by James Becker
“There were three of you, armed with pistols and a submachine gun, and he”—Marcus pointed at another man slumped in a chair by the wall of his office, a man bent forward and clutching his stomach—“was in the pursuit car. And still the Englishman managed to get past the three of you. Not only did he get past you, but he killed Pieter and stole a car. It was a complete shambles.”
Wolf fell silent and picked up a SiG semi-automatic pistol from the desk, hefting it in his right hand. As he did so, the two men in front of him visibly tensed.
“We do not tolerate failure in this organization, but we are now so close to the final act that every man must pull his weight. Too many of our men are deployed elsewhere for me to be able to afford the luxury of simply shooting you both. You’re lucky, because you have one more chance. So get out of here, find Bronson, and kill him.”
“He could be anywhere by now,” Oskar objected. “Where do we start looking?”
“You’re beginning to try my patience,” Wolf said. “Use what brains you have. You know which car he stole, so the first thing you do is call up one of our contacts in the Berlin police and request that a watch is started for that vehicle. Make sure that whoever you talk to understands that this is an unofficial request. I definitely do not want Bronson apprehended by the police.”
Klaus Drescher, who was sitting in an armchair to one side of Wolf’s desk, made a suggestion.
“Don’t you think it’s possible that he might simply have headed for the Channel ports, to get back to England?”
Marcus Wolf shook his head.
“There’s only one possible reason why he would have been hanging about near this house. He knows that the pistol and the film we took in the cellar are enough to hang him, and I’ve no doubt that he was hoping to somehow get inside this house and recover that evidence. He didn’t manage it, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t try again, so I think he’ll still be somewhere here in Germany, working out a way to achieve that objective.”
“He’d be mad to try it again, surely?” Drescher said.
“I think he’d be mad not to. One thing Bronson has already shown us is that he’s capable and resourceful. He’s been inside this house, and I expect that he’s got a good idea of the way the security systems work. He’s probably hoping that we’ll leave the place unoccupied so that he can try to break in.”
“But we’re not going to do that?”
Wolf shook his head.
“Of course not. Or not until we head for London, and by then it’ll be too late.”
“Suppose he goes to the authorities? He might decide to take the chance, to try to argue that he was forced to kill Polti.”
“What information can he take to the authorities? He knows nothing. Our hands are clean. We are all respected businessmen and citizens of Germany; he is a proven killer. And I’m quite certain that Bronson will be desperate to avoid coming to the attention of the police in either Germany or Britain. I still think he’ll be somewhere in this area. And I want him found and killed.”
Drescher nodded. “You’re probably right, but finding him won’t be easy.”
“I didn’t say that it would be. I just want it done.”
Wolf switched his attention back to the man standing in front of him.
“Do you understand? This is positively your last chance. If you can’t do this, don’t bother coming back here because if you do I will kill you myself.”
Oskar nodded, turned away and walked out of the study, his companion hobbling painfully along behind him.
“Do you think they’ll track him down?” Drescher asked.
“They’d better. I want Bronson dead.”
“But suppose that they can’t find him? He could be almost anywhere. What then?”
Wolf shook his head and smiled grimly.
“Whether he’s alive or dead won’t make the slightest difference to our operation. There’s nothing that one man—that any man—can do to stop us now.”
33
25 July 2012
Bronson woke, stiff and cold and aching, just after six in the morning. Dawn had already broken, the first pale streamers of the rising sun spearing slim shafts of light through the trees, and birds were greeting the new day with a medley of songs.
He opened the door and stepped out of the car, stretching and straightening his aching back, and for a few moments just looked around him and listened. He appeared to be entirely alone. He could see neither houses nor other cars, and no signs of walkers either.
He walked the few yards to the shore of the lake, bent down and splashed water onto his face. It was so cold it almost seemed to sting him, but it very effectively completed the process of waking him up. He had nothing to eat or drink in the car, and he badly needed both a cup of coffee and some food; he was ravenously hungry.
He also needed to decide what to do next. Getting back into the house near Spreenhagen would be impossible now. Marcus and his men knew that he hadn’t trotted back to London as he’d been instructed, and they would be even more alert than before to the presence of any intruder. He had no idea what would eventually happen about the undercover policeman he’d killed and the unarguable forensic evidence he’d been forced to leave in the house and, because he could do nothing about that situation, he tried to dismiss it from his mind.
He also didn’t know if he’d killed the man who had tried to stop his car near the clearing the previous night, but he certainly wasn’t going to lose any sleep over him—if he hadn’t shot him with the silenced Walther, he knew beyond any doubt that the man would certainly have shot him. In that situation, it was kill or be killed.
But the bigger question, the one that really worried him, was what Marcus and his men had planned for London. Exactly what was the “lantern bearer” that he’d mentioned? What could it do? And why was a group of reborn Nazis trying to mount a terrorist attack on Britain’s capital city?
Bronson glanced at his watch. It was too early to ring Angela, but he turned the phone on anyway and deselected the “silent” option, just in case she decided to call him. Then he fished out the map book, opened it at the page that showed the area to the east of Berlin, and for a few minutes just stared at it. He knew exactly where he was, but he had absolutely no idea where he should go next, or what he should do.
