All afternoon she'd been re-organizing the house - the twins were having to share again for the time being. She'd set up a cot for Ms Sorensen in Nataga's room and another in the living room for her translator. They'd asked to stay until Vildana had settled in.
For the past twenty minutes they'd been sitting around the kitchen table fidgeting, the twins refusing to go to bed. Then they saw headlights outside.
They opened the front door and gathered excitedly round the Land Cruiser, their eager stares answered by three, blank, exhausted faces.
Lorna twisted her mouth into a smile and got out of the car.
'Hi, I'm Lorna,' she said wearily. 'And this is Vildana.' She helped the girl from the back seat and stood with her arm round her.
'Hi, Vildana. Welcome to our family,' said Colonel Roche, shaking her hand.
'Does she speak any English at all?' he asked, turning to Lorna.
'Well no, but ... Vildana? D'you remember?'
The girl could hardly keep her eyes open. Josip prompted her gently.
'I am vair 'appy . . .' she whispered.
'Hey! That's great!' Nancy declared, giving her a hug.
'I taught her that on the way here,' Lorna confided. 'Boy, that was a drive and a half!'
'You must be wrecked. Let's get you and your stuff inside,' Roche said.
'Scott and Ella can give a hand.'
Nancy settled Vildana on a stool at the kitchen breakfast bar and confronted her with a plateful of food. Vildana latched onto Nataga as soon as she discovered she was from Bosnia.
Lorna carried her laptop into the house.
'If you want to go on line, I've got everything you need in my den,' Roche told her.
She thought for a moment. She should e-mail that they'd arrived safely, and pick up her messages ... Too tired, though. Leave it until the morning.
She stood in the kitchen doorway and watched Vildana slowly warming to the attention she was getting. It brought a lump to her throat. In the past few days the girl had begun to feel like a daughter. Now she was handing her over to someone else ...
Still, she thought, at least she'll be safe here.
Twenty-two
Saturday 2nd April, late afternoon Berlin
Although Gisela Pocklewicz earned her living by inflicting pain on others, she knew it was she who was the real victim. The child of a prostitute, there had never been any equality of the sexes in her world. Experience showed women were born so they could be used by men. No point in fighting it.
Her personal relationships had done nothing to change that outlook. She saw them as barter deals - she gave sex, the man gave protection.
Milan Pravic had been generous with the security side of things during the two years they'd lived together and he had demanded little in return. The relationship with him was the closest she'd ever come to loving a man. A strange, damaged creature who seldom looked her in the eye, she'd caught glimpses of the fire that burned inside him. It had drawn her, but she suspected that if she tried to discover what fuelled it, she could be fatally burned.
Excitement at the thought of his return to Berlin had switched to anxiety in the last few days. He had told her he was coming here to hide, but had refused to say why.
She had her suspicions, knowing the hatred that smouldered in his soul and the violence he was capable of. She'd watched the TV pictures of Bosnian atrocities, fearing he could be involved. In the jungle she inhabited, men killing each other was fair enough, but if Milan had murdered women and children ...
She had missed the small, inside-page paragraphs of the newspapers reporting that the UN War Crimes Tribunal wanted to question him about the massacre at Tulici.
It would be evening soon, and this being Saturday, she would be busy. The apartment where the clients came was two blocks away from the one where she lived. Paying two rent bills was hard, but it preserved her sanity. The fee Dunkel had given her would ease things for a while.
Konrad dropped Milan Pravic at Alexanderplatz in the centre of Berlin. His contract with the Bosnian now complete, he headed with relief to the apartment in Lichtenberg where his wife would prepare him dinner.
Pravic found a phone that took coins and rang Gisela.
'Schdtzchen!' she shrieked. 'You're in Berlin? Why not here? I was expecting you. Are you coming?'
'Have the police been?' he asked gruffly.
'Police? No. Why?' Her suspicions and her fears deepened.
'Never mind. Meet me in the Café Luxembourg in fifteen minutes.'
