Hunter's Rain by Julian Jay Savarin Read Free Book Online Page B

fighter, courtesy of the goth herself.
    The computer, with its large plasma screen monitor, was connected to a cinema quality, multi-speaker sound system. Hedi Meyer was at the machine, sitting in the high-backed leather chair. Pappenheim stood close by.
    Both looked round as Müller and Carey Bloomfield entered.
    Hedi Meyer was the first to speak. “Congratulations, Colonel,” she said to Carey Bloomfield. “Nice to see you again.”
    She had the ethereal paleness of complexion that Carey Bloomfield had described, a finely-sculpted classic face, and rich dark hair that owed nothing to the hairdresser’s skill with dyes. Her eyes were a vivid blue, and her paleness contrasted sharply with Carey Bloomfield’s glow of health.
    “Thank you,” Carey Bloomfield said, giving the goth a quizzical look.
    “ Oberkommissar Pappenheim told me,” the goth explained.
    “Ah.”
    “Miss Meyer,” Müller said, glancing at her hands, “you’ve got green fingernails, and blue eye shadow today.”
    “Back in my fertile period,” she said, displaying the bright green nails for all to see.
    “Your…fertile period. Doesn’t that conflict with the…” He tapped at his right eyelid. “…blue?”
    “Not at all. Blue stands for calmness and control. Can’t get too carried away. And besides, it matches my eyes.” She turned back to the computer.
    “You’ve been warned,” Carey Bloomfield whispered to Müller.
    “I heard that, Colonel,” Hedi Meyer said, not looking round. She paused. “I enjoy working with you.”
    “Now why does that sound like a warning?”
    “I never warn,” Hedi Meyer said.
    “Ladies,” Pappenheim soothed.
    “But I…” Carey Bloomfield began.
    “Ah-ah!” Müller interrupted, holding a finger briefly to his lips. He and Pappenheim glanced at each other with faint and very brief, surreptitious smiles, as he continued, “For some time now, we have been building a database – low-level intelligence - gathered from, believe it or not, old newspapers and magazines. We all brought the sort of things one never throws away, despite meaning to. Hedi Meyer beat us all with some quite incredible stuff she’s had since childhood. Even Klemp, our resident gym addict, had valuable material. It is quite incredible what you can find in a newspaper or magazine, if you know where to look.”
    Carey Bloomfield nodded. “I know some people who’ve got whole departments dedicated to trawling through the world’s news, print, and any other kind of media.”
    “I can imagine. No prizes for guessing.”
    “And I can imagine what you’re hunting. No prizes for that, either.”
    “Indeed. Miss Meyer,” he went on to the Goth, “what have you found?”
    She was checking through the archives of a French newspaper. “I’ll bring it onscreen in a moment.”
    He peered at the name of the paper. “ ’La Souris Atrichque’ . The Naked Mouse? Is this a joke? A school rag?”
    “No joke,” the Goth said, continuing to tap furiously at the keyboard without pause. “No rag, either, sir...as you’ll see.”
    “Did they know you went in there? Whoever they are?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Of course.” Müller glanced at Pappenheim, who had one of his most innocent of smiles tacked on.
    The Goth had stopped her tapping. “There it is, sir,” she said to Müller.”
    He studied the page on the screen, and stared at the date. “1982,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Grenoble. I was twelve. How did you get to this?”
    “I don’t think you want to you know, sir. But read this.” She highlighted a section of the text, and increased the size of the font.
    Müller began to read silently, then stopped, shocked. He continued to read, this time audibly.
    “’… and why have we been given the wrong site of the crash? Witnesses we have spoken to, confirm that the German private jet crashed elsewhere. They insist the real crash site is … ’ “Müller stopped again. “My God,” he said, almost to