Scorpion Trail

by Archer, Jeffrey

  He walked to the rear of the Mercedes, took out a flashlight and guided Konrad back up the drive. Sanders slipped behind the wheel of the BMW and followed closely.

  Ten minutes later they headed north on the Bundesstrasse. Sanders gripped the wheel of the BMW in total concentration. He knew what he had to do, knew it was something he'd never done before, knew if he allowed himself to think too much, his nerve would crack.

  In the back, Konrad sat beside Katzfuss, gripping the sides of the small case perched on his knees. They drove for less than fifteen minutes, then turned onto a mud track. Konrad knew these woods. The way led to a lake where he'd fished for pike.

  No houses here. He was sure of it.

  'So,' said Katzfuss, struggling to sound calm, 'we're here. just a little walk.'

  'There are no houses here,' Konrad croaked, frozen to the seat.

  'It's a fishing cabin. You haven't noticed it before? Well that shows what a good safe house it is. Come along. It's three minutes.'

  Katzfuss got out of the car. Sanders hovered in the darkness, shining a torch on the ground.

  'What are you waiting for Herr Konrad? Someone to carry your bag? It's not that sort of place,' Katzfuss laughed hollowly. So did Sanders.

  Konrad opened the door. Legs like lead, throat desert-dry. Somewhere in this murk death lurked. He could smell his own fear. Should he run?

  They'd shoot him for sure. Maybe if he played along with them there was a chance. just a chance ...

  Katzfuss led the way, flashlight lighting up the mud of a path. Konrad next, then Sanders, shining his torch forward.

  The smell of decaying weed told Konrad they were within metres of the water.

  When he'd fished for that pike here, months ago, he'd identified with it - a predator in a pool of torpidity. Sensed that one day he too would swallow a hook disguised as bait, because like the fish, decades of trickery had not equipped him to avoid the trickery of others.

  As they squelched deeper into the blackness he knew the end had come. He tasted the salt of tears. His eyes began to blur. All he'd wanted was to live out his days in the peace of the forest, doing no one harm any more.

  His wife would be asleep in their warm, soft bed, knowing nothing about what he'd done in the past. He prayed she never learned the truth.

  'Shh!' Katzftiss held up a hand for them to stop. Pitch black all around, he shielded the beam of his torch. 'Something's wrong. There should be lights in the house.'

  They listened for a moment, none of them breathing.

  'Wait here a minute,' he said. 'I'll go on alone.' He trotted forward out of sight.

  Sanders raised the beam of his torch. It caught Konrad's head as he turned his fearful face towards him. He fired the bullet smack into the Stasi man's temple.

  Twenty-seven

  Wednesday 6 April, a.m.

  Frankfitrt

  Alex and Lorna stepped out of the Hotel Sommer at eleven minutes to ten.

  The media had been phoning non-stop that morning. Time to check out.

  The press conference had alarmed him. All those close-ups - no question now that his cover had been finally blown. just had to pray the IRA were watching football instead of the news.

  Alex carried their two bags, and Lorna their coats. A watery sun shone that morning, but rain was forecast.

  Opposite the hotel, the VW Golf had been parked on a meter for more than two hours. McCarthy sat with his gloved hands on the wheel, Nolan fidgeting beside him.

  When he recognized the man he'd come to kill, Nolan gulped. Never seen him in the flesh before. Under the coat folded on his lap was the heavy Springfield pistol McCarthy had retrieved from beneath the floorboards of the house in Chiswick.

  'I'll not do it here,' Nolan declared, nervously. 'Not with all these people about.'

  'Course you bloody won't,' McCarthy snapped.

  There was no way he was going to let this old man cock things up and get them jailed just as peace was breaking out in the six counties.

  'We'll follow them.'

  He started the engine, slipped out of the parking bay and crawled along the kerb.

  Lorna took the road south, towards the airport.

  'How's your back?' she asked, looking at Alex with concern.

  The muscle he'd pulled yesterday when falling to the floor of the hospital with Pravic on top of him was still painful.

