Kistler dipped his head in a perfunctory nod and returned to his car. Hoffman and Jansch stood aside as Kistler’s chauffeur manoeuvred the car past the wrecks. Despite the obvious ramifications of the attack, Kistler seemed strangely ambivalent and unmoved by it all.
At that moment, Jansch’s mobile phone rang. He pulled it from his belt and lifted it to his ear. Hoffman watched him answering in monosyllables and thanking somebody. He snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into the waistband of his trousers.
“They’ve found the police car sir. It was burned out.”
“Crew?”
“No sign yet. Forensic are on it, but they don’t hold out much hope.”
Hoffman was thoughtful for a moment. “Get on to the military,” he said after a while. “See if we have a satellite scan. From sunrise this morning; anything that passed over.”
“They’re not going to like that, sir.”
“Bugger what they like. Probably find Schiller’s company built the satellites they’re using anyway.”
Jansch allowed himself a smile. Schiller owned satellites and companies that built space rockets. But he didn’t own military secrets or anybody else’s for that matter. He knew his boss didn’t expect miracles though. This idea was a long shot; any still photographs taken at the time of the kidnap might help the experts to identify something that would lead them to the kidnappers.
“Shall I take your car, sir?”
Hoffman shook his head. “No, I’ll have to get up to Schiller’s place and start tugging the forelock. Clean up the bullshit Kistler leaves behind. Grab one of the patrol cars. Call me the moment something new develops.” He sighed heavily. “We’ve got to catch these bastards Uwe. Never mind Kistler or Schiller or whoever else pokes their nose in; we’ve simply got to.”
*
It was close to mid-day when an EL Al Jumbo jet landed at Frankfurt airport. In the business class section Levi Eshkol glanced up from his copy of TIME magazine and peered through the window. He looked up at the cabin clock and reset his watch to Federal time. He still had several hours in hand before he was due at his meeting later that evening. He would eat a light lunch first before driving to the pre-planned rendezvous. Later he would dine with his colleagues and maybe drink a little wine; a celebration perhaps.
Levi Eshkol was a native of Israel. He had been born in a Kibbutz near Jerusalem forty five years earlier. He had no other family now. His father had died in the Yom Kippur war, one of the children of Israel who had escaped from Nazi Germany to find sanctuary in Palestine. His mother had died a few years after his father.
Eshkol had shown great potential as a scholar and had been widely tipped for a senior role in Government. He studied law at Haifa University and completed his doctorate before his twenty-first birthday. He had a brilliant future ahead of him but, to the surprise of many of his close friends, chose not to pursue a career in the corridors of power.
Levi Eshkol became a ‘fixer’; a man who worked behind the scenes to achieve a satisfactory conclusion for his clients. In the powerful world of Middle East politics, public deals were merely the gloss on the cake. Politics on the hoof by American emissaries, brokering deals for consumption by the world media, were never possible without men like Levi Eshkol.
It was because of Levi’s brilliance, his connections and his knowledge of international law coupled with complete discretion that he was able to move easily among the powerbrokers of this world. But for all the doors that opened for Levi Eshkol, he remained a faceless enigma.
He cleared customs and immigration very quickly and was inside the main terminal building within minutes. He only ever travelled with hand luggage which saved him the trouble of jostling with other travellers at the luggage carousels.
As he passed the news-stands he could see the later editions of the newspapers screaming out banner headlines ‘Schiller kidnap’. He picked up a copy of Bild Zeitung and hurriedly scanned the opening paragraphs. A frown gathered on Eshkol’s face. To any passer-by it might have appeared that he was naturally troubled by the kidnap and multiple killings. That much was true, but for a very different reason. He brought some change out of his pocket and paid for the newspaper.
The meeting he was attending that afternoon was now about to take on a different agenda. He tucked the paper under his arm and went off to catch his connecting flight to Osnabruk.
