A sign saying ‘Dylan Thomas Boathouse’ pointed in the direction of a white stone cottage perched over the shoreline in the distance. Ben walked towards it. People were ambling up and down the pathway with dogs on leads, some tourists were taking photos of the castle towers, and a couple of artists sat in the grass at the foot of its craggy wall sketching the view across the bay.
Ben scanned the horizon. It was a peaceful place, the kind of place he’d have liked to hang around for a while. The tide was out, and the sand and shingle glittered in the sunlight. He spent a few minutes taking it all in, feeling the sun’s warmth on his face, breathing in the rich tang of the sea and watching the gulls that circled and called to one another overhead. He wished he had the freedom to enjoy moments like this more often.
There were some wooden benches along the walkway. He went over to the first one as Lenny Salt had instructed, and checked the time. It was after eleven now.
Looking up and down the walkway, he watched the people going by. He saw portly middle-class tourists with cameras and walking sticks and plastic bags with gift-shop logos on them. He saw arty-looking literary types with open-toed sandals and scruffy hair, clutching volumes of poetry on their pilgrimage to the former home of the famous Welsh poet. He saw an old man bending down to pick up the dogshit that his overweight Labrador had deposited on the path, and dumping it in a bin.
But he didn’t see anyone who answered to Don Jarrett’s description of Lenny Salt.
Fifteen minutes later, he was beginning to wonder if he’d come all this way for nothing. Maybe it had been a mistake to trust that a paranoid conspiracy obsessive like Salt would turn up to meet him.
But Ben had a very well-developed sense of when he was being watched, honed over years of following people and being followed himself. And suddenly he was getting a feeling, like a tickle in his brain, that made him glance back towards the car park a hundred yards away.
He could see his big muscular Audi sitting there, sunlight reflecting off its windscreen. Three cars along was a vehicle that hadn’t been there when he’d arrived. It was a red Vauxhall estate, a junkyard special with a lopsided number plate and a blue passenger door. Standing a few steps from the Vauxhall was a skinny, hunched, white-haired man wearing khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. In his hand was a chunky black camera with a long lens, and he was staring in Ben’s direction. Even at this distance he looked strangely out of place.
As Ben watched out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be following the line of a white cruiser that was tracking across the bay, he saw the distant figure raise the camera and he knew he was being photographed. Then the guy lowered the camera and went shuffling round the side of the red Vauxhall, looking jittery and furtive and shooting a final nervous glance Ben’s way as he got in.
Ben saw a puff of blue smoke from the exhaust as the engine fired up, and heard it rev out as the guy hit the gas too hard in his hurry to get away. The Vauxhall reversed quickly out of its parking space, lurching on tired springs, headed out of the car park and turned right onto the main street through the village.
As it went, Ben saw the big tow-hitch sticking out from its rear, and he remembered what Vicki had told him about Salt living in a caravan.
Salt, you bastard.
Ben ran, dropping the stupid red scarf on the path as he sprinted back towards the car park. By the time he reached his car, the junkyard Vauxhall had disappeared out of sight down the road.
Chapter Thirty
As Adam sat slumped on the edge of the bunk in his neon-lit cell, only the hands on his watch gave him any clue that it was mid-morning by the time he heard the tinkle of keys at the door.
He turned slowly to face the two guards who walked in. One of them stayed by the door, pointing the muzzle of his stubby automatic weapon across the room at Adam’s chest. The other one walked up to him, made a brusque gesture and whistled out of the corner of his mouth. The universal sign language for ‘On your feet, asshole.’
Adam looked at him, then over at the one with the gun, who was clutching the weapon as though the prisoner might suddenly jump them and make a break for it. It seemed absurd.
‘Who do you people think I am, James frigging Bond?’
If the two guards even understood him, there was no flicker of reaction on either of their faces. Their eyes were stony cold as they marched Adam out of the cell and through the storeroom. He glanced at the swastika banner on the wall. ‘So let me guess. You’re Nazis, right?’
No reply. He gave up talking to them as they walked him out across the landing outside, back down the metal stairway and down the twisting stone corridors. The place was a maze, and after a couple of turns he couldn’t remember coming this way the previous day. A doorway led into a dim, dank room containing what looked like some kind of old service lift, a crude platform suspended by cables that vanished off into a dark shaft overhead. The guards walked Adam to the platform, then one of them stabbed an antiquated Bakelite button on a wall panel. A second later there was a grunt of machinery coming to life, and Adam felt the platform jolt under his feet. With a whirring and screeching of cables, the lift was cranked upwards through the hole in the ceiling and into the shaft. Up and up through the darkness for what seemed like forever. Then the machinery clanked to a halt and they stepped out. Another room, more doors, more incomprehensible signs. But the air seemed fresher here, and Adam thought he could detect the slightest hint of a breeze from somewhere.
One of the guards opened a door, and the other pressed his hand against Adam’s back and shoved him through it.
He stumbled. ‘Watch it, Hitler boy,’ Adam muttered over his shoulder. The guard looked at him as though he could happily have shot him dead and left him where he dropped. He shoved Adam again, harder this time. Maybe provocation wasn’t a wise option.
