A Necessary Hell

by Nigel Price

  The car tore along. The sirens were on and going for it. Harry could picture the scene. Things like this seldom happened to these guys and they were making the most of it. Wringing it for every drop of juice.

  He could hear other sirens too, both in front and behind. Presumably Ingrid was in one of those cars. Harry just hoped that, like him, she was starting to believe that these guys were real police. They had that feel. Well-meaning but slightly incompetent. High on the thrill, but sincere. Good men doing their job. With a bit of excitement to spice up an otherwise routine day.

  Realising there was no point asking anything, he sat back and relaxed. He was sorry he hadn’t managed to finish his beer. No matter. So long as they weren’t headed for a forest clearing there would probably be a cup of bad tea at some point.

  He sensed the convoy leaving the autobahn. He pictured the spectacle as they negotiated exit roads. Roundabouts blocked off by outriders. Perhaps a drive through a small town. The police would be loving it. He was happy to provide them with such a life-affirming experience.

  At last they arrived at their destination. Brakes screeched, car doors slammed, voices shouted and there was even a dog barking somewhere in the background, chipping in its quid’s worth to the drama.

  He was manhandled from the car with some gentle pushing and pulling. Stooping low, he again felt the guiding hand on his head. Executioners wouldn’t have bothered.

  Then his elbows were taken and he glided effortlessly through space, up steps – not quite so effortless – and an echo told him they were inside a building. Along corridors, more stairs, a door opened and closed, and he was planted in a chair. The hands let him go. Finally the hood was whisked off his head. Brightness stung his eyes. He squinted at the artificial lighting. There were no windows. Just a table with one other chair facing his across the bare surface.

  A policeman stood guard on either side of him, slightly behind so he had to turn his head to left and right to see them properly. Both were uniformed. Both had sidearms. Standard stuff. No one else. Certainly no Ingrid. He assumed she was in a similar room, about to enjoy the same fuss.

  So what would it be? He had been trained in R to I – Resistance to Interrogation. Stress positions, sleep deprivation and all kinds of fun and games, most of which were now illegal. Here in a German civilian police station, they were unlikely to use any of that. He hoped.

  After some minutes he heard voices outside the door. It seemed to be a dispute. The door opened and two men in suits entered. Bald Man and Moustache Man. Both were early middle age, medium height and build. No particular distinguishing features. Except for the baldness and the moustache.

  They both went for the one chair on the far side of the table. Bald Man got to it first, leaving Moustache Man looking sheepish and a bit pissed off. He did his best to ignore the bemused interest on Harry’s face, and recovered dignity by issuing an order to one of the policemen guarding Harry. Instead of simply obeying, the copper started to debate the issue. Harry missed the German but guessed it was along the lines of Why me? Why not him? Can’t you get it yourself?

  Moustache Man increased the volume until Guard One slunk from the room, returning a moment later with another chair. He slid it across the room with a sullenness that would have amounted to insubordination in Harry’s old rifle company. The man would have been on a charge faster than he could say Here’s your fucking chair.

  Moustache Man intercepted the chair mid-skid. He took possession of it as if gathering what bit of face was left to him. He sat down alongside Bald Man and the two of them conferred briefly, seeming to continue the dispute Harry had heard in the corridor.

  Bald Man looked across at Harry. Straight away Harry liked him. Was he the Good Cop?

  “Cup of tea?”

  He was.

  Harry nodded. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

  A command was issued to the same Guard who this time obeyed without question. Bald Man was definitely the Good Cop, and not just to his prisoners.

  “Milk, no sugar,” Harry called after him. Which he didn’t feel was an abuse of their hospitality.

  Moustache Man took over. “I suppose you know why you are here?”

  Harry wondered where to begin. “I have some idea, yes.”

  “Well?”

  “No, you go first. I suspect I’m not going to like it.”

  “I’m not surprised. No one likes murder. ”

  Harry sat back. “Ah. Murder. Okay. And who have I murdered?”

  “An American army officer. Colonel Daley Franklin.”

  “Right. So that’s how this is going to be played.”

  “Played? No one is playing, Herr Brown,” Moustache Man said. “You and your colleague, Ingrid Weber, launched an assault on the Colonel’s residence this morning, which resulted in his death. US Forces Military Police have requested that we hand you over to them, claiming the murder is under their jurisdiction.”

  “And will we be?”

  “The request is under consideration.” This from Bald Man.

  The tea arrived. There was nothing for the two interrogators. They glared their displeasure at Guard One who took post behind Harry’s chair again, unconcerned. Harry’s tea sat on the table before him, his hands cuffed behind his back. Unable to resist the humour of the situation, he leaned forward and put his mouth to the cup.

  Bald Man snapped at Guard One who, after a brief question-and-answer exchange, removed the cuffs. At the same time, both he and Guard Two stood clear of Harry’s chair, hands on guns.

  Harry picked up his tea. Options. He could sling it in their faces and punch his way out. But then what? He’d have to find and free Ingrid, and if they made it out of the station it would hardly advance their cause. He had good feelings about this lot so he decided to tell them his story instead. From the top. All of it.

