He climbed out, retrieving the ticket, waited for Hagen to pluck their bag of weapons off the back seat, then locked the car and pocketed the keys. Then Morschel took another set of keys from his jacket and aimed the remote control at the Jaguar. Hagen deposited the bag on the floor right in front of the back seat, where it would be easily accessible if necessary, though neither man really expected to need the weapons again.
Morschel backed the Jaguar – purchased by one of his men almost a month earlier and parked here waiting for this moment – out of its space and drove it down the ramps towards the exit. He stopped on the second floor and fed the ticket into a machine, paid the modest charge – having been in the car park only about eight minutes – then drove on down to the exit. The automatic barrier lifted as soon as he inserted the ticket in the slot, and he turned the Jaguar out of the car park and onto the street.
‘We need the southbound A229,’ he instructed Hagen, who was studying a map of Kent. ‘Keep your eyes open.’
Because of the traffic flow, and the sheer volume of vehicles on the road, they had little option but to drive through the centre of the town, but that wasn’t a problem. They now had plenty of time in hand.
‘OK,’ Hagen said, ‘straight on here, and just follow the signs for Staplehurst. When we get to Shepway, look out for the left turn towards Tenterden. That’s the A274.’
‘Got it. Make the call now and tell them we’re about ten minutes away.’
Hagen pulled the mobile from his pocket and dialled a Kent number. ‘This is Mr Williams,’ he announced, in fluent and unaccented English, once his call was answered, ‘just advising you we’ll be with you in about ten minutes. We’re running a bit late, so if you could be ready as soon as we get there, that would be much appreciated.’
He listened for a few seconds, then ended the call.
‘They’ll be waiting for us,’ he confirmed.
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
Mason was back on the line in under four minutes.
‘All the airfields have flights booked that fit your criteria – lots of training trips, first-time experience flights and PPL lessons, but only Lydd and Headcorn have bookings for flights to France. There are three from Lydd and a couple from the other airfield. In all cases the passengers are a couple of males.’
‘Thanks. We’re guessing that Headcorn’s the most likely, because it’s closer to Rochester. Thanks for that. We’ll take it from here.’
Richter got back on the intercom. ‘Headcorn,’ he instructed the pilot.
Headcorn, Kent
Just eight minutes after leaving the outskirts of Maidstone, Hans Morschel was driving over the bridge at the southern end of Headcorn village on the Biddenden Road. Almost immediately beyond, he pointed to the left.
‘There it is,’ he said.
Hagen nodded and replaced the map in the glove-box.
A few seconds later, the Jaguar turned left off the main road into Burnthouse Lane, and then swung left again, taking the second entrance into Headcorn aerodrome.
‘The weapons?’ Hagen gestured to the bag stashed behind the front seats, as soon as Morschel had pulled the car to a stop.
‘We’d better take them, just in case.’
Each man was wearing a modified shoulder holster designed to carry the MP5 with the stock folded. Within a few seconds they’d pulled the sub-machine guns from the bag, checked that each magazine held a full load and carefully tucked the weapons out of sight. The two men left the main parking area and headed for the terminal buildings, but almost the first thing they saw when the runway came in sight was a large yellow Sea King helicopter, emblazoned with RAF roundels, sitting on a hardstanding.
Hans Morschel had survived as long as he had through possessing a highly developed sense of danger and the moment he spotted the chopper he stopped dead.
‘We saw one just like that over the Medway,’ Hagen remarked anxiously.
‘Exactly,’ Morschel replied, his glance flicking left and right, searching for any signs of a police presence. But he saw nothing to give him cause for concern and then began to relax as Hagen pointed out a bowser approaching along the taxiway and coming to a halt beside the Sea King.
‘It must have just come here to refuel,’ Hagen said.
‘Maybe,’ Morschel responded. ‘Or maybe not. Let’s assume it didn’t, so keep your eyes open, just in case.’
Then they carried on towards the building housing the air charter company they’d booked with.
‘Is that them?’ asked Richter, staring through the window at the two approaching men, both carrying large holdalls.
