In the house where she was being held, Elisabeth Jackson had been awake for some time.
She had spent most of the uncomfortable night awake, expecting that the man would return at any time, to carry out his implied threat. But to her great relief, nothing had happened. No one had entered the room at all. She fully realised he was playing a sick game with her, aimed at keeping her in constant fear of being attacked.
Though she had not eaten since the kidnap, she did not feel hungry; but she felt unclean, and the inside of her mouth was less than pleasant. Then there was the call of nature.
Strangely enough, the bare mattress felt clean; so perhaps, she allowed herself to hope, she was not being held in some derelict place in the middle of nowhere. But she could not hear any sounds that might tell her what could be nearby.
“Hey!” she began to shout in English. “Anybody home?”
There was no response. Had they left her alone and had gone off?
She tried again, in German.
Silence greeted her.
“Hey!” she shouted again, going back to English, and louder this time. “Hey! Anybody home?”
There was still no response. She felt a surge of hope. If they had gone and had simply left her, she could try to work herself free.
She was just beginning to enjoy that thought when the sound of footsteps killed all hope with a cruelty that almost brought tears of frustration to her eyes.
She heard the key turn in the lock, then the same man spoke. “What’s your problem?”
“I need to go to the bathroom. I haven’t been since you and your pals dragged me out of my car. So unless you’d enjoy watching me wet this bed…”
She felt, rather than heard him cut the bonds at her feet.
“Get up!” he commanded roughly.
With great uncertainty, she tried to do so, and stifled a cry as feeling returned to her legs. She stumbled, and was grabbed roughly by the shoulder. A hand brushed a breast as this happened.
She said nothing, and allowed herself to be led unresisting, to the door. The bathroom she was being taken to was not far. The man shoved her through.
“My hands,” she said. “How do you expect me to…”
He said nothing.
“Planning to do it yourself, are you?”
“Don’t piss around with me, Mrs Jackson,” he snarled. “You’re in no position to do so.”
“Then tell me…how do you expect me to attend to myself with my hands tied behind my back?”
She was roughly turned round and the bonds cut.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” he warned. “There’s no one close enough to hear you if you try to yell. And if you did, that would piss me off. You would definitely not like what would happen next. And leave the blindfold alone. It is secured with tape at the back. I’ll know if you try to loosen it. You will be tied again when you’re finished. Now get it over with!”
He went out, and locked the door.
Half an hour later, he was banging on the door. “Don’t take all day! Come on! Come on!”
“Alright!” she shouted, annoyed. “I’m done!”
The door was unlocked and opened. “Don’t try my patience!” he warned in a harsh voice.
“What do you expect?” she retorted. “I can’t see what I’m doing.”
“You don’t need to see where your ass is. Or your…”
“I get the damned point!” She paused, sniffing. “Is that coffee I smell?”
“That is coffee you smell. A cup, and a bread roll with ham in it is being brought to you. Your feet will be tied, but your hands will remain free until you are finished. Then they will be tied again.”
“Thank you for the food.”
“I’ve told you before…don’t appeal to my better nature. I haven’t got one. The food was not my idea. And don’t feel too good about the people who said you should be fed. You have no idea what they have in mind for you.”
“If that’s meant to make me scared, don’t worry. I’m scared already.”
“That’s very smart. You should be.”
The man led her back, none to gently, to the room and again tied her feet.
“Don’t move off the bed,” he commanded. Then he went out again, locking the door behind him.
She remained where she was, feet off the bed, listening hard once more for any outside noise that might some sort of clue to the type of location where she was being held. But all that greeted her was a strange lack of anything, even of traffic. No aircraft passed overhead. Some considerable distance from an airport, she reasoned.
Then the lock was once more being turned.
“Here you are, Mrs Jackson,” a new, kinder voice said in German. He guided her hands to the cup and the bread roll.
“Thank you,” she said. “Why are you doing this?” She had recognised the voice as belonging to one of the men who had argued over the kidnapping.
His response was brusque. “Don’t ask questions.”
She heard him leave, and again the door was locked.
She began to eat. The coffee was surprisingly good. There was milk in it, and it had been sugared. She did not normally have sugar in coffee, but given the situation, she thought it tasted good. The bread roll was fresh. So they must be close enough to a bakery at least, she thought; perhaps only a kilometre or so away. She doubted they would have bought frozen, part-baked bread, to complete the baking process in the house. She had smelled the coffee, but no baking.
She finished off the coffee and the roll, then sat waiting with the empty cup on her lap, held between her hands.
She considered her options. All were bad. The blindfold had been efficiently put in place. The first layer were pads which had been put upon her eyes, so that she could not open them. Then the blindfold itself on top, tightly secured by the tape. Without removing the blindfold, she had no way of knowing whether the room was flooded with light, or was in total darkness; or whether its windows – if it had any – looked out upon anything that was recognisable.
