All but the stark, vibrant sound of a woodpecker.
CHAPTER TWO
Someone claimed they had reached the scene of the crime within five minutes of the last shot being fired. No-one bothered to ask how such an accurate assessment could be made. The police, however, had reached the scene within four minutes of a call being made from the cell phone of the security guard who had reached Schiller first.
Within seconds the senior police officer had called for a massive back-up. All available units were ordered to the area as the hunt for the killers began. The highest priority had immediately been put on this one. As the police units converged, so the wires began buzzing on the news services and television networks. Reuters set up a special desk and ran a dedicated computer link in so that no other low priority news item could possibly delay the smallest gem of information on this most dramatic attack on one of the world’s most powerful men.
A world media hungry for information were already setting their satellite dishes up and those fortunate enough to be within two hundred miles of the place were driving down motorways eager to snatch the smallest advantage over their terrestrial rivals.
Within twenty minutes of the security guard’s cry for help from his cell phone, the senior officer on the scene was Oberkommissar Erich Hoffman, of the Zentrale Kriminalitatsbekampfung. This department, the ZKD, was the equivalent of the British CID. Hoffman was thirty eight years of age and had served in the BundesPolizei from his cadetship as a seventeen year old. All of his service career, with the exception of the first two years out of cadet training, he had been with the ZKD. He was renowned as a hard man and blessed with the patience of Job. All of his subordinates respected him. Very few crossed him.
He stood quietly surveying the carnage. Beside him was Obermeister Uwe Jansch. They had already organised teams to secure the entire area from the media, the public and anybody else that might trample vital evidence in their efforts to get a closer look. While forensic experts began their painstaking examination of the cars, the bodies and the surrounding area, the two policemen stood quietly contemplating the carnage.
The lead car contained three bodies; all male. Schiller’s limousine contained just the body of the dead driver. Schiller himself and Joanna were up at the house under police protection and receiving medical treatment. The last car had four bodies inside; three male and one female. It had been quickly established that the female was the baby’s private nurse, Helga; a young woman whose life and career had been tragically cut short by the selfish aims of violent people.
Hoffman felt the anger rise up in his chest. Like any policeman, he always made a silent promise to find the perpetrators of any particularly nasty crime, come what may. This of course, was no different and he made the same promise; whoever carried out this carnage would be brought to book, one way or another. He knew that as a policeman, he could only bring these people to court, but he knew that, given the chance, he would put a bullet in each of them with his own hand.
He turned, his foot scraping noisily on the gravel, and began walking up the slope towards Schiller’s limousine. He could hear a woodpecker somewhere among the trees, but ignored it. Jansch followed. They paused beside the car. There was little left that was recognisable as the driver’s head. Blood and flesh congealed on the leather upholstery. In amongst it shards of broken glass glittered abominably like small gems on a madman’s canvas. They could hear the persistent buzz of the gathering flies.
Hoffman waved his hand across his face to ward off a fly and moved on to the lead car. Its bonnet was pressed up against the trunk of a tree. The driver was still sitting in his seat but had slumped against the wheel. He had been shot through the head. The entry point of the bullet was relatively clean. The other side of his head wasn’t there. The three dead passengers, two inside the car and one lying at a crazy angle in the road, had all been killed by machine gun fire.
Hoffman was already forming a picture in his mind of how the attack had been carried out, but what intrigued him more than the skill, total ruthlessness and speed of its execution was the fact that the act of kidnapping Schiller’s grandson had even been contemplated.
He turned suddenly to Jansch.
“Why would you want to kidnap Herr Schiller’s grandson?”
Jansch looked at his boss. He arched his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t.”
“I know you wouldn’t. But amuse me, please.”
Jansch studied the car for a moment. “Leverage,” he said eventually.
Hoffman’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s interesting. Not money?”
Jansch shook his head. “Must have cost them a small fortune to set this one up, so they must have money behind them; no doubt about it. It has to be something they want and I don’t think its money.”
Hoffman considered Jansch’s assessment. He had never met Schiller at all but knew enough about the movers and shakers of this world to know that Schiller came out at the very top. The absolute top.
“You are right, of course Uwe,” he acknowledged. “But why kidnap a baby? Schiller wouldn’t budge on that. Would he?”
Jansch coughed and rolled his shoulders in a shrug to ward off a sudden chill that was seeping into his bones. The sun was still high in the sky, but it made little difference to the sense of horror that Jansch felt. Hoffman’s statement that Schiller would not budge was empirical: simply an experienced policeman’s observation.
“You believe he would sacrifice the child rather than concede to the kidnappers?” Jansch asked him.
Hoffman nodded slowly. “Nobody gets to Herr Schiller’s position without a streak of ruthlessness in him, and I expect he could be ruthless enough whenever he wanted to.” He sighed deeply. “But I suppose it depends what the kidnappers’ demands are.”
The sound of someone approaching cut through their subjective discussion. They both turned to see one of the forensic team, dressed in a white overall and rubber boots, walking towards them. He stopped, glancing quickly at the car. He was carrying a small, evidence bag.
