by Nigel Price
Soaring up and over the airfield, Hafner swung the Cessna smoothly over to starboard. Everything was working well. Harry’s eyes scanned the lights of the panel in front of him, trying to identify which dial did which job. Hafner, with one brief cast, took it all in, noting the significance of each piece of information. Alles in Ordnung. He set the nose for Bavaria and eased back in his seat, hands on the controls. Harry removed his gun from Hafner’s gut.
“Why did you do it?” Harry said after a while. “Has it been worth it?”
Hafner sighed. Even above the thrum of the engine Harry could hear the resignation. The tired acceptance of defeat. “I was a silly little policeman, Harry. A policeman in Soest. An insignificant little town in the centre of north Germany. I had my silly little salary. My silly little pension provision. My house. My car. My silly little destiny.”
His face was a picture of profound sadness. “Then Gutman came along. He promised riches beyond imagining. Status, of a sort. Position and power. What was I to do? I am not a strong, principled man like you, Harry. I am silly old, fat Ernst Hafner. The big police Chief Inspector in a shit-hole called Soest. And here was a larger-than-life character like Heinz Gutman, offering me a place in his growing empire. How could I resist?” He turned full-on to Harry. “Would you?”
“Yes, Ernst. I would.”
“Well you are a hero, aren’t you, Harry. I should have known my bribe wouldn’t work on you. With Gutman I saw a chance to be more. So I took it. Maybe it was wrong. Be that as it may, I took it. And here we are. Me flying my silly little plane. You with your gun in my side.”
Ingrid leaned forward. “Gutman’s greatness was the torture of children, Ernst. Don’t you dare side-step that. What does he do? Provides child sex slaves to people in power. Isn’t that it? The head of a paedophile ring. Is that really an employer to be proud of?”
Hafner shrank before her onslaught. “No,” he said, his voice defeated and small. “Of course not. But at first it wasn’t that. At first, when his aircraft trading was in decline, it was the import of Middle Eastern antiquities. That was exciting.”
“And illegal,” Ingrid added.
“The very first of them was legitimate. Then as the Middle East blew apart and more and more treasures came onto the market, we were offered things we knew we couldn’t sell legally. So there was a choice. Gutman had no doubts about it. He started to feed the vast hunger for illegal imports. Things of unbelievable value. That was when I became involved.”
“And the whole team at Soest Erwitte airport?” Harry asked.
“Not everyone, no. Just the key ones that we needed. Customs mostly. And later, when the children started arriving, immigration. That’s why we needed your clean report, Harry. The operating licence for the airport was due for renewal and there were going to be new people looking at us. The State regulatory body and behind them the ICAO. A glowing report from a prestigious company like Delaney’s would have ticked all the boxes for us. It would have given us a clean bill of health. Is that the expression? Business could have continued uninterrupted.”
“How does the business work?”
“It’s quite simple. On every flight in and out of Istanbul, as well as the archaeological treasures or museum items in the hold, Gutman is accompanied by his family.”
Ingrid leaned forward again. “He doesn’t have a family. I read his online profile with you, Harry. His wife and children were killed in a car accident years ago.”
“That is correct,” Hafner said. “He had a large family. Six children. People say that is when his mind snapped. He was a broken man afterwards. But he had an inner strength. Or ruthlessness. Whatever you want to call it. It was a deep survival instinct.”
“So he kept his children’s identities alive,” Ingrid said. “To use like this? God, what a memorial.”
“On each flight he brings back six children who have been selected by his people on the ground. They scour the refugee camps and the ruined cities for the right ones. Tell their parents they can take them to safety. Sometimes they have to offer them money. When they arrive at Soest Erwitte, the immigration officials wave them through. They know not to cross-check the children with the passports.”
“How long has he been doing this?” Harry asked.
