K2 book 1

by Geoff Wolak

  * * *

  Dame Helen walked into operational control at MI6 headquarters, glancing at the array of TV screens showing CNN, Sky and Al-Jazeera.

  ‘OK. What’s new in Estonia?’ Dame Helen asked.

  ‘Ma’am, any clues about Germany?’

  ‘Germany?’ Dame Helen puzzled.

  ‘Thirty dead, hundred injured. Seems that gang war has broken out between rival skinheads and neo-Nazis.’

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘Started last night. Here’s the weird part - thirty odd Nazi book stores torched within four hours of each other, spread right across Europe.’

  Dame Helen stared ahead. ‘That would take quite some … organizing.’

  ‘No arrests, no suspects.’

  Dame Helen turned, thinking hard and nodding. ‘Keep me up to date.’

  3

  Beesely sat facing four of the senior male members of his management team, their assignments in front of him. As were Otto’s and Johno’s, the two of them sitting to one side of his desk.

  ‘OK, gentlemen. The assignment was to consider what to do to Rudenson when we catch him.’ Beesely glanced at Otto. ‘A clear … message, for anyone screwing with us in the future.’ He held the first suggestion. ‘Marcus, you are a sick and twisted individual.’

  ‘But, sir!’ Marcus began to protest.

  Beesely cut him off with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s OK. We asked for suggestions and yours is suitably ... sick and twisted. These other two are just improvements on getting the chair,’ Beesely stated, handing them back. ‘But thank you for your efforts.’

  ‘Johno, yours I put down after the first paragraph.’

  ‘Why?’ Johno complained. ‘Good idea.’

  Beesely scowled at him. ‘And impractical.’ He held the next page. ‘Steffan, this is good, it was considered.’ Beesely showed it to Johno.

  Johno nodded as he read it. ‘Good … I like this. Not too much pain, all psychological. But waking up three months later as a woman – that’d screw with your head.’

  Beesely held the last piece of paper. ‘It was an idea that Otto gave me that I have expanded upon and come up with this. I hope, and trust, it meets with the standards… expected from K2.’ He distributed copies and they all took a minute to digest it.

  ‘Works for me,’ Johno enthused.

  ‘It is good,’ Otto agreed. ‘And we must let people know what happened to this man.’

  The senior managers approved.

  ‘So, gentlemen, are we agreed?’ Beesely asked. They were. ‘We shall call this Endgame.’

  The Israeli school of diplomacy

  1

  The next morning Beesely was sat working at his desk when Otto appeared in the doorway, looking hesitant. He peered over the rims of his glasses.

  ‘The German Government have sent a delegation to us. They have just arrived and insist on seeing you.’ Otto waited for a response, stood in the doorway.

  Beesely slowly sipped his lemon tea. ‘Guess we had better make sure we have enough milk in then,’ he muttered without looking up. Now louder, ‘Dig me out the relevant files beforehand.’

  He looked up as Otto turned to leave. ‘Oh, Otto? Drive them past the castle, have plenty of spacemen visible and armed guards, then bring them through the back way.’

  Otto seemed uncertain. ‘Do you … have a plan?’

  Beesely sipped his tea. ‘Yes. Make it up as I go along, as usual.’ He forced a quick smile.

  Otto welcomed the delegation into Beesely’s office, polite and professional, a warm welcome for Minister Blaum. Beesely sat looking fatigued, but resolute.

  Chairs had been laid out around the front of the desk, but further away than might be normal for such meetings. The German delegation consisted of their Ambassador to Switzerland, Deputy Foreign Minister and Interior Minister. Beesely had already decided who wore the long pants in this group; the Interior Minister, an imposing looking six-foot man, weighing twenty stone at the least. No briefcases or files were evident, so this meeting was ‘off the radar’. Beesely waited as Otto sat and settled himself.

  Minister Blaum was clearly uneasy. ‘Herr Beesely, may I introduce the Deutsche Interior Minister, Herr Wilhelm.’

