Scorpion Trail

by Geoffrey Archer

  Born and brought up in London, his roots were there, although the Security Service had done its best to cut them off. They’d stopped him attending his father’s funeral ten years ago. The IRA will be watching . . .

  Died just a few months into retirement, after life in a smoke-filled broker’s office selling insurance. Consoling his mother had been left to a secret meeting in Birmingham two weeks later. Then last year she had died. Didn’t hear about it until after the funeral . . .

  He found his way to the Bed and Breakfast in Acton where Moray McFee was staying, a house that smelled of dead air and bacon fat.

  McFee was waiting for him in the TV lounge, a short, stocky man in his mid-fifties with crinkly auburn hair, thinning on top.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he said. ‘Can’t tell you how delighted I am.’

  He hardly knew the man, but it felt like being greeted by an old friend. A friend in need . . . Both in that category, he suspected.

  ‘It was good of you to remember me,’ Alex replied.

  After settling his bags in his room and washing off the grime of the journey, McFee took him to a pub. Alex had a thirst and went for bitter; McFee drank whisky.

  ‘Let me fill you in about Bosnia Emergency,’ he began, pulling out a pipe and thumbing St Bruno into the bowl. They’d settled at a corner table. ‘It was set up by a guy called Major Mike Allison who’d served with the UN in Bosnia and then got made redundant under the defence cuts. He used his gratuity to get the charity running.

  ‘An old army contact found him a disused warehouse in Surrey. Then he recruited volunteers, many ex-military, or army wives. They collected old clothing and stuff. He’s also got drug companies to give him medicines nearing their sell-by dates, that sort of thing. And with money raised through appeals on local radio he bought baby food and disposable nappies at cost price.

  ‘Then he got really lucky. Inherited a couple of old bread vans from one of the big bakeries. Just needed a few new parts, and they were fine. What happens is the volunteers at Farnham stuff one of them with goods, then we drive it down to Italy next week and over the ferry to Split in Croatia. Then, because the vans can’t make it on Bosnia’s roads, we transfer the gear to an old Bedford four-tonner for the drive up to central Bosnia. Mike supplies body armour and life insurance. I’ve checked it by the way and it’s good. He pays for food, drink and accommodation, but that’s it. The rest of your reward’s in heaven!’

  Body armour? Insurance? The realities of what he was in for suddenly sank in.

  ‘You make it sound a bit like a scouts’ outing, Moray,’ Alex joked, awkwardly. ‘But it looks terrifying on TV. How dodgy is it?’

  ‘Not for the faint-hearted, d’ye ken!’ McFee answered. ‘But you’ll be fine. It’s dangerous, but just keep reminding yourself that there are hundreds, thousands of aid workers, UN people, even journalists going in and out all the time, and most of them survive okay.’

  ‘Did you get shot at?’

  ‘There’s shooting going on all over the place, but it’s not often at you. I’ll tell you something though; it’s what they call a “sharp learning curve” out there. I’ve just made the one trip – with Mike Allison, but by the time I got back here again, I felt like I’d done an assault course.’

  ‘And passed, I take it.’

  ‘Aye,’ he laughed. ‘Hope so. You’ll find out in a few days’ time!’

  Alex told McFee he had to take a leak. The pub had filled up. He had to elbow his way through to reach the toilet.

  When he returned he saw McFee talking with a young woman. He thought he recognized her as one of two tarty creatures who’d been sitting at a table near them. As he approached, the girl saw him and moved towards the door.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Oh, er . . . just a local lass,’ McFee answered, avoiding his eye. ‘There’s a few of them collecting clothes for Bosnia Emergency. I was chatting them up the other evening, regaling them with tales of my exploits out there, and they’ve got pretty keen. You know, if you tell people about the suffering in Bosnia they usually want to help.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Alex answered. For some reason he sensed McFee was lying.

  Later, back at the boarding house, they watched the evening news – fresh fighting between Bosnia’s Croats and Muslims in the town of Gorni Vakuf, houses ablaze, women and children running for cover, and UN soldiers battened down impotently.

