Poachers Road ik-1

by John Brady

  “Did you see that? Best to keep the church at arm’s-length too, I tell you. It’s part of that mess too, you know but don’t tell your oma I said that.”

  “Mess?”

  “Ach,” he whispered. “It’s years since I heard anyone talk about those times. Even then, it was just like a story, or a fairy-tale, like the old ones up in the forest.”

  “What stories.”

  “I’ll do you a big favour and say nothing. That is what I will do.”

  “Nothing, about what?”

  “Ach, you are like a badger, Felix. What I’m saying is just common sense. The leopard never loses his spots. That’s all.”

  But his opa was getting up now, making the sighs and groans he used as a way to escape conversation. From the hall Felix heard Speckbauer thank Oma Nagl again. There were chuckles, and he caught most of the words: hospitable, splendid, hearty.

  “Just like your dad,” Opa Nagl murmured, half listening to the talk in the hall.

  “They are?”

  “You are.”

  “He talked about this?”

  “Talked? He bent my ear, how many times. But it was much later. This was only shortly before, well, you know. I think people get to an age and they look over their shoulder, and they get curious. If you ask me, that’s useless. I am a farmer. I get older, slower, stupider, happier. Then comes ‘freedom.’ I used to worry when I was a kid, about hell and that, but I know different now. God could be a woman. And a fine one too! That fear shit they threw at us, to keep us in line.. a crime.”

  He made a sharp gesture as though lopping a branch.

  “When I saw what they did back then… It all comes back to the same thing. Them and their stupid politics.”

  “Around here, Opa?”

  “Here? I don’t know. But the priest here is a nice fellow. Still, he must do what he is told. Tell you the truth, I feel sorry for him.

  And you know, he probably hasn’t a clue himself. If he did, he doesn’t believe any of it.”

  “Politics?”

  “No, no. You know when rats leave a sinking ship? A rat line?

  Rats are infernal bastards. Christ, they’re smarter than a room full of Jesuits. They’ll eat through anything. They can climb like frigging monkeys too. Yes, the ‘ratline.’”

  “Rats,” said Felix. “What do rats have to do with anything there?”

  “Not those rats, boy don’t be a depp. It’s people I’m talking about. The ‘ratline’ is how a lot of the bastards got away. You know who I mean — the higherups.”

  “I don’t. Who?”

  “Oh come on. The bad guys.

  “The war?”

  “Of course! But not just here in humble little Styria. I’m talking about ones from all over, and other guys, in the DP camps.

  Look, is Yugo a bad word in the city?”

  Felix nodded.

  “Okay. Well call them what you like. I am not referring to the ordinary ones, the ordinary decent folk. No these were the higherups. What did they call them, the ones down there, the ones who loved Hitler? Ustashi? Yes! That’s their name. But it wasn’t just them hiding in those camps. It was some of the ones from close to Berlin, the really black bastards. They had their escape plans ready for years. Some of them went to places like South America, can you believe it?”

  “Where did you learn all this, Opa?”

  “I forget.”

  “You read it?”

  “I said, I forget.”

  “But you know a lot.”

  “I forget a lot too. A happy man does both equally well.”

  There was something sharp in the retort. Then his grandfather’s face softened.

  “Look,” he said. “There were ‘ratlines’ everywhere.

  Switzerland, Italy, here. Some of them went right to the Vatican, they say. That’s what I’m talking about. Along with loot they’d stolen off Jews, that went with them, some of it anyway. That’s never going to see the light of day, now, is it?”

  “Up here?”

  “Why not? You ask where I heard this. It was years ago. That’s why I am ashamed to tell you. I went to Grade Six, Felix, but look at you, and Lisi Uni. Fantastic.”

  “You heard rumours, gossip?”

  “That’s it. People back then believed anything. Remember, this was after the war, when one potato was a feast. People make up stories here in the hills, it’s natural: a giant deer, or a wolf with red eyes, a giant, a mountain of gold anything.”

  “Who could tell me?”

