Hunter's Rain (32 page)

“Have you ever heard of someone called Hagen?” Müller asked Carey Bloomfield as he handed her the phone.

They were back in the car and about to leave. Müller was again at the wheel.

“I know a Major Hagen…”

“This one’s a lieutenant-colonel.” Müller gave a brief smile. “Must the time of the colonels. Everywhere I turn, I run into them.”

“Hah-hah,” she said. “Lieutenant-Colonel?” she went on, “that has to be a recent promotion, if it’s the same guy. You know how it is. You get these things with the cereal packet, these days.”

“So that’s how it happens.” Müller started the car. “I did wonder. And what is Hagen’s specialty?”

“The one I know leads a retrieval team.”

“What’s that in plain English?” he said as he eased the Porsche out of the parking bay and headed for the slip road to the autoroute.

“And Hagen is going after
Jackson?
”

“Unless I’ve completely misunderstood what Dales said to me, it certainly seems to be the case.”

“Just great. Hagen is known as a hard case, and a nut. He’s been doing that kind of job for too long. He enjoys it now. Even those who know him well, think so.”

There was a clear run to join the autoroute, and Müller sent the Turbo darting onto it. “There is an added ingredient,” he said. “Hagen is supposed to hold a grudge against Jackson. It would seem they were once rivals in love, the lucky woman – or unlucky in the case of Hagen – was Elisabeth Jackson…”

“Really?” He did not slow down. “Jackson is now being hunted by his own side, by
The Semper
, and if Pappi fails to block, a special unit of my national colleagues will enter the chase.”

Carey Bloomfield stared pointedly at the speedometer, but made no further comment about it. “Then he could use some friendly support.”

They made good time to Grenoble.

On the approaches, Carey Bloomfield stared at the great alpine ramparts with their sheer rock faces. The lowering sun bathed them in bright splashes of light where it could reach, while other parts lay in deep shadow, contrasting so sharply, it appeared that the play of dark and light had been etched upon them. High above, a piercingly white plume of cloud spread itself across a deep blue of sky.

“Wow,” she said. “This is impressive stuff. Beautiful.”

“One’s first view of Grenoble is always awe-inspiring.”

“I’ve been to some great places that literally take the breath away, but this is something else.”

“This,” he said, “holds my memory of my parents.”

“Sorry, Müller. I didn’t think.“

“No need to be. I’ve been past here on a few occasions, going south. This will be the first time that I will actually be going into the place itself. I’ve looked at these slabs of rock and have thought – you killed them. But of course they did not. People did.”

“Are you okay with this?”

He nodded. “After all these years, I am ready.”

Müller decided that his first stop would be the home of the former editor and surviving co-founder of
La Souris Atrichque,
Jean-Marc Lavaliere.

Laveliere’s house was on one of the borders of a small square, in the centre of Grenoble. There was a statue, and a café with pavement tables doing a roaring trade. Remarkably, there were only a few cars, so free parking spaces were plentiful.

Müller stopped the Porsche next to one of the many ubiquitous white
Twingos
they had seen on the approach to Grenoble.

“This is the address,” he said, “and that car has a 38 suffix. Grenoble. Let’s hope it’s his, and he is home.”

Carey Bloomfield peered up at the classic old building. “This whole square looks pure 18
^th
century.”

“Then let us see of the man I hope to meet is in his 18
^th
century home.”

They got out, and Carey Bloomfield looked about her. Beyond the buildings, the alpine peaks were an omnipresence.

“Everywhere you look,” she said, “there they are.” She looked at the café. “When we’re done, Müller, let’s have coffee over there.”

“Did I say 18
^th
century?” Carey Bloomfield remarked, looking at the organ stop bell-pull with a critical eye.

A good 30 seconds passed and Müller was about to give it another tug, when the door swung open silently. A smallish man with wispy hair and a mischievous expression that belied his true age, peered out at them. He wore his spectacles on the tip of his nose, rather like a fussy professor. Then the eyes that were peering above them suddenly widened.

“The boy in the photograph,” he said in awe. He spoke English. “You are surprised by my English. LSE.”

Müller, astonished by the man’s opening remark, said nothing.

It was Carey Bloomfield who spoke. “LSE?”

“London School of Economics,” Müller said in a daze, staring at the man who must be Lavaliere, he decided.

“And now a university,” Lavaliere said. “I am Jean-Marc Lavaliere, as I am certain you have concluded.” He looked at Carey Bloomfield. “Remarkable. You even look a little like her.”

“Hey,” she said. “Don’t spook me. Someone else has already said that.”

“American. Quite amazing. Nature copies when necessary.”

Müller finally asked. “How could you tell who I am? You have never seen me before.”

“Oh I have, my dear
Graf
. Please. Come in. I have been expecting you for some years.” He looked at the Porsche. “Very unobtrusive.” He smiled with mischief as they entered.

“This is Miss Carey Bloomfield,” Müller said as they were led along a wide hall with a tiled floor, and with bright daylight at its end.

Lavaliere shook her hand as they walked. “A pleasure. Come. Let us go into the garden. I was there when you rang. We can talk in complete privacy. Would you like some coffee? Some wine? Brandy? Something to eat? You have got your hotel?”

Müller smiled at this. “Which do we answer?”

Lavaliere paused, and turned to look impishly above his glasses. “All.”

Müller gave Carey Bloomfield a quick glance. “Coffee would be fine, thanks.”

