Hunter's Rain

by Julian Jay Savarin

  “I’d like to shoot him. Lowlife bastard.”

  “Did you bring your cannon?”

  “You heard me, Müller. This, is a strictly private trip.”

  “Ah well. If you behave, I’ll make certain you’re not unarmed.”

  “Gee, mister. Thanks!”

  Müller gave her his tolerant look, as she got her coat.

  Kaltendorf’s beam had morphed into a benign smile as he entered his office. People he had passed in the corridors, more accustomed to his pre-occupied scowl – which was just one down from the glaring scowl - had shot him darting, uncertain glances, as if doubting their own vision.

  The phone began to ring almost before he had entered. He hurried to it, and picked it up.

  “Ah, Heinz,” the person at the other end said even before Kaltendorf had identified himself. “Do you have any visitors?”

  “I don’t quite follow.”

  “Simple enough question, Heinz,”

  “We have visitors all the time. Colleagues from other units, prominent officials…”

  “Yes, yes. I know. I mean special visitors.”

  “We haven’t had any…” Kaltendorf paused.

  “Yes?” The voice sounded eager.

  “I would not say special as such…”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “Well…” Kaltendorf began uncertainly, “a friend of ours has turned up…”

  “A ‘friend’?”

  “She’s…”

  “She?”

  “Well yes. That’s why I didn’t think you would mean…”

  “You let me judge;” the voice repeated. “So who is she?”

  “Miss Bloomfield. American. I’m certain you don’t mean…”

  “No, no. Alright, Heinz. Thank you. Sorry to disturb.”

  The line went dead.

  “How long were you really standing by the door while I was looking at the painting?” Carey Bloomfield asked.

  They were on their way to the Rogues Gallery.

  Müller glanced at her with a slight frown. “Why?”

  “Were you looking at my butt?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Why not? My butt that bad?”

  Müller shut his eyes briefly as they approached the solid black, armoured steel door of the documents room, with its keypad-operated locking system.

  “You, Miss Bloomfield, are dangerous.”

  Above the numbers on the keypad, was a tiny green light; a clear indication that the room was occupied. This tell-tale sign could be disabled from within the room itself, if need be. Müller and Pappenheim frequently did so, when they did not want Kaltendorf to know they were in there.

  “Believe it,” she said, the tiniest of smiles living briefly at the corners of her mouth.

  Müller shook his head slowly, but said nothing as he tapped in the entry code. Titanium bolts slid back with a silky hiss and the door popped open, then swung wide. He stood aside for her to enter, and followed her in as the door began to swing back. He gave it a little push to help it on its way.

  Bright lighting and the low hum of the air-conditioning greeted them, as the door hissed itself shut.

  Three

  Pappenheim and Hedi Meyer were waiting.

  The window-less, large room was the most secure area in the entire building, and only three people had unauthorised access: Müller, Pappenheim, and Kaltendorf. Every wall save one, from floor to ceiling, was lined with wide, steel cabinets, each with its own keypad. A tall, wheeled ladder which hung from a solid rail and had a two-ton breaking limit, could be slid to each cabinet in the room. The centrepiece of the room was a wide and solidly-built central table, with a white top that also served as a photographic light box.

  At the single wall without a cabinet, was a big desk with a computer on it. Already very powerful, it had been improved far beyond its original specifications by Hedi Meyer - a power junkie when it came to computers - who had seemingly locked herself into a continuing upgrade cycle. She was always tinkering with it. The goth had already made it the most powerful computer in the entire building, beating even those in her own department.

  On either side of the keyboard, were two items that had made Kaltendorf blow some fuses when he had first seen them: a joystick and throttle that seemed to have come out of an F-16 jet fighter, courtesy of the goth herself.

  The computer, with its large plasma screen monitor, was connected to a cinema quality, multi-speaker sound system. Hedi Meyer was at the machine, sitting in the high-backed leather chair. Pappenheim stood close by.

  Both looked round as Müller and Carey Bloomfield entered.

  Hedi Meyer was the first to speak. “Congratulations, Colonel,” she said to Carey Bloomfield. “Nice to see you again.”

  She had the ethereal paleness of complexion that Carey Bloomfield had described, a finely-sculpted classic face, and rich dark hair that owed nothing to the hairdresser’s skill with dyes. Her eyes were a vivid blue, and her paleness contrasted sharply with Carey Bloomfield’s glow of health.

  “Thank you,” Carey Bloomfield said, giving the goth a quizzical look.

  “Oberkommissar Pappenheim told me,” the goth explained.

  “Ah.”

  “Miss Meyer,” Müller said, glancing at her hands, “you’ve got green fingernails, and blue eye shadow today.”

  “Back in my fertile period,” she said, displaying the bright green nails for all to see.

  “Your…fertile period. Doesn’t that conflict with the…” He tapped at his right eyelid. “…blue?”

  “Not at all. Blue stands for calmness and control. Can’t get too carried away. And besides, it matches my eyes.” She turned back to the computer.

  “You’ve been warned,” Carey Bloomfield whispered to Müller.