  His grandfather leaned against the countertop and massaged his knuckles.

  “Who?”

  “Niemand,” his grandfather said. “No one.”

  The door opened and Felix’s grandmother came in giggling at something Speckbauer had said in a low voice.

  “Such kindness, I will not forget this. Truly.”

  Felix’s opa nodded at Speckbauer in return for his compliment.

  There was a sardonic glint in his eye, Felix noticed. He remembered his opa mock-grumbling about her falling for anything in uniform after Felix had shown them his Gendarmerie uniform.

  “I have asked your wife’s kind indulgence, Herr Nagl,”

  Speckbauer said. “If I might leave Franzi here a little while so that Felix and I may continue with some business that needs attending to.”

  As though on cue, Franzi appeared by the window and nodded.

  “I hope that is not an imposition.”

  “He’ll be put to work.”

  “I’m sure that will be a joy to him, Herr Nagl.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Speckbauer repeated Felix’s question.

  “How long, you say?”

  He had closed the passenger door and was trying to find a comfortable way to fit himself in the confines of the seat of Felix’s Polo.

  There was a smell of soap off him. He did not look like a man who had spent half the night in a ditch watching the comings and goings in the Nagl home.

  “Exactly,” said Felix, shielding his eyes from the morning sun.

  “How long before we get real help here?”

  “Franzi can do lots,” said Speckbauer.

  “He can barely move.”

  “Not so. He takes relaxants if he has to do exertions.”

  “So, he’ll be half-drugged, being a sleeping bodyguard for my grandparents?”

  “Is he a bodyguard?”

  “He better be. What if those guys, or that guy decides to come back.”

  “This is what we are working on, you and me. Why we’re going to pay a proper visit to that pub in Weiz. This time we lean on him.”

  “Who?”

  “I didn’t tell you? Mr. Friendly who serves up the drinks.

  Remember him? Well he does me the occasional favour. Today, it will suit him to do one. Let’s go.”

  Again Felix thought about the maps and photocopies he had put under the bed.

  “Geh’ma jetzt,” said Speckbauer with an edge of impatience.

  “Let’s go now.”

  “Give me a minute,” said Felix. “I forgot something.”

  He made it upstairs with no more than a greeting from his grandmother. When he came back into the yard, Franzi and Speckbauer were standing by the back of the Passat. Speckbauer was rummaging in the trunk. When Franzi saw Felix, he said something and held the lid down halfway. Something that Speckbauer was doing with the contents of the trunk stopped Franz closing it anymore.

  “Jesus, Franzi!” Speckbauer said, emerging from under the trunk-lid.

  Felix saw two grey sleeveless jackets over an open container, or case. They were Kevlar vests, the patrol-duty cut that he had trained in.

  Speckbauer stood upright slowly. He held the trunk lid and looked at Felix.

  “Our toy box,” he said.

  Felix didn’t want to look surprised.

  “We take things with us,” said Speckbauer.

  The metal box Felix had seen yesterday was open. Felix recognized the AUG
88 lying on one side, with its stock folded.

  “You carry that stuff?”

  “‘Stuff’?”

  “An assault rifle,” said Felix. “The same one we trained on in the Service.”

  “So,” said Speckbauer.

  “We lock them behind two doors at the post. But you, in the trunk of a car…?”

  “Okay,” said Speckbauer. “It looks serious, doesn’t it? Don’t go academic on me. Bad police, bad police state, etc. We have to move on this thing.”

  There were also electronics of some kind. They seemed to be bolted or attached to the bottom of the container.

  “In case we get lost,” said Speckbauer.

  “GPS?”

  “Yes.”

  Speckbauer let the trunk-lid up, leaned into the trunk again, and drew out the submachine gun.

  “Franzi,” he said, but did not turn toward either of them.

  “Check, safety, and then put the damned thing back on, will you?

  And quit arguing. The operation is ongoing. And for the love of Christ and his suffering Mother, stick your jacket over it.”

