A Necessary Hell

by Nigel Price

  “And he ends up in Soest.”

  “Frozen to death in the undercarriage of a shit little plane, then cremated like a piece of rubbish. Shovelled into an incinerator like trash.”

  Ingrid watched as he dropped the clothing, reached for his glass and took a long, deep drink. He refilled it from the bottle and returned to the pathetic pile of belongings. She couldn’t help noticing that the bottle had already been tried and tested. The level was nearing home base.

  “The poor bastard,” he said.

  The linen was stained with sweat and dirt and goodness knows what else. Harry stared hard at a stain that looked like blood. There was a waistcoat. “What kind of use would that have been against the cold over thirty thousand fucking feet up?” he said bitterly. “It’s just linen. Even at the lower levels, if he flew into Istanbul on a Herc or something. No wonder the poor sod had frostbite. It’s pitiful.”

  There was only one shoe. A loafer made from fake leather. Reasonable condition. “There aren’t any socks here so looks like he was barefoot too.”

  “Yet he was wearing a ring worth thousands of dollars,” Ingrid said, kneeling at Harry’s side. “Was it his?”

  Harry regarded the spread of junk on his bedroom floor. He examined the cloth more closely. The linen waistcoat was embroidered with a decorative pattern. “He wasn’t a peasant. A clerk perhaps. Maybe a minor government official. Something like that, at a guess.”

  “Would that kind of person be able to afford to buy their way out of Kabul?”

  “Possible but unlikely. Judging by the clothing. It’s reasonable quality but not that good. If I had to guess I’d say he stole the ring.”

  “From where?”

  Harry thought about it. “Perhaps not so much Where from, as who from?”

  Ingrid couldn’t help herself. She put a hand on his shoulder and said, “From whom.”

  Harry looked at her. Their faces were a foot apart. As on the sofa when Thomas had burst in. This time though, Thomas wasn’t there. They were alone, in Harry’s room, with the door locked, and the Black Label was starting to work.

  On the other hand, the dead man’s stained clothes spread on the floor in front of them dampened passion.

  There were undergarments which neither of them were inclined to explore. So those were gingerly placed to one side.

  Then there was a small see-through plastic bag containing the contents of the pockets. Harry opened it.

  There was a cheap wrist watch and some money. Afghani notes, US Dollars, all of them sodden and falling apart. Also a handful of coins. “About fifty quid,” Harry guessed. “Not much to start a new life in the West, is it?”

  There was another ring, but this one looked worthless. It had a badly fashioned red flower emblem, the paint mostly worn away. And a cheap bracelet with a small trinket attached to it like a lucky charm or an amulet.

  He studied both items. “This ring wouldn’t have fit the guy’s fingers. It looks more like a child’s. The bracelet too.”

  “There can’t have been more than one person in the plane’s undercarriage, surely? A man and a child?”

  “Why not? Either that or the man was carrying these for some reason.”

  “Mementos,” Ingrid suggested. “A dead daughter? Carrying them with him to the West as mementos.”

  “Could be. Usually you’d take a photograph though, wouldn’t you?” He dug into the rest of the envelope’s contents.

  There was a scrap of paper, falling apart like the bank notes. There was a short line of letters and numbers on it. It meant nothing to Harry. Nothing to Ingrid either. Even as Harry tried to flatten out the creases to read it more clearly, it started to come apart in his fingers. Like the body, he guessed the paper had frozen. Perhaps it had been wet already. Unlike the body, it had thawed quickly. There was no photograph.

  And then there was a flat oblong stone the diameter of a large plum. A hole had been drilled through the top of it and it had been threaded to be worn as a necklace or medallion.

  Harry picked it up and studied it. Ingrid leaned closer to see. “Nice rock,” she said.

  “Not a rock. It’s clay.” Harry squinted hard. Then held it out towards the light from the window.

  “It’s a fragment of a tablet. A piece broken off something larger. There’s script on it.”

  “Can you read it?”

  He laughed. “Not bloody likely. It looks like Pashto or cuneiform.”

