Scorpion Trail

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘You know, it never occurred to me a dead man would need a passport, Josip,’ he said loudly. ‘Did it you? I mean a corpse is just another piece of cargo really, isn’t it?’

  Josip understood what he was up to.

  ‘Yes. I did not think so either that a passport is needed.’

  ‘But I guess they have to know who the dead person is,’ he continued.

  The official interrupted, swiping his hand to indicate a zip opening.

  ‘He say he want to see face,’ Josip explained, darkly.

  ‘Tell him it’s not a pretty sight,’ Alex replied, standing up again.

  The official hoisted himself into the cargo space. Alex and Josip banged about on the steel floor. The fat end of the body bag was towards the middle of the truck. Alex pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and pressed it over his nose.

  ‘I’d advise our friend here to do the same,’ he suggested.

  The official’s attention had been caught by the pile of boxes at the far end of the truck.

  Alex grabbed at the heavy zip on the body bag.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take a quick look, I don’t want this open for long.’

  The zip incorporated a rubber seal and took a sharp tug to get it to move.

  McFee’s face was pinched and yellow, hardly recognizable. The sour smell from the bag penetrated his mask, and made him gag.

  The official positioned himself beside the corpse, then held out the passport to compare the photo of the living with the face of death. He screwed up his face in disgust, then nodded that the bag should be closed again.

  The official’s attention returned to the boxes. Alex followed his gaze. A black smear of water was trickling from under the cardboard along the grooves in the floor.

  Jesus! The kid’s wet herself and the bastard’s going over to look!

  Alex dropped to his knees, retching violently. It wasn’t hard to simulate with the ever-growing stench.

  He’d fallen deliberately between the official and the hide. Josip fussed around him, adding to the distraction. The gut-heaving noise and the smell had their effect; the official stumbled to the back of the truck and climbed out, sucking in great gulps of air.

  Josip and Alex followed quickly, closing up the tailboard. Alex leaned against the side of the Bedford, panting.

  The official pulled Josip to one side and began berating him. Josip shrugged and shook his head.

  Alex glanced at Lorna who’d remained in the Toyota, pretending she was nothing to do with them. She studiously avoided his gaze.

  ‘O-hh,’ Josip sighed, ‘this man, he says we must have paper to bring body into Croatia. Special paper.’

  ‘What sort of paper, for Christ’s sake? Tell him the body’s going to be flown back to England tomorrow by the Royal Air Force. Tell him it’ll only be in Croatia for a matter of hours.’

  Josip tried again. This time it was the official who shrugged and shook his head.

  Alex saw the Logistics Corps lieutenant watching from fifty metres away. He made a face at her as if to say ‘can you help’, but she turned away. They may have been awarded a UN escort, but they weren’t UN business.

  Josip grabbed his arm and led him back to the driver’s cab.

  ‘You have some Deutsche marks?’ he demanded.

  ‘Some. Why? You’re going to bribe this guy?’

  ‘I think it is best. Maybe two hundred will do. Give me three hundred, if you have.’

  Alex pulled his wallet from his thornproof and placed it on the driving seat, shielding it from view with his back.

  ‘Here you are.’ He folded the notes and slipped them into Josip’s hand. ‘For God’s sake handle this right.’

  Josip walked the official away from the truck and the hut where the red-lipped woman was waiting. There were smiles and pats on the shoulder, then the almost imperceptible passing of the money.

  There was an art to bribery. A Balkan art.

  Josip returned with the passports. The officials waved and the convoy moved on.

  ‘Fucking brilliant, Josip! Well done.’

  The translator chuckled.

  Ten minutes down the road, the convoy halted again, pulling off onto what had been a restaurant car park in the days when Yugoslavia had a tourist trade.

  ‘Okay, now?’ The lieutenant was at the window again.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Just thought I’d say goodbye. We don’t go into Split itself, so I expect you’ll want to drop out of the convoy here.’

  She reached up and gave a surprisingly feminine handshake.

  ‘Bye. Thanks for your help.’

