Scorpion Trail

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘Good. Let’s get started.’

  ‘You speak excellent English, Father . . .’ Alex remarked as they walked to the truck. ‘But I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Pravic. Tihomir Pravic.’

  Alex’s heart missed a beat. Just coincidence?

  ‘I live one year in America,’ the priest explained. He spread his arms. ‘We need many things here. Food, blankets, cookers, pots. Plates and cups . . . Everything.’

  Four uniformed teenagers clambered onto the open tailboard.

  ‘Do you have medicines?’ the priest asked forlornly.

  ‘Not this time. Maybe the next truck that comes from England,’ Alex answered distractedly, his mind on the priest’s name.

  ‘It’s not for here, but at my church, which has become hospital. Doctors need much things.’ The priest turned his pudgy face towards him – small, tired eyes behind rimless spectacles. ‘You want to see? Come.’

  He strode off across the grass, deeper into the village, Alex at his side.

  ‘Excuse me asking Father, but your name . . . Is it a common one around here?’

  The priest stopped and looked at him with suspicion, wondering why this Englishman should react to his name if he were merely the aid worker he claimed to be. ‘Why you ask?’

  ‘It’s just that I thought I heard the same name the other day. Someone involved with the HVO?’ From the priest’s expression, Alex knew he was on to something.

  ‘It is possible,’ the priest sighed. The same questions. Always the same. He marched on.

  ‘Milan Pravic? Not your brother, perhaps?’

  The priest looked away in irritation. He was Milan’s brother, yes, but not his keeper.

  ‘UN soldiers already ask,’ he snapped. ‘A major from Vitez come here. I tell him I not see my brother for many years . . .’

  ‘But he is your brother?’ Alex spluttered. ‘The man they say was responsible for the massacre at Tulici?’

  The priest sighed again. The village and its name had come to haunt him.

  ‘I have brother called Milan, yes. But I do not know where he is, or what he has done.’

  The church was modern, in concrete and steel. A huge Red Cross banner hung above the main entrance.

  The priest pushed open the door. The smell hit them instantly, disinfectant mingling with sweat and vomit.

  To their right there was still an altar, covered in an emerald green cloth and topped by candlesticks, but the church itself had become a casualty ward with pews as beds. On them lay the injured and the sick, some prone and still, others propped on elbows, watching and waiting.

  Father Pravic beckoned Alex through swing doors into a small seminary. A vestry served as an operating theatre.

  ‘I ask doctors for list of things they need,’ he said, indicating Alex should wait. He disappeared behind a door, re-emerging moments later with a thin-faced medic in a stained, white coat.

  ‘The doctor has only few minutes,’ the priest explained. ‘But he tell you what he need. Maybe you can help.’

  ‘I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything,’ Alex cautioned.

  The doctor looked as if he’d had his fill of well-meaning foreigners who didn’t deliver.

  ‘You have a cigarette?’ he asked in guttural English.

  Alex pulled a pack from his pocket.

  ‘Keep them if you want,’ he said. ‘I have more.’

  ‘Just one, thank you.’

  Alex lit it for him. The doctor had a notepad and pen.

  ‘I write what we need. But it’s all, all. You have brought something? Dressings?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alex repeated. ‘Next time, maybe.’

  The doctor drew at the cigarette and began to write, shaking his head.

  ‘I was specialist in micro-surgery at Sarajevo.’ He scribbled away, his list getting ever longer. ‘We have excellent medicine before war. Now it is primitif, like one hundred years ago . . .’ He blew smoke through pursed lips, then held out his list.

  ‘I’ll try, but as I say, I can’t promise,’ Alex reiterated, folding the list and putting it in a pocket.

  The doctor gave him a weary look and retreated behind the door.

  Then Father Pravic led Alex into a small sitting room, half a dozen plain armchairs ranged in a semi-circle.

  ‘Sit, please. You like drink something?’ he asked. These foreigners who came to Bosnia were an enigma to him. They had the power to stop the killing, yet all they did was watch.

  ‘No. No thank you,’ Alex smiled. He knew this priest held the key to finding Milan Pravic, but would he be given it?

