Kara’s Game. Gordon Stevens

in the main, to the Middle East.’ Killings and kidnappings, and mainly against the West in the Lebanon. Excluding the Irish, of course, but the Irish were a separate concern anyway. ‘It was therefore agreed at our previous meetings that the time might now be approaching where we should prepare to make that struggle international again.’

      He sat back.

      The holy man stroked his beard, as if considering what had just been said. To his left the adviser waited, to his left the secret policeman said nothing. ‘So what are you suggesting?’ he asked at last.

      ‘The setting up of a new organization, its members recruited and trained in line with the new criteria of the present and future.’

      Which we all understand, but we also understand we have to endure the formalities.

      ‘Why new members?’ It was the secret policeman. ‘Why new criteria?’

      ‘Because other people are already planning using old members.’ Bomb attacks in New York, the killing of Jews in Argentina and the bombing of Jewish targets in London. ‘But they’ll be using Muslims, so in future the West will be looking for Muslims. In future the West will be looking for people whom they think look and act like Muslims.’

      ‘And where will you find Muslims who don’t look and act in the manner the Great Satan thinks they should?’ It was the holy man.

      ‘And who have the same motivation of those who fought for us in the past?’ It was the politician.

      ‘Bosnia.’ Sharaf looked at each of them in turn. ‘Among the dispossessed who have been driven from their homes by ethnic cleansing. Among those who have lost everything and therefore have nothing more to lose and everything to fight for.’

      ‘And this is in motion?’

      ‘The plans are laid and the first steps taken.’

      But that is all, because that was all I was required to do. Because it was agreed that each of us should fulfil his task before the plan could be finalized. Again it was wrapped in formality and politeness.

      ‘The religious leaders have agreed,’ the holy man told the meeting. Not all the religious leaders, he had no need to say, simply those who would support the plan anyway.

      ‘Our leaders as well.’ The politician did not specify which leaders.

      ‘My people are also prepared.’ The secret policeman played with his Rolex as if it was a set of worry beads.

      ‘Therefore we should proceed,’ the holy man resumed the chair. ‘Insh’allah,’ he added.

      The politician leaned forward, lifted the handset of the telephone, punched the number, waited ten seconds, then spoke.

      ‘The transfer of funds is approved. Do it now.’

      The monies already held on deposit, now about to be transferred electronically to the accounts specified in Switzerland.

      He terminated the call and handed the telephone to Sharaf.

      He should have anticipated it, Sharaf thought; should have planned for it. But perhaps, on the other hand, it was a symbol of the moment, a sealing of their trust in each other, the first step on the road ahead. Even though such a call was a security risk. Never link one thing to another, he insisted to his aides and operatives; never do or leave anything which might connect one part of one section to another.

      He took the telephone and keyed the number in Istanbul.

      ‘You’re on the morning flight,’ he told Keefer.

      

      When Wolfgang Keefer passed through immigration at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport five hours later, the passport he carried was in the name of Mulhardt. When he left on the Croatia Airlines flight to Split six hours after that, the passport he used was in the name of Lacroix. Contained in the false lining of the Zenith briefcase which was his only luggage, and which he hand-carried on both flights, was the range of press, political and military accreditation which he might need in the weeks he would spend in the war zone of Bosnia-Herzegovina.

      It was the way he had led the past fourteen of his thirty-nine years.

      Wolfgang Keefer was the second son of a nurse and a lathe operator from the former East German city of Leipzig. Neither at school nor in the Free German Youth had Keefer distinguished himself. It was only during his national service in the Frontier Troops, manning what the East called the Anti-Fascist Barrier and the West referred to as the Berlin Wall, that he had appeared to find a vocation and an inner drive. He had been decorated three times and promoted twice, graduating with distinction at the GMK training school before being recruited into the MfS, the Ministry for State Security, also known as the Stasi. At the MfS headquarters on Normannenstrasse, and in other MfS establishments throughout both East Germany and the other satellite states of the then Communist bloc, he had fulfilled the promise he had demonstrated in the Frontier Troops, before making his final transfer to the unit dealing with the training and support of those whom the East called freedom fighters and the West termed terrorists.

      By the time the Berlin Wall fell in November 1989, he had attained the rank of colonel. On the actual night the Wall was breached he had been in the Beqa’a valley in the Lebanon; the actual moment he had heard the news he had been squatting at a camp fire, Sharaf at his side. In the weeks that followed, while many of his contemporaries were looking east to the KGB in Moscow, to the people whom they had called the Brothers, Keefer had transferred his loyalty. Not for reasons of ideology or religion, especially not from political commitment, but for the simple reason that this was the life he had grown to love, that that life was now finished in East Germany, and that if a man found a job he liked and at which he excelled, then he should stick with it.

      He had returned to his old haunts, of course – except that the city he loved was now called simply Berlin. Had made contact with old friends and colleagues, especially the people he and his new masters might need in the future. Occasionally the men and women from the front line, but more often the technicians, with their specialist skills and equipment.

      

      The 737 dropped out of the cloud and he saw the lights of the airport at Split. The land was grey and washed with snow, and the night had already settled. The terminal was low and long, and the Air Croatia planes parked in front were outnumbered by the helicopters and transports painted with the stark black initials of the United Nations.

      Bergmann was waiting for him in the terminal, two Nikons on his shoulder, a false press ID tag round his neck, and the word PRESS on the sides, bonnet and roof of the dilapidated Range Rover outside. Standard appearance for standard photographer in a war zone. To the right a TV crew loaded their silver metal boxes into an armour-plated jeep.

      ‘Welcome to the war.’ Bergmann shook his hand, tightened the hood of his anorak against the cold, and led Keefer to the Range Rover. ‘Where you heading?’ he asked one of the TV crew. Sarejevo or Travnik, the man replied, possibly Vitez. His face was pinched, either with cold or apprehension. ‘Got some good stuff in Vitez couple of days ago,’ Bergmann told him. ‘We’re back up tomorrow.’

      Stasi training was always the best, Keefer thought. Best covers in the world, best men. He slammed the door and Bergmann started the engine. As they left the airport two Sea King helicopters landed in the British army base five hundred yards away.

      ‘How is it up-country?’

      ‘Cold with the occasional hot spot.’ Bergmann laughed.

      They skirted Split, the hills to their left, the islands of Brac and Hvar on their right already lost in the night, and the snow and a UN convoy in front of them. Everywhere – Zagreb and Split – there seemed to be UN and UNPROFOR. War’s business, Keefer had no need to remind himself.

      ‘Any hassles?’

      ‘Press are still getting some.’

      ‘So it’s better to go as UNPROFOR?’

      Bergmann swerved to avoid a pothole.