  Beesely lifted his head a degree. ‘Is there something I can help you gentlemen with?’

  Wilhelm paused. ‘I must say I was surprised to find an... Englishman here, and not Herr Gunter.’ Beesely did not respond. Wilhelm glanced at Blaum. ‘Minister Blaum has spoken highly of you, and your diplomatic skills, which seem to be sadly lacking today.’

  Beesely eased forwards, resting his arms on the desk. ‘I have just finished incinerating the body of my daughter … and six of my kitchen staff. You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up and dance on the table.’

  Wilhelm was visibly shocked. He glanced at Blaum, suddenly concerned. ‘Herr Beesely, we are … sorry for your loss. I did not know –’

  ‘There are many things that you don’t know. Such as… that it was a German national who planted the nerve agent that killed my staff –’

  ‘Nerve agent!’ Wilhelm exploded. ‘Here? That’s what those men in suits were for?’

  ‘Yes, they are decontaminating our facility,’ Beesely quietly explained.

  ‘Is there any danger?’ Wilhelm demanded.

  ‘To you, yes, but not from the nerve agent,’ Beesely softly stated.

  ‘I must remind you, Herr Beesely, that I am a senior Minister in the German Government –’

  ‘For the moment,’ Beesely responded, just above a whisper.

  Wilhelm stumbled. ‘What?’

  Beesely took a file from his drawer and rested a hand on it. ‘If the contents of this file were accidentally leaked to the press you would no longer be a Minister, nor would many of your colleagues.’

  Wilhelm was stunned, now reddening around the face and neck. He glanced at Blaum again, demanding, ‘What is the meaning of this ... this threat?’

  Beesely took a moment. ‘A German national, sent by another German national – who just so happens to have close links to several political groups and currently serving members of your coalition government - planted a bomb in this facility, in a low security area, our staff canteen. It was laced with Serbian nerve agent, stored on German soil for more than ten years. I can’t help feeling that, if your security services were not so damned inefficient, that the gas may have been found and my daughter would still be alive.’

  ‘You blame us for this?’ Wilhelm barked.

  ‘You were warned many times by various intelligence agencies, including the Israelis at the beginning of this year after they tracked the packages sent to their Ambassadors, also laced with nerve agent, back to Germany.’

  ‘Any such claim would have been investigated thoroughly by the police -’

  Beesely banged his fist on the file, cutting the Minister off. He fixed the large man with a steely stare. ‘My people yesterday found and neutralised a litre container of this nerve agent, stored in the basement of a house in a residential area of central Munich. If that gas had been released in an indoor sports arena it could have killed thirty thousand people!’

  The Germans shifted uneasily in their seats, glancing at each other. Wilhelm had to mop his brow.

  Beesely tapped the file. ‘Would you like me to release the evidence to the German press and TV? Would you care to bet just how long you would remain in a job?’

  Without any prompting Otto poured out glasses of water and offered them to the visitors.

  Wilhelm composed himself and slipped back into character as a Minister. ‘This nerve gas should have been reported to our authorities. The street should have been evacuated –’

  ‘And the press notified. Do you really want to tell the people of Munich that they have been sleeping with that stuff for ten years, the German police ignorant about its location?

  ‘No, gentlemen, I don’t think you do. You see, over the next few days and weeks my people will find the g
as - regardless of who they have to torture - and dispose of it quietly without anyone ever having known about it. And at the end of it all … it will look like rival neo-Nazi gangs fighting each other.’

  ‘That would seem a reasonable approach,’ Blaum tentatively suggested to his German colleagues, ‘considering the alternative.’

  Beesely squinted at Blaum, surprised by the help he was getting.

  ‘The alternative,’ Beesely began, tapping the file, ‘is full disclosure to the press of everything; the deaths of Swiss citizens at the hands of German neo-Nazis, formal complaints by the Swiss against the Germans, legal action from us against the German Government and police, panic on the streets in Germany as people fear public places ... and the release of this document.’ Beesely opened the file and held up a page for their inspection. ‘The detailed plans of attack for releasing the nerve agent inside your parliament, your Bundestag.’

