by Adam Hall
I caught a spark of interest in her eyes at last, or possibly it was a trick of the light. 'Did you kill the man yourself?'
'Some questions are more delicate than others, aren't they?' I looked at my watch. 'Let me leave you with this, Inge. I realise that Dieter Klaus has substantial backing from Colonel Gadhafi – the Secretary of the General People's Committee happened to mention it when I was with him yesterday – and this is why I was particularly glad to see you this morning. Klaus is a difficult man to reach, and I respect that, so you might like to suggest that I meet him, as soon as convenient.'. There was a micro-recorder lying in the well between the seats. 'May I use this?'
If you wish.'
I spoke a telephone number into it and put it back. 'You can leave a message for me there at any time: it's an answering service. Tell Klaus that I can offer him a missile with a nuclear warhead, the American-made Miniver NK- 9, in case he feels like spelling out a really spectacular statement for the prime-time news.' The increase in her saliva was triggered immediately, and I saw her swallow. 'I'm talking,' I said, 'of taking out an entire international sports stadium during a world-class match or a major airport on Christmas Eve or the Houses of Parliament in London, with subsequent fallout megadeaths and mass evacuation and the closing down of the relevant city for the next hundred years – a lasting monument, if you like, to Nemesis.' I opened the door and got out of the car. 'You know how to find me, but you must tell Klaus that time is of the essence. If he'd like a rendezvous, I can only give him till midnight.'
The sun had cleared the airport buildings and floated in the haze, a pale membrane speared by the black antennae at the top of the control tower. Shadows had begun to form on the tarmac as I walked across the slip road to the underground car park where Roach had left his SAAB.
I could see no one, had seen no one since I'd left Inge, but the skin was crawling at the nape of the neck and the scrotum was tight because in the last hour I had taken appalling risks, however calculated, and if I were going to survive long enough to debrief to my director in the field he was going to blow my head off and send a report to London.
The roar of a jet came like a soft explosion as a British Airways VC10 cleared the buildings and tilted into the haze. Something was moving at the rim of the vision field and I turned my head; it was a radar scanner. Echoes began coming from the underground garage, echoes of footsteps, and I stopped, listening; I'd been making them myself. I don't like the nerves pulling tight when there's no reason, but I never ignore them. There are vibrations in human affairs that have nothing to do with speech or contact; they are there because the primitive brainstem still protects us in a world of technological sophistication, analysing the environment, interpreting data that the senses have picked up even without our knowing, and on that level we don't understand the signals; we just feel uneasy, on edge.
The black SAAB was standing where Roach had left it; the Mercedes had been too hot for me to use again, and he would have dumped Krenz somewhere in the field for support people to look after and then driven the car to the east section of the city and left it there.
The windows of the SAAB were up and the doors were locked; he'd given me the keys, but I handled them gingerly, slipping the door-key in and waiting before I turned it. There were other people down here, and I listened to their footsteps, and the echoes they made, expecting a rush, a closing in. There was nothing of that sort, and I opened the door and got in and sat behind the wheel and took a look at the instrument panel and waited again, listening, hearing the roar of another jet that was taking off, the sound setting up a metallic hum in the lid of the ashtray.
Then I put the ignition key in and sweat sprang instantly on my skin but I turned the key because there hadn't been time for them to rig a bang, it was just nerves, that was all, and the engine started right away and I shifted the gears in and got rolling and the BMW that was parked three cars away in the same line started up too and the tyres whimpered a little as it pulled ahead of me and swerved inwards and the 380SL on the other side went into the same manoeuvre and I gave the SAAB the gun and the tyres shrilled and the left wing hit the Mercedes and was ripped away as I kept going and felt a shudder from the rear as the BMW moved right in and tried to close the trap as a Volkswagen came in from the next line and swung across my bows in a curve and I rammed it and broke through.
Another car was moving past one of the concrete pillars and it braked hard and I saw a woman with a white face behind the windscreen and then the Mercedes pulled alongside the SAAB with his tyres yelping under the acceleration and I swung the wheel and bounced off the pillar and heard the offside wing tearing away. The windscreen snowed out as something glanced across it and I thought I heard the pop of a silenced gun and then it came again and the driving-mirror shattered and I kept low on the seat and swung the SAAB full-circle across the dry concrete and looked for a gap and found one and went for it but the VW blocked me and I swung the other way, ramming the front end of the Mercedes and bringing a burst of water from the radiator and a lot of clatter from the fan.
They were shooting and they were using silencers and the clock on the dashboard took a ricochet and the bullet dropped into my lap and I left it there. Something moved in from the left side and the SAAB rocked and I dragged it straight and saw another gap and took it and hit a pillar and broke free but the Mercedes was close and we rocked again and righted and then rolled over with the roof-metal screaming on the concrete and I hit the belt-buckle and got the door open and found the Mercedes alongside with the driver slumped at the wheel with blood on his face so I smashed the window and found his gun and saw the BMW moving in and fired twice and rolled clear as it lost control and hit the Mercedes and bounced back with the driver's foot still on the throttle and the engine screaming.
