Scorpion Trail
Page 23
The village of Pfefferheim had hardly existed twenty years ago.
Built as an overflow for Frankfurt, there were two other USAF families renting houses there. Well-built, spacious homes with a basement and a good-sized yard, it suited them well. And Nancy liked living 'on the economy' instead of in family accommodation at the Air Base. She saw enough of the place as it was, working there part time in the welfare office.
It was the arrival of Nataga in their household a year ago that had transformed Nancy's life. A twenty-oneyear-old refugee from Mostar, she was just one of hundreds of thousands of Bosnians taking refuge in Germany until peace let them return to their homes.
The Roche family fed and housed her, and in return she drove the kids to school, picked them up again, and helped with their care. Nancy had relished the chance it had given her to work again. And the Colonel enjoyed having a pretty young woman around the place.
Irwin Roche was a self-confessed computer-freak. He used a Unix system on the base to plan loads for the giant C-5 Galaxies that tramped back and forth across the Atlantic. But in his own home it was his Compaq PC that occupied much of his time. While Nancy and the kids watched TV in the evenings, he plugged into the Internet, communicating with cyberspace addicts all over the world.
Most of the Newsgroups he subscribed to were trivial, but he'd stumbled across
The Roche family had had it good. Better than they were entitled to expect perhaps, looking at all the misery in the world. One night in bed, he told Nancy what he'd been thinking. Shouldn't they be offering the comfort of their home, and the security and warmth of their family, to a child whose life could be transformed by it?
Nancy had responded with silence at first. She was just getting some of her own life back, now the twins were ten and Nataga was here to help.
But then she'd begun to look at the TY news in a different light. All those suffering kids - she'd felt so helpless about them before. Maybe the two of them could do something. Maybe they should.
Then just at the beginning of this week, Irwin had seen the computer message about Vildana. The girl needed Can angel' the e-mail had said. He'd pulled Nancy away from the TV and showed her the screen of the Compaq.
Within minutes they'd decided. Minutes later he'd emailed an offer to the agency.
Things had moved fast. It turned out that CareNet had contacts at Rhein-Main, and the next day he and Nancy were given a grilling from a fellow colonel. They must have passed, because two days later they'd been signed up.
The twins were pretty stunned at their decision. Bound to be when their even, predictable young lives were about to face the unknown.
Nataga had wept for a day. They weren't too sure why.
Roche eased the Vectra into the garage. Scott and Ella came running round from the yard.
'When's she coming, have you heard?' they yelled.
'Late. Real late. But in time for breakfast tomorrow, I guess.'
Lansbruck, Austria 5 p.m.
It was crazy to do the drive to Frankfurt in one day. Innsbruck was only half way and they'd been on the road since 8 a.m. Lorna was exhausted. She'd hoped doing the journey in one burst would be the best way to minimize its effect on the kid. Vildana had slept for much of the journey, so perhaps she'd been right.
She'd had to let Josip share the driving; on motorways he was less of a liability, with no narrow gaps and mountain tracks to negotiate. It had given her time to think.
About Alex. She missed him desperately. Wanted to run back to Split and tell him she hadn't meant to brush him off, that she'd just needed to hurt him a little, to show him he couldn't remain unpunished for what he'd done all those years ago.
The next step was up to him. She'd shown him he couldn't just snap his fingers for her to come running, but she'd also given him a way to contact her if he wanted to.
The Battle of the Sexes business - it was a game she'd never been good at. Never known how far to go, when to resist, when to give in. She pushed her fingers through her hair and kneaded the tension from the back of her neck, terrified she'd got it wrong.
Passing Vildana off as her own daughter had worked well at the frontiers.
Their passports had merited just a cursory glance, and at Split, the stamp that Alex had created had passed unnoticed.
It was illegal what she was doing, of course, but it would be for the Roche family to sort matters out with the authorities later. She was just the delivery girl.
They'd stopped for lunch on the Autostrada near Verona, Vildana's pate face blank-eyed with bewilderment. She had hardly eaten anything. Lorna could imagine the terrors the child must be going through, travelling halFway across a continent to live with strangers.
At Innsbruck they'd taken another short break, and Lorna telephoned CNN.
It was lunchtime in Atlanta: the girl on the newsdesk had been expecting her call.
'Great!' she'd said. 'You're happy we run the story in the next World News in a couple of hours?'
'Sure. We'll be in Germany by then.'
Lorna would have liked to see the programme, but there would be no chance of that with another six hours of driving ahead of them.
The next stretch of road cut northeast through the Tyrol to the German border. Josip was at the wheel. Lorna looked out at the hills in the fading light. Still plenty of snow on the upper slopes. She used to ski most winters. Last time had been with Rees in Colorado. They'd left Julie in the care of her sister Annie for a couple of weeks.
Sometimes she envied Annie. Not often, but at times like this, when life became so convoluted.
Annie had met Joe at College, a good, Irish boy. They'd married soon after graduating, and produced five kids. just like that, with no doubts raised, questions asked, or mind-shaking problems presenting themselves. Joe and Annie had never faced a crisis in their lives, as far as Lorna could see.