  “That’s Sumerian, isn’t it?”

  “I think so. Something like that.”

  “How much would it be worth?”

  “I’ve no idea. There are millions of these around, so perhaps not very much. But maybe this one is something special. I’ve absolutely no idea. Maybe it’s priceless.”

  “Unlikely though if it was worn round the neck of a stowaway.”

  “Who knows? Maybe he thought it was worth something, even if he was wrong. The fact is, he thought it worth bringing with him, together with a ring set with a gold coin bearing the head of Alexander the Great, which was worth several thousands of dollars.”

  “So what does that tell us?”

  Harry sat back on his heels. He put the fragment of clay tablet and the other small items back in the plastic bag. “It tells us that we have a man probably from Afghanistan, carrying a couple of … let’s call them treasures. Antiquities. Since the collapse of law and order in Iraq and Afghanistan, there has been a roaring trade in the buying and selling of antiquities. Nearly all of it illegal.”

  “And you think the fact he stowed away on this particular plane belonging to Portland Aviation was not just a coincidence. That he chose it deliberately and knew where it was going?”

  Ingrid saw a light come on in Harry’s skull. He re-opened the small plastic bag and stood up. Going over to the window, he took out the fragile slip of paper and dumped the bag and other items on the desk. He held the paper up to the daylight to see the markings more clearly.

  “Yes to all of that. And I bet this proves it. All aircraft have a unique registration code in the form of an alphanumeric string, a combination of letters and numbers. I’ll bet this is the registration identifier for the Portland Aviation plane he travelled on. When he got to Istanbul, he didn’t just get on any old plane, choosing Portland Aviation’s by chance. He knew exactly which one to look for. The plane was completely unmarked except for its registration code, which it would have to display by law. Why else would he have this in his pocket?” Harry said, carefully holding out the paper.

  “Assuming it is actually an identifier, and matches the aircraft he came on,” Ingrid added.

  “Which should be easy enough to find out.”

  “Okay, and if it is, that still doesn’t answer why he chose that specific plane, does it?”

  “He knew what was on board? More of these?” Harry said, taking out the tablet and studying it again. “Or he simply knew that it was flying to Soest, and that is where he wanted to get to.”

  “You think Portland Aviation is trading valuable antiquities from the Middle East? Smuggling them in?”

  Harry reached for his glass and took another slug of Scotch. “Why not? They’re shit at selling planes. Look at the number that have crashed. And yet they have the cash to pay their way out of the enquiries. And they continue to prosper. How?”

  “Because their main income stream isn’t from aircraft trading at all. That’s just a front. It is from this,” Ingrid said, picking up the fragment of clay tablet. “But couldn’t it be perfectly legal? Not all the trade is banned.”

  “Perhaps. But again, that should be easy enough for them to demonstrate. Although so far no one has been exactly open, have they? And add in the shooting and everything else, and it doesn’t look quite so legal.”

  “If the aircraft trading is just a cover, it would take an awful lot of small things like this, or even like the ring, to make Portland prosper, Harry.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking. But if they are fly
ing planes in and out of Istanbul on a regular basis … that’s an awful lot of stuff they could be bringing into the country. And big items too. Not just small things like this or the ring. When Baghdad fell to the Americans at the end of the second Gulf War, its museums were looted. Totally cleaned out. Then since the Taliban got stuck into Afghanistan, they’ve been selling off treasures to fund arms purchases. Then ISIS got in on the act and did the same, in Iraq and also in Syria. In Libya too. They ransack museums and archaeological sites and sell the treasures to buy weapons. It’s huge business.”

  “Who do they sell them to? I mean, museums in the West wouldn’t touch the stuff, surely?”

  “Most wouldn’t. Some of the less scrupulous ones might. But there’s probably a whole black market of private dealers who’d pay for this stuff. When financial markets are so unstable, what better investment? Instead of having to entrust your wealth to a financial institution, and as governments crack down ever harder on tax avoidance, what better to sink your cash into than real, genuine treasures of antiquity which will go on increasing in value forever?”

