While stopped for diesel at an autobahn tankstelle just short of Frankfurt, she’d checked her firm’s phone for e-mails and opened a quick briefing note from David to the Op Glasshouse team. The note reported that the JIC was going to recommend to COBR that SF assault the Hajjah location tomorrow night. At the same time, they would gauge reaction from the Sana’a safe house, whilst Saudi Special Forces concurrently attacked the two targets within their borders. David had made the point that the team needed to keep pressing sources to see if they could verify Hajjah as the primary target.
It was all a little disquieting for her. On the back of her work, Hereford would be sending in a whole load of SF teams to rescue two members of the SRR held hostage by Daesh in a compound deep in the bowels of Yemen.
On the back of her work.
She didn’t know how that made her feel. If it was a success, she’d take some comfort from what she had provided. If it were the wrong choice, or if the mission failed, then she knew she would take it badly. Very badly.
But I don’t make the decisions—I just provide the intelligence. Sam pushed the thought to the back of her mind.
Whilst she had been looking over David’s Sitrep at the petrol station, her phone pinged. It was a reply from the BfV. She opened it nervously:
Dear Fr Green,
Thank you for your e-mail. We can confirm that we have a file on Count Wolfgang of Neuenburg, although he does not have a criminal record. Our interests are in his Internet search history, which has been focused mostly on major international accidents over the past thirty years.
We are also aware that he has conducted some low-level, but quite sophisticated, hacking of nongovernmental firms across the world. As far as we can tell, he has not used his ability to hack into their systems for personal gain, seemingly just to get access to information.
We are due to pass our intelligence to the Federal Police, for them to deal with the count as they see fit.
Your country should be aware that Count Wolfgang is German royalty, the equivalent of perhaps a fifth-in-line to your Queen’s throne. We suggest, therefore, that you deal with the count in a way befitting his status.
Please come back to us should you need any more information.
M Gruber
Sitting in Bertie, around the corner from the count’s home, it wasn’t the last paragraph that was making Sam prevaricate. It was more to do with her contradictory priorities. She needed to keep an eye on the cloud to see if more images came in—if only there were some more pictures showing the Black Banner. But, if she didn’t keep herself occupied, she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from closing down and dwelling on the crash site and Uncle Pete’s death. Chasing Count Neuenburg, for no other reason than he had looked at her in a funny way, filled the time quite nicely.
She’d been at the precipice before, post-Afghanistan. The black dogs, as Churchill had called them. Despair, lethargy, anxiety, and, sometimes, irrational fear. She really didn’t want to end up there again. Just thinking about it made her shoulders hunch.
Dammit! She hit the steering wheel with both hands. Her bandaged right hand throbbed.
Energised, she got out of Bertie and double-locked him with the key fob. She checked her watch. It was 7.30 p.m., starting to get dark. She looked up and down the street: substantial three- and four-storey houses, made out of big, heavy grey stone, topped with tall, acutely angled, blue-tiled roofs. She saw nothing untoward. Opposite her, an elderly lady was taking a dachshund for a walk, almost pulling the poor thing along behind her. She was no threat.
Block 12 of Pillnitzer Strasse was a couple of hundred metres around the corner.
Come on, Sam, let’s do this.
It took her about three minutes to cover the distance; once there, she was met by a set of stone stairs leading up to an ornately framed pair of white gloss and stained-glass doors. To one side was a collection of bell pushes. She tentatively climbed the steps and ran her finger up the list until she found Number 2. She had a quick look up and down the street and picked out nothing. Her finger hovered over the bell button for a fraction of a second, and then she pressed it. It rang, somewhere in the distance.
Silence briefly followed—although she was a little spooked by a noisy car that drove past whilst she was waiting. Beside the set of bell pushes was a small speaker. She expected to hear acknowledgement from her ring. She leaned toward it. “Ja?” would do.
Nothing.
And then a buzz and a click as the front door remotely unlocked. But not a word from the speaker. That’s oddly disconcerting.
She pushed the door open.
Number 2 was at the top of three flights of stairs. Number 1 on the left, 2 on the right. She made her way up quickly—and quietly—to the top landing and stopped outside the door.
Green door, single Yale-type lock. Peephole. A big brass 2.
That was all to be expected.
What she didn’t expect was the door to be slightly ajar.
There was no bell. Just a door-shaped slab of green wood, jauntily positioned to beckon her into the flat. She shouldn’t go in. I shouldn’t go in. Perhaps she should knock?
Yes, knock, you idiot.
Sam knocked. Once and then twice. No answer, just the far-off siren of the polizei attending a crime. They’d be here next if she broke into Number 2.
She knocked once more and, a fraction louder than her speaking voice, called out, “Guten Abend?”
Silence was the resounding response.
The voices in her head had already assumed that she had turned away from the flat and was making her way downstairs. So they were surprised, as was Sam, when her hand gently pushed open the door and her head looked in.
