Scorpion Trail

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘’Ow you, Mac?’ she pouted.

  ‘Well, we . . 11!’ McFee looked mildly flustered. ‘Still here then?’ he asked her.

  Then without looking Alex in the eye, ‘See the sort of people I know?’

  The girl was dressed in a baggy pullover, long blue cotton skirt and thick, knitted stockings.

  She said something in Serbo-Croat and laughed, exposing teeth that looked as if they’d been aligned by a drunk.

  ‘This is Illie. Hello is about all she knows in English,’ McFee explained. ‘Works in the kitchens. Scrubs things . . .’

  ‘Laku not. See you . . .’ The woman smiled at Alex with her eyes and continued her progress towards the door, glancing back just once.

  ‘Dobra, dobra. See you later, Illie,’ McFee waved. ‘Lovely lass. Does almost anything for a couple of Deutsche Marks.’ His eyes darted about, as if frightened they’d given something away. ‘Not that I’d know, of course,’ he added hastily.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Now, where were we?’ McFee looked broody. ‘The Colonel? He’s probably in there,’ he said, pointing to the partitioned area. ‘But if you want to say hello, best to fix it through P. Info. Talking of whom, if we get our skates on, we’ll catch their evening briefing.’

  Alex noted the television crews had already left. He and McFee took their foil trays and stuffed them into a plastic rubbish sack by the door.

  The temperature outside had tumbled since dusk. They walked briskly back towards the road and the houses. The still, cold air smelled of wood smoke and manure. Above the generator hum came the deeper drone of aero-engines high in the sky. NATO planes, Alex guessed, heading for their drop zones, parachuting food to Muslim towns cut off by the Serbs.

  Huge resources were being poured into Bosnia, yet with the effect of a sticking-plaster. And now he was part of the process.

  There was a smoky fug inside the P.Info house, about a dozen media people on benches, lining the walls of a bare-floored room.

  The Major in charge of PR introduced himself as Alan Clarke-Hartley. He briefed the journalists on the day’s fighting around Gorni Vakuf, and mentioned that an aid truck had narrowly escaped being hijacked. No one should travel on that road unescorted, he told them.

  Afterwards, as the media dispersed, he singled out Moray McFee.

  ‘I saw your ears burning, just then,’ he quipped.

  ‘It was all your chaps’ fault . . .’ McFee growled. ‘By the way, this is my new partner Alex Crawford.’

  ‘How d’you do?’

  They shook hands. As they exchanged pleasantries, McFee fiddled with the stem of his pipe, then made an excuse about having something to sort out, and left them.

  ‘First time out here?’ Clarke-Hartley asked, offering him a can of beer.

  ‘Thanks. Yes it is. I wanted a word with your Colonel,’ Alex replied. ‘A mutual friend suggested I look him up.’

  ‘You’re out of luck, I’m afraid. He’s in Sarajevo for a few days with General Rose.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity . . .’ It was a setback. He’d been relying on the Colonel for advice. ‘When’s he returning?’

  ‘Not until the end of the week. But I can fill you in on things. Come over here and I’ll give you the new boys’ tour.’

  He pointed to a wall map and described their area of operations. He indicated the canyon where Alex had been ambushed, then moved his finger north to the La?va Valley.

  ‘This is Tulici, where the massacre was two weeks ago . . .’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘Yes. I went with the Colonel. Bodies all over the place. Appalling carnage. Quite bestial. And no survivors that we could see.’

  ‘Any idea who was responsible?’ Alex asked innocently.

  ‘The Bosnian army, which is mostly Muslim, are blaming a man called Milan Pravic as the chief villain. But the whole thing must have had official HVO backing. One of our patrols had seen houses in flames earlier on, but when they tried to reach the village they got mortared. Heavy weapons, mortars. Not the sort of thing carried around by some mad freelance.’

  ‘Have you tried to trace this Pravic?’

  ‘Not our job really. We made a few enquiries, but didn’t get anywhere. Pravic? Pravic? Never heard of him – you know the sort of thing. The Colonel went and slagged off the HVO for allowing their animals to go around murdering women and children. But they just shrug it off. It’s another world out here.’

