by James Green
Now he had his exit all laid out for him, Jimmy still didn’t look happy.
‘Don’t look so worried, Jimmy, it’ll go fine, I promise. Trust me, I know about these things.’
Jimmy didn’t look encouraged. ‘You used to know. Like you said, there was a bloody great wall and a whole country that have both disappeared since you used to arrange things like this.’
Udo laughed.
‘You English, how did you ever get an empire being so pessimistic, so defeatist?’
‘By being realistic.’
‘Look, I’ll write it all down for you. If you like I’ll even teach you how to ask for a ticket in German and make small talk with the ticket inspectors.’
They grinned at each other. It was a little joke between them. In the time he’d been in Copenhagen he’d picked up almost no Danish. He could barely say hello and goodbye.
‘What about documents when I get to Lübeck, if I get there? Can your friends help?’
‘Fresh documents can be provided, if you can pay.’ Jimmy didn’t say anything so Udo leaned forward. ‘This way you’ll have a chance - how good a chance, you’ll know better than me. But you won’t be sitting here waiting for anyone to come and get you. They’ll get a run for their money and, who knows, you may even get clear.’
Jimmy thought about Udo’s plan - he was impressed. ‘What was your department in East Germany, tourism and immigration? You seem to have all the moves at your fingertips.’
‘In the East under communism, everyone who could was in the black market, buying, selling, importing. A few of us had a little smuggling scam going. Cigarettes, booze, nice things from the West you couldn’t get in the Democratic Republic but which higher officials were happy to pay for and not ask where they came from.’ Udo smiled. ‘You weren’t the only bent official. In the East, for some of us, it was a way of life. We did OK. When the Wall came down and there was no more border fence it wasn’t unrestrained joy all round, you know. Some of us lost a living. In the case of me and my friends it was two livings, my government job and the black market racket.’
‘Bloody hell, Udo, has everybody connected with this thing got a past? Me, you, Bronski.’
‘I hope Bronski’s past isn’t all you think it is. The police will be bad enough but if there’s any government involvement, you’re not going to be so safe, even if you make it to my friends. And Bronski may decide to come looking for you himself; he won’t want you turning up sometime in the future with another bomb, or something else.’
‘But it isn’t me. When whoever’s out there makes their next move, he’ll know I’m not involved.’
‘But what if he doesn’t wait? We can’t exactly go to him and explain, can we?’
‘You’re right. I know you’re right.’ Jimmy got up. ‘Well, if I’m going to set things in motion I’d better get going. Thanks, Udo, I hope this works out and you don’t get into too much trouble.’
Udo got up.
‘I’ve had my share of dealing with trouble. I’m not too worried about it. Listen, I know I don’t need to tell you things are pretty much stacked against you but I will anyway. If you really mean what you say and dying isn’t a problem for you, well, I think you’re likely to get what you want. I have to say that; I can’t let you go thinking it’s all going to work out.’
‘I’ll take whatever comes, but I’ll be trying. I won’t make it any easier for them.’
‘Then God go with you, Jimmy. Not that he ever makes any difference in situations like this, at least not that I’ve ever noticed.’
‘No, me neither.’
Jimmy left the room and went to start setting things in motion. Udo stood for a moment after he’d gone.
‘I’ll pray for you, and light a few candles, but I’ve never noticed them make any difference either, especially when the ones after you will be putting their faith into something like a soft-nosed bullet, up close and very personal.’
And Fr Mundt started to get ready for a meeting he had to attend with some local Protestant ministers and a couple of imams. They were going to talk about interfaith dialogue. Not that the meetings ever made any difference, at least not any difference he could ever notice.
