SCORPION TRAIL

by

JEFFREY ARCHER


 Jeffrey Archer is the former Defence and Diplomatic Correspondent for ITN's
 award-winning News at Ten television programme. His work as a frontline
 broadcaster has provided him with the deep background for his thrillers -
 the bestselling S4dancer, Shadowhunter and Eagletrap.

 BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Skydancer
Shadowhunter
Eagletrap
This edition first published in Arrow in 1996

         1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

The right of Jeffrey Archer to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or
otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in
any kind of binding or cover other than that in which it is
published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in the United Kingdom in 1995 by
Century,
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         ISBN 0 09 954941 7

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading Berks
                                     
To Eva, Alison
and James
                                     
   'My father hath chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with
   scorpions.'

              1 Kings Ch. 12, v. 11.

               One

 Sunday 13th March
 Scotland

 The breeze flicked at the collar of his coat. The Highland airstrip was
 little more than a grass field with a windsock. A single-engined Cessna
 stood in front of a club house. Sheep grazed beyond the perimeter fence.
  The foreboding that gripped Alex was irrational and sudden.
  The risks hadn't worried him before. This sport was safe. Statistics
  proved it. So why the sense of panic, the feeling that some thread
  binding his world together had suddenly snapped?
  The club secretary was used to dealing with worried parents. He'd claimed
  that the Sky Trainer 'chutes had been used two million times and never
  failed. Then he'd shown Alex last month's beginners alighting on the
  grass as if they were gulls.
 'You see? Nothing to worry about.'
  However, as the pilot strode towards the little Cessna, followed by the
  instructor and three orange-suited Students, Alex had to fight the urge
  to shout 'stop!'
  Jodie, last to board, turned to wave. Trying to reassure himself, or his
  stepfather?
 Still time to stop him. He could run forward and ...
  Hysteria, that's what they would put it down to. They'd restrain him
  gently, take him to the club house and settle him with a cup of tea so
  the boy could get on with his life.
 Alex tried a grin but couldn't move his muscles. Arms

                I

 like lead,- legs like jelly, tongue puffy and useless. Couldn't speak if he
 tried. just that sense of disaster sweeping in like a squall.

 The boy had wanted to jump since the age of fifteen. Seen it on television,
 the floating figure in bright, flapping nylon. The goggled grin at the
 camera. And the swoop away from the lens as the chute jerked the body,
 jigging and jangling, feet braced for contact with the earth.
  The power, the freedom, the sheer sense ofjoy. God knows, there hadn't been
  too much of that in Jodie's young life.
  His mother was overprotective, but she had her reasons. She'd blanched when
  he'd revealed his ambition.
 'Never, Jodie. Never, neverP she'd begged.
  But 'never' is a word you can't say to a man, and the boy was over eighteen
  now. Nineteen, even. He had asked Alex for the parachuting course as a
  birthday present.
  Kirsty hadn't spoken that morning. just stood by the big picture window
  looking across at the Firth, watching the scurrying clouds and the blurs of
  rain on the water. Not spoken, because the words, if she'd voiced them,
  would have been pleas for a change of heart that had already been rejected.
  Alex knew what she feared. That history would repeat itself That she would
  lose her only child the same way she had lost his father.
 'He'll be fine, Kay. just fine. You'll see.'
  His steady, brown eyes gave her the warm look he used to soothe women's
  worries, his soft voice tinted with the Lowlands inflection he'd adopted
  years ago as a disguise.
 He stood behind her, held her shoulders and brushed

                2

 his lips against her hair. He could feel the tension shooting through his
 fingers. He took away his hands.
  Jodie ha~ to choose, Kay. You can't control his life for ever.'
  He saw her tremble, and a tear mark her cheek like a scar.
 'Okay, Alex?'
  The prompting was from Jodie standing in the doorway, fearfW that his
  escape from the maternal arm lock might yet fail.
 'We'd better get a move on, Alex.'
  Always called him by his first name. Never 'Dad', although Alex was the
  only 'father' Jodie had ever known. Kirsty had wanted it that way, out
  of respect for the dead.
  They drove north over the toll bridge, the morning sun to their right
  struggling through the clouds and silhouetting the trapezoid ironwork of
  the rail link across the Forth.
  Alex had never been to Scotland before events propelled him there in the
  1970s. This was a simpler, more conservative community than he was used
  to, but he'd wanted nothing elst-, so long as it hid him from the men who
  sought to kill him.
  He had grown the beard immediately, a ftill set, but clipped short. The
  simplest of masks. The job at the radar factory, the minders had
  arranged. All part of the back-scratching world of Defence, they'd told
  him. He'd be safe here. No one need ever know his past.
  The hard part was being alone. Not used to it. He had always had women
  in his life, sometimes more than one at a time. Not just for the sex. He
  needed women to blather with, to lean on. Yet how could he share his
  life, when his recent past was so dark a secret?
  Then he met Kirsty and saw the glimmer of a solution to his dilemma.

                3

  It was the firm's Christmas dance. She'd been invited by one of the staff
  to make up numbers at their table.
  'The girl's had a tragic bereavement,' the friend confided. 'We felt it
  time to get her out and about again.'
  Married just three years, her husband had been killed in a blizzard in the
  Cairngorms. Many an experienced climber had died that winter. He'd left her
  a widow with a nine-month-old baby.
  Everything about Dermot, everything about her short marriage to him, Kirsty
  had locked inside her mind pledging never to forget. The memories were like
  a sealed room in an old castle; she denied access to everyone. Never talked
  about Dermot, and couldn't bear others to.
  She was a pretty girl. Soft, wavy hair, scrubbed checks and blue eyes that
  glistened with never-distant tears. Alex's heart went out to her.
  He began a gentle courtship, hinting that he'd also suffered a tragedy too
  painful to talk about. As the months slipped by and they became closer, the
  understanding grew that they both had parts of their lives which must
  remain private.

 'You think she'll cope?'Jodie asked, as they passed the underemployed Rosyth
 dockyard to the left of the bridge. 'Maybe I'm being a bit selfish.'
  'Course she'll cope,' Alex answered, slowing to pass an accident at the
  junction with the motorway. 'She has to get used to you doing your own
  thing. Anyway, when you're away at Aberdeen she has no idea what you're up
  to. It's just a pity she has to know about this particular happening.'
  'You're right there!' Jodie nodded. University had been a merciful escape
  from the over-protection at home.
 'I tell you, when you get back tonight, give her a big

                4

 hug and tell her how great it was. Look, she's terrified because of what
 happened to your dad. It's understandable, for heaven's sake. But it's
 something she's got to get through. This jump today could even help.'
  'Shock therapy for nervous mothers! I don't think so somehow.'
  The rain was holding off. The day before, the instructor had said the
  weather would have to be appalling to stop thejurnp. Alex turned off the
  motor-way and pointed the car towards the Ochil Hills.
 'Are you nervous?' he asked the boy.
 A moment's pause.
 'Shit scared,'Jodie laughed.
 'Think how P11 feel, bloody watching you!'
  He thought of Kirsty, wondering if she was still standing by that window,
  staring at the sky.

 Theirs had been a marriage of convenience, but a good one. She had needed
 a man, to support her and her child. He had needed a woman, to share his
 bed and to help hide him from the predators. Affection and respect was
 what they'd had, rather than passion and love. A formula that had lasted
 nearly eighteen years.
  It hadn't been easy at first, fighting his way past her first husband's
  ghost. It took months of wooing before she could even smile without a
  feeling of gat. Months more before she let him make love to her.
  They'd been out walking in the dunes near North Berwick, just the two of
  them. Jodie was being baby-sat by her mother. A bright, crystal-clear day
  in early summer. They'd rested in a clearing in the woods. No one else
  about. No chance of being surprised. Alex slipped his hand under the soft
  cotton of her tee-shirt, fingertips finding her nipples already hard.
 Then she locked her mouth to his and unleashed the

                5

 hunger that had been building inside her for weeks. She pulled him into her,
 climaxing quickly.
  Afterwards, as they lay on their backs, she had cried. Sobs of grief at her
  final acknowledgement that Dermot was dead.

 As Alex swung the car through the gates onto the small airfield, a Cessna
 pulled away from the flightline, bumping over the grass towards the strip.
 To their right was the club house and hangar and a small square of hard
 standing for cars.
  'There's Claire,' Jodie said. He wound down the window and gave her a
  'thumbs up'. There were as many young women as men on the course.
  'What are all these girls trying to prove?' Alex wondered aloud.
  'You mean they should all be at home, making bables,'Jodle retorted. 'Come
  on, Alex! It's a challenge. A big thrill. There's no difference for men or
  women.'
 'I reckon it's a substitute for sex, myself'
 'Shows how little you know!'
  Claire was walking across to them as Alex switched off the engine. She had
  a pretty smile.
  'You could do okay with her, if you play your cards right,' Alex teased.
  'Piss offl'jodie reckoned he was already well on the way. Chatted her up in
  the pub last night, after the day of theory lessons at the club.
  Next to them was a Range Rover with two large Labradors steaming up the
  windows in the back.
  'So, what areyou going to do, Alex?'Jodie was out of the car. 'It'll be a
  couple of hours before they take us up.'
  'Don't know. May wander off for an hour. I've got the "Sunday's" in the
  car, so I won't be bored.'
 'See you later, then.'

                6

  Jodie strode towards the club hangar. Claire touched him on the arm and
  they went inside together.
  There were more parents there, settling down to make a day of it. Mums
  as well as Dads in most cases. A pity Kirsty hadn't come. Might have done
  her good to see other families coping.
  Another lone father nodded him a greeting, wanting to talk. No, thought
  Alex. One of his golden rules: avoid social contact. He smiled briefly,
  then got purposefully back into the car and re-started the engine.
  He took the main road for a mile, then turned up a narrow lane. Another
  mile and he was on the crest of a ridge with a view over the airfield.
  He parked in a gateway and as soon as the engine cut heard the bleating
  of sheep from the field beyond.
  He wound down the window, pulled a pack of Bensons from the pocket of his
  Barbour and lit up. He didn't smoke much these days; it was banned in the
  office and Kirsty objected at home.
  Golden rules. That's what he'd lived by for twenty years. Had to, so the
  minders had told him. The terrorists had friends everywhere. One
  incautious word and they could be on to him. And we wouldn't want that,
  would we, Mister Crawford?
  Crawford. M15 had chosen that name for him. Jarvis was the one he'd been
  born with. Alexander Jarvis.
  They had given him the framework of a new life. Birth certificate,
  passport, all falsified in the name of Her Majesty. Even a driving
  licence, once he had settled his address.
  Add the rest yourself, they'd said. Keep it simple; make up a new past
  to replace the one that could kill. No mixing of fact and fiction. Invent
  it, fix it in your head until you believe it's true, and stick to it.
  And never ever reveal the truth, even to those you make love with.

                7

  Rules. He'd made some up himself. Told his neighbours he was obsessed by
  tyre pressures - an excuse to check under his car for bombs.
  Some rules he never revealed. Superstitions. Uttle things he had to do if
  the good fairies were to keep him safe. L~ittle things like putting his
  left sock on before the right. There was the daft, childish 'tide' game
  too.
  Every Saturday, unless the weather was atrocious, he would drive to the
  Yellow Craig beach west of North Berwick, for a run on the sands. His
  marketingjob at the radar factory near Edinburgh was tedious; that beach,
  with its huge, wide sky was freedom. Freedom from drudgery, freedom from
  fear. Freedom to imagine what his life might have been like if it hadn't
  been for that balls-up in Belfast.
  He would run near to the water's edge where the sand was firmer, keeping
  close to the creaming froth of the waves, but never, ever letting the water
  touch him. If it did, he told himself, the Belfast gunmen who had his name
  on their 'touts' list, would find him.
  Silly superstitions, but in the part of his mind he had to keep private,
  they mattered.
  From the distant hillside, Alex watched the little plane creep across the
  airfield and lift into the air. Shafts of sunlight bathed the valley in
  patches of green gold. Rain streaked a hill to his right. Sunday traffic
  crawled on the road running south to Stirling. So peaceful. So safe.
 'Christ! It's been twenty bloody years,' he breathed.
  He'd just passed the anniversary of his escape from Ulster strapped into
  the back of a Hercules. You'd have thought they'd have forgotten him by
  now, but not according to the M15 man he phoned once a month. The IRA still
  handed old photos of him to new boys going active on the mainland.
  He slipped on a pair of half-moon reading specs and browsed the newspapers.
  His bushy brows bunched into a frown. Always did when he concentrated.

                8

  Front pages filled with pictures from hell. The blackened corpse of a
  child burned alive in a Bosnian village.
  Massacre of the Innocents - his two papers shared the same stark
  headline.
  The Sunday 7-inzes reported over forty killed in a single village called
  Tulici. Moslems, this time. Bosnians, Croats, Serbs - the divisions were
  confusing. They'd all been Yugoslavs once, in a place people went to for
  holidays. And now they were killing each other.
 It depressed him just to read about it.
  He picked up Scotland on Sunday. On the front page, a local tragedy.
  Pictures of a tear-stained Edinburgh mother. Her thirteen-year-old girl
  had disappeared. Suggestions the child had been seen with prostitutes.
  Sad world, he thought. He folded the papers, tossed them onto the back
  seat and slipped his glasses back into their case. Better take some
  exercise. He opened the door, got out and locked it out of habit.
  He was average height, a little under six foot, with straight, dark brown
  hair and a sportsman's build. Under the thornproof coat, so stiffly waxed
  it was like armour, he wore brown cords and a navy pullover. This was how
  he liked to dress; the business suit he wore on weekdays always felt
  wrong.
  He stuck to the road, striding along the edge of the fields, walking for
  twenty minutes, his mind on Kirsty and the boy.
 Jodie.
 'Christ almighty!'
  He stopped in his tracks. His stepson's face had suddenly appeared in his
  mind, sharp and clear as a flash photo. It was the boy's expression. A
  look in his eyes that wasn'tJodle at all. Terror. Abject terror.
  The image was gone again. He shook his head to try to recall it, but
  couldn't. Most odd. Like a burst of clairvoyance.
 No believer in such phenomena, it unsettled him none

                9

 the less. He stared across at the airfield, then marched to the car and
 headed back.
  The fear he'd seen injodie's eyes spread in him like an infection. His
  heart beat unnaturally fast. He told himself to stop being daft, to
  rationalize this irrational sensation. Nerves - parachuting was risky and
  Jodie was about to do it. That's all it was.
  But that wasn't all. He began to experience more weird sensations, as if
  he wasn't alone in the car. A feeling that Kirsty was there. He glanced
  behind.
 This was getting stupid.
  Back at the airfield, no sign of the boy. He barged into the old bi-plane
  hangar, where used parachutes were being tensioned on the floor for
  re-packing.
  'Experienced jumpers have their favourite packers,' Jodie announced
  suddenly at his side. 'Gives a sort of feel-good factor.'
  'Oh, there you are!' Alex started. The boy grinned at him, clad in an
  orange jump suit. No fear in those eyes.
  'They pay three pounds a time. It's worth learning how to do it. Pack
  five 'chutes and you've earned enough for a jump.'
 'You mean you intend to make a habit of this?'
  'Most people get hooked,' Claire announced, joining them. 'I've only done
  five jumps, and it's like a drug.'
  Alex eyed her. Older than Jodie. Early twenties perhaps. A broad face,
  eyes bright with single-mindedness. Not unattractive.
  They looked so at ease, the pair of them, Alex felt his anxiety lifting.
  'Oh by the way, Alex this is Claire,' Jodie said awkwardly.
 He shook her hand.
  There were half a dozen getting ready for their first jump. Several
  Jodie's age, but two in their thirties. They'd spent the last hour
  revising drills learned the day before. Jodie had driven himself here on
  Saturday.

                10

  'Two days in which to learn how to survive, falling out of a plane,' Alex
  mused. 'It'd take two lifetimes if it were me.'
  'Time you got kitted up.' The instructor tookJodie by the arm and led him
  to the racks of parachute packs.
  'This is when your stomach really gets going,' Claire murmured to Alex.
  'But he'll be okay.'
  'What ... what exactly does he have to do?' Alex wanted reassurance
  again.
  'He'll be on a static line. You always are for the first few. It means
  there's a line attached to the plane, and as you fall away it pulls your
  canopy open. You don't have to do a thing.'
 'Supposing it doesn't open?'
  'Always does. But just in case, you carry a reserve parachute on your
  front.'
 'And does that open by itself too?'
  'You have to pull a handle ... Look, don't worry. Everybody's so safety
  conscious here, you just wouldn't believe it. Haven't had a fatality for
  five years.'
  It was her use of that word 'fatality'. He sensed a hand on his shoulder.
  Kirsty's hand. Not there of course. He shivered.
  Jodie waddled back across the hangar, parachute packs strapped to front
  and back. He pulled a soft leather helmet over his head and eased a pair
  of goggles into place.
 'Cheer up!' he said. 'It's me doing the jump, not youP
  'You look like a phantom rapist, in that gear,' Alex joked, trying to
  disguise his anxiety.
 'Thanks. Found my ndher at last.'
 'How do you feel?'
  It was a stupid question.jodie's face was tense. Nerves, but excitement
  too.
  'They say it's the fear that gives you the buzz. . .' he answered. 'If
  that's true, then I should have a great
 in

 The instructor strolled over.
  just come over here a minute Jodie,' he said, with practised calm. 'We'll
  go through things one last time.'
 He led him onto the field.
  A new emotion now in Alex's chest. jealousy. He'd been father, brother,
  teacher and guardian to the boy. He'd been the one Jodie had trusted. Now
  there was someone else. Some jerk in a jump suit.
 'Are you excited for him?' Claire asked.
 'Of course.' His voice sounded husky.
  As excited as their first time together on the stands at a Murrayfield
  International. As excited as the day he took the twelve-year-old on a
  day-long crawl through the heather to stalk Red Deer on the Monadhliath
  Mountains. Landmarks in a life, all as exciting as this, but none so
  terrifying.
  Alex and Claire crossed to the fence separating the car park from the
  field.
  He pulled Qut his cigarettes again and offered her one. She shook her head.
  'Did your family come and watch first time?' Alex asked, tugging the smoke
  down into his chest.
  Claire shook her head. 'Didn't even tell them I was doing it.'
  Better that way, maybe. Better if neither he nor Kirsty had known.
 Claire asked about. his Job.
  'Marketing. Radar. I'm an electrical engineer by trade.'
  But possibly for not much longer, he omitted to say. The company was being
  taken over and the work ,rationalized'. That meant redundancy, probably.
  Looking for volunteers, and if they didn't get enough, they'd start naming
  people. He'd not told the family yet.
  Maybe that explained his anxiety today. Fear about losing his job, twisted
  by his mind into fear forJodie's life. For a moment or two he almost
  believed it.

                12

  An engine purred high in the sky. The club's other aircraft was up with
  the free-fallers. He squinted at the even greyness above. One. Two. Three
  and then four tiny figures tumbled from the black 'T' shape. Claire
  counted aloud to five.
  'Five seconds delay! That's my next step. I've done three seconds
  already.'
 One by one, the 'chutes had popped open.
  'Great!' Alex croaked. It all looked so easy. Nothing to fear. 'Bloody
  great!'
  They watched the canopies glide and float towards the field, the bodies
  beneath tugging on the steering guides.
  'Ram-air canopies,' Claire explained. 'Like a wing. You can get
  twenty-five knots horizontal speed on them.'
  As they swooped to land gracefully a few feet in front of them, Claire
  detached herself from Alex's side and went to greet one of the
  free-fallers. He only realized it was a girl when she removed her helmet
  and shook free a tress of chestnut hair. Claire grabbed her excitedly by
  the arms.
  Alex lived that moment with them. Faces aglow, the world their oyster.
  Make the most if it, he thought.
  For an instant he was Jodie's age again. In a flash of memory, he
  recalled a noisy pub in Hampstead and a girl called Lorna Donohue.
  Lorna, who'd caught his eye and left him breathless. A golden-haired
  teenager. Someone who really had believed in clairvoyance. They'd been
  lovers for just a few weeks and she'd told him they'd never be parted.
  Then she'd dumped him and disappeared back to college in America.
  Lorna Donohue. Perhaps the only woman he'd ever truly loved. They'd met
  again in Belfast a decade later, quite by chance. Once more the chemistry
  had been instant, so explosive that time it had scarred their lives. The
  result for him -- exile in Scotland. For her? He had no idea.

                13

  The memory faded. All in the past. The past he never dared talk *-about.
  The pilot climbed into the little plane, followed by Jodie and the
  others.
 'Alex!'
 Jodie waved from beside the doorway.
 Alex stared back, unable to speak.
 'Alex?'
 The boy looked strained, wanting a response.
 'Yes!' he managed to shout at last. 'Good luck!'
  He clutched the fence, telling himself to be rational. Of course there
  was a risk. People had died, parachuting. But not beginners, not on a
  static line.
  The engine flicked into life. His last chance to run across and stop them
  ...
 'Don't be so fucking stupid!' he growled to himself
 It was Kirsty's fault. Paranoia must be infectious.
  The aircraft began its take-off run. He waved again, a terrible, empty
  feeling.

 It was a tight squeeze in the back of the plane. No seats. just a bare
 metal floor and a gaping hole to the slipstream. Jodie was to be first out
 and had to kneel, gripping a webbing handle.
  The Cessna banked and climbed to 2,200 feet. The instructor tapped
  Jodie's shoulder, then ran his hand along the strap connecting his
  back-pack to a ring on the floor. All secure, all as it should be. Thumbs
  up.
  'Okay now,' he yelled above the engine and the wind. 'Into the doorway
  and take the bracing position.' He gave a reassuring grin.
  Jodie's heart pounded so hard, he couldn't speak. His mind was blank.
  He'd forgotten everything. Everything he'd been taught in the last two
  days. Gone.
 Think.
 Legs over the edge. Strange how it didn't affect him,

                14

 looking down at the earth two thousand feet below. Couldn't go more than two
 rungs up a ladder normally.
 Left hand on the sill, right on the door frame.
 Good.
  Turn to look at the instructor. The man grins again, gives thumbs up, his
  eyes asking for an acknowledgement. Jodie nods. No going back now.
 Go! The signal.
 Hesitation.
 Go! Go!
  Pushes off from the sill and the frame. Airstream hits like a gloved fist
  at a hundred and fifty miles an hour.
 'Aaaah!' The scream choked in his throat by the wind.
  Spread arms. Count. One thousand, two thousand, three thou ...
  Bang. The straps jerk under his groin as the 'chute opens.
 Shit!
  Now what. Check canopy. He strains his head back. That beautiful dome of
  blue and white.
 He feels sick. Doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
 'Hey! This is amazing.
 He laughs.
 Jodie!' A man's voice in his ear. 'Don't forget to steer.'
  The radio. He'd forgotten about it. Another instructor was on the ground,
  watching through binoculars, talking to him on the VHF.

'Is that him?' Alex asked, craning his neck up at the sky. 'Should be,' said
 Glaire. 'He told me he was first out.'
 'God! Isn't that great?' Alex's voice cracked with relief
 'Told you it was foolproof.'

 'Christ,' thoughtJodle. 'Where am V
 The field was nowhere to be seen. He pulled a line to

               15

 close a vent on the back of the canopy and began to swing.
  'Pull hard on your left.' The metallic radio voice again.
 He did and swung the other way.
 'Now let go the guides. Straight ahead now.'
  At last he saw the hangar and the windsock, and then the orange cross on
  the grass which was his notional landing point. Miles away, and he was
  dropping fast. He looked straight down.
  Oh, no! That bloody clump of trees they were warned about.
  He willed the canopy towards the field. Eight miles an hour forward speed,
  that's what he should have in still air. But looking at that bloody
  windsock, the wind was gusting too strongly. Wasn't moving forward at all.
 Ground coming up fast.
  'If you go in the trees, remember legs together and cover your face. No
  problem.'
  So reassuring, the voice in his ear. All right for him. Done it a thousand
  times.
 O..oh! Here we go.

 From across the field, the man who'd spoken on the radio watched from his
 van asJodie's legs pierced the dome of green-black branches. Soon obscured
 by the pine foliage, all he could see was the blue and white canopy snagged
 and deflated above, and the vaguest hint of an orange suit close to the
 ground.
  'Remember. Don't do anything now. just wait for someone to come and help
  you down. Repeat. Don't do anything.'
  He picked up the other handset and told the control room what had happened,
  just in case they hadn't already seen.

                16

 The radio in Jodie's ears died when he hit the trees. Twigs snagged the
 wires. One foot twisted against a branch and he banged a knee. Then
 suddenly he stopped, a metre from the ground.
 Tuck!'
  Heart pounding, he jigged in his harness, trying to shake himself free.
 'Hah!' he shouted.
 He was stuck but ALIVE! Elation hit him.
 'I've bloody done it!'
  He looked up through the trees. The plane droned into position for its
  next drop.
  'Hah! Ha, HaP He laughed out loud. He'd just come down from there! jumped
  from that same little plane. From that little dot in the sky.
  Ten feet tall, that's what he felt. A few more jumps and he'd be onto the
  square canopies, the ones that zipped around like autumn leaves.
  He looked down again. So close, yet so far. Except he wasn't far. Three
  feet at the most. Easy. For heaven's sake, he'd just jumped from two
  thousand feet all by himself Couldn't let the last few inches defeat him.
  He reached down to his groin and began to unbuckle the harness.

 'Shit! He's in the trees!' Alex had taken an involuntary step forward
 asJodie disappeared from view.
  'That's bad luck. On your first jurnp,' Claire answered calmly.
 'Isn't it dangerous?' he asked, turning to her.
  'Should be okay. They tell us it's the softest landing you can get. . .'
 'If you don't get stabbed by a branch.'
 'See that van down the far end of the field?'
 He looked where Claire was pointing.
 'They've got ladders and stuff. If he's caught in the

               17

 trees, they'll get him down in a wee while. He'll just stay dangling until
 they come. That's what they teach us.'
 Alex stared harder at the van. Motionless as a rock.
 'Why don't they get a move on?' he growled.
  'They have to wait until the others are down. The guy in there is talking
  to them on the radio as they drop.'
  That terrible sense of dread was back. He began to walk.
  'They won't want you on the field,' Claire called after him.
  Alex heard, but didn't hear. The relief at seeingJoclie's ,chute open had
  evaporated. Something was wrong; something desperately wrong. He knew it,
  if no one else did.
  There was a little gate into the field. An instructor grabbed him as he ran
  through it.
  'Hang on, mister. You canna go through here. There's students jumping.'
 Jodie ... P Alex panted, pointing. 'He's in the trees.'
  'We know. We know. He'll be a'right. They'll get to him in a couple of
  minutes.'
 'Now! You've got to get him now!'
 The jump-instructer saw the panic in his eyes.
  'Okay. Okay. We'll go together. But if I tell you to do something - you do
  it fast. No questions asked, okay?'
 Alex nodded.
  'Come on then.'They began to run towards the copse. 'It's your son, is iff
  Alex felt a chill descend. Kirsty's son, but his too in all but blood.
 'Yep. My boy.'
  The jump-instructor kept a hand on his arm and checked the sky as they ran.
  The last of the novices was on the way down. But they were well clear. No
  problem.
  They neared the trees. There was a smudge of orange between the trunks.
  Jodie's jump suit. Feet almost touching the ground, but not quite.

                18

  In the scrub at the edge of the wood the instructor faltered. There was
  something not quite right. Something about the head ...
  JodieP Alex yelled, fighting his way through the saplings. 'Oh, God.. .'
 Nothing. No response. No movement.
  They heard an engine revving. The van with the ladders was coming across.
  Jodie?' Alex croaked, the branches slashing his face. The instructor joined
  him as he broke through to where Jodie dangled.
  The boy's body hung twisted in the straps, the harness half on, half off.
  In the struggle to free himself, a strap had slipped round his neck bending
  it to an angle that no neck should ever be.
  'Oh my Christ.. .' murmured the instructor. 'He's tried to get himself
  down. You mustn't do that - we tell them.'
  Alex stood transfixed by Jodie's startled, indignant eyes, the nightmare
  image that had come to him on his walk.
 'Quick! 'rake his weight,' the instructor ordered.
  Alex gripped the lifeless thighs and lifted. The instructor reached
  forjodie's wrist and felt for a pulse. There was none.
  'His neck's broken,' he said, but Alex didn't hear him, deaf to the
  instructor's words, and to those others who rushed to help. Jodie was dead.
  He'd seen it, and done nothing.

 19

               Two

 Thursday 17th March

 Kirsty's brother helped her from the first of the Dairrilers. She wore a
 navy blue coat over a long, black skirt, her face wraithlike beneath a
 veil.
  Alex emerged from the second limousine and paused on the cobbled ground,
  watching his wife's alabaster visage turn towards the tower of the kirk.
  He saw her legs threaten to buckle and her brother grip her more tightly.
  Eighteen years before, she'd made the same journey here to bury another
  part of her life.
  They stood to one side while the coffin was slid from the hearse. The
  distance between Alex and Kirsty was just a few metres on the stones, but
  emotionally a canyon now gaped between them.

 On Sunday, when Alex had returned to the house overlooking the Forth,
 Kirsty had known already, her sixth sense confirmed by seeing a stranger
 driving their car, with Alex in the passenger seat and a Range Rover
 pulling up behind.
  'You've killed him!' she'd whispered as he opened the door.
  Ashen faced, he couldn't meet her look. He'd thanked the people who'd
  helped him home and bade them leave. Then the dam of Kirsty's feelings
  had broken.
  Her accusations had found their mark. He could have prevented Jodie's
  death. He'd had the premonition after all.

  Why hadn't he acted on it? Because he hadn't believed in premonitions,
  that's why. And anyway, it had been _7odie's choice to jump, his
  decision. The boy was nineteen, not nine.
  Kirsty had railed at him, her charges growing wilder, beating him with
  her fists. She kept throwing out Dermot's name. Accused Alex of trying
  to erase him from her memory. Said Dermot was angry at being forgotten,
  angry at the way Alex had taken his place as Jodie's father. She'd even
  claimed Dermot had returned from the dead to take back his son.
  Nonsense. Madness. She'd needed help, of a sort he couldn't give. He'd
  telephoned for the doctor to come, then called her brother to break the
  tragic news to the family.
  Her sobs had cut deep, the pain of her grief compounding his own. They'd
  been punished, she'd said. Punished for forgetting the past. It was Alex
  she blamed. No one else. He had brought this on them. Nothing would shake
  her from that belief.
  As the hours passed, her anger had subsided, but she'd not let Alex touch
  her. Their marriage was over, she'd said. It had died with Jodie.
  She'd left the house that same afternoon and gone to stay with her
  brother.
  'She doesn't want to see you again,' he'd reported two days later. 'I
  suppose you know that.' He was visibly distressed. They'd got on well,
  he and Alex.
  'She's talking about moving to a retreat. . .' He'd shaken his head.
  'Almost twenty years since Dermot passed away, and she's never come to
  terms with it. Should have had treatment long ago ... I'm really sorry.
  None of us is blaming you, you know that.'
 Alex had thanked him.

 In the small, grey, stone church, Alex sat across the aisle

                21

 from Kirsty, her eyes fixed on the coffin below the chancel steps. Most of
 the mourners knew she'd left the house at Longniddry. Most wished it weren't
 so, but feared nothing could change the way she thought. The doctor had
 called it a 'kind of breakdown', but she was refusing further medical help.
  She looked to be in a trance. Paper-white face, lifeless eyes. Behind her
  sat her parents, ramrod-straight Presbyterians, faces as impassive as they
  had always been, emotions locked away. Kirsty was so much their child. All
  her pain, all her scars hidden from view.
  Outside in the hillside churchyard, they lowered the simple pine box into
  a newly-dug hole beside the grave of the fatherjodie had never known.
 Alex bit his lip and swallowed back tears.
  Such a waste, he thought. A person, a character that he had helped mould,
  wiped out just as he'd begun to grab what life could give him.
  'He's yours at last, Dermot,' Alex reflected. 'But if it weu you who took
  him, don't expect the boy to be grateful.'
  By the churchyard gate, the family stood in line to receive the condolences
  of the mourners. There was a set of faces Alex didn't recognize until
  Claire took his hands and squeezed them. Several others from the parachute
  club had come with her.
  A camera flashed; the tragedy had interested the local press. Alex
  flinched; he was shy of photographers. Made it a rule to keep his face out
  of the papers.
 He turned away.
  The ghastly process over, Alex heard the parachute group talk of heading
  for a bar. He might have joined them, if only their youthfulness weren't
  too painful a reminder of what he'd lost.
  Kirsty was driven off in the Daimler. Suddenly Alex realized he might never
  see her again.
 'Mr Crawford?' The chauffeur of the second car held

               22

 the door for him. Kirsty's parents were already inside. A reception was to
 be held at the brother's house, but he couldn't face it.
  'No,' he answered after a moment. 'No. I want to walk.'
  He leaned in, made his excuses, then waved the vehicle away.
  The car park emptied. With Jodie in the earth and Kirsty gone from him,
  seeing the last vehicle rumble down the hill was like watching twenty years
  of his life drain away.
  Earlier that morning, there'd been another blow. As if to twist the knife,
  a letter had arrived from the radar factory saying he'd been made
  redundant.
  He set off towards the sea, raising the collar of his dark grey overcoat.
  Four miles of coastal path lay between him and home.
  The cemetery was on a hillside. Beyond was a golfcourse where many of his
  neighbours spent their leisure time. Small, bright figures strolled between
  the greens.
  He had never taken up the sport. Golf clubs spelled danger. Too much chat.
  Too many people asking about his pastjogging was his exercise. Lonelier but
  safer.
  He seldom met anybody when he ran on the beach. just one regular, a stocky
  man walking a Red Setter. They'd exchanged names once. Somebody McFee. An
  executive with Edinburgh Life. Hadn't seen him recently.
  As he cut down through slopes of dead bracken towards the coast, it felt as
  if the corner stones of his life had been stolen away and he'd been
  presented with a blank sheet of paper in exchange.
  He realized there was little to keep him in Scotland now, other than the
  place itself. The gentle Lothian hills, the clean coastline and views of
  the Forth speckled with white sails in the summer had been a kindly hole to
  hide

                23

 in, but having isolated himself for his owm safety, he had few friends'
 here.
  His life had been different before the disaster in Belfast, first as an
  engineer with Marconi's, and later when he'd worked with the television
  news. He'd had plenty of friends to drink with then, to chat to and to make
  love with.
  Surely it would be safe to return to some of that life, he thought, despite
  what the minders said. Not to have to hide any more, that would be
  something ...
  The tide was ebbing and the Gullane sands stretched far out, their dull
  flatness broken by strips of sky reflected in pools left by the receding
  sea.
  He saw Jodie everywhere he looked, the beaches so much part of his
  childhood. Emptiness gnawed at his stomach. There was no way he could
  remain here. Not when every whiff ofseaweed, every caw of the Arctic terns
  was a reminder of the boy.
  Not easy to start again, approaching fifty. Unless he could salvage
  something from the past.
  He thought suddenly of Lorna. Always did when things weren't right in his
  life. She was his 'if only' girl, the one he would have married if events
  hadn't got in the way.
  They'd met in the sixties. Pop and protest, Ban the Bomb.
  Lorna was a believer in fate. A sacred thread linked their karmas, she'd
  told him. That's why they'd fallen in love. When they met again ten years
  later, it had confirmed her belief
  'There's someone up there making the breaks for us,' - that was the way she
  always put it.
  The trouble was he'd not seen or heard of her for the twenty years since
  then. And when they'd parted, she'd hated him enough to want him dead.
  Where then was he to begin his new life? Have to talk to the men at M15, if
  he wanted their continued

               24

 protection. He could go back to London where he had his roots. Parents
 were both dead, but he had a sister in Wimbledon. They'd been close once,
 until she married some detestable stockbroker.
  The stones of the coastal path jabbed through the thin leather soles of
  his black shoes. By the time he reached Longniddry his feet were~ pinched
  and sore.
  He stood in the porch fumbling with his keys. There was no light inside.
  As he opened the door the emptiness engulfed him.
  A newspaper lay on the mat. He picked it up. It was the local one. The
  headline caught his eye. They'd found the body of that girl - the
  thirteen-year-old he'd read about on Sunday.
 Poor kid. Poor mother.
  He tossed the paper onto the hall table and fumbled in his pocket for a
  cigarette. He flicked the lighter, then stopped. Not in this house. In
  his mind the place was still Kirsty's.
  The message light winked on the answerphone. He left it. There were
  people still ringing for Jodie, not knowing he was dead. Or else it would
  be for Kirsty, and he'd have to explain she was no longer there.
  He wandered into the kitchen. It had been his wife's domain. Kirsty's
  wish as well as his; she'd been oldfashioned that way. He filled the
  kettle and plugged it in.
  The message machine niggled him. It m~aht be for him. He brewed his tea
  then returned to the living-room and pressed the replay button.
  'Ah, hello . . .' A man's voice, but not one he recognized. 'It's Moray
  McFee here. just ringing you Alex to offer my condolences. Er ...
  terrible business. I was very sorry to hear about it. Er ... I haven't
  been around much in recent weeks, which is why you haven't seen me up at
  Yellow Craig in a while.'
  It clicked at last. The man on the beach. The man with the Red Setter.

               25

  'I'm down in London, as it happens. Something new I'm involved in. Errm .
  . .'
  There was a pause of a few seconds. Alex could hear the muffled rumble of
  traffic in the background.
  'I ... I wonder if you would give me a ring here. I'd like to talk to you.
  There's something I think you might be interested in knowing about. I'm
  staying in a wee bed and breakfast place. Just ask for me, Moray McFee, and
  if I'm not here, then leave a message and I'll call you back. The number
  ... oh, hang on. Ah yes. Here it is. ..3
 Alex wrote it down.
  Odd. Why should a man he hardly knew take the trouble to find his number
  and call him?
  He hesitated. It was twenty-past five. Perhaps he'd ring him this evening.
  Or now. Get it over with.
  He picked up the phone and dialled. It rang for a while, then a woman
  answered, her voice heavy with some foreign accent.
  She laid the receiver down, and he heard footsteps in a corridor. Then a
  few moments later, a heavier footfall returning.
 'Hello? McFee here.'
  'Ah. It's Alex Crawford here. You left a message on my machine.'
  'Alex! That's good! I wasn't so sure you would ring. Very presumptuous of
  me I'm sure, but er ... I heard about the terrible accident and then ...
  then your wife taking it bad. Sorry to be so direct and so on, but em ...
  I understand it was in the local papers about Jodie, and then em ... I was
  talking to someone else who ... who knew the family...'
  There'd been no shortage of gossip in the area, Alex was well aware of
  that.
 'I wanted to offer my condolences. .
 'That's good of you. It's been a bad time, as you can

               26

 imagine. Pretty bloody really. I'm just back from the funeral.'
  'Oh, I'm sorry. My timing was not of the best, perhaps. . .'
  'That's all right. You said there was something you wanted to tell me.'
  'That's right. Look, um ... I won't go into all the details on the phone,
  but for various reasons, I've resigned myjob in Edinburgh, and ... well
  the fact is my wife and I are having a break from one another as well.
  So, my life is going through a bit of an upheaval, shall we say.
  'I'm sorry to hear that.' Alex began to regret he'd made the call. Had
  enough troubles of his own.
  'But that's not the point. That's just for background. The reason ... the
  reason I rang you was to tell you what I've got involved in down here,
  because ... well I happen to think you might be in a similar position and
  might be interested in hearing about it.'
 'Go on.'
  'You'll have seen on the TY all the dreadful things that are happening
  in Bosma?'
 'Of course.' Alex frowned.
  'Well, I've just been out there as a volunteer to help get emergency food
  and clothing to children. There's thousands and thousands of them who've
  been burned out of their homes, and they've got nothing. Nothing at all.
  And the winter's still biting.
  'There's a small charity called Bosnia Emergency that's been set up by
  an ex-major in the army. They collect stuff here and take it direct to
  the villages where it's needed. I'm going out with another van-load in
  a week's time, and they're looking for one more volunteer. I told them
  I knew someone who might be interested, but I need to give them an answer
  tornorrow.'
 Alex did a double-take. It wasn't something that had

               27

 remotely crossed his mind. Bosnia had always been someone else's problem.'
 'You mean me?'
  Aye ...
 'But why? Why did you think of me?'
  'Look, I've been away from Scotland for a good few weeks now, but I keep
  in touch with what's going on up there. Em . . , I won't mince words
  Alex, I know your company's in trouble and they're making half the staff
  redundant. . .'
 'Is it half the stafP God, I didn't even know that.'
  'And I guessed, just a guess mind, that you might have been sent a letter
  through the post. The money's good, I'm told. And that's important.
  Because you wouldna get paid for this Bosnia business. just living
  expenses.'
  'I see.' Alex felt distinctly uncomfortable that a stranger should know
  so much about him. 'You seem remarkably well informed.. .'
  'Years of listening at keyholes, that's all! Well. Are you interested or
  not?'
  'I don't know. . .'He was thinking hard. It was bound to be interesting.
  Worthwhile too. Might be the break he was looking for. 'I'll need to
  think about it. . .'
  'Aye, well, as I said, there's not a lot of time. I have to tell them
  tomorrow one way or the other. But from my point of view it'd be grand.
  I'd much rather work with someone I know than a complete stranger.'
 'Well, yes I can see that. . .'
  Alex glanced round the living-room. A stack of Kirsty's Good Housekeeping
  magazines on the coffee table. A pile ofJodie's CDs on the audio system.
  The silence that echoed.
 Someone up there making the breaks for him ... ?
 'Well, thanks Moray. Yes, I'll do it.'

                28

              Three

 Thursday 17th March
 The Hague

 Three men and a woman sat at the light oak conference table flicking through
 the thin file which had been presented to them by the Data and Records
 Section. The words it contained were clinical, but they described a calibre
 of human savagery most Europeans believed had died out with the end of the
 Third Reich.
  The Yugoslav War Crimes Tribunal was open for business but it was early
  days. No prosecutions were yet in prospect, and many of those who paid
  lip-service to the need for a tribunal suspected there would never be any.
  Politics, they thought, would get in the way.
  The office smelled of new paint. There was a hammering in the background.
  Carpenters putting up shelves.
  All four round the table were from different countries: a Dutch police
  inspector, a lawyer from Senegal, a French investigating magistrate, and
  Caroline Zander, a legal officer from the British Home Office.
  Communication between them alternated between French and English.
 'It's thin,' Ms Zander complained, tapping at the
 paper.
  She was in her mid-thirties, a career woman with short, brown hair and a
  look in the eye that warned others not to waste her time.
 'Plenty on the crime, but not much on the criminals.'
  The War Crimes Tribunal had been set up the previous summer by the UN
  Security Council. Seen

               29

 politically as 'the right thing to do', the UN had found its member na*tions
 reluctant to finance it, however. The Tribunal's rented space in a former
 insurance office in the Hague was short of equipment and staff.
  The woman from the Home Office turned back to the cover page of the file.
 '7-he Tulici Killings - March llth,'she read again.
 IFwtim Total: 44.
 Women: 18
 'Children under sixteen: 21
 'Men (elderly): 5.'
 The first inside page gave the background:
 'ne village of Tulici cons' of twelve habitable dwellin
               isted        gs and
 a small mosque. Afirther two houses had been rendered uninhabit
 able recently, their occupants, Catholic Bosizims, referred to as
 'Croats'. were expelled firom the village during the widespread
 "ethnic cleansing" perpetrated by all sides in recent months.
  'Tulicz is on the northern slopes of the Li~va Valley in central Bosnia,
  where the communi~y has been of mixed rel~gionsjor many years. The battle
  lines between the BiH (Bosnian) army (mostly Muslim) and the Bosnian-Croat
  Hrvatsko V#eie Obrane - HVO (Catholic) are constantly changin~ according to
  UN observers. At the time of these murders Tulicz was at the edge of the
  area under BW (mostyl Mitalim) control, but was not believed to be
  ofstrategic importance to the other side. It had been left undefended,
  apartfirom the presence of a few elderly men armed with hunting rifles and
  shotguns. All theyounger men of the village had been Wlis~d in the Bosnian
  army and were manning defences elsewhere.'
  Caroline Zander picked up a pen and gently chewed its end.
  'At approximate~ 14.15 hrs, an unknown number ofassailants (the UN
  Protection Force UNPROFOR estimates twelve) approached the villagefrom the
  south. An unmade roadpasses eastwest through Tulici. Sniperpositions appear
  to have been established at each end of the hamlet. Six of the women and
  nine of the children killed were shot at the eastern end as thg tried
  toflee.
 'At 14.55 hrs, an armouredpatrolfrom the UAPROFOR base

                30

 at Idez saw smokeftom the village and went to investigate. Before reaching
 Tulicl, thg came under attack from a mortar and withdrew. One hour later
 thg returned and succeeded in entering the village.
  'In an orchard at the western end thg found the bodies offive men,
  described as elderly. All had been shot several times. UAPROFOR believes
  the men had been rounded up in the village and brought to the orchard to
  be murdered.
  'Along the road through the hamlet the bodies ofseven women and six
  children werefound. All had multiple gunshot wounds, Two of the children
  also had their throats slit.
  'Eve?y house in the village had been set on fire, apparently to ensure
  that anyone hiding in them would also die. Some had been attacked with
  grenades. The charred bodies offour women and six children were
  recoveredfrom cellars by UNPROFOR soldiers and the menfrom the village
  who had arrived back at the same time.
  'The last victim was discovered in a cow shed behind one of the houses,
  ayoung woman, said by herfather to be nineteen. She had been shot in the
  head and chest, and stabbed several times. The clothing had been
  strippedftom her lower body. An UNPROFOR medical officer was present; he
  reported that b lood smears in the area of her vagina and anus suggested
  she had been subjected to multiple rape. ~
  Caroline Zander smacked the pen down onto the table and chewed her lip.
  She'd seen many reports like this in the past three months, but it didn't
  make them any easier to read. She pressed on.
  'The bodies of the victims were burz~d the next day in afield next to the
  mosque. No autopsies were carried out. 77tere are no known survivors of
  the attack, and no one zivitnessed it at close enough quarters to provide
  any description of the assailants. It is assumed however that thg were
  affiliated in some way to the HVO.
  'The UAPROFOR Colonel in Fiztez lodged a strong protest
 with the HVO commander and demanded that he cany out an
 i . nves4ation. 7-he latter reported back that after intmriewi . ng all
 his
 subordinate officers, he couldfind no one who had any knowledge of

               31

 the incident. The UNPROFOR Colonel has described the HVO chief as a
 '~alhological liar".
  'Inquiries by a representatz . ve of the UN Centre fir Human
 Rights, based in Zenica, produced "hearsay" evidence only. The
 men of Tulicz who had been absent at thefront, are convinced that
 the attackers werefrom a neighbouring Bosnian-Croat (Catholic)
 vi . llage. In particular thg have named one man whose ownfamitv
 had been made refiigees by the war with the Muslims. The man is
 called Milan P~avic, aged about thiny. He is known to have worked
 i . n Germanyfir severalyears, but had returned to Bosnia to support
 the HVO. He has acquired a reputationfir being a tough, ruthless
 fighter and is said to have a deep haired of Muslims.
  'All efforts to trace Pravic through the HVO havejailed. 7-hg claim that on
  the day of the massacre Pravic wasfighting on another front.
  'Without some direct evidence ofhis culpabiliy, we have at this
 stage no case against Mr Prauic. The Bosnianfirces however are
 convinced that he was in overall command ofthe attackers. Any extra
 resources the Tribunal is able to provide in tgzng to secure an
 i . nteiview un . th Mr Havic would be most valuable.'
  Ms Zander smiled wryly. Extra resources? The money the UN had budgeted
  would scarcely cover the rent and the wages of the smidl staff until the
  end of the year.
  At times she despaired of the work she was doing. Yes, the politicians
  mouthed support for the Tribunal every time the television showed new
  horror pictures. But more money? Oh no.
  'I'm not sure we can get far with this one,' she confided. 'What do you all
  think?'
  'We have a name. That is a beginning,' the Dutch policeman insisted. 'We
  can alert EU countries to watch for him at their borders.'
  'I agree, but so far there's no evidence against him,' the French
  magistrate pointed out. 'Unless we can find him and persuade him to
  confess.'
 The Englishwoman'snorted with laughter.
 'Fat chance.'

                32

  The Senegalese lawyer began to stir. His command of English was poor and it
  had taken him longer than the others to read the report.
  'The place ... where they kill . . .' His voice was laboured and slow. 'The
  UN soldiers ... they are British?'
 Ms Zander nodded.
  'Then maybe the British . . . they can do something? Ask the questions ...
  ? Maybe British military police ... can find this Pravic.'
 'It's not in UNPROFOR's mandate...' she explained.
 'I know, I know. But unofficially...'
 'Undercover, you mean? I'm not sure about that.'
 For a moment there was silence round the table.
  'Mind you, we could make something of the fact that this man's a Bosnian
  Croat,' she conceded.
 The others frowned. She wasn't making herself clear.
  'As you know, some politicians think putting Bosnian war criminals on trial
  will undermine the peace process,' she explained. 'Because most of those
  we've identified so far are Serbs ... They're scared Milosevic will accuse
  the world of bias and pull out of the talks.'
  'But most of the criminals are Serbs . . .' the Frenchman insisted.
  'I know, I know ... But if we can persuade our government that prosecuting
  Mr Pravic, a Croat, would balance the books, it nzz~ht encourage them to
  give us the help we would need to dig up enough evidence against him. I
  mean, my Foreign Secretary has called the Tulici massacre a stain on the
  conscience of hunzani~y. . .'
  'Ooph, such strong words . . .'the Dutchman mocked. 'Caroline is right. It
  could work.'
  'But Bosnia is a sovereign state,' the Frenchman objected. 'We have no
  right to go and investigate there unless the Bosnians give us permission.
  This is not like Nurnberg.'

                33

  'Pennission...' the Englishwoman pondered. 'Of course that's not something
  the intelligence services worry much about, is it? And I can't imagine
  Britain has two thousand soldiers out there without a few spies watching
  their backs.'
 She stood up and grabbed her copy of the Tulici file.
  'Let me talk to my friends in London and see if I can pull a trick or two,
  gentlemen.'

 Berlin

 Lufthansa flight 3227 from Moscow was late. Due at ten to three on this
 wintry afternoon, it was after five when the 737's tyres kissed the tarmac.
  Kommissar Ganther Linz of the Bundeskriminalamt, BKA, had been assured the
  two men were on the flight. Germany's secret service had a man on board
  who'd radioed through. What they didn't know was the precise nature of the
  stuff in the men's bags, nor how dangerous it was.
  This was a public place. Innocent people everywhere. Couldn't afford to
  slip up with the snatch. No chances being taken - sharpshooters on the
  balcony and, just seconds away, a medical team from the Bundeswehr's
  nuclear protection unit.
  A tall man, with salt-and-pepper hair and close-set, hazel eyes, Linz wore
  a dark green raincoat and carried a Duty Free plastic bag. He was uneasy -
  always was when the security people set up a 'sting'. If the two men he was
  about to arrest were committing an offence, it was because the intelligence
  services had put them up to it.
  The blue tail of the jet lined up with the gate. Linz began to sweat.

               34

  As airports went, Berlin-Tegel was one of the best for arrests. Baggage
  collection, immigration, customs - all at the gate itself, and just a few
  metres beyond the barrier a door to an access road where police vans
  could wait.
  The first passengers emerged from the pier and lined up for the passport
  check. Linz watched his four BKA detectives mingle by the carousel.
  The two Italians stood apart, one in a business suit, the other in
  leather jacket and brown trousers.
  They're good, Linz thought. Not a hint they're together. Not a sign of
  concern. Natural gamblers. The contents of their cases could make them
  rich, or put them behind bars.
  A buzzer. The carousel about to move. Linz watched the plain-clothes men
  close in on the couriers. Near enough to move fast, but not so close as
  to be noticed.
  The Italians watched the bags emerge. Linz guessed they planned to travel
  separately to the hotel where their ,customer' was waiting.
  Leather jacket grabbed a Samsonite then aimed his trolley for the exit.
  The Suit checked customs didn't stop him, then took his own bag from the
  carousel.
  Two broad-shouldered BKA officers followed the first man out, and two
  more took position behind the second.
  Leather jacket passed through the automatic doors. The Suit began to
  follow.
  Linz scratched his chin. The customs officer acknowledged the signal and
  stopped an African laden with boxes. The Suit found his way suddenly
  blocked. Linz saw fear flicker at this untimely delay.
  Outside in the concourse strong hands wrenched Leather jacket's arms from
  the bar of the trolley and pinioned them behind his back.
 'Che cosafai ... ?'
  A tobacco-stained hand clamped his mouth. He saw his trolley and
  Samsonite disappear through the doors.

                35

 Then his feet lifted from the floor and he hurtled after them.
  In Linz's earplece, a whispered voice. All was well. A scratch at his
  cheek this time - the customs man waved the African through.
  In the concourse, the Suit looked round for his companion, but for less
  than a second. Then he too felt metal cuffs, and his dream of wealth
  vanished like steam from a kettle.

 Across the airfield a small hangar had been cleared for operation Black
 Gold - SchwarZes Gold. Black-clad snipers from the anti-terror unit
 watched, while the two Italians sat in separate vans seething.
  On trestle tables in the centre of the hangar, stood the two suitcases.
  X-Rays had shown they might be boobytrapped.
  Linz watched from a distance, while the bomb experts did their stuff. He
  puffed at a small cigar. Then a technician beckoned him over. They'd cut
  through the sides of the bags, to by-pass the locks.
  'They live well, these Italians,' he quipped, holding a large tin of
  Russian caviar.
 Linz pulled on plastic evidence gloves.
  'Let me see.' He spoke in a low mumble. He took the can, which felt too
  heavy for caviar.
  'Plutonium probably,' the technician suggested. 'Twenty times as heavy
  as water. Permission to open it, Herr Linz?'
  The Kommissar handed back the tin and glanced at the truck-load of
  sophisticated gear they'd brought from headquarters.
 'But do we have a can-opener?' he asked laconically.
  Heads shook. There was a ripple of embarrassed laughter. Linz sent
  someone to find the kitchens, then wandered onto the apron again to
  relight his cigar. He

 limped slightly, the result of an old gunshot wound when he'd been on the
 Drug Squad. He was joined by a man shorter than himself, whose shiny
 baldness looked premature.
  'Hardly worth opening the cans,' Linz scowled. 'I suppose you know what's
  in them already.'
  'Of course we don't. We only baited the hook. You never know what kind of
  fish you catch until you reel in the line.'
  The smaller man was from the internal security service BfV. This was their
  sting.
  'Where did you find these two types, anyway?' Linz needled.
  'If you know the right bars, they'll come to you,' he replied. 'One of my
  colleagues looks like an Arab. Said he had a rich friend who would pay a
  fortune for enough of the right stuff. And, what do you know? Up jumped the
  Mafia.'
  'And when they get before the judges, they'll claim enticement. .
 'But, Herr Linz, does that matter?'
  Couldn't see the bigger picture, policemen, the BfV man thought. Too
  focused on detail.
  'It matters to me!' Linz growled. 'Catching criminals and locking them away
  is what I'm paid for.'
  'Na sch&n! But what we need at this moment is inforrnation about the
  plutonium trade. And if you want to learn if there are poachers out there,
  you must wave a rabbit.'
 Behind them someone cleared his throat.
 'We have the can-opener, Herr Linz!'
  The policeman and the intelligence agent walked back to the hangar. Linz
  squeezed the glowing end from his cigar and put the rest in his pocket.
  They began to open the caviar, snapped by a police photographer.

                37

  'What do all these things do?' Linz asked, pointing to
 devices set u . p around the can.
  'They detect neutron radiation. Plutonium 239 is what people want for
  bombs, but it's contaminated with 240, which gives off neutrons,' explained
  the technician crisply.
  'So what will these toys tell you?' Linz pressed, still confused.
  'Whether it's dangerous to handle, and whether this stuff is weapons
  grade.'
 Linz grunted and let them get on with it.
  Gingerly they removed the cleanly cut lid. Inside, was layer upon layer of
  polythene sheeting, cut into discs to fit the can. A technician tore off a
  strip of Scotch tape, crumpled it then used it as a sticky handle to lift
  them out.
 'Polythene absorbs iieutrons,'the technician explained.
  As the last of the plastic was removed, he pointed the neutron detector
  into the can. There was a rise in the whine emitted by the machine.
  'That's okay. The levels are safe. This stuff is high grade.'
 Black powder beneath the plastic.
  'Everything suggests weapons-grade plutonium,' Linz was told. 'We'll know
  more tomorrow after we've analysed it fully.'
  'Morning, I hope?' the BfV man queried, adding as an aside to Linz, 'the
  press conference is planned for three in the afternoon.'
  The press conference had been scheduled since yesterday. That's what Linz
  hated about this whole affair. Little to do with crime. Just politicians
  wanting Brownie points.
 'About midday,' the technician confirmed.
  The second can of 'caviar' revealed the same contents as the first.

                38

  'Tell me something,' Linz said, grabbing the whitecoated technician by his
  sleeve. 'Someone could make an atom bomb with this stuff?'
  JawohL' He held out the can so Linz could see more clearly. 'But you must
  convert the powder to metal and machine it to the right shape.'
 just this much? What we have here?'
  'No, this is a sample. You'd need eight kilos for one bomb.'
  Linz let them pack away their equipment. just a sample. But in the wrong
  hands one that could lead to death and misery for millions.
  He looked at the vans where the Italians were being held. Small fish.
  Couriers. Might not even know who was pulling their strings.
  'Come on then,' he said, taking the BfV officer by the arm. 'Let's see what
  your two jokers have to say for themselves.'

 39

               Four

 Friday 18th March
 Scotland

 Sleep, in the empty, ghost-filled house at Longniddry, was almost
 impossible. Alex's mind raced like a toy train on a loop line. Even though
 he knewJodie's death was an accident, he couldn't forget that the boy would
 still be alive if he'd acted dilrerently.
  His decision to join the relief effort in Bosnia had lifted his spirits a
  little. Helping people who'd suffered more than himself had to he a good
  thing to do. Yet he knew too that to some extent he was running away,
  avoiding decisions he couldn't face. Like whether to try again to reconcile
  things with Kirsty or to accept the defeat of letting it end this way.
  He tossed and turned, unable to shake off the feeling that he was
  responsible for Kirsty - and for Jodie, even though he had been old enough
  to vote.
  Funny thing responsibility. Get it wrong and it stays with you for ever.
  Like the time he'd taken Jodie deer stalking and the boy had been
  traumatized by the bloody gralloching of the carcase. Hadn't realized how
  sensitive a twelve-year-old could be. The worry that he might have
  harmedJodie's mind never left him.
  Alex had loved watching the deer, and accepted the need to hunt them for
  the cull. He'd identified with the way the beasts used cover to avoid
  detection, but had been chastened by how often they rewarded the stalkers'
  patience with a fatal mistake. A warning not to drop his guard against
  those who were hunting him.

                40

  It was after three a.m. when he finally nodded off. Then at six-thirty the
  alarm went. He staggered from the bed to make himself a mug of tea. There
  was much to do still.
  He'd telephoned Kirsty's brother last night to say he'd be away for a few
  weeks. Told him about the redundancy, but not about Bosnia. just said he
  was going to London to look up old friends. Better to keep it vague. Old
  habits - born out of twenty years in hiding.
  There was a train at twelve-thirty that would get him into London at five
  p.m.. Had to get everything sorted by then.
  He opened the refrigerator. Kirsty kept it well stocked. Eggs and bacon
  should get him going. Hadn't often cooked his own breakfast. She'd seen it
  as herjob.
  After he'd eaten, he showered, dressed and packed a couple of holdalls with
  the few things he thought he'd need. Warm clothes, his walking boots and a
  strong torch. Moray had said to bring a sleeping bag. The only one in the
  house had been jodie's. Couldn't bear the thought of using that, so he
  resolved to buy a new one in London.
  He phoned the local taxi company and booked a car for eleven-thirty. Then
  he sat at the kitchen table with a notepad and pen. His first letter was to
  the firm where he'd worked for twenty years, accepting their terms and
  telling them he'd not be back. Citing personal reasons for his sudden
  departure, he asked to send best wishes to his colleagues and for the
  redundancy cheque to be paid into his bank.
 Then he took another sheet.
 Dear Kz-rs_o ...
  He sat for ten minutes, unable to write. What should he tell her? That he
  loved her? True enough, even if he'd never been in love with her. That he
  wanted her back? That was the hard part. He wasn't sure it could work
  again.

                41

 He screwed up the page and threw it in the basket.
  He wrote cheques lior the handfiil of outstanding bills, found some stamps
  for the envelopes and took the letters to the box a short distance down the
  street. On the way back, a neighbour who'd been Kirsty's closest friend
  popped her head out to ask how things were. He told her he'd be away for a
  few weeks, asked her to keep an eye on the house, and said she should help
  herself to the contents of the 'fridge.
  The car came five minutes early, but he was ready. With a lump in his
  throat, he didn't look back as they headed west along the coast towards
  Edinburgh.
 I At Waverley Station, police were putting up posters of the
 thirteen-year-old girl who'd been murdered nearby. A woman sergeant with a
 clipboard asked Alex if he'd been in the area the previous week. He shook
 his head.
  He bought a one-way ticket to London Kings Cross, a newspaper and some
  sandwiches. Having breakfasted so early, he was hungry again.
  Then, one important call from a pay phone to an address he'd never known,
  where M15's 'C' Branch ran the minders who kept an eye on his back. He'd
  put off ringing them until now, knowing they'd urge him to stay where he
  was and not break cover.
  'Don't think it's a good idea, this, Mr Crawford,' the voice at the other
  end told him. 'Understand your predicament, but you'll be on your own. We
  can't keep an eye on you if you're moving around all the time. Haven't got
  the staff.'
  'You think the risk's that great any more?' Alex queried.
  'File says you're still current. Tell you what, give me another ring from
  London before you leave the country would you?'
  Then he found a window-seat in the smoking section and settled down for the
  journey.
 The train pulled out five minutes late. He stared out of

                42

 the window watching the Lothian landscape that had concealed him so
 hospitably for twenty years, slip past with increasing speed.
  His eyes moistened, his heart ached with a deep sadness. If only he could
  wind back the clock ...
  Beyond the border, he slept, his overstressed brain lulled by the rhythm of
  the wheels.

 He'd not been to the capital for twenty years. He'd expected change, but the
 crush of traffic and the sullenness of the packed Underground came as a
 shock.
  Born and brought up in London, his roots were there, although the Security
  Service had done its best to cut them off. They'd stopped him attending his
  father's funeral ten years ago. The IRA U411 be watching ...
  Died just a few months into retirement, after life in a smoke-filled
  broker's office selling insurance. Consoling his mother had been left to a
  secret meeting in Birmingham two weeks later. Then last year she had died.
  Didn't hear about it until after the funeral ...
  He found his way to the Bed and Breakfast in Acton where Moray McFev was
  staying, a house that smelled of dead air and bacon fat.
  McFee was waiting for him in the TV lounge, a short, stocky man in his
  mid-fiftles with crinkly auburn hair, thinning on top.
  'Welcome, welcome,' he said. 'Can't tell you how delighted I am.'
  He hardly knew the man, but it felt like being greeted by an old friend. A
  friend in need ... Botl~ '12n that category, he suspected.
 'It was good of you to remember me,' Alex replied.
  After settling his bags in his room and washing off the grime of the
  journey, McFee took him to a pub. Alex had a thirst and went foi bitter;
  McFee drank whisky.
 'Let me fill you in about Bosnia Emergency,' he began,

                43

 pulling out a pipe and thumbing St Bruno into the bowl. They'd settled at
 a corner table. 'It was set up by a guy called Major Mike Allison who'd
 served with the UN in Bosnia and then got made redundant under the defence
 cuts. He used his gratuity to get the charity running.
  'An old army contact found him a disused warehouse in Surrey. Then he
  recruited volunteers, many ex-military, or army wives. They collected old
  clothing and stuff. He's also got drug companies to give him medicines
  nearing their sell-by dates, that sort of thing. And with money raised
  through appeals on local radio he bought baby food and disposable nappies
  at cost price.
  'Then he got reaIly lucky. Inherited a couple of old bread vans from one
  of the big bakeries. just needed a few new parts, and they were fine.
  What happens is the volunteers at Farnham stuff one of them with goods,
  then we drive it down to Italy next week and over the ferry to Split in
  Croatia. Then, because the vans can't make it on Bosnia's roads, we
  transfer the gear to an old Bedford four-tonner for the drive up to
  central Bosnia. Mike supplies body armour and life insurance. I've
  checked it by the way and it's good. He pays for food, drink and
  accommodation, but that's it. The rest of your reward's in heaven!'
  Body an-nour? Insurance? The realities of what he was in for suddenly
  sank in.
  'You make it sound a bit like a scouts' outing, Moray,' Alex joked,
  awkwardly. 'But it looks terrifying on TV. How dodgy is it?'
  'Not for the faint-hearted, d'ye ken!' McFee answered. 'But you'll be
  fine. It's dangerous, but just keep reminding yourself that there are
  hundreds, thousands of aid workers, UN people, even journalists going in
  and out all the time, and most of them survive okay.'
 'Did you get shot at?'
 'There's shooting going on all over the place, but it's

                44

 not often at you. I'll tell you something though; it's what they call a
 "sharp learning curve" out there. I've just made the one trip - with Mike
 Allison, but by the time I got back here again, I felt like I'd done an
 assault course.'
 'And passed, I take it.'
  'Aye,' he laughed. 'Hope so. You'll find out in a few days' timeP
  Alex told McFee he had to take a leak. The pub had filled up. He had to
  elbow his way through to reach the toilet.
  When he returned he saw McFee talking with a young woman. He thought he
  recognized her as one of two tarty creatures who'd been sitting at a
  table near them. As he approached, the girl saw him and moved towards the
  door.
 'Who's your friend?' Alex asked.
  'Oh, er ... just a local lass,' McFee answered, avoiding his eye.
  'There's a few of them collecting clothes for Bosnia Emergency. I was
  chatting them up the other evening, regaling them with tales of my
  exploits out there, and they've got pretty keen. You know, if you tell
  people about the suffering in Bosnia they usually want to help.'
  'Good for you,' Alex answered. For some reason he sensed McFee was lying.
  Later, back at the boarding house, they watched the evening news - fresh
  fighting between Bosnia's Croats and Muslims in the town of Gorni Vakuf,
  houses ablaze, women and children running for cover, and UN soldiers
  battened down impotently.
  'We drive through that place on the way up to Vitez,' McFee commented.
  The pictures were scaring, but Alex felt excitement too. He was about to
  return to the thick of things after two decades in a backwater. His veins
  buzzed, just as they had on the troubled streets of Belfast in the
  nineteen-seventies.

