He rewound the tape and froze it at the point where the man was about to cross the road. He then pulled the photograph of the BMW in front of him. He pointed at both the screen and the photograph.
“We need to identify that guy and that car.”
Hoffman picked the photograph up. The number plate was clear enough to be read through a magnifying glass. He tapped Jansch on the shoulder.
“Better put a trace on it.” He dropped the photograph back on the desk. “Perhaps we are in for a little luck.”
Jansch turned to the computer desk beside his and keyed in his personal password authorising access to police files and traffic records. He tapped in the number plate of the BMW when asked what his query was and requested details of its registered owner. The answer was flashed on to the screen inside a minute and made both of them whoop for joy.
The car was registered in the name of Jan Kloojens, otherwise known as the Dutchman.
*
Levi Eshkol arrived in Germany the following morning and was met by one of Schiller’s limousines. The Covenant had been brought over in the diplomatic pouch and Eshkol had been given diplomatic privileges accordingly. In the limousine with Eshkol when it left the airport were two, armed bodyguards. Following the car was a nondescript Opel estate, occupied by armed, Mossad agents.
Eshkol felt relaxed and at ease, no longer fearful of any attempt by Molke’s thugs to secure the Covenant from him. The journey to Schiller’s residence was uneventful and he was greeted most cordially by the great man himself.
Eshkol steepled his fingers and tipped his head forward slightly. “Shalom,” he said warmly. “Shalom,” Schiller replied. Then they shook hands and hugged each other.
“It has been a long and torturous road, my dear friend,” Schiller said to him as he showed him into the house. “Please understand how deeply I was affected by Alf Weitzman’s death; such barbarism.”
“Another Nazi atrocity,” Eshkol answered with venom, “one more reason why we should strive to curb their growing power. The Covenant will do all of that.”
Schiller took him through to the room overlooking the terrace. “Goldman and Binbaum will arrive tomorrow,” he said. “But Hess has decided to distance himself from the transfer. He feels that in his position it would not be politic to be involved in such a coveted circle of influence.” Schiller smiled. “Something like that anyway.”
Eshkol laughed. “Coming from the next President of the Bundesbank, I would think he is an expert on such matters.” The laughter subsided. “I think he’s right,” Eshkol conceded. “But he will always be a useful ally. If not, we can always use some friendly pressure.” They both laughed again.
And what neither of them realised was the subtle shift in Eshkol’s position with that last, remarkable statement.
*
Jansch came into the operations room in something of a hurry. In his hand he was carrying the statement made by the desk clerk at the apartment building. There were not so many officers in the room now that Hoffman had wound the case down to a lower priority, and none of them bothered to give him more than a glance as he went directly to Hoffman’s office.
The chief looked up at Jansch’s knock on the door frame. Hoffman’s door was rarely closed.
“Yes Uwe, what is it?”
Jansch laid the statement on the desk. “The desk clerk has identified the second man as the one in the photograph. It links Kloojens with the kidnap by direct association. We can lay this at the Dutchman’s feet, no trouble.”
Hoffman had been reading. He removed his glasses and laid them on the table. “It’s all coming together too neatly, isn’t it?”
“Sir?”
Hoffman tapped the report in front of him. “This is the report from ballistics.” He stopped and pointed to the vacant chair opposite. “Sit down Uwe, sit down.” Jansch did as he was asked and waited for his boss to continue. “The bullet that killed the de Kok woman was fired by Kleiber after he raped her. Somehow she managed to kill him. Interestingly, the gun that she used was also the same gun that killed Jurgen Krabbe and Oscar Schwarz. We are fairly confident that she killed Joseph Schneider before she fled the house in Düsseldorf.” He leaned back and stretched his arms upwards. “So,” he said, expelling his breath explosively, “add that to the evidence, circumstantial or otherwise, and we can lay the blame for the deaths of all the terrorists at the hands of Breggie de Kok, which means you don’t need the brains of a rocket scientist to work out that Fraulein de Kok intended doing a runner with the Schiller infant and claim the ransom for herself, much to the chagrin of the Dutchman.”