  Wilhelm looked as if he was about to keel over. ‘We were the target? The Government?’

  Beesely handed it over. ‘No need to thank me for saving your lives.’ He turned to Otto. ‘Tea please, and something to eat.’

  Beesely settled the visitors and eased them back from the edge of despair.

  ‘Gentlemen, I hope that everyone is refreshed and back to normal?’ They sipped their drinks. ‘You came here, no doubt, because you probably heard rumours that we were behind the attacks on neo-Nazi bookshops. We were. Tough shit.’

  Wilhelm and his Ministers blinked.

  Beesely continued, ‘That phase of the operation is just about over, but the trail of those responsible for killing my staff is still hot. They may be in Germany, or elsewhere by now. We shall pursue them to the ends of the earth, and God help anyone who gets in our way.

  ‘There are, I believe, one or two canisters left in Germany, which we will find and discreetly dispose of. There are also remnants in Bosnia, maybe some in Serbia itself no doubt. They will be dealt with!

  ‘After that, gentlemen, we shall try as best we can to repair any damage that may have been done to relations between ourselves and the German Government - something which is very important to the Swiss Government, and to the people within this organization. Since I am its head, something that is also important to me.

  ‘If you take the time to analyse the situation, you will conclude that no other course of action was available to us. The other paths that we could have taken would have been costly to us, our business and our reputation, to the Swiss Government and to your government - had you survived to think about it. At best the newspapers would have crucified us all; no one would have been a winner, all of us would have lost greatly. We will, gentlemen, sink or swim together on this, because we are too closely linked to do anything else.

  ‘We will try not to exaggerate the situation in your country, but we need the cover story, and we need to take power and organization away from the neo-Nazi groups, because only with organization and money can they afford to buy stolen Serbian nerve agent. If we keep them weak then we need not fear an organized response. I apologise for walking all over your sovereignty, gentlemen, but necessity dictated that I do so, for the benefit of us all.’

  Wilhelm nodded for several seconds. ‘Minister Blaum was correct about you, and your abilities, not least as a diplomat.’ He stood. ‘Now we must return and exercise some very serious damage limitation and try and hold onto our jobs.’

  Beesely eased up. ‘We have people well placed in your media sector, the TV and newspapers. When we hear of them about to attack you we will warn you and use our influence to suppress such stories.’

  Wilhelm brightened. ‘That is good to know.’

  ‘And a few weeks from now we shall reconvene and start again.’

  2

  ‘Rudenson got onto a flight to Moscow three hours ago, Serbian passport,’ Otto dispassionately stated.

  Beesely massaged his head as he sat on his hotel room bed. ‘Where did he fly from?’ he asked without looking up.

  ‘Warsaw.’

  Now Beesely raised his head. ‘Warsaw? Long drive!’

  Johno knocked and entered. ‘What’s up?’

  Beesely slowly stood. ‘Our friend is in Moscow.’

  ‘Moscow? Shit, do we have people in Moscow?’

  ‘Not many,’ Otto replied.

  ‘We heading there?’ Johno asked.

  ‘It is not safe,’ Otto suggested. ‘For you, Sir Morris.’

  ‘Please don’t call me “sir”.’ He patted Otto on the arm. ‘Morris or Beesely will do just fine. Or even Herr Director, getting used to that now.’

  Otto gave a professional Swiss head tip.

  ‘Listen,’ Johno began, his hands in pockets. ‘The one thing I do know about Moscow is that if you’ve got money you can buy anything. For the sort of money we have you could buy the whole damn city.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Beesely agreed as he walked to the window. ‘Ask our people in Moscow to take some money around to the… most notorious gangster they can find, and put a price on finding Rudenson and delivering him alive.’

  Otto made a call.