“Sir, it looks like the kidnappers were here overnight,” he said to Hoffman holding up the bag. “We found some human excrement.” He pointed a thumb in the general direction. Hoffman curled his lip.
“You are sure it isn’t dogshit?” Jansch asked phlegmatically.
The forensic officer was unimpressed. “The lab will confirm that for us, but I’m quite sure it’s human.”
Hoffman smiled. Jansch had a way of ruffling feathers. “Of course you are. We’ll get a DNA sample, won’t we?”
In their fight against crime, all well run security forces worldwide were building up data banks of genetic fingerprints gleaned from DNA tests. The data banks were by no means complete, but if a criminal had been arrested and convicted by any of the German Police Forces, his or her genetic fingerprints would be on a computer file. Interpol would also have a comprehensive DNA data bank for the use of all European police forces. It would be a major boost to the investigation if this particular killer was on file with their own police force, but if not, a trace would be put out through the services of Interpol.
“The information should be on your desk by the morning, sir.”
“That will be too late,” Hoffman informed him. “I want the results on my desk this evening. Understood?”
“Yes sir.” He nodded, wondering just how much the police chief understood about laboratories and testing DNA samples, and walked away muttering to himself.
Jansch watched the man go. “I have a gut feeling that all we shall learn from that is what the man had for dinner last night.”
Hoffman grinned. “Pessimist, what makes you think it was a man? It could have been a woman. Someone has got to look after the baby.”
*
Conor had no idea where they were going. The inside of the van was lit only by the light that filtered in from a curtain drawn between them and Joseph Schneider who was driving. Breggie sat behind the driver’s seat. She had the baby with her and had alrea
dy given the infant a bottle of milk. The child was asleep now. Earlier Conor had lit a cigarette and had been ordered to put it out by Breggie because of the baby. It was ironic, he thought, that she could kill so ruthlessly but consider the health of an infant because of someone smoking.
The rear windows of the van had been blacked out so none of them in the back could see out. Nor, for that matter could anybody see in. Inside the van with Conor and Breggie were the rest of the team: Karl Trucco, Franz, Heinz and Michael. Franz was the man who had impersonated the security guard at the bottom gate. Heinz and Michael were the two police impostors who had led the convoy from the hospital and signalled to Trucco that the convoy was on its way.
At first the team had been jubilant; still high on their success. The plan had been brilliantly executed. Their escape route through the hillside forest to the perimeter fence had been well marked and meant that they were on their way, inside the van within five minutes of the attack. Now they were sitting silently with their own thoughts.
Conor tried guessing in which direction they were travelling by judging the sunlight filtering through the curtain. He reckoned there would be a back-up car travelling with them in case the van broke down or some other unplanned event compromised them. It made sense that the organisation, whoever they were, would have a contingency plan should anything go wrong.
He decided they must be on an autobahn now because the van had been motoring steadily without turning for much of the journey. He wanted a cigarette but knew there was no point antagonising Breggie. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the girl, far from it, but inside the back of the van was no place for an argument. And he sensed the others were also offended by the thought of him smoking in such a confined space. So he retreated into his own world and gave up wondering where they were heading or how long it might be before they reached their destination.
It was two hours after beginning their journey that Joseph turned into an estate on the edge of a wooded area. The engine laboured briefly as they followed the road up a hill. At the lower end of the estate, the houses were relatively close together, but as they reached the summit of the hill, the road levelled out and each house had a larger area of land to itself and much more privacy.
They all felt the van turn sharply and then slow to a stop. Joseph got out of the van. They heard a garage door open. Then Joseph was back in the van and it moved with a lurch until it came to rest again. The engine died and they waited in the encroaching silence until Joseph opened the van’s rear doors.
Conor led the others out of the van in relief after being cramped up for so long. It was quite spacious inside the garage and there was all the usual bric-a-brac one finds in most suburban garages. He immediately pulled a cigarette out and lit up. Breggie glared at him as she swept by.
“Don’t bring that rotten thing into the house,” she snapped at him.
Conor gave her a blank look and drew the smoke down deep into his lungs. The others said little as they followed Joseph through an internal door. Conor let them go, enjoying his cigarette. He wasn’t happy with the situation by any means because he wasn’t in control. And he was used to knowing exactly what the plan was, what the alternatives were and a way out should he need it.
They had been told, by Joseph and Breggie, that after the operation they would be brought to a safe house where they would be paid off. He didn’t like that either; he would have preferred to have gone back to his flat in Cologne, lay low for a couple of days, and then pick up his money.