  “It’s going to be hot,” said Franzi. “It’ll give me a rash. The Glock is enough.”

  “You are like a kid. Give me the pistol and put the damn thing on.”

  Slowly Franzi took off his nylon Adidas jacket. He checked the clasps for the belt of the gun, undid one, and laid the submachine gun on the floor of the boot. Speckbauer twisted the safety on it several times. He pulled out and returned the stock twice. He took a furtive look over the lid of the trunk and motioned to Franzi. Franzi lifted his right arm. The skin on his upper arm was grey and pink, and lines like a map were revealed when his shirt sleeve slid back over his wrists. Speckbauer draped the belt over Franzi’s shoulder, and then held up his jacket. Felix heard Franzi grunt as he reached for the second arm of his jacket.

  “Help him, will you? He is like a puppet, a stubborn puppet.”

  Speckbauer was speaking to him. Felix put down the bag and helped Franz guide his arm slowly down the sleeve hole.

  Franzi adjusted how the gun hung under his arm. Speckbauer held up two magazines. He was muttering to himself, his upper body still bent over the lip of the trunk.

  “Okay,” said Franzi. “Three o’clock is the deal.”

  “What deal?” Felix said.

  “Three it is,” said Speckbauer. He fingered a keypad and then closed the lid on the box. He tested it after a small wirp came from somewhere inside.

  “What deal?” Felix repeated.

  Nobody answered him. Speckbauer tested the lid to the box to see it had caught on something, and was really locked. His face was flushed when he stood up.

  “Look, I’m not some clown that just tags along to run errands for you.”

  “Nobody said you were. It was Franzi I was referring to as the idiot.”

  “Why are we going in my car?”

  “Because it’ll show you have left.”

  “Show who? You think the house is being watched?”

  “I don’t know. But anyone passing can see a car parked here.

  That’s on purpose.”

  “The police car here?”

  “Is it a police car? It’s a car that Franzi may need. We may have to change our approach later in the day.”

  “My grandparents have a clue what’s going on.”

  “They have a guest. Isn’t that enough? A friend of their beloved grandson.”

  “If they see the AUG he’s carrying”

  “Franzi will not be displaying it. Now calm down. What’s with the bag anyway? Let’s go. Komm.”

  Without any will on his part, Felix found himself following him across the yard. His anger swirled around the leaden, crushing feeling that had already settled on him. It was one of those middle-ofthe-night-wake-up-for-no-reason feelings he remembered all the way back to childhood, when for a while he didn’t know if he was really awake.

  Speckbauer was already pulling the passenger door closed behind him. The Polo squeaked as Speckbauer wriggled about trying to get the safety belt organized.

  Felix stood by the driver’s side and looked back at the house.

  Franzi was strolling toward the kitchen door, walking in that careful stiff way, moving his right arm in small arcs. The morning sun had reached the geraniums in the window boxes now, and the stained wood looked sharp and darker in the light. Felix thought of what Giuliana would be doing now. She’d be awake, maybe brooding what to do finally with her stupid boyfriend. The last straw, this one lousy week’s holiday, the precious time they’d waited a whole long winter for: screwed.

  Speckbauer was tapping on the window. Felix threw the bag in the back seat and sat in behind the wheel.

  “Any maps in this shitbox of yours?” said Speckbauer, craning to see some that had slid onto the floor from the bag. “Do we need them?”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  They were pulling into a decent parking spot in Weiz, close to the town hall at the top end of the old hauplatz, within 20 minutes. Speckbauer was out quickly. He bought a two-hour ticket from the machine.

  “It’ll be a nice surprise,” he said, and slammed his door hard.

  “For Mr. Smiley.”

  Felix fell into step beside him. The streets were already busy.

  Small groups of kids were making their way along by the shops toward school. A pasty-faced assistant was sluicing the leftovers of a bucket of disinfectant along the sidewalk by the door to the butcher’s. The smell from a bakery began to overcome the faint dieselly tang as they walked along. A man brushing in the doorway greeted them.