  ‘Father, I find your country very confusing,’ he began, fumbling for a way through his defences. ‘I’ve only been here a few days and I simply don’t understand what’s going on.’

  The priest’s face remained sphinx-like. He knew he was being played with.

  ‘I mean, why are people killing each other, like this?’ His question was deliberately naïve.

  ‘It is our history,’ the priest shrugged. ‘You must know that.’

  ‘Yes, but your brother Milan for example . . . did he really slaughter those women and children?’

  The priest pursed his lips and tapped his finger nails on the wooden arm of the chair.

  ‘I tell you, I do not know about Milan. The UN come. They ask the same question. My brother, how you say . . .? He is chalk, I am cheese?’

  ‘But you know what sort of person your brother is,’ Alex insisted, frustrated by the priest’s prevarication. ‘You must know if he could commit such a crime. And anyway, it’s too easy to blame it all on history.’

  Pravic stopped tapping. Time to play the Englishman at his own game.

  ‘Why have you come here?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why you come to Bosnia? I ask you question.’

  ‘Well, because I wanted to help. Because of all the suffering we’ve seen on the news.’

  ‘No.’ The priest shook his head. ‘Why you come to Bosnia? Other reasons.’

  Alex’s brain raced. Did the cleric think he was some sort of spy?

  ‘Well, since you ask, I did have some personal reasons too . . .’ he floundered. ‘There was an accident, you see. My son was killed. And then my wife left me . . .’

  ‘You see?’ the priest beamed. The response had been as rewarding as a confession. He tilted his head sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry. But you see, there is never one reason for anything. You come to Bosnia to help us, yes, but to help you too. To make you feel better.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say . . .’ Alex didn’t complete the sentence. The priest was right.

  ‘So, you ask why there are massacres here.’ His lips puckered as if he were sucking on a straw. ‘There are also many reasons.’

  He held up a finger.

  ‘Muslims attack Croats here in La?va valley. So, we fight for our villages, our homes, our lives. That a priest can say is righteous.’

  He held up a second finger.

  ‘Then, people want revenge for what has been done to them, just now and in history. That the church can understand, but not support.’

  The third finger.

  ‘Then there is what you call “personal reasons”. A man – his sister is raped, his wife her throat cut, or . . .’ A long pause. Whether to continue . . .? ‘Or it is done . . . for pleasure,’ he added finally. ‘By a man who has black heart . . .’

  He flattened his hand on the arm of the chair and looked down at his bitten nails.

  ‘You mean your brother?’ Alex asked quietly.

  The priest thought of how he’d always hated his sullen, animal-like sibling. How he’d refused to protect him from their father’s abuse in the way he’d looked after his sister. And how, once he’d realized what a monster his brother had become, his own soul had been gnawed by guilt at having abandoned him.

  ‘We all make mistakes. Even God. His was to allow my brother into this world.’

  Alex gaped at the
admission.

  ‘You’re saying your brother kills because he likes it? He’s a psychopath?’

  The priest nodded. There was no point in disguising it.

  ‘Haven’t you tried to stop him? I mean, you’re a priest as well as his brother.’

  Father Pravic bristled. Why didn’t these people understand?

  ‘I told you, I do not meet Milan,’ he said, his voice raised, smacking the arm of the chair. ‘Not for long time. And how I can stop him? I have no power. God has no power. Only a . . . a bullet has power.’

  The priest’s words hammered home.

  ‘That’s pretty strong . . .’ Alex breathed. ‘You’re saying you think your own brother should be executed?’

  Pravic pursed his lips again, saying nothing.

  ‘What about the HVO?’ Alex asked. ‘What do they think?’

  The priest shrugged. ‘In war, armies make good use of men who like to kill . . .’

  ‘But if the UN could do something to stop him, could put him on trial, get him locked away, you’d support that?’

  Pravic smiled at his innocence.

  ‘The UN are like you. Here to make themselves feel better. But yes. If I knew where Milan was, then I would tell the UN.’

  ‘But you’ve no idea?’