Not a single one! Yet for her, crises were like milestones, popping up with alarming regularity.
And now she was in the midst of one called 'Alex'.
Frankfurt International Airport 6.20 p.m.
Standing by the carousel, Alex gathered up his bags from the Croatian Airlines flight, found a trolley and passed through into the terminal building.
Two hours wait in Frankfurt before the British Airways connection to London, which he wasn't planning to take. He could think of only one reason for returning to Britain just now - Kirsty. If things had changed and she needed him, he would go back. For a while anyway.
Leaving Bosnia had turned his thoughts once more to the place and the people that had been 'home' for twenty years. He still had obligations there which he couldn't ignore. Had to find out if the woman he was married to wanted him back.
He wheeled the trolley to a bank, changed a 20 Deutsche mark note into coins, and found a telephone.
He rang East Lothian and spoke to Kirsty's brother, who'd just got home from work.
'Och, it's good to hear your voice Alex,' he said. 'And so close, you could be in the next room.'
'How's Kirsty?' Alex's throat was dry.
'Och, about the same. Not been able to pull herself together much. The doctor's still giving her tablets.'
J see. Does she ever talk about me?'
He heard a sigh at the other end of the line.
'No. She does not.' Another sigh, then, 'I could tell her you rang, but it may be better not to, frankly. But what of yourself? They had pictures of you on the television earlier in the week. You were refusing to answer questions about that monster from Edinburgh. Must ha' been awful. We felt so sorry for you getting mixed up in such a thing.'
'Aye, well it's all over,' he said, slipping back into his lowlands accent.
'I'm in Frankfurt now an
d don't expect to be going back to Bosnia. I'll be here a few days. Maybe ring you again in another week or so?'
'Grand if you would.'
He rang off. Fifteen Deutsche marks left. Should be enough for his next call. He fumbled in his pocket for Lorna's card. It was well past lunchtime in Boston.
'CareNet, Bella speaking.' A nasal voice, a slight echo on the line.
'Hello. I'm calling from Frankfurt, Germany,' he said hurriedly, watching the phone counter tick away the Pfennigs. 'I need to get in touch with one of your people over here, Lorna Sorensen? She should be arriving in Frankfurt today or tomorrow, but I don't know where she's staying.'
'Oh, let me just check ... Who is this?'
'My name's Alex Crawford. I'm an old friend. I've just been with her in Bosiiia.'
'Sure, hold the line please, Mr Crawford.'There was a click and the sound of Vivaldi. Ten Deutsche marks gone already.
'I'm sorry, sir,' Bella said, back on the line, 'we don't know where she's staying in Frankfurt. She hasn't told us yet.'
'What about the address of the family who are taking the child? Vildana, you know?'
'Oh that's confidential information, Mr Crawford. We can't give that out to anybody,' she replied stiffly. 'I tell you what. I could e-mail her if you wish.'
'E-mail? Send her a message, you mean?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Okay then ... just say Alex is in Frankfurt and has to see her ... I'll ring again tomorrow to see if she's told you where I can contact her.'
'That's all just - Alex is in Frankfurt?'
'Yes. No! No, one other thing. Write ... write this: Alex says he loves you.'
'Oh, that's cute! You want me to e-mail that?'
'Sure. I'll ring again tomorrow.'
The phone cut. His money was out.
Bavaria 7.10 p.m.
At the border post between Austria and Germany, the Bundesgrenzschutz polizei received a daily update of names. Some belonged to undesirables to be denied entry to the Bundesrepublik, others were of felons to be arrested.
New that morning was the name of Milan Pravic of Bosnian or Croat nationality, wanted for questioning on suspicion of having committed crimes against humanity.
The cream Mercedes with the Berlin plates slowed to a halt. Two passports were held out for inspection. Two passports were returned, and the car accelerated away again.
With his fair hair, Pravic passed easily as a Pole. His photograph had been inserted expertly into Marek Gruszka's passport, stolen in Berlin.
They'd left Zagreb in the early afternoon, the journey broken by a brief diversion to a forest, where Konrad burned the contaminated tissues he'd brought from the Hotel Martinova. Then he'd dug a small, deep hole and buried the spray equipment. The jar containing the remains of the lethal, brown liquid stayed in his blue sports bag in the boot of the car.
Konrad wasn't sure why he had kept the anthrax bacilli, but something in the back of his mind was telling him the stuff might be of further use to him before long.
It was getting late and he had done enough driving for one day. Anyway, he was hungry. He saw a sign for a motel and swung the Mercedes off the Autobalm.
Pravic had slept for long stretches of the drive north. It had helped him avoid conversation with the German. Dunkel was not a man he'd ever liked or trusted.
The motel was a shabby, single-storey construction, but it would do. It was on the edge of a small town where there would be places to eat.
Konrad parked out of sight of the lobby. He sent Pravic to check in first, so they'd not be seen together. The rooms they were allocated were next to each other, however.
Pravic threw his bag on the bed and, out of habit, switched on the television. A few minutes later Konrad tapped at his door.