“Years. With multiple flights a year. It is big business. There is a big demand. He takes specific orders. Then his men search for the right ones that match the criteria from among the countless thousands whose parents are all too eager to send them to the West. Ideally orphans who have no one to ask difficult questions.”
“And you never thought about the morality of it? You never saw that it was wrong?” Ingrid was incredulous. “You never saw how utterly repulsive it is?”
For a moment Harry feared that she might shoot him out of hand.
“I see that now,” Hafner said lamely.
Instead of shooting him, Ingrid said, “Are there really that many people across the country who would want such a thing?”
“You would not believe how many. Or who is involved. It extends into every part of society.”
“Dear God.” Ingrid felt sick to her core.
“There was the money,” Hafner continued quickly, trying to justify his role. “Masses of it. Pouring in from all over. Money, influence, power.”
“Children,” Harry said simply. “Children, Ernst. What about them?”
“Ah, yes. The children.” Hafner was silent for a moment. “Sometimes when a person sins, the larger the sin, the easier it is to hide. To wipe it from the conscience. My countrymen know about that better than anyone.”
“You mean the death camps?” Ingrid said.
“Yes. If you can convince yourself that there is some principle involved. Some greater, overarching design or purpose, then you can fool yourself that any sacrifice is worth it.”
“In God’s name, what possible overarching purpose could there be in child sex slavery?”
“The needs of some men, I suppose,” Hafner said. Harry could see the fear in him. The realisation of what he had done was dawning in his miserable brain. “Providing a service to those in positions of power and influence who need it.”
“Any sacrifices were by other people,” Ingrid said. “Not by the perpetrators, the sinners, but by the victims. And in this case those are the children. Whoever it is that Gutman flies in from the war-torn Middle East. Poor, starved, terrified, pretty children. Flown in for the pleasure of western businessmen and who else? Government officials? Media tycoons? Holders of position and power? God knows who. It is monstrous. And that you should be involved …”
Her voice dried up. Her throat was parched. Hafner flew on, grim-faced.
They flew through cloud. Great banks of it swirled around the little cockpit threatening the occupants. In front of them a mountain face might appear. A pylon line, a hillside forest of tall trees. The cloud held it all. Hafner stared into it and flew on. He checked his dials. His altimeter above all.
Harry watched and bided his time. He dearly wanted to sleep. That would have to wait until later. For now he had to stand guard. Behind him, Ingrid stared into the same banks of cloud. Her vision was of the horror that Hafner had just revealed. In the middle of it, her son. Thomas.
Thirty Nine
Preparations were complete. The teams had arrived. His men were in position. Harry Brown could do his worst. Heinz Gutman was waiting for him.
He took a perverse pleasure seeing his American colleagues being forced to rub shoulders with their old adversaries from Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq and Libya. All of them were represented here. Together with a couple of Chechens, an Uzbek and an Iranian. If nothing, Gutman prided himself on being cosmopolitan. A true man of the world.
The Americans were mostly braggarts claiming to be ex-Delta Force or Seals. He found their pretensions laughable. They were always well muscled. Often sported full beards. And were festooned with every gizmo invented. They were swaggering Christmas trees in sunglasses. With all
that kit to lug around, it was little wonder they needed to spend so much time in the gym pushing weights.
His Middle Eastern employees on the other hand were strikingly minimalist. Baggy clothing and a bloody big gun. That was about it. The clothing was usually black. Why black? The weapon was invariably a Kalashnikov. The gun of the simpleton. Even a village idiot could use one. Gutman wondered if only a village idiot would want to.
And he was the puppet master who controlled these testosterone-charged mannequins. Whatever half-grasped ideology propelled them, he would have none of it. He paid them with hard cash. Each to his own. They could justify their actions however they chose. Gutman simply wanted obedience. And for the right price, obedience is what he got.
