Cheatham leant forward.
With luck, my convoy leader problem is about to be solved, but softly, Cheat, softly.
“Have you thought about working overseas?”
“Can’t say I’ve given much thought to working at all. Wouldn’t have a hang-up about working outside the UK though,” shrugged Spider. “Are you offering me a job?”
Cheatham did not return his smile but nodded
“Besides the leave, one of the reasons I’m back here is to find a convoy leader, a sort of working manager on the road, so to speak, down there. How would you feel about that?”
Spider looked speculatively at Cheatham. On the point of saying that he did not really want a job at this stage, he changed his mind.
Why not?
He nodded.
Cheatham leaned back, somehow more confident.
“Y’know, I like coming back. In fact, I look forward to it for weeks but no sooner am I here than I want to be out of the country again. Weird, ain’t it?”
“It’s natural enough, affects a lot of people that way.”
Cheatham took a sip of his drink.
“I work for a firm that has a contract with the UN to provide transport for relief supplies and fuel to different parts of northern Croatia and Bosnia. Banja Luka, Cazin, Bihac, with a mixed bunch of drivers. All nationalities.”
“No locals driving?”
“Can’t use ’em, ’cept as interpreters.”
Cheatham rested his arms on the table.
“Local drivers can’t be employed because we cross into different war zones on a daily basis. Serbs will not accept Croats, in their areas and vice versa. The driving isn’t straightforward because of the different factors that affect it, like bad road conditions, drunken idiots with weapons, flare-ups between the different sides and other ‘embuggerances’.”
Cheatham sat back, his empty glass spinning idly between his fingers. Spider smiled, reached across to remove it, and then picked up his own, before walking to the bar for another round.
Left to his own thoughts, Cheatham felt a surge of optimism. He had no doubt that Webb was capable. If everything continued to go the way it seemed to be heading, then he had his man to oversee the convoys. Moreover, for nothing. There was no reason to cut Webb in. He did not have to know what he was escorting.
Spider returned to place both glasses on the table as Cheatham closely watched a youth in skin-tight jeans playing solo pool.
“You were saying, Cheat.”
Cheatham wet his lips, then brought his eyes back to Spider.
“About six weeks ago, the firm got a supplementary contract to make runs into Tuzla, Sarajevo, Zenica and a few other places down the other end of the country. We have been running out of Zagreb, but it could prove to be uneconomical in terms of time, money and fuel.
“So, I’ve opened up another base down near Metkovic, on the border with Bosnia, that’ll cut the time of each convoy by at least four days. Problem is, I need someone down there that I can rely on.
“He must be capable and able to organize the office so that it will run for the few days that he is out on convoy, keep track of the major taskings, all that sort of thing. I need someone who can think on his feet. Someone who appreciates that in this business, you have to take the rough with the smooth.”
Despite a spark of interest, Spider did not respond immediately. There was no doubt that he had the abilities Cheatham had mentioned. With no ties in the UK, maybe it was time to get involved in something worthwhile.
“How long would it be likely to last?”
“Well, like anything of this nature, permanency is not part of it. We only get a six-month contract from the UN but, if you were interested, I could give you the same, regardless of when the situation bottoms out. Any extensions would be dependent on the firm getting further contracts. Interested?”
“It sounds as though it could be something. When would you want me to start?”
“Providing we could agree on terms, I’d want you as soon as possible. My scheme would be to have you work alongside me in Zagreb for a couple of days to get the hang of things. Then I’d travel down with you to the other place to get things set up and running.”
Spider asked some desultory questions about the other employees, aspects of the work and location of the site, then recognized that he was interested. At an undefined point in the discussion, both men grinned at each other, both knowing that Spider had taken the hook. Impulsively, they reached across the table and shook hands.
“Another one?”
Spider nodded.
“I fly back to Zagreb on Thursday, day after tomorrow, but I can arrange your flight from that end and get you there within a couple of weeks. Suit you?”
“Go for it.” Spider, felt a new enthusiasm for life.
Cheatham smiled smugly.
Suits me too, right down to the ground.
* * * * *
The River Main, absorbing the leaden reflection of the sky, its surface peppered by the continuous drizzle, flowed silently past Frankfurt’s YMCA. Calum could not shed the sensation of thousands of dull, opaque eyes, set in the stone faces of the city’s banks and commercial offices across the width of the river, watching him. Here and there, a point of light would flash on the yards of chrome and glass set in the grey concrete. The tree-lined street below was deserted, and the leaves and branches glistened in the closing dusk.
In Frankfurt, he had found a driving job, making deliveries for a catering contractor who provided canteen services for several factories and office blocks. Finding a place to stay was not so easy. The work was black market, of course, no deductions or social contributions were paid on his behalf, but at least it gave him the wherewithal for food and the twelve marks per night for the hostel.
Weekends here in Sachenhausen were wild, and although the Guinness would never be as good as that back home—they did not know how to pull a good one—you could forget the loneliness in the crowds in the pubs. The craic with the other expats—an unbelievably big community of his own folk were here—helped minimize the empty feeling of being homesick. Still, nothing could beat the pubs on the Ormeau Road of a Friday night.
