by Gabriel Kron
“He was the police?”
The lift arrived at the ground floor and Dominik checked that the coast was clear. Keeping my head down, I followed him through the kitchens and down into the underground car-park. It was early and only a couple of kitchen staff were working, and they were busy with preparations.
I had to get to the embassy, Dominik was right. Somewhere safe, somewhere I could get protection. Dominik suggested I drive directly to a British Consulate-General. There were three in Germany: Düsseldorf, Berlin and Munich. Munich was the closest, but probably closed at this hour.
“You can use our car, but I need to get the keys. The one you’re hiring now is more than likely on their watch lists. I need to go and deal with what is happening upstairs. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He took the stairs back up to the lobby. I found a blind corner, slid down the wall and sat on the floor. It was cold but dry and at least I had my coat.
Wartburg Hotel Lobby, Monday 3:38am Day 4.
Dominik arrived back to the hotel lobby as one of the lifts pinged to its arrival.
Out of the lift, almost staggering, Detective Mueller crossed to the lobby desk. Dominik was confident that the BKA detective had not seen him upstairs and knew he could act naturally.
Detective Mueller opened his ID and held it out. Dominik looked closely at the BKA warrant card.
“Good morning, detective, can I help you?” Dominik noticed that the man was rubbing the back of his head and neck where the fire extinguisher had hit him.
“Of course. You...” he turned to Julian, “Where is the guest from room 407? Has he passed through here?”
“No sir,” Julian replied. “He wasn’t in his room? He hasn’t been out this way and I’ve been on duty since eight—”
“Room 407?” Dominik cut in. “Sorry I wasn’t here earlier, what’s the problem? I'm the manager.”
“The problem is that your guest is our chief suspect in an international murder hunt and whilst interviewing Mr Bateman—” Mueller put Daniel’s picture on the desk, “someone attacked me and helped him escape.”
Just then, flashing lights outside signalled the arrival of several police vehicles. No sirens at this early hour of the morning. Four uniformed officers walked into reception.
“Officers!” Mueller called. All four officers walked over to the desk.
Detective Mueller showed them his ID and quickly gave them orders to search the building for Daniel Bateman: white Caucasian, 40s, one metre eight tall, dark hair. He issued them photographs of the suspect.
“...Room 407, no-one enters it until we’ve processed it, and these two,” Mueller said indicating both Dominik and Julian, “will need to give statements along with all other staff on duty.”
Car Park Wartburg Hotel. 3:40am Day 4
How long was Dominik going to be? I wondered as I sat on the cold concrete floor, hiding.
This was the first real opportunity to try and understand what was happening and why. Somehow in less than four hours I had been accused of murder and arson, stun-gunned unconscious and almost killed. Just what was going on?
Sophia killed along with Johann, why? Surely not because of the Lockridge device? But what else could it be? How could they know, whoever they were?
Just then a VW police car with its lights flashing drove slowly into the car park. It stopped and two officers climbed out and began a search, one starting at each end of the car-park with powerful Maglite torches.
Shit! I looked around for a means of escape but there wasn’t any. I was already in the darkest corner, but that wouldn’t be for much longer.
As quietly as I could, I crawled to the rear of a Range Rover Vogue parked in front of me, laid flat on my back and gently pulled and wiggled my way under the car.
I could see the polished shoes of the officer as he walked in between the cars to where I had been hiding. I tried not to breathe, I felt sure I would be heard.
The officer at the other end of the car-park shouted and the officer standing less than two foot from my head responded with something I couldn’t grasp and walked back to his patrol car.
They didn’t leave the car-park though; they just sat in their car waiting. Waiting and watching.
I wiggled back out from under the car and stayed low. I could just see the top of the patrol car. Edging my way along the side of a parked car, I checked to see if there was any way of escape, but it didn’t seem I could make the exit without being seen. Or heard. The car park echoed with every noise, especially the police radio.