‘Could be,’ said the young pilot standing beside him, ‘but don’t forget I’ve never laid eyes on this man Williams. The booking was done over the phone, and he’s supposed to be paying cash, so I’ve no confirmation that’s even his real name. The timing’s about right, though.’
He glanced at the combat shotgun Richter had stashed behind the office door. ‘What are you going to do now? Arrest them?’
‘Probably shoot them,’ Richter confessed, ‘once I know for sure they’re the two men I’m looking for.’
‘Jesus,’ the pilot muttered. ‘They don’t look much like terrorists.’
‘If we knew what terrorists actually looked like, identifying them would be a whole lot easier. Right, give me your name tag and then thin out. I’ll take it from here.’
The pilot handed over a plastic clip-on identification badge that bore a set of stylized wings and the name ‘Peter Hughes’. He then disappeared through a door at the rear of the office.
Richter clipped the name tag to the lapel of his leather jacket, which he had to keep on to conceal the shoulder holster he was wearing, picked up the SPAS-12 and carried it behind the counter that ran along the back of the room.
Moments later, the office door opened, and the two men he’d been watching from the window walked in. The moment Richter saw the thin-faced man clearly, and from a distance of no more than fifteen feet, he was ninety per cent sure he was looking at Hans Morschel. The image Karl Wolff had originally shown him was indelibly imprinted on his mind.
‘Good afternoon,’ Richter began, in his best corporate voice. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes.’ Hagen placed his bag on the floor and stepped towards the counter. ‘You’ve a reservation for Williams plus one, for a flight to France?’
For a bare half-second, Richter glanced down at the booking ledger lying open in front of him, then looked up with a smile. ‘Dinner in Le Touquet, I gather, gentlemen.’
‘Actually, we’ve got business there this evening,’ Hagen said, ‘and we decided to spend the night.’
‘Good decision. Le Touquet airfield closes at eighteen hundred UTC, so you probably wouldn’t be able to get back tonight anyway. And what about tomorrow? Do you want to book an aircraft for your return journey?’
‘No, thanks,’ Hagen said. ‘We might decide to stay on for a day or two. We’ll let you know later.’
‘No problem,’ Richter said. ‘We’ll be taking the Piper PA28 Cherokee that’s parked just outside.’
He pointed to a red and white aircraft visible through one of the office windows and, inevitably, both men glanced in that direction. As they did so, Richter dropped his gaze from their faces and looked at their chests or, more accurately, their jackets, and could see the distinct bulges under their left armpits. OK, that was far from conclusive – they could just have very fat wallets – but it suggested they were armed, and that was almost enough for him. But there was still the faint possibility that he was mistaken and he needed to be absolutely sure before he acted.
As the two men returned their attention to him, Richter stared at Morschel. ‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere,’ he said. ‘Have you flown with us before?’
The German shook his head firmly. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Oh,’ Richter said, reaching down behind the counter and seizing the pistol grip of the SPA
S-12. ‘Then it must have been over in Germany, just before GSG 9 hit your base in Stuttgart.’
For an instant, neither man moved, then almost simultaneously they stepped apart, moving sideways to present separate targets as they reached inside their jackets, their movements very smooth and well practised.
Although Richter was expecting them to do exactly that, the two Germans moved much more quickly than he had anticipated. Before he could bring the shotgun to bear, Hagen squeezed the trigger of his MP5, and Richter had to dive for what little cover the counter offered him.
A stream of 9-millimetre bullets tore through the thin wood that formed the base of the structure, smashing into the wall behind as they sought out their target. He popped up for an instant, squeezed off one round at Hagen from the combat shotgun, then ducked back down and rolled the other way.
Both MP5s opened up on him, their staccato yammering deafening in that confined space, and Richter knew he had to finish this, and quickly, or else they’d finish him. If the two Germans reached the opposite ends of the counter while he was still behind it, he’d be caught in a crossfire, and seconds later he’d be dead. He poked the muzzle of the shotgun over the top of the counter, fired blind, then ducked back again, dodging sideways.