'But. . .'
'Just do it!' He banged the receiver down. She wouldn't defy him.
He ducked from under the hood of the booth. It was still daylight in the huge, bleak square where winds, deflected by the tall 1960s slabs, eddied round small groups of refugees wrapped against the unseasonable cold.
He plunged into the dank warmth of the U-Bahn station. It was two stops to Rosenthaler Platz, the train crowded with the last of the afternoon shoppers.
Strange to be back. Such orderliness after the devastation of Bosnia.
He heard his own language. There were tens of thousands of Bosnians in Berlin. Muslims mostly. Odd to think that in the Laéva valley he'd have shot them full of holes.
Gisela was at the bar, waiting, dressed in black as always. Short skirt, pullover and a little jacket. Cropped black hair, black eyelashes caked with mascara.
Gisela was frightened by now. She'd planned to greet him with a kiss and a hug but when he walked through the door, she changed her mind. The expressionless look, the close-clipped hair and glasses, the cold eyes nervously checking every face in view - this wasn't the man she remembered. There'd been a sea change in him.
Without a word, he gripped her elbow and hustled her to a table in a dark corner.
'What's up? What's the matter?' she protested.
'I want a beer.'
Gisela gestured to the waitress. When the order was taken and the girl moved away, she slipped her hand over Milan's.
'Aren't you even going to say hello to me?'
Pravic ignored her, pulled away his hand and downed half the glass.
Once or twice before she'd known him like this, caged by some obsession, unable to relate to her or to anyone.
'Why did you ask if the police had been round?' She was desperate to know.
His scowl convinced her it had been a mistake to ask. For two full minutes he said nothing.
'You know someone who has computer?' he asked suddenly, eyes boring into her.
'Why? You want to buy one?'
'No. I need someone who use computer to read messages.
'What for?' she asked.
He grabbed her hand and crushed it until her eyes watered.
'Don't ask things. . .' he growled. Just tell me! You know someone?'
She kneaded her knuckles. She'd never known him this manic, this dangerous.
'I don't know,' she sniffed. 'I'll have to ask around in some of the other places. Not this bar. Don't know anybody who comes in here.'
She guessed Milan had chosen Café Luxembourg so that no one would recognize them.
'You must find person tonight. Someone who can do Internet,' he demanded.
'Internet? What's that? Anyway I can't do anything tonight, love, I'm working,' she protested, heedlessly.
He leaned forward, gripping her hand again. Gisela saw the flames; knew they'd consume her if she wasn't very, very careful.
'Tonight, you work for me,' he breathed. 'You want ... I pay.' He pulled a wad of notes from his trouser pocket.
'You don't need that, Milanchen,' she soothed, trying to calm him. 'I'll sort something out. Somehow.'
She'd got clients booked, but there'd be gaps when she could slip out to the bars and look around. There were people who did computer stuff. Con-men and fraudsters. just a question of finding them.
'You coming home with me?' she queried, eager to get on with it. 'You can watch the television and I'll ring you there when I've found
someone.'
He shook his head and tapped the table.
'No. You come here when you find.' He looked at his watch. It was still early, Berlin's nightlife only just starting. 'At eleven I come back to Café Luxembourg and wait.'
'Aren't you staying with me tonight, then?' she pouted, feigning unhappiness. Privately she didn't want him in his present state.
'No.'
'Where, then? Where will you sleep?'
Another woman? Not likely. Milan had shown little interest in sex in the two years they'd been together.
'I find some place. Then I come here and wait. But, Gisie ... you must find me someone with computer Internet. Understand must?'
She understood. She left her drink half-finished.
8.25 p.m. Frankfurt
Alex climbed the stairs to his second-floor room in the dingy hotel, feeling he'd wasted a day.
The previous evening he'd taken the S-Bahn from the airport to the Central Station, found a cheap bed, then got drunk in one of the smoky, apple wine taverns in Sachsenhausen.
