The Lucifer Network

by Geoffrey Archer

  Vienna

  Before Sam left the Embassy, Collins got a positive response from the Austrian Security Police. Max Schenk would be interviewed as soon as he could be contacted, if he agreed to it.

  ‘They say our suspicions are nowhere near strong enough to justify an arrest,’ Collins explained.

  ‘A mistake, in my view,’ Sam muttered, his gut instinct telling him that Schenk needed to be detained as soon as possible, in a cell with thick iron bars. ‘But it’s better than nothing.’

  He shook hands with Collins, leaving him with the task of finding out if the family of Schenk’s wife happened to own a small island in the Adriatic.

  He’d booked a seat on a 13.30 flight. A taxi took him to the Pension Kleist to collect his belongings. As he was stuffing his clothes into the suitcase, he suddenly remembered his promise to Fischer, the German intelligence officer who’d briefed him when he’d arrived. He picked up the phone and persuaded him to drive him to the airport so they could talk.

  In the heat of the last twenty hours, he’d had no time to check on Günther Hoffmann’s state of health. The old spy’s heart attack was the first thing he mentioned when Fischer picked him up. The German expressed surprise.

  ‘It is the first I hear. It must have been a false warning,’ he suggested, cutting through a side street to join the main route out to the airport. ‘Because I saw Herr Hoffmann yesterday afternoon and there was nothing wrong with him.’

  ‘Really?’ Sam was nonplussed. ‘He contacted you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  Fischer looked uncomfortable. ‘He felt it advisable to report to me your visit.’

  Sam bristled. ‘Why, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Because of the murder of Vladimir Kovalenko,’ Fischer continued stiffly. ‘He said you had been asking for his help to find him.’

  Sam stared through the windscreen. A tram was blocking the road in front of them.

  ‘And he showed me an article in a British newspaper which linked your name with a situation in Africa,’ Fischer went on, clearing his throat.

  ‘The old bastard,’ Sam grated. ‘Don’t tell me he actually suggested that I’d taken out Kovalenko?’

  ‘He didn’t exactly say it . . .’

  ‘But it was the gist of his message.’

  Fischer nodded.

  Sam was flabbergasted. Why go to the trouble of sowing suspicion about him?

  ‘For the record, my friend, my aim was to question Kovalenko, not kill him. I wasn’t involved in his death or that of Harry Jackman in Zambia.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear this.’ The tension seemed to slip from the BfV man’s shoulders. ‘And your discussions with Herr Hoffmann?’

  Sam described his meeting at the cemetery and their subsequent conversations.

  When he’d finished, Fischer clucked his tongue. ‘It is odd that Herr Hoffmann did not tell me his wife had died.’

  ‘I get the feeling he’s quite selective about what he does tell you,’ Sam commented.

  ‘Yes.’ Fischer reflected. He pursed his lips for a moment before continuing. ‘Oh, there is some more information about his career in the Stasi which came to me yesterday. It might interest you. You understand it has been a slow process to uncover the full story of the former GDR’s state security activities.’

  ‘Too many people with too much to lose.’

  ‘Of course. But we have recently learned that for two years in the middle 1980s Herr Hoffmann was in control of the Stasi section which monitored Austria. The Czechs let the Stasi have a listening post in Bratislava. As you know, it is just across the border from Austria, only fifty kilometres from Vienna. From Bratislava they monitored the telephones of 270 Austrian politicians and businessmen.’

  ‘No wonder he knew how to jump the housing list,’ Sam remarked.

  ‘Yes . . .’ Fischer paused reflectively. The car turned off the autobahn onto the airport approach road. ‘And because of this information I think it may be very possible that Herr Hoffmann has been more active in Vienna than I told you when we first met, Herr Packer,’ he added with a degree of discomfort.

  They pulled up outside the terminal. Sam thanked the German and ran inside, making the check-in just as they were closing the flight.

  Was it spite, he wondered as he marched briskly to the gate? Hoffmann spreading suspicions about him as some sort of revenge for Sam uncovering his relationship with his father?

