'There's a message from Major Allison, sir,' the sergeant whispered.
'From Farnham. Said he's arriving on a plane getting in at eight this evening, and could you meet him. You've rooms booked in the Park Hotel.'
'Mike Allison? I didn't know he was coming out.'
'Said something about needing to sort out the mess, sir.'
'Mmm.' Sounded like head-teacher was on his way down with the cane.
'You'll be leaving the truck here sir, as usual?'
'Yes. Yes, I suppose so.'
'Need any transport into Split?'
'Umm.' He thought for a moment. 'No. I've remembered there's a Lada Nivajeep here somewhere. Belongs to Bosnia Emergency. Moray and I used it last weekend, when we were loading up.'
'Got the keys in my office, sir.'
After driving the four-tonner, the Niva felt like a toy. Forty minutes it would take to get into town, then a quick shower and he'd find Lorna.
Lurking at the back of his mind was a sneaking fear she might just disappear now she'd got what she wanted from him.
Lorna kneeled on her bed in the Hotel Split, rubbing Vildana's damp hair with a towel. She sang softly.
The girl had locked her out of the bathroom when taking her shower, the click of the bolt a painful reminder of her own daughter's indifference to love and affection.
Josip was in the room next door. She'd get him to take Vildana to a restaurant for a meal once they were both clean and dressed.
'Mmmm, you smell so good, sweetie,' she said. She hugged her, rocking from side to side, then kissed her on the cheek just beside the livid strawberry mark.
'You're going to be okay, Vildana. That's a promise.'
The girl had understood none of what she'd said, but decided it would be Wise to smile.
Lorna bit her lip.
In the bag Vildana had brought from the refugee centre, there was a clean pair of jeans and another pullover.
'Tomorrow, sweetheart, we're going to get you some new clothes. Something real pretty.'
Vildana pulled the towel wrap tighter and took the clothes back into the privacy of the bathroom to put stream rinse the tension from her neck and shoulders. Then she Washed quickly and reached for a towel.
Half-an-hour later, Alex drove over from the Park Hotel and walked into the reception area.
'Lorna Donohue?' he asked at reception.
The middle-aged woman behind the desk frowned. 'Not here. No one that narne.'
'An American woman. May have had a young girl with her.'
'Ah, yes.' The receptionist riffled through a stack of passports.
'Mrs Sorensen. And her daughter called Julie Sorensen.
'Daughter?'
'Yes.' The receptionist held up a second American passport.
'Oh. I see. And their room number?'
'Two-three-seven.'
'Thank you.'
Daughter! So that's how she planned to get Vildana out of Croatia. On her own child's passport. And she was married. Or had been.
He waited for the lift, but when it gave no sign of life, took to the stairs, passing signs for the UN and the EC Monitoring Mission which used the hotel as a base.
Two-three-seven. On the right. The door was closed. He tapped.
Nothing. He tapped again.
'Who is it?' Lorna's voice, tetchy and distant.
'Alex.'
Silence.
'Hang on a minute.'
Two minutes later the sound of feet scuffing carpet. She pulled open the door.
'I'm on line to the States. . .' She darted back to the writing-table and the glowing screen of her laptop computer.
'I'm impressed,'Alex said.
'Just got to download my e-mail,' she explained.
He stood right behind her and watched. She smelled of shampoo. Her hair was soft and fluffy, her shoulders round and bony under the clean tee-shirt. He badly wanted to caress the soft curve of her neck, but dared not touch.
'Sit down. You're making me nervous,' she told him.
He perched on the edge of the bed.
She typed 'EXIT', the computer screen flickered and cleared. Then she thumbed the roller-ball to enter a new Windows file.
Just got to read this stuff again . . .' she murmured. 'But it seems like it's all fixed.'
She grabbed a notebook, then scribbled down names and phone numbers read from the screen.
At last she logged off and powered down the computer.
