by Nigel Price
They should be there by now. Moving into position. Gutman had delayed his own departure to allow them time. All of them had said they needed longer for recce and preparation. Tough shit. You don’t always get what you want. Look at Lipman himself. He had wanted the boy’s mother. So far he had been disappointed. Still, so long as she wasn’t killed in the exchange, he had been promised his hour with her. He would finish her off when he had had his fill.
****
Ingrid sat at the table. There was a glass of beer in front of her. Another in Harry’s place opposite. No Harry though. He was just finishing up and would be there soon. She looked at the clock on the wall. She could see it through the open door inside the gloom of the bar. He had better come. She couldn’t do this on her own.
There were few other people sitting outside. The waiter had thought it odd. He had offered her a table with everyone else inside. Wouldn’t she be cold? It was hardly a fine day, with all this cloud and breeze. No, she had insisted. She would be fine. This is where she would sit. In the exact spot Harry had placed her.
The awnings weren’t up. That had given him a problem. The trees not fully in leaf either. Too bad. It would have to do.
She took a sip of her beer. Her hand was trembling. Her whole body felt as if an electric current was passing through it. She felt sick to her core. Mostly with fear for Thomas.
She was facing outwards, her view clear across the Viktualienmarkt. With the miserable weather, it wasn’t nearly as busy as it would have been in high summer. The nearest stall was fifty metres away. Selling vegetables, the display was all bright colours. Next to it, a cheese stall, the selection vast. Then cold meats. Similarly impressive. And so on and on. There were fishmongers and butchers, restaurants and bars. Indoor seating and outdoor. Off to a flank, a café on a raised mezzanine structure on top of a row of shops. A vast stone church with bell tower overlooked the whole. A department store along one side. A taxi rank. A bank. Shops selling tobacco and pipes and cigars. Bustle. Not as busy as usual. But enough. It would do. Harry had said so.
Where the hell was he? She looked at the wall clock again. It was almost three. Her heart was in her mouth. Pounding like a hammer. She could feel her pulse in her throat. She felt she was going to be sick.
And then she saw him. Thomas. He was on the far side of the square, coming between two stalls. Beside him, holding him tightly by the hand, walked a man in spectacles. Severe face. She recognised him from the website. Heinz Gutman. Thomas was looking around, searching for her.
Behind Gutman were two men. One was Hafner. The other … Ingrid narrowed her eyes to see better. Then she recognised him too. Her driver. The same high cheek bones, that hungry, leering stare she had seen in the rear-view mirror of his car on that night drive a million years ago.
He was the one who spotted her first. A smirk spread across his face. She saw his lips move, reporting what he’d seen. The next moment Gutman and Hafner had seen her too. Finally Thomas. His face came alive. He tugged to run to her. Gutman held him fast. He said something. A warning. Thomas fell back. His narrow shoulders sagged. His face was ashen.
Ingrid’s fear turned to rage. She stood up. Hafner saw the change in her and as they came towards the bar he signalled for her to stay where she was. To calm down. His smile was as insincere and oily as ever. She remained on her feet but stayed by the table.
Gutman’s eyes were as empty as a reptile’s. He stopped two metres away, Thomas held firmly by the hand.
“Frau Weber,” he said.
“Give me my son.”
Gutman looked around. “Where is Harry Brown?” He glared at her. “Where is the holdall?”
“You said it would be here,” Hafner gabbled, panic in his voice.
“It is,” Ingrid replied. “Harry will be here in a moment. He is just washing his hands.”
“Mum!” Thomas tugged his hand free and ran to her. He threw his arms around her and Ingrid held on to him. Lipman made a move towards her to retrieve the boy. People at a table across the terrace looked up.
“It’s okay,” Gutman said, holding Lipman back. “Let’s all sit down. Ernst, I’ll have a beer.”
Still holding onto Thomas, Ingrid sat down, pulling her son next to her on the bench seat. They would only get him away from her now if she was dead. Gutman pushed Harry’s beer aside and took his seat. Hafner went to find a waiter and order drinks. Lipman moved off to a flank and sat down, eyes on Ingrid, not bothering to mask his hunger. She glanced at him and quickly looked away. He smirked, enjoying her fear and loathing.