  ‘We drive through that place on the way up to Vitez,’ McFee commented.

  The pictures were scaring, but Alex felt excitement too. He was about to return to the thick of things after two decades in a backwater. His veins buzzed, just as they had on the troubled streets of Belfast in the nineteen-seventies.

  He turned from the screen to find McFee staring coldly at him. Suddenly he sensed he was being used, although he didn’t know how.

  ‘No problem,’ McFee muttered, flashing a grin. ‘“Nema problema” as they say out there.’

  The bulletin ended and they decided to call it a day.

  In the unfamiliar bed, sleep still proved elusive, his mind haunted by Jodie’s face dangling at that impossible angle in the trees.

  He heard every train which ran nearby. Then around one in the morning they stopped. He was on the verge of sleep when he heard the click of the lock on McFee’s door just along the landing. A loose board creaked as the Scotsman made his way downstairs, then another click as the front door opened and closed.

  Odd man, Alex thought. He must have dozed off after that, because he didn’t hear him return.

  Frankfurt, Germany

  Martin Sanders ambled down the long, anonymous concourse of Frankfurt Airport, looking forward to the prospect of a couple of days in Germany. Many of his formative years had been spent in the cat-and-mouse world of Berlin, and he’d had a spell as liaison man for the Secret Intelligence Service at the British Embassy in Bonn.

  His flight from London had arrived on time. Carrying just hand-baggage he joined the line filtering through passport control, then headed for the exit. Sanders was fifty-two, fair-haired and wore a grey business suit. He had the broken nose of a rugby player. Instinctively he mingled with other, similarly dressed travellers and walked at their pace.

  Years of good SIS fieldcraft.

  At the car hire desk he told the girl he wanted to upgrade from the VW Golf that he’d booked, to a Renault Espace. She seemed rather tickled by his story that his wife and young children were joining him on the trip at the last minute. Englishmen, in her experience, usually came to Frankfurt to escape their families and visit the sex-shops.

  ‘They’re on the next flight,’ he explained when she looked past him for some sign of them.

  ‘Second family,’ he shrugged as her eyes suggested he was rather old to have small children.

  Driving out of the airport, he turned onto the Autobahn A3 in the direction of Wurzburg.

  Martin Sanders had no family. He was a bachelor. But he was attending a meeting of the Ramblers, a select, highly secret international gathering. Just four intelligence men in attendance, one of them had the task of renting an Espace or a Previa. This time it was his turn. Doing a last minute upgrade reduced the risk of anyone doctoring it beforehand.

  It was Rudiger Katzfuss who’d made the hotel arrangements this time. Every six months when the four met, they took turns to play host in their own country. The last time in Germany had been two years ago; Sanders remembered how their French colleague had complained about the sweetness of the Rhine wine. This time Rudiger had chosen the Franken region because the wines were dry.

  Like many a businessman whose work is deadly serious, when away from home the Ramblers felt they had the right to ‘play’ a little. Modestly – these were cautious men – but a glass or three and good food somewhere pleasant helped create the bond which would be vital in a crisis. Even if their governments fell out over foreign policy, it was important that the four intelligence services kept contacts sweet.
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  Autobahn driving was the one part of the process Sanders didn’t like. Narrow lanes of traffic moving excessively fast. Rudiger had faxed a map showing the way to Sommerhausen.

  There was a newcomer to the group this time, Jack Kapinsky of the CIA, who’d taken up the job of Director of the European Division. Sanders had met him three times before. A dry character who drank cold tea. A man eager to make his mark.

  Taking the Würzburg exit and heading south, the ground rose sharply to the left, hillsides combed with neat lines of vines still just visible in the early evening gloom.

  ‘One of Germany’s best-kept secrets’ is how Katzfuss had described the region. Sanders was surprised Germany had any secrets left after the Cold War penetration by moles from the East.

  The signpost to Sommerhausen led him into a pretty, red-roofed wine village of grey, yellow and half-timbered houses. Along the narrow main street, locals carried home shopping and tourists strolled, glancing at menus in the Weinstube windows which glittered in the dusk. Third turning on the right, Katzfuss’s note had said. Sanders eased the Espace down a narrow lane.

