The Nuremberg Puzzle

by Laurence O'Bryan

  She put a hand to her forehead. She was pacing the upstairs corridor now, zombie-like. Her head was bowed. How could he ask her to choose between her husband and her son?

  “I can’t…I can’t just stay here, Henry.” Tears sprang through her eyelashes. She wiped them away, fast. “I won’t.”

  Henry’s tone softened. “I understand, Mrs Ryan, but you must think about Alek.”

  “I am thinking about him. I’ll call you when I’m in Nuremberg.” She closed the call.

  Ten seconds later it rang. It was Henry.

  “If you insist on going, then I insist on dropping something in to you this evening.”

  “What?”

  His voice dropped. “Will you be there in an hour?”

  “Yes.”

  She called her sister who lived thirty minutes away. Jenny agreed to take Alek for a few days. Jenny and Isabel had been distant after their mother had died, but since Alek had been born they’d become a lot closer.

  She said she’d be back for Alek by Wednesday evening. She said a prayer that Sean would be with her. This couldn’t be anything that serious, could it? A shiver ran down her back at the thought. No, he’d be all right. He had the best survival instincts of anyone she’d ever met. They’d get through this.

  She had to stay positive. She tried to read a Sunday paper on her iPad, even for a minute to look at the headlines, but she couldn’t. There was way too much turmoil in her head. She paced up and down the kitchen instead.

  Her concern for Sean was getting deeper the more she thought about it. Was this anything to do with his work, that paper he’d delivered at the conference? Some of the neo-Nazis who’d come slithering out of the woodwork since the refugee crisis, had been threating politicians and academics. There’d been physical attacks too. The anti-refugee riots had brought out the thug element in German society.

  The door buzzer sounded. She was at the door in two seconds. They’d had a new security camera installed, and toughened glass, but still she felt vulnerable.

  She looked at the screen on the wall. It showed the porch outside the door. It was dark on their side road at the back end of the King’s Road in deepest Chelsea, but she could see enough from the porch light to make out Henry Mowlam, MI5’s finest. He was carrying a brown envelope.

  Relieved, she opened the door. He had a long blue coat on. It looked as if it had been purchased that afternoon from a department store that catered only for mid-level government employees. Unusually, he was tieless. He didn’t smile as Isabel let him in.

  “Are you still insisting on going to Germany?” were his first words.

  “My sister’s husband is collecting Alek shortly.”

  He glared at her.

  “Shall I take your coat?”

  “This won’t take long. May I have your phone, Mrs Ryan.”

  “Why? I’m sure you can monitor every call and Facebook message without seeing it.”

  He held his hand out.

  “Come with me.” She led the way down the corridor to the kitchen. Alek had appeared from his room. He was sitting in front of the internet connected TV in the far corner of the kitchen now watching YouTube. He glanced around as they came in. She waved at him, smiled, hoping not to worry him, then sat at the large, old fashioned kitchen table, and passed Henry her phone.

  “Don’t break it, please.”

  “I won’t.” He put the brown envelope down on the table, took a pin from his lapel and pushed the SIMM card holder out of her phone. Then he placed her SIMM on the table and opened the envelope.

  Inside was a slim smart phone with no brand on it. It could have been an Apple prototype or a Samsung or any other brand, there was no way of knowing.

  “This is the phone you’ll be taking to Nuremberg,” he said, as he placed her SIMM inside it.

  “What’s this phone going to do that mine can’t?”

  “It sends your current location to us directly at all times, and, if you press the front screen hard and fast, it will emit a 150 decibel shriek for exactly ten seconds. That will have anyone within five metres covering their ears in pain. It’s not likely you’ll need it, and I won’t test it here with your son around.” He glanced over his shoulder at Alek, then turned back to her.

  “But the most important thing is that we’ll know where you are at all times.”

  “Have you requested tracking on Sean’s phone?”

  “Yes, but I’ve had no response yet.”

  “I knew it. It will be days before they get back to you.”

  “I requested priority on this, but they do have an emergency situation going on over there.”

  Isabel picked up the new phone, switched it on. It asked for a password. She put in her own. It worked. They know everything. The phone screen wasn’t the same as hers, but it had a messages icon and a contacts icon and weather and the other usual icons you’d expect.

  “It doesn’t have Facebook, Mrs Ryan, but I don’t expect you’ll be announcing where you’re going.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “If you come across anyone from the German security service in your travels Mrs Ryan, tell them you know me.”

  She thought for a moment. “Will you tell them I’m going to Nuremberg?”

  His expression didn’t change. “Yes, Mrs Ryan. We work in cooperation with the BfV in Germany. We’re both on the same side, despite what the EU haters might prattle on about.” Now he smiled, but just a little. “Do you still want to go?” He stared at her, willing her to change his mind, it seemed.

  “Yes.”

  “You should be aware that the infection that has killed 44 people in Nuremberg and the rest of Bavaria, and has now spread to Berlin and Hamburg. The death toll is predicted to reach hundreds, Mrs Ryan, possibly thousands. It is likely that the recent anti-refugee riots will get worse too. Victim blaming is common, when there’s a chance the victims might infect you. Are you prepared for this?”