                45

  He turned from the screen to find McFee staring coldly at him. Suddenly he
  sensed he was being used, although he didn't know how.
 'No problem,' McFee muttered, flashing a grin. "Nana problema" as they say
 out there.'
 The bulletin ended and they decided to call it a day.
  In the unfamiliar bed, sleep still proved elusive, his mind haunted
  byJodie's face dangling at that impossible angle in the trees.
  He heard every train which ran nearby. Then around one in the morning they
  stopped. He was on the verge of sleep when he heard the click of the lock
  on McFee's doorjust along the landing. A loose board creaked as the
  Scotsman made his way downstairs, then another click as the front door
  opened and closed.
  Odd man, Alex thought. He must have dozed off after that, because he didn't
  hear him return.

 Frankfurt, Geirn any

 Martin Sanders ambled down the long, anonymous concourse of Frankfurt
 Airport, looking forward to the prospect of a couple of days in Germany.
 Many of his formative years had been spent in the cat-and-mouse world of
 Berlin, and he'd had a spell as liaison man for the Secret Intelligence
 Service at the British Embassy in Bonn.
  His flight from London had arrived on time. Carrying just hand-baggage he
  joined the line filtering through passport control, then headed for the
  exit. Sanders was fifty-two, fair-haired and wore a grey business suit. He
  had the broken nose of a rugby player. Instinctively he

                46

 mingled with other, similarly dressed travellers and walked at their pace.
 Years of good SIS fieldcraft.
  At the car hire desk he told the girl he wanted to upgrade from the VW
  Golf that he'd booked, to a Renault Espace. She seemed rather tickled by
  his story that his wife and young children were joining him on the trip
  at the last minute. Englishmen, in her experience, usually came to
  Frankfurt to escape their families and visit the sex-shops.
  'They're on the next flight,' he explained when she looked past him for
  some sign of them.
  'Second family,' he shrugged as her eyes suggested he was rather old to
  have small children.
  Driving out of the airport, he turned onto the Autobahn A3 in the
  direction of Wurzburg.
  Martin Sanders had no family. He was a bachelor. But he was attending a
  meeting of the Ramblers, a select, highly secret international gathering.
  just four intelligence men in attendance, one of them had the task of
  renting an Espace or a Previa. This time it was his turn. Doing a last
  minute upgrade reduced the risk of anyone doctoring it beforehand.
  It was Rudiger Katzfuss who'd made the hotel arrangements this time.
  Every six months when the four met, they took turns to play host in their
  own country. The last time in Germany had been two years ago; Sanders
  remembered how their French colleague had complained about the sweetness
  of the Rhine wine. This time Rudiger had chosen the Franken region
  because the wines were dry.
  Like many a businessman whose work is deadly serious, when away from home
  the Ramblers felt they had the right to 'play' a little. Modestly - these
  were cautious men - but a glass or three and good food somewhere pleasant
  helped create the bond which would be vital in a crisis. Even if their
  governments fell

                47

 out over foreign policy, it was important that the four intelligence
 gervices kept contacts sweet.
  Autobahn driving was the one part of the process Sanders didn't like.
  Narrow lanes of traffic moving excessively fast. Rudiger had faxed a map
  showing the way to Sommerhausen.
  There was a newcomer to the group this time, Jack Kapinsky of the CIA,
  who'd taken up the job of Director of the European Division. Sanders had
  met him three times before. A dry character who drank cold tea. A man eager
  to make his mark.
  Taking the Wurzburg exit and heading south, the ground rose sharply to the
  left, hillsides combed with neat lines of vines still just visible in the
  early evening gloom.
  'One of Germany's best-kept secrets' is how Katzfuss had described the
  region. Sanders was surprised Germany had any secrets left after the Cold
  War penetration by moles from the East.
  The signpost to Sommerhausen led him into a pretty, red-roofed wine village
  of grey, yellow and half-timbered houses. Along the narrow main street,
  locals carried home shopping and tourists strolled, glancing at menus in
  the Weinstube windows which glittered in the dusk. Third turning on the
  right, Katzfuss's note had said. Sanders eased the Espace down a narrow
  lane.
  T he Gdstehaus zurn M6nchen had been chosen for its inconspicuousness. A
  modern building, but in traditional Bavarian style, with a dozen small
  bedrooms, it was cheap and simple - a room with breakfast. The couple who
  ran it expected to see little of their guests.
  Rudiger Katzfuss was waiting in the tiny reception area, a big man with a
  face so deeply lined it looked crumpled. Katzftiss was Director for Europe
  with the BND, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, Germany's secret service.
 'Mein heber Marte he purred, grasping Sanders' hand.

                48

 'Always first to arrive. You're so efficient. I think perhaps you are
 secretly a German.. .' Then he roared with laughter.
  'I've been many things, Rudi, but not that. Not yet,' Sanders chuckled.
  The Ramblers' cover story was that the four men were partners in
  international marketing, each managing an office in his own country. They
  only met twice a year, so used the occasion to relax, taste wine and
  explore new countryside.
  Sanders filled out a registration form with the usual false address. They
  would pay cash for all their bills.
  He took his key from the manageress and declined her offer to show him
  upstairs.
  The room was clean and plain, walls papered in featureless beige, a pine
  wardrobe and matching bed covered in a plump, white linen Federbett.
  Sanders hung a pair of trousers in the wardrobe, had a quick wash, then
  heard a tap at his door. He let Katzfuss in.
  'You have everything you need?' Katzfuss asked. 'Small, but ffinctional
  - are those the words, I think?'
  'Your grasp of English idioms is faultless, Rudi,' Sanders answered. 'But
  if you're offering extras, what about a popsie!'
  Katzfuss raised an eyebrow. The word had beaten him.
  'Never mind.. . ' Sanders smirked. 'What's the plan this evening?'
  'Well, I think that when the others are here, there is a weg nice
  Weinstube where we can start. And then dinner. I have booked us for eight
  o'clock.'
  Marcel Vaillon of the Direction G6n&rale de la S6curit6 Ext6rieure turned
  up next, a stocky man, going bald; then Jack Kapinsky, tall, thin and
  bespectacled, minutes later. By the time everyone was settled, it was
  after seven.
 They left the hotel together, glad of their coats. The

               49

 air nipped. The village smelled of wood smoke and cooking, the place busy
 with weekenders from the cities.
  In the Weinstube Kapinsky removed his glasses to polish them. They'd
  steamed up, coming in from the cold.
  'I'll take a coffee, thanks,' he replied, when asked what he wanted to
  drink.
  'That can be bad for the liver, you know,' Vaillon remarked.
  'I'll risk it,' the American replied. 'Now, Rudi, what've you got fixed for
  us? Is this the hottest spot in town?'
  'Almost! I told them we would eat here this evening, but tomorrow we can be
  somewhere other, if you like.' Katzfuss spoke English with only a slight
  accent. 'In this part of Germany the food is supposed to be good.'
  A look of disbelief creased the round face of the man from the DGSE.
  There was no official language for these gatherings, but with two
  English-speakers always present, theirs was the tongue that dominated.
  Relations between their four agencies were rooted in suspicion, but since
  the end of the Cold War, they'd discovered a new common cause - a wish to
  preserve the ability to act quickly and independently when the need arose,
  free from the clithering of politicians.
  They believed a myth had arisen in the minds of the general public that the
  end of the Cold War meant the end of the threat to the West. Governments
  were using it, they felt, as an excuse to cut budgets and curb their powers
  with demands for greater accountability.
  So the Ramblers had been formed as a bypass to the political process. A
  group that could take action in the interests of' their joint national
  security, without the politicians being told anything about it. Direct
  action -such as assassination.
  Secrecy was all. Their meetings were never minuted. The existence of the
  group was known only to the chiefs

                50

 of each nation's intelligence service and the four representatives
 themselves.
  Jack Kapinsky fiddled apprehensively with his cup of unpleasantly bitter
  coffee, his glance flitting between the faces of his more relaxed
  colleagues. He barely knew these people yet his brief was to trust them
  and agree a plan that could get himjailed if its details were ever made
  public.
  This at a time when some Congressmen were demanding the CIA be disbanded
  for incompetence ... Not the wisest moment to get involved in dirty
  tricks, he'd suggested. His Director had countered with a quote from
  Edmund Burke - the only infallible critefion of wisdom is success.
  Rudi Katzfuss had left little to chance in the process of ice-breaking
  which this first evening was intended to accomplish. The Gasthof was
  renowmed for its cooking and its Gemitlichkeit. He ordered two flat-sided
  bottles of Frankenwcin so their tasting could begin.
  'They call these BocWeutel,' he explained. 'They say the monks who made
  the wine found this shape easy to hide under their cloaks. You must try
  the Muller-Thurgau and the Sylvaner. The earth here is Muschelkalk. You
  know what is that?'
 He was met by frowns.
  'From the mussel. Millions of years ago this land was under the sea.'
  'Instead of prattling on, Rudi, why don't you pour the bloody stuff. .
  .' Sanders remarked. 'I don't care how pretty the bottles are, wines are
  for d7inking. . .'
  Katzfuss peered at the labels and chose the one nearest.
 'First the Maller-Thurgau, I think..
 He filled the four glasses.
 'Tastesgreat,' Kapinsky announced.
  'Aimable, but I prefer Chardonnay,' the Frenchman commented.

               51

  The waitress brought menus and the food followed swiftly. Even Vaillon was
  satisfied. Soon the conversation veered to politics.
  'You know, I can't understand why our system allows so many dough-heads
  into the White House,' Kapinsky exploded. 'For a sophisticated democracy
  we've had some pretty ignorant presidents. And the one we've got now. .
  .'He shook his head in despair. 'He couldn't even find Bosnia on the map..
  .'
 'Nor can most people,' Sanders remarked curtly.
  'Okay. But this creep is on a learning curve so steep it's almost vertical.
  European history is not his strong point. We keep showing him the mess you
  guys have got in over Bosnia and tell him America won't do any better. So,
  what does he do? Gets involved -- then backs off.just one more indecision
  for the New York Times to write about.'
  'We call that "learning on the job". That's the British way of doing
  things,' Sanders offered.
  'But he was strong on war crimes,' Katzftiss added. 'He backed the UN
  tribunal in the Hague.'
  'Waste of time,' Sanders snapped. 'Might get a few tiddlers, but the big
  fish'Il end up running the place.'
  'It's the feel-good factor,' Kapinsky continued. 'Makes the politicians
  look as if they're doing something. Kids the voters.'
  'I'll tell you something about the Hague,' Sanders added. 'They're haidly
  up and running there and already getting cheeky. We got a request from them
  yesterday. Do we have someone we could send to Bosnia to do a bit of
  detective work? I ask you.'
 'Tulici?' Vaillon checked. Sanders nodded.
 'Pictures on the television ... ' Vaillon shrugged.
  They knew what he meant. Europe's policies on Bosnia had been driven by
  public reaction to TV news broadcasts.
 The conversation drifted dangerously towards the sort

               52

 of gossip that shouldn't be overheard. The place was too public.
  'Shall we call it a day,' Sanders suggested. 'Make an early start in the
  morning?'
  Those with brandies drained their glasses. They settled their bill with
  cash, then the four headed back to the hotel. On the way Kapinsky stopped
  at a phone box to ring Washington. Not to discuss Bosnia - hardly a
  serious matter for intelligence agencies - but for an update on the real
  nightmare preoccupying the Agency.
 Iran - poised to acquire an atomic bomb.

 The morning dawned bright and dry, although rain was forecast.
  At the breakfast table, Katzf'uss ostentatiously spread out a walker's
  map of the neighbourhood.
  'There is a path that will give us good views and take us to a fine
  Kileipe for lunch.'
  They were all dressed for the part in hiking boots, thick socks and warin
  clothes. The overnight frost had been heavy.
  Sanders went outside to warm up the Espace. It was a ten-minute drive to
  the start of the 'ramble'.
 The CIA man was last to climb into the vehicle.
  They didn't talk as Katzfuss navigated. Mist clung to the valley of the
  River Main which looped round the hills and the vineyards. A pale sun
  struggled to burn it off.
  Soon they were at a small Schloss reputed to produce the best local wine.
  'rhere was a car park for visitors.
  'If there is time later, we can uisit here,' Katzfuss gestured.
  The path began as a farm track leading diagonally up a southwest facing
  slope, terraced with vines. The winter pruning had been done and the
  plants looked stunted and dead.
 They walked for five minutes. Then the path levelled

               53

 out and began a gentle descent, the sun, where it pierced the mist, glinting
 on the river below.
  'Okay, gentlemen. I guess we should start our business.' The CIA man was
  tense, finding it hard to reconcile the informality of the setting with the
  seriousness of their purpose.
  Katzfuss glanced round. No one else about, crazy enough to be walking this
  early.
  'You know the agenda,' Rudi began. 'As chairman, I think best I report you
  first about Schwarzes Gold'
 'Thursday's arrests in Berlin?' Sanders checked.
  ja. Exactly. Two Italians caught with four hundred grams of Plutonium 239,
  which was eighty-five per cent pure.
  'As you know, this was a trap by a BfV agent pretending to be from the
  Middle East. The Italians had Mafia connections in Russia.
  'The aim was to learn if such material is possible to buy.. . We know now
  the answer is yes. And that it came from a Russian laboratory,
  Chelyabinsk-70. The scientists there have not been paid since last year.
  'We don't know how much can be bought, or if it is enough for a weapon. And
  the BfV don't know who wants to buy it - apart from themselves,' he added
  wryly.
  'Yesterday the Kiirninalpolizei made a press conference, and the German
  government asks Russia to have stronger control over these materials.'
  'Sounds like your boys have been having a bit of fun,' Sanders told him.
  'If M15 pulled a stunt like that, there would be howls of protest in
  parliament.'
  'I think that same noise is just beginning here . . Katzfuss confessed.
  Jack Kapinsky held out his arm for them to stop.
 Walking                         9
    g and talkin was not his scene.
  'Look, let's discuss this in the van. I've had enough scenery. And there's
  something big we've got to decide on.

               54

 They turned and walked back the way they'd come.
  'And I'll tell you something,' Kapinsky continued, 'when the Russians trade
  seriously in this stuff, they won't do it through Germany, particularly
  after all this high-profile police activity.'
  Back at the Espace, Sanders wrestled with the floor clips and spun the two
  front seats round to face the rear two. Then he unfolded a small table.
  Their conference room was ready.
  'Now look ... we have something new on this nuclear business,' Kapinsky
  explained.
 He had their Ul attention.
  'First, let me say that in Washington we don't believe those labs like
  Chelyabinsk will leak enough material to feed a bomb programme. We don't
  believe either that there's a terrorist organization out there able to make
  a bomb from the sort of stuff your guys picked up in Berlin, Rudi.'
  They had one of the windows open for ventilation. Far away they heard a
  tractor start up, and to their right a flock of pigeons took to the air
  startled at the sound.
  'The people chasing Russian plutonium are the same ones who've been trying
  to produce their own stuff for years,' Kapinsky continued. 'Iran, Iraq,
  Libya, to name but three. And what they've got their eyes on is all those
  warheads being taken apart under the disarmament agreements. There are two
  thousand a year being dismantled, and all that plutonium's just being put
  on the shelf. You can't destroy the stuff. At Nizhnaya-Tura and Svatusk and
  Penza there's enough for thousands of bombs.'
  'That of course we all know,' Katzfuss chipped in defensively. 'And in
  principle that must be the greatest danger. But in the BND we believe the
  risk of that material getting on the market is . . .'
  'It's minimal,' Sanders agreed. Jack, you know that too. The 12th Main
  Directorate has those places stitched

               55

 as tight as a duck's arse. For plutonium to leak from there you would% have
 to have a total breakdown of military authority in Russia. I mean, they've
 plenty of problems, but we're not seeing anything like that yet.'
 'A few days ago, we would have agreed with you..
 Kapinsky's words floated before them like a mine.
  'We've just learned that the Iranians think they've cracked the problem.'
  'Cest incrovablef Vaillon spluttered. 'What source do you 'ave?'
  'I don't know that. Humint of some sort. But it's grade one.'
 'What exactly do you know?' Sanders asked.
  'The Iranians believe they're in contact with a group of middle-ranking
  Russian officers who control security at one of the storage sites. They say
  they can supply twenty kilos of ninety-three per cent Plutonium 239.'
 Jesus wept!' Sanders breathed.
  'I am not the technologue,' Vaillon ventured. 'What does that mean?'
  'Sufficient for maybe four bombs . . .' Katzfuss explained.
 'And what is the price?' Sanders asked.
 'One hundred million dollars.'
 'The Iranians will never pay that much!'
  'Maybe not. But that's how much the Russians are asking. Foreign bank
  accounts, the lot.'
  'How do they plan to do it? Twenty kilos? That's a hell of a lot to
  handle.'
  'We don't know the plan,' Kapirisky explained. 'Only that the Iranian who
  is running the show is due to meet the Russian go-between pretty soon. The
  Russian has to show a sample to prove it is from a warhead stockpile.'
 'Where's the meeting to be?' asked the Frenchman.
  'That's the trouble. We don't know that. Not yet. We think maybe somewhere
  in the Balkans. Bulgaria, Romania, who knows.'

               56

  The mist had cleared but the sun retreated behind a cloud. Across the
  valley they could see the first streaks of rain.
  'Have you talked to the Russians about this?' Vaillon asked, uncertain how
  much co-operation they could expect.
  'We're doing it now,' Kapinksy answered. 'I know what they'll say; that
  their security measures are as tight as they can be and such a leak of
  materials is impossible.'
  The tractor they'd heard earlier appeared on the brow of the hill behind
  them and approached rapidly.
  Katzfuss opened an attach& case and handed them each a small schnapps
  glass. As the tractor slowed to pass their van, they raised the glasses in
  a toast to the driver. He mouthed the word Prost!
  When the tractor was gone, the four bunched together again.
  'The Iranians have been flirting with nuclear power for thirty years,'
  Kapinsky continued. 'When the Shah had control he launched a thirty billion
  dollar civil programme that would give him plutonium as a spin off. That
  idea died when the Mullahs came in. The two plants being built at Bushehr
  were abandoned, and then in 1987 the Iraqis bombed the shit out of them
  just to make sure.
  'But in eighty-nine, Rafsanjani said Iran couldn't ignore the reality of
  nuclear power. He meant military power. Since then they've set up a cadre
  of technicians at the Nuclear Fuel Cycle Research Centre at Isfahan. And
  they've built a secret weapons development centre near the Caspian Sea at
  Moallem Kelaich and another in the desert near Yazd.
  'Our source is very close to the top. The man who's made the breakthrough
  with the Russians is a Dr Akhavi. Speaks Russian and did a year in Gorky in
  nineteenninety.
 'Akhavi's connections are entirely personal. The guys

               57

 in the Russian military who claim to be willing to supply, know him and no
 one else in the Iranian hierarchy. He's the only one they trust.
  'Our proposal is this - remove Akhavi from the equation, and the whole deal
  should collapse.'
  Sanders stroked his chin. He knew what was coming next.
  'My people in Washington believe that if some way can be found to stop this
  trade, we should take it,' Kapinsky declared. 'My chief wants us to agree
  a plan. A plan to eliminate the problem.'
 They all knew what that meant.
 Murder.
  Something they hadn't involved themselves in since the Iraqi Supergun
  affair.
  'We'll need a lot more information,' Sanders stated blandly. 'What are you
  proposing, Jack?'
  'We don't have a proposal. I guess that's for the four of us to work out.
  But it seems to me if we eliminate Akhavi and the Russian go-between, we've
  won.'
  'For this time,' Katzfuss commented. 'As long as there is a market, there
  will be others.'
  'Oh, sure. The long-term solution lies with the Russian military keeping
  the stuff locked up. We're just in the business of crisis-management on
  this one. But the immediate crisis is that Iran looks dangerously close to
  a deal.'
  They sat in silence for a while, staring out of the windows.
  'You trust your source a hundred per cent?' Sanders asked.
 'I guess.'
 'But you've got nothing from the Russian side?'
 'Nope. You neither?'
 The three Europeans shook their heads.
  'You think you'll get notice of when and where this meeting is to take
  place?' Sanders queried.

               58

  'If we don't, then we can't even start anything. . Kapinsky shrugged.
 'Quite.'
  'Our hope is that we would get maybe two or three days' warning. What we
  have to do is set someone up who can move fast. A freelance. Someone
  who'll do it without asking why, or who's paying.'
  'Always remembering the Ramblers' eleventh commandment. . .' Katzfuss
  warned.
 Kapinsky frowned, not understanding.
 'Thou shalt not get caught. . .' Sanders explained.

 59

               Five

 Monday 21st March
 London

 The breakfast news on the television at the Acton boarding house reported
 more fighting in Bosnia and the death of a French photographer, killed when
 his Land Rover was hit by an anti-tank rocket.
  Alex expressed some concern but McFee assured him it wasn't as bad out
  there as it looked.
  They were leaving early the following morning. McFee was to drive them to
  Farnham, and leave his car at the warehouse. Then they'd collect the van
  filled with supplies and be on their way to Dover, the Continent and
  Bosnia.
  Alex had been introduced to Major Allison on Saturday. The Surrey epicentre
  of Bosnia Emergency's activities had been chaotic, but impressive. Stacks
  of old clothes, tinned food and basic medical supplies being sorted into
  boxes by a handful of volunteers. The place throbbed with goodwill. Allison
  had shown Alex photographs of the villages and villagers they'd helped.
  The warehouse wits on an industrial estate, deserted at weekends. Alex had
  never driven anything as large as the former bread van he and McFee were to
  take to Split.
  McFee, who for some unexplained reason had acquired a Heavy-Goods Vehicle
  licence when he was younger, showed Alex the ropes.
  'By the time we reach Ancona, you'll be an old hand,' he'd declared.
 'What about a licence?'

                60

 'Ach ... tell them it's in the post.'
  Less than twenty-four hours to go, and Alex felt far from prepared. He
  still had to buy that sleeping bag. But first there was a phone call to
  make.
 The voice at 'C' Branch answered at the second ring.
  'Ali! So pleased that you called,' the man wheedled. 'There's someone
  upstairs who's very keen to talk to you. Says he's an old friend.'
 Alex's heart sank.
  Roger Chadwick. It couldn't be anyone else. It was thanks to Chadwick
  that he'd spent the last twenty years in hiding. They'd gone to the same
  school and the man had used that flimsy connection to suck him into his
  world of betrayal.
  Tin not so sure I want to talk to him,' Alex growled. Chadwick spelt
  trouble.
  After a slight acquaintance at school, they'd met again on a nuclear
  disarmament demo in the sixties, quite by chance. Alex had been marching
  with Lorna Donohue. Chadwick was a new boy in M15 then, trying to make
  a name for himself by spotting the anarchists in CND.
  'He's booked a table at the Monteverdi Restaurant in Church Street Ken
  J'Or one o'clock today,' the voice said. 'Is that all right?'
 'Oh, I suppose so,' Alex sighed, suspiciously.
  'He says it really is essential you meet. Says he owes you a lot and has
  something for you.'
 'Like whaff
  'Sorry. There's nothing more. Monteverdi at one. I'll tell him you're
  on?'

 The outside of the restaurant needed a lick of paint. A window box filled
 with bone-dry earth held the remains of some pelargoniums, cause of death
 unknown.
  He checked the name sign again, then pushed open the door.

                61

  'For one, signor?' asked a weary waiter, eyeing his casual clothes and
  marking him down as a tourist.
 'No. I'm meeting someone.'
 'Name?'
  'Dear boy!' The shout came from the back of the restaurant. A large,
  dark-suited figure arose from the gloom, flapping a hand at him.
  Chadwick had put on weight. A good two or three stones heavier than when
  they'd last met in Belfast.
 'Alex! What can I say ... ?'
 He reached out with both hands.
  'Roger. . .! It's been a long time. And you don't look a day older,' Alex
  lied.
  Chadwick's laugh boomed out. He examined Alex up and down.
 'Sorry if I'm a bit scrufly,' Alex apologized.
  'Not at all. But I'mglad you're having trouble with the waistline too,' he
  chortled, patting his gut. 'The beard suits you, by the way. Gives you the
  wiry look of a Border terrier. Pulls the birds, does it?'
 Chadwick gestured to the chairs.
  'Only the nesting kind,' Alex retorted. 'Had to cramp my style, Roger, as
  you well know..
 He stroked his chin.
  'Anyway, I think I'll shave it off. Too many grey bits showing through.'
  'Keep it. Particularly if you're intending to "come out", as they say.'
  Chadwick grinned, then switched quickly to an expression of sympathy.
 'So sorry about your son.'
 'Stepson, actually.'
 'Of course. But I know how you felt about him.'
  Did he know? Had he been watching him that closely all these years, with
  those small, conspiratorial eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles?
 Alex told him about Kirsty's breakdown and then

               62

 stumbled into talking about the accident itself, and the sense of guilt that
 still followed him like a cloud. Hadn't meant to open up like that. Not
 always a safe thing to do with Chadwick. But he felt better when he'd
 finished, realizing he'd needed to tell someone.
  'It was an accident, my friend. That's all. Not your fault in any way,'
  Chadwick assured him.
  'I know, I know. Anyway, you didn't invite me here to talk about that.'
 Chadwick pursed his lips.
  'Not entirely ... You know me too well. I do have some business in mind.
  But later. Later. Let's have a drink and pick something from this
  magnificent menu!'
  It was pizzas and pastas. The restaurant had been chosen not for its
  cuisine but for the wide gaps between the tables and the muzak which would
  prevent their voices being overheard.
  The waiter delivered bottles of Corvo and San Pelegrino.
  'Never cold enough,' Chadwick complained, feeling the wine. 'Never mind. If
  we drink it quickly we won't notice!'
 He filled their glasses.
 'Cheers! A toast to ... to putting the past behind us?'
  His eyes seemed to be pleading. Alex guessed this was the closest Chadwick
  would ever get to saying sorry for the pain he'd inadvertently caused him.
 'To the future,' he replied, simply.
 They drank.
  'So, what are you up to these days,'Alex asked. 'Still in "I"' Branch,
  chasing subversives?'
  'What a memory! No. I'm up in the rafters now. Director of something or
  other. Paper-clips, I think. But I've always kept an interest . . .'
 Alex's eyebrows bushed into a frown.
 'An interest in your well-being, Alex, that's what 1

               63

 mean,' he growled. 'You did us ... did your country ... a great service
 twenty years ago, you know.'
  Alex doubted that. 'I helped you kill three IRA men. It didn't exactly
  stop the war, did it?'
  'They were three top-drawer murderers, Alex and don't you forget it. If
  their jail break had succeeded, there'd be even more police and army
  widows now crying in their pillows. You paid a heavy price, that's what's
  unfortunate about it. And that's why I insisted "C" branch took such good
  care of you for the past twenty years. It was personal for me, Alex,' he
  added, overtly sincere. 'That's why I knew aboutJodie, you see. Anything
  new, anything bad, "C" Branch had orders to tell me.'
  Too smooth, too much oil, Alex said to himself Chadwick was after
  something. Better keep his wits about him, and play for time. He asked
  Chadwick about his own family.
  'Children both at University now. Amazing how time passes. And my wife's
  quite remarkable. Hardly a cross word in twenty-five years! Amazes me how
  she puts up with my life.. .'he added, patronizingly.
  The first course came and went and they were into the second before
  Chadwick finally turned to the purpose of their reunion.
  'So, you're off to Bosnia, then. To do good deeds,' he began. 'Nasty
  place. D'you know where you'll end up precisely?'
  'Vitez.' McFee had shown him the map at the weekend. 'Where the British
  troops are based. It's the safest place to be, I'm told.'
  'Exactly, Exactly,' Chadwick mused. 'Sounds all terribly worthwhile and
  rewarding. And very brave.'
 'Don't know about that...'
  'You always did have a lot of guts, Alex. No false modesty, now. ..'
 He could feel Chadwick slipping the ring through his

               64

 nose, just as he had when he'd persuaded him to identify troublemakers on
 the CND rallies. just as he had too, a decade later in Belfast.
 'Okay, Roger,' Alex sighed, 'what is it you want?'
 Chadwick poured the last of the wine.
 'Does the word Tulicz mean anything to you?'
 Alex scratched his beard.
 'That's the village ... ?'
  'Exactly. Forty people massacred there, ten days ago. All Muslims. Mostly
  women and children. No known witnesses, but the word is that a man called
  Milan Pravic led the gang of killers. Spelt "Vic", but pronounced (1vitz",
  I'm told. He's a Bosnian Croat, vanished without trace, of course. Well ...
  the UN War Crimes Tribunal in the Hague want him found and delivered to
  them for trial.'
  'I'm not surprised. Shouldn't be too hard, should it? The place is crawling
  with UN personnel.'
  'They have no police powers, Alex. The UN can't go round investigating, or
  arresting people. They're there to get the food through. The Bri't
  commander in Vitez has done his best. Tulicl is on his patch. In fact he
  reached the village when it was still burning.
  'The local Muslims say Pravic is a well-known psychopath. They're convinced
  he did it, but the evidence is only hearsay. Not enough for a prosecution.
  'So there are two problems, my dear Alex. No accused, and no evidence! And
  that's whereyou come in.'
 'Surprise, surprisc! What are you getting aff
  'The Hague Tribunal's asked Britain to help. And when we learned thatyou
  were heading there, we thought you might be prepared to do your bit to help
  the nation again. .
 Alex frowned and narrowed his eyes.
  'From your beetled brow I can see you think I'm going to land you in it
  again,' Chadwick continued, looking a little pained. 'But all you'll have
  to do is keep your ears

               65

 open and ask a few questions. That charity of yours takes food parcels all
 over the place - Muslim villages, Croat villages. They'll have interpreters.
 People everywhere are talking about the slaughter at Tulici.'
  'You amaze me, Roger,' Alex declared wearily. 'The last time I helped the
  nation as you put it, I had to spend the next twenty years in hiding.'
  Chadwick narrowed his eyes. 'That was just bad luck. . .'
  'Which wouldn't have happened if I hadn't spied for you,' he retorted. 'No.
  After what I've been through, I can't think of any good reason for helping
  you out again.'
  'Well, I can think of two, actually,' Chadwick retorted. 'One - gratitude
  for the very considerable resources devoted by your countrymen to keeping
  you alive for the past two decades.'
 'Whaff
 'And two - because you like the excitement.'
 'I don't believe this,' Alex breathed.
  'Come on, Alex! You are by nature a chancer, you know that. Taking risks -
  you love it. Let's cast our minds back to Belfast for a moment.'
 Alex flinched.
  'Nineteen-seventy-three. There you were, an electrical engineer with a good
  degree and several years of success in industry behind you, and you'd
  chucked it all up to become a sound recordist with a television news team.1
  Why? Because the idea of running round Ulster dodging bricks, bottles and
  bullets gave you a big stiffy.'
 'Now hang on...'
  'And that wasn't the only thing that got your willy all hard, was it?
  Remember the lovely Catherine?' One of Chadwick's eyebrows arched
  alarmingly. 'Now, she wasn't one of those old Belfast bangers the TV crews
  used to pick up to nuzzle between riots. No. Tou had to choose someone
  really special, didn't you? Someone so dangerous that every time you bonked
  her you risked a

                66

 knee-capping! Catherine McNulty, the bored wife of one of the IRA's most
 powerful godfathers. . .'
  'Okay, okay. But I didn't know that, did I? Not at the start . . .'
 Alex felt the ground shifting beneath his feet.
  'And then, when your old flame Lorna Donohue turns up, instead of
  ditching Catherine, you were screwing them both on alternate nights! Talk
  about walking a bloody tightrope!'
 'Oh, shut up!'
  He had been pretty wild in those days, but he didn't need reminding of
  it.
 Chadwick raised his hands in a truce.
  'Sorry. I didn't mean to rake all that up. Come on, I'm not getting at
  you. I'm not putting the squeeze on. Not on an old friend. I mean, sod
  it Alex, we were at school together . . .'
 He pulled an avuncular grin,
  Chadwick had be(-n senior to him and they'd hardly known each other as
  pupils. By the time Alex left school, Chadwick had already graduated from
  Cambridge and joined M15.
  Excitement? He couldn't deny it was why he'd gone along with Chadwick at
  first. Any impressionable eighteen-year-old, asked to help his country
  flush out hotheads bent on destroying democracy would have got a thrill
  from it.
  just thought you'd be interested in helping to get a mass murderer locked
  up,' Chadwick continued, pithily. 'The last twenty years have been bloody
  hard for you. Particularly the boredom.'
  'It hasn't been boriiig,' Alex protested. However much Chadwick had kept
  an eye on him, he could have no idea how full his life had been.
  'But that's all over,' Chadwick went on. 'The Scottish chapter is closed.
  Tragic circumstances of course ... but

                67

 you're ready to put a bit of a thrill back into your life, no?'
 Alex was startled at his bluntness.
  'I mean, no one goes to Bosnia for a quiet life. . .' he added in
  exasperation.
  'No. Okay,' Alex answered defensively. 'But I'm going because I want to do
  something useful, to help those poor sods out there.'
  He regretted the words as he spoke them, knowing they'd propelled him into
  Chadwick's trap.
  For a moment Chadwick's gaze focused above Alex's head, as if searching for
  a halo.
  'Doing something to help, Alex? Don't you see, that's exactly what I'm
  proposing? Look. Delivering parcels for Bosnia Emergency may stop people
  dying from cold and hunger. But by delivering up Milan Pravic to justice
  you'll help stop the revenge killings that are fuelling the whole war. If
  you do this little thing for us you could be helping millions of people,
  not just a few hundred.'
 This was the way it had always been.
  Give us the names oJ'the anarch U*ts oryou'll speed the death of democracy.
  Betray Loma's secreb or have the deaths of more soldiers onyour conscience.
  And now -- help usfind a mass killer oryou'll beprolonging the bloodshed in
  Bosnia.
 Chadwick smiled confidently. He knew he'd won.
  'But I'm way out of my depth,'Alex protested. 'I don't know the language,
  the country, the people, the issues. . . nothing.'
  'Don't need to. Have a natter with the Colonel when you get there. We'll
  let him know that you're more than just an aid worker. And then chat to
  people as you do your rounds. See what comes up. Keep in touch with us.
  I'll give you some numbers to ring here. You can use the army's
  communications, I'll arrange that.'
 Alex had been suckered again, and he knew it. There

                68

 was always something addictive about Chadwick's offers. The chance to
 be at the heart of things.
  Chadwick beckoned and the waiter appeared at the table.
  'Large espresso and a Grappa, suit you?' Chadwick asked.
 Alex shrugged. He pulled out his cigarettes.
 'Why not?'
  It was a double answer. To that question and the unspoken one.
  Chadwick had tickled him like a trout.

               Six

 Thursday 24th March, 06.35 hrs Leipzig, Geizz any

 The security guard on night duty rubbed his eyes and stepped out of his
 warm, smoke-fugged office for a last tour of the Faculty for Veterinary
 Medicine before handing over to the (lay shift. A light dusting of snow
 had fallen; he hoped it wouldn't settle because the weekend was coming and
 he had his in-laws to visit two hours' drive away.
  Most of Leipzig's University had seen better days. This faculty of drab,
  turn-of-the-century laboratory blocks and ramshackle animal shelters had
  the look of a rundown farm.
  Rounding a corner by the Department of Hygiene, the guard stopped in his
  tracks.
 'Scheisse!'
  Lights, in the Infcctious Diseases Laboratory. Could have sworn he'd
  switched them off. Certain of it.
  He reached the door and tried the handle. Locked. He fumbled with the
  huge ring attached to his belt, screwing up his eyes to identify the key
  he needed. He'd left his reading glasses in the office.
 He opened up and crept along the corridor.
  'Aahh,' he sighed, reaching the lab's glass-panelled door. 'Should've
  guessed.'
  Chief Technician Kernmer. Not yet seven a.m. and the man was there, in
  his white coat, busy as a rat in a treadmill. The guard shook his head
  and stomped back along the corridor to the exit.

                70

  Poor old Kemmer! Turned up here at all hours, even weekends. They said
  his wife had died the day before German unification and he'd hardly known
  what to do with himselfever since.

 Siegfried Kemmer's world consisted of pipettes, glass flasks and gas
 burners, the equipment of a microbiological kitchen. In it, the art of
 brewing lethal substances had become, to the initiated like him, a matter
 of routine.
  Kernmer opened the incubator and peeked through the inner glass panel at
  a single Petri dish a few centimetres across. Hands sheathed in surgical
  gloves, nose and mouth masked, he eased open the panel, extracted the
  dish and carried it to a safety cabinet, Setting it down beside five
  flasks of yellow liquid, he closed the cover and switched on the internal
  fans that kept the bacteria from escaping.
  Then he froze. Footsteps in the corridor. His head craned round.
  The wheeze of a dry spring and the bang as the front door closed. He
  turned to the window, terrified someone else had come in early.
  He saw the guard walk into view. The man waved. Kernmer acknowledged him,
  then sat on a stool to let his heart recover.
  Siegfried Kernmer had been at Leipzig University for as long as anyone
  could remember. A pale, bespectacled man, hair the colour of wet sand,
  his closest colleagues would have I'Ound it hard to describe him, if
  asked.
  None of the students or lecturers lie served was sure of his age. Few
  cared. Ifthey had, they'd have discovered he was approaching his pension.
  The unification of Germany in 1990 had brought him little joy. His wife
  was dying and so were all the tenets he'd been taught to believe in.
 In 1945, when Hitler shot himself', Kemmer had been

                71

 a ffightened ten-year-old, his mind etched with memories of the suffering
 Fascism had brought upon Germany. Easy meat for the conquerors from the East
 who told the vanquished that socialism was their salvation.
  He'd accepted its deficiencies and its corruption as the price for living
  in peace. Until the day the Wall tumbled in 1989, the day that became known
  as die Wende - the change. Then, all the people he'd once respected as
  knowing what was what, had stood up one after another and announced that
  the world he'd been taught to believe in was a chimera.
  Sweat trickled down Kernmer's forehead. He pushed the spectacles back up
  his nose. His hands shook.
  Setting the chair in front of the safety cabinet, he slipped his hands inio
  the rubber gloves which projected inside like dead men's arms.
  He picked up the Petri dish, removed its lid and tilted it towards him.
  Colonies of the bacillus that had developed overnight stood out as brown
  blobs against the jelly ofagar and sheep's blood on which they'd fed.
  Dangerous pathogens were strictly controlled here, but as Chief Technician,
  Kernmer had unfettered access to the refrigerators where infected blood and
  tissue were stored. It was his job to provide the students with samples for
  their diagnosis experiments and to monitor safety.
  And the dangers were terrifying. The Institute was in a residential area
  next to Leipzig's International Trade Fair. A release of anthrax, borne on
  the wind, could kill thousands.
  Siegfried Kernmer was a man in whom the University's elders had put their
  trust.
 A trust which he was now in the process of breaking.
  One millilitre of infected cow's blood was all he'd taken. Too small a
  measure to be registered as missing. He'd done it last night, after the
  last student had left. Mixed the droplets with the agar and let them
  incubate overnight at blood heat.

                72

  Two nights ago, the plodding predictability of Kemmer's life had been
  shattered. A man who called himself 'Herr Dunkel' had arrived unannounced
  and unbidden at his lonely apartment in Leipzig-Lindenau.
  Dunkel was a man from the past. A cold warrior who'd worked for the
  former communist nation's Ministry for State Security. An officer in the
  Stasi, whom Kernmer had expected and hoped never to see again.
  During those post-war years of national isolation, Kernmer had believed
  the Party's lies about the 'threat from the West'. Believed the
  capitalists were out to take away his guaranteed home, his guaranteed job
  and his free health care. So, when Herr Dunkel had first approached him
  a decade ago, wanting lethal potions to use against the enemies of the
  State, he'd obliged.
  His loyalty and support had been quietly recognized. The fourteen year
  wait for a new Trabant had been slashed miraculously to months.
  But then the world had changed. His countrymen smashed the chains of
  communism, Kernmer's own daughter joining the thousands cramming Saint
  Nikolai's Church for the Monday prayers for liberty. She'd been there too
  on the Leipzig Ring Road, clutching a candle in the procession that had
  brought down the regime in 1989. She'd wanted her father to join her, but
  he'd used the excuse of his wife's illness to stay at home. It was fear
  that kept him there, however. Fear of what would happen in the future to
  people like him who had supported the lies ofthe past.

 Hands steady in the thick gloves, he picked a bacterial cluster from the
 gel with a fine wire loop, then lowered it into the first of the flasks.
 He twizzled the wire to disperse the anthrax bacteria in the yellow
 liquid, then repeated the process until the growth medium in each bottle
 had

                73

 been inoculated. Then he capped each flask with a loose lid of foil.
  He pulled his sweating hands from the cabinet-gloves and wiped them on his
  white lab-coat.
 Five flasks. Five flasks of death.
  Kernmer choked back a sob. How could he be doing this evil thing?
  He crossed the floor and lifted the lid on the shakerheater. Then one by
  one he took the flasks and placed them on the vibrator platform. He closed
  the lid and switched on.
 He removed his glasses and dabbed his eyes.
  Not too late to stop this monstrous process. Maybe Dunkel's threats had
  been bluff. Things were supposed to be different now.
  Not for Dunkel, though. He was still working, still murdering for 'someone
  up there'. Wouldn't say who. But no bullshit about 'ideology' this time.
  Blackmail had become his only weapon of persuasion.
  Kernmer had said 'no' at first. Refused the outrageous request. Then Dunkcl
  had picked up the silver photoframe from the coffee-table, a picture of
  Kernmer's wife and daughter in happier days.
 'I saw Erika, yesterday. . .'
 The words had dribbled from his mouth.
  'A fine woman, your daughter. Fine baby too. Grandson is it?'
  'Erika?' he'd gasped. A chill finger had run up his spine. She'd moved West
  when the border opened in '89. Married an engineer in Heidelberg.
  'So vulnerable, babies of that age.' Dunkel's voice like slime. 'Accidents
  happen so easily. . .'
  Kernmer's resolve had crumbled. So little left in his life. just his
  daughter, his grandchild - nothing must be allowed to happen to them.
  Dunkel had promised it would be the last time he would trouble him.

                74

  That, Kernmer had resolved, was a promise that one way or another
  Dunkel would be forced to keep.

 75

              Seven

 Friday 25th March
 Italy

 Moray McFee was in the driving seat as they drove Bosnia Emergency's old
 bread van into the Italian port of Ancona. He pulled confidently at the
 wheel, hunched forward like a gorilla.
  Alex's trepidation at what lay ahead had eased during the journey, his mind
  distracted by the business of learning to be a truck-driver - nowhere near
  as simple as McFee had said. Now however, the Adriatic Sea stretched in
  front of him and the knowledge that war was being waged on the other side
  set his pulse racing.
  The port police waved them through onto the long, broad quay.
  'How's that for timing, eh?' McFee purred. 'Ferry leaves in a couple of
  hours.'
  Behind the docks the grey-pink walls of the medieval city rose up, glowing
  softly in the dying sunlight. To their left lay the terminals, two ferries
  and a container ship.
 They'd been driving for four days.
 'I'm bloody knackered,' Alex wheezed.
  'Wait 'til you see the road facing you on the other side,' McFee cautioned.
  He swung the wheel hard left and pulled into a space in front of the main
  terminal.
  'I'll just away in there and get the tickets. Will you keep a good eye on
  this lot? You know what Italians are like.'
 While McFee went inside, Alex climbed down from

                76

 the cab to stretch his legs and smoke a cigarette, not straying far from
 their load of survival boxes.
  The journey south had been painfully slow. They'd ceased to be strangers,
  but Alex had come no closer to understanding what made his companion tick.
  McFee had talked a little about his life in Edinburgh, saying he'd reached
  fifty-five that summer, and taken early retirement. At the same time, he'd
  split from his wife. Their marriage had been a formality for years, he'd
  said.
  He'd joked about. the similarity of their situations, threatening to paint
  a sign on the side of the truck saying - Dangerl Mid-1fie Chsis Inside.
  Alex had begun to suspect there was a perfectly simple reason why he'd been
  asked along. McFee's life was a mess and having a companion in a similar
  state made hiin feel better. The Scotsman, however, made Alex feel uneasy.
  Something contrived about him. Not a man to confide in.
  'All hunky-dory!' McFee announced, clutching the tickets. 'We can drive
  straight on and start getting the beers down!'
 'Sounds good to me,' Alex concurred.
  McFee backed the van awav from the terminal and drove it over some railway
  tra~ks to where the stern of the ferry Gloria loomed.
  A cursory check of the paperwork by the Italian customs - and they were
  waved on board. The first vehicle to do so, the), drove the full length of
  the garage deck and parked by the bow doors. Then they climbed to the
  passenger decks and were allocated a two-berth cabin.
  'I hope you don't have any curious nocturnal habits . . .' Alex muttered as
  they walked down the corridor to deposit their bags. He'd never liked
  sharing rooms with other men.
 'Should have thought of that earlier. .
 A few minutes later they located the deserted bar. A

                77

 harassed steward washing up glasses told them they'd have to wait another
 half-hour.
  Out on deck the air was pleasantly mild, compared with the icy March winds
  that had buffeted them in the English Channel. Alex hardly needed the
  thick, green pullover he'd put on.
  Behind them to the west, the memory of a sunset lingered on the horizon;
  ahead, the cathedral on its hill above the harbour floated like a floodlit
  phantom.
  Alex began worrying about Kirsty again. There was something about a sea
  crossing, about gazing back at the shore that made him think about what
  he'd left behind.
  Still that sense of guilt at leaving her, despite the certainty there was
  nothing he could have done to get her back. He resolved to phone her
  brother to see how things were. Maybe there'd be time on the other side.
  He shivered. The 'other side' was an unknown quantity.
  Diesel fumes rose from the quay as trucks bustled to board. Customs men
  glanced at their watches. Departure hour was near. 'rime for them to go
  home to their dinners.
  'A lot of heavy stuff down there,' McFee remarked. 'Some of it's aid, some
  just commercial. Thing is, life's pretty normal over in Split, as you'll
  see. Croatia's fine. It's only when you drive up into Bosnia that it gets
  shitty.'
  A bus pulled up on the quay and disgorged a stream of fair-haired men in
  mud-green uniforms.
  'Swedes probably. Or Danes. With the UN. They come over here for a bit of
  R and R,' McFee explained.
 'Does all the aid for Bosnia come through here?'
  'Oh no. Not at all. A lot of the NGOs drive down through Austria. And the
  UN brings stuff in by ship.'
  'NGOs?' Alex queried, still struggling with the terminology.
  'Non-governmental organizations. Like us. Charities and so on. You'll soon
  get used to it.'

                78

  Patronizing sod, Alex thought. The man had only been here once before,
  yet he made himself out to be the world's greatest expert.
  The last of the trucks was aboard and the loaders began to lift the ramp.
  Suddenly headlights appeared from behind the terminal, bobbing rapidly
  towards them. The deck crew didn't notice, until alerted by the frantic
  blaring of a horn.
  A white-painted Toyota Land Cruiser skidded to a halt at the edge of the
  ramp, the driver leaning from the window waving her papers.
  'Typical bloody woman! Late as usual,' McFee sneered. There was venom in
  his voice.
  'Who d'you think she works for? The UN?' Alex asked.
  The Toyota driver was a blonde. Alex caught his breath, reminded suddenly
  of Lorna Donohue. Couldn't say why. Too dark to see her clearly.
  Something to do with the toss of the head. The woman seemed to be
  apologizing.
  'Probably not UN,' McFee guessed. 'Might be Red Cross, anything. You'll
  find those dinky little motors all over the place. There's a "designer
  set" in Bosnia, who drive round in the trendiest off-roaders, wearing
  immaculate white jump-suits, and are sod-all use to anybody.'
  'Hmm. Well, they're letting her on,' Alex murmured. There was definitely
  something about the woman ...
 'Shall we try that bar again,' he heard himself suggest.
  As they headed below, the sea boiled at the stern and the ship shuddered
  with the rumble of the diesels.
 'Oh hell! Look at this lot,' McFee moaned.
  The young UN soldiers had got to the saloon first, scrabbling at the bar
  and coming away with fistfuls of beer cans.
  'Told ye they were Swedes! Ali, well, faint heart ne'er won fair lady.
  ..'
 McFee torpedoed the throng of giants. Alex spotted

                79

 two unoccupied chairs at a table and made a grab for them. %
  He studied the faces of the soldiers. Jodie's age, most of them. Some
  scrubbed and innocent, farm boys perhaps, out of their depth. Others
  noisy, leery, brought up in a harder school. None drunk yet, but the
  night was young.
  Acro5s the saloon two Italians in business suits pressed themselves
  against the window, hammering words into their portable phones before the
  ship got too far from land.
  Alex kept a curious eye on the door in case the blonde woman came in.
 McFee returned with two cans each.
  'They don't run to glasses. Not with this load of hooligans.'
  They peeled back the rings and raised the lagers in a toast.
 'Here's to a safe trip,' McFee declared.
 'And to a useful one.'
 'Aye, indeed.'
  Alex peeled open a new pack of Marlboros and lit one. McFee fiddled with
  his pipe.
  One more look, that's all he wanted. just to be sure that in the glare
  of the lights the blonde did not resemble Lorna. That his mind, fazed by
  the uncertainties ahead, had simply been triggered by a hand movement
  into seeking comfort from the past.
  The sound of reedy singing cut through the growl of the bar. The music
  ol'hymns and prayers, coming from the passageway outside.
  'Sounds ominous,' Alex remarked. 'Do people know something about this
  ship that we don't?'
 'Sit tight a minute . . .'
  McFee weaved through the crush and disappeared. He returned a minute
  later, grinning.
  'Italians. They're sitting in a little circle out there bloody praying!'

               80

 'Christ! What are thg going to Bosnia for?'
  'To pray for peace, I suppose. Worth trying. Nothing else works.'
  The ship's public address system began to buzz. A bilingual announcement
  that the restaurant was open.
  'Come on,' McFee ordered. 'Grab your tins and follow me. Last time I was at
  the back of the queue and missed out.'
  In the dining room they took their plates of steak, chips and salad to a
  window table. The pin-pricks of the shore lights were disappearing fast.
  Alex half turned, checking faces. The pilgrims or whatever they were had
  secured an alcove to themselves. Most had brought their own food. Bread was
  broken and blessed. Men and women with ugly, pious visages.
  Then he saw her. In the alcove next to the pilgrims. Sitting with a man.
  The tilt of her head, the half smile. The cascade of blonde hair.
 The shock that it zva~ her thumped through his body.
  No doubt, even after twenty years. Hair a bit shorter now, but the same
  magical eyes he'd twice fallen for. The same earnest hunching of the
  shoulders as she made a
 point.
 Lorna Donohue.
  He twisted away from her, blanching with panic. She mustn't see him. Not
  yet. He'd waited twenty years, but now the moment had come he wasn't ready.
  'Hey, what's up?' McFee demanded. 'You've gone grey, man. Are you sick or
  something?'
 Alex waved dismissively.
 'Is it the ship? Canna be. It's like a mirror out there.'
 'No.' Alex pushed the tray away and shielded his face.
 ,There's someone over there, someone I know.'
 McFee peered past him.
 'Ghost from the past, eh? Which one is iff
  'The woman in the alcove beyond the pilgrims. But please don't . . .'

               81

  'Aha. Blonde hair? Not bad. Want me to bring her over?' he needled.
 Alex waved a finger of caution and glared at him.
  'I think that means no ... More of a skeleton than a ghost, eh?'
  'We were both eighteen when we first met,' Alex explained reluctantly.
 'Oh, a lovely age, a lovely age.
  'Don't ... don't let her see you looking. . .' Alex fussed. 'I don't want
  her to recognize me.'
  'My! What did she do to you all those years ago?' McFee asked, eyes
  burning with curiosity.
  'It wasn't then. It was ten years later,' he added, embarrassed. 'We met
  again and ... and it's what I did to her that's the problem.'
 McFee whistled softly, intrigued.
 'Naughty boy, were you?'
  Alex's mind Jumped back to the last day in Belfast. Lorna, eyes smeared
  with tears, pounding his chest with her fists after she'd found out he'd
  been two-timing her.
  Sure, he'd been naughty, but there were reasons. And if she'd given him
  halfa chance he would have explained them to her. Could have explained
  the second betrayal too, the one she hadn't known about then. The
  betrayal that had put a price on his head and must've set Lorna baying
  for his blood.
  At the time, Lorna had been a courier for the IRA's American bankers and
  had brought cash to Belfast to fund a jail break. He and she had
  literally bumped into each other at a funeral. Loma had been walking with
  the Republican mourners, he with a TV crew filming it.
  When they'd met that second time, they already had a ~past', a teenage
  romance in which they'd pricked their fingers and bonded their lives in
  blood. To meet again like that could not be coincidence, Lorna had
  insisted. It was the 'guy up above, making the breaks for them'.
 She'd given him everything after that. Her body, her

               82

 soul - and her secrets. She'd told him of the jail break plan.
  Then Chadwick had turned up to put the squeeze on him and he'd betrayed
  her to M15. Never had the chance to tell her why.
  Now, she was sitting just metres away and he hadn't the words or the
  nerve.
  'She's standing up,' McFee whispered. 'Coming this way, with the bloke.
  No sign she's seen ye.'
 Alex felt his neck burn as she passed behind him.
  'All clear. I should have one of those sirens they blow when the bombers
  have gone,' McFee chuckled.
 Memories. Painful memories flooding back.
  The fractured ribs after McNulty's men had slipped into his hotel room
  and beaten him senseless for sleeping with the IRA man's wife.
  The escape on an RAF Hercules, with Chadwick watching over his stretcher.
  The news a day later, that three IRA escapees had been shot dead by the
  police. Three men killed because of him.
  'How's about a wee nightcap?' McFee offered, snapping fingers to wake
  Alex from his dream. 'Look as if you could do with a dram.'
 Alex's mind returned to the present.
 'Moray, you're dead right.'
 Then he hesitated.
  'I suppose you want me to go ahead and check she's not in there?' McFee
  growled.
  Alex grinned sheepishly. McFee shook his head in mock censure.
  'Some people I know will pull any old trick to avoid their round!' He
  stood up. 'If I'm not back in one minute, it's all clear, okay?'
 'You're a paW
 Alex let out a gust of a sigh.
 'God, what's happening,' he croaked.

               83

  .Jodie dead, Kirsty gone, and now Lorna. What game were the gods playing?
  Was this Lorna's beloved Fate at work, or just some perverse, bloody
  coincidence?
  In the saloon some of the Swedish soldiers were worse for wear, ready to
  make a night of it. All the tables were taken. Alex and McFee leaned on the
  bar with their whiskies.
  'So, what about this lassie of yours then?' McFee pressed, unable to
  restrain his curiosity. Over his checked shirt he wore a fawn jerkin with
  pockets. His pipe stem protruded from one of them. He hooked a thumb into
  another. 'What would she be doing here?'
  'Don't know. She was driving that Toyota. The one that nearly missed the
  ferry.'
  'Thought as much. The chances are she's heading for the same place as us,
  then!' His eyes twinkled.
  'You think so?' Alex caught McFee's look. 'You're enjoying this aren't you,
  you bastard!'
 McFee's face split into a grin.
  'Well, there's not a lot to laugh about where we're going. And you
  should've seen your face in there . .
 'You're an evil sod!'
 'Och, come on! You'd do the same in my shoes.'
  'Probably.'Alex burned his throat with the remains of the spirit. 'That's
  it. I'm turning in.'
  'What? Are ye no going to talk to her? You'll have to, some time or other.'
  Maybe McFee was right. No time like the present. For a moment Alex
  considered taking a stroll round the ship. Bumping into her casually might
  be the simplest way to break the ice. But she'd probably gone to her cabin
  with that man she was with. Tomorrow would be better.
  'Not tonight,' be announced. 'Need to get my act together . . .'
  Away from the hubbub of the bar, the long, beige passageway to the cabins
  was silent but for the hiss of the ventilation.

               84

  McFee let them in with the key and closed the door behind them. Alex took
  off his trainers and jeans and climbed onto the upper bunk.
  'I suppose you'll be lying awake all night thinking about her. . .' McFee
  joshed.
  'That would not surprise me.. .' Alex sighed, knowing sleep would be
  almost impossible.
 'Waste of time, if you ask me. Still, it's your life.'
 'Yes ... That's just the trouble,' Alex muttered.
 'Good night!'
  McFee turned out the light and within minutes was snoring softly.
  The cabin was on an outside deck, with a window. A soft, grey luminance
  filtered through the thin curtain. Nearly a full moon. He could hear the
  swish of the wake. In the ceiling above him an air vent rattled. He
  reached to adjust it and the noise stopped.
  Lorna. Marriage to Kirsty had pushed her to the back of his mind, but
  she'd always been there.
  Ghadwick's minders had warned him contact with Lorna could be contact
  with death. And now she was here, maybe just centimetres away. He touched
  the partition, imagining for a second she was just the other side,
  breathing, sleeping - making love even.
  He'd been transfixed the first time he saw her, back in 1962. It had been
  celebration night in a Hampstead pub, a crowd of eighteen-year-olds just
  finished with school, the wider world beckoning. His attention had been
  caught by the snick of a billiard ball and there she'd stood, resting her
  cue, blonde curls tumbling about her face like water over pebbles,
  blue-grey eyes cocky with confidence.
 For Alex it had been like honey to a bear.
  He'd soon discovered they were from different worlds. In Lorna's, money
  was taken for granted. In his own, every penny had to be counted. She was
  from the sort of

               85

 old, American stock that had shaped the New World. Alex's ancestors had
 slipped through life unnoticed.
  Living then with her English mother, Lorna had mixed with the Hampstead
  smart-set of socialist lawyers and academics who rode the nuclear
  disarmament bandwagon. Alex's circle had been on a different plane where
  talk was of motorbikes, football and beer.
  Lorna had dressed like Ch6 Guevara, navy beret over her blonde curls, and
  taken Alex on protest marches. She had also introduced him to some 'angry'
  friends -anarchists and Trotskyites who favoured revolution through
  violence. It was their names Roger Chadwick had been after. He'd filled
  Alex's ears with stories about 'people in high places' fearing British
  democracy could be destroyed by these thugs.
  Nearby on the ferry the sound of shouts and doors banging pierced the
  ventilator hiss. Alex lifted his head from the pillow, straining to hear.
 Italian voices. Not hers. He lay back again.
  From the lower bunk, McFee's snores turned to grunts, followed by a Jabber
  of gibberish as he talked in his sleep. Sounded like 'chirrup' repeated
  over and over again. The noise subsided into a mumble and a moan, then
  suddenly erupted in words that were sharply clear.
 'Shuddup! Shuddup will ye!'
 Then a sob.
  McFee snorted. H(-'d woken himself up. There was the rustle ofbedding being
  rearranged, then silence. A shutter had opened on some torment in his soul,
  then closed again before Alex could guess what ghosts had frightened the
  man.
 He returned to the spirits of his own past.
  Betrayal, he thought to himself That's how it had been each time with
  Lorna. Never a betrayal of her though, just of her friends. And there'd
  been good reasons each time.
 Those anarchists were nothing to do with CND.

               86

 They'd just wanted to throw petrol bombs at the police. And in Belfast,
 the men he'd helped get killed - they'd been killers themselves. No reason
 to be ashamed of what he'd done.
  The trouble was, Lorna's hunger to follow the action kept leading her out
  of her depth. She'd hate to hear him say that, but it was true.
  He was remembering so much now. When they'd first kissed, her body was
  taut as a violin, electric with intensity. He'd had other girls before,
  but it was Lorna who taught him to love, taught him there was an art to
  touching a woman.
  Her breasts had been firm and small, hardly filling the palms of his
  hands. One night on the sofa at her home, her mother safely in bed, Lorna
  had taken his fingers and guided them to the moist, warm pip between her
  thighs that unlocked her ecstasy. He'd come in his pants.
 He was becoming aroused at the memory of it.
  Bloody stupid to be lying here like this. Should've spoken to her in the
  restaurant. Should be putting the bad bits of the past behind them and
  reliving the good Ones.
  So long ago, yet still so close, so vivid. The perfume of her creamy
  skin. The half moan, half cry of pleasure, her cheek against his, sticky
  with sweat, as she came and came under his humping in the Belfast hotel
  room.
  Damn Lorna! For thirty years she had lodged in his soul. She'd warned him
  she would. Told him she knew their lives would always be linked.That one
  day even, he would weep by her grave.
  Load of rubbish. The fantasy of a fanciful mind. Yet, it hadn't been
  rubbish ... She was still with him.
  What would it be when they came face to face again? There was so much to
  forgive. Too much to forget. Would it be war, or peace?
 He turned on his side. Had to get some sleep. McFee's

                87

 snoring had subsided to a murmur. The ship was rolling a little. The wind
 must have got up.
  Had to think what to do, what to say. Above all, he had to decide what he
  wanted to happen.
 That wasn't hard. He wanted to turn back the clock.

 88

              Eight

 Saturday 26th March
 Split, Croatia

 The Glon'a berthed at Split at seven a.m. No breakfast offered, just a
 bleary-eyed scramble down to the chilly vehicle deck. For Alex, making
 contact with Lorna now assumed top priority. Pulling on his brown thornproof
 for warmth, he peered back through the tightly-parked cars in the half-lit
 hold. Then the ramp crashed down and McFee started the engine. No time to
 look for her on board.
  They were first off, first to the barrier, but the Croatian customs
  officials were not to be hurried. Alex drummed his fingers, anxiously
  watching the other vehicles drive from the ship. On the quayside, trucks
  were being separated from cars.
  Suddenly there it was, the clean, white Toyota scooting towards a
  free-flowing exit.
  'I'll be right back. . .' Alex gulped, pushing open his door and jumping to
  the ground. He propelled himself towards the fast-receding Land Cruiser.
  Then a rough, official hand grabbed his arm. Alex spun round to protest,
  but the policeman reached for a pistol with his other hand.
  'There's someone I've got to talk to. . .' Alex protested, pointing with
  his free arm. The policeman shook his head and hustled him back to the
  truck.
 'Shit!'
 He closed the cab door. McFee sucked his teeth

               89

 noisily. He was slumped low in the seat as if trying to avoid being seen.
  'I don't think they appreciate impetuous behaviour here,' he drawled. Tend
  to shoot first ... And telling them you're in love won't help, either.'
 'Fuck off, Moray!'
  He saw an arm in a green anorak reach out from the Land Cruiser and take
  back the passports after their inspection. Lorna's arm.
  Shit! Shit! Shit! How stupid not to speak to her last night. Twice in a
  matter of days he had failed to act when he should have done. The Toyota
  disappeared.
  McFee was anxious. He hadn't done these formalities on his own before.
  'Let's hope their wives did the business with them last night. . .' he
  muttered sourly, as the customs men returned with their documents. 'If
  they're frustrated they'll insist we open every sodding box.'
 They were waved through within minutes.
  'This could be our lucky day,' McFee chortled. 'Now all I have to do is
  remember the way out of town. . .'
  At the end of the road from the dock, market traders folded back striped
  rain-covers from their stalls. To the left a palm-lined promenade edged
  with caf6s and restaurants faced the harbour, golden in the morning sun.
  Beyond, a marina with its fretwork of rigging.
  Split wasn't quite what Alex had expected. No sign that a war raged nearby.
  'Pretty, don't you think?' McFee remarked. 'Used to be packed with
  tourists. Now the hotels are stuffed with reftigees.'
  They headed out of town, along a wide dual-carriageway lined with
  slab-sided apartment blocks. Signposts pointed to the airport.
  'All we do today,' McFee reminded him, 'is get everything out of this truck
  and into the Bedford which is parked at a UN depot near the airport. Need
  to get you

               90

 some accreditation too. And some fuel and food. By the time we're done
 it'll be too late to start the drive to Vitez. Carina risk getting stuck
 on the mountain in the dark. There's a Ladajeep out at the depot, which
 we can use as a runabout, and rooms booked in a hotel for us tonight.'
  Alex listened silently, miserable at his own ineptitude, his own
  inability to get life back under control.