“Are you all right, darling?” she said quietly to Thomas. He nodded. “Did they hurt you?”
“No. I’m fine.” His voice was small and brave.
“The boy is unhurt,” Gutman said. “For now. But if Harry doesn’t appear in a minute, I will end this meeting and take both you and the boy with me.”
“Here?”
“Yes here. Don’t think these people will be any help to you. I have my own people nearby. I can have you and the boy in a car and away before help can come.”
“Perhaps we should do that in any case?” Lipman said, shifting closer on his bench. “Frau Weber and I could get to know each other.” He smiled at her. “You never thanked me for the flowers. That was rude of you.”
“Shut up.” She pulled Thomas closer to her, one arm round him, holding on tight.
Hafner returned with a tray of beers. He passed two to Gutman and Lipman and kept one for himself. He sat down. “So, where’s Harry?”
“I’m right here.”
He came towards them. “Sorry I’m late. How’s the beer?”
“Harry!” Thomas’s face lit up.
“Hi, Tom. You okay?”
“Yes thanks.”
Gutman stood up. “Where’s the bag?”
“Bag?”
“Don’t play games.” His hand went into his jacket pocket. He stepped behind Ingrid and Thomas. Lipman moved in closer. “Get me the fucking bag now or I’ll shoot both of them and then you.”
“The bag’s safe,” Harry said calmly. “You can have the bloody thing. You didn’t think I was going to bring it here, did you? You’d have shot us anyway and taken it.”
“Where is it?” Gutman’s voice was ice cold. “I want it now. And none of you leave here until it is in my hands.”
Harry’s hand was in his jacket pocket too. He showed Gutman just enough of the Glock. “Take it easy, you steaming ball of shit. I’ll tell you where your fucking holdall is, and all the muck inside it.”
He moved away from the table. “Now this is how we’re going to do this. Ingrid, step over here with Thomas.”
Lipman grabbed her by the shoulder, holding her back.
“Tell your ape to let her go or the shooting starts, no one gets the bag, and you’ll be the first one to take a bullet.”
“Steady! Steady, everyone!” Hafner said quickly. “We can do this all properly. No one needs to be shot.”
“The first sensible thing you’ve said since I met you,” Harry said.
Gutman’s eyes were fixed on Harry’s gun. “Where’s the bag?”
“Fifty yards away there’s a fishmonger. It’s behind his counter. You’d better get it now before he finds it and opens it.” Harry smiled, eyes covering all of them, hand on his gun.
“Ernst, go.” Gutman took a step back. Harry warned him to stay put.
“And when you get there,” Harry said as Hafner rose to leave, “Stay there. If you start to come back, the shooting starts.”
Hafner looked to Gutman for instructions. Gutman sought out the fishmonger’s, saw it and nodded. “When you’ve got the bag, check the contents. You’ve seen it. Signal me that it’s all there.”
“Of course.” Hafner moved away, relieved to be out of the firing line.
Lipman stood up and moved three paces to one side. His hand went into his pocket. The muzzle of Harry’s gun stayed fixed on Gutman. Ingrid reached into her jacket and showed Lipma
n her gun. She too stepped away, pushing Thomas behind her.
“Harry’s not the only one who can shoot,” she said. “Krantz would tell you that. Except I shot him.”
“I’m impressed,” Gutman said. “Take it easy, Lipman. There’s no need for a gunfight here. Not so long as Harry’s kept his part of the bargain. And you have, haven’t you, Harry?”
In response, Harry jerked his chin towards the retreating back of Hafner. He had arrived at the fishmonger. He ducked behind the counter and reappeared a second later hefting the bag from the cemetery. He dumped it on the counter and unzipped it. As they watched, Gutman and Harry saw him sort through the contents, checking it off. Ingrid’s eyes remained locked on Lipman’s, both holding their guns out of sight.
Hafner looked up, a stupid grin on his face. He gave Gutman the thumbs-up.
