The Eagle's Covenant

by Michael Parker

  She paused and looked wistful. Hoffman could see in her expression a warm recollection tinged with sadness.

  “Hansi was working on a project with Siemens on behalf of the Schiller Corporation.” She smiled. Hoffman thought she looked quite lovely. “He persuaded Siemens to bring me in on the project. The rest, as they say......”

  She left it at that, and Hoffman could understand why.

  “Did you ever go to South Africa with the Company?” he asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “You said that the woman who took your baby had a South African accent. I just wondered.”

  She looked down at her fingernails. There was no varnish but they were still beautifully manicured.

  “I have been trying to think of where, if anywhere, I might have met a South African woman.”

  “What about England?” he asked. “There must have been a number of South Africans at University there.”

  She nodded. “Certainly, I had friends who were from South Africa while I was there. But none who had eyes like that woman. I wouldn’t forget that?” She made an attempt at a shiver.

  “If you had met this woman, do you think she might have been a fanatic about something?” Hoffman was clutching at straws.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well.” He put his hands together and massaged his palms slowly. “People like that; we remember them. That man or that woman from our childhood who stood out. Perhaps they were very tall or very beautiful. Skilful at something. Always able to achieve more than their peers. If they were fanatical we would often think of them as...” – he tapped the side of his head with his finger – “not quite right.”

  She put her hand up and shook her head. “Tell me where there is a University that doesn’t have a hundred zealots. Most of us were on some sort of crusade. Environmentalism, animal rights, left wing socialism, the whole melting pot. We were all going to save the world.”

  Hoffman could see he was getting nowhere. Joanna was not suddenly going to spring up and declare that she remembered who the woman was. The only glimmer of hope for him was that he could direct Jansch to a specific area of Joanna’s background. Perhaps he should get Jansch to concentrate his efforts on Joanna’s University background and her subsequent first year in Germany. After that, her more recent past, he believed standard police procedures would turn up any undesirable South African woman who had come into Joanna’s circle.

  “Well, I don’t think there’s anything else I need to know at the moment, Frau Schiller, so I’ll leave you alone. But you will let me know if you remember anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem, won’t you?”

  Joanna assured him she would. She stood up and offered her hand to him. He shook it gently, thanked her and showed himself out.

  When he had gone Joanna picked up the internal phone and rang through to Schiller’s central control room where she knew he would be working. He answered the phone almost immediately.

  “Manfred, this is Joanna. I have decided to go home.”

  She heard Schiller gasp. “Meine liebchen, are you sure? To England?”

  “No, to Bad Godesberg.” Bad Godesberg was south of Bonn. It was the home Joanna and Hansi shared as man and wife. Joanna had not been in the house since her husband had died. “I cannot wait around like this with nothing to do. That policeman comes each day, we talk and he goes away. It’s driving me crazy; I need something to occupy me.”

  “So why are you going back to Bad Godesberg? You haven’t been there for so long.”

  “That’s why I’m going. I need something to do.”

  “Very well, Joanna. I’ll phone through to our Bonn office and have them take the guards off the house and open it up for you.” When his son had died and Joanna had left the house, Schiller had put a security team in place on full time surveillance. “How will you travel?”

  “By helicopter please, Manfred. I don’t want the press to know where I’m going.”

  So it was done, and Joanna was the happier for it. She was sorry she had to be so deprecating to the policeman, for it was something Hoffman had said that had made up her mind. And perhaps one day she would thank him for it.

  *

  Conor was ready. It was early evening and he meant to be at the skinhead’s flat before the dead man’s partner turned up. On the way down the stairs of the house where he had his bed-sit, he bumped into Frau Lindbergh. As ever she was polite and enquiring. Conor was polite back to her and took his leave. No need to antagonise the old girl, he thought as he gunned the Volkswagen into life.

  After Conor had killed the skinhead he had searched the man’s wallet for a name, and the possibility of a connection with Breggie or Joseph. He found the man’s name, it was Krabbe; but there was nothing in the wallet or the apartment to connect him with anybody that Conor knew. He took the front door key with him to because he intended to return to there.

  Conor parked his car some way from the apartment and walked. He let himself in with the key, checked the dead body was still there, and set about making himself as comfortable as possible.

  He found what he needed to make a cup of coffee and settled down to watch some television. It was about two o’clock in the morning when he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. He got up, switched the television off and went to the front door as the bell sounded.

  When he opened the door, he saw the man who had been with the skinhead – the driver of the BMW. He was quite tall and was wearing a leather jacket over a sweatshirt and jeans. He looked a great deal smarter than the skinhead.

  “You Oscar?” Conor asked, pointing a finger at him. The stranger looked taken aback and not too sure of himself. He nodded.

  “Yes. And who are you?”

  “John Buck,” Conor lied. It was the name he used on his forged passport and normally when dealing with people who had no need to know his real name. It was just another measure of security for Conor. “Jurgen can’t make it tonight, asked me to help out.” He stepped out of the door and pulled it to behind him. “It’s OK,” he reassured the man who was looking decidedly unsure. “I know what we’ve got to do.”

  “You’re not German.”

  As an observation, it wasn’t particularly bright because Conor’s German was heavily accented.