*
Hoffman had seen enough. The place was crawling with forensic experts, detectives, mortuary attendants and official photographers. They would all do their stuff and have all the relevant information on his desk as soon as it was physically and humanly possible. Everybody wanted to score on this one. He walked up to his official car and climbed into the back seat.
For a while he sat there gathering his thoughts. It occurred to him that he should phone his wife and explain that he would probably be late. If he did it now, he wouldn’t forget. His driver sat patiently waiting for instructions. The interior of the car smelled of stale tobacco, impinging on the familiar smell of the leather upholstery. He wondered what it must be like, cocooned in a car, fighting to avoid a hail of bullets, knowing there was no escape. He pulled a cigar box from his inside pocket and took out a Canadian Reas half corona. He lit up, blowing the smoke carefully out of the open window.
His wife, Elke, answered the phone almost immediately.
“Hallo liebchen, it’s me.”
“Are you on that awful kidnap?” she asked. It was always nice to hear her voice, even if they had only spoken a few hours earlier at breakfast.
He drew heavily on the cigar, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs. “Of course,” he answered. “Kistler’s poking his nose in as well.”
“He’ll be a tremendous help,” she remarked acidly. “I suppose this means you’ll be late again?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ll stay at the office tonight, but I’ll come home for breakfast.” The end of the cigar glowed again. He expelled the smoke. “I’ll ring you when I can.”
“Good, and when you do finally come home, I’ll introduce you to your children again. Just in case they’ve forgotten who you are”.
She was teasing him, he knew that, but lately the joke was getting a little tedious. He wondered just how much longer it would go on before his wife began openly resenting his job. She had asked him more than once to resign from the police and find work in the private sector, but she had never laboured the point. In fact, she was quite philosophical about.
“I love you sweetheart, speak to you again.”
He switched the phone off and told his driver to take him up to Schiller’s residence.
He reached Schiller’s sprawling villa after going through a security check at the barrier. What was incredible about this place, he thought to himself, was that all the security was at the top of the hill rather than at the bottom. But then, several kilometres of perimeter fence through the woodland on the lower slope would be difficult to police properly.
He found his boss, Doctor Kistler, talking quietly with the billionaire industrialist. They were in a room which had a commanding view of the River Mosel threading its way through the pine covered hills towards Luxembourg in the west. The huge sliding windows to the balcony were closed and outside an armed policeman patrolled. A mite unnecessary now, thought Hoffman.
Kistler looked up as Hoffman was shown into the room. He acknowledged him and spoke to Schiller. The old man turned his head. He looked pale and shaken. Hoffman greeted him.
“Herr Schiller, Guten tag.” He lowered his head just a little in greeting. “First let me tell you how deeply saddened I am by the attack on you and your staff, and the kidnap of your grandson.” Schiller tipped his head forward but said nothing. Hoffman went on. “I can offer you nothing concrete at the moment but will say that we are doing everything in our power, naturally, to bring the perpetrators of this terrible crime to justice.” He glanced at Kistler. “I am quite sure we shall have something firmer to work on within an hour or
so, and, perhaps, in a few days will be in a better position with regard to bringing you hopeful news.”
Schiller shook his head slowly. “You’re as bad as Doctor Kistler, Hoffman. I would have hoped for something less sycophantic from you.” His voice was firm, demonstrably so.
Hoffman looked at Doctor Kistler who appeared to be deeply wounded. Hoffman could have kicked himself; he had dished out that tripe more for Kistler’s benefit than Schiller’s.
“Then perhaps I should tell you that we stand little chance of finding the criminals, and our only hope for a quick end to this is that they send a ransom demand which you will pay for your grandson’s return, and all that will be left for us to do is to catch the killers as quickly as possible.”
Kistler stood up suddenly like a towering volcano. His dark eyes levelled at Hoffman like the barrels of a shotgun. “There is little to be gained by that kind of defeatist language, Oberkommissar Hoffman. Your duty is clear; you will find these murderers and return Herr Schiller’s grandson unharmed. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, Doctor Kistler,” Hoffman agreed. He turned his attention to Schiller. “I will need to interview all members of your staff, sir, including yourself and Frau Schiller.”