  The Gästehaus zum Monchen had been chosen for its inconspicuousness. A modern building, but in traditional Bavarian style, with a dozen small bedrooms, it was cheap and simple – a room with breakfast. The couple who ran it expected to see little of their guests.

  Rudiger Katzfuss was waiting in the tiny reception area, a big man with a face so deeply lined it looked crumpled. Katzfuss was Director for Europe with the BND, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, Germany’s secret service.

  ‘Mein lieber Martin! he purred, grasping Sanders’ hand. ‘Always first to arrive. You’re so efficient. I think perhaps you are secretly a German . . .’ Then he roared with laughter.

  ‘I’ve been many things, Rudi, but not that. Not yet,’ Sanders chuckled.

  The Ramblers’ cover story was that the four men were partners in international marketing, each managing an office in his own country. They only met twice a year, so used the occasion to relax, taste wine and explore new countryside.

  Sanders filled out a registration form with the usual false address. They would pay cash for all their bills.

  He took his key from the manageress and declined her offer to show him upstairs.

  The room was clean and plain, walls papered in featureless beige, a pine wardrobe and matching bed covered in a plump, white linen Federbett. Sanders hung a pair of trousers in the wardrobe, had a quick wash, then heard a tap at his door. He let Katzfuss in.

  ‘You have everything you need?’ Katzfuss asked. ‘Small, but functional – are those the words, I think?’

  ‘Your grasp of English idioms is faultless, Rudi,’ Sanders answered. ‘But if you’re offering extras, what about a popsie!’

  Katzfuss raised an eyebrow. The word had beaten him.

  ‘Never mind . . .,’ Sanders smirked. ‘What’s the plan this evening?’

  ‘Well, I think that when the others are here, there is a wery nice Weinstube where we can start. And then dinner. I have booked us for eight o’clock.’

  Marcel Vaillon of the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure turned up next, a stocky man, going bald; then Jack Kapinsky, tall, thin and bespectacled, minutes later. By the time everyone was settled, it was after seven.

  They left the hotel together, glad of their coats. The air nipped. The village smelled of wood smoke and cooking, the place busy with weekenders from the cities.

  In the Weinstube Kapinsky removed his glasses to polish them. They’d steamed up, coming in from the cold.

  ‘I’ll take a coffee, thanks,’ he replied, when asked what he wanted to drink.

  ‘That can be bad for the liver, you know,’ Vaillon remarked.

  ‘I’ll risk it,’ the American replied. ‘Now, Rudi, what’ve you got fixed for us? Is this the hottest spot in town?’

  ‘Almost! I told them we would eat here this evening, but tomorrow we can be somewhere other, if you like.’ Katzfuss spoke English with only a slight accent. ‘In this part of Germany the food is supposed to be good.’

  A look of disbelief creased the round face of the man from the DGSE.

  There was no official language for these gatherings, but with two English-speakers always present, theirs was the tongue that dominated.

  Relations between their four agencies were rooted in suspicion, but since the end of the Cold War, they’d discovered a new common cause – a wish to preserve the ability to act quickly and independently when the need arose, free from the dithering of politicians.

  They believed a myth had arisen in the minds of the general public that the end of the Cold War meant the end of the threat to the West. Governments were using it, they felt, as an excuse to cut budgets and curb their powers with demands for greater accountability.

  So the Ramblers had been formed as a bypass to the political process. A group that could take action in the interests of their joint national security, without the politicians being told anything about it. Direct action – such as assassination.

  Secrecy was all. Their meetings were never minuted. The existence of the group was known only to the chiefs of each nation’s intelligence service and the four representatives themselves.

  Jack Kapinsky fiddled apprehensively with his cup of unpleasantly bitter coffee, his glance flitting between the faces of his more relaxed colleagues. He barely knew these people yet his brief was to trust them and agree a plan that could get him jailed if its details were ever made public.

  This at a time when some Congressmen were demanding the CIA be disbanded for incompetence . . . Not the wisest moment to get involved in dirty tricks, he’d suggested. His Director had countered with a quote from Edmund Burke – the only infallible criterion of wisdom is success.

