Hunter's Rain (33 page)

“Where is Mrs Jackson’s handy?”

“Where it is, I suppose. In her bag.”

“Get it. When it rings, answer it.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Are you hard of hearing?
Answer it. And keep talking until you’re told to stop!”

The line clicked, ending the conversation.

The man looked round as he put the phone down. “Where’s the woman’s bag?” he asked the one with the kind voice.

“Where you put it.”

“Don’t be funny with me.”

“Who’s being funny? You asked me. I told you.”

“So
where
is it?”

“You put it in the room with her!”

The knifeman gave him a glare, then went upstairs.

“
Arschloch!”
the one with the kind voice said, when he knew he could not be overheard.

The knifeman entered the room where Elisabeth Jackson was still tied to the bed.

“I heard my phone!” she said in English, not as yet sure who had entered. “Where is it?”

“Right here. Would you like to use it? Call your brave soldier husband?”

“Oh. It’s you again.”

“Yes.
Me.
The only person who can get you out of here…”

The phone began to ring.

“Shall I answer it?” the man asked with a vicious playfulness. “Or should you?” Without waiting for her reaction, he took it out of the bag and barked into it,
“Yes?”

A silence greeted him.

“What’s the matter, Jackson? Can’t speak? Your beautiful wife is lying on a bed. Do you know she’s got beautiful thighs? Of course, you do. Oh. And she’s got a tiny mole, just on the side of the right cheek of her ass. Ah. But of course you know that too. You’ve got two children, so you must have seen it when you made the babies.”

He was still greeted by silence.

“
Don’t you believe she’s here?”
he snarled
. “Do you think I’m joking?”
He went over to the bed, and put the phone near her mouth. “Talk to him.
Talk! Talk, damn you!
”

“Darling…” she began after a while.

“Elisabeth!”

“
Bill!”

The man snatched the phone away. “That’s enough! Well, Jackson?” he went on. “Do believe me now?
Eh?”

But he was talking to himself.

“Damn you, Jackson!” he shouted. “You’re trying to get your wife killed!”

Downstairs, the men heard the shouting.

“He’s losing it,” the one with the kind voice said.

“What do you mean ‘losing’? He was never right in the head.”

“I think he has ideas about her. I want no part of it.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“I don’t think he’ll stick to what we’ve been told. I think he has a fancy for her. In this situation, that’s very bad.”

“For him? For us? Or the woman?”

“For all of us.”

In the intercept room, a bright yellow line now connected the two points: the caller, and the called.

The operator who had first spotted it now expanded the caller’s location several times until it was clearly identified. He sent the information on.

On the outskirts of Berlin, the reception was in full swing. The retired general and his four companions were still having their private conference.

There was a discreet knock, and the door to the room opened. A man in full evening dress entered, handed the general a note, then went out again as silently as he had come.

The general looked at the note. “Gentlemen, we have identified Colonel Jackson’s location. He has made his contact. Time for Pröll, and Elland. Mary-Ann will be joining them; but she’ll do so in her own way.”

In Grüber’s garden near Baden-Baden, Pröll, the taller of the two men, put away his mobile after receiving a secure call.

He turned to see Elland, he of the silent laugh, approaching.

“We’ve got a hunt,” he told Elland. “We start tomorrow. It’s not far.”

Within the Black Forest, Jackson forced himself to thrust what the knifeman had said about his wife, out of his mind.

“I’ll go nuts if I don’t,” he muttered.

He began to busy himself, preparing for the night. He had eaten some field rations, and would not need to eat again till morning.

He was not going to sleep in the same location that he had made the phone call.

In Grenoble, Müller said to Odile Lavaliere, “Odile, if I eat more of your marvellous walnut cake, I’ll burst.”

“Come. You can have another.”

“Oh no. You’ve already said that twice and each time, I have yielded to temptation. Besides, it is time for Jean-Marc to explain his mysterious comment about something you have found.”