 Lorna Sorensen had no reason to linger in the Adriatic port. She took the
 road that climbed from the surreal blue of the Dalmatian coast towards the
 tortured hills of Bosnia. Her Land Cruiser was stacked with boxes
 -vaccines and antibiotics mostly.
  Lorna shifted confidently through the gears. She'd driven the
  four-wheel-drive into Bosnia three times for CareNet. Beside her
  satjosip, a Croat from Zagreb with a surname she'd never learned to
  pronounce. He didn't offer to drive; his efforts the first time she'd
  hired him as translator had resulted in two scrapes within minutes of
  each other.
  To Rescue Children Rrom Darkness - that was the mission statement of
  CareNet of New England, an organization backed by Evangelical Christians,
  and directed by a computer freak. Their original intention had been
  simply to supply aid where it was needed, but the 'statement' was now
  being interpreted literally. Lorna's mission was to find an orphaned
  child and smuggle her to America. Under Bosnian law that was an illegal
  act.
  For the first three hours the road north was tarmac, the only hold-up a
  pause for fifteen minutes at the Croatia/Bosnia border.
  Ever since Belfast, uniforms had made Lorna shudder. But if she was
  scared now as the sour-faced official fingered her American passport, it
  would be on the way out of the country that she'd be truly quivering.
 Uniforms. Down the years they'd been the signposts to

               91

 the causes she'd embraced. The London police breaking up anti-nuclear
 protests; the American military committing war crimes in Vietnam; the
 British soldiers crushing Irish freedom. She'd challenged all those
 uniforms, but the fear of them was as strong as ever.
  Her therapist had told her it was all because she'd had a tyrant for a
  father ...
  The border guards waved them through. A country at war, Bosnia looked no
  different at first. Then, the first sighting of a blackened house and
  further on a couple more.
  At Tomislavgrad, a Bosnian Croat bastion much shelled by Serb artillery,
  huge baulks of timber shielded windows and doors from shrapnel. Men in
  drab uniforms of green and brown gathered on street corners, faces
  sallow, eyes that smouldered. She drove past a home-made troop carrier,
  a slab-sided, steel armadillo, smeared with camouflage.
  Lorna turned east to the mountains, their wooded slopes blanketed with
  snow. Dark, swirling clouds hid the peaks through which they would have
  to thread their way. Small UN signposts marked this the only route into
  central Bosnia that was safe from Serb guns, a potholed lane at first
  that sliced through yellow-green meadows half-flooded with melt water.
 Lorna grimaced at the threatening sky.
  'We're going to need those snow chains, Josip,' she declared.
  The Croat grunted. He supposed she'd expect hirn to fit them.
  Lorna shivered. Not with cold but with fear. They were driving into a
  wilderness where the veneer of civilization that curbed man's nastier
  instincts elsewhere had long since crumbled.
  A squat, gun-toting man in grubby, olive-brown fatigues stepped into
  their path and held up a rough hand.

               92

 josip cranked down his window.
 'Dobrojutro . . .'
  The Croat HVO militiaman pushed him aside to look in the back of the
  vehicle.
 'Medicine . . .' Lorna announced.
  He pulled his head back to eye her. She showed her UNPROFOR pass and
  tried to smile pleasantly. Not easy. The man and his Kalashnikov looked
  inseparable, his stare was bloodshot and lustful.
  He made a coarse remark to josip, who laughed throatily. They were waved
  on.
 'Asshole!' Lorna hissed, imagining the innuendo.
  A convoy of trucks lumbered down from the mountain towards them, their
  tarpaulin covers crusted with snow.
  'Shit! Look at thaW Lorna said. 'Chainsjosip. Here, I'll help you.'
  They pulled to the roadside and grappled with the heavy steel links in
  the cold mud. Between them it was done quickly. Lorna shivered again -
  the wind this time. She zipped up her dark green parka and wished she'd
  remembered to put on long johns under her jeans.
  She knew it was inad to keep throwing herself back into Bosnia. 'A
  misplaced devotion to the underdog', one friend had called it. 'An
  obsession with good causes', her sister had said. 'Might be afatal
  obsession one day. .
 Thanks Annie!
  But she'd had no choice. Not when the appeal for help had been so direct;
  not when a child risked being murdered if she refused.
  Route Triangle. That's what the UN called this lifeline into central
  Bosnia. Formerly a narrow logging track, now made useable in all weathers
  by the muscle and machinery of the British Army's Royal Engineers. The
  way had been widened with dynamite and diggers, its surface toughened
  with stones and hardcore.
  The Land Cruiser jolted and rattled up the fierce gradients. Controlling
  the slithering machine took grit

               93

 and concentration. Lorna enjoyed the driving. It took her mind off the
 terrors she suspected were to come.
  The track climbed through dark forests, their pine branches burdened with
  ever-thicker layers of snow. A blizzard swirled, forcing the Land Cruiser
  to a crawl. Soon they were halted by a line of trucks, stationary in the
  white and brown slush.
 'Hell! This is all we need,' Lorna snapped.
  'In this weather there will be many stops,' josip assured her gloomily.
 'I hope you're wrong, josip.'
 Melancholy bastard.
 'I'm gonna go take a look.'
  Her green Goretex boots sank into the icy gunge. She tucked her hair into
  the hood of her parka and leaned into the driving snow, glad of the thick
  roflneck she had on under the coat. Diesel fumes from the idling truck
  engines polluted the wind. Small flags painted on the doors told her the
  convoy was Danish. Young soldiers in their warm driving seats, plump and
  squat in bodyarmour and blue helmets, looked down at the slight,
 in'ddle                1
 I-aged woman with amused curiosity.
  She reached the rim of the rise where the track curved sharply to the left
  and down an incline.
 'Oh, God!'she breathed.
  A dark green bus had slewed sideways across the track. Standing around it
  were dozens of militiamen, stamping and shivering. A UN tractor had hooked
  to the front and was trying to pull it straight.
 'Shouldn't bloody be on this road in these conditions!'
  The voice beside her was Yorkshire. She could still recognize the accent,
  despite not having lived in England since the age of eighteen.
  Under his blue beret the engineer's face was pale apart from the red tip of
  his nose.
 'Who are those guys?' she asked.

                94

  'HVO. We build this road so we can feed the victims of their war. 7-hg
  use it to get more guns in. Net result? More victims for us to feed.
  Bloody daft really. If we closed this road the war would stop within
  weeks.'
  'But innocent people would starve,' Lorna reminded him.
 The soldier gave her an old-fashioned look.
 'Innocent' Who's innocent in this place ... ?'
  He stomped across to the tractor, yelling at the driver to watch out that
  the bus didn't topple on its side. The driver ignored him and with a
  fierce tug pulled the vehicle straight. A muted cheer rose from the
  militiamen who piled back inside.
  British soldiers. Strange to hear their voices here. Lorna remembered
  them painfully well from Ireland. Still thought of them as the enemy.
  Couldn't help herself.
 She hurried back to the Land Cruiser.
 'Not long now,' she announced.
  josip had wound down the window to smoke. The man was invaluable to her
  as a translator but nothing else. Like any male, he imagined she had
  bodily needs which she secretly longed for him to satisfy. She'd seen the
  calculating look in his eye.
  Lorna sat back in her seat to wait. It'd be a few minutes yet before the
  road would be clear enough to move.
  She dreaded the stretch beyond the mountains, where they'd need to don
  their body-armour. One shattered town after another. Villages whose
  houses were blackened skeletons. Front lines to be crossed, marked by
  barriers of land mines. And the risk of some madman tanked up on brandy,
  taking a shot at her with his Kalashnikov.
  At the end of thejourney awaited the dead, steel town of Zenica, cold and
  silent, blacked out by power cuts. She knew what it felt like there; like
  being in a trap. And the

                95

 crazy thing was she was spending nine hours battling to get into it. ,
  The HVO bus that had blocked their path emerged slowly over the brow of the
  hill, then crept gingerly past them, the driver grimacing with the effort
  of avoiding a repeat performance in the slush.
  'Okay, guys,' said Lorna, 'let's get this show on the road again.'
  Josip finished his cigarette, threw the butt into the snow and wound up his
  window.

 Inside the bus, thirty-seven men slumped back in their seats, rifles wedged
 between their knees. They'd just come from liell. A fortnight in the icy
 trenches north of the Mak1jen Ridge. Two weeks of pounding from mortars and
 twenty millimetre cannon. Fourteen days and nights preventing the Muslim-led
 Bosnian army seizing their strategic positions.
  Sleep, when it had come in the trenches, had been brief and fitful. Only
  when exhaustion had so blurred their vision they could no longer shoot
  straight had they been taken out and replaced with fresher men. Their
  reward - a respite from the war zone, a few days of R & R.
  One man in that bus however had not been in the Mak1jen trenches. He sat at
  the back, speaking to no one, head resting against the window, the stare in
  his eye as cold as the glass he looked through.
  His journey had already been longer than the others', and it would take him
  further. In his case it wasn't exhaustion that had merited a ticket from
  the battle zone, but an excess of zeal.
  Clean shaven, in his early thirties, with untidy fair hair, he had eyes of
  ice blue and a hawkish nose. Put him in a suit and he could have sold cars
  or insurance. Put him in uniform, however, and he had killed. Killed again

                96

 and again. Killed with such relish and with such disregard for the
 'civilized' rules of war, he'd become an embarrassment to those he fought
 for.
  Getting him this far had not been easy. The Vitez 'pocket'where he'd
  served the Bosnian Croat militia was surrounded by Muslims. Crossing the
  lines had meant hazarding precious assets, but to his superiors getting
  him out of there had been worth the risk.
  He could remember every detail of that day in Tulici. The terror in the
  old men's eyes, the snivelling of the children, and the off-white flesh
  of the young woman whose warin but lifeless orifices he'd filled with his
  seed.
  No remorse. How could there be when the killings had been so long
  overdue? Why pity such creatures after what they'd done to him, his land
  and his people? What else could they expect after opening their doors to
  Islam's foreign savages?
  'You've played your part, Milan. Time for others now' - that's what the
  HVO had told him.
  Others! Some of those he'd led into Tulici couldn't look him in the eye
  afterwards. One man who'd been with him there had cracked up. When Pravic
  had heard the UN were asking for names, he'd had to shoot him dead to
  ensure no one talked.
  He'd left his country once before, along with thousands of others seeking
  an escape from poverty. Most of the burned houses in Bosnia had been
  built with money earned abroad. However, when the war here had started
  in 1992, he'd returned from Germany to fight the Serbs. Then as the
  months passed, the Muslims who'd once been his ricighbours became the new
  enemy in the struggle for land.
  He had a sister living now in the Croatian capital Zagreb. He would stay
  there until things cooled. Maybe he'd go abroad again for a while.
 This war that had started as a scrabble for land

               97

 however, was turning into the endgame of a struggle begun centuries
 before. He'd be back.

 98

               Nine

 Saturday 26th March
 Germany

 Dieter Konrad, a one-time assassin with the Stasi, the former East Germany's
 secret police, was anxious. Time was short. He drove fast up the A2 from
 Leipzig to Berlin, keeping a lookout for police cars. With enough anthrax in
 the boot of his Merc to kill the inhabitants of a small town, the last thing
 he wanted was to be stopped by the law.
  The murder he'd been forced to arrange was Just seven days away, the
  location - Zagreb. There was one man, and one man only who had the skills
  he needed for the killing, and so far he'd not been able to find him.
  Konrad was nearly sixty, a slack-faced, weary man too old for this
  business. It should have ended for him when the Wall came down, but he'd
  been trapped by his past.
  The Mercedes traversed the flatlands south of the Elbe, a landscape of
  cabbage fields and dead industry. It would be dark when he reached Berlin,
  and the traffic heavy, but he could still make the meeting with Fraulein
  Pocklewicz at six.
  Gisela Pocklewicz. A Berlin hooker, she alone knew where to find the
  creature he needed. The man in question had once been her lover and
  protector. Konrad had never probed their relationship, but he knew her
  clients were people who got their pleasure through pain.
  The woman was one of the last of his old underworld contacts still prepared
  to take his money. Dunkel was the name he used with her, as he had with the
  scientist

                99

 Kernmer in Leipzig. It meant darkness. During his Stasi days, the satanic
 quality of the name had appealed to him.
  It had broken Siegfried Kernmer to do him this last service today. Meeting
  in a deserted wood, the biologist had given him the bottle of bacteria in
  a shopping bag, his eyes dead as buttons.
  Konrad had taken no pleasure in threatening violence to Kernmer's
  grandchild in order to secure his cooperation. Ideology and duty had worked
  in the past, but the world had moved on.
  One hundred and thirty-six kilometres to Berlin, it said on a road sign,
  andjust five to Dessau, where he had some shopping to do.
  When the Cold War ended, so had Konrad's privileged life with the Stasi.
  Not everything was lost however. He'd skimmed a profit from the money for
  his missions abroad and bought a house in the Harz mountains. He'd hoped to
  retire there, to fish and hunt boar, but his wife refused to leave her
  friends and the opera in Berlin.
  Next exit Dessau and the huge D-I-Y warehouse he needed. He swung the
  Mercedes into the tight slip road. The car park was half full. He pulled in
  beside a Trabant which wallowed under the stack of goods on its roof-rack.
  Inside, he made for the aisles marked Tools and Safety Equipment, looking
  for protective masks. He prodded through the packaging to reject those that
  were flimsy, choosing a type that covered the full face, made of soft
  rubber. He took two from the rack and headed for the tills.
  Just before the Stasi headquarters were stormed by East Berliners injanuary
  1990, Konrad had tried to find and destroy documents detailing the murders
  he'd carried out for his masters. He'd suspected he'd not been totally
  successful.
  For months he had lived in fear of arrest, hiding out at the house in the
  Harz. One day, walking in the woods, he'd been approached by a tall man
  he'd never seen

               100

 before who had a face like crumpled leather. Schiller was the code name he'd
 used. He'd claimed to work for the BND.
  Schiller had revealed that amongst the Stasi papers uncovered in Berlin,
  they'd found enough evidence against Konrad to get him jailed for life.
  He had offered a deal. Konrad could avoid prosecution on one condition - to
  continue to kill, but for him.
  Konrad had had enough of executions, but prison was no option for a man of
  his age. He'd accepted.
  That had been three years ago. Since then, Schiller had paid him a regular
  retainer but had made no demands - until a week ago.
  The contract was to eliminate an Iranian and a Russian. A poisoning,
  Schiller had said, because death must occur after the victims had returned
  to their own countries. It had to be an untraceable murder - something
  Konrad was skilled at.
  He had demanded half a million marks for expenses, and to his astonishment
  was told he could have it.
  Schiller wouldn't tell him who he was acting for, nor why the men had to
  die. But Konrad read the newspapers. He reckoned lie could smell plutonium.
  On the Berlin ring road the traffic thickened. It was just before four p.m.
  He'd made better time than he'd expected. There was one more purchase he
  needed to make, at a small shop in Kreuzberg. Might just get there before
  it closed.
  He joined the long queues on the Mariendorfer Damm. Berlin had become a
  building site in the rush to reinstate it as the nation's capital. Diggings
  pockmarked every crossroads.
  He squeezed the car into a small space near the Kottbusser Tor, then
  pressed a neatly trimmed, false moustache onto his upper lip, using a
  mirror from the glove locker to ensure it was straight. He slipped on
  heavy-nimmed spectacles then set off on foot.

               101

  This was a quarter for night creatures, the air scented with D6ner.
  kebabs. Bars stayed open here until dawn and between open sites razed for
  redevelopment, tenements were homes for squatters and refugees.
  A little further, and the caf6s were interspersed with galleries and
  craft stores. He pushed on the door of a small shop with easels in the
  window.
 'Guten Abendf
  A thin-faced young man with a diamond stud in his nose emerged from a
  back room.
 'I wanted an air brush,' Konrad began. 'I telephoned.'
 'Of course. Yesterday evening.'
  The young man turned to a shelf, glancing back. Not many of his customers
  wore business suits and overcoats.
  'It's for my nephew,' Konrad explained. 'A birthday present.'
  The assistant turned back to the counter holding two boxes.
 'What does he want to use it with? Inks or acrylics?'
 'Acrylics probably. That's quite a thick paint?'
  'Well, he'll probably have to thin it, whatever he uses. You'd be safest
  to buy a few nozzles of different sizes.'
 'That sounds best. Can you show me how it works?'
  The salesman cut the tape sea] with an obscenely long fingernail.
  'You attach this can of air to the brush with a plastic tube. Then fill
  the jar with paint and plug it into the socket at the front. Then you
  just press the button. Simple as that.'
  Konrad picked up the components. It wasn't really a brush at all, simply
  a precision paint sprayer. But in hu' hands a precision weapon.
 'Fine. I'll buy it.'
  Back at the car, he drove north again, crossing what used to be the Wall
  at Prinzenstrasse. More bui1ding works. ffthere'sagapfilllt- thatseemed
  to be the motto of the developers.

               102

  By the time he'd found another parking space near Rosenthaler Platz it. was
  twenty-past-six. Frdulein Pocklewicz would complain at his lateness.
  The bar Zum Weinberg had fewer than half a dozen customers, and Gisela was
  not one of them. He panicked instantly. He was too old for this game. Even
  the tiniest hitch unsettled him.
  He sat and ordered a Weisse mit grzin - a wheat beer with a dash of
  liqueur. He sipped gently so as not to wet the fabric backing of his
  moustache.
 Twenty minutes passed before the whore appeared.
  'So sorry to be late, Herr DunkelP Always formal with a man twenty years
  her senior whose real name she'd never known.
  Gisela Pocklewicz was short and overweight. She had a round face, dark,
  butch hair and the eyes of a victim.
  She asked the waitress for a Coke, then flashed Konrad a smile.
  'We're in luck, Herr Dunkel! That's why I'm late. It all happened at the
  last minute.'
 'Go on,' Konrad pressed.
  'As you know, I rang Zagreb yesterday, but they had no idea where he was.
  And I phoned again this afternoon. Then this evening, just as I was coming
  here, he called me!'
 'Aaah,' he sighed. 'And?'
  'He asked what it was about of course, but I couldn't tell him. . .' she
  fished.
 'What did he say?'
  'He wants a passport. In another name and another nationality. Says he
  needs to hide up for a while. Here in Germany.'
  She smiled. If this worked out she'd have a reunion with the only man she'd
  ever come close to loving.
  'Did you ask why he has to hide?' Konrad asked, fearing the reason might
  affect his plans.
 'Of course not. Can't trust the 'phone.'

               103

  Konrad took another sip of beer. So he wants a passport. E ' asy enough
  in the old days, he thought. The Stasi's Normannenstrasse building had
  housed some of the world's best forgers. He had to get one from
  somewhere.
 Acid burned in his gut. He dared not fail.
  Traulein PockleAicz, if we are to find a passport in time, I fear it'll
  have to be stolen. Can you put the word out?'
  She looked pained. She had no intention of taking any more risks than she
  had to.
  'I don't know people like that any more,' she lied. 'I'm legit. I pay
  taxes. My clients wouldn't like it if they thought the Kripos had their
  eye on me.'
  Konrad wet his lips. He couldn't get used to people saying no.
  'I'll do one thing,' she added, seeing his discomfort. 'I'll give you an
  address to go to. Talk to the woman who runs the house there. Some of her
  girls are thieves.'
  She tore the top off a cigarette packet, then wrote down a name and a
  street number.
 'It's not far from here. Sorry, but it's the best I can do.'
  'One more thing,' Konrad whispered, leaning forward. 'Tell your friend
  in Zagreb to send some passport photos tomorrow by air courier. Collect
  them and give them to me. Tell him if all goes well I'll bring the
  passport when I join him before the end of the week.'
  'And you willbring him to Berlin after the job's done?' she asked,
  doubtfufly.
 'Oh yes, I'll bring him back from the war for you.'

 104

               Ten

 Sunday 27th March
 Zenica, Central Bosnia

 Sunday dawned with a steady drizzle smearing the window of Lorna's bedroom.
 The cold of the concrete floor penetrated the stained, threadbare car-pet
 that covered it. She tried the bathroom faucet to no avail.
  And she'd forgotten to fill the tub last night when the water had been on.
 'You're a shit-head, Donohue.'
  Still called herself by the name she'd been born with, even though she'd
  been married for fifteen years to Rees Sorenson. Nice guy but a mistake.
  She pulled the soft nightdress up over her head and dropped it on the bed.
  'It's so-o-o cold . she shivered, crossing her arms tightly, hands cupping
  her small breasts. Nipples like bullets, goose-bumps everywhere.
  ,Too skinny, that's what's wrong with you. . .' She mimicked the whine of
  her sister, who was the same height, but at least thirty pounds heavier.
  She caught a look at herself in a wall mirror as she reached into the
  suitcase for underwear. Okay, so what if her ribs did show, at least she
  didn't have stretch marks. Five children Annie had had. Not a pretty sight
  in the buff. She andjoe must do it in the dark nowadays.
  She pulled on some clean cotton panties, tucking her light-brown pubic
  curls under the elastic. Then she reached behind her back to secure the
  straps of the bra.

               105

 Didn't really need one, but with Josip around, the less cause he had to
 misinterpret things the better.
  In the bathroom there was at least electricity this morning. She switched
  on the light, looked in the mirror and pushed at her hair. The good thing
  about being a little frizzy was that it didn't need a wash every morning.
  She moved closer to the glass. They weren't going away, those crow's feet
  beside her eyes and the deeper lines round her mouth. Ought to. be
  flattered that Josip fancied her, she supposed.
  Her thin face and high cheekbones went with the small frame of her body.
  She'd always thought her nose a little too big - wouldn't have minded one
  of those petite, turned-up numbers. But men liked the strength it gave
  her face; she'd never been short of admirers. just a pity most of them
  weren't her type.
  A little warmer in jeans and walking boots, a thick green pullover over
  her white rollneck, she clomped down four flights of stairs to the dining
  room. If anything it was even colder there. Josip sat alone at a table
  drinking coffee, his leather jacket draped over his shoulders. His dark
  hair was greasy and his jaw grey with stubble.
  'Morning,' she said briskly, sitting opposite him. 'Sleep okay?'
  'Mmm . . .'he wobbled his head, gave her a look that was intended to
  smoulder, then smiled. 'Could be better.'
 'Is there anything to eat?'
 'Some bread. The coffee is okay.'
  She glanced round. No sign of a waiter. Warming himself in the kitchen,
  no doubt. Two other tables were occupied. UN people, she guessed.
 Then a girl appeared at her elbow. Lorna ordered tea.

 First call that morning was to be at the office of the Coordinating
 Committee for Refugee Problems, run by

               106

 staff from what was left of Zenica's civil government. It was from there
 the call had come which had brought Lorna scurrying back to Bosnia.
  Not an official message; the bureaucracy would never have condoned it.
  The proposal had come from a woman called Monika, who'd befriended Lorna
  last time she was here. It was Monika they now had to find.
  The Land Cruiser was empty. The hotel had given them a store-room for
  their boxes of medical supplies. Lorna had to find out today where the
  need for them was greatest.
  The town looked like any drab east European city except for the lack of
  cars. What little fuel there was in Bosnia was reserved for the war. The
  only vehicles moving belonged to the BiH Armija - the Bosnian government
  army - or to the UN and the aid agencies.
  The streets were filled with people, wandering in the middle of the road
  as if cars had never been invented. Where did they go, she wondered?
  Nothing to buy in the shops, yet they still went to look. Nothing to
  drink in the caf&s, but they still sat down for a chat.
  No sign of Monika at the office, they were directed instead to a refugee
  centre near the silent steel works that dominated the town with its
  dust-coated mills and furnaces. BiH soldiers guarded the gates to the
  plant. Their 3rd Corps had its headquarters inside.
  Opposite was a school where the refugees lived behind timber
  blast-barriers and windows of polythene sheet. They parked in the former
  playground.
  A man carrying a tray of loaves led them down a dark corridor that
  smelled of boiled vegetables. The power was off again. An old woman
  shuffled past, holding a plastic bowl, her head covered by a black shawl.
  Two small children prodded one another in boredom.
  In the huge gymnasium every square metre of floor was covered by mats or
  rugs, each one occupied. One

               107

 rug, one family. Toothless grandfathers. Widows in black. Mothers,
 fathers, children, babies.
 'Oh, my! This is full!' Lorna exclaimed.
 The air smelled of urine and unwashed bodies.
 'Lomal Loma.1'
  A woman in her thirties with dark, straight hair and eyes that had seen
  too little sleep grabbed her by the hands. She babbled in Serbo-Croat.
 'Monika, hiV Lorna grinned.
  'She says ... well she says she's glad to see you,'Josip translated
  simply.
  Looking uneasy, Monika hustled them from the gym. She had the frenetic
  manner of someone for whom the day was always too short.
  She led them to a part of the building where a shell had blown in the
  front wall, replaced now with polythene which bowed and flexed in the
  wind.
  Monika turned to Lorna and spread her hands in despair.
  'She says sorry about the room,'josip explained, 'but we can be alone
  here.'
  The Bosnian woman began talking at length. The only word Lorna could make
  out was Tulict ... She let her continue for a while before nudging for
  a translation.
  'She say at first they think no survivors at Tulicl,'Josip interpreted.
  'But when Armija search, they find girl, twelve years, called Vildana
  Muminovic. She hiding in a cellar. She say she saw her mother being shot,
  and the soldier who did it was a man she knew. He used to live in next
  village. She say his name is Milan Pravic ... Later, Armija bring girl
  here to Zenica. But then some men come asking about her. Monika think
  they Croats.. .'
  josip raised an eyebrow. He reckoned Bosnians believed what they wanted
  to believe.
  'Monika think HVO want to kill the girl because she can identify this man
  Pravic.'

               108

 Lorna nodded understandingly.
 'Where's Vildana now?'
 josip put the question.
  'She say maybe take you see her tomorrow. She asks, do you understand she
  afraid?'
  'Sure. But she wants me, wants CareNet to get Vildana out of the country
  and find a family to look after her?'
  More Serbo-Croat. Lorna winced. It was understanding the way people said
  things that mattered as much as the words.
 'She asks whether you have plan yeff
 Had to be careful what she said.
  'About getting her out of Bosnia. . ? I still have to talk to some people.
  Finding a family for adoption is no problem however...'
  'Neina adoption. . .' Monika replied, wagging a finger. A flood of words
  followed.
  'She says Bosnian government not allow foreigners adopt orphans, because
  sometimes they do bad things.'
  'Tell her my agency is plugged into a network of Americans who are all top
  grade professionals, all checked out...'
 Rain spattered against the polythene wall.
 josip sighed.
  'She says be careful. If anyone ask, say it is just so the girl can be safe
  until war is over. Then Vildana will return here . . .'
  Lorna hesitated; A temporary arrangement like that could be harder. Most
  couples on her network were desperate for families.
  'No talk of adoption, then, okay? Tell Monika we understand each other,'
  Lorna declared. 'But first I must see the girl and find out what she needs.
  . .'
  Tomorrow then. Monika would come to the hotel and they'd go together.

               109

 For Alex the drive over Route Triangle was a nightmare. Fog obscured most
 ofthe mountain road and a thaw had turned it into a mud slide. Handling
 the Bedford fourtormer in such conditions had taxed McFee's experience.
  Twice the front wheels of the lorry had slipped into a ditch, once
  perilously close to the edge. They'd travelled with a British UN convoy
  A the way up from Split. Without help from an army tow-truck, they'd have
  been stuck on that mountain.
  It was on the long run down from the Makjlen Ridge to the contested toAn
  of Gorni Vakuf that the engine gave up.
  'Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!' McFee screamed. 'Don't do this to me.
 'What is it?' Alex fretted.
  'It's fucking died, that's what!'McFee yelled, punching the switch for
  the emergency flashers. He pulled onto the verge.
 Tuel?'
 'I don't fucking know.'
  McFee got down to the ground. They'd been at the tail of the convoy;
  behind them just the tow-truck and a Land Rover, both of which halted
  beside them.
  'What's up, mate?' The soldier's chubby face peered down from the truck.
  McFee had the engine hood raised. 'Water in the fuel maybe,' he ventured.
 A young officer walked over from the Land Rover.
 'Can't stop here for long, I'm afraid,' the voice brayed.
  A woman's voice. Alex contained his surprise. Blonde hair up under her
  UN helmet. Horsey but pretty. All of twenty-three, and so bloody
  confident in this spooky place.
  They were near the bottom of a pretty, wooded valley. Could have been
  Austria, if it weren't for the crump, of explosions from somewhere ahead
  of them.

               110

  'Party-time in Gorni,' the lieutenant remarked. 'Supposed to be having
  a cease-fire.'
 'Where are we?' Alex asked nervously.
  'Pretty well on the front line. HVO in the woods all around us. BiH in
  the town about a mile down the road.'
  'BiH? That's the Muslims?' Alex queried, still confused by the acronyms.
 'Bosnian government army. Mostly Muslim.'
  She stepped back and peered up the road with binoculars.
  'Pretty vulnerable here. . .' she murmured. 'If you've got helmets to go
  with your body armour, I should put them on. Corp'l Baker? We've got to
  move on.'
 She strode to the front of the Bedford,
 'The convoy's halted down the road, waiting for

  McFee was squeezing the rubber bulb on the fuel line to drain off the
  contaminated diesel.
  'Hey, Alex. Get us ajerrycan off the back o' the truck,' he called over
  his shoulder.
  'Look, I'll tell the company in Gorni to send a Scimitar up to look after
  you,' the lieutenant announced. 'But we've got to get on. Let's go,
  Corl-A Baker.'
 'Sorry mate,' the soldier apologized. 'You okay now?'
 'We'll manage.'
  The towing vehicle growled off down the road, the Land Rover following.
 Soon they were alone.
 'What a place to break down.. .' McFee muttered.
  An eerie silence had descended. Alex strapped his helmet tighter, but it
  gave him little comfort.
 Crack! A rifle shot zinged over their heads.
 'Shit! Get down.'
 They flattened themselves on the wet grit.
  'Where'd that come from?' Alex breathed, his heart pounding.
 'God knows. They're all around us here.'

               III

 Then they heard a distant laugh.
  'Bastards!' McFee swore. 'Fucking playing games wi' us.
 'What the hell do we do now?'
  'I don't bloody know. Suppose it depends if the sods decide to come and
  thieve the stuff out the back o' the lorry.'
  They lay still. All they could hear was their own jerky breathing.
  'Can't stay here all day,' McFee hissed. He stood up and stuck his head
  back into the engine compartment. Alex raised himself to a crouch.
  Two more rifle shots thwacked overhead like a double whiplash.
 'Oh, fuck!'
 Both flat on their bellies again.
  'I think we're in a wee spot o' trouble here,' McFee panted.
  Then from down the road came the growl of a highpowered engine and the slap
  of track pads on tarmac. Alex craned his neck. A small, white tank with a
  long, slim gun on its turret sped up the hill towards them.
  The Scimitar bobbed to a halt, its Jaguar engine burbling unevenly. Its
  commander peered from the top hatch at their prostrate bodies, then jerked
  his head back inside. The turret turned slowly, the gunner scanning the
  woods through his sight. It swung back and stopped. Then the machine inched
  past the Bedford, to get an unobstructed view.
  After a couple of minutes, a soldier climbed out and crouched beside them.
  'They've bogged off,' he told them. 'About six of 'em. Could have been
  nasty. Looked like they intended to 'ave you. You're okay now. They won't
  risk getting an HE round up the recturn.'
 'God ... thanks,'Alex croaked, easing himself upright

               112

 and brushing the dirt off his coat. He swallowed to wet his throat.
 'Problem?'
  'Fuel contamination,' said McFee. 'Another five minutes . . .'
 'Okay. We'll hang about.'
  Alex stood up gingerly. The last time he'd been under fire was twenty years
  ago - Lenadoon Avenue in Belfast. 'Scares me shitless, this place,' he
  said.
 'Aye, me too,'McFee concurred.
  He worked on for a few minutes then told Alex to pour the fresh fuel into
  the tank.
  'Moment of truth,' he muttered, hauling himself up into the cab.
  The engine churned, churned again, then rattled back to life.
  'Good stuff,' the soldier shouted. 'We'll lead you into Gorm and pass you
  on to "C" Squadron at the bottom of the canyon. Okay?'
 Alex gave a 'thumbs up'.
  The Scimitar rotated on its tracks then scooted ahead. McFee slipped the
  clutch and they were on their way again.
  Smoke rose from the centre of town. A shell whistled overhead then exploded
  somewhere unseen.
 'Some bloody cease-fire,' McFee growled.
  They reached a crossroads. The Scimitar stopped, and the soldier waved them
  to the right across a bridge. A muddy river trickled beneath it.
  Two figures ran at a crouch across the road in front of them, clutching
  assault rifles. The truck bumped and jolted over mortar craters.
  'Be out of this madhouse in a minute,' McFee muttered through clenched
  teeth.
  The destruction was unbelievable. House after house blasted to rubble, roof
  timbers shredded to matchwood.
 Another right turn and they were into woodland.

 Ahead, amongst the trees, another UN vehicle. McFee stopped the truck beside
 it and wiped his brow. A soldier came up to the window, encased in a thick
 flakjacket and a blue helmet which almost covered his eyes.
  'Convoy went through just a couple of minutes ago,' he shouted. 'If you're
  quick you can tag on the back of it.'
 'When's the next one due?' McFee asked.
 'Haven't a clue. Hours maybe. They never tell us.'
  'Okay, okay.. .' McFee deliberated whether to wait. The next stretch of
  road was a hangout for bandits.
 'Couple of minutes you said, the convoy up ahead?'
 'Yeh. just now.'
  'Okay. We'll go for it, eh?' He looked across at Alex for confirmation.
  'Up to you. I've never been here before . . .' Alex wished McFee inspired
  more confidence. He had no idea what lay ahead.
  'Aye. That's the trouble ... The thing is you're not supposed to go up the
  canyon on our own.'
 He had a sudden idea.
  'Can you call on your radio and tell 'em to hang on for us?'
 The soldier looked doubfful.
 'Yeh. I'll give it a try. If it's fuckin' workin'.'
  He turned back to his Scimitar, putting a fist up to his ear in a gesture
  to his signaller.
  McFee crashed into gear and they lurched forward. 'Dodgy bit of road, this
  . . .'
  Alex gripped the dashboard as they bounced up the rough track, the band of
  his helmet squeezing his temples. They were entering a gorge, the road
  hugging a limestone rock-face, twisting and turning in company with a
  raging stream.
  'With a bit o' luck we'll catch sight of the convoy round one o' these
  bends,' McFee suggested without conviction.
 Sweat broke out on his brow as he wrestled to keep the

               114

 wheels in the ruts. He was driving dangerously fast. To the left of the
 track was a sheer drop into the river.
 'Is it long this bit of road?' Alex shouted.
  'About twenty minutes ... There's a straighter stretch round the next
  bend, I think. Should get a bit of a view. . .'
 'Whose territory is this? Muslim or Croat?'
  McFee was silent. For the first time he looked seriously frightened.
 'Have ye heard of the fish-head gang?'
  Alex felt a hard lump in his stomach. The lower rim of the body armour
  pressed heavily on his thighs.
 'Didn't they murder some Italian aid workers once?'
 'Aye ...
 'Here?'
 'At the fish farm. A couple of miles further on.'
  The road straightened. Nothing. Not a sign of the convoy.
 'Oh, fuck. ..' McFee breathed.
  There was a brain-jarring crash as the left wheel hit a hole McFee hadn't
  seen.
 He cursed again.
  'Take it easy, Moray,'Alex soothed. McFee was losing his nerve. 'Don't
  wreck the truck.'
  McFee recovered his grip and eased the throttle. The road narrowed, the
  top of the lorry threatening to catch on the limestone overhang.
  The engine roared. Wheels spun in the mud. The canyon seemed endless.
  They lurched round another corner.
 'Sh ... it! Look at that,' McFee screamed.
  Ahead, a blue Volkswagen Golf was slewed across the track. From the far
  side climbed a man in grubby green, the lower half of his face obscured
  by a chequered scarE He steadied his arms on the roof of the car, aiming
  a pistol.
 Alex felt the blood pound in his ears. He tried to shrink

               115

 below the dashboard, but his body armour pinioned him to the seat.
  McFee panicked, swerving wildly. Alex clung on, transfixed by the dull grey
  of the gun. He saw it jerk and flash. Then the bang as the bullet punctured
  the windscreen.
  'Stop! You've got to stop!' Alex screamed. Ears ringing, he put his hand to
  his head, thinking he'd been hit.
  McFee stamped on the brake. The Bedford halted yards from the gunman. Arms
  rigid, hands clamped to the automatic, the man stepped from behind the blue
  car. Above the mask, the face was dirt-smeared. Green eyes darted from Alex
  to McFee, alert, dangerous eyes.
 He hissed something unintelligible.
 'What's he want, what's he want?' McFee gabbled.
  'Don't know,' Alex replied through closed teeth. Stay calm, he told
  himself'. Avoid eye contact. He'd read that somewhere.
  'Mish. . .' the gunman repeated, closing steadily, waving his weapon to his
  left.
  'He's pointing over there,' McFee mumbled. 'A track into the forest. He
  wants us to drive up it.'
  'No way,' Alex snapped. That was the road to certain death. He'd better try
  talking to the bastard.
 'Do you speak English?'
 He opened the door to get out.
  The next shot deafened him. Seemed to explode in his head.
 'Christ!' he heard himself yell.
 'Are ye all right?'
  The bullet had punched a hole in the roof inches above him. The gunman
  pushed the smoking barrel into Alex's face, hot against his mouth. The
  green eyes were ready to kill.
 'Okay, Okay! Do as he says, Moray!'
 Then suddenly the nightmare ended. The bandit

               116

 twisted round and backed away, lowering his weapon like a guilty child. Alex
 didn't understand. Then he looked up. A huge, mud-spattered UN Warrior was
 thundering down the track from the opposite direction.
  The gunman sprinted for his car, the driver gunning the engine. The VW spun
  round and darted up the side track into the trees.
  'Whoo-ay!' McFee bellowed. 'Fifth Cavalry to the fucking rescue!'
  A grin slowly spread across Alex's face, but he couldn't speak.
  Four soldiers burst from the back of the APC, sprinted behind rocks and
  tree trunks and took up firing positions.
  A sergeant ran across to the Bedford, eyeing the bulletcrazed windscreen.
 'Anyone hurt?'
  Alex sucked air into his lungs and wiped a sleeve across his face.
  'No,' he gulped. 'No injuries. just need a change of underpants.'
  Plain luck had brought the Warrior down the track at that moment. No radio
  message from the patrol at the foot of the canyon.
  'Radios are sodding useless in these mountains,' the sergeant explained.
  'Designed for the north German plains. We can escort you to the top of the
  hill, gents. You'll have no problem after that. The cease-fire's pretty
  good everywhere except Gorni.'
  The sergeant looked at their frightened faces and shook his head. He wiped
  the mud from the logo painted on the side of the Bedford. Hadn't come
  across Bosnia Emergency before.
 'First time out here?' he asked wryly.
 'No,' replied McFee defensively.
  'Then you should have bloody known better than coming up the canyon on your
  own!'

               117

  'It was your bloody soldiers down the bottom! They said there was a
  convoyjust a couple of minutes in frond'
  'Couple of minutes?' the sergeant frowned. 'More like thirty! I'll have a
  word with those buggers later. Anyway, let's move on.'
 He yelled at his infantry section to get back in.
  The thirty-four tons of armour gouged new ruts as it turned, then headed up
  the track, the sergeant in the turret glancing back to ensure the Bedford
  was following.
  From the top of the hill they were on their own again, running down through
  lush green valleys and villages, Muslim at first, then Croat, where
  children grinned and waved at them.
  The sudden tranquillity of the landscape enabled Alex to unwind. They'd
  survived their first brush with death. He'd learned a lesson too - not to
  rely on McFee's judgement.
  The drama of the past few hours had wiped Lorna temporarily from his mind.
  Now she was back. Time to work out how to find her.
  An hour later, they rumbled into the outskirts of Vitez. It was the end of
  the day, and UN armour ground in from all directions, packing the old
  school yard which was the main British base in Bosnia.
  The sky had clearcd, just a few streaks of cloud turning pink as the sun
  went down. It was a broad valley, hills on either side bathed green-gold in
  the evening light. Villages studding the distant slopes were pockmarked by
  the burnt shells of homes, 'cleansed' to make each hamlet ethnically pure.
 'This is it,' McFee announced. This is our billet.'
  He stopped the Bedford beside a two-storey house with a chalet roof, set
  back about twenty metres from the road. A pair of low, wrought-iron gates
  closed off access to a gravel drive.
 McFee had been subdued for the last part of their

               118

 journey, still rattled that the decision he'd taken had nearly got them
 killed.
  'There's an old couple live upstairs. We have the ground floor and their
  garage to put our boxes in,' he explained. 'Andrej and Dragana, they're
  called. Don't speak any English. Most nights Andrej has to put his uniform
  on and take his rifle down the trenches.'
 'They're Croats, right?'
  'Aye. They call this the Vitez pocket. Croats surrounded by Muslims. Those
  villages acorss the valley are Muslim. The daft thing is both religions got
  along fine here until two years ago. Ludicrous really, if it weren't so
  bloody tragic.'
  He unlatched the metal gate and led the way down the drive.
  'We'll just say hello, before we drive the truck in. Can't leave it in the
  road; the bastards would have everything out of it by morning.'
 'Dobro vece."
  An elderly woman of indeterminate age called a greeting as she descended an
  outside staircase from the upper floor. A scarf covered her head; the rest
  of her clothing was thick, rough and woollen. The smoke from a wood fire
  blew down from the chimney.
  'Dobro vece! McFee replied. 'Dragana, this is Alex, who's come to help me.'
 The woman's hand felt rough and prickly.
  With no common language, communication was by smiles and gestures. McFee
  pointed to the truck and waved his arms.
 'Da.1 DaT she said.
  'Okay, let's back the truck in. Can you do the gates, Alex?'
  Soon thev had the supplies secured in the garage, and took their ~ags into
  the house. Clean and tidy, rugs covering varnished floorboards, Alex was
  impressed.
 'I think they did B&B before the trouble started,'

               119

 McFee explained. He led the way through the hall. 'There's a bedroom which
 you can have; I'm okay on the sofa in the lounge.'
 'Are you sure?'
  'Oh, aye. Anyway, it's warmer in there, with the stove!'
  He pointed out the bathroom, where the water flowed only in the early
  mornings. He flicked a wall switch.
  'Power's off as usual. I brought a load of candles. Some for us, some for
  Dragana.'
  He looked at his watch. The cookhouse in the army camp a hundred metres
  down the road would be about to serve supper.
 'Let's get some food. I'm starving.'
  As they stepped outside again, the still of the evening was broken by the
  noise of military generators powering the camp and the houses the UN
  rented. The moon had not yet risen. Somewhere out there, Alex thought,
  is Lorna, unaware their tracks were converging. So too perhaps was the
  man Milan Pravic, whom Chadwick had asked him to find.
  'Colonel lives there.' McFee indicated a home two doors down. 'And the
  next house is P. Info. The press office. Their evening briefings aren't
  bad.'
 A spotlight dazzled them at the entrance to the camp.
 ' 'Scuse me sirs, could I see your passes?'
  The voice came fi,om inside a sandbagged, wooden guardhouse, what the
  military call a sanger. The soldier's breath steamed in the evening
  chill. His torch lit up their UNPROFOR cards and then their faces.
 'Okay, sirs. Enjoy your teas.'
  They walked on, picking their way through pools of mud, past rows of
  freight containers filled with stone chippings to protect the base from
  shrapnel.
  'It's unreal . . .' Alex whispered. 'Like a wild-west fortress.'
 The camp had been a school until the war started.

               120

 Now the sports field in front of it had been gritted over to make a
 Portakabin village and parking for trucks, Land Rovers and armoured
 vehicles.
  'Here we go.' McFee pushed through the doorway into the cookhouse. 'Have to
  sign your name on the visitors list, then pay at P. Info.'
  The large, warm dining-room steamed, the windows opaque with condensation.
  The mud-smeared floor glistened. About a hundred men and a few women sat at
  trestle tables. There was a separate, partitioned area for officers.
  Soldiers queued at hatches for steaks, curries and puddings, then took
  their foil trays to any space they could find, stopping to fill paper cups
  from dripping tea urns.
  'Bloody good grub, this,' McFee proclaimed, heading towards some spare
  seats he'd spotted.
  'Who are the people not in uniform?' Alex asked, looking around. 'Other aid
  workers?'
  'And press. There's a couple of TV crews there, look. Never go anywhere
  without their cameras. So they can film themselves being blown to bits!'
  Alex noted the equipment on the ground at their feet and peered at the
  faces. Would he recognize someone? It was a long time since Belfast but one
  never knew. He turned away, glad he'd not shaved off the beard that had
  helped hide him since then.
  McFee had been right about the food. Alex had a passion for
  bread-and-butter pudding with custard. If anyone was starving in Bosnia, it
  wasn't the UN.
 'Evening.'
  They were joined by a man and woman in jeans and anoraks, who introduced
  themselves as working for Feed the Children. McFee picked their brains
  about where to find the neediest refugees.
 Alex was only half listening, preoccupied.
  The couple from Feed the Children stood up again and left.

               121

  'Oh . . , Moray,' Alex began. 'Where would I find the Colonel? I promised
  a mutual friend I'd say hello to him.'
  'Oh aye? You know the right people then!' McFee snorted sarcastically. Then
  he shot a glance sideways. Someone had caught his eye.
 'He-Ho!'
  A young woman with straggly dark hair and the bewitching mouth and eyes of
  a gipsy had paused at the end of their table, smiling.
 ''Ow you, Mac?' she pouted.
  'Well, we.. UP McFee looked mildly flustered. 'Still here then?' he asked
  her.
  Then without looking Alex in the eye, 'See the sort of people I know?'
  The girl was dressed in a baggy pullover, long blue cotton skirt and thick,
  knitted stockings.
  She said something in Serbo-Croat and laughed, exposing teeth that looked
  as if they'd been aligned by a drunk.
  'This is Illie. Hello is about A she knows in English,' McFee explained.
  'Works in the kitchens. Scrubs things. . .'
  'Laku no~. See you. . .'The woman smiled at Alex with her eyes and
  continued her progress towards the door, glancing back just once.
  'Dobra, dobra. See you later, Illie,' McFee waved. 'Lovely lass. Does
  almost anything for a couple of Deutsche Marks.' His eyes darted about, as
  if frightened they'd given something away. 'Not that rd know, of course,'
  he added hastily.
 'Of course not.'
  'Now, where were we?' McFee looked broody. 'The Colonel? He's probably in
  there,' he said, pointing to the partitioned area. 'But if you want to say
  hello, best to fix it through P. Info. Talking of whom, if we get our
  skates on, we'll catch their evening briefing.'

               122

  Alex noted the television crews had already left. He and McFee took their
  fbil trays and stuffed them into a plastic rubbish sack by the door.
  The temperature outside had tumbled since dusk. They walked briskly back
  towards the road and the houses. The still, cold air smelled of wood smoke
  and manure. Above the generator hum came the deeper drone of aero-engines
  high in the sky. NATO planes, Alex guessed, heading for their drop zones,
  parachuting food to Muslim towns cut off by the Serbs.
  Huge resources were being poured into Bosnia, yet with the effect of a
  sticking-plaster. And now he was part of the process.
  There was a smoky fug inside the P.Info house, about a dozen media people
  on benches, lining the walls of a bare-floored room.
  The Major in charge of PR introduced himself as Alan Clarke-Hardey. He
  briefed the journalists on the day's fighting around Gorni Vakuf, and
  mentioned that an aid truck had narrowly escaped being hijacked. No one
  should travel on that road unescorted, he told them.
  Afterwards, as the media dispersed, he singled out Moray McFee.
 'I saw your ears burning, just then,' he quipped.
  'It was all your chaps' fault. . .' McFee growled. 'By the way, this is my
  new partner Alex Crawford.'
 'How d'you do?'
  They shook hands. As they exchanged pleasantries, McFee fiddled with the
  stem of his pipe, then made an excuse about having something to sort out,
  and left them.
  'First time out here?' Clarke-Hartley asked, offering him a can of beer.
  'Thanks. Yes it is. I wanted a word with your Colonel,' Alex replied. 'A
  mutual friend suggested I look him up.'
  'You're out of luck, I'm afraid. He's in Sarajevo for a few days with
  General Rose.'

               123

  'Oh, that's a pity. . .' It was a setback. He'd been relying on the
  Colonel for advice. 'When's he returning?'
  'Not until the end of the week. But I can fill you in on things. Come
  over here and I'll give you the new boys' tour.'
  He pointed to a wall map and described their area of operations. He
  indicated the canyon where Alex had been ambushed, then moved his finger
  north to the Lava Valley.
  'This is Tulici, where the massacre was two weeks ago . . .'
 'Were you there?'
  'Yes. I went with the Colonel. Bodies all over the place. Appalling
  carnage. Quite bestial. And no survivors that we could see.'
  'Any idea who was responsible?' Alex asked innocently.
  'The Bosnian army, which is mostly Muslim, are blaming a man called Milan
  Pravic as the chief villain. But the whole thing must have had official
  HVO backing. One of our patrols had seen houses in flames earlier on, but
  when they tried to reach the village they got mortared. Heavy weapons,
  mortars. Not the sort of thing carried around by some mad freelance.'
 'Have you tried to trace this Pravic?'
  'Not our job really. We made a few enquiries, but didn't get anywhere.
  Pravic? Pravic? Never heard ofh1m - you know the sort of thing. The
  Colonel went and slagged off the HVO for allowing their animals to go
  around murdering women and children. But they just shrug it off. It's
  another world out here.'
  He pointed up a few more details on the map, then they wandered towards
  the door.
 Outside on the steps, he cupped a hand to his ear.
  'Hear that?' He pointed up into the blackness. An aero-engine again, but
  this time the beat of rotor blades.
 'A UN helicopter?' Alex inquired.

               124

 'No fear! That's a Croat "Hip". They use it to ferry
 p i eople and ammo in and out of the enclave. Bloody
 risky, flying at night. Shows how desperate they are.'
  'Is that the only way the Croats can get out if they have to?' Alex
  asked, thinking suddenly of Pravic.
  just about. As I showed you on the map, the Muslims control a circle of
  land around here. Beyond that it's Croat again. The chopper is their air
  bridge.'
  Alex was about to bid him goodnight, when he had an afterthought.
  'Oh, by the way,' he asked, trying to sound casual. 'Have you ever come
  across a woman called Lorna out here? Surname could be Donohue. Blonde
  hair. Some sort of aid worker.'
 Clarke-Hartley frowned.
 'Can't say I have. Why?'
  'She's an old friend. Thought I saw her on the road today.'
  'Could have been heading for Sarajevo, or Zenica. That's where a lot of
  the refugees are.'
 'Of course,' Alex acknowledged. 'Goodnight.'
  Crunching down the gravel path, his torch picked out the sparkle of
  frost. In the distance he heard the whine of the helicopter taking off
  again. They don't hang about, he thought.
  Who was it this time? Another killer who'd overstepped the mark?

 125

  Eleven

Zagreb, Croatia

Irena Pravic tucked the soft pink sheet under the cot mattress. Only the
head of the baby was visible, sucking rhythmically at her dummy. Maga was
fourteen months old and slept through most nights, without disturbing Irena
and the man she lived with.
Irena halfturned at the click of the front door closing. Too early for
Goran. A rough coughing told her Milan was back again. Her brother had
descended on them last night without warning, smelling of' smoke, sweat and
slivovitz, and saying he'd be staying for a few days.
Goran, with whom she'd lived for three years, was all for throwing him out.
But blood was thicker than water. Even bad blood.
She caressed her daughter's head, then slipped from the tiny bedroom and
closed the door, leaving Just a crack to hear any crying.
Milan had slumped on the sofa with his shoes dropped beside him on the
beige, shag-pile carpet. Irena picked them up and took them to the hall.
It was a small apartment. One small bedroom, a living room, kitchen and
bathroom, all they could afford. The sofa was where Milan had to sleep.
He'd not explained why he was here. But then he never had explained
anything.
'Irena! Bring me a beer!' She heard the television go on.
He was up to something. Phone calls for him from

             126

 Germany, then turning up out of the blue. She'd seen the butt of a pistol
 poking from his bag.
  There had been three children in the family, Milan the youngest, she in
  the middle and Tihomir her elder brother. A rough, village upbringing it
  had been, in a house that had always seemed dark. Eventually she had gone
  to college in Sarajevo, Tihomir had entered the priesthood and Milan the
  building trade.
  S he looked in the refrigerator, then closed the door again.
  'There are no beers,' she carped, returning to the living room. 'You've
  drunk them all. Should have bought some while you were out.'
  He ignored her, as always. Couldn't remember a time when he'd looked her
  in the eye. She returned to the kitchen. Had to think of something for
  them to eat.
  She'd met her partner in Sarajevo, studying medicine, while she learned
  English. Golden days then, the city a hub of culture and no cares about
  religion, but as soon as the fighting started they'd fled. Goran had
  finished his studies in Zagreb and was now a hospital intern working more
  hours than there were in the day.
  She crossed to the window and folded her arms. Their sixth floor flat
  overlooked an identical grey block, twinkling with lights. A dreary place
  to live, but they'd been lucky to get it.
  Milan unsettled hcr. Couldn't concentrate with him around. Never knew
  what he was thinking. She drifted back to the living room.
  The Croatian news was on. Pictures of Bosnia. 'Muslims breaching the
  cease-fire', they said. Always the other side at fault. The tragedy was
  people believed this propaganda.
  He'd cut his fair hair short like a convict, having arrived with it long
  and lank. He'd wanted some passport photos. Definitely up to something.
  He'd bought some

               127

 spectacles too. She'd seen him try them in front of a mirror.
  Milan had been pretty as a child. Almost blonde in those days, with eyes
  she remembered as luminous blue. Their father used to call him a cissy.
  A brute, their father was. Ran a garage and tyre repair station. Used to
  come home drunk on occasions, crashing about the house, shouting
  obscenities. Their mother would barricade the bedroom to keep him out. Then
  in desperation he would snivel into the children's room. Irena would listen
  for him and scurry into Tihomir's bed for protection. Her elder brother had
  the guts to stand up to their father and kept a stick under his pillow to
  clout him when he groped for them in the dark.
  Milan however got no such brotherly protection and it was his bed their
  father would end up in, often as not. Having once been dragged from
  underneath it and beaten black and blue, the boy had stopped trying to
  hide.
  It was a body their father wanted. Any body. Irena used to cover her ears
  to shut out the grunts and whispers. Milan never talked about those nights,
  but his face was always tear-smudged in the mornings.
 'Milan!' she shouted, fed up with him ignoring her.
 He appeared not to notice. The news was still on.
  She'd often wondered if he was backward. Always withdrawn, always sullen,
  but there was cunning there. And cruelty. He'd caught a stray cat once,
  pinned it to the ground with his boot and crushed its head with a crowbar.
 'Milan.'
  He turned his head a quarter of the way, still not looking at her.
  'Milan, do you know how long you'll be staying? Goran's asking. .
 'A few days.'
 'Oh. And then?'

               128

 'Germany.'
 'Are your friends finding work for you?'
  The calls had been from a woman called Gisela in Berlin.
 'Mmm.,
  He'd worked fiv(,- years in Germany. Then came home two years ago, to
  fight for his country, he'd said. Heard nothing of him until now.
  Secretly she'd hoped he'd been killed. Terrible to wish that of your own
  brother. But something in her heart told her the world would be a safer
  place without him.
  She gave up trying to communicate, and returned to the kitchen. There was
  minced meat in the fridge. She'd make Zevapaci.

 Zenica, Bosnia.

 Lorna had spent the afternoon delivering medical supplies, some to the
 main hospital in Zenica, others to Muslim villages up to thirty minutes
 away. She'd kept some boxes back to give to the Groats. In this country
 where aid workers crossed front lines daily, survival depended on
 even-handedness.
  Now it was evening in the dimly-lit hotel and she was weary. But it was
  still only eight o'clock - too early to retire to the cold darkness of
  her room.
  She and josip sat at a table together alone, the restaurant half full of
  Scandinavians working for the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. She kept
  the conversation with her translator as superficial as possible,
  resisting his efforts to make it personal. Not hard to achieve, because
  her mind was elsewhere.
 Her work was beginning to worry her; not the danger

               129

 - that she was more or less used to. What concerned her was the motivation
 ofCareNet.
  She had no problems with the Medical Aid side of things, but her
  employer's increasing interest in arranging child adoptions disturbed
  her.
  CareNet's intention was simple, and laudable enough - to give war orphans
  a better life. But there was an evangelism at the heart of the
  organization which brooked little argument over how to achieve that.
  Their assumption that the children would always be better off in America
  was not, in Lorna's view, a safe one to make.
  The first step in CareNet's adoption business had been taken on her last
  visit. She'd been instructed by her Boston HQ to check out the 'supply
  situation'. Her boss, a born-again Christian who'd made a fortune from
  computer software, was using information technology to organize 'the
  market' for adoption.
  On this trip he had given her a notebook computer and a satellite phone,
  so she could send details of the Tulici girl and any others she might
  find to a bulletin board he'd set up on the Internet.
  But children, Lorna felt, should not be a 'business'. Her anxiety had
  deepened that morning at seeing Monika's nervousness about the adoption
  issue.
  Josip had been heavily into slivovitz that afternoon. Everywhere they'd
  delivered their medical supplies, the bottles had been brought out in
  gratitude. Lorna hadn't touched the stuff; just the smell of it made her
  want to throw up. ButJosip had drunk all that was offered, 'so as not to
  offend'.
  This evening he'd persuaded the waiter to produce one of the hotel's few
  remaining bottles of good Croatian wine. It had cost him twenty Deutsche
  Marks in bribes, but he'd told himself if it helped unfreeze Lorna, it
  would be worth it.
  After half an hour of his meandering suggestiveness, Lorna felt her fuse
  shortening. Her instinct was to unman

               130

 him with some cutting remark, but she feared he might walk out on her.
 Without a translator in Bosnia she simply couldn't work. So she stone-walled
 wearily.
 Suddenly her lack of response got through to him.
  'Why you don't want me to make love to you?' he blurted out, mouth turned
  down like a child denied sweets.
  'Oh, God,' she thought. 'This I can do without.' She'd never imagined he
  would come straight out with it.
 JosipP She feigned surprise. 'I had no idea. . .'
  Had to be careful. She looked at his sad, moist eyes, his cheeks flushed
  with alcohol and frustration. He wasn't bad looking. A little gaunt. Too
  Balkan, maybe. But he was fifteen years younger than her and there'd be
  plenty of women over forty-five who would grab at the chance.
  'Hey, I'm so flattered. I mean Josip, you could have any woman ...
  'You have no husband now,' he blurted out. 'Last time here, you told me you
  were separate from him.' He shrugged, as if the lack of a man was
  justification enough for her to sleep with him.
  'Sure. But that doesn't mean ... Look, what is this, Josip? You and I we
  work together. Office rules - you don't have a relationship with someone
  you work with. .
  She saw his eyes light up. Josip had taken it as encouragement. Rules,
  after all, were there to be broken.
  'Anyway, maybe I don't like sex. . .' she flustered, fiddling with Rees's
  white gold wedding ring which she still wore.
 He shot his arm across the table and grabbed her arm.
  'That is Joke. You love sex! I always know if a woman will be cold or warm.
  Your eyes, the way you move...'
 He pulled her fingers to his lips.
  'Your body, Lorna - it would be like violin in my hands . . .'
 'Oh, for Ghrist's sake!' She whipped her hand free.

               131

 'And I suppose you'd play Brahms' Concerto on my tits!' Diplomacy was
 getting her nowhere.
  josip's face crumpled like a paper bag. He made as if to stand up.
  Oh dear. The wound had been deeper than she'd meant. Men were like kids.
  She prayed she hadn't blown it.
  ,Look, if it makes you feel better, I do have a guy. That's the reason. .
  .' she said hurriedly. 'And I don't cheat on him. . .'
 He sat down suspiciously.
  'It's someone I've known a long time,' she continued, realizing the story
  needed a little embeflishment.
 'How long?' he demanded.
  'What? Oh, most of my life.' She spoke without thinking. Had to say
  something.
 'So, you knew this man before your husband?'
 'Well, yuh.'
 'He was your lover then?'
 'Mmmm.'What was she say1q.?
  'And now you ... you are separate from your husband, and he is your lover
  again?'
 josip's face was a picture of disbelief
 'Yuh ... sure. But look I don't want to talk about. .
  'Why noff he pressed, drawn by her defensiveness. 'You love him. I want to
  know what kind of man that is.'
 What kind indeed. Fiction or fact?
  'I guess ... I guess you could say we're sort of soul mates,' she heard
  herself say.
  What was this crap? What thread from her past was josip unwittingly
  loosening?
 'Soul mate? That means like a brother?'
  No. Closer than that, she thought. Like an integral part of you. So that
  when you're wrenched away from him you think you're going to die.
  'Sure. Like a brother. Sort of incestuous . . .' she teased. Time to make
  a joke of it.

               132

 'But you didn't marry your soul mate?'
  No. She married Rees, because she needed someone to be a father to her
  child ...
  'Yup, well, you know how it is. Things got in the way. Things ... like the
  Atlantic Ocean.'
 She'd said enough. This had to stop.
 'What his name?'Josip pressed.
 'Uh?'
 'He has a name, this soul mate?'
  Yes. But a name she'd not spoken lovingly of for twenty years.
  'Dan. Dan Samson,' Lorna lied, crossing her arms. 'And that's it, now. You
  keep your nose out of my personal life.'
  Her tone snuffed out the last flicker of light in his dream. JosIp
  shrugged. His cause was lost. Game over.
 Suddenly he felt unpleasantly sober.
 'Maybe I have some brandy.
 Lorna pushed back her chair.
 'Not for me. I'm going to bed. Alone!'
 Josip looked round for the waiter, ignoring the rebuke. 'Goodnight, Josip.,
 'Sure,' he replied dismissively.

 She closed the door to her room and slipped the chain. After a couple of
 brandiesJosip might yet try again.
  She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled off her boots, then fell back onto
  the rough blanket that smelled of smoke. How the hell had she let herself
  get into that? Inventing a lover to put him off was one thing, but all that
  soul mate stuff?
 just slipped out, your honour.
  And just because 'soul mates' was the way she and Alex Jarvis used to think
  of each other, it wasn't necessarily him she'd meant. Who said she still
  thought about him?