FOURTEEN
‘Hello, Candice? Yes, it’s been too long, ever since that conference in Washington. The man closed the yellow file and slipped it into a drawer. Look, I think we should meet, where are you at the moment? ... Still in Berlin. That’s good, there’s something we should discuss ... no, I don’t want to talk about it over the phone and I don’t think you do either ... yes, it’s exactly like that ... well, let’s just say it’s about a bit of flag waving ... of course I’m being cryptic, we’re in the Secret Service, we’re supposed to be cryptic ... all right, I’ll make it as plain as this, look at the flags you’ve got out ... yes, it’s about that sort of thing. The problem is either we meet within the next twenty-four hours or there’s no point in meeting at all ... I know it’s short notice but I think, when you hear what I’ve got for you, you’ll find it was worth it ... look, never mind the blah, meet me and if I’m wrong and you’re not interested I’ll give you dinner at a restaurant of your choice and throw in all the Royal Navy battle dispositions tied up in pink ribbon ... OK, saffron then, any colour you like. Good ... oh, no, I don’t think Berlin’s a good idea at all. This is for your ears only and strictly off-the-record ... no, Candice, listen. I mean off-the-record off-the-record. Not off-the-record and you pass it on upstairs if it turns out to be really important.
‘This is between you and me, you’ll see why when you hear it ... all right, that’s better. I’m going to the Louis C Jacob hotel in Hamburg. Officially I will be checking out the story of a dormant agent who sent in a crash call and held a meeting there with one of my staff. The story will hold up because he really was dormant, did make a crash call and met one of my staff there ... yes I can tell you. The call came from Copenhagen ... of course it’s true, I told you because you could check the hotel and find out for yourself. But don’t check, Candice, not you and not someone in Hamburg. If you do then any deal is off. So don’t do anything except get to the Louis C Jacob by ...’ He looked at his watch. It was just gone five a.m. ‘Say three this afternoon. Good. Oh, and really be alone, Candice. If you bring back-up, you’ll regret it. Hear what it is before you do anything silly like let someone else know we’re meeting. You won’t regret it, I promise. And for your own sake, use a cover for the visit that will stand up to some scrutiny from your own people. If this runs, we’ll want to keep it very much to ourselves ... right, see you in Hamburg at three.’
He rang off and made another call.
‘Get me on a flight to Hamburg. I want to be there at two. Book me in at the Louis C Jacob for one night and arrange a return flight for about ten the next day. Lay on transport from my home for the flight out.’
Something down inside his Ted Baker boxer shorts stirred. Being at the beginning of something really big always made him horny. It must be the adrenalin, or hormones, or something. He would go back to his apartment, wake up David, have a quick frolic then a shower. He’d be missing his lunch so he’d have to have something to eat at Heathrow, which would carry him through the day until an early dinner. He looked at his watch again. It was now a few minutes more past five. He did a time check of progress so far.
He had sent Clarke-Phillips off to Copenhagen at about two in the morning so she would be well on her way. Soon she should be sitting on Bronski, then she would get Bronski to sit on Costello until he gave her the go-ahead. After three this afternoon he would be sitting on all of them, but from a safe distance. He smiled. The Director would retire in six to eight months. He had been running down his workload for some time and his deputy was already expected to field too much for him. The Minister must have been looking round for a replacement ever since the Director said he wanted to go, but there was no clear front runner and time was running out. The Minister needed somebody, somebody who showed talent, initiative and a
bove all a safe pair of hands.
He ran over what had happened when he had taken Costello’s name upstairs. His surfacing had gone straight through to the Director, not stopped on the deputy’s desk. That made it very important.
Well, he thought, if this is as big as it looks and I can bring it off they can stop looking for a front runner. Bless you, James Cornelius Costello, God bless and preserve you. Until I arrange otherwise, of course.
The scheduled BA flight from Heathrow to Copenhagen touched down just before eight, local time. Henry Clarke- Phillips went to the baggage hall and collected her suitcase which was one of the first to arrive on the carousel. She’d arranged with baggage handling at Heathrow for it to be stored so it was among the first of the bags to be unloaded. Strictly speaking they weren’t allowed to do that, it compromised security because it told the baggage handlers there was a government bod with special pull on board. But what the hell, if you couldn’t get the VIP lounge and a few favours then you were just another traveller, one more business suit. As she told herself, if you weren’t in it for the money, but to serve Queen and country, then you were entitled to the few little perks that were available.