  He pointed up a few more details on the map, then they wandered towards the door.

  Outside on the steps, he cupped a hand to his ear.

  ‘Hear that?’ He pointed up into the blackness. An aero-engine again, but this time the beat of rotor blades.

  ‘A UN helicopter?’ Alex inquired.

  ‘No fear! That’s a Croat “Hip”. They use it to ferry people and ammo in and out of the enclave. Bloody risky, flying at night. Shows how desperate they are.’

  ‘Is that the only way the Croats can get out if they have to?’ Alex asked, thinking suddenly of Pravic.

  ‘Just about. As I showed you on the map, the Muslims control a circle of land around here. Beyond that it’s Croat again. The chopper is their air bridge.’

  Alex was about to bid him goodnight, when he had an afterthought.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ he asked, trying to sound casual. ‘Have you ever come across a woman called Lorna out here? Surname could be Donohue. Blonde hair. Some sort of aid worker.’

  Clarke-Hartley frowned.

  ‘Can’t say I have. Why?’

  ‘She’s an old friend. Thought I saw her on the road today.’

  ‘Could have been heading for Sarajevo, or Zenica. That’s where a lot of the refugees are.’

  ‘Of course,’ Alex acknowledged. ‘Goodnight.’

  Crunching down the gravel path, his torch picked out the sparkle of frost. In the distance he heard the whine of the helicopter taking off again. They don’t hang about, he thought.

  Who was it this time? Another killer who’d overstepped the mark?

  Eleven

  Zagreb, Croatia

  IRENA PRAVIC TUCKED the soft pink sheet under the cot mattress. Only the head of the baby was visible, sucking rhythmically at her dummy. Maša was fourteen months old and slept through most nights, without disturbing Irena and the man she lived with.

  Irena half turned at the click of the front door closing. Too early for Goran. A rough coughing told her Milan was back again. Her brother had descended on them last night without warning, smelling of smoke, sweat and slivovitz, and saying he’d be staying for a few days.

  Goran, with whom she’d lived for three years, was all for throwing him out. But blood was thicker than water. Even bad blood.

  She caressed her daughter’s head, then slipped from the tiny bedroom and closed the door, leaving just a crack to hear any crying.

  Milan had slumped on the sofa with his shoes dropped beside him on the beige, shag-pile carpet. Irena picked them up and took them to the hall.

  It was a small apartment. One small bedroom, a living room, kitchen and bathroom, all they could afford. The sofa was where Milan had to sleep.

  He’d not explained why he was here. But then he never had explained anything.

  ‘Irena! Bring me a beer!’ She heard the television go on.

  He was up to something. Phone calls for him from Germany, then turning up out of the blue. She’d seen the butt of a pistol poking from his bag.

  There had been three children in the family, Milan the youngest, she in the middle and Tihomir her elder brother. A rough, village upbringing it had been, in a house that had always seemed dark. Eventually she had gone to college in Sarajevo, Tihomir had entered the priesthood and Milan the building trade.

  She looked in the refrigerator, then closed the door again.

  ‘There are no beers,’ she carped, returning to the living room. ‘You’ve drunk them all. Should have bought some while you were out.’

  He ignored her
, as always. Couldn’t remember a time when he’d looked her in the eye. She returned to the kitchen. Had to think of something for them to eat.

  She’d met her partner in Sarajevo, studying medicine, while she learned English. Golden days then, the city a hub of culture and no cares about religion, but as soon as the fighting started they’d fled. Goran had finished his studies in Zagreb and was now a hospital intern working more hours than there were in the day.

  She crossed to the window and folded her arms. Their sixth floor flat overlooked an identical grey block, twinkling with lights. A dreary place to live, but they’d been lucky to get it.

  Milan unsettled her. Couldn’t concentrate with him around. Never knew what he was thinking. She drifted back to the living room.

  The Croatian news was on. Pictures of Bosnia. ‘Muslims breaching the cease-fire’, they said. Always the other side at fault. The tragedy was people believed this propaganda.