Schiller waved his hand at the detective. “Get on with it then, but remember this: if any harm befalls my grandson, someone’s head will roll. I trust you understand that?”
Hoffman new exactly what that meant; with Kistler eating out of Schiller’s hand like a pet dog, there was little hope of natural justice for him if this kidnap ended in disaster.
*
They had watched the news reports on television for most of the afternoon. None of them had felt much like playing cards or talking. All they wanted was their money and then they could leave. As far as the media were concerned it was the new “Baader Meinhoff” gang. Some had even resurrected the Red Army Faction. They were all at it. For all Conor Lenihan cared it could have been Osama Bin Laden who had organised the whole thing. He was simply a mercenary doing a job of work. Now he just wanted to get back to his flat in Cologne and look around for more work. Maybe the Middle East, he thought.
The sound of the van outside told them that Schneider was back. Breggie had been upstairs with the baby while he had been away. She came down within a few minutes of hearing the car. Conor thought she looked agitated and that familiar gut feeling returned.
As Schneider walked in, Breggie glanced at him quickly. Conor saw the questioning lift of her eyebrows and the alarm bells started ringing. He wondered if he was becoming paranoid about the woman. He had met psychopaths before, served with them in the SAS, and this woman certainly fitted the frame. Signals flashed from her like semaphores when she spoke. She concealed her power behind a mask of overt sensuality, but the latent, psychopathic tendencies were never completely hidden from men of Conor’s intuitive reasoning, and he could read the signals clearly. He was not afraid of her but he knew, instinctively, that to tangle with her unprepared would be like tackling a Black Widow spider.
Schneider placed a small, leather holdall on the table. “Your money’s in there. Better count it.”
Trucco took the bag and drew the zip back. He turned the bag over and several bundles of cash spilled out on to the table top. They all reached forward and drew their due towards them. Conor flicked through the bundles that were marked with his name. As he had requested, one bundle contained Euros, the rest American dollars. He had no need to count it; the code, ironically, was honour among thieves. He picked up his jacket from the back of chair where it had been most of the afternoon and stuffed the bundles into his pockets. Despite the code of honour, he slipped the jacket on.
“You will not see us again,” Breggie said suddenly. “But I have been instructed to thank you for your part in securing Germany’s future.” It was all very wooden, as though she was reading from a script. “When Joseph and I have left, you may go whenever you like. Please do not leave any trace of your presence here.” She glanced over her shoulder towards the window. “It is almost dark now, so it will be reasonable for you to wait about thirty minutes. There is a car at the bottom of the hill. The keys are in the glove box. There is a road map in the car. Good luck. Don’t get caught.”
“We might say the same to you, Breggie,” Trucco told her. It was Schneider who responded though.
“We won’t get caught,” he said, a confident smirk on his face. “I can guarantee it.” He picked up a small case that Breggie had placed on the floor and winked at them. “Auf wiedersehen.”
Breggie was already at the door, the baby tightly wrapped and clutched to her bosom. Conor thought she and Joseph looked just like any young married couple. Nobody would take any notice of them, unlike five men walking through the night to a car that had been parked nearby.
As the door closed on Breggie and Joseph, Conor became troubled by the thought of getting into a parked car and turning on the ignition.
He stood up, restless, thoughts of car bombs trickling through his mind and walked to the window. The vertical blinds had been closed all afternoon. He eased one aside and watched the van disappear from view beyond the end of the driveway. Rain spotted the pane of glass and he let the blind fall back into place.
His colleagues had counted their money and were looking quite happy with themselves. No thoughts of car bombs on their minds, Conor mused. He wondered if he should tell them of his fears; that Breggie and Joseph were not to be trusted. The rain spattered against the glass, pushed by a strengthening wind. He pulled a cigarette from a packet, holding it in his mouth for a while; thinking. Perhaps he would just tell them he had decided to make his own way; leave them to their own fate. Perhaps he was just scaremongering.