  She paused briefly by the Toyota, then strode back to her Land Rover, and the army vehicles moved on.

  On their own at last, Josip and Alex banged down the tailboard.

  ‘What was all that about at the border?’ Lorna asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Let’s get Vildana out,’ Alex replied.

  All three climbed into the truck. Alex clawed at the tape holding the boxes in place, while Josip spoke soothing words in Serbo-Croat.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Lorna gasped. ‘The smell! Poor baby.’

  The boxes fell away. Vildana lay across the sodden sleeping bag that had been her bed. Her face was grey, her eyes sunken, and her cheeks caked with vomit.

  ‘Oh, you poor, poor sweetheart,’ Lorna whispered, dropping to her knees and lifting the girl’s head. Josip took her legs, and between them they carried her to the rear of the truck, shielding her face so she wouldn’t see the body-bag.

  Lorna sat on the tailboard, dangling her legs over the edge and placed Vildana beside her. She hugged the girl gently and stroked her face. So helpless, she thought. So like Julie.

  ‘All over now. All over,’ she murmured.

  Alex jumped to the ground.

  ‘I’ll get some water so we can clean her face,’ he said.

  Lorna’s blue-grey eyes sparkled with tears.

  Two and a half hours later Alex drove the Bedford into the UN depot next to Split airport. It was just after five. A lowering sky and the first spots of rain spattered the windscreen as another front moved in. It would be dark soon.

  He’d been expected and was guided to the corner of a huge vehicle garage.

  ‘The Herc goes at ten in the morning, sir,’ a Logistics Corps sergeant told him.

  Four soldiers lifted down the body bag, while the sergeant saluted. A corner of the floor had been marked off with tape. They laid the bag next to a small vase of flowers.

  ‘Hope you approve, sir,’ the sergeant breathed, snapping his hand to his side.

  ‘Oh yes. Thank you.’ Standard procedure for corpses, he guessed, whatever their history.

  Alex stood for a moment, hands clasped in front of him, suddenly sad. He wanted to believe that McFee hadn’t been a total monster, that his other motive for coming out here had been to help.

  ‘There’s a message from Major Allison, sir,’ the sergeant whispered. ‘From Farnham. Said he’s arriving on a plane getting in at eight this evening, and could you meet him. You’ve rooms booked in the Park Hotel.’

  ‘Mike Allison? I didn’t know he was coming out.’

  ‘Said something about needing to sort out the mess, sir.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Sounded like head-teacher was on his way down with the cane.

  ‘You’ll be leaving the truck here sir, as usual?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Need any transport into Split?’

  ‘Umm.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No. I’ve remembered there’s a Lada Niva jeep here somewhere. Belongs to Bosnia Emergency. Moray and I used it last weekend, when we were loading up.’

  ‘Got the keys in my office, sir.’

  After driving the four-tonner, the Niva felt like a toy. Forty minutes it would take to get into town, then a quick shower and he’d find Lorna. Lurking at the back of his mind was a sneaking fear she might just disappear now she’d got what she wanted from him.


  Lorna kneeled on her bed in the Hotel Split, rubbing Vildana’s damp hair with a towel. She sang softly.

  The girl had locked her out of the bathroom when taking her shower, the click of the bolt a painful reminder of her own daughter’s indifference to love and affection.

  Josip was in the room next door. She’d get him to take Vildana to a restaurant for a meal once they were both clean and dressed.

  ‘Mmmm, you smell so good, sweetie,’ she said. She hugged her, rocking from side to side, then kissed her on the cheek just beside the livid strawberry mark.

  ‘You’re going to be okay, Vildana. That’s a promise.’

  The girl had understood none of what she’d said, but decided it would be wise to smile.

  Lorna bit her lip.

  In the bag Vildana had brought from the refugee centre, there was a clean pair of jeans and another pullover.

  ‘Tomorrow, sweetheart, we’re going to get you some new clothes. Something real pretty.’

  Vildana pulled the towel wrap tighter and took the clothes back into the privacy of the bathroom to put them on.

