Deception On the Danube

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “Well, I need to get back to the kitchen or, for those of us more familiar with the world of sailing, the galley,” Claude said, turning and easing his way through the expanding group of people watching the divers.

  Burke followed in his wake.

  He saw Sergeant Plaschke and went over.

  “Are the police considering the Roma could be behind Bennett Blake’s death?” he asked.

  Plaschke frowned, but said nothing.

  “Or do you think any of the refugees might be involved?” Burke added.

  Plaschke still didn’t say anything.

  “Have the police done any interviews with either group?” Burke said.

  “We are considering a variety of avenues in our investigation.”

  Then the flic said he had no more time to spare and walked away. Burke watched him leave, pondering his next step. Then he had an idea. Seeing Carmen Moreau, Delisle’s assistant, he went over to her, saying he was going off the ship again for an hour or two. He told her to phone him if he was needed.

  Once off the Sunna, Burke hoped he could find a taxi without too much effort. He had a couple of places to visit and he wanted to be done soon because he intended to go to the 3 p.m. news conference dealing with Bennett Blake’s death. He went to the closest high-end hotel and found a lineup of four taxis outside the front door. He hoped it would be the start of some good luck.

  “Where do you want to go?” asked the first driver he tried.

  Burke told him. The driver blinked and asked if Burke was positive about the destination.

  “I am and I’ll need you to hang around for a while,” Burke replied. “I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

  The driver looked unenthusiastic and glanced around to see if a more reasonable fare was approaching. There wasn’t. “All right, let’s go,” he finally said.

  Burke knew getting a taxi was the easy part. The next step promised to be more challenging, especially when he reached his destination and started to ask questions.

  Chapter 32

  The taxi stopped about 50 metres from the first weather-beaten caravan belonging to the small group of Roma.

  “Is this really what you want?” the driver asked.

  “I’m just going to talk to them for a few minutes,” Burke said. “Stay here.”

  He knew the driver wasn’t pleased, but he doubted the driver would abandon him.

  Getting out, Burke had doubts about the effectiveness of what he was going to do. But if he was going to do a proper job with his blogs and to satisfy his own curiosity, he had to proceed.

  He hadn’t gone 20 metres before four teenage boys, all short, lean and tough looking, approached him, asking what he was doing.

  Burke explained he was a blogger and he just wanted to ask some questions that related to the deaths of two people sailing on a cruise ship docked in Krems.

  The boys exchanged smirks.

  Burke sensed he wasn’t going to get far. Then he spotted a stocky middle-aged man walking toward him with two younger men in his wake. Dressed in black boots, weathered jeans and a blue-and-white checked shirt, he looked like he lived hard, but he had an authority about him that indicated he had to be the leader of the Roma.

  “Who are you?” he said in a surprisingly soft voice.

  Burke gave his name and offered the same story he’d told the boys.

  “Do you think we’re involved in those deaths?” the man asked.

  “Some say it’s possible.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  Standing there, Burke had the sense this was some kind of test. “I’m just a blogger following orders to get some information,” Burke said, his newspaper identity card in his hand.

  “I’ll ask you one last time. Do you believe we’re involved?”

  Burke looked around. Their discussion had quickly attracted a crowd, maybe 20 strong. “No, I don’t, but I think some people are looking at you as scapegoats. I just figured it would be fair to talk to you.”

  The man stared at Burke for almost a full minute and then nodded, sticking out a thick-fingered hand. “I’m Harman. Join me for a tea and we’ll talk.”

  Burke didn’t know if Harman was the man’s first or last name, but he decided not to ask. They shook hands and then went up to an aging white caravan shaded by a giant plane tree. Harman showed Burke to two black plastic chairs that seemed more appropriate on someone’s backyard terrace. They had barely sat down when a woman who was somewhere between 50 and 80 showed up with a pot of tea and two cups which she placed on a small, three-legged table before them.

  “Ask your questions, Herr Burke. But if you’d like to speak French, I am fine to do that.”

  Burke was surprised that the Roma had caught his accent. The man shrugged. “I spent several years in France and I actually feel more at home with the language than I do with German.”

  Burke nodded and began asking his questions in French.

  As they talked and sipped the tea – Burke liked the mint flavour – Harman said the police had been up asking questions of them on two different occasions. The first time, the flics had been checking into the death of Wilson Talbot. The second time, they had questioned the group about the death of Bennett Blake.

  “We’ve only been in the Dürnstein-Krems area for a few days and we’ve stayed right where you found us,” Harman said. “In the past, we’ve stayed in this region and roamed around without incident for a few weeks, but this year it’s different. With all the refugees in the area, the locals are feeling especially nervous. So, we’ve stayed in our camp, all of us. No one has left although a couple of us will go to the grocery store tomorrow for provisions. No sense getting caught in someone else’s problems.”

  “And how did the police react to you when they were here?”

