ he asked.

  Sanders had seen the Russian arrive, carrying a large Samsonite briefcase. He descended two floors on the emergency stairs, then dialled Dunkel’s number.

  ‘Sie sind zusammen,’ he announced softly when Dunkel answered.

  Konrad put the phone down. Same mystery voice that had summoned him to this hotel. English accent.

  NATO? Was that who his employer was?

  They are together. The code they’d agreed. The clock was now ticking.

  Konrad grabbed a mask, hooked the strap over his head and settled the soft rubber over his nose and mouth. Then he breathed in sharply to test the seal.

  He laid out the artists’ airbrush, the propellant canister and its connecting tube. Beside it, the screw-top jar containing the lethal, light-brown fluid.

  Take great care, Kemmer had said. One tiny splash of the liquid could mean himself being victim to the same delayed-action death he’d chosen for the men in room 610.

  Konrad pulled on surgical gloves and unscrewed the lid of the jar.

  Blood pounded in Pravic’s ears as he squeezed between the ducts in the dark void above the sixth-floor corridor. With hardly room to move, hardly space to breathe, panic came in waves, drenching him in sweat. He cursed Dunkel for making him do this.

  Above his head ran the big square duct feeding air to the rooms. First spur to the left for 612, the next for 610. Just a few metres more . . .

  Yet . . . the deeper he crawled, the further he got from his escape hatch, the more Pravic feared that the demons in his soul would emerge from their caves and cripple him.

  He rested for a second, trying to shut out memories of the voices and smells, which had always been precursors to the childhood abuse that had warped his mind.

  Sometimes darkness triggered these flashbacks – at night he tried to keep a light on when he slept. Sometimes confinement did it, like in this tunnel where cobwebbed pipe work scraped his back as he inched along the boards.

  The fear was so strong now he wanted to retch. Fear of being trapped, of his child body being pinned down by a weight so much heavier than its own. It was all coming back – the smell of his father’s spirit-laden breath on the back of his neck, the hoarse panting in his ear, the pain as his feeble attempts to resist were overpowered, and the humiliation as the drunkard’s fat prick spurted stickily between his thighs.