  Later, as the plane taxied to the end of the runway, he opened the newspaper he’d picked up when he boarded. The story in the bottom right-hand corner leapt off the page at him.

  DEATH OF A SCOTTISH MATA HARI.

  With a heavy heart he began to read.

  A statement from the Home Office late last night confirmed that Mrs Jo Coggan (née Macdonald), who died yesterday in a Scottish hospice had co-operated with Russian military intelligence in the early 1970s in an attempt to blackmail a British submariner into betraying his country. Her victim, Chief Petty Officer Trevor Packer, whose involvement with the Soviet Union was revealed yesterday, died in 1971. The Home Office statement said there was no evidence that any significant naval secrets were lost as a result of the activities of Mrs Coggan and CPO Packer.

  Sam put the paper down and stared at the ceiling. So now it was official. His father had not betrayed his country. To see it there in black and white had come as a relief. But he felt sad for Jo Macdonald who’d hoped to die in obscurity. If it hadn’t been for him digging up the past she’d have kept her shameful secret to the end.

  North London

  Inside the children’s reading corner at Golders Green Public Library the two young teachers bustled round their brood, urging them to replace their books neatly on the shelves. It was time to get back. The children’s lunchboxes were waiting for them in the classroom, lined up like soldiers along the back wall.

  ‘Come along now.’ The young teacher had fair hair tied into an old-fashioned ponytail and wore a red pullover above blue jeans. Her companion was darker haired and broad hipped.

  They trooped out of the library and turned left.

  ‘Keep away from the kerb, children,’ the plumper teacher ordered, bringing up the rear of the crocodile. ‘No straggling. Keep up with the ones in front.’

  They were a tightly bunched little group as they passed Segal’s. The blast from the wastebin bomb lifted most of the tiny bodies completely off their feet. A good half-dozen of them were fired like soft bullets through the plate glass windows of the restaurant.

  It was mid-afternoon when Rob Petrie closed the garage door with the Escort safely inside. He’d been sick a couple of times after hearing the report on the radio, throwing up into a spare shopping bag lying on the floor at the back of the car. According to an ambulance service spokesman, one of the little girls from St Mary’s Roman Catholic Primary School had been sliced in two by a jagged shard of glass. The children had taken the full force of the blast, cushioning its effects on the diners. The Jews he’d intended to kill had sustained cuts and shock, but eight of the children were dead.

  He carried his bag of sick to the rubbish skips behind the lift shafts. He needed to hide. To bury his head and pretend it hadn’t happened. How he could face Sandra he didn’t know, but home was the only place he could go.

  He pressed for the lift and waited. He’d told himself that in a war, accidents happened. That you had to turn your back and move on. But he’d seen those kids. Remembered their faces as they walked into the library. Eight little lives snuffed out.

  He’d had his war now. He knew he couldn’t go through this again. It would be down to others to take up the fight.

  The lift came. As he raised his finger to the button he heard a shout, then running feet. His heart began to race but it was only a kid wanting him to hold the door. A black girl, fourteen, fifteen. White teeth, big lips, woven hair, wearing the navy skirt and sweatshirt of a school uniform. She lugged a small rucksack, heavy with books.
<
br />   ‘Thanks, mister,’ she whispered, fingering the button for the sixth.

  Petrie pressed himself back against the wall and held his breath. A week ago he might have imagined the kid naked and spread out for him, bound with ropes, but today she was something to fear. She was a part of the enemy that would want its revenge.

  ‘Thanks, mister,’ she repeated as she stepped out.

  On his own landing, the sound of children’s voices wafted up from the playground below. He clutched the rail and gagged again, but there was nothing left to come up. Recovering, he reached his door, put his key in the lock and turned it.

  As he stepped across the threshold he sensed all was not well. The door to the living room was closed, which it never was. Very quietly he shut the front door behind him, listening.

  Suddenly a large man in body armour stepped out of the kitchen, pointing a pistol at his head.

  ‘Don’t move, Rob. Not so much as a fucking eyebrow.’