Maybe I could distract them? I looked around for something, anything that I could do something with, but what? There were only cars, and they were all locked.
Then I saw what I needed, a fire extinguisher. Again. Dominik had put one to good use in my room and saved my life. Could it save me again?
On all fours I quietly made my way to the Fire Point. There was a fire alarm smash glass button on the wall, but that was almost directly in front of the patrol car. Carefully I lifted the red extinguisher off the wall and gauged the weight in my hands. It was a carbon dioxide extinguisher, the type with a cone shaped nozzle on a short hose.
I thought about trying to throw it either down the car park or even directly at the car. Both bad ideas I quickly decided.
If I could get something to hold the handle down, then I could set it off and run once there was a cloud of carbon dioxide to hide behind. What could I use that would be quick and easy? Sock, no. Belt, no. Strip of cloth, no. All too slow to secure, it had to be something quick.
Or something brave.
If I could get close enough to the patrol car, I could use the extinguisher and run.
It was my only choice, unless I wanted to take the risk and trust they would believe that I had nothing to do with the murders of Sophia and Johann.
I felt my chest tighten with anger and my eyes well up. No! This was not the time. I had to move out now.
I crept on all fours to a position one car away from the patrol car. The officers weren’t being particularly attentive, but they were occasionally glancing up and down the car park.
With the safety pin pulled and the extinguisher held upside down, I aimed the nozzle towards the patrol car.
I squeezed the trigger and felt the nozzle push back as the CO2 vaporised into a quickly growing cloud. The patrol car disappeared behind a curtain of vapour and keeping the nozzle aimed towards the car I made my way quickly across the car park to the exit ramp, which itself was now becoming obscured.
Above the shouts of confusion I heard the patrol car start up and start reversing its way towards the ramp. I hurled the now icy extinguisher back down the ramp into the cloud, turned and ran, sprinting to the top of the short ramp and onto the side road the car park entrance was on.
I turned left at the top of the ramp for no real reason other than the way was clear, with only a few parked cars. Behind me I heard the patrol car smash into something before finally making it out onto the street. I ducked into the shadows and turned left again. Everywhere was deserted, but it was only a couple of hours before dawn.
At the end of the street, I finally stopped running and checked up and down for Police. Thankfully there were none, so I continued walking away from the hotel and kept my head down. After about three hundred yards, a beige Mercedes turned onto the street. A Taxi! Yes.
I hailed it and climbed into the back, tucking myself as best as I could behind the window pillar.
“Airport bitte,” I said and pretended to rest my head back and close my eyes. The driver acknowledged and called it in to his dispatch operator.
As the taxi passed the end of Lange Straße, I saw several police cars parked in the road directly outside the entrance of the hotel, their lights still flashing.
I thought about Sophia and her grandfather Johann. Both seemingly murdered because of the Lockridge device. Was I now in the middle of a real life conspiracy? Or was this all just a big mistake, a case of mistaken identity
, bad coincidence or something else all together? But then I remembered the explosion of pain from the stun gun and what the pockmarked BKA detective tried to do to me. That wasn’t normal. Not normal at all. Someone was trying to frame me for murder and kill me at the same time.
The airport would be busy, but safer, provided I stay undetected. I needed to meet up with Clive. He’d be able to help me get back to the UK or at least to our embassy.
Carpark Wartburg Hotel. Monday 4:15am Day 4
Detective Mueller stormed across from the car park lift and up the exit ramp. The CO2 cloud had long dispersed and when he arrived at street level, two very sheepish police officers were standing next to their disabled patrol car. It had two rear punctures from hitting the curb too hard and more prominently, a fire extinguisher lodged in the back windscreen.
What was even more frustrating was the fact that neither of the officers knew which way Bateman had run, so they hadn’t been able to give chase.
Another plain clothed officer, Sebastian Wolf, ran up to Mueller.
“Sir. Apparently a taxi was hailed less than ten minutes ago on Fritz Elsas,” Wolf said pointing.