  “I can still do what Jurgen can do.” He walked to the stairway. “Come on then, Oscar. There’s work to be done.”

  Oscar wasn’t moving. “I want to see Jurgen.”

  Conor gave him a look of exasperation. “He can’t talk right now,” he told him truthfully. “He’s tied up.”

  Oscar hesitated, and then seemed to make up his mind.

  “OK,” he said at last. “We can talk on the way.”

  They went down the stairs to the BMW and were on their way to Conor’s place within minutes.

  The talk was mainly of Oscar trying to figure out why Jurgen had not let him know of this change of plan and the fact that he didn’t know Jurgen had any English friends.

  Conor did not wish to disabuse him of the idea that he was English, so said nothing. Instead he concentrated on trying to glean as much information from Oscar as he could.

  Presently they pulled up in the street outside Conor’s apartment. All it needed now, Conor thought, was for Frau Lindbergh to look out of her window and glance down the street. He put the thought from his mind as they walked to the flat and up the stairs. When they got to the door, Oscar looked at Conor and put his fingers to his lips. To Conor’s amazement, Oscar shoved a picklock in the keyhole and opened the door.

  Conor then followed Oscar in who was holding a silenced pistol in his hand. Conor followed suit. He went through the motions with Oscar of checking every room in the flat and coming to the obvious conclusion that the flat was empty.

  Oscar dropped into a soft chair, obviously pissed off with the lack of a target.

  “He’s not here,” he said unnecessarily.

  “How did you know he would be here?” Conor asked.
“Who told you?”

  “The Dutchman.”

  “The Dutchman? Who’s that?”

  Oscar seemed to be a mile away. He suddenly looked up. “I don’t know. He’s just a voice on the phone.”

  In the darkness it was difficult to see any expression on Oscar’s face. A thin light from the windows pierced the gloom. The familiar things in the room were picked out in soft relief; shades of grey and black.

  “Perhaps he doesn’t live here anymore.”

  Oscar reached over to a chair and picked up a discarded newspaper. “This wasn’t here last night. It’s today’s, so he must have been here.”

  It was truer than Oscar realised. Conor had been back to the flat and left the newspaper. He had also made himself a drink, opened a tin of beans and threw the beans down the toilet. The can he had dumped in the rubbish bin in the kitchen. He had done enough to let them think, if they took the trouble to look, that the flat was still occupied.

  “He must be out on the town, nightclubbing. We can wait till he comes home.”

  Oscar shook his head. “We could be here all fucking night. It wouldn’t do to be seen leaving the flat in the early hours of the morning.” he stood up. “No, come on, we’re off.”

  He was walking out of the flat before Conor realised what was happening. It wasn’t quite the way he had planned it. He had hoped he could learn more from Oscar, perhaps a direct link to Breggie or Joseph, by working his way into the man’s confidence. But judging from Oscar’s desire to leave the killing to another day, Conor had blown his chance.

  He followed him down to the car, his mind working furiously on how best to gain an advantage out of this dismal situation. He reckoned on no more than a few hours could elapse now before the skinhead was missed and someone found him.

  If he hadn’t got something from Oscar by then he would have to go back to his old apartment and wait for them to come to him. That would mean giving them an advantage because by then they might have guessed who had killed the skinhead. If so, Oscar would come back packing more than just a single gun.

  Conor still hadn’t really made up his mind what to do when Oscar pulled up outside the skinhead’s place.

  “You want off here?”

  His thought processes were working furiously now. In a few seconds Oscar would ask him again. He had to make a decision which would be irrevocable.

  “There’s something in Jurgen’s flat I want you to see,” he said suddenly.

  Oscar looked puzzled. “What?” he asked.

  Conor affected an apologetic air. “I should have showed you before we left tonight. It’s important though. I know Jurgen would like you to see it.”

  “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

  Conor shook his head. “I don’t think so. It may be gone by tomorrow.”

  Oscar sighed heavily and killed the engine. “It had better be worth it,” he warned.

  Conor got out of the car and led the way to Jurgen’s flat. He opened the door with the key he had taken from Jurgen’s body and ushered Oscar in.

  “Down there,” he said, pointing towards a door at the end of the hallway, turning the light on.

  Oscar began moving down the corridor, avoiding the trainers on the floor and the coat. Conor remained behind him. When Oscar reached the door, Conor urged him to open it. He placed his hand on the door handle and let the door swing open on its hinges.

  The light from the hallway fanned across the interior of the room as the door swung open. Oscar saw the familiar impedimenta of Jurgen’s lifestyle coming into the light. The long settee on which he and Jurgen had shared many a beer came into view, followed by Jurgen’s feet. His legs sprawled at an unusual angle. One of them was covered in blood from a massive wound at the knee.

  The door stopped swinging and Oscar edged it open. Jurgen lay there. Even in the half-light Oscar could see the whiteness of the skinhead’s flesh, blanched by the spectre of death against the obscene blackness of his dried blood.

  Oscar knew, at that moment, his own life was over. He had walked into the hangman’s pit where death was the inevitable companion. He turned and looked at Conor who had pulled his gun and was now pointing it at him.

