Hunter's Rain (34 page)

Müller looked at them, and nodded his appreciation. “I forgot to ask yesterday. Do you know a man called LaCroix?”

Both nodded. “If it is Alphonse,” Lavaliere replied.

“It is.”

“A good man. In fact, he helped us a lot, which was probably why he got early retirement. He was Gendarmerie.”

“I know.”

“Will you be seeing him?”

“Not this time. Once we have been to the…place, we’re heading back to Germany. Something there needs urgent attention. When we’re back for the box will be time enough. I want to do some searching myself. “

“I understand,” Lavaliere said. He held out a hand to Carey Bloomfield. “Take care of this man.”

“If he’ll let me.” She gave the pleasantly surprised Lavaliere a hug.

“And yourself, of course,” he added.

“Of course.”

Lavaliere turned to Müller, hand outstretched, while Carey Bloomfield and Odile embraced.. “You have no idea, how it pleases me to have met you at last. Your father would have been proud.”

“I would like to think he would at least not have been disappointed,” Müller said, shaking the hand.

“I am certain he would not have been disappointed. Not at all.”

Müller turned to Odile. “Odile…”

She embraced him tightly, and kissed him softly on both cheeks, near the mouth. “We expect to see you again, very soon.”

“You shall.”

As he opened the garage door, Lavaliere handed Müller a white envelope. “Do not open it until you are well on your way back.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“Not very. Humour me.”

Müller nodded. “Alright.”

He stood back for Carey Bloomfield to enter the garage, then followed. They got into the car as the main door began to rise. Müller reversed into the cul-de-sac.

The Lavalieres raised their hands in farewell and stood watching until Müller had reversed into the street, and had driven away.

“They make a fine couple,” Lavaliere said to his wife, as the garage doors closed. “Let us hope they enjoy a long life.”

The light at that time of day had a hint of steel about it, and there was no cloud.

“What a sweet, sweet couple,” Carey Bloomfield said.

“What an extremely brave couple,” Müller amended. He shook his head in wonder. “They’ve been sitting on a pile of high explosive for all these years. I don’t feel particularly happy about asking them to continue doing it.”

“They are not weak people. They would not have agreed if they’d felt offended. And besides, you are right about not taking the box today. We’re going back to find the colonel, wherever he may be planning to make his last stand, Custer style, in the Black Forest. Imagine if for whatever reason, you lost those things out there. The car gets broken into by one of the
Semper
…and bingo. If you’re way out in the woods, the car’s sensors would not stop help, except make a lot of noise. Somehow, I don’t think that would bother a
Semper
killer much. So I do understand why you left them.”

“I’m still uncomfortable. The Lavalieres have been lucky for sixteen years. I just hope our visit hasn’t changed that. Talking of which…you’re air force. How strong are those things, anyway? And can the data still be retrieved after so long?”

“Let’s put it this way,” she said. “The data recorder has an impact tolerance of 3400 Gs. That’s a hell of a lot of decelerative force, when you consider the top fighter jets can start coming to pieces in the low double figures, positive. Less capable jets start coming apart long before that. Negative is in single figures. The human body, by comparison - even protected - starts taking serious, terminal damage, long before the best jets start to break. The recorder also has a fire resistance of 1100 degrees celsius, and can take submerged pressure at 20,000 feet. The cockpit voice recorder has the same resistance. These days, people can still grab information from computer discs that have been wiped. I think untouched black boxes will be a walk in the park. Of course, these are older recorders and some specs have changed, but not by much. Your only problem will be to make sure whoever opens them, is 110 percent trustworthy.”

“I think Pappi will be able to find one.”

“Talking of Pappi,” she said, “He gave you the colonel’s numbers. Are you going to call?”

“Not until we’re back in Germany. I’m certain that all calls to Colonel Jackson, and all those he makes, are being monitored. It’s what he wanted. I have no intention of letting the eavesdroppers know I’ve been to France. It might lead them to the Lavalieres; which would be disastrous. Time enough for the colonel. They won’t get to him as easily as they think. I am more worried about Hagen and his team.”