  “So long as you can keep them safe somewhere.”

  “Which is why the buyers will mostly be the super-rich. People with castles and mansions and country estates and private islands where they can do exactly that.”

  Ingrid thought about it. “Okay. What can we prove though? Will anyone even be interested? It sounds awful, but this is one poor refugee. A man dead in the undercarriage of one aeroplane. Who will be interested, Harry?”

  “That depends on who is involved. Who is behind it all. If it is a German, then it will be of great interest to the German press and authorities. A person can only cover their tracks so far. Eventually even the biggest scams get blown open. The higher they rise, the further they have to fall.”

  Ingrid looked frightened. “Yes, so the more desperate they become. And the more dangerous they are.”

  Harry had to concede that was true.

  At which point they heard a car outside the front of the hotel. Though he hardly needed to, Harry got up and went to the window.

  “Our friends have arrived,” he said.

  “The Skoda?”

  “Yep. The plain clothes boys.”

  A few moments later, there was an urgent knock on Harry’s door. He unlocked and opened it. Herr Fischer stood on the other side, his face anxious. He started to speak but a man pushed past him. Harry recognised Skoda Man straight away.

  “Herr Brown,” he said, more statement than anything else. “May we come in?”

  Harry had always been quick to recognise a rhetorical question. He stood aside. Skoda Man and his Sidekick entered.

  “How can I help you?” Harry asked pleasantly. He might have been enquiring about the weather.

  Skoda Man and Sidekick were standing either side of the pile of clothing and effects on the floor beside the empty plastic bag. They looked from the bag to Harry and Ingrid.

  “What have you done? Do you realise how many laws you have broken, Herr Brown?” He turned to Ingrid. “Frau Weber?”

  They stood like two naughty children caught smoking in the lavatories in break time. Sidekick bent down and scooped the clothing and other items back into the black bag. He tied the top of it and stood back.

  “What did you think would happen?” Skoda Man asked.

  “That you would take the bag and leave us alone?” Harry thought it was worth a try. Sarcastically, he gave his winning smile. It didn’t appear to work.

  So he tried another tack. “I could ask you what is going on. This is more than just some poor devil dying trying to enter the West, isn’t it?”

  Skoda Man was unmoved. He placed his hands on his hips which had the effect of revealing the pistol holstered at his waist again. Heckler & Koch P7. “Your point?”

  “What was in the aircraft, the one the body was found in?”

  “You are talking nonsense, Herr Brown. I don’t understand a word you are saying.” He consulted his colleague. “I am afraid we are going to have to arrest you and Frau Weber for—”

  “For what?”

  There was the sound of another car pulling up outside the hotel. The four of them stood in an awkward silence until footsteps were heard approaching the room. Another knock on the door. Harry opened it. Chief Inspector Hafner came in.

  He too looked at the bag and asked the same question. What had Harry done? He sounded as if he was reading from a script. The highly professional Polizeihauptkommissar questioning a suspect in textbook manner. It was like a performance for an audience. Going through the motions.

  Harry smiled. “This isn’t going to wash, Ernst.”

  Hafner ignored him. He asked to look in the sack. Sidekick opened it for him. Hafner briefly rummaged through the contents. “There should be more here. The personal belongings.”

  Skoda Man saw the clay medallion necklace on the bed. Then the plastic envelope with its pathetic contents. He picked them up and handed them to Hafner who slipped the necklace back in the envelope then stuffed it in his pocket.

  Harry was puzzled. “How did you know there should be more? You didn’t see the body. Is the fragment of clay tablet worth a lot?” It was as though Hafner had been briefed on what to retrieve.

  Hafner ignored the question. “I told you to go home, Harry. If only you had listened to a friend and gone home. Flash car, money.”

  “Ferry ticket to Dover.”

  This time Hafner got the sarcasm. He said something to Sidekick that Harry didn’t catch. Sidekick did up the bag again. Two more policemen came into the room. Hafner stood aside. “I am going to have to arrest you, Harry. You too, Frau Weber. Please go with these officers.”