She was locked in. Even if she broke the cup to give herself some kind of a weapon, it would be useless against her captors. And the man with the knife would take great pleasure in making her pay for such folly.
“And if I take off the blindfold,” she now said to herself, “they’ll know, even if I put it back on.”
She thought of her children, and of her husband.
“Bill will get me out of this,” she said.
As the Porsche and the Mercedes approached the Tiptris junction on the A9 autobahn, Müller passed his mobile to Carey Bloomfield.
“Would you please call Pappi? Tell him they’re on their way.”
She nodded, and called Pappenheim as up ahead, the Mercedes flashed its blinkers once, and headed off to take the access for Berlin.
“It’s me again, Pappi,” she said when Pappenheim had answered.
“Always a pleasure to hear from you,” he said with smooth gallantry. “So he’s not letting you drive this time?”
“I tried earlier, and got a sharp no.”
“He can be mean at times.”
“Tell me about it. I’m calling to let you know they’re on their way.”
“Then tell Jens I’ll see that everything’s under control.”
“Okay, Pappi. I’ll do that.”
“And keep trying. You may wear him down.”
“That will be the day,” she said.
Pappenheim gave a suspiciously evil chuckle.
“And Pappi,” Carey Bloomfield went on, “sorry about your colleague yesterday.”
“Yesterday,” Pappenheim said, all levity gone from his voice, “was not one of our better days. Thank you for the sentiment. Much appreciated.”
“Hang in there.”
“You too.”
She passed the phone back to Müller.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome. Can I put Layla back on?”
“You like it?” he as
ked in some surprise.
“I’ve always liked it.”
“Then put it on.”
As Müller joined the A9 to head for Baden-Württemberg, he gave the car its head. The Turbo surged along the autobahn, the fat sound of the riff charging through the speakers.
Pappenheim got a phone call from one of his contacts.
“Check your colleague’s reports of yesterday,” the voice suggested.
“I have colleagues all over the country,” Pappenheim said, watching two smoke rings race each other to the ceiling. “I cannot even begin to think of the thousands of reports…”
“Specifically…on the B19 in the Schweinfurt, Werneck, and Wurzburg area. That should narrow it down nicely for you.”
The line went dead.
Pappenheim put the phone down. “Schweinfurt? Werneck? Why does that ring a faint bell?” He picked up his internal phone, and dialled an extension. “Miss Meyer,” he said when the Goth had answered. “I need you.”
“You’re starting early, sir.”
“Early? The day’s already old.”
“On my way,” she said.
“I’ll be waiting.”
He was already in the Rogues Gallery when she arrived, dressed in white. She seemed to gleam. She went straight to the computer, and powered it up.
“What are we looking for?”
“You’re going to hack some colleagues.”
“And here I was thinking you wanted something really difficult.”
“I didn’t hear that, did I?”
“No, sir. You didn’t. If I might ask a question...why don’t we just ask them?”
“Do you really want an answer to that?”
“Now that you’ve put it that way...no, sir. I don’t. Ready when you are.”
“I want to see any reports centred on the B19, within an area bounded by Schweinfurt, Würzburg, and Werneck.”
The Goth’s fingers swept across the keyboard. Within seconds, it seemed, a page concerning the B19 was onscreen.
“That was very hard, I see,” Pappenheim commented. “If you ever leave us, Miss Meyer, please don’t hack into us.”
“I don’t plan to leave.”
“Small mercies, for which we are ever grateful, “ Pappenheim intoned as if in prayer. “And what have we got?”
“I’ve highlighted everything to do with the B19.”
Pappenheim ran his eyes down the list. “Motorcyle accident, someone throwing a bottle onto the road, two kids playing chicken with the traffic, no, no, no… What the hell was she talking about? Wait a minute. Wait…a…minute…” he added softly. “There. That one about the Volvo. Open it.”
Hedi Meyer clicked on it, and the full report opened out.
Pappenheim read it silently.
“Alright,” he said to the Goth. “You can close it, and get out of there before they find out.”
She made a scoffing noise. “That would take them a few million years.”
“Oh I do like confidence of the very young,” Pappenheim said. “Thanks, Hedi,” he went on. “That’s it.”
She shut down the computer, and stood up. “Can I come in towards the end of the day to have a flight, before I leave for home? If you’re still in your office, that is.”
“I’ll be in my office. And yes, you can.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t mention it.” Pappenheim seemed distracted, and vaguely lifted a hand in farewell as the Goth went out.