This morning he'd spent nursing his head. Hadn't had a hangover that bad for years.
With the transatlantic time difference, there'd been no point in phoning Boston again until mid-afternoon, but the wait had been like watching paint dry.
He'd phoned at three-thirty, not knowing if the CareNet office would be manned on a Saturday. Bella had answered again. Sorry, she'd said. No e-mail from Lorna yet.
He'd called again at half-past-eight. Still nothing, but Bella offered to message Lorna with his hotel phone number. She sounded sorry for him, which made him suspect he was making a fool of himself after all.
He'd bought some German newspapers, then sat in a Macdonald's picking at the text with his school German and a pocket dictionary. In the Frankfurte Allgemeine a headline had caught his eye. Selbstmord in Leipzig - Suicide in Leipzig.
Siegfried Kernmer, a microbiologist in Leipzig University's Department of Veterinary Medicine had hanged himself, it said. University authorities blamed depression at his being made redundant, but his daughter claimed there were other reasons outlined in a suicide note she'd not been allowed to see. The police spokesman denied there'd ever been such a note.
Kernmer, the paper reported, had worked on dangerous pathogens, including Milzbrand. Alex thumbed the dictionary.
Milzbrand m. (med.vet) - Anthrax.
The stuff of germ warfare. He remembered that experiments with it in the fiffies or sixties on some Scottish island had made the place uninhabitable for decades.
Odd to put the story on the front page like that. It was almost as if the paper sensed it was on the trail of some huge scandal.
Inside he'd found Bosnian news. Rumblings in the Bonn parliament - fears that with over 200,000 Bosnian refugees in the country, the war might come to Germany. Uproar that in a few days' time Bosnian Muslims were holding a political rally in Munich, to be addressed by militants from Iran and Lebanon.
Not surprised they're worried, he thought. Europe's worst nightmare was the prospect of the Bosnian war spreading.
He'd hurried back to the hotel after his meal - in case Lorna rang.
The Roche household slept until midmorning that Saturday. After a huge brunch, Lorna sat in the big kitchen watching Vildana learn to make brownies. She had to hand it to Nancy Roche; the woman had handled the kid with panache.
Welcoming without being overpowering, motherly but without smothering her.
The Roche twins were finding it less easy to adjust to the newcomer in the nest. Vildana was a couple of years older, and they seemed to suspect the girl's arrival might downgrade their own position in the family.
Nancy had begged Lorna to stay the weekend - to provide continuity, she'd said - and since Lorna's own plans were vague, she'd agreed.
Larry Machin, her boss at CareNet had telephoned at 2.00 a.m. He'd forgotten the time difference and wanted to check she'd arrived safely.
He told her the agency had no plans for another run into Bosnia for several weeks, so she could stand the operation down and come home.
Josip appeared at her elbow, his suitcase packed and his anorak over his arm. Time to take him to the airport for his early afternoon flight back to Zagreb.
In the noisy drop-off zone on the departure level, she thanked him profusely for all his work and for his sweetness to Vildana. He insisted on a farewell kiss. It turned out to be rather more than a peck on the cheek, but she was content to indulge him for once.
'Bye, Josip. We'll give you a call when we go back to Bosnia, okay,' she waved, climbing into the Toyota. It wouldn't be her going back there, she'd decided, whatever Larry Machin said.
On the drive back to Pfefferheim all she could think about was Alex. She now had a real fear that she had driven him away.
Later that afternoon, Irwin Roche felt a little surplus to requirements, the task of settling Vildana in having been taken over by the women in his household. Fidgeting, he watched from a distance as the girl was shown the family photo albums to give her an idea of what life would be like in America. He retreated to his den. Then around five, he emerged again and sought out Lorna.
'Sure I can't interest you in using my computer,' he grinned. 'Check your e-mail, maybe?'
'Hey thanks, I forgot! I'll never get the habit.'
He led her into his small study and confused her with talk about megabytes and baud rates. He sat her in front of the keyboard, then backed out of the room.
