Siegfried Kemmer, a microbiologist in Leipzig University’s Department of Veterinary Medicine had hanged himself, it said. University authorities blamed depression at his being made redundant, but his daughter claimed there were other reasons outlined in a suicide note she’d not been allowed to see. The police spokesman denied there’d ever been such a note.
Kemmer, the paper reported, had worked on dangerous pathogens, including Milzbrand. Alex thumbed the dictionary.
Milzbrand m. (med.vet) – Anthrax.
The stuff of germ warfare. He remembered that experiments with it in the fifties or sixties on some Scottish island had made the place uninhabitable for decades.
Odd to put the story on the front page like that. It was almost as if the paper sensed it was on the trail of some huge scandal.
Inside he’d found Bosnian news. Rumblings in the Bonn parliament – fears that with over 200,000 Bosnian refugees in the country, the war might come to Germany. Uproar that in a few days’ time Bosnian Muslims were holding a political rally in Munich, to be addressed by militants from Iran and Lebanon.
Not surprised they’re worried, he thought. Europe’s worst nightmare was the prospect of the Bosnian war spreading.
He’d hurried back to the hotel after his meal – in case Lorna rang.
The Roche household slept until mid-morning that Saturday. After a huge brunch, Lorna sat in the big kitchen watching Vildana learn to make brownies. She had to hand it to Nancy Roche; the woman had handled the kid with panache. Welcoming without being over-powering, motherly but without smothering her.
The Roche twins were finding it less easy to adjust to the newcomer in the nest. Vildana was a couple of years older, and they seemed to suspect the girl’s arrival might downgrade their own position in the family.
Nancy had begged Lorna to stay the weekend – to provide continuity, she’d said – and since Lorna’s own plans were vague, she’d agreed.
Larry Machin, her boss at CareNet had telephoned at 2.00 a.m. He’d forgotten the time difference and wanted to check she’d arrived safely. He told her the agency had no plans for another run into Bosnia for several weeks, so she could stand the operation down and come home.
Josip appeared at her elbow, his suitcase packed and his anorak over his arm. Time to take him to the airport for his early afternoon flight back to Zagreb.
In the noisy drop-off zone on the departure level, she thanked him profusely for all his work and for his sweetness to Vildana. He insisted on a farewell kiss. It turned out to be rather more than a peck on the cheek, but she was content to indulge him for once.
‘Bye, Josip. We’ll give you a call when we go back to Bosnia, okay,’ she waved, climbing into the Toyota. It wouldn’t be her going back there, she’d decided, whatever Larry Machin said.
On the drive back to Pfefferheim all she could think about was Alex. She now had a real fear that she had driven him away.
Later that afternoon, Irwin Roche felt a little surplus to requirements, the task of settling Vildana in having been taken over by the women in his household. Fidgeting, he watched from a distance as the girl was shown the family photo albums to give her an idea of what life would be like in America. He retreated to his den. Then around five, he emerged again and sought out Lorna.
‘Sure I can’t interest you in using my computer,’ he grinned. ‘Check your e-mail, maybe?’
‘Hey thanks, I forgot! I’ll never get the habit.’
He led her into his small study and confused her with talk about megabytes and baud rates. He sat her in front of the keyboard, then backed out of the room.
‘I’ll leave you to it. Give a shout if you need help.’
It was the same Windows system she was used to, so she was soon through to her mailbox on the Internet. Two messages, the screen said.
Saturday morning.
Lorna. Somebody dropped in your letter today with the film. Great! Larry’ll be orbital when he hears. He thinks the CNN report was great. Not seen any checks yet, though! Getting the shots printed today, then I’ll deliver the rest to Annie personally.
The guy who called yesterday has called again. Sounds real sweet. Hope you got the last message I sent you. Does he have a chance??? He’s calling tonight too, so I could pass a message if you want. In strictest confidence, of course!
Bella.
Lorna’s pulse quickened. What last message? She hit the return key.
Friday nite.