Jansch let the discourse run over him for a while.
“You haven’t mentioned Conor Lenihan,” he pointed out.
Hoffman threw up his hands. “How can I? Much as I hate to say it, we have to accept that our evidence is quite flimsy. We cannot prove he had anything to do with the kidnapping, nor with any of the people I have mentioned.” He leaned back in his chair, one elbow pressed into the armrest, his other hand extended. “He was watched going towards the Hoeffler apartment block, but he was not actually seen going in there because G9 lost sight of him. The security camera tapes were bloody useless so we can’t prove he went in there. And if he did, nobody saw him come out. He led us to the baby. People got killed but we are not convinced of the ‘whom’ as much as we are of the ‘manner’. We believe Lenihan was involved but,” he shrugged, “we can’t prove it.”
“But we know he is up to his neck in all this,” Jansch said pointlessly.
Hoffman agreed. “Yes. I know it. You know it. We all know it. But can we convince a court of this?” He shook his head. “Unlikely.”
Jansch opened his mouth. Then he shut it again. It was fairly obvious that, apart from trying to pin some minor felony on the Irishman, it would be a complete waste of police time and money in trying to prove a case against him: all the witnesses were dead.
“You mean he’s free to go?”
Hoffman nodded. “I’ll interview him again. You know, go through the motions. Otherwise, yes: Conor Lenihan is free to go.”
Jansch knew Hoffman would never let a criminal go if he had just a micron of proof of the criminal’s guilt. And here, he had nothing. Jansch, like Hoffman, knew it was over. He nodded his understanding to the chief and walked out of the office.
Hoffman watched him go and waited until he had closed the door before reaching for the phone. He held his hand over the instrument and thought about what he was going to do. It was unethical, criminal even. Then he thought back to that day he had looked upon the carnage wrought by Breggie de Kok and her fanatical killers, and the promise he had made to himself. He thought about the bodies of those who had been gunned down with no mercy. The young woman whose only crime had been to be a member of Schiller’s staff, employed as a nanny to the baby, to have her life cut off because of some invidious fanaticism. He had promised himself that day that he would bring the killers to justice, and were it possible, see them dealt with by their own kind of justice in a place where the arm of the law courts could not reach. His hand touched the phone. He felt he had no alternative; Conor Lenihan was as guilty as sin, and by freeing him he had released on to the world another terrorist who was ready to kill again.
“Get me Meckenheim, British desk. Yes, thank you, I’ll wait.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Conor stood on the steps of Police Headquarters, a free man. A limousine with blackened windows waited at the kerb exactly as she had described. There were no media men, no press photographers nor TV cameramen. No one gave him a second glance as he hurried down the steps and crossed the pavement to the limo. He pulled open the door and climbed into the rear seat. The car was empty, except for the driver who glanced in the rear view mirror. With barely a sound the car pulled out and settled into the steady flow of traffic.
The ringing phone startled Joanna. She had just walked in from the nursery where she had spent some time with Manny. He was sleeping now
and Joanna’s mind was on her son and how close she had come to losing him and, perversely who she had to thank for his safe return.
She picked up the phone. “Frau Schiller.”
It was Hoffmann. “Guten tag Frau Schiller. This is Herr Hoffmann.”
“Good day, Herr Hoffmann,” she continued in German. “What can I do for you?”
“Frau Schiller, now that you have your son back, I imagine you might feel that the case is now closed. All settled, so to speak.”
Joanna frowned. “Well, apart from tying up loose ends as you people often say, yes, I would think that the case is closed.”
“For you, yes, but for my department there is still much work to be done. The investigation will continue until we have caught all those involved in your son’s kidnap.”
Joann sat down, curious now. “So what can I do for you, Herr Hoffmann?” she asked.