               133

 V say. That's who.'
  Her voice..echoed flatly in the cold, half-lit box, with its seedy
  wallpaper and plasticky furniture. A bedroom that smelled of strangers.
  Why, though? Why could she still think of him with love as well as with
  hate?
  Belfast 1973. A long, long time ago, but still sharp in her memory.
  On a scale of I to 10, what Alex had done to her there was I I+ for
  shittiness. A monstrous betrayal after his beautiful words and after the
  love-making that was so much more than just sex.
  All that stuff about her being the 'spark that had been missing from his
  life'. Sure, she'd said those things about him too. The difference was she
  had meant them.
  She had fled home from Belfast and then discovered the hard Irishmen in
  Boston wanted her dead for 'touting' the secret of the jailbreak. They'd
  planned a little 'accident'for her, but her father was tipped the wink and
  bought them off. Being one of the richest IrishAmericans in New England had
  its advantages.
  Then, and this was the worst part for her, Lorna had found herself back in
  her father's pocket, saddled again with the burden of filial obligation it
  had taken her years to shake off.
  She and her sister knew it as 'The Gratitude Trap' -never being able to say
  or do anything to contradict their father in case it was seen as lack of
  appreciation.
  A sense offailure and guilt had been purnmelled into their brains since
  birth through paternal rebukes at any flaw in their performance and
  ridicule at their juvenile opinions.
  Lorna shivered. She'd crossed into adulthood devoid of self-esteem,
  conditioned to believe her only value was as her father's vassal.
  Then she'd met Alex who'd told her she was Just wonderful the way she was.
  He'd called her a star -
  
               134

 clever, witty, beautiful. She! Lorna! No wonder she'd loved him so much.
  She'd felt a star, too, whizzing around Hampstead on the back of Alex's
  BSA. A rebel, with Alex as James Dean. A little rough in his voice and
  manner, he would not have won Papa's approval, which had served to
  heighten the thrill. The first challenge to her father she'd ever made.
  Her parents had been separated by then. Her mother, born in Britain, had
  brought her to London for a taste of English education and culture.
  Alex. He'd given her the strength to stand up to the old man - then
  thrust her back into his debt by betraying her.
  Alex. She remembered his smell when they first met. Almost feral.
  Something to do with the leather jacket he wore. But it was his eyes
  she'd fallen for, dark and tempting as chocolate. And the feel of his
  body. She'd nicknamed him Samson.
  Samson! Dan Samson! That was the stupid name she'd givenjosip for her
  fictitious lover.
 Shit! Shit! Shit! She leaped from the bed.
  Had to wash all this stuff from her head. She tried the bathroom tap.
  Water. A miracle. Warm too.
  She turned on the shower, tossed her clothes at a chair, then climbed
  over the rim of the tub. The water smelled funny, but beggars couldn't
  be choosers.
  She shampooed her hair then spread the foam down her soft skin; the water
  threatened to lose its heat. She rinsed herself quickly in case the flow
  died altogether, then huddled under the spray to savour the last of its
  warmth. Crossing her arms over her breasts, her fingers felt the nipples
  grow and harden.
  It was a while since she'd been with a man. Only once since leaving Rees,
  a divorcee she'd met at a party. Not a night to remember. He'd had the
  hands of a butcher.
 Mex's hands had been something else.

               135

  Damn! She hated the guy, remember? He'd screwed up her life. She recited
  the litany in her mind.
  After buying off the IRA, her father had forced her into hiding, to take a
  job with a law firm he knew in an out-of-the-way New England artists'
  colony.
 All because you betrayed me, Alex!
  There, after years of frustration at her exile, she'd bedded some careless
  pot-thrower she didn't even like, who had gotten her pregnant. Her contract
  with the law firm precluded motherhood for seven years, so she'd had to
  leave her job.
 Your fault, Alex.
  Two choices had faced her. To become a single parent and depend on her
  father for an income, or find someone to marry.
 No choice, Alex.
  The potter was out of the question, but there was someone else. A partner
  in the firm called Rees Sorenson. So keen was he to make her Mrs Sorensen,
  that this deeply Christian man overlooked the fact she was already
  pregnant.
  After what you'd put me through, Alex, maybe I deserved such a saint.
 The baby was born. They'd called herjulie.
  After a few months they'd realized something was wrong. Autism, the doctors
  called it. The child couldn't communicate.
  For twelve years Lorna had cared forJulie, battling to break through to
  her, but when the girl reached puberty thinLys had gotten out of control.
  Rees put Julie in a home for the mentally disturbed, Lorna had a breakdown,
  and their marriage disintegrated.
 All your fault, Alex! Every little part of it!
 Suddenly the bathroom went black.
 'Oh, hell!' she screamed. 'Damn! Damn!'
 She groped to turn off the taps, then felt for the rim of

               136

 the tub. Where was the frigging towel? She banged her toe on the
 door-frame and cursed again.
  Somewhere she had a flashlight. She felt her way into the pitch-dark
  room. The power failure was total; no light spilled in from the window.
  She stooped forward and felt the edge of the bed, her heart pounding.
  Suppose josip had gotten in while she was in the shower ...
  She held her breath. All she could hear was the pumping of her own blood.
  What if he was there, holding his breath too?
  Silently she felt along the bed. Please, God, let the flashlight be on
  the bedside table.
 It was. She fumbled with the switch.
  'Thank you Lord,' she breathed, waving the pale, orange beam round the
  room. It needed new batteries.
  Back in the bathroom, she rested the torch on the shelf so she could dry
  herself quickly before it died altogether.
  A quick teeth brushing before the water gave out, then her nightdress on
  and into bed.
  She bit her lip. What the hell was she doing in this crazy place?
 'I hate you Alex! I hate you,' she moaned.

 137

             Twelve

 Monday 28th March, 9.15 a.m. Vitez

 The roadway between Dragana's house and the UN camp opposite was lined with
 heavy vehicles, engines rumbling like ruminating beasts. Exhausts steamed
 like cattle-breath in the crisp morning air.
  A convoy of empty supply trucks was forming for the long drive to Split and
  a pair of Warriors twisted on their tracks, to bracket three white,
  armoured Land Rovers with 'TV marked on their sides in black tape. The
  journalists were being taken on patrol along the ceasefire lines. In public
  they expressed hope that peace would last, but privately they knew that
  only fresh violence would guarantee them a place on the evening news.
  Alex coaxed the Bedford out of the drive and turned left onto the road. He
  was glad of his boots and Barbour and had pulled on a tweed cap to keep his
  head warm.
  This was the first Jull day of his mission. With a little luck by the end
  of it fie would have picked up the trail of at least one of the people he
  was looking for.
  As they headed northwest he looked across flat meadows glinting silver in
  the watery sunlight. Beyond, rose a snow-capped mountain range, a
  ski-centre in happier times. It reminded him of frosty mornings in the
  Highlands, out on the moors before dawn, waiting for the deer to leave
  their valley feeding grounds for the safety of the hills.
 'It's beautiful here!' he murmured.
 'Yes. Took me by surprise,' McFee concurred. 'You

               138

 don't expect it somehow, after all the butchery you see on TV. You think
 the place'll be one big shit heap.'
  The road wound through hamlets, scarred by the occasional burned-out shop
  or house.
 'And then you see that sort of thing,'Alex commented.
 'Beauty and the beast ... eh?'
  Grey-faced young men, wearing the drab camouflage of the HVO, ambled
  wearily home, eyeing the truck for a lift.
  Swerving to avoid a mortar crater, they reached a road juntion and a
  chicane made of rusting tank-traps and a burned-out bus. To the left the
  UN's Route Triangle led to the mountains and the coast. Straight on was
  to Travnik.
  'It's eerie,'Alex breathed. 'Not a soul in sight. You feel you're being
  watched.'
  'Aye. We've just crossed the front line. There's probably a dozen rifle
  sights looking at us, so keep smiling.'
  'Bit dodgy on our own, isn't it?' Alex snapped, not wanting a repeat of
  yesterday's nightmare. 'Shouldn't we have a UN escort?'
 McFee bristled.
  'Look, when I left you at P.Info last night I dropped into the officers'
  mess,' he blustered expansively. 'They said Travnik's wide open. No
  probs.'
  Officers' Mess? Sounded like bullshit. But McFee had been out sonzewhere
  last night. Hadn't got back to the house until after Alex was asleep.
  And another thing, he thought. They had no translator. How the hell was
  he going to ask questions about Milan Pravic if he couldn't communicate.
  'Wouldn't it be handy to have a local with us,' he needled, 'someone who
  speaks the language?'
 McFee pursed his lips.
 'Which local, that's the problem. A Croat couldn't

               139

 come in here with us. And a Muslim couldn't come back with us to Vitez.'
 'How do the UN manage?'
  'Och, well, they pay them good wages, stick 'em in a uniform and give 'ern
  a nice wee plastic UN pass. But Bosnia Emergency hasn't t ' he money.'
 He ruminated for a moment.
  'But it's something to work on. If we found a volunteer, maybe the UN could
  get her a pass.' The thought that it could be a woman set McFee brooding.
  An ancient hilltop castle towered over the approach to Travnik. Beyond were
  minarets. Old shell cases littered the roadway.
  'This place has taken a pasting,' McFee remarked, guiding Alex through the
  shrapnel-scarred streets of the old Muslim town. At a small park, dug up
  for fresh graves, women laid flowers. The road was full of men in uniform.
  'The bearded ones are Mujahedin,'McFee mentioned under his breath.
  'Iranians, Palestinians, you name it.' He shot a glance at Alex. 'With that
  fungus on your own face, you'd better watch out they don't recruit ye!'
  Alex manoeuvred the truck over a narrow river bridge and into a school
  yard, then swung down onto the tarmac. From behind barred windows faces
  peered, most of them blank with despair. Parked closer to the school
  entrance, its rear towards the door, was another whitepainted truck.
  'Looks like Feed the Children have beaten us to it,' Alex remarked,
  spotting the line of refugees passing aid boxes into the building.
 'Oh, hello, there.'
  It was the Englishman who'd shared their table in the cookhouse last night.
  'They've plenty of supplies here just now. But have a word with the
  direcior. She knows some other places.'
 'Thanks.'

               140

  Inside, class-rooms were stuffed with beds, mats and the meagre belongings
  of families. Weaving through the crush, Alex bit his lip. It was the first
  time he'd touched and smelled the human tragedy of Bosnia.
  They entered an office. Desks stacked with paperwork, half a dozen women
  struggling to make sense of it. Clucking about them like a mother hen was
  a matron in fawn cardigan and what looked like a Hermes scarf.
  She smiled and affected to recognize McFee when he introduced himself
  Tull. No more room,' she explained, brown eyes wide with astonishment.
  'Enough food for a week, maybe.'
  'You know somewhere else we could take our stuff?' McFee asked.
  'Yes, yes!' Her eyes lit up. 'Some people came last week but no space. They
  go to village near Guca Gora.'
  'Maybe you could send someone with us as a guide,' Alex chipped in.
  'Someone who speaks English.'
  'Maybe. Perhaps.. .' She looked at her watch. 'Moment.'
  She bustled from the room shouting a name. Two minutes later she returned,
  leading a fair-haired youth with eyes of bright blue.
  'This is Ivan. He is refugee. He learn English at school. You bring him
  back?'
 'Of course,' Alex assured her.
  They walked out to the truck, Ivan shooing away children unpicking the
  tailgate tarpaulin.
  They drove slowly through the town using the same road they'd come in on.
  'How old are you, Ivan?' Alex asked. Squeezed between him and McFee, the
  boy's diffidence reminded him so painfWly ofjodie.
  'Seventeen. But if someone ask, I am sixteen, okay?' There was fear in his
  eyes.
 'Okay,' Alex frowned. 'But why?'

               141

  'Huh. If seventeen, they put me in army! Then I dead like my father.'
 He drew a finger across his own throat.
  Back past the castle and out onto the Vitez road again, Ivan directed him
  up a lane that climbed through bare woods of birch and chestnut. They
  reached a muddy village, slowing for a pony-cart piled with silage.
  Then, round a bend, the Bosnian Army flag drooped above a caf6. Bearded
  soldiers lounging on chairs followed the truck's passing with suspicious,
  unwavering eyes.
 'No stop! No stop!' Ivan gibbered. 'Mujahedin. .
  Alex put his foot down. Out of the village, the ground fell away steeply to
  the right.
  'I thought the Mujahedin were on your side,' he checked. The boy was pale
  with fear.
 'Crazy peoples. Arabs. Not Bosnians. .
  A little later, Alex asked how much further it was. Ivan counted on his
  fingers.
 'Three more village, I think.'
  It took twenty minutes to reach the scruffy hamlet of Duba. Ivan leaned
  from the window and asked an old man directions.
 'He say the refugees are in the school. I show you.'
  Always the schools, Alex thought. War had wrecked so many aspects of life
  here. Outside a dismal pre-fab a crowd milled, elderly men in caps and
  women in shawls, but young families too, some decanting from a mudspattered
  bus, hugging the few belongings they'd seized in their moment of flight.
  As the Bedford pulled up, faces turned as one, and the mob descended on
  them like gulls on a rubbish tip.
 'Christ!' Alex yelled. 'They'll take the truck apartP
  'Ivan!' McFee growled. 'Find the person who's in charge of this place.'
 Alex switched offthe engine and pocketed the key.

               142

  'Come on, Moray,' he barked. 'Let's see if we can hold them off.'
 The truck was surrounded.
  Alex squeezed to the ground, pressed to the side of the vehicle by the
  throng. Some youths had already undone the tarpaulin at the back.
  'Now, hang on a minute, chapsP McFee's bellow rose up from the midst of the
  crowd. 'Oootl'
 Hell! Someone's thumped him, Alex thought.
  He elbowed his way to the tail-gate. McFee leaned against the rear
  wheel-arch nursing his chin. A scuffle had broken out. Whoever had hit
  McFee was being restrained, and punched in return.
  Boxes poured out of the back of the truck. Some in the crowd ripped them
  open where they stood. Others clutched them in their arms like trophies and
  elbowed their way back to the school.
  Suddenly a shot rang out. Alex dropped to the ground. Then came the
  rattling crack of automatic fire. Women screamed. The crowd melted away at
  a crouch.
  A middle-aged man in Armija uniform strutted towards the truck, blasting
  Kalashnikov rounds into the sky. Close behind were two other soldiers, and
  Ivan.
  'Good Jad,' Alex breathed, clutching the boy by the arm.
 'Your friend. He is hurt?'
 'You all right, Moray?' Alex asked.
 'Oh, aye.'
  The middle-aged soldier helped McFee to his feet and dusted him down. He
  babbled away in Serbo-Croat.
  'He says "sorry for what happened",' Ivan translated. 'These people have no
  food for three days.'
  'Tell him we understand,' Alex soothed. 'I'd have done the same.'
  'He say the people of this village not want refugees,' Ivan continued.
  'They tell them "go away". Give nothing to eat. Only for themselves.'

               143

  'Well, tell them they're welcome to all the stuff we've brought,' Alex
  replied. 'There's food and warm clothing. But ask him to make sure it's
  shared out fairly.'
 Ivan turned to the officer to translate.
  'Da. Da.' He nodded, gesticulating at his juniors. They scurried off to
  muster a gang of box-handlers.
  Alex began collecting the broken boxes into a sack, vaguely aware that
  another vehicle, a white jeep of some sort had pulled up outside the
  school.
  'I'll gi' ye a hand in a minute, Alex,' McFee called. just get my breath
  back.'
  From some of the boxes the contents had already been looted. Alex bent
  to gather up the torn cardboard.
  Suddenly in front of him he saw a pair of green Goretex boots. Small feet
  - belonging to a woman ...
 Slowly, very slowly, he straightened himself up.
 Lorna Donohue.
  The passage of time had scored lines in her face, but to him it still
  radiated magic.
 Her mouth dropped open.
 'Alex?' she gasped.
 His chest feft a's if it was about to explode.
 'Lorna,' he gulped. 'It's you.'
  'And it U' youP Her voice rose an octave. She pointed at his face. 'The
  beard. I didn't ... I don't believe this . . .'
  She felt she was going into shock. He reached an arm out to her, but it
  didn't quite connect.
  'I thought I saw you the other day,' Alex spluttered. 'Coming off the
  ferry at Split. But this is amazing!'
  He wanted to grab her, hug her, kiss her. But he didn't dare.
  'Twenty goddarn years!' she mouthed, her face a mask. There was no
  invitation there.
  Didn't dare show him her feelings. Didn't even know what they were. She
  spun away from him and ran her hands through her hair.

               144

 'My God!' she munnured. 'This isn't happening.'
  'It's amazing,' Alex repeated, his hands flapping. He felt like a kid on
  his first date, weak at the knees with wondering what to say.
 He became conscious of McFee watching them.
 'This is Loma,' he gestured. 'The one on the ferry. .
 McFee leered, as if to say, 'not bad'.
  Unsmiling, Lorna turned to face the man who'd once meant everything to
  her. She felt sandbagged. Had to play for time.
  'What are you doing here, for heaven's sake?' she asked, looking at him
  opaquely.
 He waved his hand towards the Bedford.
 'Endeavouring to be useful, I suppose. You too?'
  She nodded, eyes hard, trying to show that whatever she felt about
  meeting him again, it wasn't necessarily pleasure.
 He told himself to get a grip and moved a little closer.
  'You look fantastic, Lorna. Haven't changed at all. Astonishing. . .'
  'Older,' she replied. 'And wiser. . .' She raised one eyebrow.
  'Aren't we all.' He could see she intended to give him a hard time. 'We
  ... we've got a lot to talk about, I guess.' He reached out to touch her,
  but she backed off.
  'We certainly do.' He saw the hurt in her eyes. She let out a long, deep
  breath. 'We sure do, Alex!'
  She felt she was clinging on by her finger tips. Time for a smile, she
  thought. Mustn't let him see she was floundering.
  'Well! Well, well ... So this is your truck? What have you got there,
  food and clothes?'
  'Yep. Bosnia Emergency is the name of the charity. Oh, and this is Moray
  McFee. Moray? This is Lorna ... Donohue?' he checked.
 'Donohue will do. Nice to meet you, Moray.'
 'This chap Crawford tells me you go back thirty

               145

 years. . .' McFee ventured. Lorna darted Alex a suspiclous glance - his name
 had been Janis when she'd last seen him. Her name change had a simple reason
 - but his?
  'Thirty years! You'd have been in nappies when you met, surely?' McFee
  grinned.
  'If only,' she laughed, thawing a little. 'But thanks for the compliment.'
 McFee spotted the Nikon on a strap round her neck.
  'Here, gi' me that camera! It's a moment of history, this.'
 She faltered but handed it over.
  'Stand together, now. Alex, put your arm around her for God's sake!'
  McFee's request brooked no refusal. For a moment Lorna leant uneasily
  against Alex.
  She forced a thin smile. McFee snapped off a couple of pictures, before
  handing back the camera. Lorna was grateful to break off the unsettling
  contact.
  'I'll leave you to reminisce for a mornent,' he offered, backing away.
  'Don't worry, Alex. I'll do the boxes.'
  'So ... What's all this Crawford stuff?' she snapped, businesslike again,
  as McFee went over to the Bedford.
 He took her arm and led her out of earshot.
  'I've been using the name since Belfast. I've had to hide. The Provos
  wanted to kill me, you know.'
  'You and me both, kiddo.' She pulled her arm from his grip. Why was he
  standing here like this, bold as brass? He should be on his knees begging
  for forgiveness.
  'Look, I got work to do,' she said brusquely. 'I guess this isn't the place
  to talk. Where are you staying?'
 'Vitez. You?'
 'Zenica. The International Hotel.'
  She wasn't going to suggest they should meet. Leave that to him.
  'And who doyou work for?' he asked, unnerved by her coolness.

               146

 'Have you heard of CareNet of New England?'
 'Nope.'
  'It's a disaster agency that helps kids. We hand out medical supplies, and
  find homes for war orphans.'
 'People to adopt them?' he frowned.
 'Sure. You don't approve?'
 'It is rather controversial . .
 'And that is an old-fashioned, English understatement.'
  Her blue-grey eyes softened. She wasn't altogether disagreeing with him.
  Alex glanced towards the truck. The remaining boxes were being unloaded in
  an orderly relay. Better to steer clear of the past for now. Keep talking
  about the present.
  'And what are you in thu* village for? Medicines, or orphans?' he asked.
  Questions, questions, the biggest one inside her own mind. Why was he
  really here? But he'd just asked her something ...
  'This one's special. There's a kid here in real danger. You've heard of..
  .'
  She stopped in mid-flow. Hell, she thought. I'm doing it again. Telling him
  things. It's those soft brown eyes, and the way he listens as if he cares.
  She slipped her mask back in place and looked at him out of the corner of
  her eye.
  'Last time we met.. .' she began, 'you were a spook. M15 wasn't iff
 He began to sweat.
  'We've got to talk about that, Lorna. Let's work out when we can meet.. .'
  'Do you still do thaff she interrupted. 'Are you still a spy? Out here?'
 'Give me a break, Lorna.'
  'Gimme a break! You watch too many soaps. Is that why you're here?' she
  demanded.
 'No, it's not.'

               147

  It's happening again, he thought. Lying to her because the truth's too
  complicated.
  J told you, I came here to help ... and to get away. I had problems at
  home. You know what I mean?' he added, appealing for sympathy. He saw
  pain in her eyes.
 'Sure,' she nodded. 'I know what you mean.'
  A couple approached, the man in a leather jacket. He had dark, greasy
  hair and jealous eyes.
  'Loma . . .' Josip snapped, irritated by her intimacy with this stranger.
  'Monika - she say we must hurry.'
 'Okay~ okay!' Loma replied. just give me a minute.'
  This time she took Alex by the arm and led him a few metres away.
  'He's my translator,' she explained. 'I've got to go. There's a kid here
  who lost all her family in a massacre.'
  Mauacre. He had an eerie sensation of a window opening.
  'All right, but let's meet up somewhere. I'm staying opposite the UN camp
  in Vitez. Any chance you could get there?'
 'I don't know. I've got a lot to fix. .
  'That massacre,' he asked, ignoring her prevarication, 'was it Tulici?'
  'LJhuh,' she acknowledged warily. 'Were you here then?'
  'No. It's just that the way I'd heard it, there weren't any survivors.'
  'Mmm. That's what most people think. It's safer that way-)
 'What do you mean?'
  Loma swallowed hard. Nobody was supposed to know Vildana was in this
  village.
  'Because if there's a survivor, she might be able to identify the guy who
  did the killings. And if he knew there was a witness, he'd want to kill
  her too.'
 She'd said enough.
 'I've got to go.'

               148

  'Hang on!' Alex gripped her arm. 'If this girl can identify the killers .
  . .'
 'I didn't say that,' Lorna protested.
  'But if she can identify them, then the UN must be told. They want to put
  the Tulici killers on trial. Did you know thaff
  'Not my problem! All I'm concerned about is the safety and future happiness
  of a twelve-year-old.'
 'She's here in this village, you say?'
 Questions. Questions. Just like Belfast.
  'I must go.' Yet she couldn't. Not without fixing to meet him again.
 'Can I come with you?' he pleaded. 'To see the girl?'
  'You have to be kidding,' she protested. 'Do you know what it took to
  persuade Monika to bring me here? No way.,
 'How long will you be? I'll wait.'
 Loma shrugged, exasperated. 'I don't know.'
 'I'll wait.'
  She hurried after the others. Monika led them briskly up the street to a
  half-built house less than fifty metres away.
  Suddenly Alex looked over to the truck. Children riffling the cab for
  anything consumable.
  'Hey, get out of there!' he yelled, sprinting across. He grabbed at the
  squirming bodies and yanked them out.
 Ivan appeared and shouted in Serbo-Croat.
  Alex climbed onto the driving seat. A couple of packs of Marlboros that
  he'd left on the dashboard were gone.
 'They have nothing. . .'Ivan explained in mitigation.
 'They have now.'
  He looked over to the school. The last of the boxes was being carried
  inside. McFee started weaving through the crowd towards them.
  'Lots of happy faces in there, now,' he beamed, when he reached them.
  'Where's your lady-friend?'
 'Up the road somewhere.'

               149

  He cocked his head on one side and studied Alex's face.
  'So how was your big reunion? Cut your dick off, did she?'
 Alex smiled. 'Not quite.'
  'Okay. We'd better get a move on. Young Ivan here needs to get back to his
  folks.'
 'We can't go yet.'
 'What d'you mean?'
  'I have to talk to Loma again, when she's finished doing whatever she's
  doing.'
 'Oh, great! And how long's that going to be?'
 'I don't know, but not too long.'
 McFee didn't disguise his annoyance.
  'Couldn't you have arranged to meet up this evening or something? A little
  t&e A t~te in the Vitez cookhouse, maybe.'
  'No.' He wasn't going to explain. 'I'll keep a lookout for her, now you're
  back to guard the truck.'
  He gave him the keys, pushed open the door and dropped to the ground.

 Monika hustled Lorna down a path of broken bricks at the side of a house.
 The building was made of unrendered breeze-blocks and a concrete frame. The
 tiled roof was intact, but the windows were polythene.
  Inside, a young couple wearing pullovers and tracksuit trousers stood
  awkwardly beside a small kitchen table and two plain, wooden chairs. It was
  the only furniture in the room, which had a bare concrete floor and rough,
  plastered walls.
  Lorna's head spun in disbelief at what had just happened. Suddenly she
  feared it had been some extraordinary fantasy and wanted to run back into
  the road to check he was still there.
 Then she saw the fear on the faces of the Bosnian

 couple and jerked back to reality. Monika introduced them with names she
 didn't catch.
  'This man is cousin of friend of Vildana family,'Josip translated. 'Friend
  who live in Tulici ... Also dead.'
  The woman of the couple began talking volubly, all the while dabbing her
  eyes with a handkerchief.
  'She say Vildana very ... well, shocked, I should say,' Josip explained in
  a whisper. 'She eat and sleep little. Every time she hear gun, she cry and
  looking somewhere to hide, like animal.'
  'Poor little thing,' Lorna breathed. A child that traumatized might be hard
  to place.
  The woman put a hand to her mouth and spoke lower.
  'Vildana has something on mouth,'Josip whispered. 'Some mark ... Boys threw
  stones because of this. She always running away. That's why she alive the
  woman say. She know all the place to hide.'
  Lorna sensed an abyss opening up. This was no normal child.
  'Monika, we need to talk to the kid,' she pressed, gently. Josip relayed
  her words.
  The woman dried her eyes and blew her nose. Then she opened the door into
  the next room. A double mattress and a smaller single one lay on the bare
  floor. Blankets and bedding were scrunched up at the end of each.
  At first Lorna thought no one was in the room. Then she realized that what
  she'd taken for a pile of clothes in a corner was in fact a child. In
  bright red pullover and yellow trousers, a multi-coloured scarf draped over
  her head, and hands covering her face, this was Vildana.
  'Vildana?' the woman coaxed. She walked across and knelt before the
  cowering girl.
  A tang of salt burned the back of Lorna's throat as she swallowed her
  welling tears.

               151

  The small hands slid cautiously down the face, exposing dark-brown,
  frightened eyes. Vildana kept her mouth covered, however.
 The woman talked to her softly in a sing-song voice.
  'She explain who we are,'Josip whispered, resting a hand on Lorna's
  shoulder and putting his face close to her ear.
  She flinched as the stubble of his chin brushed her cheek and she caught
  the smell of his hangover breath.
  'Ask Monika if Vildana knows that we're planning to get her out of the
  country,' she told him brusquely.
  Josip obliged. Monika bobbed her head from side to side as if to say 'yes,
  but. . .'
  How much of anything did Vildana understand, Lorna began to wonder.
  She crossed the room and kneeled on the rough concrete a few feet in front
  of the child. Twelve years old. About the same age as Julie was when she'd
  had to give up caring for her.
 'Hi, Vildana. I'm Loma,' she said, forcing a smile.
  The dark eyes wouldn't look at her. The grubby hands still covered her
  mouth. Twelve years old and still so much a child. Julie had developed a
  woman's ways by this age.
 'Vildana? I want to help you if I can. If you'll let me.'
 She beckonedJosip over to translate.
 'Do you want me to help you?'
 josip let the translation slip sofdy from his tongue.
  The girl's eyes looked up for guidance. The woman who'd been caring for her
  nodded.
  'Will you tell me?' Lorna pleaded. 'I want to be your friend, Vildana.'
  Slowly Vildana pulled her hands away from her mouth, eyes watching for the
  look of distaste which, experience had told her, would flit across the
  visitor's face.
 A strawberry birthmark. A big one. Poor kid, Loma

               152

 thought. Such a pretty face otherwise. Maybe the surgeons could fix it.
  Fighting for self-control, Lorna let nothing show. Just smile, she told
  herself. She'd done it forjulie, she could do it for this girl.
 She reached out. Vildana's cheek felt hot and moist.
 'Do you know where America is?' Lorna coaxed.
 josip relayed the question. Vildana nodded.
 'Would you like to go live there?'
  She shook her head and the eyes began to fill with tears.
  The woman looked desperate. She hugged the child, then whispered something
  tojosip.
  'She say they cannot look after her much longer. They only marry few
  months, and Vildana not their family.'
 'And there's no one else? No uncles, aunts, cousins?'
  'She say no. Vildana father killed months ago, and the rest of her family
  die at Tulici.'
  Monika beckoned Lorna andjosip to the other side of the room.
  'Well, she say there is nothing for this girl in Bosnia,' he explained.
  They both glanced at the damaged creature in the corner. The problem was
  how to get her out of the country. Apart from anything else she'd need a
  passport.
  Lorna turned to the girl again, an idea forming in her head.
  'Vildana, can I see how tall you are?' She held out her hands and beckoned
  the girl over. Hesitantly Vildana obliged.
  She can walk at least, Lorna thought. Looks more normal standing up. She
  held her lightly by the shoulders.
  'Monika, can you explain to Vildana that we'll try to find her a nice
  family to live with, in a place where there's no shooting?'
 Lorna watched the girl's face as Monika talked to her.

               153

  'Tell her she'd have her own room, lots of nice clothes and things."
  She was determined to find something that might bring hope to those tragic
  eyes.
 No response.
  Hell! This was like walking a minefield, but she'd give it a shot.
  Josip,' she whispered in an aside, 'tell Monika to say to Vildana there'd
  be doctors in America who'd make her mouth better. She could look as
  beaufful as a moviestar and have all the boys begging for her to smile at
  them.'
 Josip coughed.
 'You're sure you want me translate?'
  'Whisper it to Monika. See if she thinks it's a good idea.'
  He did so. Monika's tired eyes seemed to grow in their sockets. She looked
  across at Lorna as if to say 'how could you?'
 Then the girl's eyes darted from one face to another.
 'She heard you,' Loma whispered.
 Vildana's voice when it came was a husky squeak.
 'She ask if it true,'Josip confirmed.
  'Then we're getting somewhere. Josip, bring Monika next door, would you?'
  Loma walked back into the room with the kitchen table. The other two joined
  her a moment later.
  'Maybe Vildana will be happy to go with me,' Lorna began. 'But the first
  problem is how to get her out of here. Would I be able to take her through
  the checkpoints on the road to Split, without any papers?'
 Josip make a'tchk' sound.
  'Impossible. Armija could shoot you for steal child, and HVO shoot her
  because she Muslim.'
  'So how do we do it? Ask Monika what's happened in the past.'
 Josip conferred.

               154

  'She say sometimes UN fly children from Sarajevo, but only when television
  makes big story. Anyway, it impossible to take Viddana to Sarajevo. No.
  Monika say the only way is to hide her in a white truck. There are many go
  to Split empty.'
 'Hmm.'
 Alex! He had a truck.
  It was as if spring had arrived. Maybe this was the reason they were
  suddenly meeting again. Somebody up there making the breaks - like they'd
  done before.
 She grabbedJosip's arm.
  'Hang on here Josip. Get Monika to keep up the persuasion. I got to go see
  sorneone.'
  She ran back down the path of broken bricks into the road. Two bearded men
  in fatigues watched her with cool curiosity, rifles slung lazily across
  their backs.
  The truck was still there, just beyond her own Land Cruiser. Alex lounged
  against it. He spotted her and came her way. She slowed to a walk,
  hurriedly composing her thoughts.
  'The girl's okay?' he asked, seeing the concentration on her face.
  She stopped a few feet away, hands behind her back and chin thrust forward
  in that intense way she had when there was something important to say. Her
  blonde hair stuck out spikily as if electrified by the energy inside her
  head.
 'Are you taking that truck back down to Spliff
 He read her mind.
  'Well, yes, in a day or two. When we've handed out all the supplies we
  brought up.'
  She nodded, her whole body rocking with the motion of it. Dare she trust
  him again?
  The salt and pepper grizzle on his chin might have changed his appearance,
  but his eyes had the same directness she'd fallen for in that Hampstead
  pub.
 Oh hell! She had to trust him. No alternative.

               155

  'When you and I ... all those years ago . . .'she began hesitantly. She
  held out her right hand, fingers cupped as if holding something precious.
 'Ye-es,' he answered, worried about what was coming.
 'We ... we shared something, didn't we?'
 She saw his frown and nearly gave up.
  'This sounds crazy, but I'm talking about fate Alex. You rernernber,' she
  floundered, unable to look him in the eye. 'Things that are meant to be?
  We were believers, weren't we? God, I must be mad standing in the middle
  of all this shit and talking such stuff. .
 'Go on. I'm listening.'
  'Well, you've got to admit it's one hell of a coincidence, that we both
  end up here, doing the same sort of job?'
 'It certainly is,' he nodded, his mind racing.
  'Okay. Here it is. In that house up the road, there's one totally
  traumatized twelve-year-old child called Vildana. She needs psychiatric
  treatment, she needs surgery, and she needs to be gotten away from this
  place where there are people who want to kill her.'
 'I see,' he nodded, listening intently.
  'But for a Muslim girl with no papers, there's only one way you can get
  out from Central Bosnia.' She pointed at the Bedford. 'Hidden in the back
  of an aid truck.'
 'Ahh . . .' He'd guessed right.
  His pulse quickened. Maybe he would start believing in fate. This
  twelve-year-old girl could be the catalyst to bring him and Lorna
  together again. And she might lead him to Milan Pravic.
  ,I'll have to talk it through with Moray,' he answered cautiously.
 'Can you do it now?'
 'It'd be better tonight. Over a drink.'
  'Okay, okay. I've got a lot of things to fix, anyhow. Now, look. How do
  we meet up tomorrow? Where do I find you?'

               156

  'Come to Vitez in the afternoon. We're in a house opposite the UN
  camp. Ask for Bosnia Emergency in the P.Info, that's the press office.
  They'll show you where.'
  Behind him the Bedford coughed into life. McFee was making his point.
 'Okay. I'll get there.'
  They stoodjust inches apart, unable to bridge the gap, staring at each
  other awkwardly.
 'Tomorrow, then.'
 'Bye.'
  He turned on his heel and pulled himself into the cab through the door
  that Ivan held open.

 157

             Thirteen

 Central Bosnia

 McFee simmered silently for most of the drive down from the village. Then,
 after they had dropped Ivan at the Travnik refugee centre, he let fly.
  'Look chum, there's rules in this place. And thanks to you we just broke
  a whole set back there!'
  'What d'you mean?' Alex snapped, angry at McFee's high-handedness.
  'That village was dead dodgy. Muj all over the place. The rule is get in,
  get the stuff off, and get outJast. It's not the time to hang about so's
  you can chat up old girlfriends!'
  'Christ, Moray! If you'd met someone you hadn't seen for twenty years,
  what would you have done?'
  Alex bit his tongue. Not a good time to pick a fight with McFee.
  McFee weaved past the junction with Route Triangle. Ten more minutes and
  they'd be at the house. It was late afternoon.
  'I suppose the lassie will be warming your bed for ye, tonight,' he
  needled sourly, hunched over the wheel, grubby and frayed.
  Alex guessed they both looked like that by now. 'I should be so lucky.
  . .' he snorted.
 They jolted on.
  'Women, eh?' McFee mused bitterly. 'Nothing but trouble. . .'
 'Yeh ... Don't know why we bother...'
 McFee seemed to want to get something off his chest.

               158

 Alex decided it might pay dividends if he were to play along.
 The Scotsman whistled tunelessly for a second or two.
  'All that hassle for a few moments of pleasure. . .' he sighed.
 Alex sensed the imminence of a torrent of misogyny.
  'It's a matter of luck,' he answered vaguely. 'Some you win, some you
  lose.'
  'Me? I lost.. .' McFee continued, bitterly. 'Picked a woman who was no
  use to any man, and waited too long before doing anything about it.'
 'How long were you married?'
  'Sixteen years. Didn't get hitched until I was nearly forty.'
 'No kids, you said?' Alex checked.
  'She lost a couple. Miscarried. Then refused to try any more. Pity. I
  really love kids. And after that, she didna want to know about sex...'
 'But you stayed with her sixteen years?'
  'Aye!' McFee shook his head in disbelief. 'Must want in' head examined.'
 'But now you've split up for good?'
  'Oh aye!' he chuckled. 'She'd take a carving knife to me now, if she
  could...'
  'Why, what did you do to her?' he asked, then wished he hadn't.
 McFee laughed awkwardly.
  'Well if a chap doesn't get his oats at home, he has to go somewhere
  else.'
 'Ali. A girlfriend, eh? Nothing so dreadful in that.'
  McFee didn't answer. He looked as if he wanted to open up but there was
  something stopping him. They reached the outskirts of Vitez.
  'Quite a lot of "somewhere elses", that was the trouble,' he mumbled
  eventually. 'Ladies o' the n~ght.' There was a glint in his eye, almost
  like pride.
 'Sounds expensive,' Alex remarked lamely.

               159

  'Not at all,' McFee answered. 'It costs plenty if you take a lassieto a
  nice restaurant because you want to fuck her after. And she may not even
  oblige. My way costs the same, but removes the doubt. . .'
  A grubby argument for self-interest that sounded well rehearsed.
  'And since you're paying, you call the shots. Don't have to worry about
  whether the earth moves for them.. .' he added, his mouth twisting.
  So, Moray was into hookers, Alex thought. Not often you met someone who'd
  admit to that. He couldn't help a sense of disgust.
  He began to remember things. The girls McFee had chatted up in the London
  pub the evening he came down from Edinburgh. Must have gone with one of
  them when he slipped out of the boarding house in the middle of the night.
  'And as you said last night, I suppose out here the tarts come pretty
  cheap,' Alex prodded, thinking of the woman from the camp kitchens with the
  gipsy eyes.
  McFee bristled. 'What I said's between you and me, okay?' He reversed the
  truck into the driveway to their house. 'I don't go telling everyone. Some
  people can take against you.'
  The Scotsman looked flushed, as if fearful he'd said too much already.
 'Fine.' Alex had heard enough.
  Inside the house, McFee put the kettle onto the heat. Alex decided it was
  time to talk business.
  'So what's the plan for the next few days, Moray?' he asked, trying to
  sound casual.
  'It's the Croats tomorrow. We'll find a home for the other half of our
  supplies. Then we might head for Split the day after. There should be
  another bread van out from England soon. I'll check at P.Info to see if
  there's been a fax for us.'

               160

  The landlady came in with fresh bread and homemade curd cheese.
 'Dobar dan, Dragana,' McFee greeted her.
 'Dobar dan, Dobar daal'
 They brewed the tea and ate the food.
  Alex noticed McFee looked preoccupied, as if the man regretted letting even
  a small amount of daylight shine on the dark secrets of his sex-life.
  He cleared his throat. The issue of Lorna's orphan could wait no longer.
  'If we join a convoy on the way south,' Alex began innocently, 'do we get
  much hassle? Road blocks, searches and so on?'
 McFee seemed not to hear. Then he began to focus.
  'Er ... well I've only done the trip once,' he reminded him. 'Had a clear
  run that time. Why?'
 No point 'in prevaricating.
  'So if there was a good reason to smuggle someone out of here through the
  front lines, in the empty truck, it should be possible. . .'
 Too blunt, Alex thought. Damn!
 McFee raised an eyebrow, startled.
  'Oh aye! And if you wanted to smuggle grenades in with the supplies on the
  way up, that should be possible too. Only you'd never do it. Because if you
  got caught you'd be dead. And every aid organization in Bosnia would become
  suspect. You'd screw it for everybody.'
  'There could be exceptions though, like a child who would die if she didn't
  get medical treatment?'
 McFee looked at him suspiciously.
  'What are you on about? It's yon lassie, isn't it? Yon Lorna.'
  'Well, yes, actually. She's got a big problem on her hands and needs our
  help.'
  'God almighty! You only spent a few minutes with the woman and already
  she's got you jumpin' through hoops ... What's this all abouff

               161

 This wasn't going the way he'd intended.
  He told McFee about the girl Vildana. The Scotsman's eyes seemed to fill
  with mist.
  'And all of this came out when you bumped into Lorna this afternoon?'
 Alex nodded.
  'I wonder! You sure you didn't fix all this up before? I'm beginning to
  think I'm being set up by you twose.'
 'Come off it, Moray!'
  'Well, whatever ... The answer's no. Major Mike would go through the roof.
  It's just not on, chum.'
  'There's no reason Mike should ever know about it.. .'Alex pressed.
  'Don't even think about it! It's too bloody dangerous. For us, for the kid
  and for Bosnia Emergency. You'll have to tell the lassie to try it on in
  her own car.'
  'There's not a lot of room to hide in a Land Cruiser,' Alex responded.
  McFee was adamant. 'There's no way, Alex. No way.' His scowl warned not to
  press the point any further.
  He sat hunched on the sofa, the troubled look back in his eyes. He jiggled
  his foot nervously. Suddenly he stood UP-
  'I'm just off out for a minute,' he said. 'I'll see if there's any messages
  and find out where's the best place to take the stuff for the Croats
  tomorrow. See you later.'
  Alex raised a hand. He watched McFee amble to the door, seeing him in a new
  light now. For some reason it was hard to respect a man who had to pay for
  sex.
  There was a roundness to McFee's shoulders, a bit of a stoop. He had the
  look of someone living amongst shadows.
  Alex pulled out a cigarette, tapped it on the arm of the sofa, then lit up.
  He felt angry with himself. Should have handled things better. Smuggling
  the girl out was something he had to do. It wasn't just her future that
  depended on it.

               162

  But McFee had the power to block him. He was the boss out here. Unless
  Alex could think of a way to change that ...

 163

            Fourteen

 The Same day - Monday 28th March The Barit en Desert, Iran

 Dr Hamid Akhavi sat in the back of the Nissan as it turned out of the
 security gates and headed for Yazd down the service road built by engineers
 from the Revolutionary Guards. He removed his black-framed spectacles and
 polished the lenses.
  Dasht-e-Lut is the name given to the expanse of sandblown hills and plains
  in the heart of Iran, a place of lingering death for any life caught under
  the blast of the summer sun. An isolated, lonely place, six hundred
  kilometres from the nearest neighbouring state, as far from an enemy attack
  as it is possible to get - the reason it had been chosen as the site for a
  nuclear bomb factory.
  Everything around him was the colour of sand - the long, concrete-capped
  laboratories with their deep, underground workshops; the accommodation
  block where he lived with his wife and child; even this car taking him to
  the airport.
  just sand - that's what they hoped the spy satellites would see, and the
  pilots of the Israeli planes if they ever braved such an expanse of hostile
  airspace to attack the plant.
 The bomb meant 'power'.
  To the east, possession of it had made equals of Pakistan and India. To the
  west, thejews believed it guaranteed their survival, and fear of its
  acquisition by the madman in Baghdad had struck terror into the hearts of
  the Americans and the fat sheikhs in the Gulf

               164

  The nights were cold here at this time of year. Icy even. It was late
  afternoon and the sun had warmed the air to a comfortable twenty degrees.
  Hamid's wife hated life in the desert compound; nothing to do but talk
  to other mothers and watch television. She'd asked to be given work at
  the site even if it were only typing, but the guards who controlled
  everything had refused. Security grounds, they'd said.
  Hamid looked out of the car window at the hostile, grey-brown landscape.
  He'd resolved one day to live somewhere green, with water and flowers
  always in sight. But not yet. Not until the regime released him from the
  burden they'd placed on his shoulders.
  Thirty-three years old now, with black hair and a thin moustache, he'd
  been just eighteen when the mullahs overthrew the Shah. On television,
  the world had watched the mob choke Tehran's streets to welcome Khomeini
  back. He'd been in that crowd, a passionate believer in change from the
  corrupt old ways.
  Later, at university, his brilliance had shone. The Islamic leaders
  decided he had a talent they could not afford to lose. They had inherited
  a nuclear programme from the time of the Shah - reactors at Bushehr, only
  half built. Publicly they'd stopped the programme, proclaiming it
  'unislamic'. but privately Hamid and a cadre of others were coached in
  the art of the atom, ready for the day when the priests recognized where
  power truly lay.
  He'd been sent to Russia to learn to handle and machine nuclear
  materials, an isolated, often lonely life in Gorky, but one which had
  relieved him of his obligation to fight on the bloodstained frontier with
  Iraq.
  To get the bomb before Iraq - that's what sustained him through these
  difficult days in the desert. Soon all his years of study, A his
  assiduous contact-building would pay off. Hamid was on the threshold of
  a deal that could give his nation that bomb withmi two years.
 His elation was tempered with fear, however. Fear

               165

 that the mullahs would still be in power when his bomb became a reality.
 Like most of the educated in Iran, Hamid had long since ceased to believe
 that power was safe in clerical hands.
  That Iran should become a nuclear power - he was a believer. So long as the
  bombs were used for power-play and not to kill. But whether the mullahs
  would embrace such constraints - that was the question he couldn't answer.
  He slipped off the jacket of his clerical-grey suit, hung it on the
  door-handle hook, then loosened the collar of his white shirt. Over an
  hour's drive to the airport at Yazd, another hour for the flight to Tehran.
  There'd be a day or two to wait in the capital before the military jet took
  him out of the country. They'd not told him the date he would travel.
  Security again.
  He was excited by his mission, but afraid too. The authorities had placed
  absolute trust in him, but if he failed, their revenge would be
  uncompromising.
  A month ago he'd confided his worries in his sister in Tehran, breaking all
  the rules of security. He'd told her about his work, and about the Russians
  with plutonium for sale. Told her so that if he disappeared one day,
  someone could tell the outside world why.
  Unfortunately for Hamid, in a careless moment she already had.

 Sheremetyevo Airport, Moscow

         I

 It wouldn't be cheap making the Iran deal work. Colonel Pavel Kulikov
 already had six people on his payroll at the weapon dismantling site near
 Sverdlovsk, and the

               166

 advance payment he'd squeezed out of the Iranians would soon be exhausted.
  In his late forties, with hair the colour of brushed aluminium, he strode
  purposefully across the departure concourse in his smart, grey biznu*n=
  suit, looking up at the indicator board for word on the flight to Zagreb.
  His baggage trolley bore a suitcase whose contents could get him
  court-martialled.
  He had no qualms about what he was doing. The nuclear genie escaped the
  bottle long ago. Nothing could stop its spread. Thanks to him it might
  happen faster, that was all.
  In his world, it was every man for himself now, loyalty to the State a
  thing ofthe past. Loyalty to oneself was all a Russian could afford these
  days.
  He knew of many, hungry scientists tempted to do the same as him, many
  who craved the dollars that would transform their lives. Some had
  resorted to the Mafia to find a market for their nuclear materials, but
  ended up being cheated.
  Kulikov had no need of intermediaries. He had access to the tons of
  plutonium removed from dismantled missiles, access to the
  American-financed plants where the cores were sliced to prevent
  reassembly. And, above all, he had the means and the skills to run his
  own sales operation.
  Most of his military career had been spent securing special weapons -
  nuclear and biological - protecting the sites where warheads were stored
  and where they were made.
  He'd befriended the young Iranian while assigned to the All-Union
  Research Institute for Experimental Physics near Gorky. Communism was
  meeting its nemesis at the time. The two men had debated revolutions and
  political corruption, topics they understood well.
 After Hamid returned home to Iran, they'd remained

               167

 in touch, each thinking the other might be useful one day, even if at the
 time they didn't know how.
  Kulikov lifted his heavy suitcase from the trolley and presented it to the
  check-in counter. Heavy because it contained a segment of plutonium the
  size of a thin wedge of cheese.
  Sweat chilled his upper lip. The next few minutes were dangerous. If the
  case was opened and examined he'd be in deep trouble.
  The clerk took his ticket and passport and tapped at the computer. The
  travel papers stated Kulikov was on an official visit to UNPROFOR
  headquarters in Zagreb. They'd cost him five hundred dollars.
  Full of angst, he watched the suitcase disappear. Would the idiots send it
  to the same place as him? Disastrous if they didn't. Disastrous!
  He'd weighed the risks carefully, though. Putting the sample in his hand
  baggage would have meant greater danger. The X-rays at every airport, the
  searches. Holdbaggage would be safer; it was seldom checked.
  Unsmiling, the clerk thrust him the boarding pass. Kulikov joined the queue
  for passport control.

 Berlin

 Parking near Oranienburgerstrasse was hard in the early evening. A rash of
 arty caf6s and restaurants had opened in the oldJewish quarter of east
 Berlin since unification. Dieter Konrad, alias Herr Dunkel, left the
 Mercedes half a kilometre away, and walked to the brothel.
  He nodded at the policeman guarding the synagogue. Neo-nazis had threatened
  bomb attacks. The papers that

               168

 morning had reported gravestones defaced in a Jewish cemetery.
  At the junction where the road forked, the first whores were out. Early
  birds, dressed like fantasy creatures. Huge blonde wigs, thigh-length,
  black leather boots, flesh-coloured tights, topped by crotch-hugging
  briefs and lurid bomber jackets. They stood in the road, offering
  themselves to passing cars.
  'Guten abend rw*n Herr! one of them called to Konrad, her voice like a
  caress. 'M&hten Sie ein sc&nes Geschdft mit mir machen?
  So open, so blatant, the offer to 'do business'. He ignored her. In
  communist times they'd have been J ailed for this. Prostitution had had
  to lurk underground in those days, in the backstreets nearby. A small,
  criminal community open to exploitation. Particularly by people Re him.
  He looked the part for this area - a man on his own, in a raincoat. Not
  very tall, a little overweight and a face with withdrawn, watchful eyes,
  hiding behind spectacles. An average punter. Even the stick-on moustache
  would draw little attention here. The whores were used to men with hair
  that wasn't their own.
  He turned left off the main street, past a couple of caf6s and then right
  to where the small neon sign winked above a doorway. He pressed a bell
  and the door clicked open automatically.
  It was an ordinary apartment building, this entrance and staircase
  serving four floors. Two flats on each of the upper floors, two rooms per
  flat, twelve girls altogether, he reckoned.
  The 'madame' whose name Gisela had given him emerged from a ground floor
  doorway and welcomed him with a handshake. Heavily coated with cosmetics,
  she looked in her sixties. Too old for work, she'd moved into management.
 'Herr Dunkel! You're back again, so soon.'

               169

  She led him into her plush living room, all soft sofas and walls adorned
  with pornographic paintings.
  'You want Karina I suppose?' she asked. 'She's a little busy just now.
  You'll waiff
 'There's somewhere private?'
  Last time he'd been shown to a lounge where customers sat, avoiding each
  other's gaze until the girl of their choice came free. To be avoided at
  all cost. He wanted as few witnesses as possible.
  'You can wait here if you like, until . . .'The sound of the door-buzzer
  stopped her. 'Perhaps not. Come.'
  She led him along a short passageway to a bedroom that smelled of Chanel.
  'This is my own room. You won't be disturbed,' she smiled, touching him
  softly on the lapel.
 'Thank you. I'm a shy man.'
 She nodded understandingly.
  'I hope that Karina is ... everything you expected? I think her talents
  were what you were looking for.'
  'First impressions were good,' Konrad nodded. 'For the rest ... we'll
  see.'
  'She won't be long. I'll let her know someone's waiting. There's a little
  green light in her room which I can switch on from down here.'
 She waddled back along the corridor.
  Konrad's pulse raced. The girl upstairs had better not let him down. Time
  was running out.
  Ten minutes passed, broken occasionally by the sound of the door, and by
  footsteps on the stairs. Then suddenly a petite, pale face with straight
  black hair like a doll's poked round the bedroom door.
  'So, it's you.' She didn't smile. 'I thought it would be. Come with me.'
  Karina led the way up the main staircase. A low-cut, white Lycra slip
  clung to her torso, stretched taut by the nipples of her big, firm
  breasts. Her disproportionately narrow hips were sheathed in an absurdly
  small skirt

               170

 made of shiny red plastic. Konrad was mesmerized by the outline of her
 cherry-like buttocks as she minced in front of him.
  The room was small and the air stale. A large fourposter bed took up most
  of the space. There was a dressing table with a flat-backed hairbrush,
  and a curtained opening led to a bathroom.
  Karina closed the door and spun round to face him. Her painted lips
  smiled, but her eyes didn't. Communism might be dead, but she had a
  lingering fear of the Horch und Guck - the 'listen and look', as the
  Stasi were known.
 'So,' Konrad began. 'Do you have it?'
 The girl wa s so young, the bed so blatant, he wasn't
 here for sex but felt a tightening in his trousers none the
 less.
  ,7azvoh1l But it wasn't easy. And it will cost you more, darling.' Her
  voice had the huskiness of a heavy smoker.
  'We agreed a pri(-,e,' he snapped. 'One thousand marks.'
  'It's not enough, rwn Lieber! It took time. I lost business here, finding
  the right type for you.'
  Her nut-brown eyes were as hard as pebbles, but he could see she was
  scared of him.
  Konrad seethod. They always did this, these creatures from the gutter.
  Cheating was a habit.
 'Let me see it.'
 'Let me see your money first. Two thousand marks!'
  'No way, you bitch! No way I'll pay you that much. One thousand, or I'll
  go elsewhere!'
  She could see he was bluffing, see too from his mushy eyes that he wanted
  more from her than he'd said.
 'Fifteen hundred then, and I'll suck you for free.'
 He flinched at her crudeness.
  'Ach, show it to me and stop wasting my time,' he growled.
 'Money on the table . . .' she insisted.

               171

  Petulantly he took an envelope from his coat pocket and slapped it onto the
  bed.
 'There's a thousand in there. We'll see about the rest.'
  Karina fixed him with her eye. She'd decided beforehand to make him sweat
  if she could. Slowly she undid the zipper on her skirt, while humming 'the
  Stripper'. Konrad swallowed.
  With the waistband of her skirt loosened, she slipped her fingers down the
  front of her black panties, retrieved the slim booklet she'd concealed
  there and held it out to him.
 Konrad took the passport. It felt warm.
  Rzeczpospofita PoUa was marked in gold on the grubby, blue cover. It was
  creased as if its owner had kept it in a back trouser pocket.
  Konrad opened it. Marek Gruszka was the name next to the photograph inside.
  Born 1962 in Wroclaw. It looked perfect but he wasn't going to let her know
  that. He frowned.
  'It's good, yes?' she asked anxiously. 'It's what you wanted. What you told
  me.'
  Konrad fingered the document, held it up to the light and ran a finger-nail
  round the edge of the plastic covered photograph.
  'The man was here in this room when you took it?' he asked disparagingly.
  'Course not. I don't nick stuff here. I'd be out on my ear. Anyway, the
  punters would know where to find me. I'd get my pretty face slashed.'
  She moved close to him and put her hands on his shoulders.
 'And you wouldn't want that, would you darling?'
  She pressed her naked midriff against him. She could tell he was almost
  hard. Konrad pushed her away.
 'Where then? Where did you get it?'
 Scowling, she pulled up her zip again.
 'What's it to you? I got what you wanted, didn't V

               172

 He grabbed her wrist.
 just tell me!'
 She winced at the harshness of his grip.
  'The Tiergarten, of course. That's where the Poles go. They park up
  between the Grosser Stem and the Brandenburg. Some like to do it in the
  bushes. This one had a bed in the cab of his truck. Two nights I hung
  around there. Scheiss kalt! I was about to give up and find somewhere
  wann, when this trailer truck pulled in. The bloke wound down the window,
  sitting in his bloody shirt sleeves with the heater turned full up. I was
  so cold I'd have paid him to get in.
  'In his shirt sleeves, with his jacket hung up next to him. And that
  little sweetheart poking out of a pocket.'
  She pointed at the passport, then screwed up her face with distaste.
  'Dirty bastard. Stank like a butcher's shop. And thirty marks was all he
  was going to pay. I said he could have hand relief or nothing.'
 Her small mouth widened into a smile again.
  'But I made it a bit special! Took my knickers off and laid them on his
  face while I tossed him off. So when I grabbed his passport, he couldn't
  see!'
  Her description of the act shrivelled Konrad's tumescence.
  'All right. I'll give you another two hundred,' he snapped, eager to be
  away from this place. He stuffed the passport in an inside pocket.
  'No way! I missed two nights in this cosy hole to get it. That's worth
  a thousand at least. And don't you try and sneak off.' She darted to the
  bedside and held her finger over a bell-push. 'There's a bloke as big as
  a wardrobe who will be waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs.'
 'Arschloch!' he snarled.
  Konrad was beaten. He extracted his wallet and counted out five hundred
  marks. The girl took it and

               173

 then checked the contents of the envelope on the bed. All correct.
  'A pleasure doing business with you,' she said, moving close to him again.
  'Sure there's nothing else you want?'
 She fingered his genitals.
  Her flesh seemed to emanate warmth; her perfume tantalized his senses. Then
  Konrad thought of her in that truck on the Tiergarten.
 'Aufiviedersehen, Frdulein Karim.'
  He shook her hand. An automatic gesture, but one he instantly regretted. As
  he descended the stairs he wiped his palm on his coat.

 174

              Fifteen

 Zenica, Bosnia

 The power was on ,it the International Hotel in Zenica. Lorna hurried to gct
 things done before it blacked out again. Since returning from the village of
 Duba, she'd hardly stopped shaking.
  Her bedroom window faced southwest, as she'd requested. She opened the
  glass and positioned a bedside table under the ledge. No obstructions. A
  clear view to the Atlantic sky.
  The evening air made her shiver and she put her anorak back on.
  She placed the digital satphone on the table, unfolded the flat antenna and
  adjusted it for elevation and azimuth. Luckily there were no tower blocks
  in the way.
  She powered up the equipment, fine-tuned it for signal strength, then
  connected the modem lead from her portable computer and switched on.
  'This is where I start praying. . .' she muttered, not too hot on
  technology.
  Laurence Machin, the computer-wizard who'd founded CareNet had coached her
  in how to use the equipment, but would she remember it right?
  The screen of the portable flickered and flashed as the software loaded,
  then settled on the 'Cityscape' navigator software. She clicked on the
  'dial' button with the mouse.
 'If this works it'll be a miracle,' she whispered.
  The modem purred and bleeped, then the screen prompted her for her log-in
  name and password.

               175

  'Wow. I sure am getting the breaks today. . .' she grinned.
  From the Internet menu she picked <Usenet>, then <alt.childadopt. agency>.
  Another menu appeared. She chose the item <children available>.
  She was now connected to the electronic bulletin board used by Machin as a
  'hyperspace' adoption agency.
  She typed 'ADD', then the screen cleared for her message.

 Urgently seekingfoster home, 12jear-old Vildanafrom central
 Bosnia. This child must be evacuatedfor her own safety. Badly scarred
 mentally, after seeing herfamiyl murdered, and with a mild physical
 handicap, she will need extensive pjychuitric therapy and medical
 attention.
 This one's a real 'toughie',- thegirl is in bad need ofan 'angel' * ff
 there's one out there, please reply to this as soon as possible.
 For legal reasons, adoption cannot be entered into i . mmediateyl,
 but it can be a lo?W-term intention.

  Next she switched to e-mail and sent a longer, more detailed message to
  Machin himself, explaining how she was planning to get the girl out of
  Bosnia.
  There were no messages in her own box, so she logged off.
  That was it. Thirty million people could now read her words, people in what
  Machin termed 'the grade one market' of academics and businessmen who used
  the Internet. just the sort of people who had the drive and the financial
  resources to make the adoption of problem children viable. In theory.
  Lorna powered down the equipment. So impersonal this idea of computerized
  child adoption. What she'd fired into the ether wasn't key-strokes. It was
  a life.

               176

 She folded the antenna and closed the window.
  God, it was cold! She removed her boots and lay on the bed, her legs
  under the blankets, shoulders propped against a pillow. She'd keep the
  anorak on until the room warmed up again.
  Across the room on the dressing table sat her Nikon. Inside it was Alex
  - a picture of him at least. With his arm round her. Just like old times.
  She still found it hard to believe. The beard had thrown her. She'd never
  liked facial hair. Soon get him to sha ...
 Hell! Slow down!
  She'd been vilifying the man for two decades, how could she even consider
  a new relationship with him? Didn't know anything about him any more.
  He'd said he'd been hiding. Where? Married? Kids?
  She closed her eyes, trying to visualize him in that house near Vitez.
  Half-a-dozen in his team, she guessed. Drivers, organizers, a mechanic
  and a translator. Probably with their own generators and satcoms. You'd
  need that sort of set-up to function long-term in Bosnia.
  The translator could be a girl. Maybe he desired her. Maybe they were
  lovers even ...
  She opened her eyes wide to stop the racetrack of her mind. Fate had
  brought Alex back to her for one purpose and one purpose only - to get
  Vildana out of Bosnia.

 The cookhouse was crowded. Alex and McFee squeezed in amongst
 shaven-headed French soldiers who'd stopped for an evening meal on their
 way to Sarajevo.
  Alex hadn't mentioned Vildana again. He planned to wait until later when
  the Scotsman had a few whiskies inside him. McFee looked tense and
  thoughtful, his mind elsewhere. He kept glancing over his shoulder.
  'Bloody great this apple dappy,' Alex remarked, spooning in the sticky
  pudding.

               177

  'Oh aye. But it makes you droop, that stuff,' McFee joked absently. He had
  eaten little that evening.
  'Tell you what,' he went on. 'I've an idea. Why don't you go to the P.Info
  briefing on your own? I'll wander round the camp a bit and see if I can
  pick up a bit o' goss'p. Always useful.'
  'Sure. Why not?' It wasn't gossip McFee planned to pick up, Alex reckoned.
 They took their trays to the bin.
  'See you later, then, eh?' McFee said, out in the darkened Warrior park,
  expecting Alex to head straight for the Press Office.
 'I'm going to take a leak first.'
  His feet crunched across the hardcore to the white portakabins which
  accommodated the soldiers. The floor of the toilet was mud-stained and wet.
  He headed back into the darkness, annoyed at having left his torch at the
  house. He paused to let his eyes adjust. To his right, pans clattered in
  the cookhouse, to his left, a diesel Land Rover rattled past.
  He set off again, once his eyes could make out the boards that would get
  him safely through the mud on the camp perimeter. Had to hurry or he'd be
  late. The planks passed between rows of containers. From somewhere amongst
  them he heard hushed voices arguing. A woman, then McFee.
  The man's a sex junkie, Alex thought. He squelched into deep mud.
 'Shit!
  His boots were caked. Reaching the tarmac at last, he stamped and scraped
  until his feet felt lighter again. At the door to P.Info he paused to wipe
  off the remains of the slime. On the way in a corporal was inspecting the
  journalists' feet.
 'You're a house-proud lot,' Alex remarked.
  'So would you be if you lived in this 'ouse,' the soldier replied.

               178

  Major Clarke-Hartley had little to say that evening, other than that the
  Bosnian Army third Corps was having trouble getting its MuJahedin
  elements to obey the cease-fire.
  'How many of them are there?' asked a man from the BBC.
  'Don't know for sure. A couple of hundred, maybe. But they're a
  determined bunch, as many of you know.'
  There was a murmur of assent. The MuJ hated journalists and they'd all
  had brushes with them.
  The briefing over, the Major nobbled Alex as he was about to leave.
  'Hi. Tell me, how's old Mike Allison?' he asked amiably. 'He was in my
  regiment, you know. Splendid chap.'
  'Really? Well I've only met him once. Seemed pretty switched on.'
  'He certainly is.'The Major seemed eager to chat. 'So ... where've you
  been today then?'
 Alex struggled to remember the name of the village.
 'Place called Duba?'
  'Oh, ye-es. Lots of MuJ up there. We did a patrol through the area first
  thing this morning.'
  'And tomorrow we're going to Busovaca,'Alex continued. 'There's some
  village near there with a lot of Croat refugees, apparently.'
  'Balancing the books, eh? Well if there's anything I can do, do tell me.'
  The man from the BBC had returned and hustled the Major away.
  Alex wandered back outside. Heading for Dragana's house he suddenly
  noticed two armed men watching from the darkness on the far side of the
  road. Their eyes followed him as he turned into the drive, making the
  skin crawl on the back of his neck.
  He opened the door to the house and called out. No reply. just the
  crackle of logs in the stove. McFee must

               179

 still be doing his business. Could the man really get a thrill by paying
 some slag to serve him behind a container filled with ballast?
  In the living room, a single candle flickered. Alex lit another to brighten
  the place up, opened a can of beer and pulled out his cigarettes.
  Sod it! How was he going to persuade McFee to smuggle the girl out? He took
  in a lungful of smoke.
  Blackmail? Tell him he'd reveal his sordid sex life to the world? Hardly..
  .
  He closed his eyes and thought of Lorna, remembering how good it had felt
  to be near her even if only for a moment when McFee had taken the
  photograph. Sounded stupid, but it had made him feel complete again. He'd
  never had that sort of closeness with Kirsty. He wondered how she was.
  There'd been no news when he'd telephoned from Split.
  He felt cosily comfortable with the gentle popping of wood on the fire, and
  the candle flames still as a painting. His eyelids drooped.
  After a while the sound of footsteps on the gravel stirred him from his
  doze. McFee returning?
  Two pairs of feet. Wouldn't bring the whore back here, surely? He glanced
  at his watch.just after ten. Late for visitors.
  A firm knock on the door. Alex took a candle to answer it.
  'Good evening, sir!'A voice like a rasp. More announcement than greeting.
  Two UN soldiers with armbands.
 'Good evening. What can I do for you?'
 'Would you be Mister Moray McFee?'
 'No. He's not here at the moment.'
 The soldiers glanced at one another.
 'Would it be okay if we came in and waited for him?'
 J suppose so. . .'