  Starting with the morning three days before and his near-collision with Ingrid’s Golf, the severed hand in Farmer Müller’s spargel and so on; he recounted the whole saga. Their faces as he spoke betrayed neither incredulity nor acceptance. Complete blanks. He half wondered if their English extended to cover everything he was saying. And if it did, whether their imaginations could keep up.

  Ernst Hafner, Heinz Gutman, Portland Aviation, Colonel Franklin, Marius Krantz, and of course the two lugs tied to the trees in the forest – he gave full details of their location so they could be rescued and corroborate his story. Guard One was despatched once again, this time to send word for the lugs to be located and – Harry hoped – arrested.

  Both police officers made notes, their faces giving away nothing. Finally Harry ran dry. His account ended in the diner with Truckers One and Two. As an afterthought he asked how they were doing.

  Neither officer replied. Instead they flicked through their notes. At last Bald Man looked up. “That’s quite a story.”

  “A true story,” Harry said.

  “A tall story,” Moustache Man said, seeming pleased to know the English expression.

  Harry smiled. It was up to them now. They could believe it or not. He had done all he could.

  Bald Man got up. “You understand that we will have to check certain details of what you have told us.”

  “Of course.”

  “And we will speak with Frau Weber too,” Moustache Man added, making it sound like a threat.

  “Speak to her all you want. She will tell you exactly the same.”

  Bald Man spoke to one of the guards then explained to Harry. “You will be placed in a holding cell. Some lunch, perhaps?”

  “Thank you. That would be nice.”

  They went to the door and left. Harry was guided back into the corridor and, without blindfold, shown into a cell which was spartan but relatively comfortable, as far as police cells went. There was a bed, sink, toilet, chair, and a window with frosted glass set too high in the wall for him to be able to see out, even if the glass had allowed it.

  The door closed behind him and he heard the l
ocks doing their stuff. Alone, he surveyed his surroundings, sat down on the edge of the bed and waited.

  Thirty One

  The landing was less than smooth. A cross wind cut through the plain making the fuselage jink sideways as the aircraft touched down on the runway. The rubber of the tyres bit tarmac and squealed. Heinz Gutman clutched the arms of his seat and pushed back into the plush leather. Maybe it was time he hired a new pilot.

  Looking out of the small window, he watched the airport buildings approach, wheeling round as his aircraft taxied in. Another trip done.

  Instead of taxiing to the main terminal, the aircraft rolled towards its own hangar that stood aside from the main complex. Customs procedures would be conducted there as usual. And by the usual team. Immigration too. His and his family’s passports, all of them quickly checked and processed. Then into the cars and away.

  The door was opened, the steps let down, and Gutman started to gather his belongings to depart. He made his way out and found his car drawing near. He would travel alone, as usual. His family behind him, following. They had a long drive ahead of them. The children had slept for much of the flight. They would go on without him. He had other things to attend to before he could enjoy the remote pleasures and relaxation of his Bavarian castle.

  Ernst Hafner was there to greet him. Together they watched the others disgorge, embus and leave. Gutman waved them off. Wearily the children waved back, one part of their long journey over, the next about to begin. They were always tired, poor things. It was only ever a matter of time before the thrill and excitement of the flight wore off and fatigue got the better of them. Still, there would be cold drinks for them in the car and a good supper waiting when they reached home.

  When they were alone, Hafner briefed him on events in Fulda. So far Gutman had received only the barest facts. He listened, face impassive. When Hafner finally shut up, Gutman went towards his car.

  Hafner watched him go. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get me someone to finish the job that you and everyone else have fucked up.”

  Hafner gave a small laugh. Gutman turned on him. “I’m glad you find it all so funny, Ernst. Because when everything comes crashing down, I will make sure that you are first in the firing line. Okay?”

  “I only meant—”

  “I don’t care what you meant. Just do it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Just as I said on the phone. Get them.”

  Hafner bit his lip.

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No, Herr Gutman.”

  “Good. And let me know when it’s done.”

  Hafner watched the car slide away. He wiped his brow. Looked at his watch. Wondered what the hell he had got himself into. And all the while knew that it was far, far too late for that. He had his instructions. Miserably, he went to carry them out.

  ****

  The daylight coming through the useless window started to fade. Harry had eaten the food that had been given to him. No one had answered any of his questions. How long am I being kept here? Am I being charged with anything? Have you checked the facts of my account?

  Eventually his cell grew dark. Somewhere outside there was an electric strip light. It needed changing because soon after the timer had turned it on it started to flicker. The occasional strobe effect might have been designed to drive him mad. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he could only wonder at the silence filling the police station. At one point he heard footsteps in the corridor. He went to the door and called out. The steps paused for a moment, then carried on past. Harry banged on the door. No one responded.

  An hour passed. Then another. Harry lay on the hard mattress, hands behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling watching the shadows cast by the flickering light as it alternately sprang to life then died. He dozed off because the next thing he knew he was in the Tora Bora in eastern Afghanistan. He was in a fire-fight, but the setting was incongruous. A garden with washing on a line. Then came a whole mish-mash of dream mayhem. Even as he slept he was aware that he was dreaming. The washing line was cut down by the fire and the various items of clothing blew in his face. The Colonel’s running vest stuck round his mouth and nose, choking him. He pulled it off and it became something else. Smaller and less threatening. Brilliantly white.