Lorna. Some guy called from Frankfurt, saying he’s got to see you. Said his name was Alex. He’s in Frankfurt and wants to know where you are? He said he LOVES you! Let me know what to say to the poor man!
Bella (a.k.a. Cupid)
Lorna stared at the screen in disbelief. She read it again. And again.
Alex had followed her to Frankfurt! Her face twitched into a grin.
She began to type a reply. Bella should still be in the office at this time. Then she stopped herself.
Hang on, kid, she told herself. You’re doing it again. Running, the minute he snaps his fingers.
She dropped her hands to her knees. He’d come this far, she calculated, he’d not give up that easy. Let him sweat just a little longer.
She clicked on the mouse and logged off.
Iran
Dr Hamid Akhavi had felt the first shivers last night when he’d reported back to the Minister for Energy in Tehran. He’d put it down to lack of sleep and the long flight to and from Zagreb.
Back home now in the secret desert compound near Yazd, his wife had put him to bed. This evening his symptoms had worsened. Soaring temperature, pains in the chest and a cough that racked his body. His wife wanted to call the doctor, even if it was the middle of the night, but Hamid persuaded her to wait to see if he was better in the morning.
Nizhnaya-Tura, Russia
Colonel Pavel Kulikov felt on top of the world. The down payment he’d brought back from Zagreb meant he could begin distributing the hard currency that was the life-blood of his illegal activities.
At the Strategic Rocket Forces weapons dismantling site east of the Urals, work had ground to a halt in recent days because of equipment breakdowns. Lack of spare parts was rapidly reducing the whole process to chaos, a situation that he could only welcome. Chaos gave corruption more to feed on.
Removal of plutonium from the plant would have to be a gradual business, to prevent its absence being noticed. Could be months before he’d have enough for the first shipment across the Caspian Sea to Iran.
His journey back from Zagreb had been painfully tedious – an eight-hour delay in his connecting flight from Moscow to Sverdlovsk. At one point as he’d sat waiting for the flight, a tickle at the back of the throat made him wonder if he was getting a cold. But it went away as it usually did.
He didn’t often get ill. Not surprising, considering all the vaccinations he’d had as an officer responsible for the security of dangerous weapons.
Berlin, after midnight
Pravic had been drinking schnapps with beer chasers. He’d found a cheap room to stay in and had returned to the Café Luxembourg by eleven. It was a dull place with prints of old Berlin on the walls, trying to be respectable in an area of sleaze. There was only one other customer and the manager wanted to close for the night.
The wait for Gisela and the alcohol on an empty stomach had turned his anxiety to anger. If the barman tried to throw him out he would take him by the throat.
At twenty minutes past the hour Gisela pushed through the door, flustered and short of breath. Pravic tried to read her face through the blur.
‘Quick,’ she whispered loudly. ‘The man’s waiting up for you.’
Pravic abandoned the rest of his beer. The manager hurried over with his purse. Pravic peeled a couple of notes from the wad and pulled Gisela to the door.
‘It’s in Wedding. You’ll need a taxi,’ she told him when they were outside in the street. She handed him a note with the name and address. ‘A bloke I know rang him f
rom the bar and asked him to help. Said he owed him a favour.’
‘This man can do Internet?’ Pravic growled. His voice was slurred.
‘That’s what he said. Look, there’s a cab over there.’ She waved and the Mercedes turned towards them. ‘Will you ring me tomorrow?’
‘What you mean? You come with me!’
‘I can’t, Milan.’
‘Yes. You come.’ He gripped her arm.
‘Milan . . .’ she protested. ‘I told you. The bloke in the bar fixed this up as a favour.’
Pravic hadn’t understood what she meant.
‘A favour . . . it means I’ve got to do him one in return . . .’
He let go of her arm and ducked into the car. Gisela watched it speed away, terrified something monstrous was fermenting in the mind of her one-time lover.
The taxi turned up Chausseestrasse. At each set of red traffic lights, the driver thumbed through his street plan trying to locate the address.