“I could eat,” she said.

“And some brandy for the
Graf
, I think,” Lavaliere said, adding, “And the hotel?”

“We came straight here…” Müller began.

“Then it is settled. You will stay with us. There is plenty of room, and we have much to talk about.” Lavaliere paused once more. “My garage is round the corner. Plenty of room too. I think you should put your car there…away from the curious. And if you are going to use it later…” He shrugged. “…then you use it. So. Will you stay?”

“If you’re sure…”

“Of course I am sure.”

“Thank you.”

“I am the one who should be thanking you. I have waited for years for this day. You cannot imagine. Leave the young lady with me. We will go to the garden and wait. There is a door to the garage from there. I will have it open.”

“Which corner do I take?”

“To your right as you come out of the house. Turn the corner and a few metres later, you will find a right turn into a short alley. It is a cul-de-sac. It’s end is my garage.”

Müller nodded as he glanced at Carey Bloomfield. “Won’t be long.”

Lavaliere gave another of his impish smiles. “Do not worry. She will be quite safe.”

“Are my thoughts do obvious?”

“Understandably so.”

Müller nodded once more, then went back along the hall. He went outside into the still-bright day. There seemed to be more cars, and more people in the square. Some were giving the car admiring glances.

He got in, and following Lavaliere’s instructions, came to the garage which was quite big, and already open, as was the access to the garden. It was spacious and empty, save for the usual household items stored there. Carey Bloomfield, and Lavaliere, could be seen waiting in the garden itself.

Müller drove in, and stopped. The up-and-over door began to drop behind him, then locked itself. Müller got out, and went into the garden which was bigger than expected, and more like an orchard. It was surrounded by high walls, and not overlooked, except by the rock faces which seemed closer than they really were.

A large square table of solid wood was already laid with tea plates, cups on saucers, cutlery, and assorted cakes. There was also some dessert wine, and liqueurs. Four chairs were at the table.

“Odile, my wife,” Lavaliere said as he shut the solid door to the garage, “will soon be here with the coffee. She is delighted you will stay. She has also been waiting to meet you,
Graf
von Röhnen.”

“Let us settle one thing,” Müller said. “Please call me Jens; or if this is too informal, Müller will do.”

“You do not like your title?”

“It isn’t that. I don’t ‘trade’ on it, if that’s not too opaque.”

“Not at all.” Lavaliere looked his most impish. “For an old left-winger like me, it sits well. I shall reciprocate, as I feel we have known each other for decades. Please call me Jean-Marc, or simply Jean, if you prefer.”

“And I’m Carey,” Carey Bloomfield said.

They all shook hands on it.

“I am certain Odile will also approve of the informality. Like me, she has been waiting to meet you for a long time, Jens.”

“How come?”

“Odile was a staff member of the
‘Souris’
. That is how we met.” Lavaliere smiled deprecatingly. “The old cliché. But over the years, she looked into the incident of your parents with great determination; sometimes even more than I. It was she who found them.”

Müller stared at him. “Found what?”

“Let us first have our coffees, enjoy some wonderful Grenoble walnut cake, walnut wine or liquor, and generally relax ourselves before we get into what Odile and I believe really happened. Can you hold back your eagerness just for a little while?”

“We have come this far; and after all these years, I can wait.”

“Good. Good! And here is the light of my declining years.”

Müller turned to see a tall woman, taller than Lavaliere himself, approaching. She had the walk and grace of a ballet dancer; long black hair with streaks of grey, was tied in a bun. She seemed younger by several years, than Lavaliere. She carried a covered tray laden with two pots of hot coffee, which she placed on the table.

“Odile,” Lavaliere began, “at last you can see the adult, from the picture of the boy. This is Carey, and Jens, as he insists.”

She beamed at them, and shook hands with Carey Bloomfield. Then she turned to Müller. “It is amazing,” she said, her English perfect. She took Müller’s hands in both her own. Dark eyes gazed into Müller’s. “It is good that you have come.” She held on to them for some moments, before finally letting go.

Within the Black Forest, the light was fading.

Colonel William T. Jackson began the next stage of his plan. He took out his mobile, and dialled a number. It was the one belonging to his wife’s mobile phone. He had not seen her bag when he had picked up Josh on the B19, and hoped it meant that the kidnappers had taken it with them, and thus the mobile which she carried in it.

The connection was made. He felt a surge of relief. At least they had not destroyed it.

It rang, and continued ringing until the answering service cut in, and her voice sounded in his ear.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and cut the transmission. The sound of her voice had stabbed through him like a knife. He breathed deeply, forcing himself not to descend into the wild imagines of what might be happening to her.

“Stay cool,” he said to himself. “That’s what Josh would say. Stay cool, Dad. Stay cool. Stay cool.” He said that again and again into the gathering twilight of the forest.

Berlin.

In a roomful of monitors and interception equipment , an operator had watched a brief red pulse on a screen.

“Someone’s just tried to contact a mobile phone at the house!” he called.

Three other colleagues checked their own monitors. None had seen anything, and nothing had been recorded.

“Are you sure you saw something?” asked him.

“When I say I saw something, I saw it.”

“Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on. Call the house. Tell them next time, pick it up! Then we’ll see.”

The man nodded, and picked up a phone.

In the house where Elisabeth Jackson was being held, the man with the knife picked up the main phone at its first ring.

“Yes?”