  Johno joined Beesely at the window. Looking down they could see tourists coming and going from the Spa Hotel. ‘Moscow has plenty of underpaid doctors and surgeons.’

  Beesely half turned, nodding as he thought. ‘Yes, that’s true. When they have him we’ll move to endgame.’

  Endgame

  1

  Yuri, the overweight guard, stood trying to shelter from the Moscow rain as he kept watch. The large doorway of this old apartment block afforded plenty of protection from the Moscow rain, but he was not allowed to stand too far inside; from there he could not see the street.

  A taxi pulled up, the vehicle unlike most of the dated vehicles that took short cuts through this street. This was a Mercedes taxi, not common, and for rich Moscovites or tourists only. A man in a smart suit clambered out carrying a large silver case, Yuri checking the rest of the street quickly. The taxi made off at speed the man approaching, smiling confidently.

  ‘Evening, Yuri,’ the man offered in good Russian, but obviously not a local.

  Yuri was puzzled. He did not wish to upset a friend or customer of his boss, but this could also be a trap. ‘Hello. Do I know you, sir?’

  ‘No, you don’t. But I wish to see your boss, Vladimir.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  The stranger’s features turned to stone. ‘No one ever expects me when I call.’

  Even more puzzling. ‘Uh?’

  ‘May I see your boss, please? Now!’

  ‘Who are you, please?’

  The visitor held up the case and displayed the contents. ‘I am the man with a million dollars for him.’

  Yuri could not believe his eyes. Many thoughts ran through his head; screw the boss, shoot him and take the money. It’s a trick. It’s a bomb under the money. ‘Wait here,’ he finally suggested, dialling his boss on his mobile. ‘Yuri here, Boss ... I’m downstairs where I’m supposed to be … yes, there is a man here to see you ... don’t know ... he has a million dollars in a case. Yes … no, he is alone. Yes, I’ve seen it … in a case.’ He faced the stranger. ‘Wait here, please.’

  A moment later two gunmen came out. ‘We want to see the money,’ the first gunman demanded.

  ‘I want to see your boss. I’ll give him two minutes before I’m leaving.’

  They glanced at each other. ‘OK, inside,’ the same man ordered, now with his hand inside his jacket. The gunmen shooed away some inquisitive prostitutes and showed the man in the suit into an old lift, never taking their eyes off him.

  Vladimir had been eating, but now sat on a sofa as his food cooled, a liberal amount of his half-finished meal down the front of his bulging shirt, some in his moustache. Four more gunmen stood around the room, two skinny prostitutes peeking out from a side room.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, lost for other useful words.

  The case was placed down and opened. ‘This is for you. On
e million dollars, American.’

  Vladimir shuffled along the sofa, his large stomach an impediment to that chosen method of movement, then examined a wad of dollars. He threw the wad to a guard. ‘Check it.’

  ‘My employers only deal in real money,’ the visitor suggested.

  ‘And who are your employers?’ Vladimir asked.

  ‘A Swiss intelligence agency called … K2.’

  The gunmen took a step back.

  It was hard to maintain your dignity and authority as you slid off a couch, stumbled and then stood as if attacked by a swarm of bees. ‘You let K2 into my apartment!’ Vladimir barked. His men drew their weapons. ‘No, no,’ Vladimir shouted, holding out his hands. ‘No shooting in here!’

  The man in the suit had just the faintest hint of a smile creasing a cheek. ‘I have not come here to harm you.’

  Vladimir composed himself. ‘Why have you come here?’

  ‘My employer wishes that you do a job for him.’

  Vladimir took a breath and composed himself. ‘Yes, of course.’ He wiped food off his shirt. ‘You … you want someone killed?’

  ‘No, we want someone found.’

  ‘I see. And this money is for finding this person.’

  ‘No, this money is for your expenses in finding this person. When you have found him there will be another nineteen million dollars for you.’

  ‘Twenty million! Your employer wants this somebody very badly, no?’