  19

  RAF Lyneham, Wiltshire

  Friday, 16.30 hrs

  THE HANGAR SMELLED of kerosene. At the far end two Hercules transports stood like lowering beasts, their engines stripped to their innards. The eight men from No.2 Special Boat Section stood just inside the huge folding doors which were open the width of a truck. Identically dressed in black rollnecks, with trousers tucked into thick socks, some were crouching, all were concentrating as they checked the kit laid out neatly on the floor. There was a lot of it. The four largest waterproof canisters contained the inflatable boats and their outboard engines. Four smaller bags were for weapons and four for special clothing.

  Sam stepped out of the Land Rover that had brought him from the front gate and walked into the hangar. Bennett’s girl had met him at Heathrow with clothes to change into from his suit – dark trousers, a blue sweatshirt, pullover and trainers. The marines turned to look at him, their faces solemn and expressionless. None wore rank insignia, making it impossible for Sam to tell which was the lieutenant in charge. He was about to ask when a short, ginger-haired man in his mid-twenties stepped forward.

  ‘Mr Packer? I’m Willie Phipps.’

  ‘Hello. Glad to meet you. Sam’s the name.’

  He felt the pale blue eyes size him up, knowing full well how reluctant the SBS would have been to include an untested stranger in their mission.

  ‘You made good time,’ Phipps remarked. ‘We’ve just finished checking the gear. In fact, once we’ve got you sorted, we’ll be ready to roll – that’s if the RAF can get their act together. When was your last jump?’

  ‘Eight or nine years ago. Before I left the Navy.’

  ‘And never into the sea.’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  The lieutenant sucked his teeth. ‘In that case we’d better do some talking.’ He took Sam to one side to introduce him to his kit. ‘Immersion dry suit.’ He held up a drab green one-piece with thick waterproof zips and soft rubber seals at neck and wrists. ‘We don’t put them on until fifteen minutes before the drop, otherwise it gets like a sauna inside. You’d better try it for size.’

  Sam forced his feet down the legs and tugged at the zips until the neck seal fitted snugly across his throat.

  ‘Could have been made for you,’ Phipps commented briskly. He picked up a short plastic tube attached to a strap. ‘Cyalume,’ he explained. ‘Fix this to your wrist. If we lose you in the oggin, snap the tube and it’ll glow like a beacon.’ Sam was familiar with the chemical lights from his service days. The lieutenant handed him a lifejacket, then, when he had it in place, helped him on with the parachute harness and adjusted the straps. ‘We’ll be on a static line, so the chute’ll open automatically. Never fails. If it does, you’ve got your reserve,’ he added drily, clipping it across Sam’s middle. ‘We’ll be jumping low, so be ready to yank the ring damned fast if the main chute doesn’t deploy. Soon as you’re sure it’s open, ditch the reserve, otherwise the weight of it’ll sink you when you hit the water. Use your torch to see when you’re about to get wet feet and release the main harness immediately. Same problem as the reserve. Get rid of it fast or it’ll drag you down with the canopy on top of you. You’ll sink several metres anyway because of your own body weight, but the lifejacket’s self-inflating and will pull you back up.’ He handed Sam a nose clip. ‘Happy so far?’

  Sam had never been less so, but he nodded.

  ‘The met men say it’ll be as dark as a cow’s insides tonight,’ Phipps continued. ‘No moon and one hundred per cent cloud, so no stars either. If you don’t see anyone else near you in the water, stay put. We’ll find you. Shout from time to time. The submarine will be watching on thermal. They should have a Gemini ready to pick us up and tow the gear alongside. Glad you joined?’

  ‘Scared to death.’

  ‘So am I. You’d have been lying if you’d said anything else. One final piece of kit.’ He handed Sam a small metal canister with a line attached. ‘Underwater beacon. Clip it to the ring on your lifejacket. If you really think you’re lost and the world’s forgotten about you, turn the switch to the green, unwind the line and let it dangle beneath you. The sub will get a bearing on it.’

  They turned at the sound of a diesel engine and watched a grey, covered lorry reverse into the hangar.

  ‘Okay, boys,’ the lieutenant said, rubbing his hands, ‘we’re on our way.’