In the Black Forest, Jackson had long been awake. He had bathed in a cold stream and fully refreshed, was calmly eating his field ration breakfast. He had checked all his weapons.

He was ready.

The road twisted its way up the mountain in loops and hairpins that seemed to go on forever. In the early morning, Turbo roared up the road at a speed that Carey Bloomfield tried not to check on the car’s speedometer.

There were times when she felt certain they would be heading down back the mountain, faster than they came up.

“Enjoying the scenery?” Müller asked. “Great, isn’t it?”

She nodded quickly; too quickly for real enjoyment.

“Worried?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said. “But this road is
narrow.
” Her voice ended in a weak squeak.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “We won’t tumbling down the mountain. Do you think I want to damage my car?”

“That’s what’s keeping me afloat,” she said, glancing at the flowing zigzag of the road far below. “Now this, can give a gal vertigo.”

“Not so far to go now,” he said. “We’ll park somewhere, then go for a walk. Forty-five minutes there, forty-five minutes back. The Romans, in full marching order, could do 25 miles a day, and still make camp before nightfall. And they were certainly not as healthy as we are. “

“Good for the Romans.”

“Come, come. Me, police
hauptkommissar
. You, air force lieutenant-colonel. We are fit. At 5 kph – which we can easily do - we’ll be leaving by nine.”

“Müller?”

“Yes.”

“It’s too early in the morning.”

He glanced at her. “You look a bit queasy. Too much wine last night? Are you alright?”

“Nothing that a good puke won’t fix.”

“You’ve been up in jet fighters.”

“Yeah. And they’ve got puke bags in there too.”

“The road has made you carsick. Would you like to drive back down? Being behind the wheel makes a big difference.”

“No thanks. I appreciate the offer, knowing what it cost you. But I’d rather be sick than have you look worried every time we come to a corner; and boy oh boy, are there
corners,
not to mention suicidal little cars that seem to think this is a racetrack
.
Remember that one that tried to play chicken on a goddammed
bend
? I’ll be fine once we stop. That Roman walk might actually do me some good.”

“Some music, perhaps?”

“No!”

They got to the top not long after, where the road ended. All other roads had branched off a good six kilometres before. There was a wide gravelly space to within which to park, big enough to hold several cars; but there were no other vehicles.

“Hey,” Carey Bloomfield said as they got out.. “This is a great view! Wow!”

“Was it worth it?”

“It’s worth it to come here to do what you must. But this…this is a bonus. I feel better already.”

The ramparts of rock were all about them and far below, they could see Grenoble, and the outlying villages and towns dotted across the landscape.

Müller spread Lavaliere’s map on top of the car. There was a sketch attached to it.

“Take a look at this,” he said to her. And when she had come to look, went on, “This sketch shows where the media said the plane hit, with the dotted line showing the general area where the wreckage is supposed to have fallen…and where the fake black boxes were found. Now the second sketch shows another rockface, there - the one we’re going to. See where that dotted line points: where they found the buried recorders.”

He passed a hand over his eyes. “God. These bastards really worked at hiding what had really happened.” He looked about him, looked at the map, then looked around once more. He saw a barely visible trail. “There,” he said, pointing. “That’s the one.”

He reached into the car, unlocked the glove compartment, and took out a Beretta 92R. He gave it to her,

“Put it into your bag. Just in case. No don’t go shooting ibex, marmots, or whatever else runs around in these mountains.”

“What about the two-legged ones pointing guns?”

“If you spot one of those, you know what to do.”

“You’re in France. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“They would be in France, and certainly, have no jurisdiction here, either.”

“Unless they happen to be French
Semper.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

She put the gun into her bag. “You’ve got one under your jacket, I’ve got this one. Anymore?”

“There’s another under the rear seat squab. The one behind the driver’s seat.”

“Pappi had one in his glove box too. Would he have more stashed about his car as well?”

“That would not surprise me in the least,” Müller said with a smile. “Now come on. We have a rendezvous to keep.”