  “They seemed satisfied with what we told them. And they should. It was the truth. But it helped that some of the flics who came here knew us and knew we haven’t caused any trouble in the past.”

  A handful of Roma, including the boys, moved closer to the conversation until Harman finally waved them away. Then he turned back to Burke. “The police had to check on us to satisfy the community. It’s something we’re used to. If something bad happens and we’re in the vicinity, we always get a visit.”

  “Who led the flics?”

  Harman described Sergeant Karl Plaschke. “He was fair with his questions and I believe he accepted what we said. He must have. He hasn’t been back since the second visit.”

  “How can you be sure none of your people left camp to spend some time in Dürnstein or Krems?”

  Harman paused, staring hard at Burke. Then the Roma shrugged and waved a finger at Burke. “You ask that question without fear and without prejudice, Monsieur. I like that. It shows you take me seriously. It also shows you have some respect for our Rromanipé.”

  “Rromanipé?”

  “That means our world view, the way we look at different societies, and the dignity and respect we demand of each other. It’s the basis of our culture. I know it sounds strange to say that when you’ve probably heard so many negative stories about us and when some of our Roma have acted in criminal ways, but we’re basically an honourable people. The outside world just doesn’t understand us ̶ or care to understand.”

  Burke nodded, admitting to himself that his previous opinions of the Roma were hardly positive. Visiting this small camp was giving him a new perspective.

  “As for your question about me knowing no one has left our camp to go into Dürnstein or Krems, we’re a small group and we look out for each other. We heard on the radio about something happening on board a cruise ship and, to avoid possible troubles, we agreed no one should leave camp. And no one has. We trust each other. When we make an agreement, we live by it.”

  Burke thought about the kids that his bus group had seen on the wine tour. Several of the passengers as well as the driver had instantly pegged them as Rom
a. Harman was adamant none of his people had ventured outside the camp territory. Burke believed the Roma leader.

  “How long are you planning to stay around here?” Burke asked.

  “Are you eager to see us go, Monsieur Burke?” said Harman, frowning. Then he broke into a sly grin. “I’m just having a little fun with you. As it turns out, tomorrow we’ll get some food in Krems and then we’ll wait until everything quiets down. When it does, we’ll leave. We’re on our way east.”

  That surprised Burke. East was where many of the refugees were coming from. However, he decided not to pursue the topic.

  They chatted a few more minutes, even exchanging opinions on the troubled European economy. Then Harman put aside his empty tea cup. “So, Monsieur Burke, what are you going to tell your readers?”

  “What you told me.”

  “And what about those people who think we must be behind those deaths?”

  “I’m looking for what happened, not for scapegoats.”

  “That’s good to hear, but I fear some people are looking for scapegoats, not just here but right across the continent, especially with all these lone-wolf attacks in different communities. They want to blame others, especially the refugees, for what ails their own countries. I wish I could see better times ahead, but I don’t.”

  They shook hands and the four teenage boys escorted Burke back to the taxi.

  “How did it go?” the driver asked once Burke was inside and the boys had walked away.

  “I got what I needed.”

  He wondered how he’d do at his next stop.

  Chapter 33

  The taxi driver looked at Burke through his rearview mirror. “You want to go there? Really?”

  “I do, but I won’t stay long. At least I don’t think so.”

  “Or you’ll end up staying longer than you imagined,” the driver replied, starting the engine. “But it’s your decision.”

  The driver started heading north. The trip wouldn’t take long which didn’t give Burke much time to get mentally prepared.

  They arrived at the refugee camp 15 minutes later.

  Unlike many other camps in Europe, this one was small, holding maybe 100 people in a fenced compound. Burke saw most of the refugees were women and children along with a few young men, most of them sitting on small chairs or on the ground around canvas makeshift tents. A few open fires were being used to cook food. The site wasn’t as bad as some that Burke had seen on the news, but it wasn’t as comfortable as some where geodesic tents were erected, offering protection against just about any weather. If a storm blew into this area, it would make life miserable, but then Burke thought these people were used to rugged, even brutal, conditions. Most of them, including even the youngsters, were probably made of tougher stuff than he was.

  The taxi driver stopped his vehicle about 50 metres away from the camp entrance. “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” Burke said, opening the passenger’s door. “And I need you to wait for me again.”

  The taxi driver shut off his engine. Burke started walking toward the camp entrance where three soldiers were standing and smoking.

  As he walked toward the camp, Burke noticed how quickly he was attracting attention among the refugees. He wondered if they thought he was some kind of official, but then again, what kind of official shows up in a taxi? Regardless, he couldn’t help seeing concerned looks on many faces.

  He stopped at the entrance and introduced himself in German to the soldiers, showing his identity card which, if they didn’t know French, wouldn’t mean much.

  “There’s nothing here to write about,” one of the soldiers told Burke.