His mobile phone suddenly burst into life, the speaker playing the opening bars of “The Ride of the Valkyries,” and he made an immediate note to change this for something less offensive—or at least something more modern—as soon as he could. Bronson’s musical taste had stalled somewhere in the mid-seventies, and his CD collection was almost exclusively rock ’n’ roll.
Without even looking at the screen, he knew it had to be Angela, simply because nobody else knew his number.
“Chris? Thank God. I’ve been trying to call you for hours, but your bloody phone has been switched off all night.”
“I know,” Bronson replied. “I had no option. It was—”
“Tell me later,” Angela interrupted. “Listen. Thanks to Steven, I think I know what Laternenträger refers to, and it’s not good.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. That’s what I was really ringing you up for. I’m in a taxi heading for Heathrow; I’m booked on the morning Lufthansa flight to the new Brandenburg Airport in Berlin. The flight gets in at about ten, and I expect you to be in the arrivals hall no later than quarter past, and pleased to see me.”
“I’m always pleased to see you, Angela. You know that. But I don’t think you coming out here is a good idea. I’m involved with some really dangerous people.”
“I always thought you were quite dangerous, Chris, and I’m sure you can take care of yourself, and take care of me as well. Anyway, I’m coming, because you’re going to need my help to sort this out. I’ll see you at the airport.”
And with that, she rang off.
Bronson stared at the phone in his hand, then shrugged and put it on the sea
t beside him. In truth, he was pleased that Angela was flying to Germany. He was sure that whatever information she’d discovered would help point him in the right direction, and it would be really good to have her around. He just had to make sure that he kept her well away from the clutches of Marcus and his gang of homicidal thugs.
He looked at his watch again. He had hours before she landed, plenty of time to find somewhere, some quiet café, where he could buy breakfast, and then make his way to the airport, which he located quickly when he looked again at the map. It was in the Schönefeld district, just a few miles almost due south of the center of Berlin.
A thought struck him, and he realized that there might be something else he could do at the Brandenburg Airport while he was waiting for Angela to arrive. He smiled to himself, then started the BMW, bounced over the uneven ground where he’d parked for the night and got back on the road.
Two hours later, having breakfasted cheaply and copiously at a small café on the outskirts of Hoppegarten, and still well before Angela’s flight was due to touch down, he drove into the long-term parking area at Brandenburg. He knew he was only going to be there for a short time, but he was looking for something very specific, and he thought that that parking area represented the best chance he had of finding it.
On the way to the airport he’d stopped at an out-of-town shopping center, where he’d found a large hardware store. He’d bought a pop rivet gun with a selection of rivets and washers; a hand drill and half a dozen drill bits, including a countersunk bit; a plastic vehicle cover; and finally a basic toolkit.
All he needed now was to find the right car.
The long-term car park was the usual multi-story structure, each level covered by a single surveillance camera, which meant Bronson would need to be careful where he parked and what he did, to avoid attracting attention. He drove slowly up to the third level, then slowed down even more as he started looking for another black BMW 3-series. He had plenty of choices. He counted over twenty such vehicles as he drove through the car park, but he needed one that looked clean, which would suggest that it had been parked recently and implied that the owner wouldn’t be back to collect it for at least a few days.
He found what he was looking for on the fourth floor. A black BMW parked next to a Mercedes van, which shielded the car from the unblinking eye of the surveillance camera at the other end of that level, and with a vacant parking space nearby.
Bronson reversed the car into the vacant slot and waited for a few moments until the Mercedes saloon that had been behind him as he drove up the ramp passed him and continued up to the next level. Then he climbed out, checked that he was unobserved, and opened the trunk of his BMW. He walked across to the back of the other parked car and looked down at the number plate. As he’d expected, it was secured in place by two rivets, one at either side.
He walked back to his car, removed the hand drill from the trunk, inserted the countersunk bit in the chuck and tightened it firmly. He returned to the other vehicle, watchful that nobody had spotted him, then bent down, placed the point of the drill bit against the first rivet and started turning the handle. The bit was brand-new and made short work of the aluminum rivet, and in less than thirty seconds he was able to repeat the treatment on the second rivet. The moment the number plate came free, Bronson stood up, walked back to his own car and put the plate into the trunk.
Then he walked over to the front of the other BMW and repeated the process. In less than two minutes, he had both number plates stored in the trunk of his own car, and a minute after that he’d covered the other vehicle with the plastic weatherproof sheet, which would hide it from view and prevent anyone spotting the missing number plates.
He locked his car, leaving the weapons hidden under the seat, and set off for the lifts and walkways that gave access to the terminal buildings.
Thirty minutes later, he was sitting by himself at a table in one of the cafés in the arrivals hall, a cup of coffee in front of him, and a one-day-old copy of the Daily Mail in his hand. Beside him was a plastic sports bag containing a designer-label washing kit—the only one he’d been able to find—a couple of shirts and a selection of underwear, all of which he’d bought at the shops in the terminal building, because he’d needed to replace the bag and clothes he’d had to abandon in the Hyundai. He’d also found a twelve-volt universal phone charger for use in a car, and that was in the bag as well.