Richter heard guttural shouts in German and, from their voices, guessed where the two terrorists had to be standing. He jumped up, finding Hagen right in front of him, sighted instantly and fired another shell from the SPAS-12 directly towards him. Then he threw himself sideways as Morschel swung round the muzzle of his MP5.
A three-round burst from Morschel smashed through the wooden counter and into the brick wall less than three feet from where Richter was crouching. But it was, he noted, now only a single weapon firing. Hagen’s MP5 had fallen silent, so maybe the last shot from the SPAS-12 had hit home.
And it actually had been the last shot, he realized. The breech of the shotgun was locked open, meaning that the magazine was now empty. Without hesitation, Richter dropped the weapon on the floor, pulled the Browning out of his shoulder holster and clicked off the safety catch. For only the briefest of instants he debated which way to go, then the sound of Morschel’s footsteps made the decision for him.
As the German stepped over to one end of the counter, Richter scuttled to the other, leapt out from behind it and turned instantly, the Browning held at arm’s length, his left hand bracing his right, the weapon aimed steadily at Morschel.
The German was caught totally wrong-footed, his sub-machine gun pointing downwards and in the wrong direction. Immediately he swung around, bringing the MP5 up to the aim. But it was never going to be fast enough. Richter pulled the Browning’s trigger once, then a second time. Morschel tumbled backwards, his shirt suddenly turning deep red as the two bullets struck him, the Heckler & Koch falling from his grasp.
Richter took a quick glance to his left, where the second German lay motionless. The 3-inch magnum round from the SPAS-12 had blown a 6-inch wide hole in the middle of his chest, and he was very obviously dead. But Morschel wasn’t, as Richter realized when he took a couple of steps towards him.
He was lying flat on his back at one end of the ruined counter, his left hand pressed against the sodden front of his shirt. It looked as if Richter’s bullets had both hit close to his right shoulder. He was cursing fluently in German and using his feet to try to reach the MP5 he’d dropped. Richter stepped around him and kicked the weapon out of reach.
Morschel glared up at him, and switched to English.
‘Get me to a fucking hospital, you bastard.’
For a few seconds, Richter just stared down at him, then he shook his head. ‘Sorry, my friend, but I’ve had explicit orders about you. You died in the fire-fight when I tried to arrest you. Just like your friend over there.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Morschel snarled. ‘That’s murder.’
‘Tell me about it – you’re the expert, aren’t you? No, my boss told me he doesn’t want the expense and inconvenience of a trial, but even if he did, I’d kill you anyway. And this has nothing to do with the bank jobs your men pulled up in London today, or your failed attempt to blow up the Richard Montgomery.’
‘So why, then?’ Morschel spluttered.
‘Because I met Helmut Kleber, or rather Gregory Stevens, on the last night of his life. And then I saw what you did to him. For me, that’s reason enough.’
Richter aimed his pistol at Morschel’s head.
‘Wait, wait,’ the German screamed. ‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Maybe not, but you organized it, and that’s the same thing, in my book.’
‘No, it isn’t. I’ll trade you. Get me to a hospital and I’ll tell you who killed Stevens. And who decided to try to blow up the munitions on that wreck.’
‘OK, I’m listening.’ Richter lowered the pistol.
‘We were working with al Qaeda, and the man I dealt with was named Ahmed bin Salalah, and he’s their front man in Europe. He came up with the idea for hitting that ship – and he killed Stevens.’
‘Who was the man on the boat, then? I presume he was a member of al Qaeda?’
‘He was just someone called Badri, and he was bin Salalah’s cousin. I don’t know if he was a member of the group or just recruited for that one job. Now I’ve told you, so call me a fucking ambulance.’
‘I don’t think so. That information’s helpful, but not helpful enough for me to change my mind.’
‘You promised, you bastard.’
‘I lied,’ Richter said, and pulled the trigger.
Hammersmith, London
Richter leant both the SPAS-12 and the MP5 against the wall in one corner of Simpson’s office and then dropped an overnight bag beside them.