“Going where?” Mueller asked as he started walking back to his car.
“The airport.”
“Okay, I’ll deal with this. Go and finish the witness statements and process everything in Bateman’s room and then follow on,” Mueller instructed as he closed the door on the Audi RS5 Quattro. It had been a confiscated vehicle from a drugs bust last year, but with cut-backs all around, using the confiscated cars made economic sense. It was small and scarily fast.
Mueller pulled onto Fritz Elsas Straße and floored it, heading towards the airport.
Using his personal mobile phone, he dialled a number he hadn't intended on calling until the operation was successfully completed.
The phone rang twice and was then answered with silence. Mueller waited the requisite five seconds before reporting in, all the while gunning the 4.2 litre V8.
“Phase three has failed, for now, and the target is running,” Mueller said negotiating a Mearsk lorry “I need another four to eight hours to make good.”
Taxi En-Route to Stuttgart Airport, Monday 4:30am Day 4.
The taxi driver was listening to the local radio station. It was a phone-in talk station and the half hourly news was on. I wasn’t listening, especially as it was German, but then I heard my name along with that of Sophia and Johann Locke.
The driver turned the radio up a little. I wanted him to turn it off, but I wasn’t going to say anything. Instead I tried to shrink into the corner of the seat, keeping myself out of the driver’s rear view mirror.
I closed my eyes and tried to rest my head back. All I could see were images of: the Locke place burning, Sophia, Johann, the Lockridge device, and the pockmarked face of the man in the long black coat. Who worked for the police? Who tried to kill me. He couldn’t be the police. They killed the Lockes and burnt the shop. Did they destroy the Lockridge device? Was this about the Lockridge? Who was this about? Who else were they after? All I had was questions.
We were approaching the airport. Planes were flying low and several could be seen taxiing. Dawn was fast approaching, the sun not yet risen, but its light had arrived and I wished it would bring an end to this nightmare.
As the taxi pulled up alongside the drop off zone, the driver pressed a button on the meter, which was showing 46 Euros. Did I have any money? I quickly checked my pockets and found my wallet in my coat pocket. Seeing that I had enough, I gave the driver 60 Euros and thanked him.
The concourse wasn’t particularly busy, but there were two police officers patrolling, too far away to be a concern now, but any closer and I felt that I’d be recognised and the game would be over.
I needed to change how I looked. I needed a disguise. Keeping my face turned away from the officers, I walked into the airport terminal. There weren’t many people around which made me feel exposed and more recognisable. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, so I walked deliberately to the main area where the check-in desks were.
I needed arrivals, but it was a few hours before Clive was due to land, so I had time to change my appearance and find somewhere out of sight to hide. An information board told me where the shops were located, so keeping my head down, I made my way to terminal 1 level three and found the type of shop that might help.
A few minutes later I exited with shaving foam, razor, hair gel, a pair of dark rimmed reading glasses of minimum strength, a black base-ball cap with the German flag on the front and a newspaper.
Finding one of the public toilets, I chose the disabled toilet because it allowed me to lock myself in and have full use of the wash hand basin. I ran a sink full of hot water and washed. The clean smell of soap and the hot water smarting felt good.
I shaved and then gelled my hair back flat. I checked myself in the mirror. The gel made my hair look darker and the glasses definitely made a difference, especially with the slicked-back hair. The hat would help hide my face from CCTV cameras. If I wanted to change my clothes, then I’d have to wait until those shops opened. It was still early and only a few were open.
Donning the hat and glasses, I made my way to the San Francisco Coffee Bar. I had enough left for a double espresso and found a table at the back of the shop that offered some cover. There were a few other patrons but everyone was in their own little world, too busy to recognise me as the person sprawled across the papers and TV news channels.
Stuttgart Airport, Monday 4:45am Day 4.
Detective Mueller felt that he wasn’t more than a couple of minutes behind Bateman. He parked his Audi in a service area and left the hidden blue lights in the front grille flashing.