  Rudi Katzfuss had left little to chance in the process of ice-breaking which this first evening was intended to accomplish. The Gasthof was renowned for its cooking and its Gemütlichkeit. He ordered two flat-sided bottles of Frankenwein so their tasting could begin.

  ‘They call these Bocksbeutel,’ he explained. ‘They say the monks who made the wine found this shape easy to hide under their cloaks. You must try the Muller-Thurgau and the Sylvaner. The earth here is Muschelkalk. You know what is that?’

  He was met by frowns.

  ‘From the mussel. Millions of years ago this land was under the sea.’

  ‘Instead of prattling on, Rudi, why don’t you pour the bloody stuff . . .’ Sanders remarked. ‘I don’t care how pretty the bottles are, wines are for drinking . . .’

  Katzfuss peered at the labels and chose the one nearest.

  ‘First the Müller-Thurgau, I think . . .’

  He filled the four glasses.

  ‘Tastes great,’ Kapinsky announced.

  ‘Aimable, but I prefer Chardonnay,’ the Frenchman commented.

  The waitress brought menus and the food followed swiftly. Even Vaillon was satisfied. Soon the conversation veered to politics.

  ‘You know, I can’t understand why our system allows so many dough-heads into the White House,’ Kapinsky exploded. ‘For a sophisticated democracy we’ve had some pretty ignorant presidents. And the one we’ve got now . . .’ He shook his head in despair. ‘He couldn’t even find Bosnia on the map . . .’

  ‘Nor can most people,’ Sanders remarked curtly.

  ‘Okay. But this creep is on a learning curve so steep it’s almost vertical. European history is not his strong point. We keep showing him the mess you guys have got in over Bosnia and tell him America won’t do any better. So, what does he do? Gets involved – then backs off. Just one more indecision for the New York Times to write about.’

  ‘We call that “learning on the job”. That’s the British way of doing things,’ Sanders offered.

  ‘But he was strong on war crimes,’ Katzfuss added. ‘He backed the UN tribunal in the Hague.’

  ‘Waste of time,’ Sanders snapped. ‘Might get a few tiddlers, but the big fish’ll end u
p running the place.’

  ‘It’s the feel-good factor,’ Kapinsky continued. ‘Makes the politicians look as if they’re doing something. Kids the voters.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something about the Hague,’ Sanders added. ‘They’re hardly up and running there and already getting cheeky. We got a request from them yesterday. Do we have someone we could send to Bosnia to do a bit of detective work? I ask you.’

  ‘Tulici?’ Vaillon checked. Sanders nodded.

  ‘Pictures on the television . . .’ Vaillon shrugged.

  They knew what he meant. Europe’s policies on Bosnia had been driven by public reaction to TV news broadcasts.

  The conversation drifted dangerously towards the sort of gossip that shouldn’t be overheard. The place was too public.

  ‘Shall we call it a day,’ Sanders suggested. ‘Make an early start in the morning?’

  Those with brandies drained their glasses. They settled their bill with cash, then the four headed back to the hotel. On the way Kapinsky stopped at a phone box to ring Washington. Not to discuss Bosnia – hardly a serious matter for intelligence agencies – but for an update on the real nightmare preoccupying the Agency.

  Iran – poised to acquire an atomic bomb.

  The morning dawned bright and dry, although rain was forecast.

  At the breakfast table, Katzfuss ostentatiously spread out a walker’s map of the neighbourhood.

  ‘There is a path that will give us good views and take us to a fine Kneipe for lunch.’

  They were all dressed for the part in hiking boots, thick socks and warm clothes. The overnight frost had been heavy.

  Sanders went outside to warm up the Espace. It was a ten-minute drive to the start of the ‘ramble’.

  The CIA man was last to climb into the vehicle.

  They didn’t talk as Katzfuss navigated. Mist clung to the valley of the River Main which looped round the hills and the vineyards. A pale sun struggled to burn it off.

  Soon they were at a small Schloss reputed to produce the best local wine. There was a car park for visitors.