  'Not too bad. I get a twinge when I move.' He pushed the switch on the dashboard radio. 'Let's see if there's any news of Mr Pravic.'

  He already knew that surgeons had spent much of yesterday afternoon removing the police bullets from his back. They'd given his chances of survival as fifty-fifty.

  Alex turned the volume up high. The news in German was always read too fast for him. Loudness helped him pick out the words.

  The economy and European Union were back on top of the agenda. The fate of the Bosnian Croat who'd nearly committed mass murder in a Frankfurt hospital was the third story.

  'Still alive,' Alex translated. 'They use the word best&* which I think means stable.'

  'Pity,' Lorna remarked. 'They don't have the chair in Germany, do they?'

  'No. He'll probably end up in some asylum with nurses fussing round him.'

  They were heading for Pfefferheim. for what they intended to be the last time. Vildana was being let out of hospital that morning and Lorna wanted to check the Roches were still committed to her, before she pulled out and left them to it.

  Last night, after the police had finished their questions, after the journalists had completed their interviews and after Alex had told the hotel desk not to put calls through to their room, he and Lorna had talked.

  Not about the future. They'd leave that to fate. They'd talked about the missing years, realizing how little they knew about each other now, how little they'd known before, even when they'd been together.

  Last night they'd begun to build the framework of something, without yet knowing what it was. In the days ahead they planned to add shape and texture until it took a form they could understand.

  They didn't talk much more on the way to Pfefferheim.

  They didn't notice they were being followed.

  Frankfurt Airport

  Martin Sanders bought a fistful of German newspapers from the bookstall in the Duty Free area then sat down to drink a cup of strong coffee. He flicked through the pages to ensure there were no alarming headlines. He felt uneasy, sickened by what he and Katzfuss had been forced to do to protect the secrecy of the Ramblers.

  In his head he had the draft of a letter to his SIS Chief, resigning from the group. In it there'd be a recommendation that the concept of 'black' multinational security operations be abandoned. Too much risk of soured relations when things went wrong.

  The lake was ten metres deep where they'd dumped Konrad's body. They'd towed it out behind an inflatable which they'd stashed there earlier, then sunk it with iron weights. With luck It would never be found in such murky water.

  The word Milzbrand featured in the headline in the Frankfurte Allgemeine. Kommissar Linz from the Bundeskriminalamt was quoted saying he had no idea where Pravic had got the anthrax bacillus, and would question him closely if he survived his wounds.

  The journalists could speculate as much as they liked that it was from the Leipzig Veterinary Laboratory, but with both Kernmer and Konrad/Dunkel out of circulation, they'd find it hard to prove the connection. And the media were getting nowhere with the death of the chambermaid in Zagreb. The Croatian authorities were refusing to reveal who'd been booked in the hotel at the time and had even begun to deny it was anthrax that killed her.

  Sanders put down the paper. The concourse bustled with business people rushing for their flights. Men and women for whom Bosnia, plutonium smuggling and anthrax were of little more than passing interest. Best to keep it that way.

  And they would, unless Pravic talked.

  Pfefferheim

  Nancy Roche couldn't hold back her tears. Everythin
g had been too much in the last few days. Lorna hugged her and found her own eyes moistening.

  Vildana sat in a chair by the kitchen table, her face pale, her dark eyes blank, her right arm in a sling. The twins and Nataga sat with her, gently easing her back into the world of a family.

  Irwin and Nancy led Lorna and Alex to the living room.

  'We just want you guys to know that the Roche family's in this for the duration,' Irwin announced formally. 'Nancy and I talked it over with the kids last night. Whatever it takes, Vildana has a home with us for as long as she likes.'

  'That's just great,' Lorna grinned, clasping his hands.

  'And something else you need to know,' he went on, 'I've put in for an early transfer to the States. We thought it best to move Vildana back home just as soon as we possibly can.'

  'That's a swell idea. Couldn't be better.'

  'What's the hospital saying about Vildana?' Alex said.

  'Has to go back in a week to have the sutures out,) Nancy explained. 'But otherwise she should be okay. Shoulder will be sore for a while, and it could be months before she gets any strength back on that side. But the long-term looks good.'