  ‘My employer wishes to point out that … if you don’t find this person … he will be disappointed with you.’

  Vladimir took a sharp step back before composing himself. ‘Yes, I know what happens when your boss is … disappointed with people.’

  ‘Good. To business.’ The K2 agent produced a piece of paper and a photo. ‘Here are all the details you will need. It’s a German that we are looking for, he arrived by plane last night. He will not be staying in a hotel, he is not that foolish, he will be trying hard not to be found. His one connection here is a nationalist campaigner. Our German friend is a fundraiser for nationalist groups.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I know these idiots and where they drink. They have a club, small time hoodlums.’

  ‘That would be a good place to start. We expect him found by tomorrow night.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’

  ‘If you want the rest of the money, and to keep my boss happy, then we would like him tomorrow night - alive and well. My number is on the card, call me anytime, day or night.’

  Vladimir was moving with a purpose. A hundred thousand dollars had been offered to anyone who had information, and that reward offer had been passed by word of mouth a thousand times inside an hour. Every thug in Moscow wanted to find the ‘German Nazi’. The police had been tipped off, many officers refusing to go home at the end of their shift, many squad cars doubled up from two to four officers as they all hunted earnestly for Rudenson.

  That evening became one of the safest on record in Moscow for a damp summer’s night, crime fell to almost zero; every police officer was out on the streets, every thug gainfully employed searching.

  2

  It turned 6am and Beesely could not sleep. He tried a light breakfast and some tea before heading down to the hotel’s sauna. As he sat down onto the wooden slatted seats, leaving guards in the corridor, a fit and tanned man entered from the changing rooms.

  Beesely noted the man’s physique and his scars. ‘You look like you’ve been through the wars.’

  ‘Several!’ Mr Grey sat. ‘The chairman of the Lodge sends his regards, and his condolences for your loss, sir.’

  Beesely took a while answering, staring at the floor. ‘That’s very kind of them. Thank them for the helicopters. Who’s chairman at the moment?’

  ‘Oliver Stanton, sir.’

  Beesely smiled. ‘Olly still going strong, eh? Tell him I will be in the Bahamas next week some time to meet up. Now be a good man, and scoot.’

  Mr Grey stood, faced Beesely and added. ‘The group wishes to confer its complete support, sir.’

  Beesely made no comment. Mr Grey waited a second before turning and stepping out, Beesely holding his gaze on the door that Mr Grey had just walked through.

  3

  At 8am Beesely emerged from his hotel room in a black suit, finding Johno adjusting his tie in the corridor. Johno had also received a new black suit from Otto and had shaved, trimmed his moustache and had a haircut.

  Then out popped a nervous young boy from behind Johno. He seemed familiar, Beesely shooting a questioning look at Johno.

  ‘The bellhop.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Beesely remembered, greeting the boy in German.

  Johno put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, giving the lad a reassuring hug. Beesely straightened, wide-eyed and questioning. ‘His mother worked in the kitchens,’ Johno explained, making strong eye contact. Beesely’s shoulders dropped. ‘Kids got no relatives nearby, just some very old grandparents of his mum’s ex-partner, who she never frigging liked. He’s been living with a neighbour. Kid’s up for adoption, so I went and fetched him. Figured he could crash out at the castle.’

  Beesely squinted. ‘You … went and fetched him?’

  Otto approached, flanked by two bodyguards in dark suits. He frowned a question to Beesely about the boy.

  ‘Boys, meet your new adopted son,’ Beesely pointedly, and firmly, announced.

  ‘My God,’ Otto whispered. ‘His mother, I had forgotten.’ He seemed stunned, especially at Beesely’s reproachful glare.

  ‘I want adoption papers drawn up.’ Beesely explained to the boy in German that he was now part of their family, which pleased the boy greatly. Twelve-year-old Thomas explained, in broken English, that ‘secret agent’ Johno would protect him.

  Beesely inspected Johno, Johno inspected Beesely then they both checked Otto.

