Where Dead Men Meet

by Mark Mills

  The camp’s political agent had assured them all that they were Afghans, nomads, harmless traders who journeyed south, deep into India, to sell their carpets and other wares. From the look of them, though, they could just as well have been Waziris, the enemy. Either way, friend or foe, they were Pathans, betrayed by the blue-green eyes that shone like jewels in their bronzed faces. The men walked with long, lazy strides, proud and erect, rifles slung from their shoulders. Not all the women were in purdah; those who were rode on the camels, bobbing about on big bundles tied with rope.

  He was expecting them to slow and try to sell him something. They usually did. Not today. They filed past without so much as a glance his way. But then one of their number—a tall man, his long beard as black as his turban—turned and caught his eye and swung his arm in a looping arc: come with us. Another man behind made the same gesture. An elderly woman repeated it. So did a young boy leading a baby black bear by a tether made from colorful twisted cloth.

  “Where to?” he called in English. “Where are you going?”

  The boy shrugged as he walked on by, not understanding the question, or, if he did, unable to offer an answer.

  He heard the familiar crackle of an aircraft engine coming to life. Turning, he saw one of the squadron’s Hawker Harts taxiing to the end of the landing strip. Was the bloody fool really shaping up to take off downwind? He waved his arms and gesticulated wildly at the windsock. It made no difference. The biplane came tearing down the strip, and as it shot past him, he saw the number on the tail fin: K-2063.

  It wasn’t possible.

  K-2063 had gone down in a dust storm near Peshawar. He knew this for a fact, because he had visited the crash site. He had seen the charred and crumpled wreckage in the field beside the Swat River. Billy Taplin and his gunner, Oates, had bailed out blind before the impact, and their broken bodies had been found nearby, their parachutes half opened.

  The Hart cleared the pepper trees at the end of the airfield by a matter of feet, fighting for height, sunlight flashing off its silver wings as it banked left, making a tight turn back on itself, lining up with the caravan, approaching from the rear.

  What was it up to? If it kept coming, it would cause panic and havoc, scattering the camels. Maybe that was the plan. Or maybe, he thought with a sudden lurch of horror, the pilot had other ideas.

  He spun back to see that even the stragglers had passed him by now, and he set off after them at a sprint. “Run!” he yelled. “He’s going to open fire! Run!”

  No one turned. Why couldn’t they hear him?

  “Run! Get away!”

  A reaction at last. The woman seated atop the last camel turned to look at him, and even at a distance he recognized the smile.

  It was Sister Agnes.

  With a scoop of her arm, she signaled him to follow. Only he couldn’t, because now he found himself sinking up to his knees in the sucking sand. It was like wading through molasses. He could only look on helplessly as they pulled away.

  That was when it suddenly dawned on him. He didn’t need to worry. Nothing could happen to them, because they were already dead. It wasn’t a caravan; it was a procession of dead souls in limbo. Taplin and Oates were simply joining their own kind, searching for a resting place.

  The sound of the Hart closing from behind rose to a deafening pitch, filling his skull.

  Luke snapped awake with a buzzing in his left ear.

  The high-pitched whine of a hungry mosquito searching for a meal.

  He tried to swat it away but found he couldn’t move his hands. It took him a few moments to get his bearings. Darkness, though not total. He was on his back on a large bed, bound by the wrists and ankles to its four corners, spread-eagled as though for sacrifice. His trousers, shoes, and socks had been removed, but they had left him with his undershorts and shirt, which was lacquered to his chest by sweat.

  He strained against his bonds until he felt the rope beginning to strip the skin from his wrists. He lay back, panting from the exertion. Then he began to shout for help.

  Before long, the door swung open and the room was flooded with light from a kerosene lamp.

  “No one can hear you,” said Pippi.

  “You can.”

  “Not if I put a cloth in your mouth. It’s your choice.”

  She dragged a chair to the bedside and placed the lamp on the floor. She sat in silence, brooding, studying him. “I think I know why Borodin sent you,” she said eventually.

  “Why?”

  “It’s just a theory. It needs to be tested.”

  “So you believe me?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She drew some cigarettes from the pocket of her skirt and lit one. “The money you had with you, the money you say he gave you—it is the same amount he stole from us.”

  “You’re saying he sent me to make amends?”

  “Nothing can make amends for what happened,” she replied darkly.

  “Who died?”

  She looked at him askance, deciding whether to reply. “His name was Johan.” She didn’t need to say any more; the rest was written in her face.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? You didn’t know him,” she replied flatly.

  “I lost a good friend recently.”

  “Who?”

  “Her name was Agnes.”

  It seemed for a moment that she would quiz him further, but she gathered up the lamp and replaced the chair against the wall.

  “I need the toilet.”

  She turned at the door. “Otto and Erwin don’t know about my theory.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Don’t give them a reason to hurt you. They would like to, especially Otto.” She paused. “He and Johan were like brothers.”