Then Adam stopped and looked around him at the place he’d just walked inside. His jaw dropped.
The cavernous space was built with the same stone blocks as the chamber he’d arrived in yesterday, but it was twenty times as large. The ceiling soared up like the roof of a cathedral, great archways overhead connected by a system of metal galleries and ladders. A huge, tattered swastika banner hung against the stonework. Sixty-five years ago, this place must have been swarming with German soldiers.
As a gust of wind ruffled his hair, Adam realised that the giant hall was open to the elements and bright with the first natural light he’d seen since the alleyway in Graz. He turned to see where it was coming from.
And found himself staring out over a rocky valley that stretched as far as the eye could see. Eighty yards from where he stood, a vast stone arch opened up to the outside like the mouth of a cave. At first he thought the leafy green veil hanging over the entrance was vegetation, but then it hit him that it was military-style camouflage netting designed to conceal it from prying eyes.
Now he understood what the place was. He was standing inside a hollowed-out mountain. The sheer scale of it made him dizzy.
After a long career in science, Adam was no more a history expert than he was a linguist – but he’d learned enough about World War II from his background reading on Hans Kammler to know that the Nazis had built hundreds of hidden underground bunkers, experimental research stations and factories around occupied Europe, constructed by armies of forced labourers transported from Auschwitz and the other death camps. He’d read that some historians believed not all of those secret facilities had been found. It looked as if they’d been right.
Adam could barely imagine the construction project for a place like this. It would have been like a scene from ancient times, the building of the pyramids. Tens upon tens of thousands of workers labouring fifteen hours a day for months, even years. A huge mass of human ants driven back and forth by their masters, worked until they dropped dead with their shovel or pickaxe still in hand, while more doomed souls arrived under armed convoy from the camps each day to take their place. How many must have died here, nobody would ever
know.
Between the mouth of the cave and where he stood was an aircraft, its fuselage and wings streaked red with corrosion. He stepped away from the guards and walked underneath one of the rusty wings. He’d seen this type of plane in documentaries. It was the infamous Luftwaffe Me 262 jet fighter, the revolutionary plane that could have won the war for Germany if its development hadn’t come so late. But this one seemed to have some very strange engine modifications visible through its nose canopy – modifications whose function he could only guess at.
What had they been doing in here? Adam swallowed. He already knew the answer, but it was too incredible to contemplate.
The guards interrupted his thoughts, moving him on at gunpoint through more corridors. They stopped at a door and one of them knocked. A voice answered, and they went in.
Adam was surprised to find himself stepping inside a pleasant office. Classical music tinkled softly in the background. Behind a mahogany desk sat a sandy-haired man in a smart suede jacket. He stood as Adam was shown inside, and walked up to him with a smile. The guards left and shut the door.
Adam studied the man warily. He wasn’t like the three hardcases who’d brought him from Graz, or the brutish guards. In his early forties or thereabouts, he was handsome in almost a dashing way, with a high forehead and twinkling grey eyes that hinted at high intelligence and a careful, logical mind.
‘My name is Pelham,’ the man said. The accent was English, educated, upper class. Adam’s blood chilled as he recognised the voice. It was the one that had talked to him on the phone the day Rory was taken.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Professor Connor,’ Pelham went on. ‘Or should I say, Professor O’Connor? You haven’t been the easiest of men to find, changing your name like that.’ He motioned to an open drinks cabinet behind the desk. ‘Would you like a drink?’
Adam glared at him. ‘I’d like to see my boy, you sonofabitch.’
Pelham shrugged, reached for a decanter and a glass and poured himself a measure. ‘There’s no reason why this should be an unpleasant experience for either of us,’ he said. ‘But suit yourself. Here, take a seat.’
Adam remained standing.
‘My employer regrets that he can’t be here personally to greet you. Unfortunately, his schedule just doesn’t permit it.’
‘Well, that’s a shame. I’d have liked to meet this guy. Give him my regards. Who is he?’
Pelham smiled. ‘Afraid I can’t say.’
‘No, I didn’t suppose you could. Where’s Rory?’
‘Actually very close by. Closer than you might imagine. You’ll be seeing him soon, I promise. And please rest assured that he’s been very well looked after here.’ Pelham smiled. ‘Your son’s a fine boy. You should be proud of him.’
Adam was palpitating with rage. The man’s smooth charm just made him angrier.
Pelham smiled reasonably and sat at the desk. Setting down his glass, he laced his fingers together and leaned forward. ‘Now, let’s waste no more time. There’s been enough delay already. It’s thanks to our difficulty finding you that we first had to approach your colleagues, Drs Goodman and Miyazaki.’ He frowned. ‘Regrettably, they were of little assistance. We had to let them go.’
‘Murdering bastard. They were my friends.’
‘It’s all down to you now, Adam. May I call you Adam? I hope you understand the degree of trust we’re placing in you, and that you’ll co-operate with my employer’s wishes. In a very real sense, what we’re offering you here is the opportunity of a lifetime. A chance to achieve something quite extraordinary.’