  ‘I guess we’re ready, gentlemen,’ Beesely stated.

  Off they set. Beesely at the front, two bodyguards well ahead ready to open doors, Otto and Johno side-by-side behind him and all in step with military precision. Johno held Thomas by the shoulder, who now walked along watching Johno’s feet, making large strides to stay in step.

  The foyer became the first sign of things to come on this pleasant summer’s morning. All of the hotel staff had turned out; some in uniform with black armbands, some in black suits. Beesely shook the hand of the manager, thanking him for his staff’s respects before heading slowly out of the hotel. The hotel steps were lined with guards, the edges of the parking area three deep with people stood in silence. Quite who they were, Beesely did not know. He paused at the car door, slowly surveying the faces around the entire car park before he eased himself into the waiting vehicle.

  With the car door closed he enquired in a concerned whisper, ‘Who are all these people?’

  Otto half turned his head. ‘The Bank employs a lot of people, especially in Zug and Zurich. Some have travelled down, but most are local. They are showing their respects.’

  ‘So much for secrecy,’ Johno commented, taking in the crowds.

  The convoy moved slowly out to the main road, local motorbike police stopping traffic. Three Range Rovers joined the convoy, plus two motorcycle officers at the front, another two at the rear – all keenly observed by Beesely.

  ‘How many people will be here today?’ Beesely asked.

  ‘We believe three thousand,’ Otto informed him.

  Beesely held his gaze on Otto for a moment, an eyebrow raised, before exchanging a look with Johno.

  The cemetery at Zug rested on a hillside with a clear view towards the castle. It circled the hill, following its contours like a giant apron. Exiting the Range Rover, Johno stood taking in the scene.

  To his immediate left was an old section with its strangely carved gravestones for the richer members of the town’s medieval dead. Some bushes and trees next to a dilapidated old iron fence led to the middle section, which seemed to Johno to consist of British style gravestones, then finally ca
me a flat grassy area off to the right ready for new arrivals.

  He turned fully around. The castle itself was not visible, but he could just make out the trees that he knew edged the castle lawn, and he could see the cliff. He was sure he could see the glint of the restaurant windows and pointed it out to Beesely as they ambled away from their line of vehicles and towards the waiting crowd. As they progressed, Johno now noticed that Beesely seemed put out by the public spectacle.

  Five graves had been prepared, all in a line, all with new headstones and freshly laid turf, the edges of the grass squares visible in places. The remaining two graves had been prepared in other towns. Despite the fact that there were no bodies, just headstones, the graves had been prepared in a traditional style, most bystanders unaware of the exact circumstances of the deaths.

  Chairs had been laid out off to the right, ten yards from the line of fresh graves, and behind the chairs stood the families of the victims, almost fifty people. The closest family members sat behind a row of chairs left empty for Beesely and company. Beesely had attended a lot of funerals in his lifetime, but none for almost ten years. Now Otto directed him towards the crowd, grouped just below the fresh graves, and twenty minutes of handshakes began.

  The senior command-staff were present, Beesely thanking them all without shaking their hands. Then he was mildly surprised to find the Mossad team, now in black suits, which he considered Otto must have provided. He thanked them all and worked down the line. Next came the

  American decontamination team, similarly dressed and similarly thanked; they had delayed their return home to pay their respects.

  Johno thanked the Major and the Captain, a handshake and a nod. Beesely was then surprised to find Minister Blaum and several of his associates. They offered their condolences. The Serbian Ambassador putting in an appearance came as quite a shock for Beesely, but he acknowledged it as a nice gesture. The ambassador offered his condolences, looking as if he knew more than was publicly known.

  Beesely stopped dead, glances at Johno and Otto. Beyond Blaum stood the British, American and Israeli Ambassadors, Beesely not quite sure how much they knew, or who had invited them. Johno became concerned, wondering what was going through Beesely’s mind, since his features had hardened as they progressed.