Her expression changed to one of concern, but she nodded. “Yes. I think it is time.”

Lavaliere rose from his chair. “I’ll get them.”

He was soon back, carrying a sturdy cardboard box that had been sealed with brown adhesive tape. The box looked as if it hadn’t been touched for years.

Lavaliere put it down with a slight flourish, near Müller’s feet.

“Before you open this,” he said to Müller as he sat down again, “I will tell you something about what I believe you have come all the way here, to discover. That you have found me, confirms that you have read the old
Souris
article. How you got the access is your affair. Even I could not get hold of it now if I tried, all these years later.”

“I am a policeman.”

Lavaliere peered at him with interest. “That, I did not know. A titled man who becomes a policeman.”

“I am not the only one.”

“I’m aware of that…but it is still something that intrigues me. What kind of policeman are you?”

“An ordinary one…”

Lavaliere shook his head slowly. “No, Jens. You are not. When I saw that picture of the 12-year-old boy, I asked myself if he would grow up to be the kind of man who would want to know what really happened. You have. But more than that, you want justice - closure, it you like – and because of it, you are hunting out the murderers of your parents.”

“It is more than that.”

Lavaliere nodded, and settled back in his chair. “I can well imagine.”

He did not expand, pursed his lips, and gave Müller a sideways look. Odile was also looking at Müller, but with the vague look of concern she had shown previously.

“I was born in one of the mountain villages in this area,” Lavaliere went on. “We are an independently-minded breed. During the war, the Grenoble area was a centre of resistance. The Gestapo were down here, but up in the villages people were doing things that could get them shot. One village is known for hiding the Jews of the time, among them. I mention this to explain why Roger, Odile, and I did not believe the official version of the crash. All three of us came from the mountains; so when we heard a whisper from there that the aircraft did not go down where the papers claimed it had, we decided to investigate.

“Roger died mysteriously and suddenly, we were having great difficulties keeping the paper going. Our offices were mysteriously broken into. It wasn’t long before the
Souris
closed, despite some wonderful support from many quarters; even from those with whom politically, we normally considered ourselves to be at opposite ends of the spectrum.

“I will give you a map of the area where we
know
the plane went down. It is very detailed, with full directions. I drew them myself. Odile and I have marked the location with two small crosses on a nearby tree; as a form of respect, as well as a marker. Unless you know of the crosses, you would find them very difficult to locate, if not impossible. The people in the mountains told us they had seen strange men burying something. At first, we thought they meant bodies. To this day, we still do not know what really happened, and why, and who was responsible. Perhaps what is in the box will help you. We have never looked in there since we sealed it. Now, you can open it.”

Lavaliere took something out of a pocket. It was a sheathed carpet knife. “Here. Use this.”

Müller took the knife, removed its safety cover, then glanced at Carey Bloomfield, who appeared transfixed. With final looks at Lavaliere and Odile, he began to slice through the tape. The upper flaps of the box popped slightly open. Müller put the knife down slowly.

“I cannot even begin to imagine what is in here,” he said, half afraid it would be items of his parents’ clothing, and was not certain how he would react to seeing that.

He looked at each of them in turn, then with a kind of reverence, slowly began to raise the flaps of the box, peeling them back one by one until they were fully open.

Whatever was inside, was protected by a padded covering. He began to lift it out. He had lifted it just clear of the box, when his mouth came open, and his hands, holding on to the padding, froze in mid-air. Looking as clean as the day they had been put into the box, were two bright, orange-red items. There were scorch marks upon them.

Müller closed his mouth slowly, staring at the contents of the box. At last, he put the padding down, near the box.

“My God,” he eventually whispered. “The flight recorders!”

“The
real
flight recorders,” Lavaliere corrected.

Carey Bloomfield, who from her position had not been able to see inside the box, got to her feet.
“What?”
She moved round to look. “Jeeezus!” she breathed.