  “He’s not a fool,” Speckbauer said. “But if I think he’s spinning me one… ”

  Felix tried to remember what ‘Mr. Smiley’ looked like.

  Designer stubble, yes, and white shirt, open two buttons. An earring too?

  “Here we go,” said Speckbauer. “His pad.”

  He turned down a lane with cars parked tight to the walls of the houses. After a dozen steps he slowed and looked up at a first floor window. The blinds were drawn.

  “Come here,” he said to Felix and stepped into an alcove.

  “Watch this.”

  He took out his phone and began keying through a list.

  Felix watched the traffic passing the mouth of the laneway while they waited for the call to go through. Then Speckbauer began speaking.

  “Kurt? This is your friend from Graz. I need your expertise. I’m on the road now. Concerning that matter up in the hills recently?

  I’ll be there in fifteen, okay?”

  He closed the phone and leaned out to take a look up at the window again.

  “Answering machine.”

  “Kurt is actually the boss in that pub?”

  “Kurt, yeah. Krutziturken Kurt, I call him. ‘Mr. Smiley.’ He thinks if he smiles a lot, people will trust him. He spent a lot of money on those teeth. He had to I guess after, well — he’s proud of them.”

  “He’s an informer?”

  “‘An informer?’ I am not the Gestapo, for Christ’s sake. He is a ‘helper.’”

  “He does it voluntarily?”

  “No. Kurt’s a low-life. But he’d swear otherwise. Was he nice to you yesterday?”

  “As a matter of fact he was.”

  “Huh. He made you the minute you walked in there. He’s good at that. But he’s like the rest of his kind. No conscience.”

  Speckbauer looked at his watch.

  “Three minutes, if my brain is working today. Bet me, okay?”

  “What is that?”

  “Kurt doesn’t want trouble. Like any businessman he wants to be left alone with his interests. His housewives, and his salesmen and his coke and his operations.”

  “He’s actually a criminal?”

  “Well yes, a criminal. Log on when you get back to work, and slap in his name into an EKIS search. You could light up your house by what shows up on the screen.”

  “And he runs a pub?”r />
  “Why can’t he run a pub? This is a democracy.”

  “And carries on with criminal operations?”

  “Criminal — well, textbook, yes: I suppose. You think it’s just for a beer you go into his place? People get bored, you know. They want excitement. They want thrills.”

  “He’s not arrested?”

  “Why should I do that? Now what use oh shit. What did I tell you?”

  Speckbauer pressed his back against the wooden door. The footsteps were hurried, almost skipping. He waited until the footsteps came closer.

  Felix couldn’t help but smile. Kurt actually jumped when Speckbauer stepped out into the laneway.

  “You stupid donkey,” said Speckbauer. “I think you’re not even awake.”

  Kurt stopped rolling his eyes and swearing.

  “Who is this one?”

  “My colleague.”

  “I knew it. I’ve seen him. Jesus!”

  His chest was still heaving from the fright. His eyes kept darting around, to the traffic passing the mouth of the laneway from Speckbauer to Felix.

  “Schweineri Kurt, but you’re hyper. What has you out here?

  Jogging?”

  “I have to go on a message.”

  “No doubt. Heading down to Piran again, maybe? Pluck a few early birds, some German hippies maybe?”

  Felix tried to place Piran on a map in his head. An old town on the Adriatic, he remembered. Old buildings, nice walks, lots of stone, and not far. It was maybe four hours’ drive, he guessed, and it was still in Slovenia.

  “Hell no.”

  “Kurt likes to offer his time to ladies visiting Piran and the like.

  Bored women from Germany are his focus. Women of a certain age, and income, of course.”

  “What’s the big deal, for Christ’s sake,” said Kurt. “We all have our thing. Have dummies in Brussels passed a law saying it’s illegal to have fun now?”

  “Brussels? Is that where you’re heading now?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “We need your advice, Kurt.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? You treat your answering machine like a grenade with the pin pulled.”