  Then it was Lorna’s turn under the magically hot jets. For several minutes she stood motionless letting the stream rinse the tension from her neck and shoulders. Then she washed quickly and reached for a towel.

  Half-an-hour later, Alex drove over from the Park Hotel and walked into the reception area.

  ‘Lorna Donohue?’ he asked at reception.

  The middle-aged woman behind the desk frowned. ‘Not here. No one that name.’

  ‘An American woman. May have had a young girl with her.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The receptionist riffled through a stack of passports.

  ‘Mrs Sorensen. And her daughter called Julie Sorensen.’

  ‘Daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’ The receptionist held up a second American passport.

  ‘Oh. I see. And their room number?’

  ‘Two-three-seven.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Daughter! So that’s how she planned to get Vildana out of Croatia. On her own child’s passport. And she was married. Or had been.

  He waited for the lift, but when it gave no sign of life, took to the stairs, passing signs for the UN and the EC Monitoring Mission which used the hotel as a base.

  Two-three-seven. On the right. The door was closed. He tapped.

  Nothing. He tapped again.

  ‘Who is it?’ Lorna’s voice, tetchy and distant.

  ‘Alex.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’

  Two minutes later the sound of feet scuffing carpet. She pulled open the door.

  ‘I’m on line to the States . . .’ She darted back to the writing-table and the glowing screen of her laptop computer.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Alex said.

  ‘Just got to download my e-mail,’ she explained.

  He stood right behind her and watched. She smelled of shampoo. Her hair was soft and fluffy, her shoulders round and bony under the clean tee-shirt. He badly wanted to caress the soft curve of her neck, but dared not touch.

  ‘Sit down. You’re making me nervous,’ she told him.

  He perched on the edge of the bed.

  She typed ‘EXIT’, the computer screen flickered and cleared. Then she thumbed the roller-ball to enter a new Windows file.

  ‘Just got to read this stuff again . . .’ she murmured. ‘But it seems like it’s all fixed.’

  She grabbed a notebook, then scribbled down names and phone numbers read from the screen.

  At last she logged off and powered down the computer.

  ‘It’s Germany,’ she told him, swinging round in her chair. Her eyes burned excitedly. ‘They’ve found a family in Germany. An Air Force colonel and his wife, two kids of their own, and would you believe, a Yugoslav child nurse. Isn’t that amazing?’

  ‘An American colonel?’

  ‘Sure, sure. His tour of duty finishes in a year and then they go back to Milwaukee. Vildana will go with them, if it all works out.’

  ‘And you got all that out of your computer?’ Alex asked, astonished.

  ‘On-line, through the phone, to the Internet. CareNet runs a bulletin board for families who want to adopt. I posted a notice there two days ago, and it’s all happened lickety-split.’

  ‘Sort of shopping by computer? Kids off the peg.’

  She looked wounded.

  ‘I know it sounds like that. But believe me every subscriber gets checked out real good.’

  ‘In just two days?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Look. Larry Machin, the guy who runs CareNet, he’s got a million contacts. He knows loads of people in the Air Force, the church, in politics. He wouldn’t have said this family’s okay if he had any doubts.’

  But she wasn’t that certain. He could see it in her eyes. She turned away. You just had to trust people sometimes. And she trusted Machin.

  Alex glimpsed at his watch. It was an old Swiss wind-up Lorna had given him in Belfast. Twenty-past-seven.

  ‘Christ I’m meant to be at the airport. The guy who runs my organization is arriving at eight.’

  He took hold of her hands.

  ‘Lorna, we’ve got to talk some more,’ he said.

  ‘Sure. But not now,’ she answered, giving his hands a light squeeze, then pulling hers free. ‘There’s too much still to fix, and anyway you’ve got to be going.’

  ‘I’ll come back later, okay?’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘When are you going to Germany?’

  ‘Tomorrow if there’s a ferry to Ancona. I’ve got to check.’

  ‘With Vildana travelling on your daughter’s passport?’

  She froze and stared at him. How did he know that? Then she remembered the receptionist had their documents.