  “Is it true that everyone who has died so far is from one ethnic group?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “So far, that’s correct. But this is not unexpected. Infections often spread to family and friends first, then beyond. It’s only a matter of time before the epidemic reaches others. We don’t believe there is any infection that targets one ethnic group exclusively. We expect to see all nationalities among the final casualties.”

  Isabel shifted from one foot to the other. “Is that all?” She had things to do. She had to pack for Alek, and for herself.

  Henry didn’t pick up the hint, or he deliberately ignored it.

  “How is everything at InfoFreed, Mrs Ryan?”

  “Everything is good, Mr Mowlam.” She looked him straight in the face. Was he going to use this as an opportunity to try to get some leverage over her?

  “I’m sure it is. The data security measures you implemented for them are very good, I hear.”

  He was well informed on many counts.

  “Just one thing. Like you do, we recommend InfoFreed doesn’t move to Iceland. Security there will be a little more questionable than it is here.”

  “You must be reading my emails regularly, Mr Mowlam.”

  He shrugged. “What do you expect?”

  “Nothing less. You are supposed to be guarding the free world.”

  “And you’re still going for the seven thirty flight in the morning?”

  “Yes, don’t you know that already, or are your internet systems a little clunky still?”

  He didn’t react to her comment. “I was alerted when you bought a ticket forty minutes ago, Mrs Ryan. What I was asking you, is whether you are going to use it after all that I have told you.”

  “If your partner was at risk, what would you do?”

  35

  “If you make any problems, that is where you will end up, Herr Ryan.” The guard pointed at the gleaming mincing machine. He laughed. It was the laugh of a sadist enjoying himself.

  “What the hell do you want from me?” said Sean. He ste
pped back from the guard, looked around for a weapon. There was nothing obvious and the guard’s gun was still pointing at him. He would have to wait for his chance.

  “What were you doing up above?” The guard aimed the gun at Sean’s heart. “Answer me. We can dispose of you, turn every part of you into animal feed. I don’t think the hamburger shops will say no.” He grinned. “Now, tell me what you are doing here.” His eyes gleamed with pleasure. “Go on, have a look inside these boxes to see what they make here.”

  He waved Sean towards the blue containers. The other guard was observing things with a twisted look on his face.

  Sean walked toward the box, lifted the lid. Pink liquid sloshed around. His stomach rebelled at the stink of meat.

  He dropped the lid, turned back to the guard. “A friend told me there was something buried under this church. I decided to have a look. I was going to leave when you found me. That’s why I’m here. That’s all I can tell you.”

  The guard’s expression didn’t change. He pointed at a door in the wall. It was wooden and looked like the entrance to a store room. “Get in there.”

  “No,” said Sean.

  “Do it now.” He came towards Sean, raised his weapon, pointed it at Sean’s head.

  Sean shrugged, went towards the door. As he put his hand on it he turned.

  “Someone will come looking for me. You won’t get away with this.”

  “In.”

  The man pushed him hard in the back, as he opened the door. Sean fell forward. The only light in the room came from a small three-inch square opening above the door, which appeared to be there to provide ventilation. There was a wooden table at the far end of the room, pushed up against a wall. The table was bare. It was the only furniture in the room, which was a little wider than the reach of his arms and perhaps double that deep, with the roof only a foot or so above his head.

  The door banged shut behind him. The light dimmed. The room was a gray mist now, illuminated by bars of thin light coming from the hole above the door. He went to the table, pulled it to the door, stood on it, looked at the hole, and checked if it could be expanded. It was surrounded with dull old-looking metal. There would be no easy way out. He walked around the room, paced the four walls slowly. There was definitely no other exit except through the door.

  He sat on the floor. An iron weight had descended on his shoulders. He had brought all this on himself. If he hadn’t started poking his nose in to what was going on here, he would be back in his hotel. He groaned to himself, got up, stood near the door, listened. He could hear talking outside. Then a bang, as a door slammed closed.

  The good news was that it appeared the room outside was used regularly. Whoever the owner of the butcher shop was, they would probably be back in the morning to use the equipment.

  The downside was, whoever worked out there had to be in on what was going on. Either that, or those guards would do something with him before the owner turned up. That thought made him close his eyes, press his fist into his forehead. What was he going to do when they came back?

  He gripped his arms around himself. A distant rumbling sounded like a motorway far beneath his feet.

  36

  Vanessa Sheer scrolled down the screen of her laptop. The executive meeting room at the Nufaben facility was clinical and bright, although it had no windows. The doctor would be coming back in about fifteen minutes, after he had made the preparations.

  On her screen was a graph of the monies on deposit in the various European regional offices of BXH. As usual, at the end of the weekend, the subsidiary Spanish and Swiss offices balances had jumped from money transfers.

  The transactions of identity-disguised drug barons were the chief source of the weekly jump, she knew, but every transaction complied with World Bank rules for money laundering.

  A vibration from her phone broke her concentration. She slipped it from the pocket of her Chanel trousers, smiled. It was the call she’d been waiting for.