  “I heard that, Colonel,” Hedi Meyer said, not looking round. She paused. “I enjoy working with you.”

  “Now why does that sound like a warning?”

  “I never warn,” Hedi Meyer said.

  “Ladies,” Pappenheim soothed.

  “But I…” Carey Bloomfield began.

  “Ah-ah!” Müller interrupted, holding a finger briefly to his lips. He and Pappenheim glanced at each other with faint and very brief, surreptitious smiles, as he continued, “For some time now, we have been building a database – low-level intelligence - gathered from, believe it or not, old newspapers and magazines. We all brought the sort of things one never throws away, despite meaning to. Hedi Meyer beat us all with some quite incredible stuff she’s had since childhood. Even Klemp, our resident gym addict, had valuable material. It is quite incredible what you can find in a newspaper or magazine, if you know where to look.”

  Carey Bloomfield nodded. “I know some people who’ve got whole departments dedicated to trawling through the world’s news, print, and any other kind of media.”

  “I can imagine. No prizes for guessing.”

  “And I can imagine what you’re hunting. No prizes for that, either.”

  “Indeed. Miss Meyer,” he went on to the Goth, “what have you found?”

  She was checking through the archives of a French newspaper. “I’ll bring it onscreen in a moment.”

  He peered at the name of the paper. “’La Souris Atrichque’ . The Naked Mouse? Is this a joke? A school rag?”

  “No joke,” the Goth said, continuing to tap furiously at the keyboard without pause. “No rag, either, sir...as you’ll see.”

  “Did they know you went in there? Whoever they are?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course.” Müller glanced at Pappenheim, who had one of his most innocent of smiles tacked on.

  The Goth had stopped her tapping. “There it is, sir,” she said to Müller.”

  He studied the page on the screen, and stared at the date. “1982,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Grenoble. I was twelve. How did you get to this?”

  “I don’t think you want to you know, sir. But read this
.” She highlighted a section of the text, and increased the size of the font.

  Müller began to read silently, then stopped, shocked. He continued to read, this time audibly.

  “’…and why have we been given the wrong site of the crash? Witnesses we have spoken to, confirm that the German private jet crashed elsewhere. They insist the real crash site is…’ “ Müller stopped again. “My God,” he said, almost to himself. He moved away to stand by the light box table, then leaned against it. “My God,” he repeated, staring at nothing, and at no one in particular.

  The Goth sat at the computer, unmoving, looking at the screen.

  Carey Bloomfield looked at Müller with some anxiety. She caught Pappenheim’s eye. Pappenheim gave a barely perceptible shake of the head, advising her to leave Müller alone for the moment.

  Then Müller took a deep breath, and returned to stand behind the Goth.

  “Alright, Hedi,” he began. “Can you call up a map of the Grenoble area, and expand the site they mention?”

  “No problem.” She had it on screen in seconds.

  Müller stared at the image. “Can you give me a topographical view? I want to see what kind of terrain…”

  She was doing it even as he spoke. “There,” she said. “3D.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “One can drive almost close to it…about a kilometre’s walk away. Good. So what is this ‘Naked Mouse’? How did you come by it.”

  “You were right in one sense, sir. The paper began as a school rag. Two friends used it to poke fun at the school authorities. But they also began to do some serious investigating. They actually got a teacher sacked for creative accounting…with his budget.”

  “Bet that made them popular,” Pappenheim.

  “It didn’t,” Hedi Meyer confirmed. “They nearly got thrown out, but their academic results were so good, it would have raised even more embarrassing questions.”

  “So they took their skills into the outside world, and annoyed the establishment instead,” Müller said.

  “Exactly, sir. They go into plenty of trouble, but the paper got so successful, they had a big support base. Lawyers defended them for free.”

  “Lawyers working for nothing,” Carey Bloomfield put in. “That’s something.”

  “They’re not American lawyers,” the Goth remarked mildly.

  “Oh wow!” Carey Bloomfield exclaimed. “Did you see that arrow go by, Müller?”

  “Goth?” Müller said to Hedi Meyer.

  “Sir?”

  “Behave.”

  “Just joking.”

  “Oh yeah,” Carey Bloomfield said.

  “You too,” Müller told her. “Go on, Hedi.”

  “A friend of mine – he’s a bit Left - collects old issues of the Mouse. I asked to borrow some 1982 issues. You’d think I was pulling his teeth with pliers. I almost had to insure my life, but he allowed me to take them on loan. I scanned them in, but couldn’t find anything. So I…mmm…got into a database…”

  “You ‘got into a database’. That’s the part I don’t want to know about.”

  She nodded. “That’s the part.”

  “Alright, then. Fast forward.”

  “It seems that the friends – despite being successful executives of the paper – decided to go back to what they loved doing best: investigating. They discovered discrepancies in the reports about the crash site.”

  “Where are they now? Is the paper still running?”

  “That’s the strange thing, sir. Less than a year later, the paper went out of business…”

  “It folded?”