He shrugged; better to remain careful and expect the unexpected, he thought and dropped the cigarette on the floor where he crushed it with the heel of his boot. He then went back to the rear of the van and opened the doors. Inside was an Adidas sports bag. All their weapons were there. Breggie had insisted that they were ‘clean’ in case they were stopped by a traffic patrol. This had been much against Conor’s better judgement but, potentially, Breggie and Joseph were their paymasters and he had little choice but to agreed, particularly as Trucco and the others had tossed their weapons into the bag without a murmur. It had been suggested they dump the weapons and have someone else pick them up for disposal, but this had been vetoed by Joseph. Conor knew there was always a chance the weapons would be found and the forensic scientists would garner valuable clues from them. Joseph was right; far better for the organisation to remove and dispose of the weapons later.
He pulled his Browning automatic pistol from the bag and stuffed it in his inside pocket. Then he slipped a couple of spare magazines into another pocket. He would like to have taken the Uzi but that would have been rather obvious. He felt a little better now. He zipped the bag up and closed the van doors. Then he went into the house where he found most of the team in the dining room. The television was on but some of them were reading magazines. Breggie was in the American style open kitchen area with Joseph. They were talking.
Conor went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee which somebody had made. They had eaten sandwiches in the van so he wasn’t particularly hungry. Nevertheless, he was looking forward to a hot meal. He took his coffee into the room where the others were sitting. They took little notice of Conor as he made himself comfortable in a vacant chair.
He wondered about them. He had no idea how they had been recruited. He had been approached by Schneider in a restaurant. In Conor’s world of secrecy and opaque understanding, it didn’t surprise him that somehow he had been found by their organisation. He assumed it had been his links with the IRA. Perhaps his masters had passed on his credentials because they had no further use for him.
It was academic really as far as Conor was concerned. So long as it was work they were offering and bearing gifts of ready cash, he was willing to listen. And Schneider was promising cash by the bucketful.
Conor assumed the others had been chosen for their respective talents. His was explosives and an ability to kill. He had got to know Karl Trucco, the American, quite well and liked him. It seemed he had been some kind of right wing militant in the USA and had fled the country for his own safety. But whatever the American’s politics or affiliations, the only thing he had in common with the man was this job.
He was introduced to Breggie shortly after his first meeting with Schneider. Something in Breggie’s manner made Conor mistrust her from the start. He couldn’t put his finger on it but went along with his own instincts. As far as he was concerned she was to be kept at arm’s length, and the sooner he was out of that house the better he would feel.
“When do we get paid, Joseph?”
It was Franz who had spoken. The others looked up. Breggie turned round. She was holding a baby’s milk bottle in her hand. Conor assumed she had just made it up in the kitchen. She said something to Joseph and left the room. They could hear the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.
“Breggie has to feed and change the baby first,” Joseph replied. “When she comes down I shall go and get your money.”
Franz looked disappointed. “You mean it isn’t here?”
Joseph shook his head. “It would have been too risky. The house could have been broken into any time.”
“So where is it?” Conor asked.
Joseph shrugged. “It’s in a safe place. Breggie will stay here with the baby while I’m gone. If that’s what you’re worried about,” he added.
Trucco went back to his magazine. Conor continued to feel uncomfortable but could do nothing about it. The others seemed to be quite happy with the situation though and Conor wondered, for a moment, if he was worrying over nothing.
Nothing at all.
*
Hoffman was still studying the wreck of the car which had taken the force of the limpet bomb when he heard a car pull up. He turned in the direction of the noise and swore quietly under his breath. Jansch heard his boss and watched as the car came to a stop. The door opened and a tall, very well dressed man got out. On either side of the road, the pine trees that stood tall and elegant seemed to pale against the i
nvisible but almost tactile aura that emanated from the man. It was Doctor Aaron Kistler, President of the North Rhine-Westphalia Police.
Kistler was more of a politician than a policeman; a man who had little time for the realities of police work and was more interested in the public face of the force and the importance and esteem of his own office and his own person. He held sway over one of the finest police forces in the Federal Republic and demanded total respect from all his subordinates, which he received in public but rarely in private. He walked the short distance from his official car to the wreck by which Hoffman and Jansch were standing.
“Good day, Herr Hoffman.” He ignored Jansch. “What progress are you making?” It was typical of him not to enquire about the number of deaths that had occurred or how any survivors might be getting on.
“None yet, sir,” Hoffman responded flatly. “It’s a little early. But we do know it was a well-planned and skilfully executed attack.”
Kistler quickly scanned the scene. Even he was aware that he would be more of a hindrance than a help; his visit here was merely cosmetic, more for public consumption than anything else.
“Dreadful business,” he said, looking at the carnage with a deep frown creasing his forehead. Then his expression changed and it brightened.
“I am going up to Herr Schiller’s residence,” he informed Hoffman. “I expect to have good news for him within a day or so, and for that reason I want you to spare no-one and nothing in the search for the kidnappers. You must, must,” he emphasised with a moving finger, “drop everything else and draw in as much manpower as you can possibly muster on this. You will have my fullest support. And I want to be briefed daily. Understood?”
“Thank you sir,” Hoffman answered dryly, knowing that Kistler’s fullest support would not get them one millimetre closer to finding the killers.
The Eagle's Covenant Page 3