He would soon have the eyes of the airport police, border agency and the CCTV system helping him locate his target. Setting Bateman up for the Locke hits made it easy for Mueller to use his BKA status to mobilise any agency onto his side.
If Bateman was here — and Mueller was sure he was — then it could only be a matter of minutes, maybe an hour, before he was in custody — his custody specifically.
Mueller felt the phone in his pocket vibrate.
“Mueller,” he answered. It was someone from the team at the hotel. Mueller asked about what was found in the room.
“What about a gun? Did you find the gun?” he asked knowing that the Glock 17 should be there.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed. “It’s got to be there, go and look again. Search the carpark again,” he ordered and hung up. Then he kicked the wall. Without the gun, there was no evidence to link Bateman to the Lockes. He didn’t like having to change plans on a job, but he could see this one becoming too complicated should Bateman be questioned by the local or any other federal police. Bateman had to die before anyone else questioned him.
Derby Room, House of Lords, London 8:00am Monday Day 4.
The Committee was due to meet in a couple of minutes and General Rourke had hoped to have been able to report a Resolved Status on the present operation
“...I understand. Let me know as soon as he reports in again,” he said closing his cell phone and heading to the meeting room.
One of his own men guarded the door. He was in service uniform and armed. As Rourke approached, the guard stood to attention and saluted. “Sir.”
“At ease Brown. Everyone here?” General Rourke said.
“All present sir.”
“Thank you Brown, usual protocol.”
He opened the door to the Derby room. Every wall was shelved and packed with leather-bound books. A large oval table, highly polished, occupied the centre. There was already some heated discussion between a couple of the members as Rourke entered. He walked to the last empty chair and sat down.
Rourke looked around the table at the faces of the men forming The Committee. Officially The Committee did not exist. That is not to say that it was denied, but that other than its members, no-one even knew it existed.
Although ther
e was no official name for the Committee, its members called it the 1945 Committee of Twelve. It had been formed on the battlefield in 1945 between two army officers from the UK and US and quite crucially a German Nazi Industrialist. Between them, standing in ankle deep mud, they had agreed to protect the post war rebuilding of Europe in order to further their own planned post war interests. The original three had each recruited three more and since then, new members were recruited only when a position became vacant, always through death.
There were no surviving members of the original 1945 Committee and Rourke himself had been recruited in 1992 after Operation Desert Storm, Iraq.
“General, do you have a report for us?” Lord Copeland, the chairman asked.
Rourke sat forward in his chair and rested both arms on the polished table.
“Thank you, I do. Since our last meeting we have had several intelligence hits from analysts reporting on a machine known as the Lockridge Device. These devices were confiscated under Operation Overcast and were either destroyed or put in storage. No more were found after 1965. Until last week.” General Rourke let that settle in around the table.
“Where?” asked one of the Unknowns.
“Germany, north of Stuttgart.”
“Excuse me gentlemen,” said a younger but slightly balding man. General Rourke recognised him as Justin Smith-Taylor, Minister of State for the Department of Energy and Climate Change. “Can someone explain what a Lockridge device is please?”
General Rourke took a breath before answering. He only knew of this device because of the Intelligence sent to him.
“It’s a self-running generator developed in Germany by a Nazi engineer who is believed to have died in an allied bombing raid on his home town. It was only able to produce a few hundred watts, so by itself, it’s not a real threat—” Rourke paused to make sure everyone was paying attention, “But the principles it uses can be scaled up and it is that which is dangerous. If businesses and house-holds have easy access to decentralised power, then the effect on our economies and the Committee's portfolio would not be good. Demands for oil would drop, meaning the price would also have to fall. This would have knock-on effects to investments and pensions, refineries would struggle and possibly crash and as we know from recent events, as a nation we can only survive for about two days before the pumps run dry — that means the shelves will empty. Before we know it we have riots to deal with.”