  He’d cut his fair hair short like a convict, having arrived with it long and lank. He’d wanted some passport photos. Definitely up to something. He’d bought some spectacles too. She’d seen him try them in front of a mirror.

  Milan had been pretty as a child. Almost blonde in those days, with eyes she remembered as luminous blue. Their father used to call him a cissy.

  A brute, their father was. Ran a garage and tyre repair station. Used to come home drunk on occasions, crashing about the house, shouting obscenities. Their mother would barricade the bedroom to keep him out. Then in desperation he would snivel into the children’s room. Irena would listen for him and scurry into Tihomir’s bed for protection. Her elder brother had the guts to stand up to their father and kept a stick under his pillow to clout him when he groped for them in the dark.

  Milan however got no such brotherly protection and it was his bed their father would end up in, often as not. Having once been dragged from underneath it and beaten black and blue, the boy had stopped trying to hide.

  It was a body their father wanted. Any body. Irena used to cover her ears to shut out the grunts and whispers. Milan never talked about those nights, but his face was always tear-smudged in the mornings.

  ‘Milan!’ she shouted, fed up with him ignoring her.

  He appeared not to notice. The news was still on.

  She’d often wondered if he was backward. Always withdrawn, always sullen, but there was cunning there. And cruelty. He’d caught a stray cat once, pinned it to the ground with his boot and crushed its head with a crowbar.

  ‘Milan.’

  He turned his head a quarter of the way, still not looking at her.

  ‘Milan, do you know how long you’ll be staying? Goran’s asking . . .’

  ‘A few days.’

  ‘Oh. And then?’

  ‘Germany.’

  ‘Are your friends finding work for you?’

  The calls had been from a woman called Gisela in Berlin.

  ‘Mmm.’

  He’d worked five years in Germany. Then came home two years ago, to fight for his country, he’d said. Heard nothing of him until now. Secretly she’d hoped he’d been killed. Terrible to wish that of your own brother. But something in her heart told her the world would be a safer place without him.

  She gave up trying to communicate, and returned to the kitchen. There was minced meat in the fridge. She’d make ?evapcici.

  Zenica, Bosnia.

  Lorna had spent the afternoon delivering medical supplies, some to the main hospital in Zenica, others to Muslim villages up to thirty minutes away. She’d kept some boxes back to give to the Croats. In this country where aid workers crossed front lines daily, survival depended on even-handedness.

  Now it was evening in the dimly-lit hotel and she was weary. But it was still only eight o’clock – too early to retire to the cold darkness of her room.

  She and Josip sat at a table together alone, the restaurant half full of Scandinavians working for the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. She kept the conversation with her translator as superficial as possible, resisting his efforts to make it personal. Not hard to achieve, because her mind was elsewhere.

  Her work was beginning to worry her; not the danger – that she was more or less used to. What concerned her was the motivation of CareNet.

  She had no problems with the Medical Aid side of things, but her employer’s increasing interest in arranging child adoptions disturbed her.

  CareNet’s intention was simple, and laudable enough – to give war orphans a better life. But there was an evangelism at the heart of the organization which brooked little argument over how to achieve that. Their assumption that the children would always be better off in America was not, in Lorna’s view, a safe one to make.

  The first step in CareNet’s adoption business had been taken on her last visit. She’d been instructed by her Boston HQ to check out the ‘supply situation’. Her boss, a born-again Christian who’d made a fortune from computer software, was using information technology to organize ‘the market’ for adoption.

  On this trip he had given her a notebook computer and a satellite phone, so she could send details of the Tulici girl and any others she might find to a bulletin board he’d set up on the Internet.

  But children, Lorna felt, should not be a ‘business’. Her anxiety had deepened that morning at seeing Monika’s nervousness about the adoption issue.

  Josip had been heavily into slivovitz that afternoon. Everywhere they’d delivered their medical supplies, the bottles had been brought out in gratitude. Lorna hadn’t touched the stuff; just the smell of it made her want to throw up. But Josip had drunk all that was offered, ‘so as not to offend’.