  She put the phone to her ear, listened for a minute to the politician on the other end, as he ranted about the deteriorating situation in Nuremberg, and the fear which was spreading fast now that the German people knew what was loose in their country.

  “The streets are almost empty!” His voice was no more than a squeak. She could imagine him combing his fingers frantically through the few hairs drawn across his almost bald dome.

  “I have appealed to the speaker of the Bundestag for a recall of parliament.” He stopped his rant, probably to draw breath.

  “What will you do if your appeal is granted?” She was waiting for the right answer. If the man didn’t give it, he would be reminded of what he’d already agreed.

  “We will seek to pass the law we discussed, which our sub-committee has drafted.”

  “Good. What did you call it in the end?”

  “The Law for the Protection of Genetic Groups. This is similar to what you suggested. But we will raise the budget for the temporary rehousing and quarantine measures beyond what you suggested. No one will argue with any of this now. They would be run out of office by a mob if they did.”

  “Very good,” said Vanessa Sheer. “We are right to protect genetic minorities. The German people will be proud of you. When will you present this law to the EU parliament?”

  “Tomorrow. We have enough votes with the Hungarians and Poles and a few smaller countries to push it through as a recommendation to the European Commission. A few others will want an opt-out, but the rest will fall in line. The craziness over the refugee situation has changed everything. Who will stand against us?”

  “Just make sure it happens.”

  “We will provide free transport vouchers and the promise of a bonus to each immigrant’s bank account when they arrive for rehousing. That was my own little touch.”

  “What about the refugees who don’t arrive at a facility within the next forty-eight hours?”

  “They will be fined, as we agreed. There will be escalating fines, arrest warrants, detentions. We are lucky these crises are coming together.” He sounded happy.

  She didn’t bother telling him that luck had nothing to do with it.

  “You have all German patriots behind you.”

  “Your other important work is moving ahead, Vanessa?” He sounded excited.

  She thought for a few seconds before responding.

  “I’ve had confirmation that we will find the last piece of evidence we have been looking for soon.”

  “Sehr gut!” came the reply.

  The line went dead. She went back to examining her screen. The only noise now was a hum from the powerful air conditioning. She didn’t pay it any attention. She had a lot to do before Xena arrived.

  37

  Isabel held the handrail on the S-Bahn underground train. With its blue plastic covered seats and pale wooden walls it reminded her of pictures she’d seen of the London Underground in the Seventies. The train lurched around a curve, then stopped. They’d reached Nuremberg Hauptbahnhof, the central station. She moved with the stream of people getting off, her breath coming fast, as thoughts of what might happen, now that she was here, swirled inside her.

  She pushed her way past pensioners with woolly scarves, young people in jeans and trendy leather jackets. She was elbowed by a boy with black spiky-Mohican hair and a silver chain hanging from his ear. He stared at her, muttered something she didn’t understand. She looked away. She didn’t care what these people thought. She had to find Sean.

  A slow gray escalator took her up to the main hall. She made her way out of the front entrance. The station was a massive Gothic pile looming behind her. A long line of pale-yellow Mercedes taxis waited nearby. She opened the door of the first one, got in, put her black back-pack beside her.

  She gave the name of Sean’s hotel. The driver moved off, slowly. Tramlines stretched away in all directions. A medieval city wall with a round fortress tower, topped with a spiked roof and red tiles, sat directly opposite the station. Almos
t everything else was gray. There were twenty shades of it. A rush of traveller anxiety gripped her. She checked her pockets, her bag. She had everything.

  They were weaving through narrow streets. After a few minutes the taxi dropped her outside the hotel.

  “Please call Sean Ryan’s room,” she said to the receptionist.

  There was a chance he was back, that his phone had been damaged or something had happened to it. Perhaps this was all a misunderstanding. It was the final slim hope she’d been clinging to during most of that morning’s journey.

  The receptionist grunted something she didn’t understand. He was a large man with a disinterested expression. He checked his computer system, picked up a phone, dialled a number. “Herr Ryan is not available,” he said, after listening for half a minute. He peered at his screen.

  “Did he leave a note, any message? I am his wife.” A black pit was opening up inside her.

  He looked in a pigeon hole behind his desk then checked a large green leather diary. “I am sorry, we have no note or message from Herr Ryan.” He looked at her, his face softening, sympathetic now, as if he was used to seeing wives looking for their husbands.

  “Perhaps he will call you.”

  She shook her head, turned away, headed for the door. She had no choice now. She took her phone out, scrolled through a web page she’d saved, called the university where the conference Sean had been speaking at was being held. After ringing for a long time someone answered, and after explaining herself slowly, she was put through to a friendly English-speaking voice.

  “How can I help?”

  “I’m trying to contact Sean Ryan. He was speaking at your conference at the weekend. I was hoping he might still be there. I’m his wife.” It was another long shot. The edge of the phone was tight against her ear.

  “I am sorry. We didn’t see Herr Ryan at all at our conference. We were expecting him but he did not arrive. I cannot help you.” A note of pity had entered the woman’s tone.

  Isabel thanked her.

  “Central Polizei, Jakobstlatz, bitte,” she said to the driver of a taxi she found at the corner of the street.