'It's Germany,' she told him, n8ringing round in her chair. Her eyes burned excitedly. 'They've found a family in Germany. An Air Force colonel and his wife, two kids of their own, and would you believe, a Yugoslav child nurse. Isn't that amazing?'
'An American colonel?'
'Sure, sure. His tour of duty finishes in a year and then they go back to Milwaukee. Vildana will go with them, if it all works out.'
'And you got all that out of your computer?' Alex asked, astonished.
'On-line, through the phone, to the Internet. CareNet runs a bulletin board for families who want to adopt. I posted a notice there two days ago, and it's all happened lickety-split.'
'Sort of shopping by computer? Kids off the peg.'
She looked wounded.
'I know it sounds like that. But believe me every subscriber gets checked out real good.'
'In just two days?' he asked incredulously.
'Look. Larry Machin, the guy who runs CareNet, he's got a million contacts. He knows loads of people in the Air Force, the church, in politics. He wouldn't have said this family's okay if he had any doubts.'
But she wasn't that certain. He could see it in her eyes. She turned away. You just had to trust people sometimes. And she trusted Machin.
Alex glimpsed at his watch. It was an old Swiss windup Lorna had given him in Belfast. Twenty-past-seven.
'Christ I'm meant to be at the airport. The guy who runs my organization is arriving at eight.'
He took hold of her hands.
'Lorna, we've got to talk some more,' he said.
'Sure. But not now,' she answered, giving his hands a light squeeze, then pulling hers free. 'There's too much still to fix, and anyway you've got to be going.'
'I'll come back later, okay?'
'I'm not sure. . .'
'When are you going to Germany?'
'Tomorrow if there's a ferry to Ancona. I've got to check.'
'With Vildana travelling on your daughter's passport?'
She froze and stared at him. How did he know that? Then she remembered the receptionist had their documents.
'Sure. On Julie's passport. She has dark hair too, and I can cover Vildana's birthmark with make-up,' she declared defiantly.
Alex thought for a moment. He could see a problem.
'But Julie's passport doesn't have an entry stamp...'
Lorna looked unsettled. She hadn't thought of that.
'You think it matters?' she whispered.
'If your passport has the stamp and hers doesn't, they may ask questions. And when they find your "daughter" only speaks SerboCroat. . .'
'Maybe Josip, can bribe someone, like he did today.'
'Risky ... I may know a better way. I'll ring you later, when I've sorted things out.'
'No. Vildana's going to be sleeping in here. I don't want her woken up. I'll call you about eleven.'
He gave her his room number at the Park Hotel.
'Got to go.'
He held her by the shoulders. She felt frail.
He kissed her dry lips. She pushed him away, looking at him from the corner of her eyes, as if to say don't get it.
Eighteen
Thursday 31st March, 10.25 a.m.
Zagreb
It was a grey, wintry morning in the Croatian capital. A damp mist of pollution contaminated the streets. On people's faces there was weariness, and a lurking fear that the day could not be far away when war would return to their part of what used to be Yugoslavia.
Milan Pravic slipped out o
f his sister's apartment in Novi Zagreb without a word. Living there was getting on his nerves. He would strangle that baby soon if it woke him with its crying any more. Only a few days to go and he would be gone, thank God.
He pressed the lift button. No green light. Stuck again. Some stupid bastards had left a door open probably.
He took to the stairs. Going down six floors was fine, coming up wasn't so funny.
On the way he passed pale women dragging toddlers up with them. Everyone looked pale living here in these tall damp towers.
'Broken down again,' one of them complained, as if he was responsible.
'Four times in a month. It's too much.'
He ignored them. Wasn't his fault the lift didn't work.
The message from Dieter Konrad said to meet him in the bar of Hotel Dubrovnik on what he still called Republic Square, despite the name change after Croatian independence.
The tram that would take him there stopped five minutes' walk away.
Plenty of time.
He still didn't know what Konrad wanted. A 'job' in Zagreb was all Gisela had said. The reward - ten thousand Deutsche marks, a false passport to get him safely over the border, and a ride back to Berlin in Konrad's car.