“Frau Schiller, we know that there is still one suspect unaccounted for; one member of the terrorist gang who attacked you. It is my duty, and my desire to catch this man. I intend stopping at nothing to see that justice prevails.”
“Very commendable, Herr Oberkommissar,” Joanna replied, “but why are you telling me this?”
“Frau Schiller, let me be frank. You are an intelligent woman and I am sure that, without being a policewoman, you probably understand what is meant by the due process of law.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Whether I continue on this case or not is immaterial, but the case will never be closed until all those who were involved, before or after the kidnap are brought to justice.
We know there is still one killer out there, and we know that he has received shelter from a member of the public.”
Joanna began to sense warning bells ringing in her head.
Hoffmann continued. “We believe that member of the public is a foreign national, which would mean prison and deportation for that person should he or she be caught, tried and found guilty.”
“Herr Hoffmann,” Joanna interrupted. “Why are you telling me this?” She could feel her hands beginning to tremble.
“Frau Schiller, is your phone secure?”
Joanna nodded. “Herr Schiller is very sensitive about that. It’s secure. Unless your department has put a tap on the line,” she said testily.
“No taps, Frau Schiller, I can assure you. So,” he paused. It had been removed. “I will speak frankly. We know that Conor Lenihan was a member of the team that attacked you and kidnapped your baby. We know that he is guilty of the murder of those members of your staff who died, including Helga.”
Joanna gasped, not from surprise but at the heart rending reminder of Helga’s bloody death. Hoffmann droned on.
“We know that Lenihan has been in your house, under your care and protection, and we believe it was because you had reached an agreement with him to return your baby.”
“That’s nonsense!” Joanna stammered.
“Harbouring a known killer is a federal offence prosecuted by a term in prison of at least ten years,” Hoffman continued. “On release you would be deported, by which time your son Manny will no doubt have been placed in the care of somebody appointed by Herr Schiller. Your son would not know you, Frau Schiller, and I have no doubt that you would not be allowed access to him because of your known association with the killers and your subsequent term in prison.”
Joanna was sweating now. The phone began to slip through her fingers. She hastily wiped her fingers on her jogging bottoms. She could feel her hands trembling. She cleared her throat and tried to remain calm.
“You’re clutching at straws, Herr Hoffman, there is no way in the world my father-in-law would allow you to prosecute such a case on the flimsiest of evidence. His lawyers would laugh you out of court. It wouldn’t even reach court,” she added in a flourish.
“Frau Schiller, I have spoken to Irmgard Ballack.”
Joanna felt herself weaken at the knees. Irmgard Ballack was Helga’s mother. She had been with the Schiller family for years. “Yes?” she barely whispered.
“Frau Ballack lost her daughter. Killed by Conor Lenihan. Imagine how she would feel if she learned of your connivance in the kidnap.”
Joanna stood up. “That isn’t true Hoffmann,” she shouted. “You are making this up. Why?”
“Frau Schiller, I want Lenihan to pay for his crime. He is a killer and must be stopped. At the moment he is free and appears to have powerful friends. I know he is on his way back to your house right now. How else will this look when we compile a dossier of evidence against you?”
Joanna couldn’t answer for a while. She could understand everything Hoffmann was saying. She knew that even being linked to Lenihan was dangerous. Guilt by association some would call it. No smoke without fire, they would say. Probably even claim that she had conspired with the killers to have her baby kidnapped in order to bring pressure on her father-in-law into paying a huge ransom. None of it would be true, of course, but she knew exactly how the media and consequently the German public would look at it.
“What can I do?” she asked eventually. “All I am guilty of is knowing this man. I only met him a couple of days ago. If you press those kind of charges, Herr Hoffmann, you know they will not be proved, but you will damage me and my reputation for ever. Why? What will you gain from it?”
“Think of Helga. Think of another eighteen year old girl, or boy, caught up in the crossfire of some murderous association. There will be others, Frau Schiller, I can assure you. Maybe not in Germany, but certainly elsewhere. These men hold no allegiance to anybody but the highest bidder, believe me. They have neither morals nor scruples. You ask what will I gain from pressing charges against you? The answer is I will gain nothing. But you will lose everything.”
