by Nigel Price
“What the hell have I done to my son?”
“We’re going to save him, Ingrid. I promise you.”
“You promise?” There was no anger or even bitterness in her voice. Just despair. “How can you possibly say that?”
Harry stood up. “We are going to get him. Look at me. This won’t help. It won’t get him back if we fall apart now.”
“That’s easy for you to say. He’s not your little boy.” Her face darkened with revulsion. “And to hear what that vile man said they would do to him. God, Harry, we have to stop them.”
“We will.”
“How? It’s just you and me against …” she held her arms wide, “… how many of them? If it’s some kind of child sex ring or child slavery or whatever it is, then …”
Harry was thinking. “Then there are people in all sorts of places at all sorts of levels who are involved and who are benefiting. That’s where all the money comes from, and all the influence. He has the protection of highly placed people who have everything to lose.”
Ingrid was staring into space, remembering. “The washing at Colonel Franklin’s, Harry. I knew there was something wrong. He wasn’t a man living alone. And he didn’t have a mistress.”
“Oh God. The cellar.” Harry thought back. He remembered his dream. The small white garment over his face. “No wonder Franklin didn’t want me to lock him down there. I’d have discovered his secret.”
“But the police would have checked that, surely? And they weren’t in Gutman’s pay. That police officer believed us. He was honest.”
“Franklin’s men would have sanitised it before the police arrived. Whoever Franklin kept down there would have been spirited away along with the evidence. They obviously got them out just in time.”
“It’s repulsive. What kind of monsters are these? How can we possibly fight them? Ernst was right. We have nothing to trade. Just our lives. And for what? Even our deaths won’t free Thomas. If they don’t kill him too, then he’ll be sent to … It would be better if they killed him. Harry, what the hell do we do?” She buried her face in her hands.
“Something to trade,” Harry said, pacing the room. “Something to fucking trade.”
He stopped. “What’s the time?” He checked his watch. “Okay.”
Ingrid looked up. “What is it?”
“Ernst said we had four hours. That might stretch by another two. Gutman wants us dead. If he killed Thomas or shipped him out, then we’d have no reason to hand ourselves over to him.”
“So what?”
“So long as he thinks we are travelling to meet him, he’ll keep Thomas alive and with him. So long as he believes we’re beaten and are coming in.”
“We are beaten,” Ingrid said.
Harry went to help her off the floor.
“No we’re fucking not.”
“How come? What’s changed?”
“I think I know of something we can trade. All we have to do is go and get it.”
Thirty Seven
Ernst Hafner’s bedroom door disintegrated at the first kick from Harry’s boot. The policeman was barely awake by the time hands were laid upon him and he was being hauled, dragged, kicked and punched across his bedroom floor.
The door to his en suite was similarly kicked in and he felt the cold tiles on his naked body.
“Wer bist—!”
“Shut it,” Harry snapped.
“Harry? How can that be you—?”
He didn’t get out more than that because the next second his face had been shoved down the toilet. He had been up to pee in the night and hadn’t flushed it. He liked to keep an eye on his water bills.
Now water and urine was in his eyes. It spluttered from his mouth. Harry shoved his face into it again. It wasn’t easy to get the angle right, so with each thrust Hafner’s mouth and teeth and cheeks and forehead smashed against porcelain. Harry half wondered which would break first – bone, teeth or vitreous china. He didn’t care which.
“Surprised to see me?” He hauled Hafner’s face out of the urine.
Hafner spat and shook his face to get it out of his eyes and nose. He gasped for breath. “What the devil are you doing here? They will kill the—”
More urine. The acoustics of the toilet bowl magnified the sound of Hafner blowing bubbles.
“Shove his face in deeper.” Ingrid came into the room. “Right in.”
After a while Harry pulled him out again. This time right out, hauled him up and punched him hard and deep in the gut. Hafner curled into a ball on the tiled floor. His eyes bulged. He drew up his knees as his hands clutched at his stomach.