He was sitting on his terrace high in his castle. Schloss Winterberg had just been lashed by rain. The storm had passed and all the gutters and drains had come alive as they set about steering the gushing torrents away from the ancient stonework, diverting it downhill to the surrounding grounds and the forest beyond. The hillsides and trees would lap it up. Just as his mercenaries were draining the wine in his cellars. Even the ones whose religion forbade it. They were some of the worst. The attraction to the forbidden. The Chechens and the Uzbek most of all. They’d be face down in their own vomit without Lipman there to stop them.
Lipman. Now there was a basket case if ever there was one. He had brought the boy down from the north as ordered. The man would still be in the asylum where Gutman had found him if the legal process had run its proper course. Gutman’s money had circumvented that. In Lipman he had recognised a kindred spirit. A man broken yet revitalised by an inner demon. It was a primeval force from before the dawn of civilisation, that accursed straitjacket that had obliged men to harness their natural instincts and bow down before the new god Law. After that, men like Lipman could only exist in asylums. Out in the world they committed all manner of atrocities. Either in private or, if lucky enough to live in a time of convenient political movements, as part of a greater mission. Gutman’s own country had embarked on just such a mission decades before. The camps. There men like Lipman had found their niche. Now, in this tawdry dull world of the 21st century, they were condemned as lunatics. Unless salvaged for some special enterprise such as Gutman’s.
The Weber boy could be useful. If nothing else he would bring a good price from the right bidder. Gutman had several in mind. But that was for later. Once he had served his purpose, reeling in the sanctimonious Harry Brown and the mother who, by Lipman’s account, was worth capturing. Gutman would inspect her but in all probability give her to Lipman. Raw meat thrown to his attack dog.
Harry Brown on the other hand would have to be killed. It was a pity. The man had proved to be far more interesting than Gutman’s initial view of him had suggested. Then he had just been a useful idiot. Someone to produce the report Gutman needed to keep his operating licence in the north. Since then however, Harry Brown’s remarkable survival ability had made Gutman wish he had succeeded in buying his services.
Of course a man like that wouldn’t accept such a crude approach. He had known Hafner’s bribe wouldn’t work, but he’d had to let him try. It had failed, as Gutman had known it would. Men like Harry Brown could only be killed. There was nothing else for it. They were too proud. Too principled. Too unimaginative.
He didn’t care. That was all in the past. Brown was on his way, driving down from Nuremberg with his bitch. He would probably try to storm the castle. Like some knight errant, hideous with pretensions, he would play the hero in front of his latest screw, the mother of blond, sweet Thomas.
Gutman would kill him. Kill them all. Or rather, his men would. That was why they were there. Ready for the slaughter. And Lipman, on leave from the asylum, ready and gagging for the woman.
****
The Cessna started its descent through the clouds. Hafner’s eyes were fixed on the control panel as nothing was visible outside the cockpit even though it was now daylight.
Harry glanced round to check on Ingrid. She tried to give him a brave smile but it came out as more of a grimace.
The flight had given him a chance to do some thinking. First he had to find out what he was going to be trading. Assuming it was Krantz’ records, he would have to choose the right place for the swap. The records in return for the boy.
Gutman would have hunkered down and called in every man he had. He would be a great fat spider in the dead centre of his great fat web. And Harry was the dumb fly. Buzz, buzz buzz. Flying straight for the trap. The men Harry had encountered so far had been mediocre. He couldn’t expect that run of luck to last. Sooner or later he was going to come up against a worthwhile adversary. Guys who actually knew their job. Franklin’s had been good. Harry had got lucky there. The terrorists who hit the police station were good too. Only the police officer’s rescue from the cell had saved him. So if Gutman had brought the best of his forces together and was on ground of his own choosing, Harry realised any attempt to break into Schloss Winterberg would be madness. As with the Bulldozers at the Karsinger, somehow he had to draw Gutman out. Harry had to get him onto ground of his choosing. It was essential if the trade was to have even the slightest chance of succeeding. And he needed an escape route as well.
