Hunter's Rain

by Julian Jay Savarin

  “They make a fine couple,” Lavaliere said to his wife, as the garage doors closed. “Let us hope they enjoy a long life.”

  The light at that time of day had a hint of steel about it, and there was no cloud.

  “What a sweet, sweet couple,” Carey Bloomfield said.

  “What an extremely brave couple,” Müller amended. He shook his head in wonder. “They’ve been sitting on a pile of high explosive for all these years. I don’t feel particularly happy about asking them to continue doing it.”

  “They are not weak people. They would not have agreed if they’d felt offended. And besides, you are right about not taking the box today. We’re going back to find the colonel, wherever he may be planning to make his last stand, Custer style, in the Black Forest. Imagine if for whatever reason, you lost those things out there. The car gets broken into by one of the Semper…and bingo. If you’re way out in the woods, the car’s sensors would not stop help, except make a lot of noise. Somehow, I don’t think that would bother a Semper killer much. So I do understand why you left them.”

  “I’m still uncomfortable. The Lavalieres have been lucky for sixteen years. I just hope our visit hasn’t changed that. Talking of which…you’re air force. How strong are those things, anyway? And can the data still be retrieved after so long?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” she said. “The data recorder has an impact tolerance of 3400 Gs. That’s a hell of a lot of decelerative force, when you consider the top fighter jets can start coming to pieces in the low double figures, positive. Less capable jets start coming apart long before that. Negative is in single figures. The human body, by comparison - even protected - starts taking serious, terminal damage, long before the best jets start to break. The recorder also has a fire resistance of 1100 degrees celsius, and can take submerged pressure at 20,000 feet. The cockpit voice recorder has the same resistance. These days, people can still grab information from computer discs that have been wiped. I think untouched black boxes will be a walk in the park. Of course, these are older recorders and some specs have changed, but not by much. Your only problem will be to make sure whoever opens them, is 110 percent trustworthy.”

  “I think Pappi will be able to find one.”

  “Talking of Pappi,” she said, “He gave you the colonel’s numbers. Are you going to call?”

  “Not until we’re back in Germany. I’m certain that all calls to Colonel Jackson, and all those he makes, are being monitored. It’s what he wanted. I have no intention of letting the eavesdroppers know I’ve been to France. It might lead them to the Lavalieres; which would be disastrous. Time enough for the colonel. They won’t get to him as easily as they think. I am more worried about Hagen and his team.”

  In the Black Forest, Jackson had long been awake. He had bathed in a cold stream and fully refreshed, was calmly eating his field ration breakfast. He had checked all his weapons.

  He was ready.

  The road twisted its way up the mountain in loops and hairpins that seemed to go on forever. In the early morning, Turbo roared up the road at a speed that Carey Bloomfield tried not to check on the car’s speedometer.

  There were times when she felt certain they would be heading down back the mountain, faster than they came up.

  “Enjoying the scenery?” Müller asked. “Great, isn’t it?”

  She nodded quickly; too quickly for real enjoyment.

  “Worried?” he asked.

  “Not really,” she said. “But this road is narrow.” Her voice ended in a weak squeak.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “We won’t tumbling down the mountain. Do you think I want to damage my car?”

  “That’s what’s keeping me afloat,” she said, glancing at the flowing zigzag of the road far below. “Now this, can give a gal vertigo.”

  “Not so far to go now,” he said. “We’ll park somewhere, then go for a walk. Forty-five minutes there, forty-five minutes back. The Romans, in full marching order, could do 25 miles a day, and still make camp before nightfall. And they were certainly not as healthy as we are. “

  “Good for the Romans.”

  “Come, come. Me, police hauptkommissar. You, air force lieutenant-colonel. We are fit. At 5 kph – which we can easily do - we’ll be leaving by nine.”

  “Müller?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s too early in the morning.”

  He glanced at her. “You look a bit queasy. Too much wine last night? Are you alright?”

  “Nothing that a good puke won’t fix.”

  “You’ve been up in jet fighters.”

  “Yeah. And they’ve got puke bags in there too.”

  “The road has made you carsick. Would you like to drive back down? Being behind the wheel makes a big difference.”

  “No thanks. I appreciate the offer, knowing what it cost you. But I’d rather be sick than have you look worried every time we come to a corner; and boy oh boy, are there corners, not to mention suicidal little cars that seem to think this is a racetrack. Remember that one that tried to play chicken on a goddammed bend? I’ll be fine once we stop. That Roman walk might actually do me some good.”

  “Some music, perhaps?”

  “No!”

  They got to the top not long after, where the road ended. All other roads had branched off a good six kilometres before. There was a wide gravelly space to within which to park, big enough to hold several cars; but there were no other vehicles.

  “Hey,” Carey Bloomfield said as they got out.. “This is a great view! Wow!”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “It’s worth it to come here to do what you must. But this…this is a bonus. I feel better already.”

  The ramparts of rock were all about them and far below, they could see Grenoble, and the outlying villages and towns dotted across the landscape.