  'And when we get home we'll see what can be done about that birthmark,' Roche added.

  'Sure. She's real keen on that,' Lorna confirmed. 'Say, could I ask you for one last favour?'

  'Anything.'

  just to use your computer. It'll save me setting up my own. If I can e-mail all this to CareNet, then I can sign off the case!'

  'Come on. I'll set it up for you.'

  Nancy turned towards Alex when her husband and Lorna had left the room.

  'What are your plans? You're going back to Bosma?' she asked.

  'No. I doubt that,' he replied. 'No, Lorna and I plan to go off for a few days. We're going to dump the Land Cruiser at the US Air Base, rent something cheap at the airport, then drive up the Mosel and find a pretty village to stay in.'

  'Gr ... reat!' Then she tilted her head in curiosity. She'd never quite worked out their relationship. 'You two, you've known each other for some while?'

  'You could say that. On and off.'

  Wiesbaden

  Kommissar Gunther Linz was late into his office that morning. Hadn't got to bed before two last night. He'd asked for the witness statements from the hospital and Pravic's charge sheets to be ready on his desk by noon, so he could approve them before they were presented to the magistrate. At eleven-thirty when he arrived, the documents were already there.

  The message sheet from the overnight duty officer had been buried underneath them. When he discovered it, he blanched.

  A fax from MI5 in London telling him the Englishman Crawford was on an IRA death list ... Unbelievable! Two agents were on their way to Frankfurt.

  He looked at his watch. The British Security Service people would be landing at the airport any minute. He had nothing for them. Didn't even know where Crawford was. And the crucial time gap that had worried Herr Chadwick - he'd done nothing about it.

  He rang the Hotel Sommer. Crawford had checked out. He rang the Roche house in Pfefferheim. Crawford had been there. But he'd left with the Sorensen woman just two minutes ago. Heading for the airport, according to Frau Roche.

  He picked up the internal phone. Better get a car from the anti-terrorist team to intercept the Land Cruiser at the Rhein-Main base.

  'Here we go!'

  McCarthy prodded Tommy Nolan in the ribs. The white Toyota four-wheel-drive was on its way towards them down Muhlweg.

  'You okay?' he checked. For the past couple of hours Nolan had been sighing and sweating like an old sow.

  Nolan grunted.

  'Does that mean you're ready, then?'

  'I'm ready,' Nolan croaked, unconvincingly. He wished he'd had a drink to make it easier. Only done this once before. A soldier, off-duty in a pub, twenty-two years ago. On his conscience ever since. Sick with fear then. Sick with fear now.

  McCarthy slipped the car into gear and cruised slowly out of the village, watching in his rear-view mirror as the target came up behind them. He'd spotted the ideal place on the way in. An opening in the pinewoods, with a muddy track leading into a clearing. Drive in there and they'd not be visible from the road.

  They'd do it quick. Take the tout a few yards into the forest. If anyone heard, they'd think it was someone shooting pigeons. He glanced at Nolan.

  White as a sheet.

  'You're not goin' to throw up are youse?' he hissed, fearful that Nolan would bungle it and get them caught. just remember your wee brother! A wee kid. And what the fucker did to him!'

  'Oh aye,' Nolan growled. 'Don't worry. Don't worry.'

  He was close to wetting himself with nerves. Getting even with the bastard had been easy enough when it was just words over a pint in Dunphy's. But in the cold, sober daylight of a bewilderingly foreign land, knowing whether he was doing right wasn't so simple any more.

  Lorna pulled out to overtake. The Golf dawdled annoyingly in front of them. She was impatient to put Pfefferheirn into the past.

  'Shit!' she hissed, as the VW began to accelerate, swerving to the middle of the road to block her. I hate guys like that. Some creep with a small prick trying to show he's tough.'

  Alex put a hand against the dashboard to steady himself.

  'Keep cool. Don't let him get to you,' he soothed. 'We've got all the time in the world.'

  But the sudden acid burn in his stomach told him different. The tightening of the chest, the pounding pulse - that terrible clamminess was back. Like the day Jodie died, the certainty something was desperately wrong.