All of that was assuming there was something worthwhile waiting for him in the cemetery and that he wasn’t on a wild goose chase.
As the name implied, the Südfriedhof was on the south side of Munich. Ernst had told him of a flying club he had used before which was also on the south side. So Harry took an instant dislike to the idea. By the time they got there it would be after daybreak. There would be people about. The last thing he needed was for Ernst to be recognised and word to leak out to Gutman. Apart from putting down in a field, the only other option was to land at Munich airport to the northeast of the city. They were also going to need a car to get to the cemetery. At the airport there would be plenty to be had, legally or otherwise. Ernst had grumbled and mumbled and tried to talk Harry out of it, insisting no one at the flying club knew him, all of which made Harry all the more set on Flughafen München. A nudge with the pistol had helped Ernst agree. He radioed the control tower and got permission to land.
“They say I am to use the north runway.” He was sullen. Harry knew he had made the right choice.
The Cessna broke from the cloud and to the north they saw the urban sprawl of Friesing, the town next to the airport. They lined up for their approach and came down, gently buffeted by a light side wind. On the far side of the terminal buildings, a big KLM 747 cargo plane was lifting off the south runway, heading somewhere or other. Ernst’s little 172 was ludicrously tiny by comparison. The runway as it descended was an ocean of tarmac engulfing it. It came down like a small blown leaf settling on the ground, scudded along by the wind.
“I have to taxi to the flying club,” Ernst said. He pointed it out. It was a similar cluster of light aircraft parked outside a similar hangar and similar clubhouse. All sited on the fringe of the main airport like a poor relation.
He brought the aircraft to a halt and shut down the engine. The propeller shuddered and was still. The suddenness and intensity of the silence made Harry’s ears pop. He stretched his mouth wide, head ringing.
With the plane shut up, they walked towards the clubhouse for Ernst to report in. It was locked. There was no one around.
“Right. Car,” Harry said. “The long-term car park should have something I can nick.”
“Nick?” Ernst looked doubtful. He checked his watch. “Why don’t I just hire one? There’ll be a car hire office open by now. They’re all inside the terminal.”
“Now why would you do anything to help us?” Harry had put his gun in his pocket out of sight.
“I know you can kill me if you choose to. I want to get out of this alive as much as you both do. The sooner we get on with it, the better.”
“Why not?” Ingrid said to Harry. “If you didn’t kill him, I would. He knows that. Come on, it’ll be
quicker.”
They found the car hire offices in a row. All were open but only one of them was manned. With Harry close beside him and Ingrid keeping watch, Ernst walked up to the desk and started the process. He handed over his driving licence, identification, credit card. Forms were completed, an insurance package selected, and at last a set of keys and a receipt were pushed across the table. Directions to the parking bay were given and they went in search of their ride.
“See?” Ernst said as they exited the bright shiny building. “I am on your side, Harry. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Fuck off.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Ernst, just drive. Do what I say, and shut the fuck up. If I want you to speak, I’ll let you know.”
The car was another VW Passat like the one Harry had driven out of the police station. Ernst slid into the driving seat, Harry beside him, gun back in his lap. Ingrid sat in the back. They eased out of the car park, along the slip roads and onto the autobahn heading round the edge of the city. Shining glassy buildings reflected the dull sky at them. The sun had risen but was blocked by thick cloud. Harry settled back. He rubbed his eyes. It was going to be a long day.
They had barely left the airport behind them than Ingrid had curled up on the back seat and fallen asleep. Exhaustion had overcome her terror for her son. Harry glanced back at her, envying her the rest.
“You like her, don’t you?”
“Shut up.”
“You know, in spite of everything, I am sorry about all of this. Really I am, Harry.”
“No you’re not. You’re just sorry you got caught.”
“I haven’t been yet.”
“Just a matter of time, Ernst.”
Hafner became serious. Harry could see some sort of struggle going on inside the thick police skull. “I want to do what I can to help you get her son back.”