“Get bloody real,” he snarled at himself. “You’re here and in a damn sight better health than you would be at this very minute back there.”
Christ, would they be looking for me again?
They had to be; the investigation must have come to a dead end days ago. It would be too much to hope for that they had come up with somebody else, but maybe, just maybe, they had.
However, he could not be sure that they would not be looking for him again. After all, he had been questioned and, surprisingly, had satisfied them; surprisingly, because of his guilt and because he had really believed his time was up. Told to go about his business, he knew deep down that if the investigation did not produce a result, they would come full circle and start again.
He had no plans, no strategy to run or hide, but it made no sense to hang around there waiting for them to pick him up. If they did get him again, it would not be as easy as the first time; that had been a nightmare because of his own fears.
He prayed they would accept a display of naiveté—he had not stayed around, because he wanted to travel. If only he could get away with it! Sometimes when his spirits were high, he really believed he could; other times stark reality stomped on any spark of optimism.
He turned from the window, and crossed the sparsely furnished room, with its bunk beds and very little else. He folded his sheet, which with its returnable ten-mark deposit was currency, and placed it in the small metal locker that he shared with Kurt.
The German would probably be in the TV room.
Wonder if he’s going out tonight?
At the very least, it would be a distraction of sorts, being in someone else’s company, instead of alone with his own stark thoughts, which only lashings of mind-bending alcohol could numb.
* * * * *
The TV high in the corner of the bar had the sound turned off. Since Calum didn’t understand a word, it made no real difference. Watching it as he sipped the Guinness, his interest rose when the screen filled with pictures from the former Yugoslavia, showing a convoy of white UN trucks held up at a barrier.
Uniformed men wearing strange blue camouflage outfits and carrying guns climbed all over each truck. The camera picked up a group of men, at the side of one of the vehicles, and he grasped from their dress and postures that they were the drivers.
They were civilians!
Kurt had been right; soldiers were not the only ones driving down there.
Kurt had worked for some big transport firm just outside Wiesbaden and had travelled all over Europe. He had apparently had a big bust-up with his girlfriend several days ago and was now dossing in the YM. He reckoned that the relief convoys, the official ones, paid the real money and that they were crying out for drivers.
Calum watched the drivers mount their trucks before the news programme moved onto another subject.
Might be the place to be, at least for the immediate future. But, how would I get in touch with the people who do the hiring? Kurt’ll know.
Carrying his beer, he pushed through the crowd in the bar and stepped outside to find the German earnestly conversing with a young woman.
CHAPTER FIVE
They walked across the gravel of the yard to the drivers’ rest room. Inside, three men, obviously off-duty drivers, were playing darts.
“We’ve been told to wait here until the boss calls for us,” Calum said to no one in particular. All three nodded in acknowledgement.
The newcomers flopped onto the empty bench, leant back against the wall, and watched the play. Calum wondered if long practice at the game led to any constructive advantage in other fields or skills.
“Possibly mental arithmetic,” he thought and grinned.
With half an ear, he listened to the conversation. Kurt’s interest also appeared to deepen as they gathered that the drivers were discussing the movement of their personal effects to a new site.
“Are you moving then?” Calum asked.
“Metkovic, down by Dubrovnik. Any time now. We already have an operation up and running down there. Been going about a month now.”
“How’s the driving down there?” asked Kurt.
“Trips are a lot shorter, couple days off at each end.”
“Yeah,” contributed the tallest of the three, “means we don’t have to drive two days down the coast road to get to the start point. The new place is right on the border.”
Conversation dried up and the players’ interest returned to their game. Calum pulled a tattered magazine across the table towards him and was soon lost in his own thoughts. He felt tired from the long overnight journey from Frankfurt. He had hardly slept during the trip, although they had been fortunate in hitching lifts without too much waiting. His eyes had just closed when the office clerk looked around the door and said that Cheatham wanted to see Kurt.
* * * * *
Calum began to relax, knowing that he had sized Cheatham up. He did not need to think about his answer. The manager would not go to the bother of checking on the driving claims he had made. Why should he, as long as Calum performed adequately for the wage offered?
In the yard, Calum had shown that he could control the lowering of the heavy spare wheel of the ten-ton truck, held in its bracket high behind the cab. With some difficulty, it was true, but he could roll it into position for changing any one of the other fixed wheels. Jacking up the vehicle had been problematic but not impossible and he had surprised himself, with his tenacity.
Driving the thing, with its semi-automatic gearbox and power steering, had been child’s play. Luckily, Kurt had told him to let the engine build up the air in the system before doing anything else, and the rest had come naturally.
The question from Cheatham brought Calum back.
“Yes, that’s no problem, I’ll write home for the references as soon as possible.”
“Fine, fine. That’s it, then,” said Cheatham, who knew that he could not give a damn if he never saw either one’s documentation. The new arrivals were going to fit into his plans very nicely.