  Müller spread Lavaliere’s map on top of the car. There was a sketch attached to it.

  “Take a look at this,” he said to her. And when she had come to look, went on, “This sketch shows where the media said the plane hit, with the dotted line showing the general area where the wreckage is supposed to have fallen…and where the fake black boxes were found. Now the second sketch shows another rockface, there - the one we’re going to. See where that dotted line points: where they found the buried recorders.”

  He passed a hand over his eyes. “God. These bastards really worked at hiding what had really happened.” He looked about him, looked at the map, then looked around once more. He saw a barely visible trail. “There,” he said, pointing. “That’s the one.”

  He reached into the car, unlocked the glove compartment, and took out a Beretta 92R. He gave it to her,

  “Put it into your bag. Just in case. No don’t go shooting ibex, marmots, or whatever else runs around in these mountains.”

  “What about the two-legged ones pointing guns?”

  “If you spot one of those, you know what to do.”

  “You’re in France. You have no jurisdiction here.”

  “They would be in France, and certainly, have no jurisdiction here, either.”

  “Unless they happen to be French Semper.”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  She put the gun into her bag. “You’ve got one under your jacket, I’ve got this one. Anymore?”

  “There’s another under the rear seat squab. The one behind the driver’s seat.”

  “Pappi had one in his glove box too. Would he have more stashed about his car as well?”

  “That would not surprise me in the least,” Müller said with a smile. “Now come on. We have a rendezvous to keep.”

  In the house where she was being held, Elisabeth Jackson woke up to her second morning of captivity. She been allowed to go to the bathroom the night before but now, she needed to go again. She hoped someone would come soon.

  Minutes later, she heard the familiar sound of the key in the lock, and hoped it would be the kindly-v
oiced man.

  It was.

  “Hello,” he greeted. “I’ve brought you breakfast. Two rolls, this time.”

  “I hope it’s not a hearty breakfast.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a saying – ‘and the condemned man ate a hearty breakfast’. Hope that’s not me.”

  “Oh. I see. No. It’s not that. It’s me. I put the extra one. He’s out somewhere, if your understand me.”

  “I understand. But, before I have your generous breakfast, I er…need to go.”

  “Oh! Yes. Here, let me help.”

  He freed her feet, re-tied her hands at the front, then led her to the bathroom.

  “Don’t touch the blindfold,” he advised, “or you’ll get us both into trouble.”

  “I won’t,” she promised.

  And she meant it. Now that she knew Bill had planned something, she would do nothing to jeopardise her chances.

  Müller and Carey Bloomfield had come to the spot where the Lavalieres had found the buried data recorders. It was beneath a low escarpment but high above that, the soaring rockface towered imposingly; and terrifyingly.

  Müller looked up at it for at least a minute, saying nothing. He imagined he could see a dark smear, where the plane had hit.

  “Not possible,” he murmured to himself.

  Any marks would have long been wiped away he thought, by rain, snow, and ice.

  But not the gouges in the rock. So perhaps he was looking up at the spot where his parents had died.

  Carey Bloomfield followed his scrutiny. “See something?”

  “I think I’m just imagining it.”

  “What? That dark patch up there?”

  “You can see it?”

  “Sure. A chunk is missing from that rock.”

  Müller felt something like an electric current go through him. “But it can’t be where the plane hit, surely?”

  “Who’s to know for sure? Unless you get up there and take scrapings for analysis. But it seems to match Lavaliere’s sketch. He would not make a mistake like that.”

  Müller kept looking up at the spot.

  “If you’d like me to move away,” she began. “Give you some privacy…”

  “No. No. Stay. I want you to. It’s alright. Really.” He traced a line downwards in his mind, moving his head until he was looking at the ground about him, and the surrounding vegetation. “Can you see the crosses?”

  “No... Wait. Wait a minute. Look over there, to your right.”

  Müller looked, and saw a small clump of wild flowers. “Flowers,” he said.

  “Now look closer toward the base of the rock,” she directed. “What do you see?”

  “More wild flowers. Nothing but…” his voice faded.

  “Now you’ve found them,” she told him.

  Müller understood what the Lavalieres had done. They had planted the wild flowers as a marker; then on the edge of the clump, two much smaller clumps of the blooms were positioned, close together.

  Müller went over to them, squatted, and touched them very gently while Carey Bloomfield stood a little distance away, watching him.

  He remained like that for a long time, almost seeming to talk to the flowers. Then he raised he head to look upwards and saw, hidden beneath an awning of low branches the two small crosses, side-by-side, cut into the lower trunk of a small tree,

  Müller bit his lower lip as a surge of emotion took hold of him. His shoulders began to shake.

  Watching, Carey Bloomfield felt the irresistible urge to hold him.

  “Damn you, Müller,” she said to herself, “I’m going to do it, whether you want me to or not.”

  She hurried over, got down next to him, and put an arm about his shoulders. She held it there tightly, until the shaking eventually subsided.