Eventually he managed to wheeze. “Harry, you don’t know what you’re doing … the boy. They’ll—”
“Yes I know, they’ll kill him. Right after they’ve killed Ingrid and me. If he’s lucky they’ll ship him out east and set him up as some paedo’s catamite. Lovely fate, don’t you think?”
And he kicked Hafner in the face.
“You painted such a lovely picture on the phone that I felt the need to come and tell you so. You remember when I said I’d come for you? There was an implication that it would be later, after Gutman. I lied. I simply couldn’t wait. So here I am.”
And he kicked him again.
“Don’t kill him yet, Harry.” Ingrid leaned against the door frame holding the pistol that had shot Krantz. Her face was stone. Hafner looked up and saw there would be no help from her.
“What do you want?” He spat blood and urine from his mouth.
“The piece of clay tablet that was found on the stowaway,” Harry said. “On the necklace.”
For a second it was obvious Hafner didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Even when he remembered he was still puzzled. “What do you want that for? It was just a lucky charm, a worthless piece of junk stolen from a museum.”
“The tablet’s the key that’s going to bring down Gutman.”
“The information written on the tablet,” Ingrid said.
“You’re talking nonsense. Both of you.”
“Steady, old chap. Do you want another drink of piss?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He struggled to recall. “I looked at it myself. It was just some stupid quote. I took a picture of it with my phone and texted it to Gutman. One of his Pashtun friends translated it. It was a passage from the Koran. That was all.”
“Then you’re just as big a fool as I always thought you were.”
“I don’t get it. I—”
“I know. You saw what you were supposed to see. And no more. The Afghan wasn’t just some poor refugee at all. Like you said, he intended to blackmail Gutman. He’d worked for Krantz as his man in the museum in Kabul. A restorer turned thief. What could he have that would make him think he could blackmail a man like Gutman? Knowledge. Information. Like the location of Krantz’s records. Somehow he found out. And that’s what he was trying to get to.”
“You’re behind the curve on this one, Harry. We guessed that, which is why the BKA boys got his belongings from the mortuary. But I looked through it all myself after I took it from you at Haus Fischer. I checked everything.”
“And saw exactly what the Afghan had meant you to see.”
“You’re talking rubbish. As I said, the quote was translated. If it had been some kind of code, Gutman’s men would have deciphered it.” Hafner shifted his bulk on the tiled floor. “It’s cold here, Harry. Can we go into the bedroom?”
“Only if that’s where the tablet is.”
Hafner nodded. “It is. You can see for yourself.” He struggled to his feet. His legs wobbled, the knees wanting to give way. “Once we knew who the dead man was, Gutman made enquiries in Kabul and guessed he might have been planning something like that. I sent him details and photographs of all the items.”
He went across the room, stopping by the wardrobe. “Do you mind?” he said, reaching for a dressing gown.
Harry allowed him to put it on. “Make on
e wrong move, or go for a gun and I’ll kill you.”
Hafner wiped blood from his face. “Don’t worry. I’m not a hero like you. I just want to live. You’re a hard man, Harry. I have to say I’m impressed you’ve made it this far.”
He went to a sideboard and rummaged through the pockets of his clothes heaped on top of it. Nothing. Then he remembered. “Ah, I put it in the top drawer.” With eyes on Harry, seeking permission, he went for the handle. “I’m just going to open it.”
Harry had his gun out. “Do it slowly.”
Hafner opened the drawer. “I keep my gun in here too,” he said. “I am telling you because I don’t want you suddenly to see it. You might get the wrong idea and start shooting.”
“Lift it out by the butt with thumb and forefinger. Fingertips only.” Harry took aim. Hafner lifted out his pistol. It was in a holster. Together, both holster and pistol appeared from the drawer.
“Toss them onto the bed.”
Hafner did so. “There. See? I do everything you ask. No hero. Like I said.”
“The tablet.”