  Harry did a quick check of the layout. There was no point trying to take them on. Certainly not with Ingrid in the way. And even if he did – and won – what then?

  “This is not going to work, Ernst. Take the bag, let us go. You go your way and we’ll go ours.”

  Hafner smiled again. His face must have been aching with the effort. “It’s too late for that, Harry. You had your chance when we met earlier. You threw it back at me. Now you’ve broken the law. I am a policeman. This is what policemen do when someone breaks the law.”

  “Offering bribes is against the law. Doing whatever the fuck else you’re doing, is against the law.”

  “Bribes? You are talking rubbish,” Hafner replied. He put his face closer to Harry and said, “You can prove nothing.”

  “I rather suspected you’d take that line. But you haven’t exactly got a lot to charge me with either, have you? I borrowed a dead guy’s personal effects to have a look at them.”

  “Stole.”

  “Crap. You know it.”

  “And besides,” Hafner continued. “We both know you won’t just go away, will you?”

  For the first time Ingrid spoke up. She gave Hafner a burst of German like an MP5 submachine gun. Her German was too fast for Harry to follow but he got the gist of it. Twice he heard mention of BKA. She had decided it was time to ‘rack it up a notch’, as Harry had phrased it.

  When she had finished she folded her arms tightly across her chest. Ernst Hafner looked serious. “Frau Weber has just told me she wants to put a call through to the Bundes—”

  “I heard,” Harry said. “So do it. Let’s see what they have to say.”

  Hafner sighed. “Well you see, we are fortunate. Because the BKA is already here.” He turned to Skoda Man and Sidekick. “Gentlemen?”

  Enjoying the moment, Skoda Man lazily fished in his back pocket and produced the same fat wallet Harry had last seen in the autobahn lay-by. Out came the ID card. Only this time he held it right under Harry’s nose.

  A colour photograph of Skoda Man gazed sternly up into Harry’s face. A younger version of Skoda Man with more hair. But Skoda Man nonetheless. In amongst the print, as clear as the banging of Harry’s marginally quickened pulse, was the word ‘Bundeskriminalamt’.

  Twenty One

/>   They were taken from the hotel, past the shocked faces of Herr and Frau Fischer. Hafner stopped to give instructions about Harry’s room and belongings. From what Harry could overhear and understand, the room was to be out of bounds. The police would clear it in due course. Herr Fischer nodded. He caught Harry’s eye and did his best to project sympathy and understanding towards his reluctantly departing guest.

  Harry and Ingrid were bundled into the back of Hafner’s car, one policeman beside Harry. The other drove, Hafner sitting in the front passenger seat. Skoda Man and Sidekick came out carrying the black plastic bag and got into their car, ready to follow Hafner.

  As they drove down the lakeside road meandering alongside the Möhnesee, Harry felt Ingrid slip her hand in his. He squeezed it, trying to reassure her that everything was going to be all right. In truth he didn’t have a clue. There was nothing of substance that they could be charged with, and even if a charge of theft or whatever was levelled at them, he reckoned they could hardly lock them up overnight just for that, though he didn’t actually know what could or couldn’t be done under German law.

  “This is madness,” he said to anyone bothering to listen.

  “If it is, it is your madness, Harry,” Hafner said, turning in his seat to regard his prisoner. “I told you. Go home. But no. You had to stick your nose in where it didn’t belong.”

  Hafner gave Harry his usual old smile. The one he had worn throughout the exercise. Which triggered Harry’s curiosity.

  “The exercise,” Harry began. “Who leaked the details to you?”

  Hafner wasn’t going to play.

  “I should have known earlier,” Harry admitted. “No one is ever that well prepared. I’ve been scratching around these last two or three days trying to figure it out. What was the point of cheating? Was it a cover for something?”

  “Why would we want that?” Hafner eventually said.

  “To distract attention from something else.”

  Hafner turned again. “Talk away, Harry. Make your wild guesses. You are talking nonsense.” And there was that smile again. Harry was starting to want to plant a fist smack in the middle of it.