Germany was his second home. He'd lived there five years before the war summoned him back to Bosnia. He'd worked building offices and hotels, installing airconditioning.
And Gisela? She was 'home' too. She'd said she'd be glad to have him live with her again. Had another 'protector' these days, but the man was gay, and wouldn't get in the way.
Gisela. She was the only woman he'd ever felt tenderness for. The only one he hadn't needed to hurt.
The blue number 6 tram took him from the monotonous towers of Novi Zagreb, across the River Sava into the classical mid-European splendour of the Lower Town. He got off in Republic Square. The sun was breaking through, the warmth of spring in the air.
The Dubrovnik Hotel was part Austro-Hungarian, part modern, a confusing place where guests had been known to get lost. Pravic walked through the lobby and into the small bar. He didn't notice Konrad at first. Looking older than when he'd last seen him a few years back, he hugged a corner like a shadow. The raising of an eyebrow finally caught Pravic's attention.
Konrad got up and walked towards the door, ignoring him. Pravic followed a dozen paces behind. They crossed separately to the other side of the square. A pedestrian zone with trams the only traffic, a fountain splashed at one end. Konrad headed for a bench encircling the base of an ornate lamp standard.
'Good thing you sent me those passport photos,' he declared when Pravic joined him. 'Wouldn't have recognized you with short hair and glasses.
Gisela sends her love.'
Tourists were rare in Zagreb since Yugoslavia became synonymous with war. One or two climbed the steps to the old town from this square, taking pictures on the way. Most were couples, but there was one man on his own, with a British Airways bag over his shoulder, and the broken nose of a rugby player.
The lone tourist wandered across the square, looking as if he was trying to get his bearings. Then he took the cap off his camera lens and adjusted the zoom to its maximum focal length.
The two men on the bench almost filled the frame. The younger, short-haired one seemed a little startled at something he was being told.
11.10 am.
Split, Croatia
'We've got file footage of Tulici,' the American reporter told Lorna. 'And we'll take shots of you three driving down the road together.'
'Uh-oh. That's not too clever,' Lorna cautioned her. journalists always assumed too much, particularly the female ones. 'You draw attention to us like that, and somebody might say - hey guys, what's going on here?
It's going to be tough enough as it is, getting Vildana out of the country.'
'We'll be sneaky. Nobody'll see us. Don't you worry about it.'
The camera team from CNN were packing up. Vildana stood on the balcony overlooking the sea and stared back into the room, bewildered, excited and frightened by the attention she'd been getting that morning.
It hadn't been Lorna's idea to tell the world that she was smuggling the only eye-witness of the Tulici massacre out of the country. She'd been instructed to do it in an e-mail message from Larry Machin in Boston. He'd already told CNN headquarters in Atlanta they could have the story exclusively if they undertook not to broadcast it until Vildana was safe.
'Tell them it's because CareNet uses state-of-the-art computer technology that we've been able to place the kid so fast.' That was the message he wanted her to put across. 'Publicity like this could bring in millions in donations.'
The camera team had taped Loma tapping away at her notebook computer, with Vildana watching uncomprehendingly while covering her birthmark with a hand. The woman had asked about the threat to Vildana's life, but Lorna had refused to say how she'd brought the girl to Split, and rejected a request for an interview with Vildana herself Loma hated the publicity machine, but Larry Machin was not a man to be crossed.
'This is the number of the Atlanta newsdesk.' The CNN correspondent handed her a card.
'Call them collect as soon as you're safe, so they can transmit the piece. Okay?'
'Okay.'
'And you've not talked to any other media, right?'
'Right.'
'Great. Well thank you Lorna. And thanks Vildana. Good luck!'
She shook hands all round. The cameraman and recordist clattered out of the room with their equipment. The correspondent followed, then turned in the doorway.
'Oh, I meant to tell you I'm flying back home to the States tomorrow,' she said. 'Anything you want me to take for you? Letters maybe?'