  “Thank you,” he said in a low voice, eyes on the twin clumps of wild flowers.

  “Hey,” she said. “What are friends for?”

  “We’re making good time,” Müller said. “We seem to have missed the second rush hour.”

  The one-hour run from Grenoble had taken a lot less than expected, and they were approaching the toll gates just after L’isle d’Abeau, in under 45 minutes.

  They went through, and Müller took the speed to a reasonably inconspicuous 160. At that rate, the distance was eaten up without drawing unwelcome attention. Many other cars, with the license plates of various nationalities were travelling far faster; but Müller chose not to be tempted. Being stopped, even though he could explain to a fellow policeman, would still cost time.

  Less than four hours later, having once more been able to travel at high speed, they were approaching the Renchtal autobahn service station.

  “Time to call the colonel,” Müller said. “We’ll stop here for fuel, have a quick snack, then I’ll make the call.” He peered up at the sky. “Looks like rain. And soon.”

  After he had filled the tank, and they’d had their snacks, they returned to the car. The rain still held off.

  Müller took out the fat envelope Lavaliere had given to him. “We’re far enough now,” he said.

  “Did you get the feeling he wanted you to be far enough away,” Carey Bloomfield said, “so that you could not get back there quickly?”

  “It did cross my mind.” He opened the envelope, and pulled out three documents, plus a handwritten covering letter. He glanced at the documents, eyes widening. “They can’t do this! I can’t…”

  He passed them over to her.

  “Jesus!” she exclaimed a cursory look. “These…these are the deeds to their house…in French, German, and English!”

  “So there’s no mistake, and all properly notarised. Both of them have signed it. And they did so years ago. They’ve been waiting all this time for me. They must have family to whom they could give the house. They can’t do this! I can’t accept.”

  “Read the letter,” Carey Bloomfield advised. “It might explain.”

  Müller opened the single sheet, and began to read. It was in English. “’I know this will shock you, but we made up our minds years ago. We always hoped you would one day come to us. So this is in event of our deaths - natural, or unnatural – we bequeath the house and all in it, to you.

  “’This is not as mad as it seems. We have no immediate heirs, and some items in it, are of greater value to you than anyone else. Beneath the box, you will find documents. Years of investigation and research, which will be, we hope, of great help to you. You will find everything beneath the kitchen flagstones, should we be gone next time you come to Grenoble.

  “’Do not feel embarrassed by this. We feel we have always known you, from the moment we saw your picture as a boy, at that terrible time. I am sure you have now realised that Odile looks upon you as the son we never had. I think she adopted you in her heart that day. That is how closely we have lived with you. Find those people, and punish them for what they have done, and what they are doing.

  Jean-Marc, and Odile’:”

  Müller slowly folded the letter, and put it together with the documents that Carey Bloomfield handed back to him.

  “Life never stops surprising,” she said.

  “What should I do?”

  “Do? Jens Müller, if you reject them – because that is definitely what it will be – they will feel humiliated. They will feel very foolish. Do want to really do that to them?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then you don’t have an argument. And put those things somewhere safe. That’s dynamite you’re holding.”

  “I think I’ll call the colonel.”

  Jackson was intrigued to hear the card phone ring. He let it ring three times.

  “Jackson.”

  “Colonel.”

  “I know that voice. I’ve been expecting your call.”

  “I got your message.”

  “I’m impressed. But then, you’re an impressive man, Hauptkommissar. You know your job.”

  “So do you, Colonel. I�
��d hate to see that career go down the pan, as you would way. You should know that we are doing all we can.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “We should talk.”

  “We’re talking.”

  “I mean face to face.”

  “it will take you a while.”

  “I am not in Berlin. In fact, I am quite close, depending on where you actually are at this moment. But I know the general area. If I say family…”

  “You have done your homework.”

  “I also have some news you will not like, Colonel.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “One word. Hagen.”

  There was a long silence. “What about him?”

  “Some of your superiors have put him on your trail.”

  There was another silence. “You know what Hagen is?”

  “Yes,” Müller said. “A friend told me. Not pleasant.”

  “We agree there, Mr. Müller. Hagen is a piece of shit.”

  “I also know he will enjoy his mission.”

  “Our problem, Mr. Müller, is how to get you here, without others listening in. I know Hagen will be monitoring. So will the people who took my wife..”

  “Because you want them to.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I may have a solution. My phone is secure. They can’t hear, or trace it. They will, of course, still hear you. I will ask questions. You will say yes, or no. That way, you can direct me in. Example. Are you near water?”

  “Yes.”

  “A lake? A river? Or a stream?”

  “Yes to the first.”

  “I will give you some names.”

  After three tries, Müller got a yes on the fourth. After that, it was easy.

  At the monitoring unit, the operator who had locked onto Jackson’s call to his wife’s mobile, saw the pulse of another phone in the same caller area.

  “What do you think this is?” he asked a colleague.

  “Someone else’s phone in the same area? There are other people out there, you know.”