  Stepney

  17.30 hrs

  Rob Petrie stared at the grubby red carpet in the boxy living room. He’d been back a couple of hours, but the police hadn’t told him how they’d found out about him. Not told him anything. He knew it was to do with Sandra. She’d been acting oddly with him for a couple of days. Withdrawn. Uncommunicative. Suspicious and hostile. As if she’d got wind of what he was involved in. He’d guessed she’d read his computer files somehow. He hadn’t seen her since he arrived home, but could hear her voice in the kitchen. The police had mugs of tea which she’d made after letting the bastards in.

  Four of them were in the small living room. Three men – one in uniform – and a woman who’d only arrived twenty minutes ago and who had a quiet authority the others lacked. The armed policemen weren’t visible any more. He guessed it was their voices he could hear talking with Sandra. The computer was on in the corner, a young officer with steel glasses operating the keyboard as if it was a natural extension of his fingers. One by one they’d dug out every e-mail he’d ever sent or received in the past few months. All the items he’d thought were deleted. All the secrets he thought he’d buried for ever.

  They’d also taken his keys so they could remove the Escort from the garage and pull it apart. By now they would have found the third bundle of explosives and detonators the Lucifer Network had provided. And they’d taken all his clothes away for forensic tests, ignoring his request for a blanket or a towel. He sat on the sofa naked, his hands cuffed behind his back.

  A few minutes ago someone had brought in a video tape to show him – the Golders Green massacre as filmed by the London Fire Brigade. Vile scenes, so horrific they would never be shown on TV. It was true about the little girl who’d been cut in half by glass. Seeing the bloodied bits had made Rob throw up again, retching onto his knees until they brought a bucket. But he still told them nothing.

  A detective chief inspector from Southall CID had been firing questions about the bombs – where he’d got the explosives from, who his contacts were, how many people were involved with him? But Rob had told them nothing.

  They’d browbeaten and insulted him, calling him arsehole and scrote. Shown him the e-mails telling the whole story of his relationship with ‘Peter’. The different names used. The string of addresses to prevent tracing. The encryption keys. It was all there. Where to go to pick up the bomb kits. His message describing the targets he’d selected. The reports of mission accomplished and the congratulations. Everything they needed to put him away for life. But he still wouldn’t talk. However much he regretted Golders Green, he consoled himself with the knowledge
that mistakes were made in the most professional of conflicts. A battle had been lost, but the war would go on. He himself had fallen, but others in the Network wouldn’t. Not while ‘Peter’ still functioned as leader of the white revolution that was now firmly under way in Europe.

  ‘Tell us about him, Rob. It might go in your favour,’ the DCI from Southall urged, struggling to curb his exasperation.

  Petrie kept his eyes averted and his expression blank. Then the woman officer who’d been hovering by the computer screen moved directly in front of him. He didn’t look up, but felt his privates shrink under her contemptuous glare.

  ‘You’ve never met Peter, have you, Rob?’

  It was the first time he’d heard her speak. He closed his eyes as if bored.

  ‘You don’t even know what country he’s from, do you?’ To Stephanie Watson the e-mails had made it as clear as day.

  It was true. Petrie knew precious little about the man, except that he had the power to inspire.

  ‘Did you two ever discuss using germs to kill people?’

  Her question surprised him. He’d seen the story in the morning papers about the two Brussels officials hit by a brain virus, but hadn’t made the connection. The fact that she’d asked him suggested they thought the Lucifer Network was behind that too. It excited him to think the people he’d been involved with had such resources and he was tempted to say ‘yes’. To rub her nose in the fact that she was up against an enemy of substance.

  ‘You didn’t know what you were getting into, did you, Rob?’ There was a softer edge to her voice, now. Not quite pity, but close to it. ‘Liked what you read on the Internet and just went along with it. Yes?’

  There was an element of truth in what she’d said. He’d never envisioned being responsible for what had happened at Golders Green.

  ‘All a bit of a game to you.’

  Game? He bristled at the word, but it made him think. Yes, he’d got a buzz from taking part. From being involved.

  ‘Then it went wrong.’