  ‘Sure. On Julie’s passport. She has dark hair too, and I can cover Vildana’s birthmark with make-up,’ she declared defiantly.

  Alex thought for a moment. He could see a problem.

  ‘But Julie’s passport doesn’t have an entry stamp . . .’

  Lorna looked unsettled. She hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘You think it matters?’ she whispered.

  ‘If your passport has the stamp and hers doesn’t, they may ask questions. And when they find your “daughter” only speaks Serbo-Croat . . .’

  ‘Maybe Josip can bribe someone, like he did today.’

  ‘Risky . . . I may know a better way. I’ll ring you later, when I’ve sorted things out.’

  ‘No. Vildana’s going to be sleeping in here. I don’t want her woken up. I’ll call you about eleven.’

  He gave her his room number at the Park Hotel.

  ‘Got to go.’

  He held her by the shoulders. She felt frail.

  He kissed her dry lips. She pushed him away, looking at him from the corner of her eyes, as if to say don’t try it.

  Eighteen

  Thursday 31st March, 10.25 a.m.

  Zagreb

  IT WAS A grey, wintry morning in the Croatian capital. A damp mist of pollution contaminated the streets. On people’s faces there was weariness, and a lurking fear that the day could not be far away when war would return to their part of what used to be Yugoslavia.

  Milan Pravic slipped out of his sister’s apartment in Novi Zagreb without a word. Living there was getting on his nerves. He would strangle that baby soon if it woke him with its crying any more. Only a few days to go and he would be gone, thank God.

  He pressed the lift button. No green light. Stuck again. Some stupid bastards had left a door open probably.

  He took to the stairs. Going down six floors was fine, coming up wasn’t so funny.

  On the way he passed pale women dragging toddlers up with them. Everyone looked pale living here in these tall damp towers.

  ‘Broken down again,’ one of them complained, as if he was responsible. ‘Four times in a month. It’s too much.’

  He igno
red them. Wasn’t his fault the lift didn’t work

  The message from Dieter Konrad said to meet him in the bar of Hotel Dubrovnik on what he still called Republic Square, despite the name change after Croatian independence.

  The tram that would take him there stopped five minutes’ walk away. Plenty of time.

  He still didn’t know what Konrad wanted. A ‘job’ in Zagreb was all Gisela had said. The reward – ten thousand Deutsche marks, a false passport to get him safely over the border, and a ride back to Berlin in Konrad’s car.

  Germany was his second home. He’d lived there five years before the war summoned him back to Bosnia. He’d worked building offices and hotels, installing air-conditioning.

  And Gisela? She was ‘home’ too. She’d said she’d be glad to have him live with her again. Had another ‘protector’ these days, but the man was gay, and wouldn’t get in the way.

  Gisela. She was the only woman he’d ever felt tenderness for. The only one he hadn’t needed to hurt.

  The blue number 6 tram took him from the monotonous towers of Novi Zagreb, across the River Sava into the classical mid-European splendour of the Lower Town. He got off in Republic Square. The sun was breaking through, the warmth of spring in the air.

  The Dubrovnik Hotel was part Austro-Hungarian, part modern, a confusing place where guests had been known to get lost. Pravic walked through the lobby and into the small bar. He didn’t notice Konrad at first. Looking older than when he’d last seen him a few years back, he hugged a corner like a shadow. The raising of an eyebrow finally caught Pravic’s attention.

  Konrad got up and walked towards the door, ignoring him. Pravic followed a dozen paces behind. They crossed separately to the other side of the square. A pedestrian zone with trams the only traffic, a fountain splashed at one end. Konrad headed for a bench encircling the base of an ornate lamp standard.

  ‘Good thing you sent me those passport photos,’ he declared when Pravic joined him. ‘Wouldn’t have recognized you with short hair and glasses. Gisela sends her love.’

  Tourists were rare in Zagreb since Yugoslavia became synonymous with war. One or two climbed the steps to the old town from this square, taking pictures on the way. Most were couples, but there was one man on his own, with a British Airways bag over his shoulder, and the broken nose of a rugby player.