“Military-looking man,” he murmured to himself, “pulls injured boy out of Volvo combi with smashed windows. No driver to be seen anywhere. Passing motorists previously try to help the boy, but obviously very scared, refuses their help. Then his father – the military-looking man, American – arrives in a black Audi. American license plate. Leaves before the police turn up. No attempt to contact the police so far, despite saying he would. One witness describes him as imposing. Not an ordinary soldier. Someone accustomed to command. Schweinfurt, Werneck…” Pappenheim’s voice faded. “My God.…” He paused again. “Jens once met an American officer down there. Could this be…the colonel? Surely not…”
He hurried out of the Rogues Gallery.
They were approaching the A70 autobahn sign for Bamberg, Schweinfurt, and Würzburg, 115 kilometres into their journey, when Pappenheim’s call came.
“Can you take it, please?” Müller said, passing the phone to Carey Bloomfield.
“Sure. Hi, Pappi,” she went on to Pappenheim, “it’s the secretary again, I’m afraid.”
“I’m very happy to talk to the secretary,” he said. “Still won’t let you drive, eh?”
“Lost cause, Pappi,” she said as they joined the A70.
“Well, don’t give up. The slow drip of water on rock.”
“The water runs off.”
“Not always,” Pappenheim said with an air of mystery. “I’ve got something that might jolt him,” he continued. “You too, perhaps.”
“You’ve got my full attention.”
Pappenheim told her about the incident on the B19.
Her eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m afraid not. We have ourselves an interesting mystery.”
“You think it’s the colonel?”
“I’m reluctant to commit, but it seems to point that way.”
At the mention of “colonel”, Müller had darted a look at Carey Bloomfield. “What colonel?”
She held the mobile away from her ear. “I think you should stop at the next gas station. You’ll want to hear this. Do we need gas?”
“No. But I can top up the tank. Tell Pappi I’ll call him as soon as possible.”
“Heard that, Pappi?” she said into the mobile.
“I’ve got most of it. Tell him okay.”
“He says okay,” she told Müller, as she ended connection.
“What colonel?” he repeated.
“Do you remember when we first met up, we found ourselves at an Army base near Schweinfurt?”
“’Found’ is an interesting word to use, but are you talking about Colonel Bill? The Colonel Bill?” Müller darted her another glance. This time, it was one of astonishment.
“Hear what Pappi has to say,” she said, “then you tell me.”
She gave him a quick précis of what Pappenheim had said.
“Vogel said ‘the colonel’,” Müller said, remembering, “and was surprised to see a woman. They’re going after Colonel Bill? But why? What’s the connection?”
“I’m looking at one.”
“Come on, Miss Bloomfield,” Müller said. “That’s reaching, as you would say.”
“I never say that, but I admit some people do. They tried to get me yesterday. Why not Colonel Bill?”
“For a start, I do not work with him. And…” Müller stopped.
“’And’, Müller?” she urged.
“He can hardly be considered as being close to me.”
“But what if something happened to him that required police involvement? Something big enough to get you involved.”
“A trap?”
“There are many ways to bait one.”
“That, I certainly do know.” A sign for the next service station hove into view. “I’d better hear what Pappi does have to say. We’ll stop at this tankstelle.”
“Can I drive from there?”
“No.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Don’t sulk. You’re a colonel. A lieutenant-colonel. That allows me some sulking.”
“If you say so.”
The service station came into view soon after. Müller pulled off the autobahn, and up to the pumps. After topping up the tank, he found a parking bay well away from other vehicles in the uncrowded car park.
He returned Pappenheim’s call, remaining in the car. He listened silently, as Pappenheim gave him the details of what the Goth had found.
“So do you think he is the colonel in question?” Pappenheim finished.
&n
bsp; “It’s a strong indication. He has a son who would be about that age. About twelve, the report said?”
“Yes.
“I was twelve when my...parents…” Müller stopped. “No. It could not be something so…”
“Why not? It would fit into their madness. Very symbolic. As we know, they go in for symbolism.”
“Miss Bloomfield believes it’s a ploy to get me involved.”
“She could be right.”
“Perhaps they want to show me how far they are prepared to go. Perhaps they are saying, no one is safe, if they put their minds to it.”
“And make you responsible.”
“There are other things playing in there as well, Pappi. He has not been in touch with the police, you say.”
“According to the report. Nothing official whatsoever.”
“Was the Volvo also carrying American plates?”
“That’s that thing. It is locally registered, but there was no owner listed in the report.”
“Then it’s his wife’s car. I am certain of it. She is German, and perhaps being back in the old country, she wanted her car to have a German plate. An easily understood emotional thing. She if one of your many people can trace the ownership, without making even the tiniest of waves.”
“Funny you should say that.”
Müller smiled. “I should have known.”
“As soon as I get it, you’ll get it. As you’re heading into the area, will you pay him a visit?”
“No. Not unless I am really dragged into it. Whatever it is, I’m certain the Americans will sort it out themselves. I continuing with my original plan.”
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