  This evening he’d persuaded the waiter to produce one of the hotel’s few remaining bottles of good Croatian wine. It had cost him twenty Deutsche Marks in bribes, but he’d told himself if it helped unfreeze Lorna, it would be worth it.

  After half an hour of his meandering suggestiveness, Lorna felt her fuse shortening. Her instinct was to unman him with some cutting remark, but she feared he might walk out on her. Without a translator in Bosnia she simply couldn’t work. So she stone-walled wearily.

  Suddenly her lack of response got through to him.

  ‘Why you don’t want me to make love to you?’ he blurted out, mouth turned down like a child denied sweets.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she thought. ‘This I can do without.’ She’d never imagined he would come straight out with it.

  ‘Josip!’ She feigned surprise. ‘I had no idea . . .’

  Had to be careful. She looked at his sad, moist eyes, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and frustration. He wasn’t bad looking. A little gaunt. Too Balkan, maybe. But he was fifteen years younger than her and there’d be plenty of women over forty-five who would grab at the chance.

  ‘Hey, I’m so flattered. I mean Josip, you could have any woman . . .’

  ‘You have no husband now,’ he blurted out. ‘Last time here, you told me you were separate from him.’ He shrugged, as if the lack of a man was justification enough for her to sleep with him.

  ‘Sure. But that doesn’t mean . . . Look, what is this, Josip? You and I we work together. Office rules – you don’t have a relationship with someone you work with . . .’

  She saw his eyes light up. Josip had taken it as encouragement. Rules, after all, were there to be broken.

  ‘Anyway, maybe I don’t like sex . . .’ she flustered, fiddling with Rees’s white gold wedding ring which she still wore.

  He shot his arm across the table and grabbed her arm.

  ‘That is joke. You love sex! I always know if a woman will be cold or warm. Your eyes, the way you move . . .’

  He pulled her fingers to his lips.

  ‘Your body, Lorna – it would be like violin in my hands . . .’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ She whipped her hand free. ‘And I suppose you’d play Brahms’ Concerto on my tits!’ Diplomacy was getting her nowhere.

  Josip’s face crumpled like a paper b
ag. He made as if to stand up.

  Oh dear. The wound had been deeper than she’d meant. Men were like kids. She prayed she hadn’t blown it.

  ‘Look, if it makes you feel better, I do have a guy. That’s the reason . . .’ she said hurriedly. ‘And I don’t cheat on him . . .’

  He sat down suspiciously.

  ‘It’s someone I’ve known a long time,’ she continued, realizing the story needed a little embellishment.

  ‘How long?’ he demanded.

  ‘What? Oh, most of my life.’ She spoke without thinking. Had to say something.

  ‘So, you knew this man before your husband?’

  ‘Well, yuh.’

  ‘He was your lover then?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ What was she saying?

  ‘And now you . . . you are separate from your husband, and he is your lover again?’

  Josip’s face was a picture of disbelief.

  ‘Yuh . . . sure. But look I don’t want to talk about . . .’

  ‘Why not?’ he pressed, drawn by her defensiveness. ‘You love him. I want to know what kind of man that is.’

  What kind indeed. Fiction or fact?

  ‘I guess . . . I guess you could say we’re sort of soul mates,’ she heard herself say.

  What was this crap? What thread from her past was Josip unwittingly loosening?

  ‘Soul mate? That means like a brother?’

  No. Closer than that, she thought. Like an integral part of you. So that when you’re wrenched away from him you think you’re going to die.

  ‘Sure. Like a brother. Sort of incestuous . . .’ she teased. Time to make a joke of it.

  ‘But you didn’t marry your soul mate?’

  No. She married Rees, because she needed someone to be a father to her child . . .

  ‘Yup, well, you know how it is. Things got in the way. Things . . . like the Atlantic Ocean.’

  She’d said enough. This had to stop.

  ‘What his name?’ Josip pressed.

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘He has a name, this soul mate?’

  Yes. But a name she’d not spoken lovingly of for twenty years.