Angela’s flight arrived on time, and Bronson stood up, grabbed his new bag and walked over to greet her as soon as he recognized her in the stream of passengers entering the hall.
Bronson moved quickly through the melee of people, reaching her side before Angela even saw him. The moment she did, she lowered her bag to the floor and hugged him tight.
“I’ve been so worried about you,” she whispered. “I’ve had the police round twice, looking for you, and I swear that at least once somebody followed me to work.”
Bronson nodded. “I’m not surprised. I left Britain under something of a cloud, and a warrant’s been issued for my arrest.”
“Then you really are in trouble, aren’t you?”
“More than you can possibly imagine, for a whole bunch of different reasons. I’m really pleased to see you, but I’d still rather you were safely back in London.”
“It’s too late for that. I’m out here now, because I decided I couldn’t stay away any longer. Besides, I think you need my help.”
Bronson smiled at her. “You know,” he replied, “I think I probably do. I realized this morning that I had no idea where to go or what to do next, so I hope you really have got some information about this ‘lantern bearer’ thing.”
“I have,” Angela said, “and I’ll tell you all about it in the car on the way to Ludwikowice. You’ve got a car, I hope?”
Bronson looked puzzled. “Yes,” he replied, “I’ve got a car. But what—or where—is this Ludwig-whatever place?”
“It’s in Poland,” Angela replied, “and it’s where I hope we might find the answers to a lot of questions. It’s certainly the place where the story of the ‘lantern bearer’ began.”
Twenty minutes later, they were sitting side by side in the BMW, and Bronson had just finished programming the built-in satnav with Ludwikowice as a destination.
“It’s over two hundred miles from here,” he said, as the satnav finished its computations, “so it’ll take us most of the day to get there.”
He started the car and a couple of minutes later the barrier in front of them lifted and they drove out onto the exit road from the airport.
“We’ll get a few miles under our belt before we stop for something to eat,” Bronson went on. “So you’ve got plenty of time to tell me exactly what you’re talking about, and why this Ludwig place is so important.”
Angela leaned back in her seat and relaxed. “You’ll notice,” she began, “that I haven’t asked you how come you’re driving around in a BMW—a make of car I know you detest—on Berlin plates, or why there’s the butt of what looks to me like an automatic pistol poking out from underneath your seat.”
“It’s a long story,” Bronson replied, “and thank you for reminding me about the plates. I need to fix those as soon as I can. And it’s not so much BMWs I dislike—it’s the particular collection of arrogant and incompetent idiots who always seem to end up driving them.”
“What do you mean by ‘fix’?”
“You’ll see.”
Once they’d cleared the airfield, and had passed the intersection between the E36 and the Berliner Ring, Bronson turned off on the L40 toward Ragow and pulled into the first deserted turnout he saw. There, while Angela stood beside him, looking and listening for cars or pedestrians, Bronson quickly and efficiently swapped the registration plates on the BMW, tossing the originals over a hedge and into the adjacent field.
“Because of what you’ve just done,” Angela said, “may I assume that you’ve borrowed the car we’re traveling in, using the term ‘borrowed�
� in its loosest possible sense? That we are, in fact, driving around in a stolen vehicle?”
“You assume correctly,” Bronson replied, getting back in the car and restarting the engine. He didn’t know what contacts Marcus might have with the Berlin police—if he had any contacts at all—but he knew that changing the plates would make it a lot more difficult for anybody to track him as they drove across Germany. Unless somebody checked the chassis number of the BMW, it would appear to be entirely legitimate, at least until the owner of the car in the long-term parking at Brandenburg Airport returned from wherever he’d flown to and blew the whistle.
“I’ve been very patient,” Bronson said, as he swung the car around in a U-turn to head back the way they’d come, “and you’ve been very mysterious. So why don’t you tell me exactly what you’ve found out about the ‘lantern bearer.’”
“Right,” Angela replied. “Since you called me, apart from running around most of London trying to find different places to call you from—calls you never actually answered, I’d like to point out—about all I’ve done is research, following on from everything that Steven told me. It has been,” she added, opening her handbag and taking out a small notebook with a dark blue cover, “grimly fascinating. First of all, have you ever heard the German terms Wunderwaffen or Vergeltungswaffen?”
Bronson shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. What do they mean?”
“The word ‘waffen’ translates as ‘weapon,’ so ‘Wunderwaffen’ means ‘wonder weapon’ and ‘Vergeltungswaffen’ translates as ‘vengeance weapon.’ Originally the Wunderwaffen were supposed to be various types of tactical battlefield weapons, while the Vergeltungswaffen were much more powerful strategic theater devices, but these days the term Wunderwaffen is often applied to both types of weapon. You probably know that toward the end of the Second World War the Nazis were desperately trying to find some kind of weapon or tactic that would turn the tide and force back the Allied advance, and keep the Russians off their backs.”
Bronson nodded. “I know they developed jet engines for their fighters, and of course there were the V1 and V2 missiles that they fired at London. I suppose they were classed as ‘vengeance weapons,’ because of the ‘V’ designation?”