Lorna thought for a moment.
'Oh my God, yes! The camera! Larry wants pictures.'
Her Nikon was on the bed and she'd forgotten to use it.
'Can you give me a few minutes to take some shots? No. I've a better idea.
Your office is here in the hotel, right?'
'Sure. One floor up. Room three-two-eight.'
'Give me ten minutes and I'll bring you an envelope with a film in it.
Okay?'
'No problem. I'll be editing for the next couple of hours, anyway.'
Lorna plugged in the flash and showed Josip how to use it. Then she put her arm round Vildana and they posed at the table with the computer.
Josip took two shots, but then couldn't wind on any further.
'It is finish,' he suggested, passing her the camera.
'Fine. We've got enough. Thanks.'
She took back the Nikon, rewound the film and removed the cassette. Then she closed her fingers round it, remembering it contained shots of Alex taken in the Bosnian village where they'd met.
She despatched Josip to ask at reception for envelopes, then scrawled a note to Machin, telling him what was on the film, and asking him to post the pictures that weren't of Vildana to her sister in Boston. Then she wrote another note.
Dearest Annie,
You will NEVER guess who the guy with the beard is, standing next to me in a couple of these photos!
His name begins with the letter 'A'...
See you soon. Loma.
Josip returned, successful. Lorna addressed the envelopes, put the one for her sister inside the one to Machin containing the film and hurried down the corridor to the stairway.
She nearly collided with Alex coming out of the lift.
'I'll be back in a minute,' she said hurriedly, walking briskly down the corridor.
As arranged, she had telephoned him last night. He'd told her about his gloomy meeting with Mike Allison, who reckoned Bosnia Emergency had been all but crippled by the publicity surrounding McFee. He had also said that he knew of a way to put a stamp in her daughter's passport.
Alex found the door to her room open.
'Morning Josip. Hello Vildana.' He smiled at the girl and gave her a hug.
Vildana almost looked excited and had colour back i
n her cheeks.
Lorna returned breathless.
'Okay,' she panted. 'What's next? I've got so much to do before the ferry tonight, Vildana has to have some clothes.'
The girl looked nervous again, not understanding what was on offer but sensing tension.
'As I said on the phone, I think I can fix that passport for you, Lorna,'
Alex reminded her. 'But there are some things I need to buy. Can I borrow Josip for half an hour? And your Land Cruiser? My boss has nicked my Lada.'
'Sure.' She gave him the keys. 'See you in a while. Not too long, huh?'
Josip knew the town well. They toured dry-cleaning establishments until they found one prepared to sell them di-ethylene glycol. Translating the chemical name proved beyondJosip's powers, but asking for ball-point pen ink remover produced the desired result.
They were back in the hotel within the hour, after stopping ata toy shop to buy a child's paintbrush.
Alex took the two American passports into Josip's room. He'd never done this before and didn't want people watching. He'd been told the technique by a minder at the safe house where M15 had hidden him after the pull-out from Belfast.
First he opened the passport of Lorna's daughter. No stamps. Looked totally unused.
Julie Maria Sorensen - born 18,July 1980.
Nearly fourteen now, but the photo was younger. Pretty kid. Dark hair, Re Lorna had said. Not much else that resembled Vildana. Hope immigration don't look too closely, he thought. Curiously vacant expression. The girl hadn't been looking at the camera.
He spread open Lorna's passport. Her photo had been taken in a studio, hair immaculate, soft lighting, Just the hint of a smile. Not her, the style.
Done to please her husband probably. He wondered if he was still around.
He flicked through the pages until he found last Saturday's entry stamp to Croatia. He checked his materials. Bottle of fluid, brush, writing paper, tissues.
He dipped the fine-pointed brush in the liquid and dabbed off the excess.
Steadying his hand, he painted the Glycol in a thin coat over the black ink outline of the entry stamp. Then, replenishing the brush, he traced the letters of the word 'Split' and the date.
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