Scorpion Trail

by Geoffrey Archer

  Alex took it from him, a blow-up of a passport photo, blurry black-and-white. Man in late twenties. Thick, fair hair, pale eyes. A sullen, brooding face. No trace of a smile.

  ‘Well? Have you seen this man before?’ Linz asked neutrally.

  ‘Is it him?’ asked Alex.

  Linz shrugged, saying nothing.

  Alex held it out so Lorna could see too.

  ‘I never saw the guy’s face, that’s the trouble,’ she said, exasperated.

  ‘You?’ Linz asked again, turning back to Alex.

  ‘I don’t know. I remember the man as older. His hair was trimmed short, I think. When was this picture taken?’

  ‘Maybe six years ago.’

  ‘Mmm. The eyes look similar. Not quite what I remember, but similar. But then I don’t suppose he was about to try to murder someone when this picture was taken.’

  Linz took the photo back.

  ‘You told me the car was driven by a woman,’ he went on. ‘You heard her scream. Did you see her face? You think you’d recognize her?’

  Alex looked pained and shook his head.

  ‘When we drove into the road, the car was parked there and I think I saw dark hair through the driver’s window. But that’s all. Why? You’ve found the car.’

  ‘The police in Berlin have found a woman that Pravic used to live with. And it happens that she owns a white Volkswagen Polo.’

  ‘Aha. Fantastic!’ Alex smiled.

  ‘But she claims she has not seen Pravic since he went back to Bosnia two years ago. She also has two witnesses who say she was with them for the whole weekend, and another who says the car has not been away from its parking place for days.’

  ‘Oh. Not so good.’

  ‘But since the woman is a prostitute and her friends have convictions for fraud and drug dealing, we’re not necessarily convinced by her story,’ he concluded.

  This man can be quite droll, Alex thought.

  ‘So, Herr Crawford, I would like your help in putting her to the test. She is being brought to Frankfurt this afternoon. I will arrange an identity parade at the police headquarters this evening. At about seven? You could be there?’

  ‘Surely. But as I said, I didn’t see her face.’

  ‘Maybe there will be something you can recognize. We will try. It’s the best chance.’

  He was on the point of replacing the photo in his briefcase, when he noticed that Vildana was awake and watching them. He smiled at her, and hesitated.

  Lorna guessed what he was about to do.

  ‘Please don’t show her that . . .’ she interjected. ‘Not just now.’

  Linz nodded. She was right. There was no need. Not yet.

  6.25 p.m. Munich

  Martin Sanders took a taxi straight from Munich’s Franz Josef StrauB Airport to the hotel near the Victualenmarkt. No special hired car this time. There’d be no ramble, no wine tasting. This was an emergency.

  He paid cash for the room as usual and went up to it to wait. Katzfuss had said he would make contact.

  The Leipzig business had been hot gossip at Vauxhall Cross before he left London. Snide little speculations about what their German counterparts in the BND had been up to. ‘Wouldn’t happen here, old boy. At least, if it did, we’d make damn sure nothing slipped out.’

  Little did they know, Sanders brooded.

  He sat on the austere easy-chair in the corner of his room, reading the William Boyd he’d bought at the airport on the way out. Twenty minutes passed, then Katzfuss rang, giving the name of a restaurant five minutes walk away.

  When he reached it, Jack Kapinsky and Marcel Vaillon were already sitting with the German at a table in an alcove. Photos of old opera singers cluttered the walls of the place.

  ‘Bonsoir, Martin,’ the Frenchman said, extending a hand. ‘Jack has just told us that Akhavi is on the way out, but there’s no word on the Russian yet.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Sanders grunted, squeezing onto the bench next to him. Assisting in the probable death of two men had given him no pleasure.

  ‘Is this place clean?’ Kapinsky asked petulantly. ‘It’s just I thought the Ramblers had rules not to meet near walls.’

  The American’s nostrils twitched as if they’d detected an unpleasant smell. Getting ready to pass the buck, Sanders thought.

  ‘I think no one will hear us, gentlemen,’ Katzfuss replied dismissively. ‘I am sorry to have to call this extra meeting, but there is a crisis.’

  ‘Your guy’s fucked up, hasn’t he,’ Kapinsky snapped. ‘Killed a Croatian chambermaid!’