Fifteen minutes after being picked up, Pravic was deposited outside a small apartment house with plaster flaking from the walls. The panel of bell-pushes hung loose, but when he pressed the button next to the name he’d been given, there was a quick response.
‘Yes?’
‘You are expecting me,’ Pravic said, anxious not to give a name. ‘For the computer.’
‘Yes, yes. Third floor.’
The door buzzed and Pravic pushed it open.
The man was wearing a dressing gown. From the small hallway Pravic caught a glimpse through a gap in a doorway. Satin sheets and the leg of a female.
‘Aber, mach’s schnell, Heini.’ The woman’s voice was a whine. The man closed the bedroom door and led Pravic into a living room cluttered with cardboard boxes. On a table next to a reading lamp was a computer.
‘So what’s this about? What do you want?’ the man asked, irritated. ‘Let’s be quick. I’ve got things to do.’
‘You can do Internet?’ Pravic asked, looking down at the floor.
‘Go on-line? Of course. But what do you want?’ He switched on the equipment, glancing curiously at his weird visitor.
‘You see, I am from Bosnia,’ Pravic began, trying to look sincere. ‘My family all killed. Just one survive. A girl. My sister’s child. Some people bring her to Germany just now because they think she has no family. They use Internet to find new home for her. Because they think there is no person of her own family to look after her. But they wrong. She has me. Now I must find her. Her name Vildana.’
Pfefferheim
Lorna couldn’t sleep for thinking that Alex was nearby. She just wasn’t made for the games she was putting herself through.
The house was quiet, the Roche family and Vildana all sound asleep. She tiptoed into the Colonel’s den and powered up his Compaq. He wouldn’t mind, she told herself.
She’d worked out what to say in the message to Bella, intending to type it quickly and send it. But the ‘mail’ message flashed, telling her there was something new for her.
Bella again.
Saturday nite.
Hi Lorna! Listen. You’ve got to do something about this guy Alex. Put him out of his misery. He called again and left a phone number. Sounds so cute. If you don’t want him, I’ll have him!
Lorna wrote down the number, her heart thumping. She’d ring him first thing in the morning.
Twenty-three
Sunday 3rd April, 10.15 a.m.
Frankfurt
‘HOTEL SOMMER. GUTEN Tag.’
‘Good morning, room 313 please.’ Lorna hoped the tremble in her voice wasn’t too noticeable.
‘Zimmer dreihundert dreizehn. Ein Moment bitte.’
Not five star, she deduced from the telephonist’s lack of English.
‘Hello?’ Alex’s voice.
‘Is that Alex?’ she asked, unnecessarily.
‘Lorna?’
‘Sure. I got a message from Bella. What’ve you been saying to her? She sounds real turned on!’
‘I was beginning to think she was keeping it to herself,’ he laughed nervously.
‘Hmm . . . So what are you doing here, truly?’ she asked, still playing dumb.
‘Truly – I’ve come to see you. Where are you?’
‘It’s a place called Pfefferheim. It’s where Vildana’s new family live.’
‘Is she okay? Does she look happy?’
‘Everything’s great so far. She can say “more please” in fluent English!’
Alex laughed.
‘So, shall I come out there?’
‘No . . .’ she answered hesitantly. ‘But I tell you what. I’ve a couple of hours free today. Why don’t I come downtown. Leave these good people on their own for a while. Name a restaurant and you can buy me lunch.’
She heard a clonking of the phone at the other end while he wrestled with something.
‘Just looking in the guide book. There’s a place here that sounds okay. It’s called Bistro Tagtraum which means “daydream”. Sound suitable?’
‘Do they do vegetarian?’
‘Potato and ginger soup.’
‘Okay. Give me the address and I’ll see you there at 12.30.’
11.35 a.m.
Autobahn A4 – the road from Berlin to Frankfurt
They’d been on the road since eight. The five-year-old VW Polo was Gisela’s car, and she was driving, because Milan had never learned how.