“Yes.” He lifted out the plastic envelope. Inside Harry could see the fragment of clay tablet on its necklace.
“Pass it to me. Very slowly.” Holding his pistol in his right hand, the muzzle pointing at Hafner’s chest, he reached out with his left. Ingrid moved aside, her own pistol also aimed at the policeman.
The envelope was passed across.
“Now kneel down and put your hands behind you head.”
Hafner obeyed. He looked absurd in his dressing gown. His bare legs ungainly, his stomach protruding from the front.
“Face the wall.”
Again, no protest. Just obedience.
“Ingrid, cover him.” Harry went to the bedside lamp and switched it on. In the burst of light Hafner’s bloodied face looked ugly. His fleshy body wrapped in the dressing gown robbed him of all dignity.
Harry put down his gun and opened the envelope. The tablet was there, together with the rest of the stowaway’s pathetic collection. He took it out, put the envelope aside and held the tablet under the light. On the front, the Pashto script he had already seen.
He turned it over. The back was smooth. Harry smiled. The clay was a lighter colour.
“Got a tooth pick? Tweezers? Anything small and sharp?”
Hafner grunted. “In the bathroom cabinet. Why?”
Harry got them. Back with the tablet under the light, he carefully chipped at the lighter clay. A fragment broke off. Underneath was the older dark clay of the original. Nothing else.
He chipped off another shard. Scratched into the older clay was a letter. He chipped some more and another letter appeared. Then more.
Eventually the whole of the back had been exposed. Harry looked up at Ingrid, his tired face etched with relief. “I think we’ve got something to trade.”
He showed her what he had uncovered. There was a name, dates and a place.
‘Heinrich Ziegler. 1923–2005. Südfriedhof. München.’
“Friedhof means cemetery,” Ingrid said.
Harry smiled. “Which explains Krantz’s comment about a vault, but not a bank vault. Nice.”
“So what is so special about that?” Hafner said.
“I’m guessing that Krantz’s records, in whatever form they exist, are kept in a vault at a cemetery in Munich. A vault or grave belonging to a dead man called Heinrich Ziegler.”
“That’s one hell of a big guess.”
“Do you have a better one?”
Hafner didn’t. “That’s all very well, Harry,” he said, half turning, “But you’re the wrong end of Germany. I told you the clock was ticking. From Nuremberg you’d have been there by now. Instead you drove all the way back up north. If Gutman hasn’t realised yet what you’ve done, he’ll know long before you get there. It’s at least six hours from here by car. And look at you. You’re exhausted. You’ll never make it. He’ll either kill the boy or ship him out. You’ve made a big mistake. You’re out of time, my friend.”
“Firstly, I’m not your friend,” Harry said. “And secondly, we’re going to rescue Thomas. For that we need to get down there. And who said anything about driving?”
“Well, how else are you going to get yourself to Bavaria?”
“I’m not. You are.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’ve been bragging about your pilot’s licence and promising to take me up in your Cessna 172 since I arrived in Soest for the recce. Well there’s no time like the present. Get dressed, mein freund. I’m going to take you up on that offer.”
Thirty Eight
The Soest Erwitte flying club was set to one side of the main terminal building. It consisted of a single hangar and a wooden-built clubhouse that had once been intended to be a temporary structure, but over time had become permanent. Funds to develop it had run out, and the members had become attached to it. So it remained.
Outside the hangar, a dozen light aircraft were parked. Security was limited to a couple of cameras that no one monitored, and to whoever was on duty in the airport terminal across the tarmac of the taxi way. As no flights landed during the deepest part of the night, anyone unlucky enough to have been allocated the red-eye duty stag, was either asleep or whiling away the hours longing for daybreak. The last thing they were doing was watching the perimeter.
Ernst drove. Harry sat beside him on his right, Ingrid behind. Both had their guns out and pointed at him, one in the gut, the other in the back of his thick neck. It was well after midnight and the roads were quiet. One or two cars zipped up or down the autobahn, but from the exit road all the way to the terminal entrance there was nothing. Just rabbits and a rangy old fox whose eyes caught in the headlights and reflected back at Harry a wariness like his own.