  “Yes, sir. But it gets stranger. One of them is dead. I can’t find out exactly how it happened; nor what has happened to the other one. Can’t say whether he’s still alive, or dead too. Nothing I have dug into, has come up with an answer. So far.”

  “The paper had staff. What happened to them?”

  “Working for other people, and not talking.”

  Müller said nothing for some moments.

  Pappenheim, hands in pockets, studied him watchfully.

  Carey Bloomfield said, “You’re driving down to Grenoble.”

  “Most definitely.”

  “I’ll come.”

  “You don’t have to…”

  “I know I don’t have to. It’s an offer you’re not going to refuse.”

  Müller said nothing to that.

  “What were the names of those school friends?” he asked the Goth.

  “Roger Montville, and Jean-Marc Lavaliere.”

  Müller repeated the names to himself, then nodded, as if in confirmation of something. “That was excellent investigative work, Hedi. Thank you.”

  She swivelled the chair round to look at him. “No problem. Is there anything else you need? I’ve got to get back to my office. I’m upgrading one of our machines. Should get it done before the end of the day.”

  “No. Nothing else for now. And thanks again.”

  She gave him a warm smile, then turned back to the machine.

  “I’ll keep working on the stuff in here, of course,” she continued as she began to shut it down.

  “Of course.”

  “And I can fly my jet?” She pointed to the throttle and the joystick.

  “That was the deal.”

  The computer gave a soft click, and shut down.

  “That’s it,” the Goth said, rising to her feet. “Better get back before Kommissar Spyros sends out a search party.”

  “As ever, we’ll defend you,” Pappenheim said.

  “Then he hasn’t a chance.” Hedi Meyer looked at Carey Bloomfield, startling blue eyes hiding everything. “Nice working with you again, Colonel.”

  “You too,” Carey Bloomfield said.

  “Sirs,” the Goth said to Müller and Pappenheim, and went out.

  Carey Bloomfield looked as the door sighed itself shut. “Now why did that sound like a challenge?”

  “She’s just being playful,” Pappenheim said. “I’ll take a leaf out of the Goth’s book and leave you children alone. You have plenty to discuss. And…”

  “And you need your smoke,” Carey Bloomfield finished for him.

  “And I do need my smoke. And you, sir, Boss?” Pappenheim went on to Müller. “As you’re going to Grenoble, am I supposed to know?”

  “For the moment, no.”

  “Fine. I’ll talk to a French colleague down there. He’s very helpful. Keep unwanted people off your back.”

  Carey Bloomfield looked at Pappenheim in wonder. “Pappi, if I wanted to go to Vladivostok, would you have a contact there too?”

  “Take a little time, but I could probably arrange it. Might not be strictly legal, though. Hard to tell these days.”

  “Pappi, with your kind of network, you could probably run a not-strictly-legal organisation yourself.”

  “Why do you think I’m a policeman? It’s to avoid the temptation.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Au ‘voir, children,” Pappenheim said. “Have fun.“

  “French?” Müller said.

  “You’re going to France,” Pappenheim responded, as if that explained it all. He went to the door, and paused. “I’d disable the green light, if I were you. I’ll keep in touch.”

  Müller nodded. “Alright.”

  “What does he mean ‘green light’?” Carey Bloomfield asked as the door shut once more.

  “The one on the keypad outside. When it’s on, it lets people know someone’s inside.”

  “People like Kaltendorf.”

  “People like Kaltendorf,” Müller confirmed, as he went over to a panel near the door, to disable the warning light.

  “There’s a needle going on,” she said as he returned.

  “A needle?”

  “Well, there’s Miss Hawk Eyes…”

  “Berger.”

  “Berger. She…”

  “Does not like you. You think.”

  “I know,” Carey Bloomfield corrected.

&nbs
p; “Then there’s that partner of hers…”

  “Reimer.”

  “That’s him. He called me a CIA princess…are you smiling, Müller?”

  “He called you that? To your face?”

  “Not to my face. When Pappi and I came back, Pappi stopped by their office. They were going on about Reimer’s girlfriend, I think…”

  “They’re always going on about Reimer’s girlfriend. It’s a standing joke around here.”

  “Well, as we left, he said something like – ‘what’s the CIA princess doing here?’. He thought I hadn’t heard.”

  Müller was still smiling. “It’s territorial. They’re afraid you might lead me astray.”

  “Hah!” She paused. “Well, Müller? Pappi’s given me the background to your excitements in May. Do I get the details?”

  “You get the details. How much did he give you?”

  “Your glass palace was being bugged,” she began, “by people who were supposedly official. Aunt Isolde’s long-lost husband – the British officer - returned from the dead after thirty or so years. Only he was doing things so secret, he played dead, and comes back with a genetic poison that accidentally infected him when he was prowling about in some laboratory, somewhere in the Middle East. The people in the darkness that you’ve been hunting down sent a hitman to get both of you. The hitman failed, and got himself killed for his pains – by them, not you. Greville, Aunt Isolde’s long-lost, is still here. The hitman turned out to have been his own secret, adopted son, who didn’t know it was Greville who had paid for his upkeep since boyhood. How am I doing?”