               180

  As he let them in, he saw the initials M.P. on their arms in big, red
  letters.
 'Can I ask whoyou are, sir?,
  'Alex Crawford. Moray and I work together. What's this all about?'
  He gestured towards the velour sofa and they sat down, looking stiff and
  awkward. They laid their SA80 rifles on the carpet beside them.
 'A personal matter, sir. Can't discuss it.'
  The one who'd done the talking had a sergeant's stripes. His companion
  was a corporal.
 'I see. Well, would you like a beer?'
 Again, the policemen eyed each other.
  'That'd be grand.' The accent sounded northern. Probably Liverpool.
  Alex retrieved the last two cans from the box in the corner.
  'Running low. I suppose I can get some more at the camp?'
  'No problem. Talk to my mate round the back of the NAAFI shop. He'll see
  you right. Cheers.'
  They nattered for a while about beers, about the food at the camp and
  about the craziness of the Bosnian war. Then the sergeant looked at his
  watch.
  'D'you know when Mister McFee will be back?' he asked.
 'No, I don't. Don't even know where he is.'
  Alex felt the sergeant's eyes boring into his head. Disbelief was written
  on the soldiers' faces.
  'What's the outfit you work for? Bosnia Emergency, is it?'
 'That's right.'
 just the two of you here?'
 Alex nodded.
  'And you don't know where your mate is at half-past ten at night?'
 'Sorry. No I don't.' It wasn't his business to tell them

               181

 McFee was with a whore. 'He told me he was going to hang around the camp
 and pick up some gossip. Are you sure I can't help?'
  'Not unless your name's McFee and you come from Edinburgh,' the sergeant
  scowled.
  'Edinburgh? Something to do with his wife?' Maybe she'd had an accident.
  The corporal snorted. 'She weren't old enough to be anybody's wife. . .'
  Alex felt a chill descend on him. These soldiers were policemen.
 'What d'you mean?'
  McFee's uneasiness that evening ... the hunted look. The feeling that the
  man had said more than he'd meant to ...
 'There's just some questions we want to ask him. .
  Alex recalled the headlines in the Edinburgh paper on the day he left
  home. The police with clipboards investigating the death of a girl ...
  The appeal for witnesses.
  'You've not come to arrest him?' Alex asked incredulously.
  They shook their heads in unison. The sergeant's eyes were like bullets.
  just some questions. On behalf of Edinburgh constabulary.'
 Stony faces that suspected he knew something.
  'Something to do with a girl?' A nod. 'Not the one found dead in
  Edinburgh ten days ago?'
  'What was that then, sir?' The well-practised look of surprise.
  'We're both from E dinburgh. That's where we met. It was in the papers
  when I left, about the girl. A thirteenyear-old found dead. Some
  suspicion she'd been caught up in prostitution?'
 The sergeant nodded slowly.
 'Ever talk about it, you and him?'

               182

 'Never. But . . . is that why you're here?'
 The sideways glances again.
 "Sright, sir.'
 'But surely you don't think Moray ... ?' he gasped.
 They stared blankly, letting him flounder.
  'Anything you want to tell me, Mr Crawford?' The voice was softer,
  cajoling.
  'I can't believe ... I mean, I hardly know the bloke,' Alex stammered. 'Met
  him a couple of times on the Lothian coast, that's all. I used to go
  running on the beach there, and he walked his dog.'
 'Yellow Craig, was it?'
  The words jabbed at his guts. The dunes ... No one went there at night. Not
  at this time of year. He knew what was coming. He nodded.
  'That's where they found the girl, sir. She'd been strangled.'
  Alex shook his head. McFee's words in his head - since you're payingfor it,
  you call the shots...
  'She'd been a virgin, until that night. . .' the corporal added.
  Silence.just the fire crackling. Then a short burst from an automatic some
  distance away.
 'Cleaning the barrels. . .' the corporal muttered.
 'Appens most nights. They can't seem to kick the habit round here.'
 The sergeant nudged him to be quiet.
  'Moray McFee killed a child?' Alex gasped. He needed them to spell it out.
  'That's right. At least, that's what the boys in Edinburgh say.'
  Jesus ... ! But what evidence have they got that it's him?'
  'Don't know, sir, but they sounded pretty certain. Must be if they're
  involving us. Are you sure there's nothing you can tell me?' the sergeant
  pressed. 'You must have some idea where he is.'

               183

  Alex clamped his hands on his head. His brain felt as if it were aboiit to
  explode.
  'The last time I saw him was in the camp, after supper,' he whispered.
  'Round where those containers arc. With a woman from the kitchens.'
 'What, Illie?'
 J think that's the name, yes.'
 'Tch! She's the camp, bike,' said the corporal.
  'Well ... if what you're saying is right, maybe ... maybe she's in some
  sort of danger. . .' Alex spluttcred. 'I mean, Moray must be a nutter...'
  His mind raced. Why had McFee rung him on that day of the Funeral? Why had
  he picked him to come out with him? As an unsuspecting smokescreen? Or
  because he'd been wanting to talk all along, and thought for some reason
  Alex would listen? He was good at listening. People always told him as
  much. Jodie, Kirsty - Lorna.
 'Shouldn't you go and search the camp?' he suggested.
  'Done thatiust now. We know all the places. We'lliust wait.' They sat in
  silence, Alex staring at the floor and the soldiers staring at hint.
  Maybe McFee had been on the point of confessing ... Maybe that's why he'd
  begun talking about his 'somewhere elses'.
  'Don't mind us if you want to turn in,' the sergeant said before long.
  Alex looked at his watch again. After eleven. He stood up and moved to the
  window, the neighbouring houses of the village dark and silent in the grey
  moonlight. McFee was out there somewhere. A hostage of the night.
  'All right with you if we sit it out 'til he gets back?' the sergeant
  asked.
  'Mmm? Yes of course.' He turned back to face them. 'I think I will head for
  the sack.'
  'Just before you do, sir, can I have a quick shufti round?'

               184

  The sergeant propelled himself to his feet and flicked on a pocket torch.
 'Always like to see how the other half lives . .
  Alex bristled at the implication he was hiding McFee, but followed him to
  the bathroom then the bedroom.
 'Satisfied?'
  'Not a bad little place, sir. Got the landlady upstairs, have you?'
 Alex nodded. He wanted to be on his own now.
  'No more beer, I'm afraid,' he said, heading for his room. 'But help
  yourself to tea and coffee. If I'm asleep when he comes back, you'd better
  wake me.'
 'Certainly, sir. 'Night.'
  Alone, Alex sat on the divan with his head in his hands. For over a week
  he'd been cheek by jowl with a man who'd raped a child, then stolen her
  life - and he'd known nothing about it. He couldn't believe it.
  The MPs would have to arrest Moray. Ship him back to Scotland so the
  Edinburgh CID could get to work on him.
  He sat motionless for a stretch, stunned and incredulous. The man had
  seemed so normal most of the time. 'I love children', he'd said. God
  Almighty! How could McFee live with himself? And he'd talked so gloatingly
  of his ladies o' the night ... The man was sick.
  After a while Alex suppressed his feelings. Had to think about what it
  meant for him - the practical problem of carrying on the job without McFee.
  There was the delivery to the Croats in the morning. And there'd have to be
  a phone call to Mike Allison in Farnham.
  Then the journey through the mountains back to Split, driving the Bedford
  all the way by himself...
 It hit him.
  Without McFee, there would be no one to stop him smuggling Lorna's orphan
  out in the back of the truck. . .

               185

              Sixteen

 Tuesday 29th March
 Vitez

 Alex was woken by the sound of tank tracks outside. He held his wrist away
 from his face, trying to make out the figures on his watch.
  Five past seven. Jesus! He'd slept, despite everything. Was McFee back? He
  had no idea.
  He tugged down the zip of his sleeping bag and extracted his feet, still
  wearing yesterday's socks. It was icy cold in the room. He pulled on his
  long johns, jeans and a pullover.
  Gruff voices as he stumbled into the sitting room, and rifles on the floor.
  The soldiers who'd come for McFee last night were still here.
  'Morning,' he mumbled, startled. 'Where's Moray? Didn't he come back?'
  The sergeant raised himself from the sofa and rubbed his eyes.
  'Nope. Can't have done.' He looked at his watch. 'We both 'ad a nap. Took
  it in turns . . .'
 They stood up and shook the stiffiness from their legs.
  'Where the hell is he, then?' demanded Alex. 'Something must have
  happened.'
 'Yeh. Must've. We'd better put the word out.'
  'You're going to search for him?' Alex pressed, anxiously.
  'We'll look round the camp anyway. There's a limit though. We're not the
  law around here.'
 'Shall I come with you?'

               186

  'No, ta. Better you hang on here in case he turns up. Can I trust you to
  let us know?'
 'Don't you worry. . .'
  The soldiers picked up their rifles, straightened their berets, and left.
  Alex stared out of the window trying to get his sleepbefuddled brain
  thinking again. He turned to the stove, swung the kettle to check there was
  water in it, then placed it over the heat. A mug of tea was what he needed.
  Last night when the soldiers told him what McFee was accused of, he'd felt
  revulsion for the man. Now in the light of day, he was worried for his
  safety.
  With the tea inside him, he began to think straighter. Perhaps there was a
  simple explanation for his disappearance. Moray could have spent the night
  in Illie's bed, wherever that was. Maybe he would turn up for breakfast in
  the cookhouse.
  He pulled on his walking boots, left foot first, still ruled by the silly
  superstition he'd cultivated during his Scottish exile.
  There had been a dusting of snow overnight. He hurried down the road to the
  UN camp, took his breakfast tray to an empty table, and scanned the faces
  around him. McFee's was not amongst them.
  As he was finishing, he spotted Major Clarke-Hartley emerging from the
  partitioned-off section for officers. He hurried over to catch him.
 'Morning Alan!'
 'Alex. Good day to you.'
  They stepped into the fresh air, a crisp astringent after the cookhouse
  fug.
 'I've got a problem on my hands,' Alex began.
 'Yes. You bloody well have.'
 'You've heard?'
  "Fraid so. The MPs dropped in when they left your house this morning.
  What's your chum been up to?'

               187

  'Nothing good. But we've got to find him. Could he have been taken hostage
  d'you think?'
  'Anything's possible in this place. We'll send someone to badger the HVO
  this morning.'
  'Thanks. In the meantime I've got boxes to deliver to the Croats. Don't
  even know how to find the place.'
  'We'll send a recce patrol with you. And we'll lend a pair of hands to get
  the boxes into the truck.'
 'Terrific, Alan. I'm most grateful.'
  'Look, when you talk to Mike Allison today, as I'm sure you will, do make
  the point that you're a bit thin on the ground. You need a full-time
  liaison bod and an interpreter. I know it's to do with money, but tell him
  all the same. And say it came from me.'
 'I will,' Alex muttered. 'Couldn't agree more.'
  The call to Farnham would wait until later. McFee might have turned up by
  then.
  After half-an-hour, Clarke-Hartley sent round a corporal to help Alex load
  up. Then a pair of Scimitar light tanks scurried up the road from the camp.
  The lieutenant in command checked the grid reference of the village they
  were bound for on his hundred thousand scale map.
 'Right,' he called from his turret. 'All seff
  'Yes, but not too fast. I'm still a bit green with the driving.'
  The truck seemed bigger with just himself in the cab, but with one white
  tank in front and another behind, at least he felt safe.
  The road crossed the battle zone along what was now a cease-fire line. Huge
  water-filled craters, bullet-spattered houses, and a mosque minaret broken
  like a spear bore witness to the intensity of the fight of recent weeks.
  Somewhere in the hills to his left was Tulici, Alex remembered.
 The route followed the line of the LaAva river, a pretty

               188

 torrent under a pale blue sky, spoiled here and there by the detritus of
 war.
  Thirty minutes later they reached the Croat village up a muddy track just
  wide enough for the Scimitars. Children in anoraks and bobble hats ran to
  greet them.
  An HVO soldier waved the vehicles towards a barn. The ground sloped. Alex
  pulled on the handbrake, cut the engine, but left it in gear.
  No crowds surging forward like yesterday.just dozens of watchful faces
  emerging from houses, alerted by the noise of the engines. And, striding
  towards the Bedford, a priest in a black cassock.
 'Dobroj'utro.'
 'Good morning,' Alex replied, jumping to the ground.
 'English?'
 'Yes.'
  'I can speak. Welcome. I am Father Pravic. I am priest here.'
 Pravic, Alex gulped.
  'I'm Alex Crawford. My organization's called Bosnia Emergency.'
 Did he say Pravw*?
 'You bring food, or medicines?'
  'Tinned food and clothing. Mostly for children. You can use it?'
 'Of course. Everything needed here. Come. I show.'
 The crucial question hovered on Alex's lips.
  The priest led him into the barn. The cows had been chained at one end to
  make space for humans. Dozens and dozens of them.
  'One hundred twenty refugees came when their village was attacked,' the
  priest explained. 'Ten people killed.'
  Tired, defeated faces. Same as yesterday, just Catholic, instead of Muslim.
  'I have some boys ready to help,' said the priest, directing him outside
  again.

               189

 'Good. Let's get started.'
  'You speak excellent English, Father. . .' Alex remarked as they walked to
  the truck. 'But I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.'
 Travic. Tihomir Pravic.'
 Alex's heart missed a bleat. just coincidence?
  11 live one year in America,' the priest explained. He spread his arms. 'We
  need many things here. Food, blankets, cookers, pots. Plates and cups ...
  Everything.'
  Four uniformed teenagers clambered onto the open tailboard.
 'Do you have medicines?' the priest asked forlornly.
  'Not this time. Maybe the next truck that comes from England,' Alex
  answcred distractedly, his mind on the priest's name.
  'It's not for here, but at my church, which has become hospital. Doctors
  need much things.' The priest turned his pudgy face towards him - small,
  tired eyes behind rimless spectacles. 'You want to see? Come.'
  He strode off across the grass, deeper into the village, Alex at his side.
  'Excuse me asking Father, but your name ... Is it a common one around
  here?'
  The priest stopped and looked at him with suspicion, wondering why this
  Englishman should react to his name if he were merely the aid worker he
  claimed to be. 'Why you ask?'
  'It's just that I thought I heard the same name the other day. Someone
  involved with the HVO?'From the priest's expression, Alex knew he was on to
  something.
  'It is possible,' the priest sighed. The same questions. Always the same.
  He marched on.
 'Milan Pravic? Not your brother, perhaps?'
  The priest looked away in irritation. He was Milan's brother, yes, but not
  his keeper.
 'UN soldiers already ask,' he snapped. 'A major from

               190

 Vitez come here. I tell him I not see my brother for many years.. .'
  'But he is your brother?' Alex spluttered. 'The man they say was
  responsible for the massacre at Tulicl?'
  The priest sighed again. The village and its name had come to haunt him.
  'I have brother called Milan, yes. But I do not know where he is, or what
  he has done.'
  The church was modern, in concrete and steel. A huge Red Cross banner
  hung above the main entrance.
  The priest pushed open the door. The smell hit them instantly,
  disinfectant mingling with sweat and vomit.
  To their right there was still an altar, covered in an emerald green
  cloth and topped by candlesticks, but the church itself had become a
  casualty ward with pews as beds. On them lay the injured and the sick,
  some prone and still, others propped on elbows, watching and waiting.
  Father Pravic beckoned Alex through swing doors into a small seminary.
  A vestry served as an operating theatre.
  'I ask doctors for list of things they need,' he said, indicating Alex
  should wait. He disappeared behind a door, re-emerging moments later with
  a thin-faced medic in a stained, white coat.
  'The doctor has only few minutes,' the priest explained. 'But he tell you
  what he need. Maybe you can help.'
 'I'll try, but I can't promise anything,' Alex cautioned.
  The doctor looked as if he'd had his fill of wellmeaning foreigners who
  didn't deliver.
 'You have a cigarette?' he asked in guttural English.
 Alex pulled a pack from his pocket.
 'Keep them if you want,' he said. 'I have more.'
 just one, thank you.'
 Alex lit it for him. The doctor had a notepad and pen.
  'I write what we need. But it's all, all. You have brought something?
  Dressings?'

               191

 'I'm sorry,' Alex repeated. 'Next time, maybe.'
  The doctor drew at the cigarette and began to write, shaking his head.
  'I was specialist in micro-surgery at Sarajevo.' He scribbled away, his
  list getting ever longer. 'We have excellent medicine before war. Now it is
  prim~zf, like one hundred years ago...' He blew smoke through pursed lips,
  then held out his list.
  'I'll try, but as I say, I can't promise,' Alex reiterated, folding the
  list and putting it in a pocket.
  The doctor gave him a weary look and retreated behind the door.
  Then Father Pravic led Alex into a small sitting room, half a dozen plain
  armchairs ranged in a semi-circle.
  'Sit, please. You like drink something?' he asked. These foreigners who
  came to Bosnia were an enigma to him. They had the power to stop the
  killing, yet all they did was watch.
  'No. No thank you,' Alex smiled. He knew this priest held the key to
  finding Milan Pravic, but would he be given it?
  'Father, I find your country very confusing,' he began, fumbling for a way
  through his defences. 'I've only been here a few days and I simply don't
  understand what's going on.'
  The priest's face remained sphinx-like. He knew he was being played with.
  'I mean, why are people killing each other, like this?' His question was
  deliberately nalve.
  'It is our history,' the priest shrugged. 'You must know that.'
  'Yes, but your brother Milan for example ... did he really slaughter those
  women and children?'
  The priest pursed his lips and tapped his finger nails on the wooden arm of
  the chair.
 'I tell you, I do not know about Milan. The UN come.

               192

 They ask the same question. My brother, how you say... ? He is chalk, I
 am cheese?'
  'But you know what sort of person your brother is,' Alex insisted,
  frustrated by the priest's prevarication. 'You must know if he could
  commit such a crime. And anyway, it's too easy to blame it all on
  histog.'
  Pravic stopped tapping. Time to play the Englishman at his own game.
 'Why have you come here?'
 'Sorry?'
 'Why you come to Bosnia? I askyou question.'
  'Well, because I wanted to help. Because of all the suffering we've seen
  on the news.'
  'No.' The priest shook his head. 'Why you come to Bosnia? Other reasons.'
  Alex's brain raced. Did the cleric think he was some sort of spy?
  'Well, since you ask, I did have some personal reasons too . . .' he
  floundered. 'There was an accident, you see. My son was killed. And then
  my wife left me...'
  'You see?' the priest beamed. The response had been as rewarding as a
  confession. He tilted his head sympathetically. 'I'm sorry. But you see,
  there is never one reason for anything. You come to Bosnia to help us,
  yes, but to helpyou too. To make you feel better.'
  'Oh, I wouldn't say...' Alex didn't complete the sentence. The priest was
  right.
  'So, you ask why there are massacres here.' His lips puckered as if he
  were sucking on a straw. 'There are also many reasons.'
 He held up a finger.
  'Muslims attack Croats here in La9va valley. So, we fight for our
  villages, our homes, our lives. That a priest can say is righteous.'
 He held up a second finger.
 'Then, people want revenge for what has been done to

               193

 them, just now and in history. That the church can understand, but not
 support.'
 The third finger.
  'Then there is what you call "personal reasons". A man - his sister is
  raped, his wife her throat cut, or. . .'A long pause. Whether to
  continue... ? 'Or it is done ... for pleasure,' he added finally. 'By a man
  who has black heart . . .'
  He flattened his hand on the arm of the chair and looked down at his bitten
  nails.
 'You mean your brother?' Alex asked quietly.
  The priest thought of how he'd always hated his sullen, animal-like
  sibling. How he'd refused to protect him from their father's abuse in the
  way he'd looked after his sister. And how, once he'd realized what a
  monster his brother had become, his own soul had been gnawed by guilt at
  having abandoned him.
  'We all make mistakes. Even God. His was to allow my brother into this
  world.'
 Alex gaped at the admission.
  'You're saying your brother kills because he likes it? He's a psychopath?'
 The priest nodded. There was no point in disguising it.
  'Haven't you tried to stop him? I mean, you're a priest as well as his
  brother.'
  Father Pravic bristled. Why didn't these people understand?
  'I told you, I do not meet Milan,' he said, his voice raised, smacking the
  arm of the chair. 'Not for long time. And how I can stop him? I have no
  power. God has no power. Only a ... a bullet has power.'
 The priest's words hammered home.
  'That's pretty strong. . .' Alex breathed. 'You're saying you think your
  own brother should be executed.?'
 Pravic pursed his lips again, saying nothing.
  'What about the HNIO?' Alex asked. 'What do they think?'

               194

  The priest shrugged. 'In war, armies make good use of men who like to
  kill...'
  'But if the UN could do something to stop him, could put him on trial,
  get him locked away, you'd support that?'
 Pravic smiled at his innocence.
  'The UN are like you. Here to make thenuelves feel better. But yes. If
  I knew where Milan was, then I would tell the LJN.'
 'But you've no idea?'
  None that he was prepared to impart. He shook his head.
  'You see, my brother knows well how to hide. When he was little, he was
  weak. Others in our village make fun of him. Then he grew stronger and
  other children they became afraid. They keep away. And there is a name
  they gave him ... I do not know in English. A creature that stings, with
  its tail above its head . . .' He curled a finger.
 'A scorpion, you mean?'
  'Scorpion, yes. They call him Scorpion. Because they would not see him,
  then suddenly he would be there and make them cry. . .'
  A man with a lethal sting, with Bosnia for a playground, Alex thought.
  Anywhere else and the police would be out in droves trying to catch such
  a creature.
 'Where would he hide now, Father? Here in Bosnia?'
  'Who knows? Maybe here. Maybe he go back to Germany. He live some years
  in Berlin. But perhaps he don't go there, because UN will ask German
  police to look for him.'
 Alex saw that the priest was getting restless.
  'Do you have a picture, a photograph of him?' he asked quickly.
 'No. I have no reason to have one. .
 'What does he look like, then?'
 Father Pravic shrugged.

               195

  'He is not tall, not short. He has light hair, blue eyes, like many in
  Bosnia. But there is something. His eyes . . .' He screwed up his face.
  'They never look at you, unless ... unless he is going to hurt you.'
  Alex shuddered. The priest stood up. He'd said enough.
 J think they finish with your boxes now.'
 'Yes. Yes of course.'
  Back in front of the barn, the tailboard of the Bedford had been closed,
  the Scimitar commander looked impatient to be off.
  The priest shook his hand. 'Thank you for help,' he said coolly.
  'I'll try to get medicines for you,' Alex assured him, though he had no
  idea how. 'One other thing. Your brother ... what do you think he might be
  doing now?'
  The priest hesitated, his expression hard to divine. Fear? Guilt even?
  'To kill will be like drug for him. He cannot stop. Any person can be his
  victim. Here, it is Muslim peoples. But it could be you or me. There will
  be more. Many more. Give him the power ... and the weapon ... then what he
  did at Tulici will seem like nothing.'
  He turned and walked away, his words rooting Alex to the spot.
  Then came a shout. His UN escort was eager to move. Alex waved and climbed
  into the cab of the Bedford.

 On the road back to Vitez, the priest's words churned round in his head.
  A killer called the Scorpion, with dozens of deaths to his credit, dozens
  more in prospect, and no serious attempt being made to stop him. The
  situation was mad.
  Back at the house he was startled to see two TV teams filming him as he
  reversed the Bedford into the drive.

               196

  McFee. Something had happened. Something terrible.
  As he climbed from the cab, the camera crews were held at bay by the two
  MPs who'd spent last night on his sofa.
  'Gl' the bloke a chance. He don't know about it yet,' he heard one of the
  soldiers say.
 The sergeant took Alex by the arm.
  'Can I suggest we step inside a minute, sir. There's some news, and it's
  not good.'
  They hurried through to the living room without speaking. The stove had
  gone out and the room was cold.
  'What's he done?' Alex snapped, ready to condemn the man. 'Tell me.'
 'I'm afraid your mate's been found dead, sir.'
 The soldier's emotionless words sandbavLed him.
 'Oh my God...'
 He felt the blood drain from his face.
  'Where.. .' he heard himself croak. 'What happened?'
  'It was in a derelict house about half a mile from here.' The MP's look
  warned him to expect the worst. 'Someone shot 'im. .
 'Christ!'
  'And I'm afraid I must ask you to identify the body. We collected it this
  morning. The HVO tipped us off.'
  'But ... but why was he shot?' he stammered, fearing the answer. 'What
  had he done?'
 The soldiers glanced at each other.
  'It's a right mess, sir, I warn you ... You know that business in
  Edinburgh - well, we think he was up to the same tricks. The HVO say
  someone caught him doin' it to a young girl. He'd paid her fifty Deutsche
  marks, which is a small fortune round 'ere.'
  'God! I can't believe it. . .'He sank onto the sofa. 'The evil bastard!'

               197

  He remembered the two armed men whose eyes had f'ollowed him back into
  the house last night - the locals must've been on to McFee already.
 'Who shot him, the HVO?'
  'They're not admitting it. Claim they don't know who did it. But whoever
  it was killed a woman last night too ... Illie.'
 'Oh, no...' Alex groaned.
  'They found another fifty Deutsche Marks in her pocket. The suggestion
  is that your chum paid her to procure the little girl for him.
  Alex felt sickened. To come to Bosnia on the pretext of helping people,
  and then do that ...
 'It's ... it's unspeakable . . .'
  'Course, we can only go on what the HVO tell us. It could be a pack o'
  Iles. But bearing in mind what we was told by the Edinburgh police, it's
  more 'an likely true. They think the dead girl up in Scotland was new to
  the game and didn't like what was happening to her. Someone heard
  screaming. They think he strangled her to shut her up.'
  It came back to him suddenly - the night on the ferry from Ancona - McFee
  shouting 'shuddup' in his sleep.
  'It's unbelievable .'He shook his head. The man was a monster and he'd
  had no clue . . . 'And the TV people know everything I suppose? It'll be
  all over the bulletins back home tonight.'
  'And on Sky which can be picked up here. The camera crews were around
  when we brought the body back in. They'd got the gory details from the
  HVO.'
  'Well, they'll get nothing out of ine. . .' Alex snapped, thinking of the
  pain McFee's widow must be going through. Then the sergeant's words
  caught up with him.
 'What gory details?'
 Again that annoying glance between the two soldiers.
  'The press know about it, so it'd be better if you did too,' the sergeant
  began. 'They er ... they mutilated the

               198

 body of your friend, I'm afraid. Hacked his knob off and stuffed it in his
 mouth.'
 'And then they shot him. the corporal added.

 Alex voided the contents of his stomach when they showed him McFee's
 yellowing, blood-smeared corpse. The Scotsman's eyes had been open when he
 died; they still were, in rigor mortis - the eyes of a man who'd seen the
 flames of hell.
  The MPs drove Alex back to P.Info, where they gave him tea with whisky in
  it, while he tried to get through to Farnham on the satellite phone. It
  took an hour; Mike Allison had already learned of McFee's death from the
  lunchtime news. He was horrified, fearing the goodwill Bosnia Emergency had
  built up in its short existence would be wiped out by the scandal. He told
  Alex to get himself and the Bedford back down to Split as soon as he could,
  and to ask for army protection.
  'Peel the logo off the side of the truck,' he'd suggested. just in case
  some nutter thinks you're all perverts.'
  Back in the house, Alex sat forlornly on the sofa watching Dragana make up
  the fire and dab at her eyes with a handkerchief'. He felt numb, unable to
  think straight.
  The TV teams had hounded him on his way up to the house. What was McFee
  like? You must've had suspicions? How do you feel? - all the standard,
  stupid questions he remembered from when he himself had been on the other
  side of the cameras.
  He'd said nothing and had tried to shield his face from the prying lenses.
  Twenty years of concealment from the IRA blown out of the window. just the
  beard and the different surname still yielding some patina of protection.
  'Hello? Alex?' A shout from the hall. The voice of Major Clarke-Hartley.
 'In here.' Alex levered himself to his feet.

               199

 Dragana scuttled away, handkerchief to her mouth.
  'Brought you a friendly face,' the Major told him. 'Tells me she's known
  you for yonks.'
  Lorna walked in. He'd totally forgotten she was coming.
  'Hi, Alex. I'm so sorry.', Her voice cracked. 'Alan's just told me this
  stuff about Moray. It's too awful. I can't believe id'
  He felt tearful suddenly and embraced her with more intensity than he'd
  intended. She resisted for a moment, then moulded to the shape of his body.
  'I, er ... I'll get out of your hair,' the Major stammered. ' ust wanted a
  word about tomorrow, Alex. J
 Mike's called me personally to ask us to protect you on the way down to
 Split. What I suggest you do is join our regular logistics convoy heading
 south at eight in the morning. There'll be a relay of Warriors to get you
 from here to Gorm, then after that there should be no problem. You'll be
 well beyond the range of any of the local hoods.'
  'Sounds good,' Alex replied, recovering. 'Thanks. Eight o'clock you say?'
  'Yes. And I've had another thought. . .' Clarke-Hartley flinched at what
  lie was about to suggest. 'Would you mind ... I mean, d'you think you could
  possibly take the body bag with you?'
  Alex caught the alarm in Lorna's eye. It was a living passenger they'd
  planned to put in the back.
  'It's just that there's an RAF Herc leaving Split on Thursday that could
  take it back to the UK,' the major explained.
  'Well, I. . .'Alex faltered. Then Lorna nodded imperceptibly. 'I suppose
  that makes sense. Where ... where and when would we collect it ... him. The
  body bag?'
  'I don't know. Should we say half-past-seven in the camp? You can drive the
  truck to the medical centre, and

               200

 then form up afterwards with the rest of the convoy on the road outside.'
 'All right. We'll do that, then.'
  'Good. I'll alert everybody to expect you. Well, I'll leave you to er ...
  to talk about happier times. See you later.'
 "Bye.'
  Alex stared at his disappearing back and watched the front door close.
  Then he turned to Lorna. Her face was taut with concentration.
  '0 ... h,' he murmured, 'I can't tell you how glad I am to see you.' He
  hugged her like a life raft.
  'Poor Alex,' she whispered, 'it must have been the most awful shock.'
  'I can't take it in. I've been with him all the time for the last ten
  days and I never had a clue . . .'
  At that moment she felt a strong urge to sit him beside her, put his big,
  square head in her lap and run her fingers through his hair. But there
  wasn't time and anyway she'd determined not to give in tofeelings again.
  'He seemed a normal, likeable guy. ..' she murmured.
 'That's just it. He was, quite.'
  'So what does it all mean?' she checked, easing herself from his embrace,
  'You can take Vildana tornorrow?'
 'I suppose so.'
 'Then we have to move fast.'
 'Is tomorrow too soon for you?'
  'No, No! It'll be okay. Josip and I have just been up to the village
  again. The girl - she's real ready. Wants to go to America, now. They've
  filled her head with promises of non-stop Disney and Coke.' Her face
  twisted into a look of disapproval.
  'Monika's moving her to the refugee centre in Travnik tonight. We'll have
  to fetch her from there early tomorrow morning. Like six-thirty? So we
  can get her hidden

               201

 in the truck before you go into the camp to load the body.'
  She was on overdrive, rattling off the plan as it evolved in her head.
  'Lorna, hang on a minute. Can we really put her through that? A traumatized
  child huddling in the back of a truck for eight hours next to a corpse?'
  'I know,' she winced. 'It's dreadful, but we don't have any alternative.
  This is her only chance. And anyway, she'll never know the body bag's
  there. We'll make a little house for her in the truck and hide her in it
  before you drive into the camp.'
 She saw the alarm and disquiet on his face.
  'I know it's a long time for her to stay boxed up, but believe me this is
  a kid who's spent much of her life hiding .... I
 'And what then? What happens to her in Split?'
  'I don't know yet. Maybe we have to hang around a few days until we find
  the right home for her. All that's being taken care of over in the States.'
  She crossed her fingers behind her back. She had no idea if there'd been a
  response yet to her appeal on the Internet last night.
  'And if there's a problem with that, we'll Just start praying. . .'
 Praying. Alex remembered the priest.
  'Hey, I've got to tell you,' he said. 'Something else happened this
  morning.'
 She was only half listening.
  'I met the brother of the killer who led the Tulici massacre!'
 'You what?'
 'A priest, would you believe..
 He explained.
  'He wants him stopped. Killed if necessary. Said he'd help if he could. You
  see what this means? With the priest as a witness, telling what he knows of
  Pravic's

               202

 psychopathic past, and your Vildana telling the court what she saw in
 Tulici, we've got him! We can get him locked up for lifeP
  'We?' Her jaw dropped. 'What do you mean we, Alex?'
 He frowned, unsure what she was getting at.
  'What are you doing here, Alex?' she demanded, eyes like darts. 'Who do you
  work for?'
 'I told you. Bosnia Emergency.'
  'Which nobody's ever heard of. . .' she retorted. 'Leastways, nobody I've
  spoken to.'
  'It's only been going a few months, that's why.' Her venom puzzled him.
 She spread her arms in disbelief
  'And this is it? This is your organization? An old army truck and two guys,
  one of whom's a murdering paedophile and the other's a spook? Shi-it!'
  'What are you saying? I don't understand. . .' But he was beginning to.
  'Oh yes you do. You haven't changed. Still the guy with two faces. .
  He saw pain and disappointment in her eyes. Belfast was biting back, like
  a knee-capping, never to be forgotten. She'd winded him.
 'Lorna, you're wrong,' he pleaded.
  The speed of her mood switch made his head spin. Her mask of sympathy over
  McFee's death had split to reveal the anger which had smouldered in her for
  decades.
  It was the moment he'd dreaded from the instant he'd spotted her on the
  ferry from Ancona, but the crisis had come out of the blue. Its outcome
  would decide whether their extraordinary crossing and re-crossing of paths
  would end well or in bitterness.
  He faced a critical choice. He could try to bluff his way out of a corner
  like before, or admit everything this time in the hope of stopping history
  repeating itself.

               203

  Whether she accepted his explanation would depend on one key question. Did
  she still want him as much as he wanted her?
  'Lorna, listen. Listen to everything I say. Then make your judgement.'
  'Don't lie to me again, Alex,' she warned, folding her arms. Her suspicions
  deepened.
 Truth. It had to be.
  'I'm not a spy,' he insisted. 'Not a "spook" as you put it. But ... I am
  trying to help the UN find some evidence against Milan Pravic so they can
  put him on trial for the Tulici massacre.'
  'You're telling me you work for the UN? Where's your blue beret?'
  'Yes. No, not exactly. Look, ten (lays ago, the UN war crimes people in The
  Hague sent a message to the British intelligence services, asking if they
  had somebody out here who could help them trace the man who led the Tulici
  killings. Well, they didn't have anyone. The only Brits in Bosnia were
  soldiers or aid workers. Anyway ... the intelligence people wanted to help
  the UN if they could. So they had to find someone at short notice ... and
  picked me, because they happened to hear I was coming out here as an aid
  worker.'
 She stiffened. 'My did they hear that?'
  'Because for twenty years I've been on the run. If it weren't for the
  security people I'd be dead. The IRA would have put a bullet in my brain.
  You know why. Everywhere I went, I had to tell the M15 minders so they
  could watch my back.'
  He paused for breath. Her jaw was set, the corners of her mouth tugged
  down. It wasn't working.
  'Anyway Lorna, all they've asked me to do out here is keep my eyes and cars
  open,' he added desperately. 'That's all.'
  'But you do still work for them!' She bit her lip. 'So you lied to me
  yesterday!'

               204

  'I've helped them three times in thirty years for God's sake! Nothing since
  Belfast, I promise. Until now. And I don't work for them. They've never
  paid me. I've just given them information when it was right to do so.'
 Lorna's face erupted with anger.
  'When you've felt it's right, huh? Like in Belfast when you decided it was
  right three boys should be shot down like dogs! Who d'you think you
  are?Jesus Christ?'
  He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Everything about Belfast had
  been a disaster. He should have told Chadwick to piss off, and he hadn't.
  Should've said to Catherine McNulty, the IRA man's wife, that he loved
  Lorna, not her, but he couldn't do it.
  'Look. The rights and wrongs of what happened in Belfast we can argue all
  round the houses. But this is hardly the time . . .'
 'No? Why the hell not?'
 Nothing could stop her now. The dam had broken.
  'You lied to me in Belfast, Alex! You said such beautiful, loving words in
  my ears. Then as soon as I left your bed...' Her face screwed up in
  disgust. 'You cheated on me! You did the same things, said the same words
  ... with an IRA man's wife. And not just any. .
 Her voice caught in her throat.
  .eldex looked at hcr, begging for understanding. This wasn't the day to go
  into all this.
  'I didn't want to, for God's sakeP he moaned. 'You remember what Catherine
  was like. I'd been seeing her for months before you turned up. She wouldn't
  let go. I tried to tell her I Aas ending it but she said she'd kill herself
  if I did.'
  'And you were so naive as to believe her? Oh corne on! You reckoned you
  were man enough to decide three kids should be shot, but didn't have the
  guts to tell a loopy lady to get lost?'
 He'd lost control of things. He turned his head away.
 'Look, let's get it straight what happened in Belfast.

               205

 M15 blackmailed me into betraying you. The message was that unless I got
 you to tell me what you knew about the jailbreak, they'd make sureyou
 found out about Catherine, and Catherine's husband found out about rne.
 I'd have lost you, and probably have got a kneecapping as well. And don't
 forget, Lorna ... those guys who were to be sprung from Long Kesh, they
 were convicted killers. It was right they should stay inside.'
 Lorna's hand clamped over her mouth in disbelief.
  'Stay inside, I said,' he stressed, defensively. 'I ... I never thought
  they'd kill them. Naive perhaps, but I just thought they'd put them back
  behind the Wire.'
  Lorna turned on her heel and stood by the window staring out. Josip was
  leaning against the Land Cruiser, twitching with impatience.
  So that was the excuse she'd waited twenty years to hear. Blackmail. Did
  she believe him? Did it make any difference?
  She shuddered, remembering the cataclysmic night in Belfast when Alex's
  double-dealing had been exposed. McNulty was the Provos' Belfast
  quartermaster, and her IRA contact. She'd been friendly with both him and
  Catherine. Over a drink at their home one evening, bubbly and excited
  with her love for Alex, she'd told them his name ...
  In her mind now, she could still see Catherine's face, beetroot with fury
  and pain. Then the earth had opened ...
  She looked at her watch. Had to get to Travnik to warn them to have
  Vildana ready first thing.
 'I have to go,' she said flatly.
 Alex stood up. She turned round, avoiding his eye.
  'Look, forget the past for the moment,' he pleaded. 'What we're involved
  in now ... it's much more important. We're both after the same thing,
  don't you see? You want to save a girl's life. So do 1. Your way is to
  get her out of here to a place she'll be safe. My way is to

               206

 nail the man who wants to kill her. We're in this together, right? This
 was meant to happen -- you said it yourself, yesterday.'
  She crossed her arms tightly, as if trying to hold herself together.
 'I have to get a move on,' she said.

 207

            Seventeen

 Wednesday 30th March
 Vitez, Bosnia

 Alex stuffed the last of McFee's possessions into the battered, soft-sided
 suitcase. He'd picked gingerly through his belongings, half expecting to
 find bizarre sexual aids, or used condoms.
  He'd packed his own bags last night, after taking the Bedford to the REME
  garage to tank up with diesel.
  He downed the remains of a mug of tea then went into the hall to pull on
  his boots and coat. It was six o'clock. Lorna would be arriving any minute
  and he still had to prepare the hide in the back of the truck.
  Last night in the junk-filled garage where they'd stored their aid boxes,
  he'd found a home-made workbench, a sturdy table one-and-a-half metres long
  with legs made of 'two by four'. Using sign language he'd indicated to
  Andrei that he wanted to borrow it.
  Outside, the temperature had turned milder overnight. It was overcast and
  raining, water dripping rhythmically onto the stone path from a broken
  gutter. If the weathei was like this over the mountains, the drive south
  would be messy.
  He unlocked the doors of the driver's cab, then walked to the back ofthe
  truck, undid the tailboard hasps, and released the flaps of the tarpaulin.
  The truck was empty apart from four sparejerrycans of diesel strapped to
  rings on the floor.
  He hoisted himself into the back and shone his torch around to find fixings
  for the table that was to be

               208

 Vildana's house for the coming day. Stout string should do it. There was a
 roll of it in McFee's tool bag.
  He heard the purr of an engine, and looked out to see the Land Gruiser
  pulling up, raindrops glinting in its headlamp beams. Lorna got out, her
  face tense, her blonde hair bristling like a hedge. He doubted if she'd
  slept much last night.
 Josip still looked sullen. Did the man ever smile?
  Alex jumped down from the tailboard looking for some sign as to how things
  stood between them that morning. He saw none.
 'Okay?' he asked.
  'Sure. You ready?' she answered, brisk and businesslike.
  'I need a hand with something. Josip? Gould you help me please?'
  He led him to the garage and between them they carried the heavy workbench
  out to the truck and hoisted it into the back. They placed it against the
  end nearest the driver's cab and Alex secured the legs firmly.
  'She can sit under that,' he explained. 'Need some cushions or bedding, and
  some cardboard or a tarpaulin to cover the sides.'
  'Maybe they'll have a spare blanket at the refugee centre,' Lorna
  suggested.
 'Good thought. Shall we get moving?'
 Six-fifteen. Pretty much on schedule.
  Lorna led the way into Travnik, the streets of the old Muslim quarter
  almost deserted at this hour. They drove into the play ound of the school
  and parked out of sight
      , gr behind it. The easterly sky was fringed with the soft, grey glow
      of dawn.
  'Monika stayed the night here with the kid,' Lorna explained under her
  breath as they went inside. Now the moment was upon her, she seemed nervous
  about the responsibility she was taking on. Josip will have to help me play
  Mom, unless Vildana learns English real fast.'

               209

 'So that's why he's looking so sour,' Alex commented. 'One of the reasons.
 . .' she replied enigmatically.
  There was a clinking from the kitchen as the early risers prepared tea and
  coffee.
  'I told her to be ready for us,' Lorna fretted. 'But where the hell is
  she?'
 'Let's try the kitchen.'
  The two of them were sitting there, pale and drawn, beside one of the wide
  cookers, Vildana's short, dark hair freshly washed, her fearful brown eyes
  like pebbles dropped in snow. Monika had her arm round her shoulder and
  held her close.
  Lorna tookjosip's arm. 'Earn your money,josip,' she whispered.
  'Hi, Vildana!'Lorna grinned, crouching in front of the child.josip also
  dropped on his haunches.
  There was a minute or two of words in Serbo-Croat, with Monika chipping in.
  'Well,'Josip translated, 'I explain her she stay hide in the truck, until
  I say she come out. I tell her we look after her, and she will be ...
  safe.' He shrugged.
 'And she's ready?'
 'I think.'
  just one thing,'Alex added. 'We need to finish off that Wendy House of
  hers. There must be loads of empty cardboard boxes here. If we stack a pile
  round the workbench, it'll disguise it beautifully.'
 'Good. Maybe Monika knows where they keep thern?'

 Twenty minutes later the job was done. Vildana's determination not to cry
 collapsed when Monika gave her a final hug. Then, with a bed made from
 blankets and Alex's sleeping bag, she took up residence in the hide,
 clutching a bag of bread and fruit and a bottle of water.
 Lorna led the way back to Vitez, this time driving the

               210

 Land Cruiser on her own. Josip sat in the Bedford cab with Alex.
  Past the junction with Route Triangle, they crossed the invisible line
  separating Muslim-led forces from Croat. HVO soldiers dawdled with their
  Kalashnikovs, more relaxed now the cease-fire was taking a grip. Alex
  wondered what they'd do if they knew the truck carried a Muslim child, the
  only witness to the Tulici massacre.
  Nerves made his gut churn. He breathed deeply to steady them.
  The pole was down across the entrance to Vitez camp. A squaddie checked
  their UN passes, lifted the barrier and waved them in.
  Seven-twenty-five. Going like clockwork. The truck clunked in the potholes
  which had been ground out of the hard core by Warrior tracks.
 'Hope the kid's hanging on tight,' Alex said.
  'I think it is nothing to what will come on the mountain road,'Josip
  answered gloomily.
  Alex stopped the Bedford by the medical centre and dropped to the ground.
  He toldJosip to stay with the truck.
  Inside the portakabin, a couple of bored corporals were playing cards, one
  dark-haired, the other ginger.
  'About bloody time,' the dark one growled. 'We've been up all night waiting
  for you.'
 'Wha-aff said Alex. 'The major told me seven-thirty.'
  The ginger soldier stood up with a grin. 'Take no notice of 'im. Winds
  everyone up. It is Mr McFee yer after, is it?'
 'That's right.'
  Ginger switched on an expression of concern. "E was your oppo, was 'e sir?
  Your mate?'
  'We worked together,' Alex replied tensely. 'Are you ready? I've got the
  truck outside.'
 'Yessir.'
 They stepped into a back room and emerged a few

               211

 seconds later struggling under the weight of a dark green body bag.
  At the sight of it, Alex felt a moment's queasiness, knowing the messy
  remains that lay inside.
  'Good strong bag this, sir. Keeps the pong in,' the dark-haired soldier
  remarked.
  Josip had the Bedford's tailboard down and was standing on it protectively.
  'We'll need two of us at each end to get 'im up there,' said the ginger
  corporal.
  Alex hoisted himself onto the tailboard and withjosip took hold of the foot
  of the bag, leaving the soldiers to bear most of the load. They heaved it
  into the centre of the cargo plafform and set it down between two sets of
  attachment rings.
  'Got enough straps and that, to tie it down?' asked Ginger.
 'Yes. We're okay.'
 'Then, we'll leave him with you, sir.'
 'Fine. Thanks for your help.'
  He set to work with string, tying the handles of the bag to the rings on
  the floor. Josip crawled forward to the hide and whispered words of
  reassurance to Vildana.
 'I tell her it is some equipment,' lie explained.
 'Good. She okay?'
 Josip nodded.
  Poor kid, Alex mused. She'd got a hellish day ahead of her. He stood back
  and checked his work. All secure.
  Both men jumped to the ground and re-secured the tailboard and tarpaulin.
  While Jqsip climbed back into the cab, Alex sprinted to the cookhouse to
  pick up ration packs for the journey. Then he drove the truck out of the
  camp to where the rest of the white vehicle convoy was lining up, and the
  crews were donning their body armour.
 It was ten minutes to eight.

               212

 The convoy snaked up Route Triangle, one Warrior at the front and another at
 the rear, the Land Cruiser and the Bedford tucked in amongst the empty
 container trucks that had shuttled supplies up from the coast to keep the
 British contingent of UNPROFOR fed and watered.
  He'd had no opportunity to talk to Lorna alone that morning. No chance to
  find out if she'd accepted what he'd said about Belfast. No occasion to
  discover if she was for him or against him.
  They crossed from one militia's territory to another and back again, with
  sentries watching their progress from makeshift bunkers, sheltering from
  the rain which purnmelled the roofs of the vehicles. The massive bulk of
  the Warrior at the front deterred any thoughts they might have of stopping
  the convoy to check it.
  'You've worked many times with Lorna?' Alex asked, casually, deciding he'd
  try to get to know the translator better if they were to spend the next
  eight hours together.
  'Three times before in Bosnia. Always they pay me to fly to Frankfurt to
  meet her. Then we drive to Split.'
 'Frankfurt? Why Frankfurff
  'I think because GareNet medicines come from America on Air Force planes.
  They have big military base at Frankfurt.'
  'Really? Didn't know the US Air Force was involved.' Maybe Lorna was
  planning to get Vildana to America by Air Force jet.
  'And you?'Josip said. 'You are old friend with Lorna, she tell me.'
 'That's right. Known her most of my life, on and off.'
 'You are perhaps like soul mates?'
  Odd words to come fromjosip, Alex pondered. More like Lorna's words. How
  much had she told him?
 'I don't know about that. . .'
  The convoy slowed for a hairpin bend in the midst of a village. Children
  streamed from the houses, defying the

               213

 rain in the hope the drivers would throw sweets to them. Blonde
 eight;,year-olds ran perilously close to the wheels of the Bedford.
  Minutes later the convoy slowed to a halt on the crest of a wooded ridge.
  The Warriors that had brought them this far were handing over to another
  pair that had come UP to meet them from the next base at Gorni Vakuf
  Ahead, the unmade road dropped into the canyon where three days before
  Alex's mission had so nearly come to a premature end. He shuddered at the
  recollection of that squat automatic pressed against his face.
 'Hullo again!'
  A breezy, female voice at the window of the cab. Alex looked down. It was
  the same lieutenant who'd escorted them on the way up, rain dripping from
  the rim of her blue helmet.
  'Well, hello! Fancy seeing you,' he said. 'Not going to leave us in the
  lurch again I hope.'
 She gurgled with laughter.
  'No fear! You're on my orders this time. Got to keep a close eye on you.'
  She smiled toothily. 'Sorry you had a bit of trouble on the way up. But you
  were just hangerson then. Different today. I say, I'm terribly sorry about
  your companion...'
  'Yup . . .'Alex pointed over his shoulder to the back of the truck.
  'I know. . .'she said. 'Look, we'rejust going to bat on down the road.
  There shouldn't be any hold-ups -there's no fighting anywhere, so they tell
  me. Could be a delay on the mountain road, of course. Can't predict that.
  But the only time we do stop officially is at the border with Croatia. Have
  to, legally. They usually wave us on p.d.q., but it's possible they'll want
  to look inside. just so you're prepared for that.'
 'Okay. Thanks for the warning.'
  'Oh, and watch the road. It'll be a mud slide up the top.'

               214

  She gave a loose salute and strode back to her Land Rover at the front
  of the convoy.
  They set off down the canyon track, windscreen wipers struggling against
  the brown spray kicked up by the trucks in front, every pothole a tureen
  of mud.
  Gorni Vakuf looked more desolate than ever in the foul weather, its
  streets deserted, apart from an old man picking through the rubble.
  Beyond the town the escorting Warriors waved the convoy past. They'd
  cleared the conflict zone. It was Bosnian Groat territory all the way to
  the border.
 Josip glanced through the rear window.
  'D'you think she's all right?'Alex asked. He thought of Vildana clinging
  on as the truck bounced and jolted.
 'I hope. It is pity we cannot speak with her.'
  There was a gap between the rear of the cab and the cargo space. No way
  of even tapping messages through.
  'Perhaps I should have sat with her in the back,'Josip wondered.
  'There's no seat. You'd have been knocked all over the place,' Alex
  assured him. 'We'll try and stop somewhere and check she's okay.'

 Lorna shifted into third gear as the convoy weaved through the HVO
 checkpoint on the MakJlen Ridge, dodging the land mines that reminded her
 of upturned dinner plates. The Bedford was a few metres in front.
  Every sighting of the Groat militia made her shiver. She knew they
  suspected convoys like this one secretly ferried men and arms to their
  Muslim-led enemies. Two vehicles without UN logos, hers and the Bedford,
  would not go unnoticed.
  Supposing one checkpoint got awkward? Supposing they searched and found
  Vildana? Would the girl lieutenant and her three soldiers protect them?
  No way.

               215

 Have to pray for the 'slivovitz factor'; that the men on the checkpoints
 were too boozed-up to care.
  The back of the Bedford jolted and swayed. Poor kid, she thought. Hope
  to God she's not been sick.
  She pictured Alex wrestling with the wheel. Last night she'd lain awake
  thinking about what he'd told her, smarting that he had lied about still
  working for the intelligence services. Eventually she had cooled on that,
  however, convinced he had been honest in the end.
  By the time she'd dropped off to sleep in the small hours, Alex's
  rationale for sabotaging the breakout from Long Kesh in 1973 had begun
  to seem more acceptable. Her own support for the Provisionals,
  unquestioning then, had been undermined not long after by their Boston
  backers' uncharitable wish to end her life.
  What she could not yet accept or forgive was Alex's duplicity over
  Catherine. For twenty years, deep down, she had longed to make things
  good with him again, a longing she had never admitted to, even to her
  sister Annie. But that desire had been balanced by an even stronger
  yearning - that he should suffer for what he'd done - suffer like she
  had.
  Eventually they would be reunited, she was certain of that. The dream
  she'd had when they'd first met had been too vivid to be anything other
  than a premonition. The dream of her oAni face in an open coffin and Alex
  weeping by the grave.

 The long, steep hill wound down into Prozor, an evil place from where the
 Muslims had long since been ethnically cleansed. An HVO garrison town,
 from where camouflaged buses packed with soldiers shuttled to and from the
 trenches up on the ridge.
  The UN convoy slowed to a snail's pace to negotiate the narrow street.
  Then they were through, climbing past a string of villages towards the
  IJubuga mountains.

               216

 The tarmac ended by a lake, its chalky waters grey and choppy. The
 vehicles in front pulled in to the right.
  'We're taking a break, by the look of it,' Alex remarked. 'Gives us a
  chance to see how Vildana is. And for a pee.'
 'I think, I go look in the back,'Josip agreed.
 'Don't let anyone see her.'
  The translator looked at him coldly. He didn't need to be told that.
  'Hi. How're you doing?' The lieutenant had stopped by the cab.
 'Fine. How long are we stopping for?'
  'Could be ten minutes. There's a Canadian convoy coming down off the
  mountain. No point in moving until that's out of the way.'
 'Good. Time for a leak, then.'
  'Huh! All right for you boys! I just have to keep my legs crossed.'
  She moved on to talk to Lorna in the Toyota. Alex climbed down and
  scuttled off to the right, where a line of drivers were already relieving
  themselves against a rock face.
  When he'd finished, he found the tailboard down and Josip already up on
  the cargo platform. Lorna got out of the Land Cruiser and came across.
  'How is she?' she asked, looking round to see no one was close enough to
  hear.
  Alex lifted the tarpaulin flap. The body bag was still secure. Beyond it
  Josip crouched by the camouflaged hide, talking and listening.
 'Seems all right,' Alex replied.
 Josip loped back to the tailboard.
  'She say she feel sick,' he announced. 'I tell her to eat some bread.'
 'Poor kid. Has she thrown up?' Lorna asked.
  'No.justfeels sick. She okay, I think.' He jumped down and re-secured the
  tarpaulin.

               217

 Alex strolled with Lorna towards the lake.
  'Are you all right?' An all-purpose question that could cover as much or
  as little as she wanted.
 'Sure. I like driving.'
  Giving nothing away, a hand's breadth shorter than Alex, Lorna cocked her
  head on one side, looking at him pensively.
  Extraordinary, she thought. The man had been such a part of her life, yet
  she had only spent a few weeks with him in the flesh. Never had the
  chance to find out who he reallv was ...
  'What I was saying yesterday,' Alex began, fumblingly, 'Belfast and all
  that. . .'
  'I heard what you said. . .' Her tone was flat and she turned back
  towards the convoy, showing this wasn't the time to pursue the issue.
  'The lieutenant said they may search the trucks at the border,' Alex went
  on, sticking to safer ground.
  'Oh? I'd hoped that with the UN we'd drive straight through,' she said,
  alarmed.
  'Maybe we'll be lucky. Anyway, what's your plan once we're in Split? I
  have to get Moray's body to the airport.'
  'Let's stop somewhere when we're safely across the border and there's
  nobody about. We'll get Vildana out of the truck and into the Land
  Cruiser. We're going to stay at the Hotel Split tonight.'
  He looked at her, wondering for a moment if it was an invitation.
  'I'll see you there then,' he smiled. The words slipped out.
 Her eyes chilled. 'Don't get any ideas, Alex.'
 She took a pace back from him.
  'It's not the same this time,'she warned, walking away, a touch of pink
  suffusing her concave cheeks.
  Alex smarted at the rebuff. He'd make a fool of himself if he didn't
  watch out.
 Down the hill towards them came a long line of huge,

               218

 articulated trucks. The Canadian UN convoy was on its way through. The
 drivers of the British vehicles climbed back into their cabs and Alex
 hurried to the Bedford.
  With puffs of blue smoke, the diesels revved and the convoy bounced back
  onto the rutted track. There'd be a good three hours of this. Three hours
  to cover fifty kilometres of one of the worst truck highways in the world.
  It was only ten-thirty, yet it felt like lunchtime. He reached into his
  ration bag and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in cling film.
 'Undo this ffir me, would you, josip?'
 'Sure.'
  He peeled off the film and passed it back. Alex bit into it hungrily.
 'Where's home,josip?' he asked.
 The translator wobbled his head.
  'Many place. My father live Zagreb, my mother in Split. I have lived
  Sweden, Gennany, Paris, Belgrade, Zagreb.'
  'You don't have an apartment somewhere? Not married?'
 'I have many girlfriend. I stay in their apartment.'
  Alex nodded. He didn't believe him, but it wasn't worth pressing.
 Tine.'
 'You? You're married?'Josip asked.
 Hard to answer. He didn't know any more.
 'Yes. Married, but not, if you know what I mean.'
  The answer seemed to set josip thinking. He sat in silence for a minute or
  two.
 'You fuck with Lorna?' he asked suddenly.
  Alex coughed. Stupid conversation. His fault for starting it.
  'No,' he answered. 'What on earth makes you think that?'
 The road wound higher and higher, hugging the red

               219

 sandstone of the mountain. On one of the tighter bends a trailer truck lay
 in the trees below, a victim of the winter ice. After an hour the surface
 began to improve, where the British army engineers had widened and strength-
 ened it. Every few kilometres huge earth-movers shovelled hard core into the
 potholes.
  They passed checkpoints manned by HVO but attracted little interest. Away
  from the front line, tension had eased. On right-hand bends Alex checked in
  the door mirror to see that Lorna was still behind.
  At the highest point, snow lingered on the branches, but on the roadway it
  had melted into a slush that clogged the wipers.
  Eventually, after long pauses to let convoys pass in the opposite
  direction, the road dipped steeply down through the trees towards the
  plains of Hercegovina.
  'I fear we've got a very sick child in the back by now,' Alex remarked.
 Josip grunted agreement.
  They rattled and bounced a few more kilometres, then the tyres hummed on
  tarmac.
  'Thank God for a proper surface,' Alex breathed, stretching one arm at a
  time to shake the fatigue from his shoulders.
  They cut through the outskirts of Tomislavgrad, then picked up the main
  road for Split.
 'How far to the border, Josip?'
 'Maybe forty minutes, I think.'
  As they sped on down the road, Alex's eyelids began to droop. All that
  driving after a night of little sleep had taken its toll. He kept shaking
  his head to keep awake.
  Suddenly there was a roadside sign. The border was just five hundred metres
  ahead. Alex tensed up. He had no idea what to do if the Croat guards found
  Vildana. Have to bluff their way through.
 'Fingers crossed, Josip.'
 The road border between Bosnia-Hercegovina and

               220

 Croatia amounted to a string of prefab huts manned by a handful of
 officials in dark blue uniforms.
  The convoy halted and the lieutenant strode to an office clutching the
  passports of the UN personnel. The rain had stopped and a chill wind
  broke up the cloud layer.
 'I guess we just sit tight,' Alex muttered.
  The border guards idly scanned the line of trucks. Then a couple wandered
  wearily towards them. One was a woman with curly hair and red lipstick.
  They made first for the Toyota.
  In the door mirror Alex watched Lorna hand out her passport and UNPROFOR
  card. The woman took them to the office. The male officer walked round
  the Land Cruiser, looking through the windows.
  Suddenly he turned to the Bedford, and stared at the back, low down where
  the number plate was.
  He strolled round the side and appeared at the window, eyes full of
  suspicion.
 'Pa~ol! he said gruffly.
  'He want passport,'Josip translated, unnecessarily. He passed his own
  across too. Seeing he was Croatian, the official fired questions at him.
  'He says we do not have UN plates on this truck. He asks who we are.'
  'Well, tell him. Say we're a British aid agency called Bosnia Emergency.'
 Josip translated.
  The official's dark eyes were deeply suspicious. He jerked a thumb
  towards the back of the truck.
 'He wants to see inside,'Josip gulped.
  Alex climbed down from the cab and walked calnily back, Josip shadowing
  him on the other side.
  'Explain to the officer that we have a body in the back, Josip. Tell him
  it's of an Englishman who was shot dead by accident.'

               221

  As Josip translated, he could see the official believed none of it. ',
  Alex unpinned the hasps and lowered the board on its chains. He lifted
  a corner of the tarpaulin flap to reveal the body-bag. The official
  peered in and then turned on them, shouting.
 'He say where are papers for the dead man.'
 Papers? McFee's passport? Hadn't thought of that.
 'Tell him I'll get them.'
  Alex pulled himself up onto the tailboard. McFee's suitcase was strapped
  to the floor next to the boxes that concealed Vildana's hide. He clicked
  open the bag and searched through the dead man's clothing with his
  fingers.
  A vile smell pervaded this end of the truck. A smell of vomit. Suddenly
  he heard laboured breathing and a stifled whimper.
  Not now, Vildana!Just a few more minutes, for God's sake!
  His fingers touched and he plucked the passport from the case.
  'Here it is,' he called, thumping his feet on the steel floor. Noise,
  that's what they needed. Lots of it to drown any sounds Vildana might
  make. He crouched on the tailboard, clearing his throat as loudly as he
  could.
  'You know, it never occurred to me a dead man would need a passport,
  Josip,' he said loudly. 'Did it you? I mean a corpse is just another
  piece of cargo really, isn't it?'
 Josip understood what he was up to.
  'Yes. I did not think so either that a passport is needed.'
  'But I guess they have to know who the dead person is,' he continued.
  The official interrupted, swiping his hand to indicate a zip opening.
 'He say he want to see face,'Josip explained, darkly.

               222

  'Tell him it's not a pretty sight,' Alex replied, standing up again.
  The official hoisted himself into the cargo space. Alex andjosip banged
  about on the steel floor. The fat end of the body bag was towards the
  middle of the truck. Alex pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket
  and pressed it over his nose.
  'I'd advise our friend here to do the same,' he suggested.
  The official's attention had been caught by the pile of boxes at the far
  end of the truck.
 Alex grabbed at the heavy zip on the body bag.
  'Here,' he said. 'Take a quick look, I don't want this open for long.'
  The zip incorporated a rubber seal and took a sharp tug to get it to
  move.
  McFee's face was pinched and yellow, hardly recognizable. The sour smell
  from the bag penetrated his mask, and made him gag.
  The official positioned himself beside the corpse, then held out the
  passport to compare the photo of the living with the face of death. He
  screwed up his face in disgust, then nodded that the bag should be closed
  again.
  The official's attention returned to the boxes. Alex followed his gaze.
  A black smear of water was trickling from under the cardboard along the
  grooves in the floor.
  Jesus! The kid's wet herself and the bastard's going over to look!
  Alex dropped to his knees, retching violently. It wasn't hard to simulate
  with the ever-growing stench.
  He'd fallen deliberately between the official and the hide.josip fussed
  around him, adding to the distraction. The gut-heaving noise and the
  smell had their effect; the official stumbled to the back of the truck
  and climbed out, sucking in great gulps of air.
 Josip and Alex followed quickly, closing up the

               223

 tailboard. Alex leaned against the side of the Bedford, panting.
  The official pulled josip to one side and began berating him. josip
  shrugged and shook his head.
  Alex glanced at Lorna who'd remained in the Toyota, pretending she was
  nothing to do with them. She studiously avoided his gaze.
  'O-hh,'Josip sighed, 'this man, he says we must have paper to bring body
  into Croatia. Special paper.'
  'What sort of paper, for Christ's sake? Tell him the body's going to be
  flown back to England tomorrow by the Royal Air Force. Tell him it'll
  only be in Croatia for a matter of hours.'
  josip tried again. This time it was the official who shrugged and shook
  his head.
  Alex saw the Logistics Corps lieutenant watching from fifty inetres away.
  He made a face at her as if to say 'can you help', but she turned away.
  They may have been awarded a UN escort, but they weren't UN business.
  josip grabbed his arm and led him back to the driver's cab.
 'You have some Deutsche marks?' he demanded.
 'Some. Why? You're going to bribe this guy?'
  J think it is best. Maybe two hundred will do. Give me three hundred, if
  you have.'
  Alex pulled his wallet from his thornproof and placed it on the driving
  seat, shielding it from view with his back.
  'Here you are.' He folded the notes and slipped them into josip's hand.
  'For God's sake handle this right.'
  josip walked the official away from the truck and the hut where the
  red-lipped woman was waiting. There were smiles and pats on the shoulder,
  then the almost imperceptible passing of the money.
 There was an art to bribery. A Balkan art.
  Josip returned with the passports. The officials waved and the convoy
  moved on.
 'Fucking brilliantJosip! Well done.'