  The gunfire became more intense as the Taliban closed on his position. The shots were spitting at a rock wall enclosing him. Cutting through the air close overhead. There were screams. Someone had been hit. Harry could see the blood pumping from the exit wound as he tried to apply a field dressing, bearing down on it until the flow stopped.

  It never did. Instead the door to his cell burst open and he sat up, mind bleary and confused. He snapped out of his dream and back into the present.

  The shots continued. He shook his head to clear it. He felt as if reality had melted like a surrealist painting. Drooping clocks hung out to dry, sagging torsos propped on sticks.

  “Harry, get up!”

  Ingrid was at his side. Behind her, blocking the open doorway, stood Good Cop Bald Man, gun in fist. He was facing outward like a sentry. Alert and ready.

  “Both of you, come!” he called over his shoulder.

  Harry was on his feet. “What’s happened?”

  Good Cop didn’t answer. Just said, “This way. Follow me.”

  Ingrid grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him from the cell.

  The first thing he saw was the body of Guard Two spread-eagled in the corridor. Blood was pooling from a gunshot wound to his head. His eyes were open, stone dead. Past him, towards the further end, Guard One also lay dead. Harry couldn’t see his wound at that distance but more blood spread from under him. From the way he lay, Harry could tell he wouldn’t be fetching any more chairs or tea.

  Good Cop led the way in the opposite direction. At the end of the corridor it did a right angle turn and a staircase appeared ten yards further on.

  “Get up there and wait for me at the top. Here.” He thrust something into Harry’s hands. It was a Glock 17. “You know how to use it, yes?”

  Harry nodded. “Where are you going?”

  “Back. I have to try and help.”

  “Let me come too.”

  “No. Get out. Both of you. The car pool is beyond the door at the top of the stairs. Wait for me there. “I have to see who else I can save.”

  “From what?” Harry didn’t get an answer. Good Cop had gone. His back receded down the corridor, stepping over the dead policemen, heading towards the sound of gunshots.

  Ingrid stared after him. “That’s a machine gun.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “This is a police station. Who is—?”

  Harry cut in. “What happened?”

  “I was in a cell. Trying to sleep. They’d let me call home. I spoke to Thomas. He seemed alarmed but okay. My mother was with him, and a police woman, he said. Then, soon after I’d handed back the mobile and was left alone, I heard shooting. That officer came into my cell and brought me straight to you. That’s all I know. Harry, what’s going on?”

  “Someone’s just hit the nuclear button,” he replied. “Gutman or Krantz or Franklin’s superiors.”

  They went up the stairs and Harry opened the door. As the police officer had said, they found themselves looking onto a car park, police cars and other unmarked cars lined up in the bays.

  “There.” Harry set off towards a glass-fronted booth on the far side. Through the window he could see a rack of keys. He kicked in the locked door and searched through them. Checking the registration numbers, he picked one. He turned and fired the key fob. Across the lot, an unmarked black VW Passat winked at him.

  “The policeman said we have to wait,” Ingrid said as he led her towards it.

  “We will. We need to have the engine running when he gets here though. Get in.”

  The car pool was underground. How many levels down, it was hard to say. Probably not more than one.

 
; Harry started the engine and located the exit ramp fifty yards away. They waited.

  Shouting and shooting. The sounds of both were muffled by the concrete walls of the police station. Then there was a crack that shook the ground. They both felt it through the car tyres, rising up through their seats.

  “Grenade.” Harry checked the Glock and the contents of the magazine. Racked back the slide to cock it. Safety catch off. He laid it in his lap, muzzle pointing away from his gut.

  Ingrid craned round in her seat. “Here he is!”

  Harry looked in the rear-view mirror. Good Cop was coming through the doorway. He was walking strangely. He had been hit.

  Harry was out and running towards him, gun in hand. Halfway there Good Cop went down. Another man appeared in the doorway ten yards behind him. Harry took one look at him and went into a fire position. Feet apart, two-handed grip. Aimed and fired a double tap centre chest.

  A Kalashnikov tumbled from the man’s grasp as he went down. A scarf was loosely tied round his neck. A shemagh.

  Harry crouched beside the wounded policeman. He had been hit twice. In the upper thigh and in the stomach. It was hard to see the seriousness of the stomach wound. It didn’t look too bad. A clean exit hole showed where a bullet had passed right through. It was bleeding, but the colour and stream said nothing vital had been hit.

  The thigh wound was another matter. The femoral artery had been severed and he was losing blood fast. His trousers were held up with a belt. Harry undid it and whipped it off. He looped it round the officer’s leg as high into the groin as he could. He tightened it. It did little to stop the flow so he tugged on it harder. It still wasn’t going to be enough. If possible he would have planted his boot in the top of the thigh and borne down with all his weight. But more men were coming. He could hear them. It sounded like the Kalashnikov man’s friends. Harry was out of time.

  “Get out,” Good Cop said. He was leaning up against a concrete pillar. “Go on, go!”