Gutman put his gun away. His hands dropped to his sides, open. “Lipman, stand back. Leave your gun alone. We’re done here.”
Lipman obeyed. “Pity. You promised me.”
“Shut it.”
Lipman moved aside, hands in plain view. Gutman started to back away, creating clear space between himself and Harry, Ingrid and Thomas. “You should have gone home, Harry. You really should have.”
He raised his hands, arms out from his sides, palms up and open like a man nailed to a cross. A signal.
“Shoot them.”
Forty Two
Nothing happened.
“Shoot them,” Gutman said again, louder.
“Problem?” Harry asked nicely.
Gutman put his wrist to his mouth and spoke into the sleeve. “Fucking shoot them! Now!”
“There was an old saying in the army,” Harry said. He put a hand on Ingrid’s arm and drew her back towards the entrance to the bar. Ingrid had one hand on the gun in her pocket, the other on Thomas. Her eyes were fixed on Lipman who didn’t move. His empty hands were by his side, as ordered.
“‘Set a sniper to kill a sniper.’” He saw the cogs turning in Gutman’s brain. “Hardest course I ever did. Then putting it into practice in Afghanistan. The Taliban Pashtun were the best. More skilful and less predictable than the morons you’ve got working for you.”
More cogs turning. Gutman couldn’t stop himself turning towards the church bell tower.
“Exactly,” Harry said. “A fucking bell tower, for God’s sake. How predictable is that?” Before Gutman could react he added, “And the roof of the department store. Really?”
Gutman checked there too. Nothing.
“And the tobacconist. Top floor, left-hand window. The only one that’s wide open. Perfect triangulation, the three firing points. Our table at the centre. So fucking predictable. I felt insulted as I took them out. Guess they didn’t have time to do a proper recce. And no partners to watch their backs, leaving them to concentrate on the shot. Each sniper working alone. Real hard men, just like in the movies. But stupid. Cheaper for you, lethal for them when someone comes at them from behind.”
Harry, Ingrid and Thomas had reached the open doorway. “You look a bit cross,” Harry said. “Wait till you lose your operating licence for the airport. And the investigation into negligent practices that I’m going to initiate. And the rest. You might have Krantz’ records, but I’ve only just begun with you. This is simply the start.”
“No it isn’t. It’s the end,” Gutman answered. “Lipman, call them in.”
Lipman turned and ran. So did Harry. He grabbed Ingrid and Thomas and pulled them inside the bar.
“Come on.” He led the way to the back of the restaurant. A waiter approached him, asking if he wanted a table inside. Harry pushed past him.
“You got them all?” Ingrid said.
“The snipers, yes. He’ll have more though. The snipers were his first line of attack. Lipman’s going for the back-up.”
Thomas clung to his mother’s hand. Harry pulled them past the tables. “Where are we going?” Thomas asked. His eyes were as wide as saucers.
“I’ve got it all planned,” Harry said with a wink. “Just hold tight to your mum and follow me. We’ll be out of here in a flash.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Ingrid added. The look she shot at Harry told her true feelings. She had already seen enough of Harry’s plans to know how things were really going to be.
They followed the sign for the toilets, past the end of the counter, through a doorway that swung shut behind them, then along a narrow corridor. Through another door at the far end and then the doors for the toilets were on their right. Instead Harry went for a fire exit. Bolted and barred, he pushed gently against it and it swung open. “I prepared it before the meeting,” he explained. “Always make sure you’ve got an exit.”
The door swung open, Harry stepped through it and straight into a mass of flesh that came at him. He rebounded off the man, stood back ready to apologise, and instead found himself ducking under a right hook. The fist slammed into the doorframe. There was a telltale crack of bone and a grunt of pain.
Harry punched him in the gut, hard and deep, feeling for his spine right at the back. Then a hook of his own, angled down against the hinge of jaw. He kicked the feet from under the mass as it went down.
Harry’s hand dived into the man’s jacket and came out holding a gun. Something chunky and businesslike. No problem. They all worked much the same. He stuffed it in his pocket as a spare. “This way,” he said, pulling Ingrid and Thomas after him.