               224

 The translator chuckled.

 Ten minutes down the road, the convoy halted again, pulling off onto what
 had been a restaurant car park in the days when Yugoslavia had a tourist
 trade.
 'Okay, now?'The lieutenant was at the window again.
 Tine.'
  just thought I'd say goodbye. We don't go into Split itself, so I expect
  you'll want to drop out of the convoy here.'
  She reached up and gave a surprisingly feminine handshake.
 'Bye. Thanks for your help.'
  She paused briefly by the Toyota, then strode back to her Land Rover, and
  the army vehicles moved on.
  On their own at lastjosip and Alex banged down the tailboard.
 'What was all that about at the border?' Lorna asked.
 'I'll tell you later. Let's get Vildana out,' Alex replied.
  All three climbed into the truck. Alex clawed at the tape holding the boxes
  in place, while josip spoke soothing words in Serbo-Croat.
 'Oh, my God,' Lorna gasped. 'The smell! Poor baby.'
  The boxes fell away. Vildana lay across the sodden sleeping bag that had
  been her bed. Her face was grey, her eyes sunken, and her cheeks caked with
  vomit.
  'Oh, you poor, poor sweetheart,' Lorna whispered, dropping to her knees and
  lifting the girl's head. josip took her legs, and between them they carried
  her to the rear of the truck, shielding her face so she wouldn't see the
  body-bag.
  Lorna sat on the tailboard, dangling her legs over the edge and placed
  Vildana beside her. She hugged the girl gently and stroked her face. So
  helpless, she thought. So likejulie.
 'All over now. All over,'she murmured.

               225

 Alex jumped to the ground.
 'I'll get some water so we can clean her face,' he said.
 Lorna's blue-grey eyes sparkled with tears.

 Two and a half hours later Alex drove the Bedford into the UN depot next
 to Split airport. It was just after five. A lowering sky and the first
 spots of rain spattered the windscreen as another front moved in. It would
 be dark soon.
  He'd been expected and was guided to the corner of a huge vehicle garage.
  'The Herc goes at ten in the morning, sir,' a Logistics Corps sergeant
  told him.
  Four soldiers lifted down the body bag, while the sergeant saluted. A
  corner of the floor had been marked off with tape. They laid the bag next
  to a small vase of flowers.
  'Hope you approve, sir,' the sergeant breathed, snapping his hand to his
  side.
  'Oh yes. Thank you.' Standard procedure for corpses, he guessed, whatever
  their history.
  Alex stood for a moment, hands clasped in front of him, suddenly sad. He
  wanted to believe that McFee hadn't been a total monster, that his other
  motive for coming out here had been to help.
  '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?'

               226

  '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 soffly.
  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 cheekjust 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 ~~ked 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 calledjulie 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

               228

 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.

               229

  '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. OnJulie'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

               230

 may ask questions. And when they find your "daughter" only speaks
 Serbo-Croat. . .'
 '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 callyou 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 tg it.

 231

            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 of 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

               232

 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

               233

 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

               234

 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 reffised 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 fior a moment.

               235

 '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 showedjosip 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 despatchedJosip 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 NE VER guess who the guy zVith the beard is, standing
 next to me in a couple of these photos!
 His name begins zvith the letter
 Seeyou soon. Loma.

 josip returned, successful. Lorna addressed the enve-
               236

 lopes, 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.
  'Morningjosip. Hello Vildana.' He smiled at the girl and gave her a hug.
  Vildana almost looked excited and had colour back in 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 towm 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.

               237

  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 181b,7uyl 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.
 He observed his work. Every bit of ink covered.
  'Here goes,' he murmured, pressing the sheet of writing paper firmly onto
  the moistened page. He lifted it off again. A perfect negative image left
  by the Glycolsoftened ink.
  He opened the second visa section injulie's passport and laid the writing
  paper face down. Then he used his thumb to press the image onto the page.
  He lifted off the paper. The image was faint, but readable. A perfect
  replica of an entry stamp.

               238

  just one problem. The Glycol had left a stain on both passports. He
  dabbed with the tissue, but the stain remained.
  He took them back next door and showed them to Lorna.
  'That's amazing. Where'd you learn to do thaff she asked suspiciously.
  'Never mind. Do you have a hair-drier? See if those stains will come out.
  If they don't, your best bet may be to drop the whole passport in the
  bath. It'll be such a mess by the time you dry it out, nobody'll know
  what's what.'
  She looked irritated, as if he'd created more problems than he'd solved.
  'Okay, josip, let's go shopping now,' she announced. 'Vildana needs a
  warm coat, a nightdress and a toothbrush. And anything else she sees that
  she wants. I'm going to try to put a smile on that little face.'
  She hustled them all out of the bedroom and locked the door. They took
  the stairs to the ground floor. Alex followed uneasily. Lorna was being
  deliberately distant.
  Downstairs she handed her key to the receptionist then headed for the big
  glass exit doors. In the middle of the large lobby she turned to Alex.
  'Well,' she said with a switched-on smile. 'I guess this is goodbye
  again.'
  Her eyes were like glass, free of any decipherable expression.
 'What d'you mean?' he asked, stunned.
  'I imagine you're going back up to Vitez in a day or so,' she went on.
  He knew his distress was plain for her to see - and she was savouring it,
  he realized suddenly.
  'I really can't thank you enough for what you did getting Vildana down
  here. Made upfor a lot,' she added pointedly.

               239

  'But I'm not sure that I am going back to Vitez . . .' he mouthed,
  desperately. She was casting off, leaving him behind.
 'Fate did us all a good turn this time, huh?'
 7his time.
  'If we hadn't met up like that, Vildana probably wouldn't be here,' she
  continued, slipping an arm round the girl's shoulders.
  'But hang on a minute. ..' Alex said, wishing they were out of earshot of
  the others.
  'Alex, I don't have a minute,' she replied fractiously. 'I've got to get
  that kid sorted out - that's all I'm interested in right now.'
 'Yes, but we can see each other later then . .
  'Later, I'm going to Frankfurt, and then home to the States.'
 He felt as if she'd just kneed him in the groin.
  'Lorna, I ... I really do want to see you again,' he said lamely. He was
  conscious ofJosip watching them.
 'Oh, you do? I'm not sure that's such a good. .
 Then she appeared to relent.
  'I tell you what. I'll give you the number of CareNet in Boston. They can
  pass a message. Maybe you'll come to the States one day.'
  She pulled a calling card from her pocket and handed it to him.
 'Bye,' she said, walking away. 'And good luck.'
 She hung on to Vildana using the girl as a shield.
  Dumbfounded, Alex watched as they climbed into the Land Cruiser and drove
  up the ramp towards the town.

 Lorna shook like a leaf, terrified she'd overdone it. She responded
 tojosip's street directions on autopilot.
  She had worked it all out in her head last night, while lying awake
  listening to Vildana's snuffly breathing.

               240

  Yes, she ached to have him back, but no, it wouldn't work until they
  were quits. Until she had made him feel something of the pain that she
  had felt all those years ago.

 241

            Nineteen

 Alex stalked back to the Park Hotel, seething. Angry at Lorna, and at
 himself for standing there like an idiot, letting her go off that way.
 That's what came of being too considerate with women, he thought. Should
 have Just grabbed her and told her what's what. Instead he'd let her dump
 him like some pickup at a disco.
  Mike Allison was waiting for him at a table beneath the palm trees on the
  sun-speckled terrace.
  'Ali, there you are,' he said, pointedly not getting to his feet. 'Wondered
  where you'd got to.'
  Alex pulled out a white-painted, metal chair and sat down without
  responding. Allison was a good five years younger than him, the type of
  ex-soldier who couldn't forget he was officer class.
 'Thought we'd have a bite here. They do sandwiches.'
 Tine.'
 Allison twisted round to look for the waiter.
  'Never there when you want them. If you see him come out, give him a wave.'
  'Sure.' Alex's chair faced the French windows that led to the kitchens.
  'I've been talking to Vitez this morning,' the Major continued. 'I saw
  Moray's body off on the G 130, then went to UNPROFOR and called Alan
  Clarke-Hartley on the army "comms".'
 'Oh yes?'
  'I can tell you we're in deep doo-doo up there. The HVO are claiming we've
  been using our truck to smuggle the "Muf in and out. Usual crap. But the
  bottom line

               242

 is I've got a lot of work to do patching things up with the locals. And
 I think it best if you aren't around when I do it.'
 ,I see.'
  The waiter approached and they ordered club sandwiches and beers.
  'Yes. The trouble is people will link you with Moray. They probably think
  you were both perverts. It's all rumour control up there. Truth only
  makes up ten per cent of what people believe. If that.'
  Alex nodded. If he was being given his cards, it was no more than he'd
  expected.
  'So, this is what I've decided,' Allison continued. 'Tomorrow morning
  there's another of my trucks arriving from England. You can give us a
  hand stuffing the boxes into the Bedford and then push off back to
  England if you like. The chap who drives the bread van out from Farnham
  can come up to Vitez with me. He's bringing a camera. We'll get some new
  pictures of our aid being distributed and hope it co7interacts the lousy
  press we got over McFee.'
  'And ... how do I travel to Englancl?' Alex asked flatly.
  'You can have the return half of my air ticket, if you like. I'll get it
  transferred into your name.'
 The sandwiches arrived.

 Alex lay on the bed in his room staring at the ceiling. In the hours that
 had passed since Lorna drove away at the Hotel Split, he'd reached a firm
 conclusion. However resistant she might be, he needed her and he was going
 to have her again.
  It wasn't a pretty sight, looking back on his life. There seemed to be
  a trail of human suffering lying in his wake that resembled the work of
  a joy-rider in a parking lot.

               243

 There was still time however, to create something good, something litsting
 from it.
  The problem was how to get Lorna back. He'd ruled out returning to the
  hotel to tell her what he felt. Nothing would be accomplished while she
  still had Vildana to hide behind.
  In the meantime there was also the question of Milan Pravic. A
  mass-murderer on the loose who had to be stopped from killing again.
  He checked his watch. Four o'clock - three p.m. in London. It was time he
  let Roger Chadwick know what he'd found out.
  He dialled the number he'd been given. A voice he'd never heard before
  answered and took a message. He replaced the receiver and waited for the
  call back.
  Ten minutes was all it took before Chadwick's sonorous tones boomed down
  the line.
 'Nice to hear your voice,' Alex volunteered.
 'Oh, dear. Things must be bad,' Chadwick quipped.
 'You know what's happened... ?'
  'Of course. It's been all over the papers and the TV. You have my sympathy,
  dear boy.'
  'Thanks. Well the result is I've just been fired. My days as a charity
  worker out here are over, I'm afraid.'
  'Oh dear. That's a pity, but I have to say I'm not surprised. Did you learn
  anything useful?'
  Alex told him about Father Pravic. He also mentioned the existence of
  Vildana, but without revealing his own involvement in her escape from
  Bosnia.
  'A witness! You have done well. The UN will be delighted if they ever catch
  the blighter. Where's the girl now?'
  'Don't want to say any more at the moment,' Alex stalled. The last thing he
  wanted was to tell Chadwick about Lorna. He'd never hear the last of it.
  'I'll call you again on a secure line in a few days' time.'

               244

  'Mmm. All right.'Chadwick sounded impressed by his security-speak.
  'As to Pravic, or the Scorpion as his brother so descriptively calls him
  - it looks as if he's done a bunk. No one knows where to. But Roger, the
  man's really dangerous. He's got to be found. He sounds like a psychopath
  and his brother says he'll definitely kill again.'
  'Well as long as he does it in Bosnia, I don't suppose anyone'll be too
  fussed,' Chadwick mumbled.
 Alex winced.
 'Not fussed? Slaughtering women and children?'
  'We-ell it's not really our problem, is it? We're not the world's
  policemen any more. You've done your best. We've done our best as UK
  Limited. I think I'll pass the baton back to the UN War Crimes people in
  the Hague and let them take up the running.'
  'You wouldn't be so bloody blas6 if the bloke was on the loose in
  Hampshire,'Alex growled.
 'But he's not, is he?'
 'I don't know. He could be anywhere.'
 'Got a description of him?'
 'Fair hair and blue eyes, not very tall. That's all.'
  There was a pause from the other end in which Alex thought he heard a
  sigh.
  'Bloody Bosnia,' Chadwick muttered. 'We'd all love to leave them to it,
  but they won't let us. So what do you suggest - as our man on the spoff
  he added grandly. 'We're still happy to pay your exes if you think
  there's anything more you can do.'
 Alex hesitated.
  'Give me a day or two to think, and I'll get back to you.'
  'Fine. Oh by the way, when you return to England there's some good news
  for you,' Chadwick continued, perkily. 'Might put a smile on your face.
  It looks like the Provos are heading for a cease-fire.'

               245

  Alex replaced the receiver. He'd given hardly a thought to the IRA in the
  last few days. Their threat to his life had almost ceased to be real.
 There was a knock on the bedroom door.
 'Yes?'
  'It's Mike. Time to go down to the Travel Agent and get the ticket done.
  You'll need your passport.'
  Of course. His ticket home. He swung his feet to the floor. Half-past-five.
  The walk to the harbour took twenty minutes. Clustered at one end of the
  palm-lined promenade was a small parade of travel and souvenir shops. It
  didn't take long to re-issue the air ticket in Alex's name.
  Young couples in jeans and T-shirts strolled by the water's edge. With the
  preserved remains of the old medieval town as a backdrop, they could have
  been on the French Riviera if it weren't for the stench of sewage that rose
  from the oily waters of the port.
  'Gorgeous bloody women in this country,' Allison purred. 'Fancy a drink at
  one of those caf6s to take in the view?'
  He was right about the pretty girls. There'd be plenty to look at.
  Suddenly, realizing where he was, Alex had a different idea. He glanced at
  his watch. Nearly half-past-six.
  'No thanks. There's a friend of mine going on the ferry to Ancona tonight.
  Think I'll try to catch her before she gets on board. . . .'
 Allison lifted one eyebrow then set off on his own.
  Alex hurried towards the docks, suspecting he might already be too late.
  The ferry sailed in less than an hour.
  It was further than he'd remembered to the terminal. He began to run. Dock
  workers waiting at a bus stop watched nervously. When people ran here, it
  often meant trouble wasn't far behind.
  A short line of trucks still queued at the customs barrier, but no Land
  Cruisers.

               246

 A quarter to seven. Must have missed her.
  He walked to the police pole. Without a ticket he could go no further. Two
  hundred metres beyond the control point, the lights of the ferry's upper
  deck sparkled in the dusk.
  He saw figures on deck. Dark shapes taking a last look at the floodlit
  ramparts of the old town. He strained to make them out. Two tallish forms
  with a smaller one between them. Might be Lorna. Might not.
  Convincing himself it was, he waved. We'll meet again soon, he decided.
  He hung around until the ship sailed, then made his way back to the
  promenade. The evening was mild, a temperature they'd have called 'summer'
  in Scotland. The crowds on the promenade had grown. Couples flirted at the
  caf6s.
  He ambled through the bustle, relishing its sensuousness. He took a seat at
  a restaurant whose tables spilled onto the pavement. He wasn't particularly
  hungry, but he'd eat something.
  While waiting for service, he pulled the airline ticket from his pocket and
  studied it carefully for the first time. The flight was tomorrow afternoon.
  Split to Zagreb, then Zagreb-Frankfurt, and Frankfurt-London.
 Frankfurt! They'd made it easy for him.

 247

             Twenty

 Zagreb, Croatia
 10.30 p.m. the same night

 The man with the broken nose sat in his rented Golf, parked at Zagreb's
 Pleso airport in a position where he could see the planes landing. At this
 time of night the place was almost deserted. No more scheduled flights were
 due in.
  Martin Sanders was more nervous than he had been for many a year. As a
  department head with the British Secret Intelligence Service, it wasn't
  often he did field work any more. The activities of the Ramblers were so
  secret however, they were compelled to keep the use of subordinates to a
  minimum.
  Parked nearby, Marcel Vaillon from the DGSE was keeping an eye on the
  terminal building. Everything depended on their identification of the
  target. Without that there could be no killing.
  The advance intelligence the CIA had gleaned was skimpy. They had the
  Iranian's name, but their only photograph was a family snap of him as a
  bearded youth, taken at the time of the Islamic Revolution. They knew he'd
  be on this flight, but didn't know where he'd meet his contact.
  Information on the Russian was zero. No name, no data whatsoever. He must,
  they assumed, already be in Zagreb. Waiting somewhere with his lethal
  sample.
  For a jumbo jet to fly from Tehran, the hotbed of Islamic fundamentalism,
  to this the capital of militantly

               248

 Catholic Croatia, was an odd event, but no odder than many that had
 happened in the fon-ner Yugoslavia.
  The flight was arriving in the dark of night and would leave again before
  dawn. Few people would ever know the plane had been here. Official
  sources would deny it.
  Balkan politicians had turned somersaults in the past few days. The
  Bosnian Croats and the mostly Muslim Bosnian government forces, who'd
  fought so bloodily over territory, had cemented their cease-fire by
  signing a confederation agreement. Pooling resources again to kill Serbs,
  instead of each other, had finally made sense to even the most stubborn.
  As a spin-off from that agreement, Croatia had given permission for Iran
  to re-arm the BiH Armija. The guns were being ferried through airfields
  on the coast, to be driven through Croatian territory into Bosnia.
  Tonight's flight to Zagreb was the pay-off to Croatia -a plane-load of
  explosives and ammunition, a gift from the mullahs, which the Croatians
  wanted for the renewal of their own battle with the Serbs.
  On the return flight to Iran, the cargo would be much smaller but
  potentially much more lethal - a sliver of Russian plutonium.
  Sanders had the car windows down, listening. At two minutes to midnight
  lie heard the roar of turbofans as a 747 flared out for landing. Through
  night-vision binoculars he watched the white-painted jumbo taxi to the
  far side of the airfield. No markings on it. No airline logo, no giveaway
  fin-flash. Vehicles clustered round the plane, their tail-lights forming
  a ruby crescent.
  He picked up the rented telephone and dialled the number of Marcel's
  mobile.
 'The guests have arrived,' he said cryptically.
  'I thought so,' the Frenchman answered. 'A car has just arrived at the
  terminal.'
 They disconnected.
 Sanders started the engine, switched on the lights and

               249

 motored slowly to the car park exit. He paid the sleepy attendant with a wad
 of devalued Dinar notes then drove on and stopped just short of the
 terminal. He pretended to be consulting a map.
  The 'car' was a minibus. Might be for the aircrew, but there was no other
  vehicle in sight. No taxis at this time of night. If Akhavi had an
  appointment in town, the bus could well be for him.
  Vaillon was closer. The final identification would have to be his.
  Sanders drummed his fingers on the wheel. Too many uncertainties for his
  liking. Desperately under-resourced the whole operation was. Had to be,
  when officially the Ramblers didn't even exist.
  Three minutes later a lone figure 'in a dark suit emerged from the
  terminal, accompanied by the uniformed driver of the minibus. Too shadowy
  for Sanders to make out, even through the glasses. Maybe Vaillon had more
  luck.
 His phone rang.
 'Yes?'
 'Cannot be certain. But I think,' Vaillon's voice.
 'I'll go for it then?'
 'Yes.'
  The minibus began to move. Sanders slipped the Golf into gear and took
  station about fifty metres behind, heading for Zagreb.
  Vaillon would remain at the airport in case someone else looking like
  Akhavi emerged, or the Russian arrived. If the rendezvous was on the
  airport itself however, they were screwed. No way they could take them out.
  Sanders followed the minibus for fifteen minutes, then called Vaillon
  again.
 'Crossing the Sava by the Freedom Bridge.'
 'Nothing new here,'Vaillon acknowledged.
 The minibus turned left onto Vukovarska then right

               250

 into Miramarska, Sanders letting a taxi slip in between himself and the
 van.
  Left and right past squares and fountains, then the target vehicle pulled
  up at the Martinova Hotel.
  Sanders stopped at the kerb. Parking no problem at this time ofnight.
  Lights out and onto his feet running, keeping in the shadows. He punched
  the buttons of the phone. A different number this time.
  Ja? A German voice answered, the man Sanders knew simply as Dunkel.
 'Hotel Martinova. Zehn Minuten.'
 Jawohk'
  Voices on the phone, that's all they were. They'd never met. Never would.
  Dunkel hadn't even been told who he was working for.
  Sanders pushed through the swing doors into the hotel. The man he'd
  followed from the airport stood at the reception desk holding one of
  those large black leather bags used by pilots.
  Sanders' heart missed a beat, terrified he'd followed the wrong man.
  Iranian? Certainly looked it -- dark hair, dark-framed spectacles, small
  moustache, and wearing one of those collarless shirts under a suit that
  was almost black.
 But was it Akhavi?
  Sanders walked up behind him as casually as he could. He hovered half a
  pace from the desk. There was just a night clerk on duty.
  Hearing him, the Iranian snapped his head round. Fear in his eyes - a
  good sign. Sanders smiled.
 'Good evening,' he purred.
  The Iranian nodded and turned back to the desk. Sanders moved a little
  closer. The clerk had the reservation details already printed and pushed
  forward a form for the Iranian to sign.
  'You pay by credit card?' the clerk asked in heavilyaccented English.

               251

 'Mmm.,
 'I make print?'
  He made a wiping gesture with his hand. The Iranian understood and pulled
  an American Express card from his pocket-book.
  Sanders lurched for-ward, making a grab for a brochure from the display on
  the counter.
 'Sorry,' he murmured, brushing against the Iranian.
  just a quick glance. Enough to see the name Akhavi on the card.
  He backed off a pace and pretended to read the brochure.
  'Room 6 10. Sixth floor,' the clerk said. 'Is a letter for you. Have you
  baggage?'
  'I don't need help,' Akhavi answered, reaching out his hand for the key and
  the envelope.
  'Elevator is over there,' the clerk added, pointing to the left.
  Sanders rested his hand on the counter and watched Akhavi walk away.
 The clerk coughed. 'Can I help you, sir?'
  'Yes. I want to know if a friend of mine has checked in already. A Herr
  Dunkel? From Germany.'
 The clerk shook his head.
 'Could you look again, just to be sure?'
  The clerk wheezed with annoyance, but glanced down at the register. Sanders
  peered past him at the room keys hanging on their hooks. 612 was missing,
  but 614 was there. Close enough.
  'There is no reservation for that narne,' the clerk grunted.
  'Oh dear, oh dear. Must be the traffic. I'm sure he'll turn up. Are you
  sure he hasn't reserved room six one four? Always goes for that number if
  he can. Some stupid superstition.'
 'Is no reservation!'

               252

  'Okay, okay. I'll leave a note anyway.'He snapped his fingers, irritably.
  'You have some paper?'
 The clerk gave him a sheet and an envelope.
 'Plenty room, if your friend he come. Neina probLema.'
  Sanders sealed his note, scribbled Dunkel's name on the outside and
  pushed it across the counter.
 'Where's the toilet?'
 'Sir?'
  'The toilet. The washroom,' Sanders repeated, rubbing his hands together.
 'Round the corner. Next the bar.'
 The clerk pointed.
 'Thanks.'
  Sanders followed the directions but ignored the Gospoda sign.
  He was in luck. Stairs next to the toilets led up to a mezzanine floor.
  He climbed them, pushed on a door marked 1-Jaz and found the emergency
  stairs.
  He climbed two more floors, then listened. Silence. He took the phone
  from his pocket and called Vaillon again.
  'It's our man. Definite,' he said. 'Hotel Martinova, room six-ten. Our
  boys are on the way. They'll be in six fourteen.'
 Then he rang off.
  Sanders continued up to the sixth floor. Easing open the door to the
  corridor, he slipped past Akhavi's room. No sound from inside. He turned
  back and hid behind the exit door, waiting and watching through a crack.
  Down at the reception desk, Konrad signed the name Dunkel, giving an
  address in Munich. He paid cash in advance for the room and left his
  false passport so the clerk could complete the documentation.
  Konrad and Pravic waited for the lift. The clerk glanced at them
  knowingly. The one who'd registered looked to be nearly sixty, but his
  blonde, blue-eyed companion was younger. Picked him up in a bar shouldn't
  wonder.

               253

  Konrad led the way along the silent sixth floor corridor. He stopped at
  614, his key slipping into the lock. Pravic crept forward to check the
  other numbers. 6 10 was two doors further on.
  Inside their room, Konrad unzipped his bag and carefully removed the
  equipment. Pravic watched uneasily. Konrad had told him only the bare
  essentials of what this job was about. just enough to know why his
  particular skills were needed.
  Poisoning was not the way Pravic liked to kill. Too remote, too uncertain.
  When he'd murdered a man for Konrad in Berlin six years before, it had been
  with a knife.
  He saw the strain on Konrad's face. He'd refused to say who they were
  working for, but he guessed it was somebody in Zagreb. There'd been two
  phone calls with instructions.
  Pravic placed a chair in the entrance lobby, beside the bathroom. Above his
  head was a wire grill and a humming fan. He found the control for the
  air-conditioning and turned it off. Then he climbed on the chair and lifted
  the grill which was nearly a metre square, turning it diagonally to lower
  it through the aperture.
 :What do you think?' Konrad asked under his breath.
  Maybe okay,' Pravic, whispered, stepping to the floor again. 'Old hotel.
  Plenty space.'
 His German was halting, but adequate.
  From Konrad's tool kit, Pravic took a torch, a screwdriver and a drill.
  'Help me,' he said, locking his hands together in a stirrup to show what he
  meant.
  Konrad stood beside the chair, and gave him a leg up into the ceiling
  space.
  For years Pravic had worked with ventilation systems, but fear of these
  cramped spaces never left him. The gap concealed by the false ceiling was
  just half a metre high, its metal frame and crawling boards built for
  access.

               254

  Pravic shone his torch upwards. An aluminium duct extended in from the
  corridor. From its open end he felt the cool draught of fresh air.
  The fan, when switched on, sucked air from the room, mixed in the fresh
  supply, then blew it back into the bedroom through a vent.
 Every room the same - including 610.
  Pravic wriggled into the roof space. Separating him from the void above
  the corridor was a square access panel, held in place by four screws. He
  removed them and the panel came away easily. Then suddenly it slipped
  from his grip, thudding onto the ceiling below him.
  He froze. Beneath him Konrad swore, then switched on the television to
  drown his noise.

 Two doors down, Dr Harnid Akhavi dialled the room number written on the
 note he'd been given at reception.
 'Pavel?' he asked timidly.
 'Da.'

  'Hamid. In room six hundred ten,' he said in heavilyaccented Russian.
 'I'll come up.'
  Three minutes later they were shaking hands and embracing.
 'I'm very pleased to see you, my friend,' Akhavi said.
 'I too.'
  They embraced again, their first meeting for four years.
 'How much time do you have here?' Kulikov asked.
  Akhavi looked at his watch. Ten minutes past one in the morning.
 'The car comes at four.'
  They sat and Akhavi offered an orange juice from the minibar. The Russian
  would have preferred something stronger.

               255

 'You weren't followed?' Kulikov asked.
  'I don't think so. An Englishman downstairs - I believe he was drunk.' His
  lips pouted with distaste.
  He asked about Kulikov's family. Time was short, but the social courtesies
  his culture had taught him could not be by-passed. Eventually he was ready
  to grasp the nettle.
 'So, you have brought me something?' he asked.

 Sanders had seen the Russian arrive, carrying a large Samsonite briefcase.
 He descended two floors on the emergency stairs, then dialled Dunkel's
 number.
  'Sie sind zusammen,' he announced softly when Dunkel answered.

 Konrad put the phone down. Same mystery voice that had summoned him to this
 hotel. English accent.
 NATO? Was that who his employer was?
  ng are together. The code they'd agreed. The clock was now ticking.
  Konrad grabbed a mask, hooked the strap over his head and settled the soft
  rubber over his nose and mouth. Then he breathed in sharply to test the
  seal.
  He laid out the artists' airbrush, the propellant canister and its
  connecting tube. Beside it, the screw-top jar containing the lethal,
  light-brown fluid.
  Take great care, Kemmer had said. One tiny splash of the liquid could mean
  himself being victim to the same delayed-action death he'd chosen for the
  men in room 610.
  Konrad pulled on surgical gloves and unscrewed the lid of the jar.

 Blood pounded in Pravic's ears as he squeezed between the ducts in the dark
 void above the sixth-floor corridor.

               256

 With hardly room to move, hardly space to breathe, panic came in waves,
 drenching him in sweat. He cursed Dunkel for making him do this.
  Above his head ran the big square duct feeding air to the rooms. First
  spur to the left for 612, the next for 6 10. just a few metres more ...
  Yet ... the deeper he crawled, the further he got from his escape hatch,
  the more Pravic feared that the demons in his soul would emerge from
  their caves and cripple him.
  He rested for a second, trying to shut out memories of the voices and
  smells, which had always been precursors to the childhood abuse that had
  warped his mind.
  Sometimes darkness triggered these flashbacks - at night he tried to keep
  a light on when he slept. Sometimes confinement did it, like in this
  tunnel where cobwebbed pipe work scraped his back as he inched along the
  boards.
  The fear was so strong now he wanted to retch. Fear of being trapped, of
  his child body being pinned down by a weight so much heavier than its
  own. It was all coming back - the smell of his father's spirit-laden
  breath on the back of his neck, the hoarse panting in his car, the pain
  as his feeble attempts to resist were overpowered, and the humiliation
  as the drunkard's fat prick spurted stickily between his thighs.
  Then they were gone, the images swirling back into their Hadean mists.
  This time the waking nightmare had been over quickly. Sometimes the
  revulsion lingered, destroying his control.
  He waited for his heartbeat to settle, then wiped the sweat from his eyes
  with a shirt sleeve. He had to press on.
  At the next joint in the ducts he followed the pipe to the panel for room
  6 10. Muffled voices growled beyond the plasterboard. He heard the whirr
  of the fan.
 He pushed the twist-drill against the panel and turned

               257

 the handle. Slowly. Quietly. The material was soft. Didn't take much to
 make a neat round hole.
  Then he backed away with his tools, feet first towards room 614.

 Konrad dripped the brown liquid into the reservoir of the paint sprayer.
 A quarter of a litre was all it held. As he stopped the flow, a couple of
 drops spilled onto the tissue he'd laid out to catch them.
  He held his breath. Then, steadying his hands, he screwed the cap back
  on the jar, which was still half full. He wiped the rim with the soiled
  tissue and placed the refuse in a polythene bag. Finally he screwed the
  reservoir onto the stern of the air brush.
 'Psst!'
  Pravic's head hung down from the vent in the lobby. Konrad passed him the
  second face mask and a pair of rubber gloves.
  'Make sure it fits,' he warned. 'Mask must be tight. Understand?'
  Pravic grunted. Then Konrad handed him the air brush and the propellant
  canister in a bag.
  'Don't connect the air until you are ready,' he reminded him.
  Pravic looked irritated. He knew exactly what to do and didn't like old
  fools like Dunkel telling him.

 Two doors down, Dr Hamid Akhavi had also donned rubber gloves. Plutonium's
 toxicity made it foolish to touch it with bare hands.
  The sample was smaller than he'd expected, like a segment of an orange.
  But from its colour and its weight he knew it was the real thing. Twenty
  pieces like this and he could make an atomic bomb.

               258

  'We still must analyze it,' he said, trying not to show his excitement.
  He packed the plutonium back in its container then went to the bathroom
  to wash his gloved hands. As he dried them on a towel, he looked up
  sharply, hearing a creaking from the ceiling.
  He listened again, but there was nothing more. Must be the ancient
  plumbing, he decided.
  'There is still a problem, Pavel,' he said, returning to the table and
  pulling off his gloves. 'Your price is ... unjust.'
  Kulikov bristled. He hated the bazaar mentality of the Islamic world.
  'Twenty kilos is a lot of plutonium, my friend. It would take you decades
  to produce in your own reactors.'
 Akhavi held up his hands in acknowledgement.
  'Of course. But my country simply cannot pay one hundred million dollars.
  Already the nuclear programme starves our economy. The reactor contracts
  with your government and with the Chinese, they are not cheap. And the
  machinery. . .'
  'You too must understand something, my friend. There are many people I
  must pay. A whole shift of the security personnel. Senior officers who
  will arrange transportation. Border officials ... the list is long. And
  the risk to me is great. If I'm found out it'll be the firing squad.'
  They looked at one another. They both knew there was truth in each
  other's position. They guessed too there was room for manoeuvre. What
  neither could be sure of was how much.
 'What is your offer, my friend?'
 'Twenty million.'
 The Russian exploded with derisive laughter.

 Pravic heard the outburst through the plasterboard, and

               259

 froze, terrified he'd been discovered. An angry Slavic voice boomed through
 the ceding panels.
  A fresh tremor of panic rippled the length of his body. He dug his nails
  into his palms, puncturing the thin rubber gloves.
  Then he heard two voices. Anger directed at one another, not at him.
 He breathed again. Short quivering breaths.
  Do the job, he told himself Then the passport would be his. A passport to
  freedom.
  He pressed the nozzle of the airbrush into the hole he'd drilled. A tight
  fit. Then he connected the propellant can with the tube. He eased the mask
  over his nose and mouth, the rubber slippery on his sweaty skin.
  He held his breath, pressed the button on the spray and held it down. With
  the torch lighting up the reservoir he watched the brown liquid disappear
  into the conditioned air of Room 6 10.

 Outside in the street, Martin Sanders re-parked his car to overlook the
 hotel entrance. He wanted a photo of the Russian if he could get one. He
 guessed the silver-haired smuggler might be on the flight to Moscow at
 eightfifteen in the morning.
  Vadlon also waited nearby, his task to follow the Iranian back to the
  airport.

 Akhavi and Kulikov shook hands, not because they'd agreed a price, but
 because they knew they'd have to eventually. Thirty million was as high as
 the Iranian had been prepared to go.
  They were ready for the next phase - the proving of the sample at the
  desert laboratories. Then they could plan for shipment and delivery.
 Kulikov eased open the door, looked both ways and

               260

 slipped back to his room. In his hand the Samsonite briefcase which had
 held the plutonium sample was now packed with $ 100,000 in used notes.

 Dieter Konrad cleaned the equipment with the bactericide Kernmer had given
 him. Every piece of tissue he'd used, every part of the spray, he placed
 in a plastic bag and sealed it.
  The half-full flask of brown liquid he encased in 'bubble-wrap' plastic
  to protect it, then stuffed it in his bag to be disposed oflater.
  Pravic watched, emotionally drained. The precautions Dunkel was taking
  alarmed him. He didn't even know what it was, this lethal substance he'd
  administered, and he had a lurking fear it could have contaminated him
  too.
  'You go now, Milan,' Konrad announced. He sounded tired and flat. 'I'll
  stay until the morning. It will be less suspicious. Ring me at the
  Dubrovnik at ten. By then I will have decided when we go to Berlin. Maybe
  tomorrow. Maybe the next day.'
 Pravic hesitated. He trusted no one.
 'You have the passport?' he demanded.
 Konrad frowned in irritation.
  'Yes, but not here. I'll give it to you tomorrow at the hotel.'
 He saw the suspicion in Pravic's ice-blue eyes.
 'Don't worry.'
  After Pravic was gone, Konrad lay on the bed and closed his lids. To rest
  and to think, but not to sleep. That was impossible. It always had been
  after sentencing someone to death.

               261

          Twenty-One

      Friday Ist April. 4.35 p.m.
      Pthein-Main Air Base, Frankfurt

      Colonel Irwin Roche eased his Opel Vectra forward. He'd got used
      to a manual shift since being in Europe and liked it. He was even
      considering giving up on automatics when he returned to Milwaukee.
       The line of cars leaving the base seemed slow today, or maybe his
       wish to get home was stronger than usual. Not that he wasn't
       always happy to see Nancy and the twins, but tonight they were
       expecting a new arrival.
       The woman from CareNet had called that morning to say they'd be
       arriving late. Very late, probably. Lorna Sorensen, that was the
       name she'd given. Didn't know when they'd get here, but he'd
       looked up the map and Ancona was a hell of a long way south.
       The queue of automobiles surged a little. He waved to the duty
       man at the guard post, and then he was through to the public
       highway. He took the slip road down onto the Autobahn and eased
       into the slow-moving traffic. Always solid at this time of day,
       and in the mornings. Fortunately the next junction was his
       turn-off, so he never had more than a few minutes of it to put up
       with.
       The village of Pfefferheim had hardly existed twenty years ago.
       Built as an overflow for Frankfurt, there were two other USAF
       families renting houses there. Wellbuilt, spacious homes with a
       basement and a good-sized yard, it suited them well. And Nancy
       liked living 'on the economy' instead of in family accommodation
       at the Air

                    262

 Base. She saw enough of the place as it was, working there part time in
 the welfare office.
  It was the arrival of Nataga in their household a year ago that had
  transformed Nancy's life. A twenty-oneyear-old refugee from Mostar, she
  was just one of hundreds of thousands of Bosnians taking refuge in
  Germany until peace let them return to their homes.
  The Roche family fed and housed her, and in return she drove the kids to
  school, picked them up again, and helped with their care. Nancy had
  relished the chance it had given her to work again. And the Colonel
  enjoyed having a pretty young woman around the place.
  Irwin Roche was a self-confessed computer-freak. He used a Unix system
  on the base to plan loads for the giant C-5 Galaxies that tramped back
  and forth across the Atlantic. But in his own home it was his Compaq PC
  that occupied much of his time. While Nancy and the kids watched TV in
  the evenings, he plugged into the Internet, communicating with cyberspace
  addicts all over the world.
  Most of the Newsgroups he subscribed to were trivial, but he'd stumbled
  across <alt.childadopt.agency> one day, while scanning a Usenet
  directory. Fascinated to see how the communications highway was being
  used, he read e-mail from agencies seeking American homes for the victims
  of war and disaster in Africa, and what used to be Russia. It had set him
  thinking.
  The Roche family had had it good. Better than they were entitled to
  expect perhaps, looking at all the misery in the world. One night in bed,
  he told Nancy what he'd been thinking. Shouldn't thg be offering the
  comfort of their home, and the security and warmth of their family, to
  a child whose life could be transformed by it?
  Nancy had responded with silence at first. She was just getting some of
  her own life back, now the twins were ten and Nataga was here to help.
  But then she'd begun to look at the TY news in a different light. All
  those

               263

 suffering kids - she'd felt so helpless about them before. Maybe the two of
 them could do something. Maybe they should.
  Then just at the beginning of this week, Irwin had seen the computer
  message about Vildana. The girl needed Can angel' the e-mail had said. He'd
  pulled Nancy away from the TV and showed her the screen of the Compaq.
  Within minutes they'd decided. Minutes later he'd emailed an offer to the
  agency.
  Things had moved fast. It turned out that CareNet had contacts at
  Rhein-Main, and the next day he and Nancy were given a grilling from a
  fellow colonel. They must have passed, because two days later they'd been
  signed up.
  The twins were pretty stunned at their decision. Bound to be when their
  even, predictable young lives were about to face the unknown.
 Nataga had wept for a day. They weren't too sure why.
  Roche eased the Vectra into the garage. Scott and Ella came running round
  from the yard.
 'When's she coming, have you heard?' they yelled.
  'Late. Real late. But in time for breakfast tomorrow, I guess.'

 Lansbruck, Austria 5 p.m.

 It was crazy to do the drive to Frankfurt in one day. Innsbruck was only
 half way and they'd been on the road since 8 a.m. Lorna was exhausted. She'd
 hoped doing the journey in one burst would be the best way to minimize its
 effect on the kid. Vildana had slept for much of the journey, so perhaps
 she'd been right.

               264

  She'd had to letJosip share the driving; on motorways he was less of a
  liability, with no narrow gaps and mountain tracks to negotiate. It had
  given her time to think.
  About Alex. She missed him desperately. Wanted to run back to Split and
  tell him she hadn't meant to brush him off, that she'd just needed to
  hurt him a little, to show him he couldn't remain unpunished for what
  he'd done all those years ago.
  The next step was up to him. She'd shown him he couldn'tjust snap his
  fingers for her to come running, but she'd also given him a way to
  contact her if he wanted to.
  The Battle of the Sexes business - it was a game she'd never been good
  at. Never known how far to go, when to resist, when to give in. She
  pushed her fingers through her hair and kneaded the tension from the back
  of her neck, terrified she'd got it wrong.
  Passing Vildana off as her own daughter had worked well at the frontiers.
  Their passports had merited just a cursory glance, and at Split, the
  stamp that Alex had created had passed unnoticed.
  It was illegal what she was doing, of course, but it would be for the
  Roche family to sort matters out with the authorities later. She was just
  the delivery girl.
  They'd stopped for lunch on the Autostrada near Verona, Vildana's pate
  face blank-eyed with bewilderment. She had hardly eaten anything. Lorna
  could imagine the terrors the child must be going through, travelling
  halFway across a continent to live with strangers.
  At Innsbruck they'd taken another short break, and Lorna telephoned CNN.
  It was lunchtime in Atlanta: the girl on the newsdesk had been expecting
  her call.
  'Great!' she'd said. 'You're happy we run the story in the next World
  News in a couple of hours?'
 'Sure. We'll be in G ermany by then.'
 Lorna would have liked to see the programme, but

               265

 there woWd be no chance of that with another six hours of driving ahead of
 them.
  The next stretch of road cut northeast through the Tyrol to the German
  border. Josip was at the wheel. Lorna looked out at the hills in the fading
  light. Still plenty of snow on the upper slopes. She used to ski most
  winters. Last time had been with Rees in Colorado. They'd left Julie in the
  care of her sister Annie for a couple of weeks.
  Sometimes she envied Annie. Not often, but at times like this, when life
  became so convoluted.
  Annie had met Joe at College, a good, Irish boy. They'd married soon after
  graduating, and produced five kids. just like that, with no doubts raised,
  questions asked, or mind-shaking problems presenting themselves. Joe and
  Annie had never faced a crisis in their lives, as far as Lorna could see.
  Not a single one! Yet for her, crises were like milestones, popping up with
  alarming regularity.
 And now she was in the midst ofone called 'Alex'.

 Franlkfurt International Airport 6.20 p.m.

 Standing by the carousel, Alex gathered up his bags from the Croatian
 Airlines flight, found a trolley and passed through into the terminal
 building.
  Two hours wait in Frankfurt before the British Airways connection to
  London, which he wasn't planning to take. He could think of only one reason
  for returning to Britain just now - Kirsty. If things had changed and she
  needed him, he would go back. For a while anyway.
 Leaving Bosnia had turned his thoughts once more to

               266

 the place and the people that had been 'home' for twenty years. He still had
 obligations there which he couldn't ignore. Had to find out if the woman he
 was married to wanted him back.
  He wheeled the trolley to a bank, changed a 20 Deutsche mark note into
  coins, and found a telephone.
  He rang East Lothian and spoke to Kirsty's brother, who'd just got home
  from work.
  'Och, it's good to hear your voice Alex,' he said. 'And so close, you could
  be in the next room.'
 'How's Kirsty?' Alex's throat was dry.
  'Och, about the same. Not been able to pull herself together much. The
  doctor's still giving her tablets.'
 J see. Does she ever talk about me?'
 He heard a sigh at the other end of the line.
  'No. She does not.' Another sigh, then, 'I could tell her you rang, but it
  may be better not to, frankly. But what of yourselP They had pictures of
  you on the television earlier in the week. You were refusing to answer
  questions about that monster from Edinburgh. Must ha' been awful. We felt
  so sorry for you getting mixed up in such a thing.'
  'Aye, well it's all over,' he said, slipping back into his lowlands accent.
  'I'm in Frankfurt now and don't expect to be going back to Bosnia. I'll be
  here a few days. Maybe ring you again in another week or so?'
 'Grand if you would.'
  He rang off. Fifteen Deutsche marks left. Should be enough for his next
  call. He fumbled in his pocket for Lorna's card. It was well past lunchtime
  in Boston.
  'CareNet, Bella speaking.' A nasal voice, a slight echo on the line.
  'Hello. I'm calling from Frankfurt, Germany,' he said hurriedly, watching
  the phone counter tick away the Pfennigs. 'I need to get in touch with one
  of your people over here, Lorna Sorensen? She should be arriving in
  Frankfurt today or tomorrow, but I don't know where

               267

 she's staying.'
 'Oh, let me just check ... Who is this?'
  'My name's Alex Crawford. I'm an old friend. I've just been with her in
  Bosiiia.'
  'Sure, hold the line please, Mr Crawford.'There was a click and the sound
  of Vivaldi. Ten Deutsche marks gone already.
  'I'm sorry, sir,' Bella said, back on the line, 'we don't know where she's
  staying in Frankfurt. She hasn't told us
 yet.'
  'What about the address of the family who are taking the child? Vildana,
  you know?'
  'Oh that's confidential information, Mr Crawford. We can't give that out t6
  anybody,' she replied stiffly. 'I tell you what. I could e-mail her if you
  wish.'
 'E-mail? Send her a message, you mean?'
 'Uh-huh.'
  'Okay then ... just say Alex is in Frankfurt and has to see her ... I'll
  ring again tomorrow to see if she's told you where I can contact her.'
 'That's a] P just - Alex is in Frankfurt?'
  'Yes. No! No, one other thing. Write ... write this: Alex says he
  lovesyou.'
 'Oh, that's cute! You want me to e-mail thaff
 'Sure. I'll ring again tomorrow.'
 The phone cut. His money was out.

 Bavaria 7.10 p.m.

 At the border post between Austria and Germany, the Bundesgrenzschutzpolizei
 received a daily update of names. Some belonged to undesirables to be denied

               268

 entry to the Bundesrepublik, others were of felons to be arrested.
  New that morning was the name of Milan Pravic of Bosnian or Croat
  nationality, wanted for questioning on suspicion of having committed
  crimes against humanity.
  The cream Mercedes with the Berlin plates slowed to a halt. Two passports
  were held out for inspection. Two passports were returned, and the car
  accelerated away again.
  With his fair hair, Pravic passed easily as a Pole. His photograph had
  been inserted expertly into Marek Gruszka's passport, stolen in Berlin.
  They'd left Zagreb in the early afternoon, the journey broken by a brief
  diversion to a forest, where Konrad burned the contaminated tissues he'd
  brought from the Hotel Martinova. Then he'd dug a small, deep hole and
  buried the spray equipment. The jar containing the remains of the lethal,
  brown liquid stayed in his blue sports bag in the boot of the car.
  Konrad wasn't sure why he had kept the anthrax bacilli, but something in
  the back of his mind was telling him the stuff might be of further use
  to him before long.
  It was getting late and he had done enough driving for one day. Anyway,
  he was hungry. He saw a sign for a motel and swung the Mercedes off the
  Autobalm.
  Pravic had slept for long stretches of the drive north. It had helped him
  avoid conversation with the German. Dunkel was not a man he'd ever liked
  or trusted.
  The motel was a shabby, single-storey construction, but it would do. It
  was on the edge of a small town where there would be places to eat.
  Konrad parked out of sight of the lobby. He sent Pravic to check in
  first, so they'd not be seen together. The rooms they were allocated were
  next to each other, however.
 Pravic threw his bag on the bed and, out of habit,

               269

 switched on the television. A few minutes later Konrad tapped at his door.
  'I'm going to find somewhere to eat,' he announced. 'You want to come?,
 Pravic avoided his eyes and shook his head.
  'Not hungry.' He'd seen a machine that dispensed sandwiches and beers in
  reception.
  Konrad shrugged and drove off, glad his invitation had been declined.
  The Bosnian lay on the bed and jabbed at the remote control. He flicked
  through a dozen cable channels but nothing held his attention. Eventually
  he left it tuned to the leather-clad dancers on M`FV.
  What he was looking for was news. Any channel that might tell him whether
  the world cared enough about the Tulici massacre to come looking for him.
  He knew there'd been questions asked by the UN in Vitez. He knew the
  politicians of America and Europe kept mouthing off about war crimes. He
  knew too that one Muslim girl had survived the attack and could probably
  identify him. What he didn't know was whether legal wheels were turning,
  whether there were people out there who were planning to send him to
  prison.
  His stomach rumbled. Time for some food. He locked the door behind him
  and walked round to the lobby. The receptionist changed his note for
  coins.
  He selected a Schinkenbrot and three bottles of Pilsner. He also bought
  a newspaper which listed the television programmes.
  The ham was good and smoky, and the beer nicely chilled. Some things they
  did well in Germany.
  He took off his shoes and trousers and stretched out on the bed, his back
  propped against pillows. He flipped through the TV listings. There was
  News at Nine on a German satellite channel; he checked his watch. Half
  an hour to go. He flicked to a game show.
 They made him smile, these stupid programmes.

               270

 Greed so coyly concealed. Reminded him of the nervous punters who paid
 Gisela 300 DMs an hour to whip and humiliate them.
  He became engrossed and remained so for the next half-hour, switching
  over too late to see the start of the news. He swore at himself for
  missing the headlines. The first items bored him - German politics. News
  about Bosnia came ten minutes into the programme. He moved to the edge
  of' the bed to see the screen more clearly.
  The Serbs were shelling the mostly Muslim enclave of Gorazde.
  It was a part of Bosnia that didn't interest him. No Croats there. But
  the fact that it was Muslims getting pounded gave him some pleasure. The
  pictures showed Serb guns, Serb tanks thumping their ordnance into the
  houses spread out in the valley below. His main interest was to see what
  weapons they were using.
  He felt in his bag for the pullover in which he'd wrapped his Crvena
  Zastrava M70 9mm pistol. He extracted it, unclipped the eight round
  magazine, slid back the slider and checked the barrel was clear.
  The presenter reappeared in vision, saying parliamentarians were
  complaining about the cost to German taxpayers of supporting so many
  Bosnian refugees. There'd been a debate in the Bundestag. A picture of
  the chamber appeared behind her.
  Then the background changed. A photomontage of a girl, her hands covering
  her mouth - and a computer screen.
  'ne American CNN TV reports that the computer network "Internet" is now
  being used to find homes for Bosnian war orphans.'
  The screen switched to CNN's video report, dubbed with a commentary in
  German.
  , 7-his girl is called Fildana. She's being caredfor by American aid
  worker Loma Sorensen and is the sole survivor of the horrific

               271

 massacre at Tulici three weeks ago in which joryt:four Muslim women and
 children died'
 Pravic caught his breath. He cocked the empty pistol.
  'Vildana witnessed her ownfamiyl bem'g murdered, but miraculously managed
  to conceal herseyfrom the killers. The United Nations War 0imes Tiibunal in
  the Hague plans to use her evidence to convict the men responsible - if thg
  canfind them.
  'Loma Sorensen used the latest computer technologv to link up directfrom
  Bosnia to a child adoption servw'e run by the American Caralket ageng on
  the Internet communications hz~hwqy. As a result, withinjust a couple of
  days Fildana has beenjound a new home 'in Germany. The identity and
  locatw'n of herfosterfamiyl are being kept secret, for her own safety.
 'Nowfootball ....
  Milan Pravic stared motionless at the screen. Then a low growl shook the
  bottom of his chest and percolated upwards until it erupted from his lips.
  He pointed the empty pistol at the screen and pressed the trigger.
  One little girl! One miserable child standing between him and freedom. And
  she was here in Germany.
  He tossed the weapon on the bed, leapt to his feet and paced the room,
  angry and afraid.

 Half an hour later, Konrad returned from the restaurant, went straight to
 his room and began to undress. He was in his underwear when Pravic knocked
 at his door.
 'Who is it?' he shouted.
 'Milan.'
 'What do you want?'
 'Left something in the car. I need the keys.'
  Konrad hesitated, suspecting for a second that Pravic might drive off in
  it. He contemplated getting dressed again to go out to the car with him.
  What the hell. He opened the door a crack and passed out the keys.
  Pravic walked out to the car. In his left hand he held two screw-top
  bottles of fruitjuice he'd bought from the

               272

 machine in reception. He put them on the ground and opened the trunk of
 the Mercedes. Tucked at the back, wedged "in place by a tool box to stop
 it falling on its side was Dunkel's blue sports bag. He undid the zip,
 reached in his hand and pulled out the jar of lethal brown liquid.
  He emptied one of the fruit-juice bottles onto the ground, then, covering
  his nose and mouth with a handkerchief, he unscrewed the top of Dunkel's
  jar and decanted its contents into his bottle. Finally he filled the jar
  with juice from the other container, screwed the cap back on and replaced
  it in the bag.

 Saturday 2nd April, 1.35 a.m.
 Pfefferheim near Frankffirt

 Nancy Roche had made fresh cinnamon bread, thinking that something warm
 and sweet to eat and drink would be a good way to welcome Vildana to her
 new home. The CareNet woman had rung again to say they'd be arriving after
 one o'clock.
  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.

               273

  '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 halfl'
  '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.

 274

            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

               275

 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 Caf6 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

               276

 thousands of Bosnians in Berlin. Muslims mostly. Odd to think that in the
 La9va 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 hullo to me?'
  Pravic ignored her, pulled away his hand and downed half the glass.
  Once or twice befibre 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.

               277

  '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 Caf6 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
  Caf6 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.'

               278

 '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. Frankfiwt

 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 ofthe 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

               279

 headline had caught his eye. Selbstmord in Leipz~a - 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 mid-morning that Saturday. After a huge
 brunch, Lorna sat in the big kitchen watching Vildana learn to make
 brownies. She

               280

 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 GareNet 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

               281

 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 inyour letter today with thefilin.
 Great! Larg'll be orbital when he hears. He thinks the CNN report was
 great. Not seen any checksyet, though! Getting the shots printed today,
 then Pll deliver the rest to Annie personally. The guy who calledyesterday
 has called again. Sounds real
 sweet. Hopeyou got the last message I sentyou. 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 calledfrom 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 LOVESyou! Let me know
  what to say to the poor maml
   Bella (a.k.a. Cupid)

               282

  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 fi-om Zagreb meant he

               283

 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 spare 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 xnidnight

 Pravic had been drinking schnapps with beer chasers. He'd found a cheap room
 to stay in and had returned to the Caf6 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.

               284

  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.'
  ,This man can do Internet?' Pravic growled. His voice was slurred.
  'That's what he said. Look, there's a cab over there.' She waved and the
  Mercedes turned towards them. 'Will you ring me tomorrow?'
 'What you mean? You come with me!'
 'I can't, Milan.'
 'Yes. You come.' He gripped her arm.
  'Milan . . .'she protested. 'I told you. The bloke in the bar fixed this up
  as a favour.'
 Pravic hadn't understood what she meant.
  'A favour ... it means I've got to do hu'n one in return. . .'
  He let go of her arm and ducked into the car. Gisela watched it speed away,
  terrified something monstrous was fermenting in the mind of her one-time
  lover.
  The taxi turned up Ghausseestrasse. At each set of red traffic lights, the
  driver thumbed through his street plan trying to locate the address.
  Fifteen minutes after being picked up, Pravic was deposited outside a small
  apartment house with plaster flaking from the walls. The panel of
  bell-pushes hung

               285

 loose, but when he pressed the button next to the name he'd been given,
 there was a quick response.
 'Yes?'
  'You are expecting me,' Pravic said, anxious not to give a name. 'For the
  computer.'
 'Yes, yes. Third floor.'
 The door buzzed and Pravic pushed it open.
  The man was wearing a dressing gown. From the small hallway Pravic caught
  a glimpse through a gap in a doorway. Satin sheets and the leg of a female.
  'Aber, mach's schnell, Heini.' The woman's voice was a whine. The man
  closed the bedroom door and led Pravic into a living room cluttered with
  cardboard boxes. On a table next to a reading lamp was a computer.
  'So what's this about? What do you want?' the man asked, irritated. 'Let's
  be quick. I've got things to do.'
  'You can do Internet?' Pravic asked, looking down at the floor.
  'Go on-line? Of course. But what do you want?' He switched on the
  equipment, glancing curiously at his weird visitor.
  'You see, I am from Bosnia,' Pravic began, trying to look sincere. 'My
  family all killed.just one survive. A girl. MY sister's child. Some people
  bring her to Germanyjust now because they think she has no family. They use
  Internet to find new home for her. Because they think there is no person of
  her own family to look after her. But they wrong. She has me. Now I must
  find her. Her name Vildana.'

 Pfefferheim

 Lorna couldn't sleep for thinking that Alex was nearby. She just wasn't made
 for the games she was putting herself through.

               286

  The house was quiet, the Roche family and Vildana all sound asleep. She
  tiptoed into the Colonel's den and powered up his Compaq. He wouldn't mind,
  she,told herself
  She'd worked out what to say in the message to Bella, intending to type it
  quickly and send it. But the 'mail' message flashed, telling her there was
  something new for her.
 Bella again.

   Saturday nite.
   Hi Lornal Listen. You've got to do something about this guy Alex. Put him
   out of hi's mise7y. He called again and left aphone
 number. Sounds so cute. ffyou don't want him, FIl have him.1

  Lorna wrote down the number, her heart thumping. She'd ring him first thing
  in the morning.

 287

           Twenty-three

 Sunday 3rd April, 10.15 a.m.
 Frankfurt

 'Hotel Sommer. Guten Tag.'
  'Good morning, room 313 please.' Lorna hoped the tremble in her voice
  wasn't too noticeable.
 'Zimmer drethundert dreizehn. Ein Moment bitte.'
  Not five star, she deduced from the telephonist's lack of English.
 'Hello?' Alex's voice.
 'Is that Alex?' she asked, unnecessarily.
 'Lorna?'
  'Sure. I got a message from Bella. What've you been saying to her? She
  sounds real turned on!'
  'I was beginning to think she was keeping it to herself,' he laughed
  nervously.
  'Hmm ... So what are you doing here, truly?' she asked, still playing dumb.
 'Truly - I've come to see you. Where are you?'
  'It's a place called Pfefferheim. It's where Vildana's new family live.'
 'Is she okay? Does she look happy?'
  'Everything's great so far. She can say "more please" in fluent English!'
 Alex laughed.
 'So, shall I come out there?'
  'No . . .' she answered hesitantly. 'But I tell you what. I've a couple of
  hours free today. Why don't I come downtown. Leave these good people on
  their own for a while. Name a restaurant and you can buy me lunch.'

               288

  She heard a clonking of the phone at the other end while he wrestled with
  something.
  just looking in the guide book. There's a place here that sounds okay. It's
  called Bistro Tagtraum which means "daydream". Sound suitable?'
 'Do they do vegetarian?'
 'Potato and ginger soup.'
  'Okay. Give me the address and I'll see you there at 12.30.'

 11.35 a.m.
 Autobalm A4 - the road from Berlin to Frankfin-t

 They'd been on the road since eight. The five-year-old VW Polo was Gisela's
 car, and she was driving, because Milan had never learned how.
  He had told her nothing about his meeting with the computer man. just
  telephoned her at four in the morning to insist she drive him to Frankfurt.
  She had protested, but hadn't refused. She knew what he was capable of,
  remembering what he'd done to clients who'd got rough with her in the old
  days.
  He'd hardly spoken on the journey. just sat there beside her, staring at
  the road ahead, holding onto the handles of a sports bag wedged between his
  feet. They'd stopped once for petrol and to use the toilets, but that was
  all. Questions about why they were going to Frankfurt had been answered
  with silence.
  He'd taken her hostage. Not with chains ' but with the unspoken threat of
  violence if she refused to do what he said.
 She was an emotional hostage too. Despite his weird

               289

 behaviour since returning to Germany, she felt strangely sorry for someone
 so clearly in torment.

 41ran

 Hamid Akhavi was lifted from the ambulance onto a stretcher trolley and
 wheeled into the small, two-ward hospital. The physician who'd ordered him
 to be brought there from his home was a worried man. His medical facilities
 at the desert site were minimal. Above all, he had no pathology laboratory.
 A sample of Akhavi's blood was already on its way to the hospital at Yazd,
 to be cultured overnight. Perhaps then he might have some idea what this
 illness was that had struck down one of the most important scientists in
 Iran.
  Overnight Akhavi's cough had worsened further. By first light there were
  specks of blood in his sputum. His last words to his wife before the
  ambulance arrived had been to beg her to contact his sister in Tehran to
  tell her what was happening to him.
  They were cut off from the outside world at the desert site. No personal
  phone calls permitted. To ring her sister-in-law, she woidd have to arrange
  to be driven to the PIT in Yazd. She didn't quite trust Hamid's sister,
  always suspecting she was more political than was good for her. Political
  in that she had contacts with Iranians abroad, Iranians who called
  themselves the Resistance.

 Ealing, West London

 Martin Sanders lived alone in an immaculately decorated, two-bedroomed,
 Victorian terrace cottage within a stone's throw of Ealing Green and the
 Underground station.

               290

  His well-travelled looks ensured he was never short of female company when
  he wanted it. But having any of the delightful creatures actually living in
  and interfering with the way he did things was out of the question and
  always would be.
  The phone call from Rudi Katzfuss had been unexpected and had interrupted
  the preparation of the entrec9te au beurre d'olives that he'd decided to
  cook for lunch. They'd never had to summon an emergency meeting of the
  Ramblers before.
  The BND man hadn't said over the phone what it was about of course, but
  insisted they assemble on Monday evening in Munich. Couldn't be sooner
  because of the time it would take Jack Kapinsky to get over from
  Washington.
  Before he went, Sanders would check with the photographic branch and get
  some copies of the photos he'd brought back from Zagreb. Might be useful-
  
 Frankfurt-Sachsenhausen

 Alex had telephoned the restaurant to book a table, and arrived to claim it
 ten minutes early. He ordered a little jug of Mosel. By the time Lorna
 joined him ten minutes late, he'd ordered another.
  'Sorry,' she breathed, allowing him to kiss her on the cheek, 'couldn't
  find anywhere to park.'
  She was wearing fawn chinos and a white shirt, covered by a knitted
  waistcoat in olive-green. Round her neck was a long, thin gold chain. The
  waiter brought Mosel for her too.
  'This looks nice,' she offered, looking round at the simple decor, and the
  menu chalked on a board. The

               291

 trouble was she doubted she'd be able to eat, the way her stomach wa5
 churning.
  'You look nice too,' Alex bubbled. 'In fact you look just as fantastic
  as the first time we met.' Nerves always made him go big on compliments.
  'Maybe you should get your eyes checked,' she smiled, putting her hands
  up to cover the lines on her face. She kept glancing away, not trusting
  herself to look into the bottomless darkness of his eyes.
  'Did ... did your office pass on my message?' Alex asked. 'All of it, I
  mean.'
  'I don't know what all of it was,' she shrugged, feigning ignorance.
 'The bit that said "I love you"?'
  'Oh, that old thing,' she joked. There was an edge to her voice. 'Sure.
  But don't worry, I didn't take it seriously. I try not to fall for the
  same trick twice.'
  Alex felt his face redden. Maybe it was still war and she had come here
  to twist the knife.
  'Why doi i't we order some food,' he suggested quickly. 'Then we can
  start this conversation all over again.'
  Lorna dabbed at her hair with her finger tips as she looked up at the
  blackboard. She was still at war, but the battle was inside her own head.
  She chose the soul) and a spinach and goat's cheese lasagna. Alex went
  for the same. The waiter moved off.
  ,So. ..' Alex said, fumbling for a place to begin. He pulled out his
  cigarettes, then remembered he'd reserved a rion-smoking table for her
  sake. He put them back in his pocket.
 , So... ?,
 He took a deep breath.
  'Would it help if I said "sorry" for what happened in Belfast? Like an
  official apology?'
  She chewed her lip. She felt as if she were caught in quicksand.

               292

  'I don't know whether it'll help. But I guess it's nice to hear you say
  it. If you mean it,' she added a little too pathetically.
  She'd been through a lot, he could see it clearly sitting across the
  table from her like this. She wore the vulnerability of someone not sure
  where the next punch was coming from.
  'Tell you what,' he suggested, 'why don't we pretend we've never met
  before?'
 Her look said 'you have to be kidding'.
  'Hi. My name's Alex Crawfbrd,' he began, smiling theatrically.
  There was a gleam in his eye which made Lorna suspect this was a game she
  was not going to enjoy.
  'I'm aged ... oh, somewhere in the middle of life,' he continued. 'I was
  born AlexJarvis, but it's been Crawford for twenty years, for reasons
  beyond my control. I've been married for eighteen of those years. We've
  lived in Scotland.'
  At the revelation of a wife her eyelids flickered. A good sign, he
  decided.
  'Her name is Kirsty. She was a widow when I met her. She'd been married
  for just three years to her first husband, then he died in a climbing
  accident.'
 He took a deep breath.
 'Now it's your turn.'
  'I'm not sure I'm up to truth games,' she told him huskily. 'If that's
  what this is?'
  'If you refuse to play, it means I have the right to ask you questions,'
  he pressed.
 The waiter thumped soup bowls in front of them.
  'Okay. So what d'you want me to say?' she boxed, desperate for him to
  reveal more than she did.
 'Tell me about Mister Sorensen.'
  'Oh, that. Well ... after I got back from Belfast twenty years ago, I
  found there were some nasty men who wanted to kill me? You know the sort
  of guys I mean?