He had told her nothing about his meeting with the computer man. Just telephoned her at four in the morning to insist she drive him to Frankfurt. She had protested, but hadn’t refused. She knew what he was capable of, remembering what he’d done to clients who’d got rough with her in the old days.
He’d hardly spoken on the journey. Just sat there beside her, staring at the road ahead, holding onto the handles of a sports bag wedged between his feet. They’d stopped once for petrol and to use the toilets, but that was all. Questions about why they were going to Frankfurt had been answered with silence.
He’d taken her hostage. Not with chains, but with the unspoken threat of violence if she refused to do what he said.
She was an emotional hostage too. Despite his weird behaviour since returning to Germany, she felt strangely sorry for someone so clearly in torment.
Iran
Hamid Akhavi was lifted from the ambulance onto a stretcher trolley and wheeled into the small, two-ward hospital. The physician who’d ordered him to be brought there from his home was a worried man. His medical facilities at the desert site were minimal. Above all, he had no pathology laboratory. A sample of Akhavi’s blood was already on its way to the hospital at Yazd, to be cultured overnight. Perhaps then he might have some idea what this illness was that had struck down one of the most important scientists in Iran.
Overnight Akhavi’s cough had worsened further. By first light there were specks of blood in his sputum. His last words to his wife before the ambulance arrived had been to beg her to contact his sister in Tehran to tell her what was happening to him.
They were cut off from the outside world at the desert site. No personal phone calls permitted. To ring her sister-in-law, she would have to arrange to be driven to the PTT in Yazd. She didn’t quite trust Hamid’s sister, always suspecting she was more political than was good for her. Political in that she had contacts with Iranians abroad, Iranians who called themselves the Resistance.
Ealing, West London
Martin Sanders lived alone in an immaculately decorated, two-bedroomed, Victorian terrace cottage within a stone’s throw of Ealing Green and the Underground station.
His well-travelled looks ensured he was never short of female company when he wanted it. But having any of the delightful creatures actually living in and interfering with the way he did things was out of the question and always would be.
The phone call from Rudi Katzfuss had been unexpected and had interrupted the preparation of the entrecôte au beurre d’olives that he’d decided to cook for lunch. They’d never had to summon an
emergency meeting of the Ramblers before.
The BND man hadn’t said over the phone what it was about of course, but insisted they assemble on Monday evening in Munich. Couldn’t be sooner because of the time it would take Jack Kapinsky to get over from Washington.
Before he went, Sanders would check with the photographic branch and get some copies of the photos he’d brought back from Zagreb. Might be useful.
Frankfurt-Sachsenhausen
Alex had telephoned the restaurant to book a table, and arrived to claim it ten minutes early. He ordered a little jug of Mosel. By the time Lorna joined him ten minutes late, he’d ordered another.
‘Sorry,’ she breathed, allowing him to kiss her on the cheek, ‘couldn’t find anywhere to park.’
She was wearing fawn chinos and a white shirt, covered by a knitted waistcoat in olive-green. Round her neck was a long, thin gold chain. The waiter brought Mosel for her too.
‘This looks nice,’ she offered, looking round at the simple decor, and the menu chalked on a board. The trouble was she doubted she’d be able to eat, the way her stomach was churning.
‘You look nice too,’ Alex bubbled. ‘In fact you look just as fantastic as the first time we met,’ Nerves always made him go big on compliments.
‘Maybe you should get your eyes checked,’ she smiled, putting her hands up to cover the lines on her face. She kept glancing away, not trusting herself to look into the bottomless darkness of his eyes.
‘Did . . . did your office pass on my message?’ Alex asked. ‘All of it, I mean.’
‘I don’t know what all of it was,’ she shrugged, feigning ignorance.
‘The bit that said “I love you”?’
‘Oh, that old thing,’ she joked. There was an edge to her voice. ‘Sure. But don’t worry, I didn’t take it seriously. I try not to fall for the same trick twice.’
Alex felt his face redden. Maybe it was still war and she had come here to twist the knife.
Scorpion Trail Page 26