  A kilometre from the village already. No more houses. just trees.

  'What's the bastard doing?' Lorna cried, scared now.

  The VW slowed, hogging the line in the middle of the empty road.

  'Alex! What do I do?'

  He stared mesmerized as the Golf eased further out then slipped back, its rear overlapping the front of the Toyota. Two men in it.

  'Shit! We'll be off the road!' Lorna screamed.

  Brake lights dazzled. The Golf just inches in front. Lorna stamped the pedal and wrenched the wheel to the right. A gap in the trees. A muddy track as an escape lane.

  The Land Cruiser jolted over the rough ground, halting twenty metres from the road. In the mirror she saw the Golf stop and reverse in behind them.

  'Alex! For Christ's sake - who are these people?'

  He turned. Both men piling out of the VW, heads in thick, woollen sock masks, hands gripping guns.

  Lorna's door burst open. A fist reached in and dragged her to the ground.

  She screamed.

  'Oh God, no,' Alex gulped. The masked face at the window stared unblinking. A gloved finger beckoned. 'Not now. Not after all this.'

  The gunman pulled open the door.

  'Time's up, Mister Jarvis!' he growled, the Ulster twang unmistakable.

  He pointed deeper into the woods where Lorna was being frog-marched by the older man, his gun pressed to her spine.

  Alex stumbled from the car. Stupid, stupid! Dropped his guard. After all those years ... All those little tricks, those superstitions he'd believed would keep him alive...

  Now he was like the stag in the Highlands, the beast that thought itself invincible. One moment's inattention, then caught by the cross-hairs of the gun.

  They were herded into a circle of pine trees, two people swept up years ago in a struggle they'd never really understood, called to account for their deeds twenty years on.

  'You's the bastard ... what touted ... on my brother!' The older man panting between the words, ignoring Lorna, concentrating on Alex. Nolan, circling like a hyena, jabbing at the air with his Springfield, not too close, not quite looking him in the eye.

  McCarthy backed away, watching the road. The score to be settled here was a personal one. Had to be done by the man with the grievance.

  'What are you on about?' Alex croaked, playing for time.

  How had they found him?
Not the TV, surely. Too soon, too quick for that.

  'Don't gimme that, bastard! I knows who you are, Alex! For twenty fockin' years you's had it coming. An' now you's fockin' goin' to get it!'

  He levelled the gun. Bloodshot eyes through the slits of the hood.

  Anger boiled in Alex's guts. Fear too. What to do? Confront or comply?

  Challenge - or beg for mercy?

  'No...o!' Lorna screamed, interposing herself, hands outstretched as if to stop the bullets. It can't happen, she thought. Not now ... Not after everything ...

  'And as for youse . . .' Nolan growled at her, 'come over here. Come on.

  Out the way!'

  He grabbed her by the shoulder, spun her round to face Alex.

  'Will you tell him or shall V

  'What? What d'you mean?' she croaked.

  Alex gasped, a black, black thought erupting in his head. It was revenge they were after, sure enough. But whose revenge?

  'What d'you mean?' Lorna's voice, high-pitched, the squeak of a bat, 'Your wee snap? He doesn't know about it!' Nolan goaded, plucking the photo from his coat pocket and letting it flutter onto the ground between them.

  'Annie!' she gasped. 'Oh my God! Annie, how could you?'

  She'd forgotten her sister's husband was still a firm supporter of the IRA. She turned to Nolan, eyes brimming with tears.

  'N-n-no!' she stammered. 'You're wrong, you're wrong! I didn't ... You think I sent you that picture? No. That wasn't for you! No, listen. It's over, all that. He's paid already. Been punished. Suffered ... just as much as you or I, or anybody!'

  'Shut your mouth!' Nolan's resolve was shaky enough as it was. He could do without her pleading.

  Alex had to know. Had to be sure this wasn't Lorna's doing. A tit-for-tat betrayal.

  'Why now, Tommy?' Alex's voice hard and crisp. The use of the name was a gamble. It was the one he'd heard the minders talk of 'What good will it do?'