  None that he was prepared to impart. He shook his head.

  ‘You see, my brother knows well how to hide. When he was little, he was weak. Others in our village make fun of him. Then he grew stronger and other children they became afraid. They keep away. And there is a name they gave him . . . I do not know in English. A creature that stings, with its tail above its head . . .’ He curled a finger.

  ‘A scorpion, you mean?’

  ‘Scorpion, yes. They call him Scorpion. Because they would not see him, then suddenly he would be there and make them cry . . .’

  A man with a lethal sting, with Bosnia for a playground, Alex thought. Anywhere else and the police would be out in droves trying to catch such a creature.

  ‘Where would he hide now, Father? Here in Bosnia?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe here. Maybe he go back to Germany. He live some years in Berlin. But perhaps he don’t go there, because UN will ask German police to look for him.’

  Alex saw that the priest was getting restless.

  ‘Do you have a picture, a photograph of him?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘No. I have no reason to have one . . .’

  ‘What does he look like, then?’

  Father Pravic shrugged.

  ‘He is not tall, not short. He has light hair, blue eyes, like many in Bosnia. But there is something. His eyes . . .’ He screwed up his face. ‘They never look at you, unless . . . unless he is going to hurt you.’

  Alex shuddered. The priest stood up. He’d said enough.

  ‘I think they finish with your boxes now.’

  ‘Yes. Yes of course.’

  Back in front of the barn, the tailboard of the Bedford had been closed, the Scimitar commander looked impatient to be off.

  The priest shook his hand. ‘Thank you for help,’ he said coolly.

  ‘I’ll try to get medicines for you,’ Alex assured him, though he had no idea how. ‘One other thing. Your brother . . . what do you think he might be doing now?’

  The priest hesitated, his expression hard to divine. Fear? Guilt even?

  ‘To kill will be like drug for him. He cannot stop. Any person can be his victim. Here, it is Muslim peoples. But it could be you or me. There will be more. Many more. Give him the power . . . and the weapon . . . then what he did at Tulici will seem like nothing.’

  He turned and walked away, his words rooting Alex to the spot.

  Then came a shout. His UN escort was eager to move. Alex waved and climbed into the cab of the Bedford.

  On the road back to Vitez, the priest’s words churned round in his head.

  A killer called the Scorpion, with dozens of deaths to his credit, dozens more in prospect, and no serious attempt being made to stop him. The situation was mad.

  Back at the house he was startled to see two TV teams filming him as he reversed the Bedford into the drive.

  McFee. Something had happened. Something terrible.

  As he climbed from the cab, the camera crews were held at bay by the two MPs who’d spent last night on his sofa.

  ‘Gi’ the bloke a chance. He don’t know about it yet,’ he heard one of the soldiers say.

  The sergeant took Alex by the arm.

  ‘Can I suggest we step inside a minute, sir. There’s some news, and it’s not good.’

  They hurried through to the living room without speaking. The stove had gone out and the room was cold.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Alex snapped, ready to condemn the man. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’m afraid your mate’s been found dead, sir.’

  The soldier’s emotionless words sandbagged him.

  ‘Oh my God . . .’

  He felt the blood drain from his face.

  ‘Where . . .’ he heard himself croak. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was in a derelict house about half a mile from here.’ The MP’s look warned him to expect the worst. ‘Someone shot ’im . . .’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘And I’m afraid I must ask you to identify the body. We collected it this morning. The HVO tipped us off.’

  ‘But . . . but why was he shot?’ he stammered, fearing the answer. ‘What had he done?’

  The soldiers glanced at each other.

  ‘It’s a right mess, sir, I warn you . . . You know that business in Edinburgh – well, we think he was up to the same tricks. The HVO say someone caught him doin’ it to a young girl. He’d paid her fifty Deutsche marks, which is a small fortune round ’ere.’

  ‘God! I can’t believe it . . .’ He sank onto the sofa. ‘The evil bastard!’

  He remembered the two armed men whose eyes had followed him back into the house last night – the locals must’ve been on to McFee already.