'I'm going to find somewhere to eat,' he announced. 'You want to come?, Pravic avoided his eyes and shook his head.
'Not hungry.' He'd seen a machine that dispensed sandwiches and beers in reception.
Konrad shrugged and drove off, glad his invitation had been declined.
The Bosnian lay on the bed and jabbed at the remote control. He flicked through a dozen cable channels but nothing held his attention. Eventually he left it tuned to the leather-clad dancers on MTV.
What he was looking for was news. Any channel that might tell him whether the world cared enough about the Tulici massacre to come looking for him.
He knew there'd been questions asked by the UN in Vitez. He knew the politicians of America and Europe kept mouthing off about war crimes. He knew too that one Muslim girl had survived the attack and could probably identify him. What he didn't know was whether legal wheels were turning, whether there were people out there who were planning to send him to prison.
His stomach rumbled. Time for some food. He locked the door behind him and walked round to the lobby. The receptionist changed his note for coins.
He selected a Schinkenbrot and three bottles of Pilsner. He also bought a newspaper which listed the television programmes.
The ham was good and smoky, and the beer nicely chilled. Some things they did well in Germany.
He took off his shoes and trousers and stretched out on the bed, his back propped against pillows. He flipped through the TV listings. There was News at Nine on a German satellite channel; he checked his watch. Half an hour to go. He flicked to a game show.
They made him smile, these stupid programmes.
Greed so coyly concealed. Reminded him of the nervous punters who paid Gisela 300 DMs an hour to whip and humiliate them.
He became engrossed and remained so for the next half-hour, switching over too late to see the start of the news. He swore at himself for missing the headlines. The first items bored him - German politics. News about Bosnia came ten minutes into the programme. He moved to the edge of' the bed to see the screen more clearly.
The Serbs were shelling the mostly Muslim enclave of Gorazde.
It was a part of Bosnia that didn't interest him. No Croats there. But the fact that it was Muslims getting pounded gave him some pleasure. The pictures showed Serb guns, Serb tanks thumping their ordnance into the houses spread out in the valley below. His main interest was to see what weapons they were using.
He felt in his bag for the pullover in which he'd wrapped his Crvena Zastrava M70 9mm pistol. He extracted it, unclipped the eight round magazine, slid back the slider and checked the barrel was clear.
The presenter reappeared in vision, saying parliamentarians were complaining about the cost to German taxpayers of supporting so many Bosnian refugees. There'd been a debate in the Bundestag. A picture of the chamber appeared behind her.
Then the background changed. A photomontage of a girl, her hands covering her mouth - and a computer screen.
'The American CNN TV reports that the computer network "Internet" is now being used to find homes for Bosnian war orphans.'
The screen switched to CNN's video report, dubbed with a commentary in German.
'This girl is called Fildana. She's being cared for by American aid worker Loma Sorensen and is the sole survivor of the horrific massacre at Tulici three weeks ago in which joryt:four Muslim women and children died.'
Pravic caught his breath. He cocked the empty pistol.
'Vildana witnessed her own family being murdered, but miraculously managed to conceal herself from the killers. The United Nations War Times Tribunal in the Hague plans to use her evidence to convict the men responsible - if they can find them.
'Loma Sorensen used the latest computer technologv to link up directfrom Bosnia to a child adoption service run by the American Caralket agency on the Internet communications highway. As a result, within just a couple of days Fildana has been found a new home in Germany. The identity and location of her foster family are being kept secret, for her own safety.
'Now football ....'
Milan Pravic stared motionless at the screen. Then a low growl shook the bottom of his chest and percolated upwards until it erupted from his l
ips.
He pointed the empty pistol at the screen and pressed the trigger.
One little girl! One miserable child standing between him and freedom. And she was here in Germany.
He tossed the weapon on the bed, leapt to his feet and paced the room, angry and afraid.
Half an hour later, Konrad returned from the restaurant, went straight to his room and began to undress. He was in his underwear when Pravic knocked at his door.
'Who is it?' he shouted.
'Milan.'
'What do you want?'
'Left something in the car. I need the keys.'
Konrad hesitated, suspecting for a second that Pravic might drive off in it. He contemplated getting dressed again to go out to the car with him.
What the hell. He opened the door a crack and passed out the keys.
Pravic walked out to the car. In his left hand he held two screw-top bottles of fruitjuice he'd bought from the machine in reception. He put them on the ground and opened the trunk of the Mercedes. Tucked at the back, wedged "in place by a tool box to stop it falling on its side was Dunkel's blue sports bag. He undid the zip, reached in his hand and pulled out the jar of lethal brown liquid.
He emptied one of the fruitjuice bottles onto the ground, then, covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief, he unscrewed the top of Dunkel's jar and decanted its contents into his bottle. Finally he filled the jar with juice from the other container, screwed the cap back on and replaced it in the bag.
Saturday 2nd April, 1.35 a.m.
Pfefferheim near Frankffirt
Nancy Roche had made fresh cinnamon bread, thinking that something warm and sweet to eat and drink would be a good way to welcome Vildana to her new home. The CareNet woman had rung again to say they'd be arriving after one o'clock.