The back of the restaurant opened into a cobbled alleyway. Bins and empty beer crates were stacked either side of the door. He peeped out from behind them to check the way was clear. No more surprises. Looking good.
They marched briskly to the end. Stopped short of it and Harry checked round the side. “There’s a twenty-yard space across cobbles to a road. Pedestrian crossing, but I can’t see anyone looking like one of Gutman’s.”
“Okay, Tom?” Ingrid asked.
The boy nodded.
“Go.” Harry led the way. In his left hand he held onto Ingrid. His right held his gun tucked inside his jacket. Cocked and ready. Safety off. They reached the pedestrian crossing. The little red figure told them to wait. Harry led the way straight across. Someone shouted. He spun, pulling out his gun. An old man was pointing angrily at the warning light. Verboten. He saw the gun and shrivelled, calling something, hands coming up to shield his face.
The three marched across. Halfway over there was the screech of car tyres. Harry released Ingrid and spun to face the threat, gun coming into a two-handed aim. A BMW squealed to a halt ten yards short of the crossing.
Harry held up his hands in apology, trying to move the gun out of sight.
But the doors were opening. Not an emergency stop by a startled driver. Men were piling out. Harry saw guns. Lots of them. Back into the aim. He started firing. “Run!” he shouted. Ingrid snatched Thomas and the two of them sprinted for the buildings on the far side of the crossing. Harry blazed off four shots. Two double taps. One into the man disgorging from the front passenger door. The other aimed at the vague moving mass of flesh pouring out of the back. The front man went down, all flung arms and grunts. The rear mass broke in two. One half hit the deck, clutching a wound, but alive. The other hadn’t been hit. It cut away from the car. Harry glimpsed an automatic. It looked like an MP5. The man was fiddling with the cocking handle. It had jammed.
The car was starting up and coming straight for Harry. He punched two bullets through the windscreen into the driver’s seat, invisible behind the reflection from the sloping glass. The car went wild and veered to the left, heading straight into a vegetable stall ten yards on. There were screams from the customers who stared in horror at the shooting.
The screams and shouting spread like a shockwave. It rolled away through the Viktualienmarkt. Any minute now there would be sirens. Then Harry would have another threat to deal with. He couldn’t risk being arrested in Bavaria. Not in Gutman’s home town. And he had already seen that Gutman’s men would come for him even i
n a police station that wasn’t in his pay. He had to get clean away or die. Ingrid and the boy with him.
He caught up with them on the far pavement. There was the entrance to a shop. He snatched her hand and pulled the two of them after him. Inside, the two shopkeepers had seen what had just happened. They clung to one another. A customer shielded her child in a pushchair and shouted at him. He pulled Ingrid and Tom behind the counter and through to the back. Through a storage room to a back door. Closed and bolted from the inside. Opened it and peered out. A passageway led upwards in a gentle incline heading away from the Viktualienmarkt and along Rosental.
“This way.” He tried to keep the pace easy when every instinct told him to run like hell.
Along Rosental they cut right and crossed Rindermarkt. A minute later they were standing on the edge of Marienplatz. On the opposite side, crowds of tourists stood gawping up at the Glockenspiel on the front of the Rathaus. The last display had been at noon. There wouldn’t be another until the next day but people stood there nonetheless, hopeful and snapping pictures of the brightly painted figures. Knights on the higher level, coopers below, frozen between each performance of the Schäfflertanz, its origins misted in a long ago plague year. The balance of light and dark. Good and evil. Life and death.
With a quick check to left and right, Harry led the way briskly across the vast paved square. As he went he mentally counted his rounds. He’d be down to nine. Shit, no it would be seven. Fuck, he’d lost count. Best assume fewer – go for six left. Then switch to the other gun. What was it? Looked like a Smith & Wesson. It would have to do. He had no idea how many rounds. Probably a full mag, however many rounds that meant.
From far behind him the sounds of sirens going berserk. Tourists were looking round, faces puzzled. Still a safe enough distance away. Harry angled right for Dienerstraße alongside the Ratskeller.