He walked into the kitchen and lit the cigarette. At the end of the kitchen a door led into a small utility room giving access to the garage. He had planned to smoke outside but because of the wind and rain he decided to use the garage. It was quite large and it would give him the solitude he needed to think a lot clearer without being distracted by the others. He checked the time. In twenty five minutes they would all be walking out of there, either to their own kind of freedom or death.
Melodramatic, that’s what it was, he thought; I’m being melodramatic. He closed the internal garage door behind him and leaned against a bench running the length of one wall. He stayed like that, smoking his cigarette until at last, he made his decision: he would go back in there and tell the others what he suspected and let them make up their own minds. He would leave on his own.
He dropped the stub of his cigarette to the floor and lifted his heel to grind it out when the bomb exploded.
It had been placed beside a wall unit about one metre from the table around which the gang had been sitting. The blast wave shattered everything inside the confines of that room. The four men did not stand a chance as the pressure wave dismembered them piecemeal. The ceiling lifted and shot up through the upper floor as the blast hit the roof trusses and shattered the roof. All the windows disappeared as the force of the blast went through them like a cannon firing shrapnel, and furniture, ornaments, burning bedding and debris shot out in a pyrotechnic display of raining fire.
Conor heard and felt the blast, but in that single moment the percussive effect rendered him unconscious as he flew across the empty garage and crashed into the opposite wall. The bench against which he had been leaning was sliced in two as the internal wall caved in under the force of the bomb. Huge chunks of brickwork spun aimlessly and the ceiling of the garage collapsed as the internal support disappeared and the weight of some of the shattered roof trusses bore down on it.
In amongst this terrifying maelstrom a fierce heat burned everything in its path as it seared through the building. Fanned by the pressure wave it scorched everything on the outer edges of the blast, blackening all it touched. A long tongue of flame filled the remains of the utility room and punched its way into the garage where it ignited the traces of oil that had seeped into the concrete f
loor over several years. Half empty tins of paint, domestic and industrial cleaning agents, methylated spirits, petroleum based products all started to explode in the small confines of the garage.
The outer, steel door of the garage had been blown open but was still attached to the roller guides. The bottom corner of the door was bent out like a dog-eared page of a book and the whole thing hung limp and useless as palls of thick, black smoke funnelled out from beneath it. As the effects of the blast subsided, the flames took hold until they were roaring skywards and pulling in air beneath them, feeding oxygen into the centre of the fire. Within minutes the entire house was a raging inferno.
CHAPTER THREE
The lights from Levi Eshkol’s Mercedes cut through the quickening darkness of the Teutoburger Wald as black clouds rolled in behind the hills. The wind whipped up little flurries of debris and the rain pushed hard against the windscreen. The wiper moved back and forth, clearing the rain in a steady stroke.
Eshkol drove without the radio on. He wanted silence, time to think. Beside him on the passenger seat was his briefcase in which he had placed the copy of the Bild Zeitung newspaper which had caused him such consternation. Why had Schiller’s grandson been kidnapped? The question had burned itself into his brain and he could only come up with one answer; it had to be the Covenant. It had to be the target. The question of who? would be dealt with at the meeting he was about to attend, although Eshkol was quite sure he knew who was behind it.
He drove carefully through the town of Bad Iburg, a charming Spa resort that always attracted a multitude of tourists. But in the gathering gloom and darkness, not to mention his own state of mind, Eshkol had no time to think of the picturesque lake surrounded by beautifully tended gardens and the lush, green swathes of the lakeside, now colourless in the evening storm.
He turned left, negotiating the bend that would take him west towards his destination. The trees lined each side of the road and he was careful to keep his speed down for fear of missing the turning he was looking for. When the small junction came he nodded to himself in satisfaction and pulled the Mercedes into a sweeping turn. The road narrowed and took him up the side of the hill until he came to the gateway of a splendid, Bavarian-style lodge.
The Eagle's Covenant Page 4