Adam leaned across the desk, so that his face was just a few inches from Pelham’s. ‘What the fuck am I doing in this place?’
‘Please don’t play games with me, Adam,’ Pelham said softly. ‘You already know exactly what you’re doing here. You’re going to make the Kammler machine work for us.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Lenny Salt was pretty pleased with himself.
As he drove out of Laugharne as fast as the old Vauxhall would go, heading away from the coastline through the maze of winding lanes that criss-crossed the countryside like a spider’s web, he had a big smile on his face. He reached out and patted the camera on the passenger seat. Nice work. He’d got some great snaps of the Red Scarf Man. That would teach Them to send some spook out to trick old Lenny Salt. Information on Kammler? Lenny smiled. Yeah, right. As if these people could tell him anything. Nobody knew more about Kammler than the Kammler Krew.
He thought about the man he’d photographed, magnified up close in the long lens. Probably mid to late thirties, in good shape. Almost certainly ex-military. Those guys all had that look about them. MI5 or CIA? he wondered. Then again, what did it matter which agency he was working for – it was all part of the same evil global fraternity.
Them. Lenny thought about Them a lot. The bastards were all in it together.
He’d seen this whole thing coming, for a long time. Had anyone listened to him? Had they fuck. And now look what had happened. Michio and Julia dead, and it was only a question of time before They got to Adam as well.
It’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you, he thought. That was one of his favourite sayings, and it never failed to make him smile to himself, because he knew he was way too smart ever to let them catch him. He’d been too clever for Red Scarf Man today, same as he’d been too clever to let himself be duped by that girl last year, that German or whatever she was, the one calling herself Luna.
Luna – what kind of stupid made-up name was that?
Lenny grinned to himself at the memory of how he’d fooled her. Same system he’d used today. Agree to the meet, watch them from a vantage point, take the pictures and slip away. Know your enemy. That was another favourite saying of his, one he took seriously. This was war. It was a matter of survival.
As soon as he got back to the caravan he was going to download the pictures onto his laptop with the others: all the people who’d ever tried to follow him, lure him or pinch his ideas. He was still working on a lot of the names, and of course most of them were phoney anyway – that was the way They worked. But he had all the faces memorised, and he was always watching out for them, everywhere he went. More enemies would come for him in the future. He was certain of that – but he’d be ready for them.
They weren’t going to get him. No chance. Not him, not wily old Lenny Salt. Always one step ahead, always on the move, untraceable, checking his emails from a different library or cyber-café every day, always paying cash and giving false names to the farmers whose bits of land he rented. Then, every couple of months, or whenever he felt the heat, he’d move on.
And now that Red Scarf Man was sniffing around, it was going to be time to pack up and relocate again. Away from west Wales, maybe up to Scotland this time. Or perhaps Cornwall. Plenty of places to hide away there, and there was always a hippy retreat or new-age healing camp where you could buy a bit of hash.
After half an hour’s drive Lenny was deep in the countryside. At the end of a long, twisty single-track lane he stopped at a farm gate, got out of the car and opened it, drove through and stopped again to shut it behind him. Cows looked up from their grazing and eyed the Vauxhall lazily as it bumped through the field. Across the other side, he reached the next gate and passed through into the wooded area where his camp was.
A few yards further up the track, half-hidden behind a sprawl of gorse and brambles, was the old Sprite caravan. He’d bought it cheap, in cash, from a secondhand dealer in the Peak District just before he’d left Manchester. As soon as he’d got it, he’d sprayed it with military surplus drab-olive paint to help it blend into the rural environments where he planned on spending the rest of his days. Home might be a box on wheels, but he liked to keep it nice and tidy.
Lenny got out of the car and walked over towards the caravan, avoiding the tripwire that was carefully stretched between two trees and attached to an alarm circuit. His hidden camer
as watched him from the foliage.
Next to the caravan was his folding table, his deck chair and the barbecue that he grilled his food on. He fancied some sausages tonight. He climbed the aluminium steps to his front door, took the keys from his pocket and undid the two heavy steel padlocks to let himself in. It was hot and stuffy inside, and he pushed open the windows to let some air circulate.
Still grinning to himself at having fooled Them yet again, he stepped over to the fridge and pulled out a can of Old Speckled Hen. Cracked the ring and raised the can in a toast to his cleverness.
‘I’ll have one of those too,’ said a voice behind him.
The can dropped out of Lenny’s fingers and hit the vinyl floor with a hiss of foam.
Lenny spun around.
The man from the castle walkway in Laugharne was standing in the doorway.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Adam gaped dumbly at Pelham, as if he’d been slapped.
‘That’s right,’ Pelham said, clearly enjoying the look on his face. ‘It’s here. I wasn’t joking when I said you were being given an incredible opportunity, Adam. You should be honoured. Welcome to the inner circle.’
‘You found it.’ Adam’s voice was hushed with awe.
‘It was found. Not by me. I’m just a man with a job to do, the same as you. Mine was to find someone who could make it work. We failed twice. Now you’re here, we’re not going to fail a third time.’ He cocked his head. ‘Are we, Adam?’
Adam was too stunned to formulate a reply.
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