  “You did this.”

  It was a croak. The words cracked and scattered across his dry tongue. Beneath his jaw he felt his heart pounding inside its prison. There would be no release from death row.

  “Sit down.”

  Oscar was now looking at a different man. Gone was the ‘Englishman’ he had taken little notice of. Now he was staring at a killer. One who, like himself, showed no mercy nor feeling for his victim. But now he would know what it was like to feel the fear; to drink from the chalice of insanity and suffer its pitiful harvest.

  His legs started to tremble. Their strength seemed to wilt until he feared he would fall. The shaking rippled through his body and blurred his vision. Tears formed behind his eyes and unseen fingers gripped his loins.

  In less time than it took him to walk the length of Jurgen’s room, Oscar had become a nervous, bumbling wreck.

  “On the settee, next to your friend.”

  Conor had to push him. Oscar stumbled across the floor and collapsed on to the settee next to the lifeless form of the skinhead. He tried to edge away from the body as though fearful that some contact might unleash a plague on him.

  “What are you going to do?” he clamoured forlornly.

  Conor pulled an upright chair round and sat astride it, still pointing the gun at Oscar.

  “You know what I’m going to do, Oscar.”

  “No, please. Let me go. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay anything.” Oscar’s pleading was a rambling, coward’s attempt at begging for mercy. Conor hadn’t really expected it.

  “I have some questions for you.”

  “Anything, anything.” He had his hands up like a priest blessing a congregation. “Ask anything you like.”

  “Who’s the Dutchman?”

  Oscar slumped back in despair. “I don’t know. I swear.”

  Conor believed him. It would have been most unusual for the foot soldiers in a well-run terrorist organisation to know their commanders. Or at least, know where they lived and have direct access to them. It did happen though, but often through a lack of disciplined control.

  “How do you contact him?”

  “I don’t. He contacts me.”

  “How?”

  “By phone.”

  It seemed reasonable to Conor. The Dutchman would issue his orders when necessary. The troops would always be waiting around for those orders. Otherwise they would get on with their lives.

  “Is there a code word you both use?”

  Oscar nodded. “He gives me the new code word each time he phones. I use it when he phones again.”

  “So the next time he rings, you repeat the code word he last gave you?”

  Oscar nodded again. He wasn’t looking so wretched now. Probably, mused Conor, because he feels a little less threatened.

  “What’s the next code word?”

  Oscar lifted his head but was reminded by Conor waving the gun at him that resistance was futile.

  “Gullit,” he said weakly.

  “What?”

  Oscar drew a deep, painful breath. “Gullit. He was a famous, Dutch footballer. He uses Dutch footballers all the time.”

  “So when he phones, you simply say ‘Gullit’?”

  “Yes. There’s nothing else.”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  Oscar shrugged. He made a small movement with his hands. “That’s it. He tells me whatever it is he wants me to know or do. I repeat it. He gives me the next code word and hangs up.”

  Conor nodded thoughtfully then stood up and shot Oscar twice in the chest. The force of the bullets threw Oscar back into the settee. His arms opened out and fell by his side and his chin dropped on to his chest.

  Conor went across to him and put his fingers on the side of his neck. There was no sign of a pu
lse. He went through Oscar’s pockets, took his wallet and car keys and walked out of the flat.

  *

  When Oscar died, Breggie was nursing a very unhappy child. Throughout the previous day and through the night, the baby would only sleep for short spells, after which it would wake up crying. Feeding the baby did not always pacify him, and his temperature was giving Breggie cause for concern.

  Her own problems were pushed to the back of her mind as she fought to control her temper and alleviate her tiredness by snatching sleep whenever possible. Joseph had proved to be quite unhelpful and had no patience at all.

  It was about four in the morning when Breggie laid the infant Manny in his cot, gently pulling her hands away and almost holding her breath for fear of disturbing him. She laid the back of her fingers very lightly on his cheek and could feel the worrying heat from his soft skin. She yawned and lay down on the bed beside the cot. Within minutes she was fast asleep, but not before promising herself that she would seek advice when day came.

  Luckily the baby slept until about eight o’clock. When he woke Breggie, she was quite pleased to think she had got four hours of uninterrupted sleep. The baby’s tears were through hunger, and Breggie was much the happier for that. She got Joseph out of bed and told him to make coffee and sort himself out, and then she tended to the baby’s needs. One hour later, Breggie was ready to seek the advice she had promised herself.

  She drove herself to the shopping mall she had visited two days earlier, intending to take advantage of Joseph, and leave him longer than the thirty minutes she had promised. Breggie had no intention of staying out too long though because she did not feel she could trust Joseph enough to leave Manny with him for more than an hour.

  She found a large chemist department store and waited until she caught the assistant’s eye.

  “Could I see the pharmacist?” she asked, glancing towards the dispensing end of the counter.

  “Of course.”

  The assistant brought the pharmacist over. She was a tall woman, bubbly hair, blonde. More like a dancer than a chemist. Breggie felt unusually nervous. If she had been pulling an Uzi out to gun the woman to death, she would have had that familiar adrenalin rush and sexual emotion she enjoyed at the kill. But now she was a kitten.