“Here we are.” Ernst rolled the car right up to the wire mesh gate.
Hafner got out, Harry too. “Open it.” Hafner produced his membership card and swiped it through the electronic lock. There was a click and he pushed the gate open. They got back in the car, drove through, then closed the gate behind them before driving on to the clubhouse. They parked beside it, the only car at that hour.
“Harry, this is madness. You could try ringing Gutman. Tell him what you have found out and bargain. Maybe he’d trade over the phone. He can bring the boy back up north and deliver him, and you can tell him where the records are. He is a reasonable man.”
“Reasonable?” Ingrid cut in. “He is a monster. Don’t you dare call him reasonable. He has my son.”
Hafner spread his hands across the top of the steering wheel. “All I meant was—”
“Shut up,” Harry said. “Until I’ve got the records in my hands I’ve got nothing to trade. Only an idea where they might be. We’re flying to Bavaria and you’re going to pilot the plane.”
“You trust me to do that?”
“Not one inch. Which is why I have this.” He showed his gun.
“But if you shoot me—”
“Then we all die together. At least we die trying to put things right. Not executed in a forest clearing by one of Gutman’s killers. So ask yourself, Ernst. Are you so loyal to Gutman that you’d dive your plane into the earth with us inside? Or would you rather live? If you want to live, all you have to do is fly us down there, then accept whatever penalty is coming your way for the crimes you have committed. I suppose it depends on how much you value life. Or to turn it round, how much you fear death.”
Hafner tried to smile but it was a weak effort. “I will fly you, Harry. And I’ll try not to crash. I don’t know anything about death. I just want to live. As I said, I’m not—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re not a hero. Now get out and take us to your fucking plane.”
The Cessna stood at the end of a row of light aircraft. It was a standard white 172 with red stripes along the fuselage and the distinctive high wings. Hafner set about preparing it for flight, removing the wing and engine covers. He produced a key fro
m his pocket and opened the door.
Ingrid pulled herself up and slid into the back. Harry let Hafner climb into the pilot’s seat, then got into the co-pilot’s seat beside him. They closed the doors, shutting themselves in for the flight.
“Cosy.” Harry didn’t like having to surrender control for the next two hours.
“There’s no one in the tower,” Hafner said. “It’s closed for the night. So we’d might as well just go.”
“Then go.”
Hafner started through his pre-flight checks before start-up. He checked the flaps and the trim. Then the gauges, tapping the glass and scrutinising the position of the needles underneath. Unable to resist, Harry watched with interest. He had always wanted to fly. Anyone who had earned a pilot’s licence was the holder of secret knowledge. Even if Harry did have to hold a gun to the guy’s belly.
Buttons were pressed and lights came to life. Words like ‘transponder’ and ‘avionics’ acquired almost mystical significance beneath Hafner’s thick fingers. The mixture was set to ‘Rich’, whatever that meant, and before Harry knew it there was a deep-throated grumble and the single propeller in front of them coughed and burst into life.
Its noise filled the cockpit. The whole frame shuddered with the vibration. With no one to report to in the dark control tower, Hafner rolled the aircraft forward. Harry fastened his seat belt. Behind him Ingrid did the same.
“Okay, Harry,” Hafner said. “Here we go. Not quite the flight I promised you.”
He taxied to the end of the runway, swung onto the centre line facing down the length of it, then opened the throttle, gunned the engine and set off.
All three of them were pushed back in their seats. The momentum gathered as they accelerated down the unlit tarmac into the dark.
The plane lifted clear of the ground.
Hafner couldn’t resist it. “Good feeling, no?”
“Yes. I’m having the time of my life.” They were on their way to Bavaria. They would make it there safely. They would rescue Thomas. Or they would die trying.