All three watched as Müller put a hand into the box to touch one of the data recorders. He did so with a gentleness that clearly expressed the way he felt. He stroked each one slowly, as if they were animate. Face still, he did not speak for several minutes. No one disturbed him.

Carey Bloomfield moved a hesitant hand to touch him, but as if thinking this too, would disturb him, she lowered the hand and went back to her chair.

At last, a long shuddering sigh escaped him, and he began to replace the padding; then he pushed the flaps back down.

Still looking at the box, he gave a shaky smile. “Well. I certainly did not expect this.” He cleared his throat.

Odile still had the anxious look. “Are you alright, Jens?”

He nodded. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” He cleared his throat once more.

Carey Bloomfield looked as if she wanted to give him a hug.

Feeling a heat behind his eyes, he did not look up. “Odile, Jean-Marc, this is a very dangerous thing you’ve done. There are people who would kill…”

“We know,” Odile said. “But we have had them for nearly sixteen years. The place where we dug them up is long overgrown. There is no reason for anyone to believe it has been disturbed. We wanted to wait until you came to us. We always hoped that you would, one day.”

Müller swallowed. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Excuse me.”

He stood up, and began to walk to the far end of the orchard garden.

Carey Bloomfield began to rise.

Odile stopped her with a gentle hand. “Leave him be. This is something for him alone.”

They watched as Müller went to the far wall and stood near an apple tree, head down, hands in his pockets. He remained like that for several minutes. Then they saw him wipe at his eyes.

Odile was looking a Carey Bloomfield’s expression. “You sense his pain,” she said to her. “How long have you been in love with him?”

“Of course,” Lavaliere said.

Carey Bloomfield looked at him, hiding her emotions.

“Odile,” Müller began, “Jean-Marc. I am reluctant to ask this of you, but would you mind keeping the box for a little longer? There is something we’ve got to do tomorrow, and I think the recorders will be safer with you for the time being. I’ll come back for them.”

“But of course,” Odile said. “We shall put them back where they’ve been hiding for all those years. They will be safe.”

He looked at the Lavelieres in turn. “And
you
, must remain safe. I am certain you understand me.”

“We do,” Lavaliere said. “We come from a line of people who know how to hide from the hunters. Just as our parents did when the Germans were here. No offense.”

Müller gave a rueful smile. “Non taken.”

“And now,” Lavaliere said, “I think we could all do with a marc.”

Much later, after an exceptional dinner prepared by Odile and Lavaliere, Müller stood at the window of his bedroom. It overlooked the orchard, and directly beyond the wall it seemed, a perpendicular wall of rock gleamed in the light of a powerful moon. Somewhere, two male voices rose in a laughter that echoed on the night.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Carey Bloomfield’s whisper came from the window next to his. “Beautiful, and eerie.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “There is that element.”

Was it this slab of rockface, he wondered, that had smashed his parents’ aircraft like a toy?

And downstairs, or wherever Lavaliere had hidden them, were the black boxes with some of truth. At last.

“Beautiful as this is to look at,” he now whispered to Carey Bloomfield, “we’ve got an early start in the morning. And I am the worse for wear from Jean-Marc’s alcohol, and absolutely stuffed to bursting point with Odile’s culinary masterpiece. I can see the mountain from my bed, so I’ll watch it from there until I fall asleep. I’ll say goodnight.”

“’night, Müller. Don’t have bad dreams.”

“I won’t. Not now.”

06.00 the next morning.

Fully dressed, Müller and Carey Bloomfield were in the orchard garden, near the garage door. Odile and Lavaliere, in dressing gowns, had accompanied them.

“Many thanks for everything,” Müller began to them. “The cakes, the dinner, the rooms, the early breakfast, and…the box…”

Odile briefly placed a finger on his lips. “You do not have to thank us for anything. Find what you are looking for. That will be our thanks.”

“Odile speaks for both of us,” Lavaliere said.