  Burke saw a handful of young men gathering close to the entrance, obviously eager to hear the exchange. Maybe someone in their group spoke German.

  Burke asked the soldiers if the police had come by to talk to any refugees as part of the murder investigations connected to Dürnstein and Krems. Looking at the fenced compound, Burke didn’t think it was the smartest question since no one looked like they could get out. But he was still curious, especially since the last couple of days had taught him that what seemed obvious often hid something sinister.

  “As you can see, this is a holding area,” the soldier said. “No one has been in or out for at least two days. As for the police, they haven’t been up here in weeks.”

  The soldier looked at his two colleagues, smirked and shook his head. He clearly thought Burke wasn’t the brightest member of the media, but Burke didn’t care. He was ticking off boxes.

  “Where are these people from?” he asked.

  “Syria, Iraq, Turkey, wherever.”

  “How did they get here?”

  “They walked westward into Austria and we took charge of them. The people you see here were transferred from outside Vienna.”

  More people were listening to the exchange although he wondered how many could understand the language. Burke saw some faces reflected curiosity but most displayed anxiety. Tough times indeed as Harman had said back at the Roma camp.

  “Will they be here long?”

  “The brass doesn’t spend much time keeping us informed,” the soldier said, getting a couple of chuckles from his friends.

  “Still, you must have some idea if they’ll be here for weeks or months.”

  The soldier stiffened, not liking Burke’s persistence. A moment later, he relaxed a bit. “Maybe a few more days and then they’ll be taken somewhere more permanent. Once that happens, we’ll get new people staying here. It’s just a system.”

  “And a fucking bad one, too,” grumbled one of the other soldiers.

  “Why’s that?”

  The first soldier shot a look at his friend, warning him to say no more. After all, Burke represented the media and a misspoken comment could prove troublesome – or worse.

  “No reason.”

  “What do you think about the refugee situation?” Burke asked the first soldier.

  The soldier paused and Burke could see he wanted to let loose with opinions but, in the end, the soldier just shrugged. “I do what I’m told. All of us here do what we’re told. These are tough times. Beyond that, I don’t know anything.”

  Burke nodded.

  Tough times. Again.

  But not as tough as being murdered, he thought.

  Chapter 34

  On the return trip, Burke asked the taxi driver his thoughts about the refugee crisis. He had an idea what the cabbie would say, but he wanted to make it official.

  “It’s a disaster and it’s going to ruin this country,” the driver said, slapping his steering wheel. “There are too many refugees – if they really are refugees – in a country that’s not very big. We can’t cope with the people we’re getting now and it doesn’t help that our economy is getting worse and worse. I don’t know what the damned politicians think we can do when more of them show up on our doorstep. The best thing is to send them back home like some of the other countries are starting to do. I know a lot of people think the same.”

  “Have you heard about any local incidents involving the refugees?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Crimes being committed.”

  The driver thought a moment. “Just petty theft here and there although I don’t know how they do it since most of them are put into camps as soon as they arrive and are watched over by soldiers until they get put into the system. Maybe a few of them keep away from the authorities. There are lots of places around here where you can hide without anyone seeing you, at least for a while. Beyond that, I haven’t heard much. But that doesn’t mean something bad can’t happen. In fact, I predict there’ll be real problems in the future.”

  “Such as?”

  “Not all these people are true refugees. I bet some of them are terrorists who are sneaking in and waiting until the timing is right before they do something. And even if there aren’t any terrorists, I know there are lots of peop
le who are very angry that we’re taking them in during such shitty times. I wouldn’t be surprised if they took to the streets and protested violently, like what’s happened in Germany and even up in Sweden.”

  “Have you seen any refugees walking around in Krems?”

  The driver shook his head. “The only ones I’ve seen are in the camps like the one you just visited.”

  “What about the Roma? Have you seen them walking around town?”

  “Not recently. They keep their distance. They’re smart enough to know where they’re not wanted.”

  That was enough for Burke. The cabbie’s comments were hardly surprising. A lot of people were upset and even scared by what was happening on the continent with the refugees. That had prompted angry marches, displays of anti-Muslim hatred and even threats against government officials if they didn’t start restricting immigration. There was also a shift in the political spectrum as well with far right-wing parties becoming increasingly more popular. To Burke, matters seemed to be going from bad to worse, not just for the refugees but for many people and the crisis wasn’t going to end anytime soon since there was hardly any consensus among political leaders about what to do. At the same time, he knew he was fortunate to live in a small French village that was idyllic when compared to the place he had just visited.

  Back at the dock, Burke paid off the taxi driver who seemed surprised to see a decent tip. “If you need to do more trips like the ones you did today, I’m around,” the driver said, handing Burke a card.

  Burke got out of the cab.

  “Hey, anything new on that guy getting murdered on the cruise ship here?” asked the driver through the open window.

  “Nothing that I know about.”