               293

 Well, they got paid some money to lay off, but I had to go hide someplace,
 like you. You may remember I was a qualified attorney already, and somebody
 fixed me a job at a practice in a small New England town called Shelburne
 Falls.'
  Alex saw anger flicker in her eyes. He guessed why. 'Somebody' would have
  been her father, the man whose influence she'd spent much of her life
  trying to escape.
  'And there I met a guy called Rees Sorensen, who was one of the partners in
  the firm where I worked. We got married. We lived in a white-painted,
  clapboard house with maple trees in the yard, and I had a daughter called
  Julie. Now you,' she concluded. 'Your turn again.'
 Too brief for him. Too sanitized.
 'Is Rees still around?'
  'No,' she said flatly. 'Leastways, not around me. And that was cheating.'
  He smiled, but only for an instant. The hard part lay ahead. It felt like
  walking into a tunnel not knowing what time the next train was due.
  'Well ... what else shall I tell you?' he swallowed. 'Um ... Kirsty, she
  had a child, by her first husband. A boy ... calledJodie. And I helped her
  bring him up. He was a lovely lad. I thought of him as my son.
  Unfortunately, a few weeks ago, he was killed ... There was an accident
  -his first parachute jump. His mother believed it was my fault for letting
  him do it, so she turned her back on me
 . Which is one reason I ended up in Bosma.'
  Lorna swallowed. She could see it was no trick this time. The pain in his
  eyes reached out like floodwater.
 'I'm so sorry,' she heard herself say.
  She'd wanted him to be punished, and now she knew he had been, but in a way
  more devastating than she could ever have wished.
 'Now you,' he insisted. He wanted to know everything,

               294

 to lay the whole past out in the open, so they could put it behind them.
 She dipped into her soup, not ready to say more.
 'You still love Kirsty?' she pressed.
  'Now who's cheating.. .'He took a deep breath.'The answer's yes, but
  there's love and love, isn't there. Kirsty and I just happened to need
  what each other could give ... at the time we met.'
  It had sounded callous, but he could see she knew only too well what he
  meant.
  'Tell me about Julie.' He saw a cloud pass over her eyes.
  Lorna felt she was fighting for breath. In the past she'd blamed him for
  all the disasters in her life, but she couldn't any more. Not now she
  knew what he himself had been through. She bit her lip and steeled
  herself
  Julie's thirteen. She's autistic - can't relate to anybody. I gave up my
  job to look after her and managed it until the beginning of last year,
  but it was real hard. She was like a ... some sort of porcelain figure
  under a glass dome, you know? I could look at her, I could touch the
  glass, but I couldn't reach her.'
 She chewed her lip again.
  Julie never learned to talk. A couple of years back she began to develop,
  physically. All the same feelings as a non-nal kid in puberty, but didn't
  know what to do with them. She got so moody and hollered all the time,
  I couldn't handle it any more. Rees - he wasn'tJulie's real father, but
  that didn't matter to him -- well, he decided to put her in a home for
  the handicapped.'
 She grimaced, close to tears.
 'It broke me up. It broke us up too. Rees and I split.'
  Alex expelled the breath he'd been holding. Strange parallels in their
  lives.
 'That's terrible. I'm so sorry. She's still in the home?'
 'Oh yes. As happy as she'll ever be.' Her fingers

               295

 twisted and untwisted the gold chain round her neck. J always carry around
 with me a few things that were hers. Like this chain. And her passport.
 That's why I had it with me in Bosnia.'
 'I wondered.'
 Suddenly she sat up straight and folded her arms.
  'You know something?' she remarked. 'This is a pretty heavy conversation
  for people who've onlyjust met, You treat all your women like this?'
 'No. Only the vegetarians.'
 She laughed. Inside, she was smiling.

 2.05 p.m.
 South of Frankfixrt

 Milan Pravic had the map spread across his knees and told Gisela to take
 the next turning from the Autobahn. Pfefferheirn was just a few kilometres
 away.
  'What do we do when we get there, Milanchen?' Gisela asked for the third
  time. 'I'm really tired, I tell you.'
 Still no answer. He was looking for signposts.
  Gisela was certain of one thing -- whatever Pravic had in mind to do in
  Pfefferheim it was evil. Somebody was going to get hurt.
  For the last two hours it had been raining. Pools of water lay in the
  uneven side road as they drove through pinewoods towards the village.
  'Stop! Stop here,' Pravic barked suddenly. He pointed to the right, where
  a muddy track led to a clearing in the trees. Gisela swung the wheel and
  they bounced to a halt.
  'Why're we stopping?' she asked, irrationally fearing he'd decided to
  kill her.

               296

  'Further a little. Away from the road. . .' he gestured. Her fears grew.
 'Why, Milan? What for?' she wailed.
 'Here. Here is okay.'
  Gisela looked over her shoulder. They were invisible from the road. Pravic
  got out and walked to a point where the ground was particularly soft. He
  dug his fingers into the earth and returned with a handful of dirt. Then he
  crouched down at the front of the car, smeared some onto the number plate,
  then took the rest to the rear to repeat the process.
  He stood back and inspected his work. Satisfied, he wiped his hands on the
  grass, and got back into the car.
  A few minutes later they passed the sign marking the village boundary.
  'Miih1weg,' Pavic announced. 'Ask someone where it is.,
  'Going to see someone there?' Gisela pressed. 'Some friend of yours?' She
  felt close to hysteria.
 Again, no answer.
  They were entering the centre of the village - halftimbered houses, a
  church, a small shop selling bread and groceries, and a telephone kiosk.
  'Stop,' he growled, pointing to the right. He'd spotted a map of the
  village mounted in a timber-framed glass case beside the church.
 He got out and studied it.
  A voice niggled inside Gisela's head, a voice urging her to run, to jam her
  foot down and drive off, leaving him there without the sports bag which
  he'd nursed throughout the journey as if his life depended on it.
  She depressed the clutch and engaged first gear. Pravic heard the crunch
  and looked round with stiletto eyes. She slipped it back into neutral.
  Couldn't do it. Hadn't the guts. If she left him now, he'd chase her to the
  end of the earth to get his revenge.

               297

  Revenge. That was the fire that burned inside him, the fire she'd never
  dared probe.
 He got back in and closed the door.
  'Two turnings on the right,' he told her, and waved his hand to show they
  should move on.
 'Second on the right?' she checked.
 'Mmm.'
  There was nobody about. Never was on a Sunday afternoon in these dormitory
  villages. All at home watching television or sleeping off their lunch.
  Gisela turned the car where Milan had said. New houses here, VWs and Opels
  parked on driveways.
 ,Left here.'
  She obeyed, driving slowly. Two children on bicycles careered past on the
  pavement, wrapped up in anoraks against the rain.
 'Now right.'
 Miihlweg. She read the sign on a post at the junction.
 'What number?' she asked.
 'Just drive. I look.'
  The road sloped upwards. About a dozen houses, then it curved to the right.
  Larger homes now, with garages. She motored slowly past them. Pravic
  suddenly craned his head round. The house he was looking at had its garage
  door open and a Vectra parked inside.
  The road brought them round in a circle, back to the junction with the
  sign.
 'And now?' she asked.
 'Again up the road, but not far. I tell you when.'
  Up the gentle rise, the curve to the right and the bigger homes ...
 'Here. Stop. Switch off engine.'
  She did as she was told. They'd parked beside a plot that had not been
  built on yet. She looked up the road ahead. Three houses down was the one
  with its garage door open.

               298

 3.46 p.m. Pfefferheim

 Lorna turned the Land Cruiser into M(Ihlweg and as she rounded the bend
 at the top of the slope pulled out to avoid a VW parked by the curb. Alex
 noticed it was a woman behind the wheel of the Polo.
 He felt wrung out after the catharsis of their lunch.
  'Nice houses around here,' Lorna remarked. 'Similar to what Americans
  have at home. I guess that's why they're popular with USAF families. Say,
  I wonder if Vildana'11 be surprised to see you? Or maybe she thinks we're
  all part of her new, extended family.'
 'It'll be great to see her again. She's a sweet kid.'
  It had been Lorna's idea that he should come out to meet the Roches. He
  was delighted, particularly since it meant they would be together.
  'Here we are.' She stopped the Toyota on the drive in front of the garage
  doors.
 Irwin Roche appeared in the porch, grinning.
  'Hi. You're back. And it's stopped raining. Oh, hi to you too, sir,' he
  added, seeing Alex for the first time.
  'This is Alex Crawford,' Lorna announced. 'He's the guy who smuggled
  Vildana out of Bosnia in the back of his truck. You remember I told you?'
  'I certainly do. Let me shake your hand, sir. That must've been some
  hair-raising drive.'He looked at Alex with something like awe. 'So, I
  guess it's you I have to thank for our beautiful new daughter. . .' he
  added, laughing.
 'How's she doing?' Alex asked.
  'Great. just great. Ella's going to take her for a bike ride when the
  rain stops - which I do believe it has!' He held his hand out flat, then
  turned back into the house, shouting for his daughter to come out with
  Vildana.
 'Nice guy,' Alex whispered to Lorna.

               299

 'Nicefamiyl,' she replied.
  Within seconds they'd all bustled out of the house into the front yard,
  with Irwin pulling his wife by the arm so he could introduce her to Alex.
  'Hey, Vildana,' Lorna shouted, as she ran past with the twins, chased by
  Nataga. The girl stopped at the sound of her name and looked back. All
  self-consciousness about the strawberry mark on her face had evaporated.
 'Look who's here!'
  Fifty metres down the road the engine started in the Volkswagen. In the
  hubbub of bicycles being retrieved from the garage, no one heard it.
 'It's Alex!'
  A smile spread shyly across Vildana's face as she recognized him. Alex gave
  her a hug.
 'Good to see you,' he grinned. Nataga translated.
  Vi1dana grabbed hold of a pair of handlebars that had been thrust at her,
  then she and Ella wheeled their bicycles out to the road.
 'Watch out for that car,' Nancy shouted.
  Alex glanced up. A muddy, white Polo creeping towards them.-Just a car, yet
  something about its slowness made it menacing.
  Suddenly bells rang in his head. The woman driver was dithering like a
  kerb-crawler - why? Her male passenger stared like a snake at the girls
  wobbling on their saddles - why?
  His limbs tensed. The man's eyes - the eyes of a killer ...
  He leapt forward, but too late. A fist snaked from the car window like a
  cobra's head, gripping a cold, grey automatic.
  Two sharp cracks. The weapon kicked twice. Vildana's bicycle clattered to
  the tarmac. Alex ran towards the car, which tore off with a squeal of
  tyres. For a micro-second the gunman's eyes met Alex's. Then the

               300

 car was gone. As it turned the corner of the road, a woman's scream
 shrilled through the open window. Alex stopped.

 Gisela heard the scream, unaware it was from her own throat.
  'Go! Quick, quick!' Pravic yelled, yanking the handle to close the
  window. 'And shut up woman!' He hit her on the shoulder with the pistol.
  Shaking with shock, Gisela accelerated out of Mohlweg, back through the
  centre of the village.
  'You ... you.. .' she babbled, sobbing, 'Milan, you shot a girl! That
  girl on the bike ... Why? What you do that for, eh? Tell me! Tell me!'
  'Shut upF He scrabbled with the map, trying to work out the way back to
  Frankfurt as his mind played back what he'd seen. He'd hit her. Yes.
  Killed her? Didn't know. Aimed for the heart, but the girl had turned.
 'Why?' she screamed at him. 'Tell me why!'

 Irwin Roche sprinted to where Vildana had fallen. The girl's legs were
 twitching with shock.
  'Vildana! Oh my God, what's happened?' Lorna hollered, The twins began
  to scream.
  'She's been shot,'Alex mouthed. 'They've bloody well shot her!'
  'No . . .' moaned Nancy Roche, arms hanging limply by her sides.
  Roche knelt on the ground, pressing on Vildana's shoulder.
  'Scott!' he ordered calnily, 'get that T-shirt off and bring it here
  fast.' The child began to obey.
  Alex dropped down beside him. Vildana whimpered like a wounded animal.

               301

  Jesus!' he gasped, seeing the blood oozing from under Roche's fingers.
 'Somebody call an ambulance,' the colonel shouted.
  His wife dived back into the house. Nataga began to cry.
  'Hit in the pectoral,' Roche said to Alex out of the side of his mouth.
  'I wasn't watching. I thought it was a backfire. Where's that T-shirt
  son?'
  The boy dropped it in front of him then backed away, colour draining from
  his face at the sight of all the blood.
  'You've got to fold that into a dressing, right?' Roche told Alex. 'Then
  press it onto the wound. Can you do that?'
  'Sure,' he answered, grateful that Roche had taken charge.
 'We've got to stop the haemorrhage, so press hard.'
 The girl moaned with pain.
  'Sorry,' Alex winced, fearful of pressing too hard. 'Feels like
  something's broken in there.'
  Trobably a rib. But keep pressing while I see if she's hit anywhere
  else.'
  Alex felt the girl's body quiver, saw her eyelids flutter as she teetered
  on the edge of unconsciousness. Behind him he heard Ella and the Bosnian
  girl comforting each other.
  Roche gently probed Vildana's chest and stomach, then ran his hands down
  her legs.
  'Seems okay,' he said half to himself. 'Nataga!' he called. 'Get over
  here and talk to her, will you? Tell her she's going to be okay.'
 Nataga didn't move.
 'Nataga? Come on, honey,' he repeated soothingly.
  The girl kneeled beside them, but turned her head away.
  'She'll be okay, I mean A,' Roche said, touching her on the knee. 'It's
  just a flesh wound. So quit that crying,

               302

 for her sake, okay? You have to calm her. And somebody go in the house and
 get Nancy to find a blanket.'
  Lorna hurried inside and reappeared with the one she'd used on the sofa
  last night.
  '.Alex,' she murmured breathlessly, her lips close to his ear, 'do you
  think that was. .
 'Pravic?' he breathed. 'Can't be. Not here. You think?'
 'But who else for Pete's sake?'
  'You two know something?' Roche demanded. 'Hey, don't let up the pressure
  on that dressing,' he added.
 Alex pushed down again.
  'It's the reason we got her out of Bosnia. . .' Lorna gulped. 'Because
  some guy wanted to kill her. And now this happens! I can't believe ifl'
  'Did he follow you here, or what? And who the hell is the guy?' he asked
  angrily.
  'He's called Milan Pravic. He's the man who led the Tulici massacre,'
  Alex answered flatly. 'They call him the Scorpion.'
 'Scorpion?'
  'Yes. Apparently he got the nickname when he was a kid.'
  'But if it's him, what's he doing here in Germany?' Lorna demanded. 'And
  how did he know where to find Vadana?'
 'You tell me,' Alex replied.

 Milan Pravic told Gisela to take the airport turning. And to wipe her
 face. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara.
  She pulled a fistful of tissues from the box on the parcel shelf.
  It was his silence that terrified her. The calculating silence on the
  drive from Berlin, when he'd been planning the death of' a child. The
  sullen silence when she'd demanded to know the reasons why. The cold

               303

 silence now as he worked out what to do next. What to do with her.
  'Drive into the car park,' he ordered as they crossed the airport
  perimeter.
 He'd bunied the gun under some clothes in his bag.
  She pulled a ticket from the entry gate and the barrier lifted. He told
  her to drive to a floor where there were empty spaces and few people
  about.
  She knew then that he was going to kill her. Knew it with a terror and
  a certainty that clenched her stomach into a ball and made her gag. She
  thought of stopping the car near some businessmen loading luggage into
  their sleek BMWs. She thought of getting out and running. But she knew
  it would be too late. Knew that at the first tiny sign of her doing
  something to cross him, that gun would be out of the bag and the bullets
  hammering into her back.
 All she could do was grovel, beg him to spare her life.
  'Here,' he pointed at a row of empty spaces. Nobody near. No witnesses.
  She stopped the engine. He lifted the sports bag onto his knees.
 'Milanchen, sweetie . . .' she began, desperately.
  'Listen! You ... you don't understand, Gisie. . .' He fumbled for the
  words. 'Nobody in Germany ... nobody in world understand why I must kill!
  In my country we fight for life - Christian peoples fight Muslim peoples.
  Muslim men I must kill, because they think they can fuck arse of Croat
  peoples!' He jerked his middle finger upwards. 'Muslim women why kill?
  Because they make sons who fuck arse! They Turks!'
  A mad ramble that made little sense to her, she let him bleed the poison
  from his soul.
 'And if they in Germany, I kill also.'
  'But that was only a girl?' Gisela whined. 'Couldn't have been more than
  twelve. Why her?'

                304   -
  ' Tulici,' he murmured. 'Muslim girl. From Tulia.' He fell silent, as if no
  other explanation were needed.
  Tuhn. Gisela knew well the significance of that name. Knew the crime she'd
  just helped him commit was nothing to what he'd already done. The nightmare
  was true; the man she'd almost loved was a monster, a practitioner of
  genocide.
  He pulled open the zip of his bag and gripped the gun. Gisela gulped.
 'If you talk to police, I kill you too,' he growled.
  'No, no,'she babbled. 'I'm your friend, you know that. I'm not talking to
  the police. I promise you, I don't want to tell anyone about today. I
  wasn't hcre, even.'
 'That's right. You were not here.'
  He nodded repeatedly to reinforce the point. The hammer clicked as he
  fingered the pistol.
  'Now I go. You make car clean again. Then you drive to Berlin and find
  friend who will say you were with him last night and today.'
 'But what if the police stop me?'
  "Fake the Bundesstrasse. The police will look on the Autobahn.'
 'And you? Where are you going? Back to Bosiiia?'
  Silence again. Shouldn't have asked. He still had his hand on that gun.
  He pushed open the door and got out. Then, clutching his bag, he Icaned
  back in.
 'Remember, Gisie. If you my enemy, I kill you.'
  He'd stated it as a matter of fact. He closed the door and she watched him
  walk towards the exit.

 The police sealed off the road and pavement around the house in Mahlweg with
 striped yellow tape to keep the press out. Both the newspapers and the local
 TY had been tipped off about the shooting.
 In the road just metres from where Vildana had been

               305

 gunned down, detectives recovered two 9mm cartridge cases.
  Nancy Roche and Nataga had gone with Vildana in the ambulance. The
  paramedic had congratulated the colonel on his first aid. Probably saved
  her life, she said.
  The Hessen State Police, who'd answered the I 10 call that Nancy had put
  in, decided to call in help from the Bundeskriminalamt. The shooting of a
  Bosnian was political and needed the Federal specialists from Wiesbaden.
  A Kommissar was on his way, but it would be an hour before he arrived. In
  the meantime, patrol cars were searching for a muddy, white, VW Polo,
  possibly driven by a woman, registration number unknown. Unfortunately, the
  police pointed out, the Polo was one of Germany's most popular cars, and
  white one of the most popular colours.
  While the police went from house to house, seeking witnesses, Irwin Roche
  despatched the twins to watch TV, then hustled Alex and Lorna indoors and
  sat them at the kitchen table, so they could tell him exactly what all this
  was about.
  'Oh God ... what have we done?' Lorna sighed, cupping her head in her
  hands. 'I brought Vildana halfways across Europe, just so she could be shot
  at.'
  Alex clasped and unclasped his fingers, kneading his knuckles. By now he
  was convinced the gunman must have been Pravic. So close, just metres from
  the man the world was hunting, the man he'd been hunting, and not known it.
  In his mind he kcpt trying to improve on the meagre description he'd given
  the police - cropped fair hair, male, in his thirties, grim, grey-blue eyes
  - it wasn't much.
  'I still don't understand how Pravic knew where to find her,' he murmured.
 Suddenly Roche blushed scarlet.

               306

  '0 ... h, oh boy,' he said, getting up from the table and heading for his
  den.
  'The Internet,' Lorna moaned. 'Must've put his address on an open message
  on the bulletin board. You're not supposed to do that. Anything
  confidential should go e-mail direct to CareNet.'
  They followed Roche into the den. The modem bleeped as it made the
  connection. A few keystrokes and he was into <alt.childadopt.agency> on the
  Usenet. He selected the 'Children available' item from the menu. The most
  recent messages came up first. Some of them offensive, some from cranks,
  some saying that adoption on the Internet was God's gift to child-abusers.
  He kept typing 'back' until he came to the response he'd lodged to Lorna's
  request for an 'angel' six days ago.
 'Oh my! Look at that,' he sighed.
  There at the top of his offer of help was his home address, street number
  and everything, instantly readable by any of the Net's thirty million
  subscribers.
  'How could I be so stupid?' He thumped the screen with his fist.
  Alex led Lorna back to the kitchen, while Roche logged off.
  'I still don't get it,' he murmured, 'I mean, how would Pravic know about
  the Internet?'
  'CNN. They filmed a report on us,' Lorna answered, her voice heavy. 'My
  God, Alex, what have we done? Notyou, but me, Larry Machin, CareNet. So
  busy being clever, instead of saving Vildana's life we may have lost it!'

 Milan Pravic found a (lank stairway which took him two levels down in the
 airport car park - the floor where the rental agencies kept their vehicles.
 He walked past a small office and a line of sparkling

               307

 automobiles. Must be a toilet here somewhere for the staff.
  He found the door and pushed inside. It smelled of urine, as if drunks had
  given up their search for porcelain and used the walls. He tried the taps
  on the washbasin. They worked. Hot water too.
  He unzipped the sports bag and pulled out a towel and a sachet of hair
  colourant shampoo. Dark chestnut.
  He draped the towel round his shoulders to protect his clothes, then wet
  his hair. He rubbed in the shampoo and rinsed his hands. A quick look in
  the mirror, then he picked up his bag and retreated to one of the cubicles.
  The instructions said wait ten minutes before rinsing.

 Two floors up, Gisela washed clean the number plates of her car, using water
 from a bottle she always carried in the boot. Then she re-parked it near the
 exit and behind a pillar, so that if Milan came back to check on her, he
 would think she had gone.
  She walked as casually as she could down the long passage to the terminal
  and located a phone booth.
  Her fingers hovered over the dial pad. 110 would get her the police. An
  anonymous message perhaps, to tell them he was at the airport?
  She dismissed the thought. Not on. Not if she wanted to live a little
  longer.
  She pulled an address book from her handbag. Time to find a friend she
  could trust. It wouldn't be easy. Loyalty was a rare commodity in the
  circles she moved in.

 Kommissar Gunther Linz had intended to spend the afternoon watching
 athletics on television with his wife who was a gymnastics teacher, but the
 weekend duty man at the Wiesbaden HQ had gone sick, so when the

               308

 alert came from the Hessische Landeskriminalamt they'd telephoned Linz at
 home.
  The word 'Bosnia' linked with crime in Germany made him shudder. With
  hundreds of thousands of refugees here from all the Yugoslav ethnic groups
  it wouldn't take much to spark civil war on German streets.
  And now the attempted murder of a child. Bad news. Very bad.
  As he took the Pfefferheirn turning off the Autobahn, he jabbed at the
  radio button to catch the six o'clock bulletin. Wanted to see what the
  media had dug up on that Leipzig can of worms.
  The way he'd heard it from the police rumour network, the suicide note left
  by the microbiologist had been dynamite. The Leipzig police had passed it
  straight to the intelligence agencies who'd slapped a national security
  classification on it and demanded sealed lips. Now the BND were claiming
  they'd 'lost' the letter.
  The 'pips' of the time signal. He turned up the volume.

 '. . . Frau Erika Schmidt, the daughter of the dead scientu't, claims
 i . n an interview in tomorrow's Bild Zeltung that herfather told her
 some of the old Stasi securio police were stillfunctioning, and that
 he'd been ordered against his will to produce dangerous bacteritifor
 them. . . .'

  The Stasi still functioning? No chance. Impossible after the way it had
  been taken apart after unification. A judicial Commission was still sifting
  the files looking for people to prosecute on human rights charges.
  If there were Stasi men still operating, they were freelancers. But
  freelancers using anthrax? He shuddered again. And working for whom? The
  BND? Not their

               309

 style ... On the other hand, they had gone out on a limb with that plutonium
 business.
 He pushed the 'ofF button.
  A uniformed officer stopped him at the turning into Muhlweg. He showed his
  pass and was waved through. Locals clustered in groups of two or three on
  the pavements, watching the comings and goings. Must have shaken up a dull
  Sunday, Linz thought.
  Relieved to see him, his opposite number from the Hessen police shook him
  warmly by the hand.
  'The hospital say the girl will live. The buflet missed her heart by this
  much.' The Inspector held his finger and thumb so they almost touched. 'By
  the way, they're all foreigners here. Americans and British. Not much
  German between them.'
 'Then I can practise my English a little,' Linz replied.
  Alex stood up to greet the tall, limping newcomer with the pepper-coloured
  hair. The wariness in the policeman's close-set eyes told him this was a
  man who preferred facts and certainties to supposition.
  Irwin Roche had summoned the help of an interpreter from the Rhine-Main Air
  Base, a bespectacled schoolteacher.
  Helped by a large pot of fresh-brewed coffee, they explained the background
  to the shooting that afternoon. Linz listened, interjecting sometimes in
  English, sometimes in German.
  Lorna spelled out how CareNet used the Internet as an adoption agency, then
  Roche took Linz into his den to demonstrate.
  'So, any person who has a computer can connect to this?' he asked,
  intrigued.
  'All you need is a modem and a subscription to an Internet server.'
  'So, anyone who saw the report on the news could have had the idea to
  connect to this Internet and could

               310

 find out that Vildana was staying in your house?' he pressed.
 Roche blushed again.
  'It was incredibly stupid to put my address, I know that. . . .'
  ja, but my point is that anybody could do this. Any crazy person with a
  computer. . .'
  'And a gun,'Alex added. Linz seemed to be questioning Pravic's
  involvement.
  'Of course. But I must look at all possibilities,' he said dismissively.
  'Tell me, does the computer make a record of the people who have
  connected up and read these messages?'
  'Unfortunately not,' Roche replied. 'There's no control over the "net".'
 'That is a pity.'
 Back in the kitchen, Linz began to make notes.
  'It was you who brought the girl into Germany illegally, Frau Sorensen?'
  he asked without looking up.
 Lorna glanced in alarm at Alex. He shook his head.
 'I'm not prepared to comment on that.'
 Linz took her answer as an admission.
  'Vildana's a persecuted person and could apply for asylum here,' she
  added simply.
  Linz didn't react. It wasn't a point worth pursuing. Any foreigner
  entering Germany legally or illegally, had a right to stay while an
  asylum application was processed.
  'Milan Pravic lived in Germany for several years,' Alex said. 'His
  brother told me it was Berlin. Wouldn't there be some record of him
  there? A photograph maybe?'
  'It's possible. The Landeskriminalpolizei in Berlin can check that. Today
  of course is Sunday, so they cannot get at the Municipal register until
  tomorrow. We have access to the Bundesverwaltungsamt computer in K61n -
  where the records of "black sheep" are kept, guest workers who

               311

 will not get their visa renewed because they've broken the law. But they
 have nothing on Milan Pravic. I have already checked.'
 He frowned.
 'What do you know about this person?' Linz asked.
  'He's a mass murderer and maybe a rapist, Herr Kommissar,' Alex snapped.
  'Comes from a small village in Bosnia. His brother's a priest. Not much
  love between him and Milan. The man's a psychopath.'
  'But perhaps has not used computers much . . .' said Linz frostily. He
  suspected the Englishman was something of an amateur psychologist, a
  species he disliked.
 Alex ground his teeth.
  'You understand, Herr Crawford, that there is not much evidence yet,'
  Linz continued. 'Maybe the ballistics department will get some
  information from the bullets. Or maybe the girl saw the face of the man
  who shot her.'
  'All Vildana saw was the front wheel of her bike,' Lorna replied. J was
  watching her.'
  'I don't think you've quite understood about Pravic, Herr Kommissar,'
  Alex continued. 'Let me tell you what his own brother said about him. He
  said killing's like a drug to Milan. Particularly when his victims are
  Muslim. He'll kill anybody who gets in his way. And given the means,
  he'll commit murder on a scale that'll make the Tulici massacre look like
  a minor road accident!'
 Linz blinked at the intensity of Alex's words.
  ,Then we must pray for some luck in finding him,' he added calnily. 'I
  would like to know where to contact you if I need to talk to you again.'
 Alex gave him the number of the Hotel Sommer.
 'And you, Frau Sorensen? Where will I find you?'
  Alex's and Lorna's eyes met for no more than a second, but it was long
  enough.
 'I'll be with him,' she said.

               312

 They spoke little on the drive into Frankfurt, Lorna's hands gripping the
 wheel for support as much as to steer the car. Personal decisions were
 beyond her now. The puppet-master Fate had taken control again.
  Her mind gyrated, sifting and sorting the words and happenings of this
  long day, but they were as hard to hold onto as leaves in the wind. The
  baring of souls in the bistro had opened old wounds then seared them.
  Now, the sharp crack of the gunshots, the clatter of handlebars on
  concrete, the sight of the blood-soaked rag pressed to Vildana's chest
  - all snapshot ima.,ues clicking round in an endless loop in her brain.
  Alex took in little as they drove into town, his mind filled by the eyes
  at the window of the white Polo. The cold, blue-grey eyes of a man who'd
  assigned himself the right to snuff out the life of another human being.
  Any man who had such arrogance over life and death would try again, once
  he learned Vildana was still alive. They'd need a new hiding place for
  the girl when she was released from hospital. Above all, Pravic had to
  be found. He had to be stopped.
  ng would need a new hiding place? Who? Whose responsibility was Vildana
  now? The Roches', Germany's - or Lorna's?
  He turned his head to look at her. Lorna's chin jutted in concentration
  as she drove, her blonde hair short and wavy like a Pharaoh's. Now that
  he knew what she'd been through in those lost years, he could read it in
  the hollowness of her cheeks, in the lines round her mouth.
  She sensed him looking at her and flashed a smile that peeked from her
  face as nervously as a kitten sniffing the air.
  Their eyes locked for little more than a second, just long enough to
  confirm agreement as to what would happen next.
  Words weren't needed. They'd be superfluous, dangerous even. Words
  analysed things too much. If

               313

 the two of them were to talk about the pact their eyes had just made they'd
 find a reason for setting it aside. They'd have to conclude that on a day of
 such shocking, murderous events, it would be wrong to pursue pleasure.
  She parked the Land Cruiser in a imilti-storey. He took Lorna's small
  suitcase from the back seat and carried it two blocks to the Hotel Sommer.
  The desk clerk handed him the room key without comment. Then when the
  couple disappeared into the elevator, he changed the figure 'one' in the
  occupancy column of the register to 'two'.
  They stood close together in the lift, their bodies touching, but not their
  hands. Slowly he bent his head and their lips brushed with the lightness of
  feathers.
  The elevator stopped and the doors opened, but for a moment their eyes
  stayed on each other, neither wanting to break the spell.
  His hand shook as he fumbled with the key. Like a cat, she rubbed her face
  against his shoulder, her breath halting and uneven.
  Inside the room, he dropped the suitcase beside the wardrobe, then held her
  by the waist. She slipped her arms round his neck, threading her fingers
  through his hair.
  His mouth crushed against hers, their lips and tongues re-discovering the
  taste and territory they'd once known well.
  She pulled back from him, her eyes wild and hungry. She stroked his beard,
  trying to familiarize her hands with the unfamiliar.
 'Maybe. . .' she breathed, 'maybe that'll have to go.'
 'What, now?' he asked.
  'No.' Her mouth widened into a smile. 'Not now. Later. A lot later.'
  She slipped off her knitted waistcoat then crossed her arms, taking hold of
  the hem of her shirt and pulling it

               314

 over her head. Alex did the same with his pullover. They dropped the
 clothes on the floor.
  He kissed her bare neck and shoulders, his hands tingling at the feel of
  her smooth, soft skin, the soapy perfume of her flesh borne upwards by
  her body heat. She was so thin, he could feel her ribs. He ran his
  fingers down the ridges of her spine, remembering their geography. Then
  with a little twist he unclipped the strap of her bra and slipped it
  forward.
  Lorna tossed back her head and closed her eyes to heighten the sensations
  shooting through her body. His tongue's caress hardened her nipples. She
  breathed in sharply, clasping his head as if it were the most precious
  thing on earth and ran her fingers up the soft, sensitive skin behind his
  ears.
 She felt his hands start to work on the belt of herjeans.
 'Hang on,' she panted, 'you've still got your shirt on.'
  She tugged and pulled at the buttons, breaking one of them, then pushed
  the shirt back over his shoulders.
  She rubbed her body against the thick mat of hair on his chest,
  remembering. Remembering how fine-tuned his flesh had been when they'd
  met that second time in Belfast, how addicted she'd become to what he did
  with it.
  He had the belt undone and slipped his hands under her knickers, cupping
  her small buttocks, his fingertips reaching to feel the hot moistness
  underneath.
 They pulled apart to throw off the rest of their clothes.
  Lorna threw the duvet onto the floor and lay down on the smooth white
  sheets. She covered her breasts with her hands, conscious that they
  weren't as firm and shapely as when he'd last seen them. But then, he
  wasn't the same shape either, she realized, seeing the slight bulge of
  his stomach when he knelt beside her on the mattress. She looked up at
  his beaming face as his hand caressed her stomach and teased through the
  tufts of her bush.

               315

  'You're as gorgeous as ever, Lorna,' he breathed. 'D'you know thaff
 A silly grin spread across her face.
 'So are you,' she purred.
  She took hold of him and pulled him down on top of her.

 316

           Twenty-four

 Monday 4th April, 10.30 a.m.
 Boston, Massachusetts

 Annie Lowefl, n6e Donohue, slit open the hand-delivered letter and pulled
 out a pack of photographs. She frowned. For her? Some mistake, perhaps. Then
 she unfolded the single sheet of writing paper accompanying them and
 recognized the writing of her younger sister.
  'Hey, it's from Lorna,' she smiled, realizing then that the scenes in the
  shots were Bosnia.
  Always close, she and her sister. Two years between them in age, but as
  children they'd been like Siamese twins when it came to coping with the
  tyranny of their father.
  It was a brilliant spring morning in New England, maples and birches
  exploding with yellow-green life. The Lowell children were back at school
  after a few days at home because of bad colds. Annie had the house and the
  day to herself
  An uncontrolled appetite for muffins and donuts had left her with hips and
  thighs that were painful to joke about, but she had a ready Irish smile,
  lively brown eyes and tawny hair almost down to her shoulders.
  She took the letter back to the kitchen and poured herself some of the
  coffee she'd left to brew. Then she sat down and read.

 Dearest Annie,
 You will NE VER guess who the guy with the beard is, standing

               317

 next to me in a couple of these photos! His name begins Un'th the letter
 'A I.T
 Seeyou soon. Loma.

  What was she on about? Never got sensible letters from her any more.
  She riffled through the prints until she found two that showed a bearded
  man standing uneasily next to Lorna. Certainly didn't recognize him.
 She read the letter again.
 His name begins un . th the letter 1AI.T
 'Oh my Goff she shrieked. 'That's not possible.'
  She looked again at the pictures, then stomped to her husband's den and
  pulled a box file from the bookshelf. She returned to the kitchen and
  opened the lid. Inside were hundreds of photographs, dating back years,
  all the prints that had never merited being pasted into albums.
  Her heart was thumping so much she feared a coronary. She dug deep in the
  box, guessing anything from so long ago should be at the bottom. She
  stirred the prints like a cake-mix, but didn't find what she was looking
  for.
  'Come on, Annie, you're being stupid,' she scolded herself. 'Go
  systematic.'
  She began again, removing each print individually, checking and stacking
  them into piles. Eventually she found it.
  Hands trembling, she held the print taken in Belfast in 1973 next to the
  new ones.
 'Oh my Goff she howled.
  The beard had fooled her. Older now, jowlier, bigger gut, but the same
  man.
 'A for Alex!' she hissed.
  She took the new pictures to the window and held them to the light,
  looking for signs on Lorna's face of the bitterness she'd harboured for
  the Englishman for so

               318

 many years. Lorna certainly didn't look happy in the photograph. The smile
 looked fixed.
  The two sisters had always confided in each other. She remembered Lorna
  crying over the stocky, unsophisticated boy she'd fallen for in a London
  pub in the nineteen-sixties. She had been broken-hearted at having to leave
  him and return to college in America.
  She remembered too the ecstatic phone call from Belfast ten years later,
  announcing they'd met again. Then, just a week or two after that, the
  betrayal.
  Annie had never shared Lorna's belief in fate; when she learned Alex was
  spying for the British, it hadn't been hard to conclude that he had
  engineered the meeting to make use of her.
  Was he doing it again? What use could she be to him this time? Lorna wasn't
  involved in anything sensitive these days. No longer had anything to do
  with the Cause.
  Annie read the letter once more. No clue from Lorna as to what she felt. No
  reason given for sending the photos. Just those ambiguous exclamation
  points. It was almost as if after twenty years of pledging to get her own
  back on Alex, Lorna couldn't decide what to do, now she had the chance. As
  ifshe was asking for help ...
  Mister Alex Jarvis. Annie knew what she would do to him. Cut his balls off.
  But it wasn't down to her. Not down to Lorna, even. When revenge was
  personal it was almost always wrong. There were bigger issues to be
  considered. This was one for the organization, for the boys with long
  memories who would've given their right arms during the last twenty years
  to know the tout's whereabouts.
  She picked up the telephone and dialled her husband's number.Joe had sat on
  the Irish Republican fundraising committee for over fifteen years. They'd
  both of them been involved since soon after the British troops went in.
  Campaigning, lobbying. Joe would know what to do.

               319

 He'd have a feeling fDr the mood amongst the Provisionals now there was a
 cease-fire on the way.
  Joe was in a marketing meeting, but his secretary pulled him out. He
  listened silently as she explained, then gave his answer in a couple of
  sentences.
  She padded back into the den, took an envelope and writing paper from Joe's
  desk and returned to the kitchen. She slipped one of the photos inside the
  envelope, keeping the other back for herself. For at least ten minutes she
  just sat, wondering whether she'd done the right thing after all, talking
  to Joe.
  It was she who'd encouraged her sister to get involved in the Gause. Her
  thoughts drifted back to 1973 when Lorna had fled from Belfast like a
  wraith. After the boys in Boston put a contract out, the creature had
  hidden in cupboards, terrified a knock on the door would be followed by a
  bullet.
  Above all, Annie remembered how Lorna's spirit had been broken by that
  bastard's betrayal, by the shock that someone she'd loved and trusted could
  do that to her. Annie had told her sister to forget him, but she never
  could. Never got him out of her system. Lorna, she guessed, was one of
  those benighted women who only loved the men that abused them.
  Annie picked up the picture again and peered into her sister's eyes. What
  did she see there? Anger? Hate? Oh, no ... Not the other thing for heaven's
  sake ...
  'Lorna, sweetie, don't do it.Just don't do what I think you're goin' to
  do,'she said to the picture. 'He'll fuck you up again, sure as God made
  little green apples.'
  She began to writ(-. just a few sentences. Just enough to let the boys know
  what was what. LikeJoe said. Then it was up to them what they did about it.

               320

 12 noon
 Universititsklinik Sembach - Frankfurt m Main

 The gun attack on a Bosnian girl in a quiet residential street had made
 front page news. Armed police guarded her ward in the recently-built
 hospital and the media were beating a path to her door. The TV had portrayed
 Vildana as a tragic war victim, gunned down by the man she was trying to
 bring to justice for the murder of her family. The story had touched hearts
 around the world.
  The Universitatsklinik was the accident and emergency hospital for a swathe
  of semi-urban landscape south of Frankfurt. A white-painted, five-storey
  block, extending each side of a central entrance that served ambulances and
  visitors.
  Alex and Lorna asked at the main desk for directions to ward 4F. The
  receptionist assumed they were journalists and told them coldly they'd need
  to speak first to the hospital administrator.
  'And he's not let anyone see her all morning,' she added briskly.
  'We're not press, we're family,' Alex answered in German.
  'Really?' She'd heard the same story four times that morning. 'The police
  won't let you in.'
  Alex took Lorna's arm. 'Come on, we're wasting our time.' He led her to the
  elevators.
  As the doors opened on the fourth floor, they almost collided with
  photographers being nudged away by a police officer. Along the corridor two
  more uniformed men from the Kriminalpolizel stood guard outside room F.
  Alex struggled with his school German to explain who they were. One officer
  went inside and reappeared with Nancy Roche.

               321

  'Hey, it's good to see you guys!' she exclaimed. Her tanned skin looked
  grey and pinched with exhaustion. She led them into the four-bed ward and
  closed the door again. Vildana was dozing in the far corner. Two other beds
  were occupied by children, one alone, the other with a mother in
  attendance.
  'She's sleeping, thank the Lord,' Nancy whispered. 'It was a terrible
  night. She was in a lot of pain when the anaesthetic wore off. Nobody got
  any sleep. Nataga is totally washed out; I sent her home at eight this
  morning, after a nurse came on who's from Yugoslavia. She looks in once in
  a while. Say, have they caught the man yet?'
  'Not that we've heard,' Alex answered. Xommissar Linz hasn't rung us.'
 Anyway they'd been too pre-occupied to enquire.
  'Vildana's scared out of her wits. Thinks he'll chase and chase until he
  finds her.'
  'She's probably right,' Lorna agreed. 'The man's a monster.'
  They looked across at the sleeping child. She had one hand up to her mouth,
  half obscuring her birthmark, the thumb resting on her lips.
  'She's a sweet kid,' Nancy murmured, shaking her head. 'So young, and
  suffered so much already. Now look, are you guys going to be here a while?
  Gan you give me a couple of hours to flop, to go home and take a shower?'
  Lorna and Alex looked at one another and nodded. 'Sure, why not.'
  'That's swell of you. One thing, some Bosnian refugee centre has been in
  touch, just making sure someone's taking responsibility fDr Vildana. The
  police say they're bona fide, but I'm a little anxious. Scared they'll take
  her away from me I guess,' she grimaced nervously.
  'And you don't want that... ?'Lorna asked, checking. The woman could have
  had no idea what she was letting herself in for when she agreed to take
  Vildana.

               322

  'No way,' Nancy replied, startled at the question. 'She's my girl now.
  Leastways, so long as that's what she wants,' she added. 'See you in a
  couple of hours then?'
  'Sure. Take your time,' Lorna said, squeezing her arm.
  She and Alex sat down beside the bed, watching the rise and fall of
  Vildana's breathing. Her right breast was covered by a thick, white
  dressing.
  Such tiny breasts, Lorna thought, little more than buds. And now there'd be
  a scar, another physical one to go with those that they couldn't see, in
  her mind.
  Half an hour later, with Vildana still sleeping, Alex descended to the
  lobby telling Lorna he'd find them some sandwiches. His main aim however
  was to telephone M15.
  'What are you doing in Frankfurt, dear boy?' Chadwick's voice, suspicious.
  just checking you'd read your papers this morning. .
  'And the rest . . . TV, radio, the story's getting a huge play over here.
  But ... were you there when it happened?'
 'Well yes . . .'
 'Why? How?'
  'I helped smuggle the girl out of Bosnia. Came here to see how she was
  settling in with her new family...'
  'Good heavens! You're a canny bastard. Didn't mention any of that when you
  rang from Split.'
 'It was still rather sensitive, then.'
  'Well, tell me something. That Lorna somebody-orother mentioned in the
  7-imes - she's not Loma... ?'
  'Good Lord, no,' Alex lied. 'Sorensen's her name. Nordic background, I
  think.'
  'Mmm . . .' Chadwick was unconvinced. He'd seen a photo of her in the
  paper. 'You're sure it wa~ Milan Pravic who shot the girl?'
  'Can't think who else would do it. Certainly fitted the description.'

               323

 'I see. Who's handling it for the Germans?'
  'A Kommissar called Linz. From the Bundeskriminalamt.'
  'Oh I know Linz. Met him not so long ago at an Interpol bash. Maybe I'll
  give him a ring. I'll tell him you're a friend of mine. . .'
  Alex rang off then bought cheese rolls and mineral water from the stall
  in the lobby. He also picked up the Frankfurte AlIgmeine and Bild
  Zeitung.
  Back in the ward he scanned the stories that had been written about
  Vildana.
  'It says here she was smuggled into Germany in the trunk of a car
  belonging to an American adoption agency,' he translated. 'Says it's
  thought the killer tailed them all the way to Frankfurt.'
 'God! Who gives them this stuff?'
 'Better that than the truth,' he commented wryly.
 'Do they name him?' Lorna asked.
  'Not directly. There's a lot about Tulici. Mentions the UN asking
  European police forces to hold Pravic if they find him. Oh, Kommissar
  Linz is quoted. Says he has no idea who the gunman was. Appealing for
  more witnesses - all that crap.'
  Vildana stirred. She saw Lorna, made an attempt at a smile, then winced
  with pain. Lorna fussed with the pillows and the girl closed her eyes
  once more.
  It stirred memories for Alex, sitting by a child's hospital bed. Jodie.
  He'd broken an arm once, riding his bike into a wall. Only ten at the
  time.
  Alex turned back to the papers. Leipzig again - the mystery suicide. A
  new twist ... A Zagreb woman was critically ill with pulmonary anthrax.
  The hotel where she worked as a cleaner had been closed to be disin-
  fected.
 'Extraordinary story, this,' Alex muttered.
 'Now what are they sayiing?'
 'It's not about Vildana, this one. It's about a scientist

               324

 in Leipzig University, who committed suicide last week. The official line is
 that he was depressed at being made redundant. You know, a man whose work
 meant everything to him? Well, his daughter tells a dffrerent story. She
 said her father had hinted about being forced to hand over supplies of
 lethal bacteria to some thug from the Stasi, you know - the old East German
 secret police?'
 'Really?'
  'The papers have been nibbling at it for days. They're saying the bacteria
  could've been anthrax, and now there's a girl dying from the disease in
  Zagreb.'
 'Zagreb! For Pete's sake, why Zagreb?'
  'Dunno. But anthrax isn't exactly as common as 'flu, so there's some
  suspicion it came from the lab in Leipzig. And now, the papers say there's
  a cover-up going on. They claim the German intelligence agencies know all
  about it, but aren't saying.'
 'Wow! That's some story!'
  Voices in the corridor outside, then Kommissar Linz walked in, dressed in
  his green raincoat and carrying a slim briefcase.
  He limped across to the corner bed and shook their hands formally.
  'Guten Tag, Herr Crawford. Frau Sorensen. Your hotel said you were out, so
  I hoped you would be here.'
 'You have news about Pravic?' Alex asked.
  'Yes and no.' He rested the briefcase on a chair, opened it, and pulled out
  a photograph about seven inches by five. 'They wired this from Berlin this
  morning.'
  Alex took it from him, a blow-up of a passport photo, blurry
  black-and-white. Man in late twenties. Thick, fair hair, pale eyes. A
  sullen, brooding face. No trace of a smile.
  'Well? Have you seen this man before?' Linz asked neutrally.
 'Is it him?' asked Alex.

               325

 Linz shrugged, saying nothing.
 Alex held it out so Lorna could see too.
  'I never saw the guy's face, that's the trouble,' she said, exasperated.
 'You?' Linz asked again, turning back to Alex.
  'I don't know. I remember the man as older. His hair was trimmed short,
  I think. When was this picture taken?'
 'Maybe six years ago.'
  'Mmm. The eyes look similar. Not quite what I remember, but similar. But
  then I don't suppose he was about to try to murder someone when this
  picture was taken.'
 Linz took the photo back.
  'You told me the car was driven by a woman,'he went on. 'You heard her
  scream. Did you see her face? You think you'd recognize her?'
 Alex looked pained and shook his head.
  'When we drove into the road, the car was parked there and I think I saw
  dark hair through the driver's window. But that's all. Why? You've found
  the car.'
  'The police in Berlin have found a woman that Pravic used to live with.
  And it happens that she owns a white Volkswagen Polo.'
 'Aha. Fantastic!'Alex smiled.
  'But she claims she has not seen Pravic since he went back to Bosnia two
  years ago. She also has two witnesses who say she was with them for the
  whole weekend, and another who says the car has not been away from its
  parking place for days.'
 'Oh. Not so good.'
  'But since the woman is a prostitute and her friends have convictions for
  fraud and drug dealing, we're not necessarily convinced by her story,'
  he concluded.
 This man can be quite droll, Alex thought.
  'So, Herr Crawford, I would like your help in putting her to the test.
  She is being brought to Frankfurt this

               326

 afternoon. I will arrange an identity parade at the police headquarters this
 evening. At about seven? You could be there?'
 'Surely. But as I said, I didn't see her face.'
  'Maybe there will be something you can recognize. We will try. It's the
  best chance.'
  He was on the point of replacing the photo in his briefcase, when he
  noticed that Vildana was awake and watching them. He smiled at her, and
  hesitated.
 Lorna guessed what he was about to do.
  'Please don't show her that . . .' she interjected. 'Not just now.'
  Linz nodded. She was right. There was no need. Not yet.

 6.25 p.m.
 Munich

 Martin Sanders took it taxi straight from Munich's Franz Josef StrauB
 Airport to the hotel near the Victualenmarkt. No special hired car this
 time. There'd be no ramble, no wine tasting. This was an emergency.
  He paid cash for the room as usual and went up to it to wait. Katzfuss had
  said he would make contact.
  The Leipzig business had been hot gossip at Vauxhall Cross before he left
  London. Snide little speculations about what their German counterparts in
  the BND had been up to. 'Wouldn't happen here, old boy. At least, if it
  did, we'd make damn sure nothing slipped out.'
 Little did they know, Sanders brooded.
  He sat on the austere easy-chair in the corner of his room, reading the
  William Boyd he'd bought at the

               327

 airport on the way out. Twenty minutes passed, then Katzfuss rang, giving
 the name of a restaurant five minutes walk away.
  When he reached it, Jack Kapinsky and Marcel Vaillon were already sitting
  with the German at a table in an alcove. Photos of old opera singers
  cluttered the walls of the place.
  'Bowoirl Martin,' the Frenchman said, extending a hand. Jack has just
  told us that Akhavi is on the way out, but there's no word on the Russian
  yet.'
  'Hmmm,' Sanders grunted, squeezing onto the bench next to him. Assisting
  in the probable death of two men had given him no pleasure.
  'Is this place clean?' Kapinsky asked petulantly. 'It's just I thought
  the Ramblers had rules not to meet near walls.'
  The American's nostrils twitched as if they'd detected an unpleasant
  smell. Getting ready to pass the buck, Sanders thought.
  'I think no one will hear us, gentlemen,' Katzfuss replied dismissively.
  'I am sorry to have to call this extra meeting, but there is a crisis.'
  'Your guy's fucked up, hasn't he,' Kapinsky snapped. 'Killed a Croatian
  chambermaiff
  The deep lines on Katzfuss's face gave him the appearance of an angry
  Boxer dog.
  'I believe you Americans have a phrase ... Collateral damage?' the German
  growled.
  'Come on boys and girls,' Sanders intervened. 'Let's tov to be grown up.
  We're all in it together.'
 'Get on with it, Rudi,'Vaillon said.
  A waiter hovered. They looked quickly at the menu, he memorized their
  choices and left them in peace.
  'All right. So ... When we met two weeks ago,' Katzfuss reminded them,
  'we decided the Russian and the Iranian should be eliminated by a
  freelance with

               328

 experience. We agreed this person could use whatever means. Yes?'
 They nodded. Even Kapinsky.
  'So ... we made conditions - that the uictims should die only after they
  return to their own countries. For this, the agent decide to use a
  biological weapon - anthrax. Unfortunately the man who supplied the
  bacteria was not reliable any more. He killed himself, leaving a letter
  telling what he had done. He told also that Herr Dunkel - that is the cover
  name of our agent - that Dunkel was previously with the Stasi.
  'The civil police in Leipzig read the letter. 7-hg pass it to internal
  security, BfV, who tell us at the BND. I tell them this is wery sensitive,
  and the letter must disappear, but already it is too late. The newspapers
  learn from the police what it said.
  'So ... now the newspapers and some Bundestag representatives ask what is
  the connection between the security services and Dunkel, and the death of
  Kemmer in Leipzig and the almost death of a woman in Zagreb.
  , Most of that you already know. But there is something else, gentlemen .
  . .' Katzftiss's face sagged like a deflated balloon. 'Yesterday I meet
  with the man we call Dunkel ... He told me that he had help in Zagreb.
  Maybe you two saw the other man?' he asked, glancing at Sanders and
  Vaillon.
  'Yes. But I don't know his name,' Sanders replied, reaching into his pocket
  for a small envelope.
  'That was a pity,' Katzfuss sighed. 'Dunkel brought this man back to
  Gen-nany. On the way, during the night at a motel, he stole from Dunkel's
  car the remains of the liquid containing the anthrax. . .
 'Wha-at?' Sanders erupted.
  'God almighty, Rudi!' Kapinsky exploded. 'I thought you said your guy was
  a pro . . .'
 Katzftiss's embarrassment was painful to see.
 ja, Dunkel was a pro,' he shrugged. 'Some years ago.

               329

 Too many years perhaps. But the worst thing is the name of the man who now
 has the anthrax. It is Milan Pravic . . .'
  'Bloody hellP Sanders spluttered. The other two frowned, trying to place
  it.
  'Responsible for the murder of more than forty women and children at
  Tulici in Bosnia last month,' Katzfuss continued. 'Wanted for the
  attempted murder yesterday, here in Germany, of Vildana Muminovic, the
  only witness to the massacre.'
  Silence at the table. No one breathed. The food arrived.
  'C'est incroyable! Vaillon hissed after the waiter had gone again.
  'Your oldpro hires a genocidal maniac to help out with the Zagreb job,
  and then lets him walk away with a bottle of anthrax?' Kapinsky howled.
  'My God, Rudi! What's going on here?'
  Sanders opened the envelope and pulled out the photograph he'd taken in
  Zagreb, showing Pravic and 'Dunkel' sitting in the big square near the
  Dubrovnik Hotel.
 'That's him,' he said dismally.
  'This, I didn't know you had it,' Katzfuss said, grabbing it from him.
  'Always take holiday snaps. Never know when they might come in handy.'
  'The police must have this. As soon as possible,' the German continued.
  'Give that to the cops, and they'll want to know where it came firom,'
  Kapinsky complained. 'Then they'll know the BND's involved.'
  Jack, the police must have this picture,' Katzfuss insisted. 'And they
  must be warned that Pravic could kill thousands of people with the
  anthrax!'
 'Are you crazy?' Kapinsky hissed. 'The Ramblers will

               330

 make headlines all over the world. just think what'll happen in each of our
 countries when people find out what we've been doing. Putting out contracts
 to assassinate people without the authority of our governments! Using b
 w*logw'al weapow. Do you know what Congress will do? I'll tell you. They'll
 have the excuse they've been looking for to close down the whole fucking
 Company. The CIA will be dead in the wateff
  'I have to agree with Jack, Rudl,' Sanders added quietly. 'The political
  repercussions don't bear thinking about.'
 'They are right,' Vaillon concurred.
  'But the risk of what could happen here in Germany? We cannot permit this.
  Pravic has killed who knows how many in Bosnia, for the reason that they
  are Muslims. Even if the Wictims have never been to a mosque in their
  lives, they must still be killed because of their culture -that is what he
  believes. In Germany we have hundreds of thousands of Bosnians. Many, many
  so-called Muslims.'
 He wiggled his fingers to indicate inverted commas.
  'My friends. The situation is most urgent. This week there is a target here
  in Germany that Mr Pravic might find too tempting to resist. On Wednesday
  - the day after tomorrow - in Munich, there is a Muslim political rally.
  More than one thousand Bosnians,Turks, Iranians, and Lebanese meet in a
  sports hall to listen to speeches from Islamic Fundamentalists. Already the
  police in Munich think neo-Nazis will try to break up the meeting. But if
  Pravic . . .'
 'You're right,' Sanders agreed. 'The risk is appalling.'
  'Suppose he can spray the bacteria in there? Five hundred dead? A thousand?
  Then the questions from the Bosnian Muslims in this country - you knew
  about this man, why didn't you stop him? Why you let him murder Muslims?
  You Germans are still Nazis, still with the

               331

 Croats, like in Third Reich... ~' It would be Bzirgerkrieg. A Bosnian civil
 war in Germany.'
  Marcel Vaillon nodded, reminded of France's own problems with Algeria.
  'You are right Rudi, but so are we,' he insisted. 'Of course your police
  must have this picture and know the danger. But wejour must not be exposed.
  Maybe there is a way.'
 He turned to the SIS man.
  'Martin, in our last meeting you said the UN Tribunal asked for British
  help to find Pravic. So, now you have some success, don't you?' He tapped
  the photo. 'Send them this. Say it was taken by a British UN soldier. Tell
  the UN to give it to the German police immediately. They won't know where
  it comes from.'
  Like laundering money. Sanders picked up the print and studied it again.
  Easy enough to mask out Dunkel and the background.
  'Then Rudi, you must warn the police Pravic could have been in Zagreb when
  the hotel worker was infected. Say the man is a mass murderer and may have
  an anthrax weapon. If they ask how you know, you tell them you don't, but
  it is a guess.'
  'That's fine, but what about Dunkel?' Kapinsky intervened. 'He's the
  crucial figure that connects Pravic with Leipzig and with us. If the police
  identify Dunkel and he talks, then he could spill the whole bag of
  maggots.'
 The other three nodded.
  'Already I tell him he must eliminate everything that links him to Pravic
  and Zagreb,' Katzfuss replied, knowing that it wouldn't be enough.
  'What I'm saying Rudi,' Kapinsky stressed, 'is that Dunkel is the key to
  keeping us out of trouble. And he's your problem, Rudi. You have to get to
  him before the cops do. And you have to take him out.'

               332

 FrankfiiLrt 7.00 p.m.

 A uniformed woman officer led the way into a small, grey-painted, airless
 office at the headquarters of the Kriminalpolizei. Irwin and Nancy Roche
 were already there, looking anxious and drawn. So was Nataga. One wall was
 made of glass. Beyond it Alex saw another room, furnitureless and empty.
  'In a minute you will see six women through the glass. They cannot see you.
  Each woman will carry a card with a number,' Kommissar Linz explained. 'Do
  not talk to each other about what you see. If you think one of them is the
  person who was driving the Polo yesterday, write down her number and give
  it to me.' He handed each of them a notepad and pen. 'Are you all ready?'
 They concurred.
  'Anfangen bittef he said into a microphone projecting from the wall. He
  dimmed the lights.
 'Not too close to the glass,' he cautioned.
  A few seconds later the women filed in. All had short, dark hair, some
  black, some brown. Three were in short miniskirts, three in trousers.
 'Tough looking bunch,' Alex commented.
 'Please! No talking,' Linz repeated.
  Alex looked at each face in turn, hoping some detail might jog his memory
  - the cut of the hair or the line of the jaw. The trouble was they were
  standing face on. When he'd seen the woman's profile yesterday, he'd been
  looking down at the Polo from the high-up passenger seat in the Land
  Cruiser.
  'Can you get them to sit on the floor and face to the left?' he whispered.
  Linz nodded. He pushed the button on the microphone again.
 'Bitte, setzen Sie sich auf dein Boden und nach links gucken!

               333

  Reluctantly the women complied, the ones in the miniskirts objecting
  strongly.
  'Now let's see,' Alex breathed. There were only two possibles, numbers
  four and six. Couldn't be sure about either of them. Both had hair that
  was almost black, both were heavy in the chest and fat in the thigh. He
  wrote both numbers on the paper.
  'She could be one of these two,' he whispered handing Linz the note.
 'But you are not sure?' he checked.
 'Impossible. I didn't see her full face in the car.'
  Linz grimaced. Without a positive identification they were sunk. The
  Roches shook their heads, as did Lorna.
 'Danke schdrLl' Linz shouted into the box.
 He accompanied them back to the main entrance.
  'Sorry that wasn't much help,' Alex said. 'The woman's still denying
  everything, I suppose?'
  'Such women are in the habit of telling lies to the police. It is easy
  for her. But she is frightened, that's for sure. Of Pravic probably. What
  woman would not be? But without evidence we cannot hold her for long. We
  will ask her some more questions this evening, then tomorrow she must go
  free.'
 'Which one was she, by the way?'
  Linz turned to look at him. He knew he shouldn't answer, but an idea had
  just come into his head.
 'Number four.'
 Alex faltered.
 'Damn! If only I'd been sure..
  'There may be something more you can do . . .' Linz said, stoppingjust
  short of the swing doors. He took Alex and Lorna to one side, while the
  Roches waited. 'I would like to talk with you on the telephone tonight,
  after I have spoken with Fraulein Pocklewicz. You'll be at the Hotel
  Sommer? At about eleven o'clock?'
 'Certainly.'

               334

  They shook hands, then Linz disappeared back into the building.
 On the steps outside, the Roches turned to Lorna.
  'We have to have a talk,' Irwin told her. 'You and 1, we've got some hard
  thinking to do. We have to decide what's best for the kid, I mean.'
  Lorna could see some embarrassment in Roche's eyes, signs of a weakening
  resolve.
  'Beginning to change your minds about Vildana?' she asked bluntly.
  'No ... but we want to know a little better what we're letting ourselves in
  for,' he explained. 'I mean we have two kids of our own, and we're surely
  not going to do anything that'll screw up their lives.'
  'No. No, of course you can't. I understand. But why not wait and see how
  things pan out in the next few days, huh? Vildana will have to stay in
  hospital for a while yet.'
  'Sure, sure,' Roche concurred. just wanted you to understand where we're
  coming frorn.'
 Nancy Roche looked pale and awkward.
  'Don't get us wrong,' she stressed. 'As I told you in the hospital, she's
  my girl so long as she wants it and ... and as long as my family do too.'
  She pulled her mouth into a thin smile, but it did nothing to dilute the
  anguish in her eyes. 'Anyway, I'm going back there now. So's Nataga. We'll
  stay the night again if she needs us to.'
 Lorna gave her a huge hug.
 'Don't worry. I understand,' she whispered.

 11.05 p.m. Hotel Sommer

 For a long time after making love, Alex and Lorna lay

               335

 side by side, their bodies just touching. They were conscious of each
 other's breathing but said nothing, each pre-occupied with their own
 thoughts. In the background the soft strains of a Mozart piano concerto
 tinkled from the radio.
  Lorna turned on her side, tucking her cheek into the dip of his shoulder
  and resting her hand on his stomach. It felt so strange lying there with
  him. Strange, because it was hard not to believe that she had vaulted
  back in time, wiping out the years of pain and anger.
 'You know something, mister?' she said, throatily.
 'What's that?' he breathed.
  'You're kind of good at this. In fact if there was an Oscar for screwing,
  you'd get my nomination.'
 'Well thank you! You're not bad either..
 She gave a little snort of laughter.
  'On second thoughts, the nomination depends on you shaving that beard off
 'There's always a catch. .
  'Hey, you remember the first time we did it?' she asked meanly. 'On my
  Morri's carpeff
  'Eighteen and overexcited,' he replied. All over within seconds, as he
  recalled.
  'You were so embarrassed,' she giggled. 'And you remember what we used
  to talk about in those days?'
 'Not really. I was only after your body.'
  'Oh sure. You remember all that teenage stuff. Why are we here? The world
  stinks but you can't change it, so let's drop out, get stoned and watch
  it all go by? We used to sit out on Hampstead Heath in the moonlight and
  talk about this life and the afterlife, about God and ghosts. And fate.'
  'Fate I remember,' he conceded. 'Your whole life written down beforehand
  in some doomy book. You still believe that?'
 She was silent for a moment.