  He wasn’t alone for long. The two men appeared, untied him wordlessly, and led him at gunpoint down the stairs and out into the night. It was only then that he realized he’d been moved while knocked out by the chloroform. They were in a clearing deep in the woods, with tall trees walling them in on all sides. The building was some kind of farmhouse, dwarfed by the large barn beside it. The outhouse stood a short distance away, on a grassy slope. He smelled it before he saw it, and when he pulled open the door, the odor was so rank that the need to relieve himself almost deserted him.

  Pippi had prepared a snack for him in his absence: cheese, a hunk of old bread, a couple of tomatoes, sliced and salted. He ate it at the plank table in the kitchen, under the mistrustful gaze of his three captors. Pippi reached for a pitcher and splashed some red wine into a glass. This earned her a sharp look from Otto.

  “What if he’s innocent?” she asked.

  “What if he isn’t?” retorted Otto.

  “Even a condemned man is entitled to a last meal.”

  Something in her fleeting look told him not to take her words too seriously. As he reached for the glass, Otto snatched up a knife and buried the tip in the tabletop, inches from his hand.

  “Where is Borodin?” he demanded.

  Luke looked up at him. “I said. Paris. He was shot.”

  “When is he coming here?”

  “I don’t know. He could be dead.”

  Otto sneered and shook his head. “Pippi, he’s lying.”

  “We don’t know that,” she replied.

  “You seriously think Borodin left it at that? ‘Here’s the address of my friend Pippi Keller. Good luck. See you in another life.’”

  Erwin gave a skeptical snort. Pippi’s eyes turned enquiringly to Luke.

  “He said I’d be safe here. He said he’d be in touch.”

  No need to mention Zurich, not yet. It was the only card he had left to play.

  Chapter Eleven

  “You’re late,” said Petrovic.

  Borodin settled himself down on the wooden be
nch. “I needed to be sure.”

  “I came alone, like you said.”

  “I doubt it. But wherever they are, they’re well hidden.”

  It was a glorious morning, just the odd cloudlet drifting across a powder-blue sky, and the gardens were already filling with visitors eager to beat the noonday heat.

  Petrovic tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette and cast an appreciative eye around him. “I’m surprised I’ve never heard of this place.”

  The Parc de Bagatelle was a secret well kept by those in the know: a manicured oasis, a walled-off world tucked away in the wilds of the Bois de Boulogne.

  “Well, keep it under your hat,” replied Borodin.

  “Since when do you walk with a stick?”

  “Since you tried to have me killed.”

  “Just a flesh wound?”

  “Kind of you to ask. Nothing too serious.”

  Petrovic smiled. “The order came from the top.”

  “Via you.”

  “You know how these things work. You crossed the line. Don’t blame me.”

  “I don’t. It’s just business. Speaking of which, is that my money?” He meant the leather attaché case resting on Petrovic’s lap.

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “As we discussed: half now, the rest on delivery. I’m assuming you didn’t bring him with you.”

  “Open it so I can see.”

  Petrovic raised the lid of the case to reveal some bundles of notes tied with rubber bands. “It’s all there. High-denomination notes, like you said.”

  “Flip through them. Slowly.”

  Petrovic did as requested.

  “Put them on the bench between us.”

  Petrovic removed the money and closed the lid, snapping the latches shut. An elderly couple, impeccably dressed, were approaching along the graveled path, arm in arm. Borodin took off his hat and laid it on the money. “Good morning,” the woman said from beneath her lace-trimmed parasol, a relic of the past century. They both returned the greeting, then watched as the stooped pair shuffled off in their button boots, toward the orangery.

  “I’m curious,” said Petrovic. “How did you know?”

  “The eyes. His mother’s eyes. A beautiful woman. Before your time.”

  “Have you told him who he is?”

  Borodin had been expecting the question. “No, I spun him a yarn.”

  “And are you spinning me one now?”

  He turned and looked Petrovic hard in the eye. “He doesn’t know. He doesn’t need to. But I do. What went wrong twenty-five years ago?”

  Petrovic drew on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Didn’t I mention it on the telephone?”

  “No.”

  “My mistake.”

  Petrovic gave a mirthless smile. “Why do you care?”

  “You know me. I don’t like … gaps.”

  He could see Petrovic’s mind at work behind the small, pale eyes, deciding what to reveal and what to hold back. “Someone let the side down,” he finally offered.

  “Who?”

  “Do you remember Gotal?”

  “Gotal?” How could he forget? The intellectual with the face of a thug—a member of the inner sanctum from the earliest days, when politics still counted for something and Borodin was a young man searching for a role within the organization’s ranks. “What did he do?”

  “It’s what he didn’t do.”

  Borodin took a moment to process the response. He remembered the rumors at the time: that the family had refused to meet the ransom demand; that they had paid up but the child had not been returned; even that the child had been killed in a bungled operation by the Venetian Carabinieri and the whole sorry affair had been covered up by the authorities. Only one thing was certain: nothing more had been heard of the kidnappers or the baby boy.

  “Gotal was supposed to kill the boy? Why? Wasn’t the money paid?”

  “It wasn’t just about the money,” Petrovic replied. “You know that.”

  No, it was about bad blood between two families; it was about vengeance. But it was also about a man with the face of a boxer, whose conscience had gotten the better of him.