She walked out of Arrivals and through a shopping mall which was lined with the inevitable glass-fronted shops selling glitzy tat. Outside them all, she bought a ticket to Copenhagen and went down the stairs to the platform. The trains from Kastrup Lufthavn station were fast, frequent and comfortable, and in twenty minutes she was in a taxi leaving Copenhagen Central station headed for the Hotel D’Angleterre. She registered, went up to her suite and told the porter to leave the suitcase on the bed. Once he was gone, she took off her clothes and went to take a shower.
Relief swept over her as she stood under the hot water. For a while she just stood there, becoming human again. After the shower she put on the soft towelling robe that was hanging on the bathroom door, went back into the main room of the suite, called room service and ordered fresh orange juice, coffee, a plate of cooked meats and a Danish pastry. A light breakfast. Later, after she had located Bronski, she’d find somewhere to pick up a light lunch to get her through to five and the meeting. Once Bronski was set up she could come back to the hotel and make up for things at dinner. Something special with a really good wine.
After breakfast she went into the bedroom, pulled her suitcase to one side of the queen-sized bed, dropped the robe onto the floor and slipped between the sheets. She didn’t need to set an alarm; years of practice had enabled her to wake up when she wanted to. An hour’s rest to recharge the system, then she would head off to Nyborg. In a couple of minutes Henry Clarke-Phillips was asleep.
Nyborg was a small town on the eastern edge of Denmark’s small middle island, Fyn. A modern road bridge carried vehicles over the narrow strip of sea separating Fyn from its larger neighbour but the train went into a tunnel when it left Zealand and came out almost on the outskirts of the town. Henry Clarke-Phillips left the neat, modern station and walked across the road to the taxi rank beside the station car park. There were two taxis. She got into the first. The driver turned and said something in Danish.
‘Do you speak English?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where’s a good place for lunch?’
‘What sort of price?’
‘Price doesn’t matter.’
‘OK.’
The driver liked the sound of that, maybe there would be a good tip if she felt she’d had the right kind of service. The taxi took a road which took them round the edge of the town beside what looked like a pretty canal, except it didn’t seem to go anywhere. They drove for a couple of minutes until they came to what had obviously been a small commercial harbour. The driver turned into the car park by a brightly painted two-storey building which stood on its own between the road and the harbour edge. The name painted high up on the road-facing wall said “Café Rembrandt”. It looked a nice place. There was covered outdoor seating on the harbour side of the building. The driver turned round and indicated another building across the road they had just left. It was the back of a hotel which stood at the end of a terrace of big, three-storey houses on the other side of the little canal which came to an end in front of the hotel garden.
‘If you don’t like this place there’s the Villa Gulle across the road. The food is simple but good and it’s usually quiet at lunchtime. If you prefer to look around for yourself, the town centre is two minutes up that street over there. If you want something more expensive, just say so. There’s a hotel out of town ...’
She nodded to the Café Rembrandt. ‘This place looks fine.’
She got out and looked round. The harbour obviously hadn’t handled commercial shipping for many years but it was still active. There were a few yachts moored and an elegant tall ship tied up on the far wall. On both sides of the harbour were modern apartment developments, some new-build, some warehouse conversions. It all looked very classy. The restaurant should be OK.
‘What do I owe you?’ The driver looked at the meter and told her.
‘Does that include the tip?’
‘No, the tip is for you to decide.’
‘Double the fare and give me a receipt.’
The driver’s face split in a grin. He had been right, this one tipped well for good service. She held out some Danish notes, which he took, then wrote a receipt on the back of a business card and handed it over.
‘If you need a taxi, just call.’