In the house where she was being held, Elisabeth Jackson woke up to her second morning of captivity. She been allowed to go to the bathroom the night before but now, she needed to go again. She hoped someone would come soon.

Minutes later, she heard the familiar sound of the key in the lock, and hoped it would be the kindly-voiced man.

It was.

“Hello,” he greeted. “I’ve brought you breakfast. Two rolls, this time.”

“I hope it’s not a hearty breakfast.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a saying – ‘and the condemned man ate a hearty breakfast’. Hope that’s not me.”

“Oh. I see. No. It’s not that. It’s me. I put the extra one.
He’s
out somewhere, if your understand me.”

“I understand. But, before I have your generous breakfast, I er…need to go.”

“Oh! Yes. Here, let me help.”

He freed her feet, re-tied her hands at the front, then led her to the bathroom.

“Don’t touch the blindfold,” he advised, “or you’ll get us both into trouble.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

And she meant it. Now that she knew Bill had planned something, she would do nothing to jeopardise her chances.

Müller and Carey Bloomfield had come to the spot where the Lavalieres had found the buried data recorders. It was beneath a low escarpment but high above that, the soaring rockface towered imposingly; and terrifyingly.

Müller looked up at it for at least a minute, saying nothing. He imagined he could see a dark smear, where the plane had hit.

“Not possible,” he murmured to himself.

Any marks would have long been wiped away he thought, by rain, snow, and ice.

But not the gouges in the rock. So perhaps he
was
looking up at the spot where his parents had died.

Carey Bloomfield followed his scrutiny. “See something?”

“I think I’m just imagining it.”

“What? That dark patch up there?”

“You can see it?”

“Sure. A chunk is missing from that rock.”

Müller felt something like an electric current go through him. “But it can’t be where the plane hit, surely?”

“Who’s to know for sure? Unless you get up there and take scrapings for analysis. But it seems to match Lavaliere’s sketch. He would not make a mistake like that.”

Müller kept looking up at the spot.

“If you’d like me to move away,” she began. “Give you some privacy…”

“No. No. Stay. I want you to. It’s alright. Really.” He traced a line downwards in his mind, moving his head until he was looking at the ground about him, and the surrounding vegetation. “Can you see the crosses?”

“No... Wait. Wait a minute. Look over there, to your right.”

Müller looked, and saw a small clump of wild flowers. “Flowers,” he said.

“Now look closer toward the base of the rock,” she directed. “What do you see?”

“More wild flowers. Nothing but…” his voice faded.

“Now you’ve found them,” she told him.

Müller understood what the Lavalieres had done. They had planted the wild flowers as a marker; then on the edge of the clump, two much smaller clumps of the blooms were positioned, close together.

Müller went over to them, squatted, and touched them very gently while Carey Bloomfield stood a little distance away, watching him.

He remained like that for a long time, almost seeming to talk to the flowers. Then he raised he head to look upwards and saw, hidden beneath an awning of low branches the two small crosses, side-by-side, cut into the lower trunk of a small tree,

Müller bit his lower lip as a surge of emotion took hold of him. His shoulders began to shake.

Watching, Carey Bloomfield felt the irresistible urge to hold him.

“Damn you, Müller,” she said to herself, “I’m going to do it, whether you want me to or not.”

She hurried over, got down next to him, and put an arm about his shoulders. She held it there tightly, until the shaking eventually subsided.

“Thank you,” he said in a low voice, eyes on the twin clumps of wild flowers.

“Hey,” she said. “What are friends for?”

“We’re making good time,” Müller said. “We seem to have missed the second rush hour.”

The one-hour run from Grenoble had taken a lot less than expected, and they were approaching the toll gates just after
L’isle d’Abeau,
in under 45 minutes.

They went through, and Müller took the speed to a reasonably inconspicuous 160. At that rate, the distance was eaten up without drawing unwelcome attention. Many other cars, with the license plates of various nationalities were travelling far faster; but Müller chose not to be tempted. Being stopped, even though he could explain to a fellow policeman, would still cost time.