  “Why England?”

  “Who knows. Gotal was told to lie low for a few weeks afterward. It seems he went traveling instead.”

  Maybe England was the farthest place Gotal could picture in his mind—the safest place for an innocent child to start a new life.

  “What did he do with the boy?” Borodin had a pretty good idea, because Hamilton had mentioned being brought up by nuns.

  “So many questions.”

  “I’m almost done.”

  Petrovic dropped his cigarette on the gravel and crushed it underfoot. “An orphanage … Catholic … in the middle of nowhere. God knows how he found it.”

  “Why now? After twenty-five years?”

  “Because that’s how long Gotal sat on his secret. He died a few weeks ago. It was quick. So was the village priest who took his final confession.”

  “The priest ran straight to the Karamans?”

  “Even priests know which side of their bread is buttered.” Petrovic paused briefly before adding, “And who are we to take the moral high ground?”

  Their dealings over the years had never been anything other than purely professional, but that didn’t prevent a strange kind of complicity, even fondness, from springing up between them. Borodin found himself appealing to it now.

  “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Tibor. These aren’t our battles.”

  Petrovic stared off into the distance. “Not if you keep your side of the bargain.”

  So be it, thought Borodin, tucking the cash into his jacket pockets.

  “Where’s Hamilton?” Petrovic demanded.

  “I don’t know, but I know where he’s going to be.”

  Petrovic seized him by the elbow.

  “Don’t worry,” said Borodin. “It’s a lot of money, but not enough to retire on. You’ll get your man.”

  Petrovic released his grip. Borodin pocketed the rest of the money, then eased himself to his feet with the aid of the walking stick. “Do you see those trees over there?”

  Petrovic turned to take in the dense stand of trees and shrubs off to their right. “Yes.”

  “What you can’t see is the man with a rifle aimed at your head.”

  “Oh?” There was a note of amused skepticism in Petrovic’s voice.

  “If you make any kind of move or signal in the next five minutes, you’ll never know I wasn’t lying. Five minutes. After that, I suggest you take a tour of the rose garden. They have hundreds of different varieties.”

  “I don’t care for roses,” said Petrovic.

  “So why do you have three of them on your balcony?” He paused to let the words sink in. “Two white, one red. I’ve even watched you water them of an evening.”

  He could see Petrovic struggling to contain himself at this revelation.

  “If anyone tries to follow me, don’t ever go home, Tibor.”

  Petrovic’s face was set in a plastered smile, but his eyes burned with impotent hatred.

  “Dust off your passport. I’ll see you in Switzerland in a few days.”

  “Switzerland?”

  “I’ll call and tell you where exactly.”

  Borodin tipped his hat, turned, and set off across the broad sweep of lawn behind the bench. He was tempted to glance over his shoulder, but he knew that their best chance of abducting him (before torturing the information out of him) wasn’t here in the open, with witnesses all around; it was in the car park at the entrance to the gardens. They had probably watched him pull up in the sedan that he and Hamilton hijacked from the government minister two
nights ago, and they were probably all set to bundle him into the back of their own vehicle and make off at speed before anyone could intercede.

  They weren’t to know that he had no intention of returning to the motor car, or that he had arranged meetings here before and had in his possession a key to one of the doors in the high stone wall that ringed the park. He hadn’t just checked the lock late last night; he had oiled it for good measure. He had done this after parking the stolen van in a leafy lane off the Allée de Longchamp, just beyond the perimeter wall, and had then walked through the woods to Porte Dauphine, where he flagged down a taxi back to his hotel.

  The van had been there less than an hour ago—he had checked on his way to the meeting—and it was still there now. He approached it circuitously, just to be sure, stepping silently through the sun-dappled undergrowth. Satisfied, he pulled on the blue workman’s overalls and the peaked cap. Then, with his pistol resting in his lap, he set off south, making for the Pont de Suresnes. Only once he was over the bridge and there was still nothing in the side mirrors to cause concern did he finally begin to relax. He even permitted himself a smile.

  Phase One completed without a hitch. His hesitation yesterday had almost gotten him killed, but it had now made him a rich man, richer than he had ever been. And there was more to come. He reached inside the overalls, took one of the bundles of cash from his jacket pocket, and riffled the end of it with his thumb.

  He had expected excuses, stalling tactics, but Petrovic had evidently been instructed to settle the matter swiftly. It was odd to think of the two Karaman brothers running scared, but he could see why they might be. There had been suspicions, but nothing concrete to connect them to the kidnapping all those years ago.

  No one had believed that a ragtag bunch of Croatian crooks based in Spalato would even dare to attempt such a thing in Venice. Within the organization there had been a blanket denial of any involvement. Yes, the coffers seemed suddenly to have swelled, but this boost in financial fortunes had been ascribed at the time to a bank heist in Zagreb. The wagging tongues, knowing what was best for them, had gradually fallen silent; and a few years later, the tide of war had engulfed Europe in a flood of misery, death, and destruction that touched everybody’s lives, drowning out the story of a baby boy snatched from a pram while his nanny’s back was turned.