  The deep lines on Katzfuss’s face gave him the appearance of an angry Boxer dog.

  ‘I believe you Americans have a phrase . . . Collateral damage?’ the German growled.

  ‘Come on boys and girls,’ Sanders intervened. ‘Let’s try to be grown up. We’re all in it together.’

  ‘Get on with it, Rudi,’ Vaillon said.

  A waiter hovered. They looked quickly at the menu, he memorized their choices and left them in peace.

  ‘All right. So . . . When we met two weeks ago,’ Katzfuss reminded them, ‘we decided the Russian and the Iranian should be eliminated by a freelance with experience. We agreed this person could use whatever means. Yes?’

  They nodded. Even Kapinsky.

  ‘So . . . we made conditions – that the wictims should die only after they return to their own countries. For this, the agent decide to use a biological weapon – anthrax. Unfortunately the man who supplied the bacteria was not reliable any more. He killed himself, leaving a letter telling what he had done. He told also that Herr Dunkel – that is the cover name of our agent – that Dunkel was previously with the Stasi.

  ‘The civil police in Leipzig read the letter. They pass it to internal security, BfV, who tell us at the BND. I tell them this is wery sensitive, and the letter must disappear, but already it is too late. The newspapers learn from the police what it said.

  ‘So . . . now the newspapers and some Bundestag representatives ask what is the connection between the security services and Dunkel, and the death of Kemmer in Leipzig and the almost death of a woman in Zagreb.

  ‘Most of that you already know. But there is something else, gentlemen . . .’ Katzfuss’s face sagged like a deflated balloon. ‘Yesterday I meet with the man we call Dunkel . . . He told me that he had help in Zagreb. Maybe you two saw the other man?’ he asked, glancing at Sanders and Vaillon.

  ‘Yes. But I don’t know his name,’ Sanders replied, reaching into his pocket for a small envelope.

  ‘That was a pity,’ Katzfuss sighed. ‘Dunkel brought this man back to Germany. On the way, during the night at a motel, he stole from Dunkel’s car the remains of the liquid containing the anthrax. . . .’

  ‘Wha-at?’ Sanders erupted.

  ‘God almighty, Rudi!’ Kapinsky exploded. ‘I thought you said your guy was a pro . . .’

  Katzfuss’s embarrassment was painful to see.

  ‘Ja, Dunkel was a pro,’ he shrugged. ‘Some years ago. Too many years perhaps. But the worst thing is the name of the man who now has the anthrax. It is Milan Pravic . . .’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Sanders spluttered. The other two frowned, trying to place it.

  ‘Responsible for the murder of more than forty women and children at Tulici in Bosnia last month,’ Katzfuss continued. ‘Wanted for the attempted murder yesterday, here in Germany, of Vildana Muminovic, the only witness to the massacre.’

  Silence at the table. No one breathed. The food arrived.

  ‘C’est incroyable!’ Vaillon hissed after the waiter had gone again.

  ‘Your old pro hires a genocidal maniac to help out with the Zagreb job, and then lets him walk away with a bottle of anthrax?’ Kapinsky howled. ‘My God, Rudi! What’s going on here?’

  Sanders opened the envelope and pulled out the photograph he’d taken in Zagreb, showing Pravic and ‘Dunkel’ sitting in the big square near the Dubrovnik Hotel.

  ‘That’s him,’ he said dismally
.

  ‘This, I didn’t know you had it,’ Katzfuss said, grabbing it from him.

  ‘Always take holiday snaps. Never know when they might come in handy.’

  ‘The police must have this. As soon as possible,’ the German continued.

  ‘Give that to the cops, and they’ll want to know where it came from,’ Kapinsky complained. ‘Then they’ll know the BND’s involved.’

  ‘Jack, the police must have this picture,’ Katzfuss insisted. ‘And they must be warned that Pravic could kill thousands of people with the anthrax!’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Kapinsky hissed. ‘The Ramblers will make headlines all over the world. Just think what’ll happen in each of our countries when people find out what we’ve been doing. Putting out contracts to assassinate people without the authority of our governments! Using biological weapons. Do you know what Congress will do? I’ll tell you. They’ll have the excuse they’ve been looking for to close down the whole fucking Company. The CIA will be dead in the water!’