  The British Ambassador handed over telegrams of condolence from the Home Secretary, Dame Helen, the Foreign Secretary and the Queen – leaving Beesely holding the telegrams in silence for many seconds – a quick, unhappy glance at Johno as he pocketed them.

  The senior staff from the banking divisions were introduced, some of them meeting their employer for the first time, followed by the heads of various divisions that Beesely had only recently heard of. He shook hands with the ex-SAS contingent, now six strong, four fresh faces catching his attention. He glanced at Johno.

  Johno leant in and whispered, ‘They’re recent SAS boys, sharp team. It’s our first hostage rescue team of Brits. Available for wet work.’

  Beesely greeted the fit young men, none more than thirty years old in his estimation. Finally he turned to the waiting families. Earlier, Otto had explained that all of the victims’ families had received a generous lump sum payout and had been offered a pension for life equal to the salary that their family member earned when they had been killed.

  Meeting the families was not an easy task for Beesely, Otto shouldering much of the burden since he was known to most of them. Mothers and daughters greeted Otto as if he was their employer, fathers thanking him for his generosity, the Swiss maintaining an in-bred stoic facade. And the few children present today affected Otto more than Beesely.

  Johno separated from the group and read the gravestones, those he could understand. Finally there was Jane’s, the words chosen by Beesely.

  ALL THE MONEY IN THE WORLD,

  THE MIGHTIEST ARMIES,

  CANNOT ROLL BACK THE YEARS,

  CANNOT STOP THE EBBING TIDE,

  CANNOT DELAY OUR APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH.

  THE SAND RUNS OUT OF THE HOUR GLASS,

  IT KNOWS NO MALICE.

  P.S. WHEN SHOOTING MOLES, WEAR CAMOUFLAGE!

  Johno smiled. ‘See ya’, sister. Thanks for all the cuppas.’

  Ricky appeared at his shoulder, now squeezed into an ill-fitting suit and looking uncomfortable.

  Johno sighed and said, ‘Late again.’

  ‘Just dispatched the last of Rudenson’s relatives.’ Johno nodded, still fixed on the grave. Ricky added, ‘His uncle lived on a lake, isolated enough. The neighbours said he loved the old lake, so now he’s fucking resting in it, feeding the fish.’

  ‘Where you living?’ Johno asked.

  ‘Boarding house in the town. Cosy enough.’

  ‘Otto never offered you a room in the castle?’ Johno teased.

  Ricky forced a tired smile. ‘I work for a living, that’s for the fucking in-bred officer class.’

  ‘Cheeky bastard. Anyway, I live in a dungeon. Pop down later for a beer and a chat.’

  The priest, a company man apparently, performed the service in German, lasting around ten minutes. Otto then spoke at length, taking longer than the priest and making favourable personal comments about all the deceased without the aid of any notes.

  Johno spent the time taking in the many new faces, whilst Beesely simply sat and stared at the line of graves, deep in thought. When it came to Beesely’s turn to speak he simply shook his head at Otto, his prepared speech still in his pocket. Otto stepped across and sat as family members said a few words in turn.

  Ignoring the German-Swiss speeches, Beesely stared dispassionately at the ambassadors. ‘You know … it all comes down to politics,’ he softly stated, Johno and Otto half turning their heads towards him. ‘Life and death, people, they’re just commodities at the end of the day – pieces on a chess board.’

  Otto frowned his lack of understanding, and his concern.

  Beesely continued, ‘Here we sit, an obscure Swiss bank, with the world’s ambassador’s paying homage. On any other day I might feel popular. Today I feel like pawn in a game.’

  Otto grew concerned, a quick glance exchanged with Johno.

  Johno took in the ambassadors. ‘If you’re a fucking pawn,’ he whispered, ‘that don’t say much for me. I figured you were the king on this chessboard.’

  ‘If I’m the king,’ Beesely responded, still focused on the ambassadors, ‘then I can move in any direction I like, but just one square at a time.’

  Otto held his gaze on the side of Beesely’s head for many seconds.