               336

  'Maybe. Maybe not. What d'you think's written in Vildana's book?'
 ,A lot more misery..
 'Don't say that. You think the Roches will adopt her?'
  He thought about it. The odds were about evens, he reckoned.
  'If the police catch Pravic quickly, then it might work out. If he stays on
  the loose and the Roches have to live with the knowledge that he's out
  there, then I'm not sure they could handle that.'
 The telephone rang, startling them.
  'God, what now?' Lorna gulped, picking up the receiver. 'Hullo?'
 'Mrs Sorensen?'
 She recognized the voice of Kommissar Linz.
  'Yes, hi there. You want to speak to Alex?' She suspected the policeman was
  more comfortable talking to a man. She passed the phone over.
  'Good evening, Kommissar,' Alex answered. 'Has the Berlin woman told you
  anything?'
  'Nothing. Nothing. Tomorrow morning at nine I must release her, but I have
  an idea. Will you help me?'
 'Of course, if I can.'
  'Then would you and Frau Sorensen be here tomorrow morning? I wantyou to
  speak to Frdulein Pocklewicz after she leaves. She inay talk to you if you
  say you're not the police. Tell her you recognize her from the car, but
  won't tell the police it'she agrees to help you. Maybe take her to the
  hospital to see Vildana - she is a woman. Use tricks if you think it will
  persuade her to reveal to you where Pravic is now.'
 'A long shot, isn't iff
  '_7a, but it is the onty shot we have. Except one. A new photograph. I will
  show you in the morning. You can be here at eight-thirty?'
 'No problem.'

               337

  'Oh, and by the way, Herr Chadwick in London sends a big hello.'
 'Oh yes. Yes, thanks.'
  He leaned across Lorna's warm body to replace the phone on its rest.
  'What was that all about?' she asked, running her fingers down the hard
  muscles of his back.
 'He's fixed us a date,' he replied. 'With a prostitute.'

 3.35 a.m. the same night Berlin

 Karina closed the door to her room in the brothel and locked it. It had
 been raining all evening. Bad for trade. Only three punters since seven
 o'clock. Not even enough to pay the rent.
  She'd changed from her working clothes into trainers, black ski-pants and
  a large purple sweater. Out in the street, she held a plastic bag above
  her head as protection against the downpour and began to run. It wasn't
  far to the cosy little flat with the large bed that she shared with
  another girl in the same profession.
  Dieter Konrad hardly recognized her through the rain-smeared window of
  the stolen Audi. But the doll-like hair and the look of her backside as
  she ran convinced him. He drew alongside, then wound down the passenger
  window.
  'Frdulein Kaiina-l' he shouted. She stopped and bent down to peer inside.
 'Oh, it's you. What do you want?'
 'I want to do business,' he replied, trying to smile.
  'What, another sodding passport? Piss off She walked on, feeling the cold
  rain soak through her sweater.

               338

 Konrad eased the car forward, keeping pace.
  'Look, I said no!' she shouted, halting for a second time.
 'Not a passport. Business. You know.'
 'What? Sex?' she began to laugh. 'You?'
 ja/ And this time I won't argue about the price!'
  'Switch the light on.' She stuck her head through the window to get a
  better look at him. 'What are you up to?'
 'You know.'
  She saw his cheek twitch and mistook it for lust. She remembered he'd been
  wanting it when he came to the apartment the other day.
  'Why didn't you come into the house?' she demanded, shivering as the rain
  drenched her back.
  'I get embarrassed,' he replied glancing down. 'Didn't want that old madame
  to see me. Anyway, get in out of the rain while we talk about it.'
  Karina was wary about cars. If this was someone she'd never seen before,
  she wouldn't get in. But it was cold, she was getting wetter by the second,
  he'd said he wouldn't haggle over the price and it had been a slow night.
  'Okay, but don't put it into gear.' She got in, leaving the door slightly
  open. 'All right. So what did you have in mind?'
 'Straight sex,' he shrugged awkwardly.
  'Not without a condom, and I'm not carrying any around with me.'
  'But I have some.' Konrad pulled from his pocket the packet he'd got from
  a machine in a bar round the corner.
  'Oooh, proper little boy scout!' she said, huskily. 'Where then, if you
  don't want to trick in the apartment?' She glanced over her shoulder. The
  car was a hatchback. He'd folded the rear seats down and covered the floor
  space with a yellow tartan blanket. 'Thought of everything, haven't you?'

               339

  Now, she decided, let's see whether he's serious about not haggling.
  'It'll cost you two hundred,' she announced coldly, opening the door
  wider as if to get out.
 Konrad winced.
  'I know I said I won't argue,' he whined, 'but that's taking advantage.
  And if you're fair with me, I might come back and see you again. It could
  be good business for you.'
 'Are you married?' she asked out of the blue.
 Ja.'
 'But she doesn't like doing it any more?'
  'Menopause, you know?' he answered, turning away from her. He saw two
  people walking towards them on the opposite side of the road. Better be
  quick.
 'So?' he asked.
 'One hundred then. In my hand, now.'
 'All right, but close the door. It's cold.'
  He slipped the car into gear and drove off, juggling his wallet against
  the steering wheel. He passed her the I 00DM note.
  'The Tiergarten, right?' she insisted. There'd be other hookers around
  there. Safety in numbers.
  Konrad headed down FriedrichstraBe trying to control the sickness in his
  stomach, ticking off the preparations he'd made, wondering if he could
  go through with it when the moment came.
  'Have you done this sort of business before, handsome?' Karina asked,
  resting her hand on his crotch. He brushed her away.
  'No. Haven't needed to,' he replied brusquely. There was double meaning
  in what he'd said.
  He turned off Unter den Linden, round the back of the Reichstag, and
  headed into the broad, tree-lined avenue that crossed the unlit park of
  the Tiergarten.
 One kilometre away, the distant, floodlit erection

               340

 commemorating Prussian wars formed a priapic background for the whores at
 work in the vehicles parked in pools of darkness between the street lamps.
  Konrad halted the car in a free space, a hundred metres from the nearest
  stationary vehicle.
  Karina unzipped his trousers and slipped her hand inside.
  'You'll have to do better than this,' she smiled, feeling the flaccidity
  of his organ.
  'I think it will be easier if we get in the back,' he explained, removing
  her hand from his underpants. He took off his jacket, then they opened
  the doors, turned their backs to the wind and rain, and climbed into the
  rear.
  'Fucking cold out there,' Karina shivered. 'Some poor sods will be out
  in the bushes.'
  She looked at him. He seemed awkward. Perhaps it really was his first
  time with a whore.
  'What now?' she asked, hugging herself 'You're the customer. You have to
  say what you want.'
 'Take your clothes off, then.'
  She pulled down the side zip of her ski-pants, then removed them together
  with her knickers. She lifted her sweater up under her chin then lay back
  on the blanket exposing her breasts.
 'Take your sweater right off,' Konrad insisted.
  'Aw, come on. It's too bloody cold. Get your pants off and let's get on
  with it.'
  Konrad loosened the belt of the trousers and eased down the zip again.
  Then he half-slid, half-rolled until he lay on top of her.
  'Oof,' she gasped as his weight drove the air from her lungs. She reached
  down with her right hand. He pulled it away again.
  'Not just yet,' he said, unable to stop the shake in his voice. 'I like
  to take my time.'
 He stretched her left arm out to the side.

               341

  'What's going on?' she asked, as she felt him slip a band over her wrist.
  'Don't worry,' he soothed, pressing together the Velcro straps he'd
  attached to the seat belt mount earlier. 'It's just my little game.'
  Suddenly she began to kick. She was a lot shorter than him and powerless
  tinder the bulk of his spread-eagled legs.
  'No fucking game-s! Get off me you bastard!' Her left handjerked and
  pulled, but the strap held it. 'Help! Help somebody!'
  With his right hand Konrad peeled a pre-cut length of adhesive carpet
  tape from the back of the front seat and slapped it across her mouth.
  With his left hand he fended off the nails clawing at his eyes.
  Using both hands now, he pinioned her right arm with a second Velcro
  strap, Karina's eyes almost bursting from their sockets. Her lips and
  tongue pushed and twisted to dislodge the tape muffling her screams.
  Konrad ripped off the tape, stuffed a ball of paper into her mouth,
  shoved a hand under her chin and slapped the tape back in place.
  Karina's head shook in a frenzy, her panicky breath sawing through flared
  nostrils. Then, with a fresh length of tape he pinched them closed.
  'I'm sorry,' Konrad whispered, his fingers feeling on each side of her
  neck for the throb of the carotid artery. Sensing the pulse through his
  thumbs, he pressed with all his strength.
  'Believe me, I did not want this . . .'he added through clenched teeth.
  Her nut-brown eyes stayed locked on his until her lids began to flicker
  and she blacked out. Slowly her face turned a purpley blue.

               342

            Twenty-five

 Tuesday 5th April, 7.20 a.m.
 London-Heathrow Airport

 The BA 214 from Boston landed ahead of schedule. Chauffeurs and minicab
 drivers on the early shift hovered outside the arrivals hall holding name
 cards. Amongst them was a short man with a florid complexion, wearing a
 grey suit, white shirt and dark, nondescript tie.
  Inside the hall, Liam Doyle carried his shoulder bag through immigration
  and customs in a daze. He'd done the sensible thing on the flight across
  the Atlantic, turning down all offers of alcohol, but despite that he had
  a thick head this morning and eyeballs that felt as if they'd been
  smeared with Vaseline. He wore a light trench coat over a midweight,
  brown suit. His curly, grey hair was brushed across the top of his head
  to cover a bald patch.
  Things had happened so fast yesterday afternoon, he'd hardly had time to
  think. The letter delivered to the Committee office by the older Donohue
  sister, the phone call to Belfast to tell them about the photograph, and
  the plea from Nolan that it be brought across overnight by hand.
  He emerged from the baggage hall and followed other passengers past the
  waiting faces. Then he paused to read the name boards held by the
  drivers.
  'That's me,' he announced, approaching the short man with the florid
  face.
  'Mr Doyle of Emerald Finance?' His accent was from south of Dublin.

               343

 'That's right.'
  The driver offered to take his bag, but Doyle refused. They walked to the
  car park and were soon on their way round the perimeter road to the north
  side of the airport.
  'It's another hour before your man gets in from Belfast,' the driver
  explained. 'I'll bring him to you at the hotel.'
  'I guess that gives me time for a shower,' Doyle remarked in his softly
  sterile New England voice.
  The Post House was one of the older Heathrow Hotels. Not as plush as
  some, but cheaper than most and reassuringly anonymous. The driver
  hovered by the desk while Doyle checked in, waiting to learn his room
  number.
  'Nine-two-three,' the man from Boston announced. 'You'll bring him
  straight up?'
 just as soon as his plane lands.'

 The Belfast flight was twenty minutes late, due to a glitch in the
 security checks when they were loading the luggage.
  Tommy Nolan felt as tense as a brick, but forced his face to relax as
  they filed past the Special Branch men who watched all arrivals from
  Ulster. He avoided eye contact and passed without trouble.
  Deadly job. The Met bastards couldn't hope to remember any but the most
  current of mugshots.
  Nolan's involvement with the Provos had declined since the 1970s when
  he'd been a company commander in the Whiterock area of Belfast. The
  breakup of the structure into cells had left him on the sidelines.
  Nolan wore a dull, tweed jacket and baggy, bottlegreen cords. He had
  crinkly, black hair which always looked greasy, and a broad, stress-worn
  face with watery brown eyes that made him look older than his forty-four
  years.

               344

  By day he drove a taxi, by night he hogged a seat in Dunphy's Bar, talking
  about the old days. Talking too, often as not, about his younger brother
  Kieran, shot dead by the RUC during the failed Long Keshjail break in 1973.
  More than twenty years ago, but after a fewjars it still felt like
  yesterday.
  In Republican Belfast, Tommy Nolan was known as the man who'd pledged to
  'top'the tout who'd put his kid brother in Milltown cemetery, but in twenty
  years had failed to find him.
  Last night's transatlantic phone call had been pure adrenalin. The man he'd
  sworn to kill had finally broken covenjust in the nick of time before they
  called an end to hostilities.
  The man in the chauffeur's grey suit had no need of a name card this time.
  Nolan was his cousin.
  At the Post House Hotel, Nolan went alone to Doyle's room. Had to hammer at
  the door because the American had fallen asleep.
  'You Tommy?' Doyle asked bleary-eyed, opening it on the chain.
  'That's right.' Nolan replied in his tortured Belfast brogue.
  'Sorry, sorry,' Doyle yawned. He slipped the chain and pulled the door
  wide. 'I guess I just passed out. I'm flying back this afternoon, so I'm
  staying with Boston time. And according to my brain, that means I should
  still be asleep.'
  Nolan's head hurt from the Bushmills he'd drunk to steady his nerves last
  night. He didn't want conversation, just the picture.
  'This is the shot,' Doyle announced, handing him the photograph taken on
  Lorna's Nikon. 'Pretty good, huh?'
 'Tommy Nolan held it in his shaking hands. Hard to reconcile this
 middle-aged, bearded figure with the lanky twenty-eight-year-old whose
 picture he'd kept in the tin box under his bed.

               345

 'Is that her with him?' he growled.
  'It certainly is. But she wasn't involved, right? She was betrayed by him
  just as much as you were.'
  'So what's she doin' with him here then?' he demanded, smacking the print
  with the back of his right hand.
  'Posing for a picture, that's all. She was the one who sent it to us, don't
  forget ... just like she did with the last photo, the one from 1973. She's
  not to be touched, okay?'
  Nolan reined in his feelings. He'd always reckoned the Donohue woman just
  as much to blame for his brother's death as the manjarvis.
  'And this was in Bosnia, you said?' Nolan asked. 'There's no ways I'd go
  there to look for him.'
  'You don't have to. As I told you yesterday, he's in Frankfurt, Germany.
  Annie Donohue made some check calls with Lorna's office. The guy's been
  leaving messages for her. Here's the name of his hotel and the phone
  number.'
 He handed Nolan a page from a notebook.
  'Can't say for surc he's still there, but you can easily check.'
  Nolan felt a nervous bubbling in his guts. The trail that chilled so many
  years ago was hot again. The blood throbbed painfully in his temples.

 Half-an-hour later, the Irish driver parked outside a terraced house in the
 West London district of Chiswick and rang the doorbell of a ground floor
 flat. A man in his mid-twenties with dark hair and designer stubble let them
 in. The driver made the introductions.
 'Michael McCarthy - Tommy Nolan.'
 'Hello.'
 'Are youse Michael or Mickey?' Nolan asked matily.

               346

 He wasn't at ease with the new generation of hard young
 men who ran the " operation on the mainland.
  'Michael's my name,' McCarthy replied coldly. He led them into a
  cluttered back room adjoining the kitchen.
  'A quick cup of tea, Michael, and I'll be out of your hair,' the driver
  muttered, gravitating towards the stove.
  'Fix it for all of us, will you?' McCarthy pulled chairs from under a
  dining table that had been picked up cheap at an auction.
  'We'll talk the business after he's gone,' he whispered, jerking a thumb
  towards the kitchen. 'How was your flight? No bother?'
  'Och, none at all.' Nolan looked round the room. A clothes airer propped
  against the radiator had a woman's underwear hung out to dry. 'Nice
  place. Youse got a wife, then?'
  The younger man looked away and ground his teeth. They'd no idea of
  security these old boys. Didn't understand the rules of war.
  Usten Tommy, all you need to know about me is my name. Right?'
  Nolan felt bruised. just trying to be friendly. He shrugged.
 'As you like.'
  They sat in silence until the tea came. Then for the five minutes it took
  the driver to drink it, they nattered about horse racing and football.
  When the latch closed behind him and they'd heard the car rev away, Nolan
  pulled the photograph of Alex from his jacket pocket. McCarthy gave it
  a cursory glance, then spread open a road atlas of Europe.

               347

 Frankfurt 8.30 a.m.

 Kommissar Linz looked as if he'd slept little, his top shirt button undone
 and his bow tie crooked. Lorna wanted to straighten it, but restrained,
 herself. He'd taken them to an interview room on the ground floor of the
 police headquarters.
  'At nine o'clock, Fraulein Pocklewicz will walk out of here,' he explained
  edgily. 'I will come to the door with her. Then it is up to you. We have
  given her a train ticket to Berlin. She may go direct to the station, so
  you have not much time.'
 'And she's still admitting nothing?' Alex queried.
 'She has not said one word since yesterday afternoon.'
 'Then I doubt she'll speak to us.'
  Linz opened a folder, preoccupied. 'Does this picture help?' he asked. He
  produced a computer print of two identical faces, one wearing spectacles,
  the other not.
  'That's him!' Alex exclaimed. 'Without the glasses.' The cold, hard eyes
  left him in no doubt. 'He's the man who shot Vildana. This is Pravic? Where
  did the picture come from?'
  'The United Nations, so they tell me.' Linz looked sceptical. 'Our computer
  experts removed his spectacles for him.'
 'But where was it taken?'
  'They will not say. But ... but I can tell you that since last night the
  interest in Herr Pravic has grown,' he added enigmatically.
 'Really? Why?'
  'New information. From the intelligence agencies. They think he will try to
  attack Muslims in Germany ... maybe with some chemical weapon,' he
  explained vaguely.
 'Miat? Bloody hell!'

               348

  'ya. It is not easy to believe. But this morning I must go to Munchen.'
 'He's been seen there or whaff
  'No. But tomorrow one thousand Muslim Fundamentalists meet in that city.
  It could be the perfect target for him. Now I must show Fraulein
  Pocklewicz to the door. I give you my mobile number to call if she tells
  you something.'
 He handed Alex a card.
  Rain was pelting down outside on the broad pavement. Alex wore his
  Barbour and tweed cap, Lorna the anorak she'd used in Bosnia. They looked
  like hillwalkers who'd wandered into the city by mistake.
  'This is crazy,' Lorna complained, as the rain soaked her sneakers.
  'She'll tell us to get lost.'
  Linz appeared at the door of the monolithic police station. Alex
  recognized the woman from the identity parade. Linz reached out his hand,
  but she turned her back on him.
 'What are you going to say to her?' Lorna hissed.
  'Whatever I can find the words for, in German Alex muttered.
  As Gisela tottered away on her high heels, shoulders hunched against the
  rain, Alex fell in beside her, Lorna at his shoulder.
  'Frdulein Pocklet6cZ?' he began, touching her on the elbow. 'Ein Moment,
  bitte! Darf Ich mit Anen sprechen?
 She stopped, startled.
  'Now what?' She looked them up and down. 'The Kommissar's let me go.'
  'Ali, but we're not the police,' Alex explained in German. 'You know
  Vildana? The girl who was shot? We are the people who got her out of
  Bosnia. We thought we were bringing her to safety, then this happened.
  The thing is, we're scared that Milan, your friend, will try again to
  kill her.'

               349

  J don't know anyone called Milan,' she replied doggedly. She pulled her arm
  free. 'Piss off.'
  She stomped away, terror growing. Too many people after her. Pravic, the
  police - and worst of all, Dunkel. She'd heard that a man of his
  description had hung around her house most of Sunday. And now these two
  weirdos, clinging like leeches.
  'Look I know you were there ... I saw you,' Alex snapped. 'You were sitting
  in the car, down the road from the house. Before the shooting.' He spat out
  the words in chunks ignoring the complexities of grammar. 'You had those
  earrings on.'
  It was a guess, but he seemed to recollect the Indianlooking bangles. With
  luck she wouldn't remember anyway.
  She faltered, putting a hand to her ear, then marched on again.
  'Don't know what you're on about,' she muttered, looking round for a taxi.
 'You want the girl to be killed?' Alex shouted.
 Gisela ignored him.
  'That's what'll happen unless Milan is stopped.' He got her by the arm
  again. 'You may be the only person who can save her life, do you know thaff
  'Fuck offl I can't even save my own life, let alone anybody else's.'
 She looked petrified, vulnerable.
 'Is that it? You're scared he'll kill you if you talk?'
 She didn't answer.
  'Don't you see? If you help us get him locked up, you'll be safe.'
  'Look, do something useful, will you?' she answered eventually. 'Tell me
  where the sodding station is.' They'd reached a crossroads, that was devoid
  of signposts.
 'We'll take you there. In a taxi,' Alex answered.
  Lorna had understood nothing except that the woman wasn't co-operating.

               350

  'We need a cab, quick,' Alex muttered to her out of the side of his mouth.
 'Look, I've told you . .
  Lorna hailed a cream Mercedes and it pulled into the kerb.
  Alex put his arm round Gisela's shoulders. He could see her resolve was
  weakening.
 'Come on. You're soaked.'
  The rain had turned her hair into a mop of black string. Grudgingly she let
  herself be nudged into the car.
 'Zum Hauptbahnhof, bitte!'
  They slid onto the back seat, the hooker wedged in the middle.
 'Who are you?' she demanded.
  'As I said, we were in Bosnia,' he whispered, suspecting the driver might
  be Yugoslav. 'I met Milan's brother there. He is a priest, did you know
  that?'
 'He never talked about his family . . .'
 Progress. At least she was admitting she knew him.
 'You remember the Tulici massacre?'
  Oh yes, she remembered. And how Pravic had used Tulici as an excuse for
  shooting the girl. She nodded.
  'Milan did it. Killed all those women and kids. That's what his brother
  thinks. The UN wants to put him on trial. You know that? We work for the UN
  . ..' Alex added quickly. 'Not for the police, you understand. Whatever you
  tell us, we won't pass it on to the police, I promise.'
 He saw her suck her lower lip to stop it trembling.
 'But I don't know where he is. . .'she said plaintively.
  'Okay, but we'll talk, yes? At the station. A cup of coffee?'
 Na, wenn Sie wollen,'she shrugged.
 Alex nodded to Lorna. They were getting somewhere.
  Three minutes later the taxi pulled up by the main entrance. They'd been
  almost within walking distance.
 They sat on high stools, their coffee cups perched on a

               351

 little shelf Gisela's hands shook. Normally she carried speed in her bag,
 but she'd dumped the tablets down the toilet when the police came for her
 yesterday morning.
 'Where did you last see him?' Alex asked.
  She held the cup of sour liquid in both hands and sipped. Her head was like
  spaghetti. Couldn't think straight any more.
  'Frankfurt Airport,' she replied. 'He could be anywhere by now. Maybe back
  in Bosnia even.'
  'Did he say anything about wanting to ... to kill more Muslims?' he probed.
  'He's at war with them. That's what he said. Even here in Germany.'
 Alex translated this to Lorna.
  'So Kommissar Linz may be right about Munich!' she exclaimed in dismay.
  Alex wasn't so sure. There was something about the effort Pravic had made
  to find Vildana ... The man must be obsessed with the need to kill her. A
  fixation that would still be there, once he realized the girl wasn't dead.
  He turned back to Gisela. 'By now, Milan must know that Vildana's still
  alive,' he suggested in German. 'What do you think he'll do about it?'
  In her mind, Gisela heard the shots again, felt the back-blast, remembered
  the certainty that he would kill her too if his survival depended on it.
  'He won't forget her. He'll be back for the girl, wherever she is,' she
  said chillingly.
  'So we've got to stop him, right?' Alex implored. 'You nuist help us.'
  'But what can I do?' she snivelled. 'I tell you I don't know where he is!'
  'No. Okay. I understand.' Then he remembered what Linz had said. 'Tell me,
  does Milan just have the gun, or ... or something else perhaps? Some
  chemical, poison maybe?'

               352

  Poison? The word shot through her like a glass-sliver. Her pencilled
  eyebrows bunched in consternation.
  Last night in the isolation of the detention cell, kept awake by the
  wailings of drunks, dark, disjointed thoughts had marshalled in her mind,
  linked by some invisible thread. The thoughts were to do with Dunkel,
  with the Stasi, with Leipzig, with Zagreb and with what she'd read in the
  papers about the scientist Kernmer who'd killed himself.
 'What d'you mean, poison?' she queried.
  J don't know. Something that could kill hundreds of people at once.'
 The spectre in Gisela's mind took on flesh.
  'Why? Why do you ask about thaff she asked querulously.
  Alex hesitated. Had Linz told him about it in confidence? Too late now.
  'The police think Milan has some biological weapon and he'll use it in
  Munich. There's a big meeting of Muslims there tomorrow.
  Fundamentalists.' He said the last word in English, not knowing the
  German.
  Gisela stared at the wall. The thread in her head tugged itself from the
  tangle and formed into a word.
 'Milzbrand!
 'What?' Alex gaped.
  'What's she saying for God's sake?' Lorna nudged. 'Can't you translate?'
  'Anthrax! She's talking about anthrax,' he whispered. 'You remember the
  story in the paper yesterday?'
  He turned to Gisela again, incredulous. Travic? He has something to do
  with that anthrax business?'
  Gisela nodded dumbly, then corrected herself by shaking her head.
 'I don't know. But I think it's possible.'
  'How? What's the link between him and the Leipzig man?'

               353

 She turned her head to face him.
  'Herr Dunkel - he's the link. Don't know his real name, but he came to
  see me two weeks ago. I've known him many years. Used to be Stasi. Used
  to pay me to find people who would steal things, people who would kill,
  if the money was right. This time he asked me to find Milan. Needed him
  for some job in Zagreb; wouldn't tell me what. When he came again a few
  days later, he'd driven up to Berlin from Leipzig.' Gisela covered her
  mouth with a hand. 'I shouldn't be telling you this.'
 'Go on. I won't tell the police - unless you want me to.'
  'The papers say the man in Leipzig was forced to make anthrax for some
  old Stan people ... Dunkel was Stasi. Last week he met Milan in Zagreb.
  Now the papers say there's a girl dying from anthrax there.'
  Gisela shivered with fear. Dunkel had fouled up, that was clear. Now he
  wanted to silence anyone who could give him away. That's why he'd been
  looking for her on Sunday.
  'What's she saying for Christ's sake?' Lorna demanded.
 Alex translated.
  'But anthrax is lethal!' she exclaimed. 'It's the stuff they thought
  Saddam Hussein would use in the Gulf War!'
  'And it's what Linz must have been talking about.' He turned back to the
  hooker. 'Milan never said anything about anthrax?'
 Gisela snorted.
  'He told me nothing. When he got to Berlin, he was crazy. Not like when
  I knew him before. just wanting to 10.1
  'But my God! With anthrax he could kill a thousand people at once! A
  thousand Muslims. Gisela, you've got to tell this to the police.'
 She shuddered.

               354

  'You don't understand. Look, these people have long memories and long arms.
  I'll never be safe if I grass.'
 Alex rubbed his eyes.
  'So, let's just go back over this.' Had to get his mind straight. 'If
  you're right about the anthrax, then that Muslim rally in Munich is the
  sort of target Pravic would go for, yes?'
  'How should I know?' she shrugged. 'Maybe if it was to do with Tulici . .
  .'
 'Why do you say thaff he growled.
  'Tulici's what matters to Milan. He seems possessed by what he did there,
  don't know why. It's almost as if he was relieved by all the killings he'd
  done.'
 'And ... ?' Alex sensed some fog beginning to clear.
  'I'm saying the idea of killing the girl made him crazy. Like as if her
  death was the final bit of something. Something he can't be free of until
  she's dead.'
  Agitated, Alex grabbed Lorna's arm. 'Vildana ... She thinks he'll go for
  Vildana again.'
  'But surely she'll be safe in the hospital with the police there . .'
  He nodded. Then a cold hand gripped him. Safe? What were they saying? A
  gunman might be stopped by police barriers, but bacteria wouldn't!
 'Lorna . . .'
 'I know. I just thought of it too.'
  Alex touched Gisela's still damp shoulder. 'We must go to the hospital.
  You'll come with us?'
 'What hospital?' She stared at him wide-eyed.
  'The Universitatsklinik at Sembach on the south side of Frankfurt.'
 She gasped.
 'It's a new hospital, yes? Maybe three years old?'
 'Could be. Why?'
 The blood drained from her face.
  'That was his last job. Before he went back to Bosnia to fight. Milan
  helped install the ventilation in that placeP

               355

 Alex pounded through the entrance lobby and hammered on the 'up' button of
 the elevator, Lorna a few seconds behind. No police in sight, and only one
 of their vans parked outside. Had the lawmen stopped worrying about the
 hospital because of Munich?
  Gisela had refused to come. If Pravic was here, and he saw her, she'd be
  dead.
  'Come on, come on!' Alex thundered at the slowness of the lift.
 'Let's take the stairs,' Lorna suggested.
 'Maybe ... hang on though. Here it is.'
 The doors closed behind them.
  'There must be a thousand people in this hospital,' Alex panted. 'Patients,
  staff, visitors. My God, it's terrifying. He could be pumping the stuff in
  this very minute.' He glanced up nervously at the ventilation grill on the
  roof of the lift.
  'Shouldn't we call Linz? You've got his mobile number,' she said.
 'Better to talk to the police here first.'
  On the fourth floor they pelted down the corridor towards ward F. As they
  approached Vildana's room, a green-uniformed officer got up from a chair,
  unbuttoning the flap of his pistol holster.
  Alex slowed to a walk. A different face from yesterday, young, suspicious,
  hostile.
  He explained first who they were, then mentioned Kommissar Linz, Pravic and
  anthrax in a jumble of semi-comprehensible German.
  A second officer emerged from the room. These men were sentries, unversed
  in the complexities of the case. They stared at Alex as if he'd landed from
  Mars.
 'Who did you say you are?' one of them asked.
  'The name's Crawford. We rescued her from Bosnia, the girl in there.
  Colonel Roche ... is his wife here? She'll tell you who we are.'

               356

  He made to push open the door, but his way was barred.
 'Your I.D. please . .
  'Look, for heavens' sake, this is terribly urgent. You must search the
  hospitalP
  The second officer held up a radio and mouthed into it, while the first
  studied Alex's passport.
  Xommissar Linz knows me. He knows what I'm talking about,' Alex insisted.
  'Can you call him on that radio?'
 'Linz? Linz?' They shook their heads.
 'From Wiesbaden. The Bundeskriminalamt.'
 'Ah. We are from Hessen. We have no connection.'
 'The card!' Lorna whispered. 'In your pocket.'
  Alex pulled it out. 'This is the number of his mobile. He's on the way
  to Munich.'
  'Yes, but for a telephone you must go downstairs. In the main entrance.'
  Alex grabbed Lorna's arm and hustled her back to the lift.
  'I don't believe this,' he hissed. 'Whatever happened to ruthless German
  efficiency?'
  'Come on, they're only rookies,' Lorna soothed. 'Call Linz, then we'll
  talk to the administrator.'
  Downstairs they discovered the phones took cards, not cash. Lorna
  scuttled to the newspaper stand to buy one.
 After a minute she came running back.
 'We can only buy cards at a post office!' she howled.
 'Come on!' He led her towards the reception desk.
  just then two more policemen marched through the revolving doors. He
  guessed the officers on the fourth floor had become suspicious and called
  them in to see what he was up to,
 Alex stopped in his tracks.
  'Time to split up,' he breathed. 'Get hold of the administrator. Tell him
  what's happening. Use the phone to call Linz. Get the official wheels
  moving.'

               357

 'And you?' Lorna asked.
 'I'm going to look for Pravic!'
 'For God's sake be careful!'
  He turned her towards the rapidly approaching policemen, then slipped
  through a doorway to the emergency stairs.
  'Excuse me,' Lorna shouted, blocking the path of the officers, 'do either
  of you gentlemen speak English?'

 Alex ran up two floors, then entered a wide corridor identical to the level
 where Vildana lay. A strong smell of disinfectant. He walked briskly to the
 far end. More stairs. He was aiming for the roof. No clear plan, but that's
 where the air-conditioning must be.
  Crazy to be searching for Pravic on his own. What would he do if he found
  him?
  He reached the top floor, then a spur of stairs took him to a fire exit on
  the roof. A push on the bar and he was out onto flat asphalt, edged with a
  low wall.
  He was at one end of the hospital now. Looking back towards the middle of
  the building he saw a square brick construction that he guessed must house
  the winding gear for the lifts. Next to it were the ventilation fans.
  His heart pounded from the exertion of running up the stairs - and with
  fear. He stood there bemused, half expecting to see the killer doing
  something with the machinery, though he had no idea what.
  Anthrax. Was it a liquid? A gas? A box full of microbes? He'd assumed it
  would have to be fed into the air supply, but he didn't know. Guessing. In
  the same way he was guessing Pravic would be here and not Munich.
  Overhead a 747 climbed noisily out of Rhein-Main, heading east. From
  somewhere below, the siren of an arriving ambulance. Alex felt ridiculous
  suddenly. Here he was playing the sleuth without even the humblest
  qualification for the job.

               358

  'It's only in the movies that they end with a roof chase ... he reminded
  himself.
  Now what? Better check since he was here. Awkwardly, feeling as if some
  hidden eye were watching him, he began to walk towards the fans.
  He felt absurdly exposed. If Pravic was here, and he still had his gun,
  there'd be nowhere to hide.

 The technical manager at the Universitatsklinik Sembach had his office on
 the ground floor. It was an untidy room cluttered with filing cabinets,
 and on the wall behind his desk was a board from which hung the keys to
 all the maintenance spaces in the building.
  He stared quizzically at the man hovering near the door, whose blue
  overalls were so crisp they could have been bought that morning. The
  surprise visitor carried a toolbag, seemed to be sweating a lot, and had
  just announced that he'd come to test the fire dampers.
  Milan Pravic had never been good at bluff, but this time it had to work.
  The last thing he wanted was to have to use the gun and alert the whole
  place to his presence. The man behind the desk was the same technician
  who'd organized the handover when the constructors finished building the
  hospital twenty-six months before.
  The manager tapped a pen on the desk. He'd not been expecting this visit,
  but it was perfectly normal to have random checks on the system that
  closed the ventilation in the event of a fire. And even though the man
  claimed to have left his I.D. card at home, he distinctly remembered his
  face.
  He plucked a bunch of keys from the panel behind him and held them out.
  Pravic grabbed them, grunted his thanks, then walked briskly back to the
  main entrance lobby.
 Lucky so far.
 Now he had to find the girl. The TV and the papers

               359

 hadn't revealed which ward she was in, and it wasn't a question he could
 easily ask.
  Using the main stairs by the lift lobby, he ascended floor by floor,
  peering into each main corridor looking for signs. On the fourth he found
  them. Two policemen, chatting. Outside a ward.
  His neck prickled at the thought of being so close, the same way it had
  in Pfefferheim. She was the last. The end of the line. With Vildana
  Muminovic dead, Tulici could breed no more monsters to torment him.
  His nights were still haunted by his childhood terror of that place.
  Living half a Hometre away on the same side of the valley, he'd walked
  through Tulici every day to reach his school. An undersized runt of a
  boy, a misfit even amongst his own, he'd been picked on by the youngsters
  there. Frail for a teenager, he'd been mocked for his weediness and
  skulking ways. Once, three boys and three girls had taken him to a cow
  barn, stripped him, rolled his hairless body in slurry, mocked his
  immature genitalia and urinated on his face.
  One final score to settle and Tulici would have paid the price.

 The chief administrator of the Universitatsklinik was in his thirties,
 chubby-f'aced, wearing a shiny, grey suit and spectacles with fashionable,
 bright-red frames. He listened to Lorna with an expression of growing
 disbelief One of the police officers stood watchfully by the door.
  'My English is not so good,' he responded when she'd finished. 'You tell
  me the name Kommissar Linz. He I know. So you telephone him, and then I
  will speak.' He pushed a phone across the desk.
 'Good,' Lorna sighed. Sense at last.
  She dialled the number. Linz replied within seconds from his car on the
  autobalm heading south. Lorna

               360

 talked for two minutes, listened for less, then handed the phone back to
 the man with red spectacles.
  Linz had heard her story without comment. He'd told her he would call the
  Hessen police for reinforcements and head for the hospital himself Lorna
  almost wept that he'd taken her so seriously.
  The administrator's cheeks seemed to sag as he listened to Linz's voice.
  He pulled off his glasses and wiped sweat from his eyes with a
  handkerchief
  Ja, ist gut, Herr Kommissar. Machen wir.' He put the phone down. 'He say
  we must search the hospital,' he explained.
  The policeman by the door told him they'd have a hard job, with only f~ur
  officers on duty. The administrator scratched his head, grabbed the phone
  again and dialled an internal number.
  'K'dnnien Sie bitte sofort hierherkommen?' he asked. He listened for the
  acknowledgement, then replaced the receiver. 'The technical manager,' he
  explained sombrely. 'He will come.'
  He flopped back in his chair and puffed out his cheeks. His carefully
  brushed hair looked ruffled.
  'This cannot be true,' he gabbled. 'I have threehundred-and-eighty ill
  peoples here.'

 Up on the roof, Alex stepped warily behind the whirring fans. Nobody here
 and no sign of anything being tampered with. Daft. He'd been jumping to
 conclusions. The wrong ones. He began to suspect Pravic was miles away.
  Hang on ... If fresh air was sucked in here it had to be pumped to the
  wards through ducts, which probably passed into the building via the lift
  shaft, judging by the location of the fans. Better head down again. There
  was more to check if he was to be sure.
 A fire door identical to the one at the far end of the

               361

 roof opened when he pulled it. Back on the main staircase, he descended to
 the fourth floor. Vildana's floor.
  He emerged into the lift lobby, from which the ward corridors stretched in
  two directions. Beside him were the double doors of the elevators. His eye
  was caught momentarily by a maintenance man in blue overalls opening what
  looked like a broom cupboard on the far side of the lobby. At his feet was
  a tool bag. Alex looked away, stepping forward to see along the corridor to
  ward 4F. Still there, the two policemen. Looking bored.
  Maintenance man?Jesus! He was a couple of steps from the cupboard. The man
  had opened the door and was disappearing into it.
 Couldn't be Pravic, though. This man had dark hair.
 Then the man turned to check no one was watching

  Their eyes met, this time. And locked. The killer's eyes. Fear washed over
  him, such as he'd never felt before.
 The cold, pale eyes of the Scorpion.
  Pravic froze. The face opposite was familiar. Dangerously so. Images of the
  Pfefferheim pavement forty-eight hours before. A man with a beard, running
  after the car. He recognized him.
  In a second he propelled himself from the doorway, just as Alex turned to
  shout the alarm, jerked the pistol from his overalls and pressed its barrel
  into Alex's chest, throwing a hand over his mouth.
  Womm mitf he growled, wrestling him towards the maintenance room. Alex
  struggled, but a sharp prod from the barrel quietened him. Pravic shoved
  him inside, followed, then pulled the door shut.
  'Du sags n1X1 Du machs nix! The voice hoarse, the gun barrel jabbing. He
  pointed to the ground and told him to sit.
 Pravic stared hard at the hunched figure on the floor,

               362

 as if the intensity of his look might penetrate the man's mind. Mo was he?
 My was he here? Was he the man who had adopted the girl?
  What to do with him, that was the question ... Couldn't let him live. But
  a gunshot would give him away ... Best to beat his head to pulp, maybe.
  He turned the pistol in his hand ...
  Alex felt the bare concrete cold beneath his backside', his heart
  thudding, his head slumped. Avoid fye contact. The words a mantra, like
  at the ambush in the canyon. Nothing else to cling to. But he sensed
  Pravic's intentions, cringed in anticipation of the blow.
  He waited. Then he inched his stare up from the floor. Saw the grubby
  black combat boots beneath the blue trouser legs. Took in the tight
  confines of the maintenance space, two metres wide and a metre deep.
  Blinked in the glare from the bare bulb in the ceiling.
  Pravic relented. There'd be noise if he beat the man. He'd keep him
  cowed. Less of a risk.
  He transferred the gun to his left hand, backing away as far as space
  would allow. No time to lose. He reached into his bag and grabbed a
  rechargeable electric drill. Had to press on. Nothing, nothing must
  prevent him from doing what he had to do.
  Behind him a square sheet-metal duct passed from ceiling to floor - the
  down pipe from the fans on the roof High up, an extension branched at
  right-angles - the air supply to the wards.
  Alex saw the black power tool. For a moment he thought Pravic was going
  to use it on him, to puncture his brain. In the tight, claustrophobic
  box, with the ventilation roaring in the ducts, his mind and his guts
  turned to treacle.
  Had to do something. Not just his own life at stake. Hundreds would die
  if the madman wasn't stopped.
 Run for help? No chance. Pravic would cut him down.
 Grab the gun? Crazy even to think of it.

               363

  Pravic kicked against a stack of bricks cemented to the floor as a mi
  ounting block. Still with an eye on Alex, he stepped up to reach the
  high, horizontal duct. He glanced away just long enough to locate the
  drill bit against the panel, then began to cut a hole in its side.
  His ears just centimetres from the air pipes, the noise thundered like
  the fire that had scorched through the homes of his tormentors in Tulici
  three weeks ago. At the time of the attack, he'd imagined those flames,
  the executions and the bitter-sweet defilement of the young woman would
  be enough to erase the taunting memories, and stop the mocking voices in
  his head. But it hadn't been. Silencing them needed one last act.
  The hole finished, he stuffed the drill back in the bag, then reached
  further in, feeling for soft rubber.
  Alex saw the gas mask and gulped. An object turned by history into the
  definitive badge of evil. The moment had come. Pravic was about to commit
  a monstrous, silent massacre - unless Alex could stop him.
  'Mach's nichif he croaked, lamely. 'Don't do it. Think of all the
  innocent . . .'
  'Halt's Maul! Pravic snapped, pulling the mask over his head.
  Alex looked into the goggled eyes, watched Pravic crouch by the bag. Saw
  the paint-sprayer - and the deadly brown liquid that swirled inside its
  clear, plastic reservoir.
  He held his breath, as if the very nearness of the anthrax spores meant
  death. He had to stop him. Had to! He tensed his legs.
  Pravic stood up, his overalls glued to his sweaty back. He remounted the
  bricks and aligned the sprayer with the hole. Alex's movement caught his
  eye. He clicked back the pistol hammer. If it was the only way to ensure
  he could complete his task, he'd shoot.
 Then suddenly, with a moan like an exhausted beast,

               364

 the ventilator fans died. Silence, total silence that rang in their ears.
  Pravic remained on the mounting block, frozen in disbelief, finger on the
  trigger of the spray, its nozzle pressed to the useless duct.
  Then he cursed, long and low, the guttural SerboCroat muffled by the
  rubber of the mask.

 With the fans safely shut down, the technical manager led the two nervous
 policemen to the fourth floor. He knew exactly where Pravic would have
 gone.
  A radio check had revealed that the Landespolizei reinforcements were
  still five minutes away, but they couldn't wait for them.
  He'd identified Pravic from the photo they'd shown him. Pity he hadn't
  seen it earlier. Nobody had thought to tell him there was a maniac on the
  loose.

 Lorna shivered uncontrollably now she knew the killer was in the building.
 Pravic was up there somewhere -and so was Alex.
  The police cluck-clucked when she told them about him. Interfering
  civilians. A foreigner at that.
  They asked her to wait with the administrator in his office. She gave
  them a minute's head start. Then, making the excuse of needing the
  toilet, she rushed from the room and headed for the stairs.

 The technician and the two policemen were silent with fear as the elevator
 carried them to the fourth floor.
  The doors slid open. Two figures crossing the lobby, heading forward F.
  Pravic pushing Alex in front of him, the gun at his back.

               365

 A nod from the manager. The police drew their guns.

 Alex heard the clunk of the lift doors but dared not turn to look. His hands
 were bound behind his back with adhesive tape. Pravic was a hair's breadth
 behind him. And the pistol bruised his ribs.
  'Halt!'A policeman's shout. The hollow bark of a man whose only authority
  was his uniform.
  Pravic hooked an arm around Alex's neck, and spun him as a shield towards
  the voice, levelled his automatic and fired. One policeman buckled,
  clutching his chest. The other stumbled back into the lift where the
  hospital technician had already sought cover.
  Alex strained against the choking arm, ears whistling. The shot shook him,
  hammered home the danger he was in. Pravic jerked him sideways into the
  ward F corridor. Police outside the ward. Police in the lift lobby. More on
  the way. They'd nerer let this madman through. They'd gun him down for
  sure. Shoot them both if they had to

  He heard rough shouts - warnings to staff to stay in their wards.
  Milan Pravic stared left and right. Out of sight of the lobby, now. There'd
  been two police in the corridor. Gone. Ducked into door-ways. A gun, an arm
  and half a face was all he saw of either of them. His heart thumped.
  He knew he was cornered. But not finished. He had the gun. He had his
  shield. And above all, he had his need.
  His ears still rang from the crack of the shot. In his head the ringing
  turned to voices, girls' voices from inside ward F. Had to get in there to
  stop them. To silence their derision. There must be no more snickering from
  Tulici, ever again.

 Lorna panted up the last flight and pushed open the

               366

 glass-panelled door to the fourth floor. She'd heard the shot, feared the
 worst. Hand to her mouth, she saw the sprawled policeman, gasped at the
 pool of red spreading from his chest.
  Footsteps on the stairs behind her. A nurse pushed past and ripped open
  a sterile dressing to press on the policeman's wound,
  'Alex?' Lorna called. Half shout, half whisper. Bewildered.
  Hearing her, the technical manager rushed from the lift, and hustled her
  back to the stairs. She twisted from his grip. He gave up, scrambling
  through the doors to save himself
  The second policeman growled into his radio, ignoring her. He checked his
  wounded colleague was in good hands, then edged up to the corner of the
  corridor, gun arm extended.
  Lorna took in the scene and understood. Pravic must be metres away. Down
  the corridor which led to Vildana's ward. And for the police to be so
  cautious, there must be someone with him ...
 Alex.
  Full of dread, she stepped round the nurse and the body on the floor.
  Heedless of the risk, she edged forward.
  She glimpsed Pravic. Saw his arm tight under the chin of a hostage. Saw
  who the hostage was. Saw the gun at his temple ...
  'Ale . . .' she screamed. The cry died in her throat as the policeman
  barged her back out of sight.
  'Zuriickl Sind Sie veryi~ckt?' he hissed, shoving her through the doors
  to the stairs, then returning to his watch.

 Alex felt the gun hot against his jawbone.
  He'd caught a glimpse of Lorna. Why had they let her through?

               367

  She mustn't see him die. Mind spinning. Stupid thoughts suddenly important.
  The end. For him the pain might be quick. For her it would linger.
  In his ear, the Bosnian's breath in jerky spasms. He sensed Pravic's nerve
  go.
  'Drop the guns or I kill hirn!' Pravic screamed. Fear in his voice. No wish
  to be a martyr.
 Me neither, Alex thought.

 Inside ward F, Vildana stared at the door, transfixed by the shout in the
 corridor outside. The same voice she'd heard on that day of death, cowering
 in her hidey-hole behind a cupboard. The shouts, the laughter, the gurgle of
 the madman who'd ripped open her mother's belly with a hunting knife branded
 on her memory. The Scorpion. He had come for her, like she always knew he
 would.
  Nancy Roche kneeled on the floor beside Vildana's bed, clutching the girl's
  hand. Two other children in the ward, both crying. Between the metal bed
  legs Nancy watched the police officer braced by the door, his right arm
  extended into the corridor. At that moment she trusted his invincibility in
  the way a child trusts its father. Had to.
  But if he failed? Ifthe crazy Bosnian blazed his way into the ward? What if
  she was the last barrier between Vildana and death? Would she sacrifice her
  own life if she had to? Would Irwin want that? Scott and Ella?
  She sank closer to the floor, checking how much room there was under the
  bed.

 The young policeman pressed his forehead to the door jamb, eye in line with
 the Heckler und Koch that had become an extension of his arm. Poised to kill
 a man for

               368

 the first time in his life. He remembered the certificate on the bedroom
 wall at home. Top of his year for marksmanship. But paper targets were
 different from an armed man.
  He saw the gunman edge closer, his back to the corridor wall, hugging the
  Englishman like a security blanket. A clear sight of Pravic's head, for
  just two seconds, that's all he wanted. All it would take to snuff him
  out, to pop the balloon with a bullet, just like the display shoots on
  open day at the police college.

 Alex heard his own breath rasp, felt the tape sear his wrists as he
 struggled to loosen his hands. Could be dead within seconds unless he did
 something. Powerless though. Tipped back on his heels. Unable to use
 weight and strength.
 just needed one chance. One chink of an opportunity

  A moment's glance from the police marksman to his companion in the
  doorway opposite. A nod of agreement. Beyond Pravic at the corner to the
  lift lobby he saw that the third man was ready too.
 Deep breath.
 'L,zs' ihn los! Let him go! Let him go now!' he yelled.
  Pravic started. He jerked on his hostage's neck. Alex gagged. Pravic
  swung the gun left and blasted plaster from the wall by the door to ward
  F. The marksman ducked inside.
  'He7T Pran'd Drop the weapon!' From the lift lobby now.
  He7r )"ravic, Alex seethed. Why so bloody formal? Why not arsehole? He
  wrenched his head to the right. Ten metres away, a face and a gun edging
  round the wall.
  He understood. Saw their tactic. To prod and confuse like picadors in a
  bullring, twisting Pravic one way, then

               369

 the other, in the hope he'd expose enough of himself for a hit.
 A dangerous tactic, that could kill him in the process.
  So, Pravic was to be stopped at any price. Never to be let into that ward.
  Even if the hostage died in the process ... Alex had nothing to lose.
 The gun muzzle crushed the lobe of his ear.
  'Let him go, Herr Pravic!'The voice from the left. The word. 'Let the
  hostage go!'
 'Herr Pravic!'
  From the right, now. The lift lobby. 'Throw down the gun!'
  Pravic trembled, blinded by flashing images from the past. Taunts. Prods
  with sticks. The stones flicked in his face as he ran to school.
  'Let him go!' The lobby end again. 'Have sense! You're surrounded. No way
  out, Pravid'
  Oh yes there was! He'd learned to fight back. Learned that if you asked for
  mercy, they pissed on you.
 He aimed the Zastrava at the lobby corner.
  Alex felt Pravic tense to absorb the kick of the gun. He tensed too. Ready.
  The shot cracked and ricocheted off the walls. A splitsecond only in which
  to act.
  Alex reached back with his trussed hands and grabbed for the soft,
  sensitive offal of the gunman's genitals.
 Pravic buckled instinctively, grunting with surprise.
  With the sudden weight-shift, Alex had leverage. He locked his chin onto
  Pravic's arm and buckled his knees. As he fell forward, with Pravic hooked
  to his neck, he jinked, turning the Bosnian's back towards ward F.
 Marksman of the year for 1992 saw his chance.
  Four shots. Four shuddering jerks to the Bosnian's body. Then Alex felt a
  stabbing pain in his spine. He crumpled to the floor, with Pravic's
  twitching bulk on top of him.

               370

 Lorna banged open the doors to the lobby and sprinted after the policeman as
 he thundered down the corridor.
  Bodies on the floor. Uniforms clustered round. A policeman's boot stamped
  down hard. Crushed by its heavy sole, a hand clutching a gun.
 She couldn't speak. Didn't dare ask.

 Face pressed to the shiny floor by Pravic's body, Alex tasted blood. Wetness
 trickled to his mouth from the back of his head.
  Words in gruff German, then Pravic was pulled off him. Alex rolled onto one
  side, wincing at the pain in his back. One look at the dark red dribble
  from Pravic's mouth told him the blood he'd tasted had not been his
 OVM.
 'Alex!'
  He looked up - Lorna was kneeling beside him. He smiled up at her,
  seizing her hand, and holding on to it as if it were life itself.

 371

            Twenty-Six

 9.45 p.m. Frankfurt Airport

 On the long, hard drive from Calais Michael McCarthy had stayed at the wheel
 of the British-registered Mondeo. Didn't trust the moody, hungover Nolan.
  They'd found beds at one of the new, plastic hotels that did cheap rooms
  near an autobalm junction west of Frankfurt. He'd dropped Nolan there, then
  driven to the airport and left the Mondec, in the long-term car park.
  At the arrivals terminal, he rented a VW Golf using a stolen driving
  licence, paid cash for three days' rental, then took the car for a short
  familiarization spin before returning to the hotel.
  He knocked on Nolan's room. Heavy feet, then the door wrenched open.
  'Will you fockin' look at this, Michael,' Nolan howled, heading back into
  the room and pointing to the television.
 'What, then?'
 'Youse can get Sky,News here, that's fockin' what!'
 'So?'
  'So your man's only on the fockin' news!' Nolan was apoplectic.
  'What you on about, Tommy?' He grabbed his arm. 'Count to five. Then tell
  me.'
  'It was himselfl Your man Jarvis, only his name's Crawford now. It was
  shown on Sky Netvs, but it happened here. In Frankfurt. At some hospital.
  He stopped some madman murdering hundreds of people

               372

 with anthrax. They's calling the bastard a hero!'
 'When did you see this? Are you certain about iff
  just a few minutes ago. And of course I'm fockin' certain. It'll be on
  again in a wee while. You'll see.'
  McCarthy perched his backside on the dressing-table unit. Didn't change
  anything.
 'Did they say where this hospital was?'
  'I don't know. I didn't get it anyways. You'll see for yourself in a
  minute.'
  Nolan sat on the edge of the bed, crumpled and out of his depth. He'd
  only once been out of the British Isles before, a fortnight inTenerife
  one year when he'd won a bit on the pools.
 'Not getting cold feet, are you Tommy?'
 'What? Not on your life.'
  Not convincing. McCarthy could see he'd have to put some bottle in him.
  Hadn't brought him all this way just to have him cop out at the last
  minute.
 'What's he done?'
 'Eh?' Nolan looked up, confused.
  'What's he done to you this fellow, that you've wanted to kill him for
  the last twenty years?'
  'He's a tout. You knows that. He put my brother Kieran under the earth.'
  'Exactly. I know that. You know that. So don't you forget it tomorrow
  when you've got the nine millimetre pointed at his head.'

 Belsize Park, north London

 In the comfort of his suburban home, Roger Chadwick watched Navs at Ten
 with deepening unease. It was all

               373

 there. The bloodstained hospital corridor, the press conference with Alex
 and Lorna. Big close-ups, their names broadcast for everyone to hear.
  'Oh God,' he breathed. The IRA cease-fire was certainly expected, but it
  wasn't yet in place.
  'Something the matter, dear?' his wife asked, glancing up from her
  crossword.
 'Yes. I think there might be.'
  He got up from the soft armchair, crossed the hall from the living room
  to his study and picked up the phone. Better have a minder or two on the
  first plane to Frankfurt in the morning.
  Lorna Donohue! It was her, after all. Why the hell had Alex lied to him?
  Not hard to guess.
  After his call to Thames House he stared up at his well-filled bookshelf,
  thinking. By the time his men got to Germany and found their way around,
  it would be midmorning. The thought made him uncomfortable. A vital few
  hours left uncovered.
  He tried another call, to the German Bundeskriminalamt in Wiesbaden.
  No reply to Kommissar Linz's direct line and he had no other number.
  Better get Thames House to pass a message through the BKA duty officer.
  Alex was the person he most needed to contact, but the idiot hadn't told
  him where he was staying.

 Harz Mountains

 Dieter Konrad sat alone in front of a fire of crackling spruce. Normally
 he loved the quiet of his isolated retreat in the Harz. Trees all around,
 nearest neighbour half a

               374

 kilometre away. But tonight the silence deepened his fear.
  The man he knew as 'Schiller' had ordered him here this morning.
  Telephoned him at the Berlin apartment, breaking the agreement not to
  contact him there. His wife had asked questions.
  The mystery murder of Karina the prostitute had been on the morning radio
  news. There'd need to be two more deaths before he felt safe. Gisela
  Pocklewicz and most important of all, Milan Pravic.
  It was after midnight, but there was no point in trying to sleep. Not
  while his mind still saw the disbelief in the whore's bulbous eyes as
  he'd choked her to death.
  Strange that with a handful of murders to his credit, this one should
  affect him so deeply. The difference was it had been personal this time.
  Had to kill Karina with his own hands, to save his own skin. And worse,
  much worse, she was somebody he had desired.
  The ring of the telephone made him half leap from the chair.

 Rudiger Katzfuss and Martin Sanders weaved through the forest on the
 deserted 'B' road, headlamps bouncing off the light bark of silver
 birches. Sanders at the wheel of the big BMW, Katzfuss on the phone.
  'Schiller here,' said Katzfuss. 'We're on our way to see you. Can you
  pack a bag with enough things for a week?'
 'Why? What's the matter?'
  'We've got wind that the press are on to you. We've decided you'd be
  safer, and so would we, if you were in one of our houses. Pick you up in
  about ten minutes?'
  Konrad grunted an acknowledgement and rang off. Katzfuss held the phone
  out so he could see the dialpad in the light of the reading lamp. He
  pressed the 'secrecy' button. The line would stay connected, but silent.

               375

 Konrad stood by the phone staring at it. Why? Why at this time of night?
 How could the press be on to him, unless the BND themselves had tipped
 them off. No one else knew that Herr Konrad and Herr Dunkel were the same
 person. Not even his wife.
  Perhaps the press had been on to her. He picked up the receiver again.
  She'd be asleep at the flat in BerlinLichtenberg, but never mind. He had
  to know.
  No dialling tone.just a hum and a crackle. He pressed down on the rest,
  then up again. Dead.
 'Ach, Du Liebe,' he gasped. 'Neiml'
  He flung open the front door and stumbled towards the Mercedes, guided
  by light spilling from the house. He felt with a finger for the
  escutcheon and inserted the key. Stupid habit keeping it locked. No need
  to out here.
 Ignition on. Wait for the diesel light. Come on!
  A flick of the key and the engine rumbled. He stabbed at the light
  switch, crunched into first and accelerated down the hundred metres of
  narrow gravel towards the road.
 Headlights! Turning in towards him.
 'Gott o Gott!'
  Full beam. Dazzling. No room to pass. Trees either side. He stamped on
  the brake.
  Sanders braked first, then sprung from the door running into the
  darkness, reaching into his shoulder holster for the pistol.
  Katzfuss, heart pounding, walked slowly to the driver's door of the
  Mercedes.
  'Weren't you going to wait for us, Herr Konrad?' he asked when the window
  was down. Konrad looked old and very, very scared.
 'Something happened to my telephone he
 explained lamely. 'I don't know what's going on.'
  'Not working? Never mind. There's one in the house we're going to. It's
  not far from here. Bag packed?'

               376

 'No. I...'
  'Better be quick. These journalists work through the night. Back the car
  up. You'll come with us in ours.'
 'Us?'
  'Yes. I have a friend with me. There's another colleague at the safe
  house. We'll all be staying there tonight. A little cramped, but we'll
  manage. Gemitlich! Here, I'll help you reverse.'
  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.

               377

  Konrad opened the door. Legs like lead, throat desertdry. Someivhere 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.

               378

           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.'

               379

  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

               380

 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 forrn 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 wer(- 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 inetres 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

               381

 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. Everything 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

               382

 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 aboutVildana?' 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'

               383

 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 M15 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 air-port 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.

               384

 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. J 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.

               385

  '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 frogmarched by the
  older man, his gun pressed to her spine.
 Alex stumbled from the car. Stupid, stupid! Dropped

               386

 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 gricvance.
  'What are you on abouff 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 ifl'
  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

               387

 '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 doesna know about iff 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! Ididn't ... You
  think I sentyou 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?'
  Nolan flinched. Anonymous he was an executioner carrying out orders. But
  'Tommy' was personal. One to one. Man to man.
  'Shut your mouth, youse! You's been sentenced. By the army council.
  Twenty fockin' years ago!'
 'Twenty years! A long time, Tommy.'
  Had Lorna set him up? Faked evegthing? Was she pretending still?
  'We's don't forget,' Nolan snapped. But he couldn't forget the weariness
  either. Weariness of war.

               388

  'That's your trouble, Tommy. But you'll have to learn how to if you want
  peace.'
  Alex shot a glance at Lorna. Deathly pale, mouth gaping. No fake. He was
  sure, almost. She looked destroyed by this.
  'How many hundreds have you boys killed in those twenty years?' Adrenalin
  pumping, now. Fighting for his life. 'Soldiers, police. Women out
  shopping. Schoolgirls.'
 He saw Nolan flinch.
  'Suppose every one of your victims had a big brother wanting to get even.
  There'd be nowhereyou could hide

  He saw the eyes blink, the weight shift from foot to foot.
  'What d'you mean schoolgirls?' Nolan spluttered. 'Those was accidents.
  A mistake. We admitted it.'
  'Oh yes. Like me and Lorna meeting in Belfast - that was an accident.
  Getting mixed up in your troubles - that was a mistake. I'll admit it
  too.'
  'Don't give me that! Youse were different!' But Nolan was rattled. A
  wedge was being driven between his bluster and his resolve.
  'There's a cease-fire coming. You know that?' Alex pressed.
  'Don't be so sure . . .'Nolan countered. He didn't like this. Wanted the
  man to shut up.
 'Killing me won't help.'
 Tockin' shut it!'
  'Not if the Provos want to be taken seriously. Not if you want to be
  political. KAI me and you could wreck everything . . .'
  Alex gulped. Maybe that's what they wanted. Maybe these two hoods had
  instructions from the hard men to wreck the peace process.
  Tuckin' get on with it, Tommy!' McCarthy's voice a growl from ten yards
  back. The swish of intermittent

               389

 traffic on the road. With every second the growing danger they'd be seen.
  Nolan raised the pistol level with Alex's mouth. First pressure on the
  trigger, sweat trickling into his eyes. Aim for the chest. It'd be easier
  to look at ...
  'Look me in the eye Tommy if you're going to do it.' Alex's throat bone
  dry. Heart galloping. 'And tell me why. Tell me what good it'll do. Tell me
  who'll thank you for it . . . '
  Nolan forced his gaze higherjust for a secondjust for long enough to
  register the face of the man they'd called a hero on TV. The man who'd
  helped save the life of a kid and hundreds more. Someone who'd suffered as
  much as any of them ... so the Donohue woman had said ... What had she
  meant? Too late to find out, now.
  'I've forgotten your brother's nameAlex's tone
 softer now.
 'Kieran . .
  'He wouldn't thank you. All that killing, all that hate -didn't get him
  anywhere, did it?'
 'Do it Tommy!'The yell from behind.
  Alex plundered his memory for everything the minders had told him about
  Tommy Nolan.
  'You don't have to, Tommy,' Alex whispered. 'Don't let him tell you what to
  do. He's only young. What does he know.. .'
  He saw the gun shake in Nolan's hand. Heard the wheeze of the breath.
  'You can forgive, you know,' Alex persisted. 'Like the mother of the
  soldier-boy you shot?' Gambling again. Gambling he'd remembered it right.
  'She forgave you didn't she? Said so on TV the day of the funeral . . .'
  Slowly, inch by inch, Nolan's arm dropped down. With his free hand he
  plucked the sock mask from his head, then used it to wipe the sweat from
  his face. He turned and looked at Lorna.
 'Stupid bitch!' The word flung at her like a gob of spit.

               390

  Nolan stumbled towards McCarthy, the Springfield hanging limply at his
  side.
  'Couldn't fockin' do it,' he spat. 'Couldn't pull the friggin' trigger.'
  Jesus fucking Christ!' McCarthy exploded. What a waste of time. Risking
  everything - and for what? He thought of stepping forward, doing the job
  himself But what would be the point? It had been Nolan's grudge.
 'Get in the shagging car!' he growled.
  McCarthy pulled his pocket knife out. He paused by the Land Cruiser,
  crouched by the nearside front wheel, then jabbed its spike into the tyre.
  The hiss of escaping airjerked Lorna from her trance. She turned to see the
  doors of the VW slam and the car speed away.
  Unsure of his legs, Alex stepped forward, bent down to the carpet of pine
  needles and picked up the snapshot McFee had taken in Bosnia.
  He held it in his shaking hand. His face and hers, smiling tensely, neither
  sure of the other one's thoughts.
 'Not bad . . .' he croaked. 'Considering.'
  Lorna flung her arms round his neck, quivering with relief.
  'I ... I never thought,' she stammered. 'Sent it to my sister with a note
  saying we'd met again. What I meant was - isn't that unbelievable! She must
  have imagined I meant something else.'
  'I guess she must have,' Alex replied, holding her loosely.
  For more than a minute they leaned against one another, each conscious of
  the other's breathing, thoughts circling like moths round an oil lamp.
 'Is . . . is that it, d'you think?' she asked suddenly.
  Alex looked up through the crowns of the pine trees. Flecks of blue visible
  through the grey of the sky.
 'I believe it may be . . .' he murmured.
 The poltergeists had been exorcized.

               391

 'Do you know what I'd like to do now?' she asked.
  Alex looked over at the stranded Land Cruiser, praying the spare wheel
  was inflated.
 'Vanish,'she said. 'With you.'

 392

             Epilogue

 Dr Hamid Akhavi died from pulmonary anthrax the following day, but the
 Iranian authorities never made it public.

 Colonel Pavel Kulikov's life was saved by the vaccine he'd been given in
 1991. Finding that his contact with Iran had been cut, he began to look
 for other markets for the stolen plutonium.

 Milan Pravic recovered from his wounds and was transferred to a remand
 prison to await trial for the attempted murder of Vildana Muminovic.
 Kommissar Gunther Linz continued to hope that before long he could
 persuade him to reveal where he'd obtained the anthrax bacillus. The
 United Nations War Crimes Tribunal in the Hague announced its intention
 to prosecute Pravic for the crime of genocide. Two days later he was
 stabbed to death in a knife fight with another Bosnian prisoner.

 The Ramblers were disbanded. There are no records to show that the group
 ever existed.

               393