“I’ll introduce you to Crowther. You’ll share a room until Friday, and then you’ll pick up a load and travel down to Metkovic. But first, let’s get you with the admin people to fix you up with UNHCR ID cards.”
Calum followed Cheatham back to the restroom where they collected Kurt and made their way across the yard to the main office.
* * * * *
The automatic doors swung open at the approach of the luggage trolley and revealed a bank of searching faces. Without difficulty, Rath picked out his contact. He nodded as the girl with auburn hair indicated the area to his left. Her freckled face bobbed and weaved its way through the press of bodies that thinned, as the distance from the barrier increased.
“Welcome to Frankfurt.”
“Thanks.” It sounded more abrupt than he had intended. “You’ve got a car?” He smiled in an effort to appear friendlier.
“Follow me,” she said over her shoulder as she led the way on the down escalator. He took in the well-shaped calves and the firm curves of her stonewashed jeans before glancing around to identify possible watchers. They reached the lower level, where the crowd thickened once again in front of a McDonald’s, but her pace did not slacken as she continued to walk toward the pay kiosks in the tunnel.
He followed with an easy stride.
She led the way and returned her purse to her bag, keeping the parking ticket in her hand. They pushed through the swing doors then waited with four other couples for the lift.
When the doors opened, they entered the elevator with the others. The woman pressed up against him as the doors closed. He felt an involuntary stirring, but she remained apparently oblivious. Moments later the lift reached the third floor and the others pushed forward to leave. She shook her head, indicating that they had more floors to travel.
The parking hall was empty but for four cars. She walked towards the nearest one, a black Mercedes, and held the boot open. Throwing in his holdall, he waited at the passenger door.
“It’s open,” she said across the roof of the vehicle before climbing in behind the wheel.
They left the airport environs and within minutes were filtering into the traffic towards Frankfurt city when she spoke again.
“It looks as though McDermot has moved on,” she said. Her attention focused on the overtaking cars as she pulled the car over into the fast lane and gunned the engine.
“Tell me I didn’t hear right.”
“We’d traced him to the YM down by the river about a week ago and found out that he had found a job. Knowing where he lived and where he worked, we didn’t think it necessary to keep him under constant observation. The orders from Belfast were just to locate and confirm his whereabouts. Most nights he was out drinking with a German friend of his, at pubs in Sachenhausen. Then we were shorthanded...” She sensed him stiffen with impatience or annoyance.
She added in a rush, “Jimmy, one of the watchers, went down with flu. A couple of nights ago McDermot did not show at his usual hangout. We were not too concerned. He had been drinking most of the time we were watching. We thought he might be having an early night. When he did not show again last night, we checked. He hasn’t been to work for three days now.”
“Have you checked out the YM?”
“We’re going there now. I’ve got to pick up Jimmy first.”
He expelled his breath forcibly. She looked away as she saw his frown.
The west end suburbs appeared, dominated by the elongated stem of the concrete mushroom of the Main Tower that punctured the skyline. Minutes later, the car passed the nondescript, rectangular grey pile of the German National Bank. Speeding under the trees that lined Miguel, then Nibelungen Allee, she swung the car left at the lights.
“It’s just up here.”
She turned the car into the flow of traffic on the other side of the dual carriageway. The car slowed and crawled past the line of parked cars, stopping as a man slid through a gap and stepped into the street.
“Jimmy Rafferty,” she said, by way of introduction, as the newcomer opened the car door and climbed into the back.
She pulled away.
“Better make for Weissenstein, Siobhan,” said Rafferty leaning forward. “It looks as though his friend, Kurt Bierbaum, had a regular watering hole—the Zur Post near the U-Bahn stop. He’s ducked out from the YM; I phoned, but no one at reception there seems to know where or when. If they don’t know at the pub then...” He shrugged.
He turned to introduce himself to the big man in the passenger’s seat, but the air of frostiness in the car caused him to change his mind, and he sat back.
* * * * *
“So how’s things,” Rafferty asked, as the barman pulled the first of the three Kilkenny beers that he had ordered. The barman looked up and across to the others at the table beside the window, taking in the presence of the big man, and nodding to Siobhan. Bringing his attention back to his questioner, he gave a non-committal grimace.
“Has Kurt been in lately?”
“He’s gone; didn’t you know? Him and the young Irish guy.” He set the first beer on the bar and started pulling the second. “Pair o‘dickheads. Off to Croatia to feed the hungry. Working on those convoys.”
“Is that right? When did they go?”
The barman lifted his shoulders, signalling ignorance or disinterest. He set the second tankard on the bar, then relenting, called out to one of the customers seated on a stool at the end of the bar.
“Eh, Marcus. Wann sind Dicke und Dunne weggefahren?”
The customer addressed broke off his conversation with his neighbour and lifted his head. He glanced at the barman, looked to see who had raised the question, then, reassured that it was not a police enquiry, answered,
The Tuzla Run Page 6