‘I don’t suppose you know where a Mr and Mrs Bronski live?’
He shook his head.
‘No, but I can look them up if they’re in the phone book.’
‘They had an explosion in their garage recently.’
‘Ah, that place. Yes, I know where it is. It’s out beyond the station, by the beach. Do you want to go there?’
‘Yes, I’m a reporter from the UK. I want to go and look it over and do an interview. I’ll call you when I’ve had lunch. No, on second thoughts wait here for me. Let the meter run.’
‘Sure.’
Better and better, he thought, it’s my lucky day.
She went into the restaurant and took a seat by a window. In the middle of the room was a long buffet of cold food with the fixed price on a sign above it. Something from that would be perfect. The waiter came up.
‘I’ll use the buffet.’
It wasn’t really expensive enough but unfortunately it was what she wanted.
‘Anything to drink, madame?’
‘A glass of red wine.’
The waiter left and she got up, collected a plate of cold lunch and sat down again. The waiter arrived and put the wine down beside her. As she ate she looked out of the window at the new harbour side apartment blocks. They were very Scandinavian, all glass and clean lines. Beyond them there must be another harbour, she could see the masts of what looked like a crowded marina. Nyborg looked like a nice place to retire to.
She turned her mind back to the job in hand.
Tomorrow she would have to go to the Embassy in Copenhagen to get a gun. She wondered what sort she’d get. She hoped it wouldn’t be a Glock - a good gun but too heavy for a pocket or handbag, and a shoulder holster played havoc with the hang of your suit jacket. A hip holster did the same for your waistline. She had a good figure and she didn’t like it messed about. No, she hoped it wouldn’t be a Glock. She would try and get something that would fit into her handbag.
After all, this shouldn’t turn into a shooting war. If things worked out right, it would be a two-bullet affair, up close. She wouldn’t need a cannon; something quite small-calibre would be enough to get the job done. Something neat to go in her handbag. She’d stick out for a Beretta or something like that.
When she’d finished her meal she paid and left. Time to check out Charlie. Time to get the show on the road.
FIFTEEN
‘It may be very Little Englander of me but I don’t take afternoon tea on the continent, not even in a good hotel like this. They just don’t
know how to do it and it always disappoints if you try.’
‘So you stick to London dry gin?’
‘Only one, Candice, and it does less damage in the long run than all that coffee you Americans swill.’
The truth was, he felt like a grubby field agent anywhere outside central London. He was only truly happy at his desk with his ever-faithful secretary Gloria on guard as his gatekeeper.
Candice hadn’t come from Berlin to the Louis C Jacob for chit-chat so she got down to business.
‘Look, I came and I didn’t tell anybody ...’
‘Nobody at all?’
‘Nobody. So can we cut the crap about tea and coffee and discuss what this is all about.’
‘What did you tell them you were coming here for?’
‘I told them the truth.’
‘The truth!’
‘That an old friend from British Intelligence was unexpectedly passing through Hamburg. He knew I was in Berlin and asked if we could meet for old times’ sake to chew the fat. I asked my boss if it would be OK to take the rest of the day off. I wasn’t handling anything urgent so he said “get going but be back at your desk tomorrow morning”. I guess I may have given the impression we’d been in the sack together at some time and that I fancied one more roll. He’s something of a romantic, so here I am. But don’t get any ideas. It was just a story and it’s going to stay that way.’
The man smiled. It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but it pleased him. A James Bond stud type, he could play that part if he’d wanted to, play it well. Unfortunately the opportunity would never arise because, outside of James Bond films, the part didn’t exist.
‘Strictly business is fine by me.’
‘Then let’s get to it.’
‘I’m going to give you a name and you’re going to think about it. If the name is important to you, very important, then we’ll talk further. If the name is no big deal we’ll finish our drinks and both go home. Agreed?’
She nodded. Brits did things in funny ways, roundabout and crab-wise, but she would hear the name.