'I'll leave you to it. Give a shout if you need help.'
It was the same Windows system she was used to, so she was soon through to her mailbox on the Internet. Two messages, the screen said.
Saturday morning.
Loma. Somebody dropped in your letter today with the film.
Great! Larg'll be orbital when he hears. He thinks the CNN report was great. Not seen any checks yet, though! Getting the shots printed today, then I'll deliver the rest to Annie personally. The guy who called yesterday has called again. Sounds real sweet. Hope you got the last message I sent you. Does he have a chance???
He's calling tonight too, so I could pass a message i you want. In strictest confidence, of course!
Bella.
Lorna's pulse quickened. What last message? She hit the return key.
Friday nite.
Loma. Some guy called from Frankfurt, saying he's got to see you. Said his name was Alex. He's in Frankfurt and wants to know where you are? He said he LOVES you! Let me know what to say to the poor man! Bella (a.k.a. Cupid) Lorna stared at the screen in disbelief She read it again. And again.
Alex had followed her to Frankfurt! Her face twitched into a grin.
She began to type a reply. Bella should still be in the office at this time. Then she stopped herself Hang on, kid, she told herself. You're doing it again. Running, the minute he snaps his fingers.
She dropped her hands to her knees. He'd come this far, she calculated, he'd not give up that easy. Let him sweat just a little longer.
She clicked on the mouse and logged off.
Iran
Dr Hamid Akhavi had felt the first shivers last night when he'd reported back to the Minister for Energy in Tehran. He'd put it down to lack of sleep and the long flight to and from Zagreb.
Back home now in the secret desert compound near Yazd, his wife had put him to bed. This evening his symptoms had worsened. Soaring temperature, pains in the chest and a cough that racked his body. His wife wanted to call the doctor, even if it was the middle of the night, but Harnid persuaded her to wait to see if he was better in the morning.
Nizhnaya-Tura, Russia
Colonel Pavel Kulikov felt on top of the world. The down payment he'd brought back from Zagreb meant he could begin distributing the hard currency that was the life-blood of his illegal activities.
At the Strategic Rocket Forces weapons dismantling site east of the Urals, work had ground to a halt in recent days because of equipment breakdowns.
Lack of spar
e parts was rapidly reducing the whole process to chaos, a situation that he could only welcome. Chaos gave corruption more to feed on.
Removal of plutonium from the plant would have to be a gradual business, to prevent its absence being noticed. Could be months before he'd have enough for the first shipment across the Caspian Sea to Iran.
His journey back from Zagreb had been painfully tedious - air eight-hour delay in his connecting flight from Moscow to Sverdlovsk. At one point as he'd sat waiting for the flight, a tickle at the back of the throat made him wonder if he was getting a cold. But it went away as it usually did.
He didn't often get ill. Not surprising, considering all the vaccinations he'd had as an officer responsible for the security of dangerous weapons.
Berlin, after midnight
Pravic had been drinking schnapps with beer chasers. He'd found a cheap room to stay in and had returned to the Café Luxembourg by eleven. It was a dull place with prints of old Berlin on the walls, trying to be respectable in an area of sleaze. There was only one other customer and the manager wanted to close for the night.
The wait for Gisela and the alcohol on an empty stomach had turned his anxiety to anger. If the barman tried to throw him out he would take him by the throat.
At twenty minutes past the hour Gisela pushed through the door, flustered and short of breath. Pravic tried to read her face through the blur.
'Quick,' she whispered loudly. 'The man's waiting up for you.'
Pravic abandoned the rest of his beer. The manager hurried over with his purse. Pravic peeled a couple of notes from the wad and pulled Gisela to the door.
'It's in Wedding. You'll need a taxi,' she told him when they were outside in the street. She handed him a note with the name and address. 'A bloke I know rang him from the bar and asked him to help. Said he owed him a favour.'
Scorpion Trail Page 24