  ‘I have to agree with Jack, Rudi,’ Sanders added quietly. ‘The political repercussions don’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘They are right,’ Vaillon concurred.

  ‘But the risk of what could happen here in Germany? We cannot permit this. Pravic has killed who knows how many in Bosnia, for the reason that they are Muslims. Even if the wictims have never been to a mosque in their lives, they must still be killed because of their culture – that is what he believes. In Germany we have hundreds of thousands of Bosnians. Many, many so-called Muslims.’

  He wiggled his fingers to indicate inverted commas.

  ‘My friends. The situation is most urgent. This week there is a target here in Germany that Mr Pravic might find too tempting to resist. On Wednesday – the day after tomorrow – in Munich, there is a Muslim political rally. More than one thousand Bosnians, Turks, Iranians, and Lebanese meet in a sports hall to listen to speeches from Islamic Fundamentalists. Already the police in Munich think neo-Nazis will try to break up the meeting. But if Pravic . . .’

  ‘You’re right,’ Sanders agreed. ‘The risk is appalling.’

  ‘Suppose he can spray the bacteria in there? Five hundred dead? A thousand? Then the questions from the Bosnian Muslims in this country – you knew about this man, why didn’t you stop him? Why you let him murder Muslims? You Germans are still Nazis, still with the Croats, like in Third Reich . . .? It would be Bürgerkrieg. A Bosnian civil war in Germany.’

  Marcel Vaillon nodded, reminded of France’s own problems with Algeria.

  ‘You are right Rudi, but so are we,’ he insisted. ‘Of course your police must have this picture and know the danger. But we four must not be exposed. Maybe there is a way.’

  He turned to the SIS man.

  ‘Martin, in our last meeting you said the UN Tribunal asked for British help to find Pravic. So, now you have some success, don’t you?’ He tapped the photo. ‘Send them this. Say it was taken by a British UN soldier. Tell the UN to give it to the German police immediately. They won’t know where it comes from.’

  Like laundering money. Sanders picked up the print and studied it again. Easy enough to mask out Dunkel and the background.

  ‘Then Rudi, you must warn the police Pravic could have been in Zagreb when the hotel worker was infected. Say the man is a mass murderer and may have an anthrax weapon. If they ask how you know, you tell them you don’t, but it is a guess.’

  ‘That’s fine, but what about Dunkel?’ Kapinsky intervened. ‘He’s the crucial figure that connects Pravic with Leipzig and with us. If the police identify Dunkel and he talks, then he could spill the whole bag of maggots.’

  The other three nodded.

  ‘Already I tell him he must eliminate everything that links him to Pravic and Zagreb,’ Katzfuss replied, knowing that it wouldn’t be enough.

  ‘What I’m saying Rudi,’ Kapinsky stressed, ‘is that Dunkel is the key to keeping us out of trouble. And he’s your problem, Rudi. You have to get to him before the cops do. And you have to take him out.’

  Frankfurt

  7.00 p.m.

  A uniformed women officer led the way into a small, grey-painted, airless office at the headquarters of the Kriminalpolizei. Irwin and Nancy Roche were already there, looking anxious and drawn. So was Nataša. One wall was made of glass. Beyond it Alex saw another room, furnitureless and empty.

  ‘In a minute you will see six women through the glass. They cannot see you. Each woman will carry a card with a number,’ Kommissar Linz explained. ‘Do not talk to each other about what you see. If you think one of them is the person who was driving the Polo yesterday, write down her number and give it to me.’ He handed each of them a notepad and pen. ‘Are you all ready?’

  They concurred.

  ‘Anfangen bitte!’ he said into a microphone projecting from the wall. He dimmed the lights.

  ‘Not too close to the glass,’ he cautioned.

  A few seconds later the women filed in. All had short, dark hair, some black, some brown. Three were in short miniskirts, three in trousers.

  ‘Tough looking bunch,’ Alex commented.

  ‘Please! No talking,’ Linz repeated.

  Alex looked at each face in turn, hoping some detail might jog his memory – the cut of the hair or the line of the jaw. The trouble was they were standing face on. When he’d seen the woman’s profile yesterday, he’d been looking down at the Polo from the high-up passenger seat in the Land Cruiser.