The Volkswagen was coming in and I dropped the gun and waited and saw the driving-window coming down and a muzzle poking out and I dropped flat as he fired and fired again and I came up from under the window and hit the gun and felt the shock as it went off and then I found the man's throat and smashed the larynx and dragged him out of the car and got in and gunned up for the exit and went through with the man in the box there shouting because I hadn't paid and he wanted to ask me about all the noise he'd heard. I merged with the main traffic from the terminal and kept going until I found a telephone and got out and called Thrower and he picked up on the second ring.
Chapter 10: THROWER
'I need all the information you can get me,' I told Thrower, 'on the NK-9 Miniver tactical nuclear missile. Ahmad Samala should have all I want, but ask London too, tell them to fax it to you.'
'How soon?'
'Now.'
I felt blood creeping on the side of my face and got my handkerchief; my head was throbbing, just over the right temple, and the cold air was sharp on the wound. The shoulder on that side was burning but I could use my arm all right. It had happened when the SAAB had rolled.
'I'll see to that,' Thrower said. 'Where are you?'
'Tegel Airport. I need to debrief.'
'All right. I've moved you nearer there, in point of fact. You're at the Hotel Klinghof in the Haselhorst district. You're booked in and your things are on their way. You can go there now.'
He must have his reasons but I wanted to keep the call short. I needed the information on the NK-9 as soon as I could get it: Inge could phone Kleiber's number at any time to make a rendezvous and if I were going to talk to Dieter Klaus I'd have to be absolutely sure of what I was saving.
'All right,' I told Thrower. 'What street?' 'Eiderstrasse. I shall be moving to the Prinzen, nearby.'
'When?
'I'll be leaving here in a few minutes; I was hanging on in case you signalled.' There was something about his voice that was different, I thought. It was just as smooth, but there was a note of frustration coming through. It wasn't because of what had happened in the underground garage; I hadn't told him about it yet because I didn't want to waste time.
&nb
sp; I said, 'I'll wait for your call. How long?'
'We should be able to debrief in about an hour.'
'Where?
'I'll tell you when I phone.'
'All right.' On a thought – 'Have they got Helen Maitland to the airport yet?'
In a moment he said, 'In point of fact, no. She's missing.'
The place smelt of leather and coconut matting and sweat.
'Come on in,' he said.
He was a big man with thick black hair on his bare arms and a round pink head with tiny blue eyes in it that looked as though they could bore through the steel door of a strong room. Thrower had told me his name was Jim, and that was all. The battered sign outside said Jim's Gym. Someone was bashing at a punching-bag.
'Thank you,' I said, and he stood back for me. We'd exchanged paroles.
They were mostly boys in here, some with black eyes.
I couldn't have shown anything on my face but Jim said, They didn't get them here. They got beaten up by their fathers. My job's to stop it happening again.' His eyes shifted a little. He's waiting for you up there,' he said.
He led me across to some stairs in the corner.
Thrower was on the first floor in a room used for storing things, mostly half-broken furniture and a few car seats with the stuffing coming out. It was freezing in here.
'Come along in,' Thrower said.
'Is there any water around?' I was thirsty.
'I don't think so. Downstairs, perhaps.'
'And no bloody heating?' 'I didn't ask.'
He looked as smooth as he sounded, Thrower, what you'd call well-groomed, almost as bad as that bastard Loman, although this man's shoes weren't polished: he was wearing furlined boots. A long face, pale eyes, a tight mouth, fresh cuts from shaving, a short man, thin, hands in the pockets of his elegant black coat, nothing I could see to like about him, but then I wasn't in the mood.
'What happened,' I asked him, 'to Helen Maitland?'
'We'll get to that,' he said.
I was warned. It sounded as though he was used to calling the shots.
'What exactly do you mean,' I asked him, 'she's "missing"?'
He turned away – impatiently, I think. He would have to improve, this man Thrower, he would have to improve a great deal. My hands were in my coat pockets too but it wasn't just to keep them warm; they were still shaking from the reaction: those bastards had come very close indeed to writing me off and it had been noisy down there and I hate loud noises.
'I began calling her room,' Thrower said carefully, 'at seven o'clock this morning, to give her comfortable time to catch the plane. There was no answer. I called her twice more at intervals of ten minutes, then I phoned security and told them I thought there could be something wrong. They let me into her room. She wasn't there and she hadn't packed, not even her toilet things.'
'She leave any kind of note?'
'I couldn't find one. I -'
'What about -' and he stopped and waited for me. 'All right,' I said, 'go on.'
'I talked to the doorman, who said that Mrs Maitland had left the hotel at about 6.30, saying that she didn't want a taxi, she wanted to take some air. She had a coat on. That is all I can tell you.'
My fists were clenched in my pockets, to stop the shaking. I said, 'Have you phoned the Steglitz since you left there?'
'Ten minutes ago, from my hotel.'
'And she's not back?'
'No.'
Do you want to come in for a little while?
She'd been shivering, standing there outside her door, her hands pressing the collar of her coat against her cheeks. I'd said no, she needed sleep.
Just for a few minutes.
She'd leaned her head against me, and I'd held her until the shivering had stopped. I had to make some calls, I'd told her.