  ‘Who shot him, the HVO?’

  ‘They’re not admitting it. Claim they don’t know who did it. But whoever it was killed a woman last night too . . . Illie.’

  ‘Oh, no . . .’ Alex groaned.

  ‘They found another fifty Deutsche Marks in her pocket. The suggestion is that your chum paid her to procure the little girl for him . . .’

  Alex felt sickened. To come to Bosnia on the pretext of helping people, and then do that. . .

  ‘It’s . . . it’s unspeakable . . .’

  ‘Course, we can only go on what the HVO tell us. It could be a pack o’ lies. But bearing in mind what we was told by the Edinburgh police, it’s more ‘an likely true. They think the dead girl up in Scotland was new to the game and didn’t like what was happening to her. Someone heard screaming. They think he strangled her to shut her up.’

  It came back to him suddenly – the night on the ferry from Ancona – McFee shouting ‘shuddup’ in his sleep.

  ‘It’s unbelievable.’ He shook his head. The man was a monster and he’d had no clue . . . ‘And the TV people know everything I suppose? It’ll be all over the bulletins back home tonight.’

  ‘And on Sky which can be picked up here. The camera crews were around when we brought the body back in. They’d got the gory details from the HVO.’

  ‘Well, they’ll get nothing out of me . . .’ Alex snapped, thinking of the pain McFee’s widow must be going through. Then the sergeant’s words caught up with him.

  ‘What gory details?’

  Again that annoying glance between the two soldiers.

  ‘The press know about it, so it’d be better if you did too,’ the sergeant began. ‘They er . . . they mutilated the body of your friend, I’m afraid. Hacked his knob off and stuffed it in his mouth.’

  ‘And then they shot him . . .’ the corporal added.

  Alex voided the contents of his stomach when they showed him McFee’s yellowing, blood-smeared corpse. The Scotsman’s eyes had been open whe
n he died; they still were, in rigor mortis – the eyes of a man who’d seen the flames of hell.

  The MPs drove Alex back to P.Info, where they gave him tea with whisky in it, while he tried to get through to Farnham on the satellite phone. It took an hour; Mike Allison had already learned of McFee’s death from the lunchtime news. He was horrified, fearing the goodwill Bosnia Emergency had built up in its short existence would be wiped out by the scandal. He told Alex to get himself and the Bedford back down to Split as soon as he could, and to ask for army protection.

  ‘Peel the logo off the side of the truck,’ he’d suggested. ‘Just in case some nutter thinks you’re all perverts.’

  Back in the house, Alex sat forlornly on the sofa watching Dragana make up the fire and dab at her eyes with a handkerchief He felt numb, unable to think straight.

  The TV teams had hounded him on his way up to the house. What was McFee like? You must’ve had suspicions? How do you feel? – all the standard, stupid questions he remembered from when he himself had been on the other side of the cameras.

  He’d said nothing and had tried to shield his face from the prying lenses. Twenty years of concealment from the IRA blown out of the window. Just the beard and the different surname still yielding some patina of protection.

  ‘Hello? Alex?’ A shout from the hall. The voice of Major Clarke-Hartley.

  ‘In here.’ Alex levered himself to his feet.

  Dragana scuttled away, handkerchief to her mouth.

  ‘Brought you a friendly face,’ the Major told him. ‘Tells me she’s known you for yonks.’

  Lorna walked in. He’d totally forgotten she was coming.

  ‘Hi, Alex. I’m so sorry.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Alan’s just told me this stuff about Moray. It’s too awful. I can’t believe it!’

  He felt tearful suddenly and embraced her with more intensity than he’d intended. She resisted for a moment, then moulded to the shape of his body.

  ‘I, er . . . I’ll get out of your hair,’ the Major stammered. ‘Just wanted a word about tomorrow, Alex. Mike’s called me personally to ask us to protect you on the way down to Split. What I suggest you do is join our regular logistics convoy heading south at eight in the morning. There’ll be a relay of Warriors to get you from here to Gorni, then after that there should be no problem. You’ll be well beyond the range of any of the local hoods.’