Joanna took a deep breath to steady her beating heart. “Herr Hoffmann, why did you ring me? Was it to frighten me? Was it to make me feel ashamed of something I haven’t done? Was it to bargain with me?”
“Yes!” he said quickly. “To bargain with you. And in return I will guarantee that this conversation and everything I have mentioned will be history: it will never see the light of day again.”
“So what is it you want?” Joanna asked hesitantly.
Hoffmann told her, and his voice became persuasive, using subtle argument and reasoning. There was no way in which her name could be revealed or ever discovered, for obvious reasons. He fell short of saying it was her duty, but reminded her of the torn and mutilated bodies, of the young girl, Helga who was to have been Manny’s nurse. He used very powerful words. All Joanna had to do was ‘deliver the parcel’, nothing else.
Joanna was still trembling as she replaced the receiver. She couldn’t believe what she had just agreed to do as she drew her hand away from the phone, but added to what she already knew, and the conversation she had just had, there was no doubt in her mind what had to be done. It was justice. It’s what governments do, Conor had said.
She heard the sound of the car through an open window and hurried out to meet him. She felt nervous and now just a little afraid. She hoped he wouldn’t notice. Conor didn’t; he was just pleased to be there and mentally fired up for what they had planned to do. He smiled at Joanna, thanked her and followed her into the spacious lounge.
“You would like tea, I take it?”
He liked the way she flicked her hair back over her shoulders as she turned to speak. “As ever,” he answered.
Joanna rang for tea and sat herself down on the leather Chesterfield facing Conor. He sat down opposite her.
“Now,” she began. “I spoke to my father-in-law this morning and asked him to delay his plans, even if he wouldn’t cancel them. But I’m afraid he will not budge.” She pushed her hair back. Conor thought she looked a little nervous, which was understandable considering the import of what she was about to do.
“You couldn’t appeal to his sense of duty?”
“He’s a Jew,” she told him testily. “He sees it as his duty.” Then she apologised. “I’m sor
ry; I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It irritates me though.”
“Only ‘irritates’?” He sounded suitably amazed. “It bloody well infuriates me. The man’s playing with millions of lives.”
“He doesn’t see it that way,” she told him.
“More like a mission?”
She nodded. “Definitely.”
“But you will be able to stop him?” he asked tentatively.
Her black hair glistened and shimmered as she nodded. “I think so.”
“What will you do when you have the codes in? How will you handle that?”
Joanna was quiet for a moment and didn’t answer directly. “I’ve spoken to my lawyers.” She put her hand up to ward off Conor’s protest. “I asked about the possibility of getting an injunction against him. If it’s heard in the Judge’s Chambers, it will not get into the Press. I also spoke to Doctor Kistler. I know now he’s not the best man to talk to because he’s in thick with the Volkspartei, but I need an influential ally. I didn’t tell him too much; just my suspicions.”
Conor approved. “Well, I think you can summon up enough muscle to protect yourself. And I’m not talking about my kind of muscle,” he added, laughing. “I presume you’ve said nothing about breaking into the satellites to anyone?”
She shook her head. “No, absolutely not!”
The tea arrived. Conor waited until the maid had left. “When does the transfer take place?”
She shook her head sadly. Her hair shimmered and Conor found himself, again, wishing he was there with her for another reason. “I’m not sure. It will be some time tomorrow, but I don’t know exactly when.”
“And that presents you with a problem?”
“It means I’ve got to get into Schiller’s system and sit there, undetected, until they begin their transmission.”
“And there’s a risk in that, right?”
“Yes. If his systems men are any good, they’ll spot me and blow my software to kingdom come.”
Conor winked at her and lifted his cup. “I’ve got every faith in you Joanna. The worst that can happen is you lose face.”
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