I'm cold, and a bit frightened, that's all.
And I'd told her to call room service, ask for some hot milk and Horlicks. That is what I had told her.
Thrower was watching me.
She'd asked me to come in for a few minutes because she was cold and frightened. Jesus Christ, it wasn't much to ask, was it?
'I've informed London.'
'What?'
Thrower, saying he'd informed London.
'I'd hope so,' I told him, 'I would very much hope so.'
Something hooted, down there outside the building, a barge, I suppose, on the river. Fog still clung to the water, but the sun was throwing a clear cold light across the buildings on the other side.
'Why don't we sit down?' Thrower said, and I looked at him.
'And what did London say they'd do?'
'All that's necessary.'
'We brought her out here, you know that? The Bureau brought her out here, on my recommendation. So they'd better bloody well find her again, hadn't they?
He turned away, turned back, and I didn't like the way he did that, he wanted me to see how very patient he was being with me. 'Look, Thrower, if they don't find -' and I stopped. In the silence I could hear the thumping of the punch-bag downstairs. It was freezing cold in here and I'd just come out of an action phase and I'd have to get some control back, especially if this man Thrower was going to run me in the field. I'd need some patience too.
'You don't have to feel any guilt,' he said, 'about this.'
'I don't?'
'The recommendation to bring her out here was yours, but the decision was London's. You -'
'Split hairs if you like.'
'You also blamed yourself, I'm told, for what happened to McCane.' He took a step towards me, perhaps because I'd been raising my voice and he wanted to keep things quiet. 'Didn't you?'
'Is this place all right? Is it a safe-house?'
'The safest in Berlin.'
'McCane? Yes, that was my -' and I stopped again. I wasn't under control, didn't sound under control.
He came closer still and touched my arm. We're going to sit down,' he said. 'I've been on my feet a lot.'
Bloody lie – he'd been in bed all night and then got into a taxi. I said, There wasn't any sign of – you know – any kind of disturbance? In her room?'
'None at all. I was careful to look for that.'
With George Maitland they'd found blood all over the floor, and I didn't want to think about it. They'd have to find her. London would have to find her. I went over to one of the car seats, he was right, I suppose, I looked as if it'd do me a bit of good to sit down. He took the other one, brushing the dust away. Tell me what's been happening,' he said.
'What?5 To you.'
'Oh. I was got at. You want to record?' We were suddenly into debriefing.
'I don't use a recorder. Just tell me.'
It didn't take long; it was just an attack, that was all. But he wanted to know the casualty figures: London's fussy about that. 'I'm not sure,' I told him. 'One of them had knocked his head against the windscreen, I think, blood all over his face. The man I shot at was certainly hit but he could be still alive. The one I pulled out of the car is dead. I went for the larynx.'
He was looking at the floor, Thrower.
'One down,' he said, 'For certain.'
'Yes. What happened to that man Krenz?
'The same thing.'
That was an accident. I went for the throat because he was trying to send the car off the road and we were in traffic, but I didn't go deep, I pulled it. I just needed to incapacitate.'
In a moment Thrower said, 'Possible heart failure.'
'Whatever. I mean I'm not trying to get out of it, if I killed him I killed him. Whatever Records want to put it down as.'
I could hear a jet gunning up at the end of the runway – we were only two miles or so from the airport. I've remembered something,' I said. 'There was a man in the night-club where I talked to Willi Hartman, a man who recognised Helen. She knew him. She told me his name was Kurt Muller.'
Thrower turned his head to look at me. I suppose he thought I wasn't taking it seriously enough, the fact that I'd killed
at least two people since I'd got out of bed this morning, shouldn't be thinking about Helen.
'Look,' I said, 'my job is to bring this mission home and prevent a couple of hundred perfectly innocent people from getting blown out of the sky at thirty thousand feet and if you want me to weep over any graves I dig as I go along, you're clean out of luck.' Punch-bag thumping down there, punch bag thumping, I wouldn't mind having a go at that bloody thing myself, punch the bloody stuffing out of it. 'All I want,' I told Thrower, 'is a director in the field who understands these things.'
Of course I took it seriously, taking human life, I always have, I've spent the dark hours huddled in the keening wind where the ghosts walk, gone sleepless through the night often enough, I'm not a clod, I'm not made of bloody stone. But I hadn't got time now to rake over the ashes of what I'd done today, I wasn't finished with it yet, and there's another thing – it's a minefield, this trade we're in, a whole complex of booby-traps set up in the dark, and I know – I've always known – that somewhere out there there's one with my name on it too.
He was still watching me, Thrower.
'Relax,' he said.
What?
'Relax. You've had a busy time.' He pulled out a notebook. 'Kurt Muller, was it?' 'Yes.' I couldn't sit still, got up, went across the bare splintered floor to look at the river, the Havel, barges on it, small boats, a hulk rusting near the bank opposite, the cold winter sunlight setting the scene in amber. 'But God knows how many Kurt Mullers there are in the telephone book.' He hadn't followed us away from the night-club, no one had, I knew that. But he might have phoned her, later, or she might have phoned him.