  ‘Can you get them to sit on the floor and face to the left?’ he whispered.

  Linz nodded. He pushed the button on the microphone again.

  ‘Bitte, setzen Sie sich auf dem Boden und nach links gucken!’

  Reluctantly the women complied, the ones in the miniskirts objecting strongly.

  ‘Now let’s see,’ Alex breathed. There were only two possibles, numbers four and six. Couldn’t be sure about either of them. Both had hair that was almost black, both were heavy in the chest and fat in the thigh. He wrote both numbers on the paper.

  ‘She could be one of these two,’ he whispered handing Linz the note.

  ‘But you are not sure?’ he checked.

  ‘Impossible. I didn’t see her full face in the car.’

  Linz grimaced. Without a positive identification they were sunk. The Roches shook their heads, as did Lorna.

  ‘Danke schön! Linz shouted into the box.

  He accompanied them back to the main entrance.

  ‘Sorry that wasn’t much help,’ Alex said. ‘The woman’s still denying everything, I suppose?’

  ‘Such women are in the habit of telling lies to the police. It is easy for her. But she is frightened, that’s for sure. Of Pravic probably. What woman would not be? But without evidence we cannot hold her for long. We will ask her some more questions this evening, then tomorrow she must go free.’

  ‘Which one was she, by the way?’

  Linz turned to look at him. He knew he shouldn’t answer, but an idea had just come into his head.

  ‘Number four.’

  Alex faltered.

  ‘Damn! If only I’d been sure . . .’

  ‘There may be something more you can do . . .’ Linz said, stopping just short of the swing doors. He took Alex and Lorna to one side, while the Roches waited. ‘I would like to talk with you on the telephone tonight, after I have spoken with Fräulein Pocklewicz. You’ll be at the Hotel Sommer? At about eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  They shook hands, then Linz disappeared back into the building.

  On the steps outside, the Roches turned to Lorna.

  ‘We have to have a talk,’ Irwin told her. ‘You and I, we’ve got some hard thinking to do. We have to decide what’s best for the kid, I mean.’

  Lorna could see some embarrassment in Roche’s eyes, signs of a weakening resolve.

  ‘Beginning to change your minds about Vildana?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘No . . . but we want to know a
little better what we’re letting ourselves in for,’ he explained. ‘I mean we have two kids of our own, and we’re surely not going to do anything that’ll screw up their lives.’

  ‘No. No, of course you can’t. I understand. But why not wait and see how things pan out in the next few days, huh? Vildana will have to stay in hospital for a while yet.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ Roche concurred. ‘Just wanted you to understand where we’re coming from.’

  Nancy Roche looked pale and awkward.

  ‘Don’t get us wrong,’ she stressed. ‘As I told you in the hospital, she’s my girl so long as she wants it and . . . and as long as my family do too.’ She pulled her mouth into a thin smile, but it did nothing to dilute the anguish in her eyes. ‘Anyway, I’m going back there now. So’s Nataša. We’ll stay the night again if she needs us to.’

  Lorna gave her a huge hug.

  ‘Don’t worry. I understand,’ she whispered.

  11.05 p.m.

  Hotel Sommer

  For a long time after making love, Alex and Lorna lay side by side, their bodies just touching. They were conscious of each other’s breathing but said nothing, each pre-occupied with their own thoughts. In the background the soft strains of a Mozart piano concerto tinkled from the radio.

  Lorna turned on her side, tucking her cheek into the dip of his shoulder and resting her hand on his stomach. It felt so strange lying there with him. Strange, because it was hard not to believe that she had vaulted back in time, wiping out the years of pain and anger.

  ‘You know something, mister?’ she said, throatily.

  ‘What’s that?’ he breathed.

  ‘You’re kind of good at this. In fact if there was an Oscar for screwing, you’d get my nomination.’

  ‘Well thank you! You’re not bad either . . .’

  She gave a little snort of laughter.

  ‘On second thoughts, the nomination depends on you shaving that beard off!’

  ‘There’s always a catch . . .’

  ‘Hey, you remember the first time we did it?’ she asked meanly. ‘On my Mom’s carpet?’