‘What’s in that?’ Simpson pointed.
‘Hans Morschel and his boyfriend had a pair of MP5s. I brought their weapons along with me.’
‘Just make sure they get into the armoury, Richter. I don’t want to find you’ve stashed them away somewhere else. Right, so what exactly happened?’
Richter explained the sequence of events to him.
‘So it definitely was an attempt to blow up those munitions on the Richard Montgomery?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And you couldn’t have stopped it any other way? By cutting the fuel line or something?’
Richter shook his head. ‘Just about every control and connection was fitted with an anti-tamper charge. The man who prepared that craft knew exactly what he was doing.’
‘And that wasn’t the Arab, whoever he was, sitting in the cockpit?’
‘No. According to Morschel, he was only there as a bodyguard to repel boarders, and as a final way of detonating the explosive if everything else failed. The whole thing was automated, and he was pretty much just along for the ride.’
‘Did you have to kill him? He might have told us something useful.’
Richter nodded. ‘I had no choice. It was either him or me. He made a dive for the controls and I reckon he was going to try to fire the main explosive charge right then.’
‘No idea who he was?’
Apparently his name was Badri and he was a cousin of Ahmed bin Salalah. I think he was just a shahid recruited for the operation, but we’ll never know now, as he’s busy feeding the aquatic livestock off Sheerness. If you fancy a fish supper, Kent and Essex might be good places to avoid for the next few weeks.’
‘Don’t be disgusting, Richter. Now, back to Morschel. I know I told you I didn’t want that German thug to stand trial,’ Simpson had a sour expression on his face, ‘but what you did was an execution, pure and simple. Not exactly what I had in mind.’
‘It doesn’t matter, one way or the other. He forfeited his right to live because of what he did to Gregory Stevens. The last thing we needed was a trial with some whingeing liberal defence lawyer explaining to the jury about Morschel’s deprived childhood and all that bollocks. You have a boil, you lance it, and that’s exactly what I did. End of story. If the wo
odentops do come chasing after me, I’m quite sure you can arrange me a water-tight alibi. Perhaps a dinner in Yorkshire with a couple of the more pliable Members of Parliament who owe you favours, that kind of thing.’
‘Probably,’ Simpson nodded curtly.
‘Any sign of the money Morschel’s men took from those banks?’
‘Not yet. The Met have discovered that the fake vans were hired from a television prop supply company. They’d apparently been booked by an outfit named “BB Productions”, with an address on a trading estate in Romford. The plods have raided the premises and found nothing there apart from the replica weapons and blank ammunition supplied as part of the package, so that trail’s gone cold. All the bank accounts used to buy the company, pay the rent, hire charges and all the rest have been closed. We could try back-checking all the documentation these guys used to open those accounts, but my guess is it’ll prove to be another dead end. Two of the police vans were also found, both cleaned out. No fingerprints or trace evidence in either of them, or at least nothing the Met’s admitted to yet. No sign of the uniforms, weapons or the money, obviously. But I suppose something may still turn up.’
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting. This wasn’t just a bunch of hoods with shooters and a getaway car hitting a couple of banks. This was a very slick operation, carried out by a gang of ruthless thugs who knew exactly what they were doing. Look at the planning that was involved. They set up bank accounts, created a front company hired premises and all the rest. You’ve almost got to admire the sheer professionalism of it. And I don’t believe that a bunch of people taking that kind of trouble wouldn’t have worked out a way to get themselves and their loot out of the country. We’ve no clue who they are, apart from Hans Morschel himself, so there’s no way of identifying and then stopping them.’
‘And the money?’
‘If they haven’t organized a container or something to hide it in and then ship it over to Germany, they’ve probably just tucked it away in suitcases lying in the backs of their cars, or stuffed it under the seats. It’s amazing how much cash you can hide inside the spare wheel well. With the amount of vehicular traffic using Dover, there’s no way every car, or even every hundredth car, can be searched, so they’ve got a very good chance of not being stopped.’
Timebomb (Paul Richter) Page 34