What she saw made her close her eyes. It was reminiscent of three years ago in Kenema, Sierra Leone—Mrs Tebie’s house. The place had been trashed. There was stuff everywhere: papers, books, pictures off the wall. In the distance, in what she thought was the sitting room, a bookshelf lay across the entrance, its contents no longer on the shelves.
Get away, Sam, now!
She stepped over the threshold, whilst reaching down for a small bronze statue that rather incongruously still remained upright on the floor among a pile of papers. She picked it up with her good hand. She couldn’t stop herself from looking at it. It was a green-coloured soldier, or similar, holding a shield and thrusting a sword above his head. He wore a pointy helmet. She shook her head briskly. Get back on task. All that mattered was that it was heavy.
Sam made her way tentatively to the end room which, with every step, came more into view. The corridor wasn’t well lit, but the room ahead had its lights on. She stopped in the doorway, dead still. She looked for something, someone. Nothing.
While she held her breath, listening for anything untoward, she took in what had turned out to indeed be the sitting room. To her left was a single long window with the curtains hanging listlessly across it, having been almost pulled off their runner. In front of her, and on the other side of the bookcase obstacle course, a desk took up a big chunk of the room. The large computer screen had been holed in a couple of places by what Sam thought might have been a screwdriver. To one side was a computer tower. It seemed untouched. She looked wider still. An upturned sofa, a broken TV, rubbish everywhere, and two doors, one hard left—she thought it was open, and one to the right of the desk. It was closed.
Without any plan, she stepped carefully over the bookcase. In two more steps she was at the desk. It was a jumble of papers, some pens, and a printer, which had been smashed.
She leaned forward to pick up a book that looked like it might be a diary when, in an instant, something inside her set in motion a series of events that she would forever have difficulty describing.
Self-protection is an innate, Pavlovian reaction. And with Sam this had always manifested itself as: strike first; then run.
In the dull reflection of the dark grey computer screen, she made out movement behind her. Her reaction w
as as fast as it was spontaneous—although, on later reflection, she did feel that the events of the previous three days added venom to the way in which she hit out. Sam twisted quickly to her right, giving her left hand—which carried the mightily heavy statue—significant angular momentum. She instinctively kept her head low to avoid being struck by her likely attacker, so she had no idea where the bronze, with its pointy sword, would strike.
The sound of a fleshy thud was immediately followed by a yelp as the man toppled forward to protect his groin.
Sam knew it was a man; he smelt like one.
From her semicrouched position, with her head slightly bowed, she saw that he was wearing blue and white Nike sneakers—fake, she could tell from the lack of embroidery—grey socks and tatty blue jeans. It wasn’t Count Wolfgang of Neuenburg. He would be much more nattily dressed from the knees down.
She didn’t register anything else. Whilst her left hand was twisting the sword—and possibly the helmeted head—into the soft underparts of a man who she assumed was going to attack her, her legs were moving back toward the staircase, the rest of her struggling to keep up.
Her mind blanked and didn’t allow her to think of much as she sprinted down the stairs and back to Bertie. She knew she’d left the diary on the desk—or on the floor. And the statue was implanted in the man’s crotch. She now had to put space between her and Number 2. She needed to reflect on what had just happened. And, just as importantly, why she had thought it a clever thing to come this far in the first place.
Get in Bertie, get on the autobahn, and stop at the first tankstelle. Her first rational thought.
As she ran toward Bertie, she double-clicked the key fob. In the dark Dresden street, the VW’s indicators flashed recognition that she was on her way.
A few seconds later she was in the cab. Fumbling a little with the keys, she turned Bertie over, who started immediately—as he had done every other time she’d asked him to. Sam flicked on the main beam.
Then she froze.
Standing in front of Bertie—about a metre from the bumpers, breathing deeply, but not out of shape—was Count Wolfgang of Neuenburg. The Second. She involuntarily checked his crotch for bronzes, but found just a pair of cherry red chinos. He’d changed since he’d left the crash site. Nice trousers.
He was staring at her. He wasn’t menacing, but neither was he sporting a welcoming look.
She slipped Bertie into first gear.
Still he stared at her.
She revved the engine. But she was stuck. She couldn’t reverse—there was a car behind her. And she couldn’t drive forward without knocking over a member of German royalty.
Then, surprisingly, in the glare of Bertie’s headlights, the count raised his hands. First to chest height, and then slightly above his head.
To confound her further, he tipped his head to one side and smiled. A “come on, mad woman who has followed me all the way to Dresden—we need to talk” smile.
With that smile, Sam’s fear, anxiety, and days’ worth of pent-up emotion just lost their edge. A little. Something, somewhere inside, told her to trust this man. She had no idea why. And, on this wildest of hunches, that’s what she decided to do.
For now.
Chapter 7
City Centre, Dresden, Germany
Wolfgang steadied his breathing. He had run as fast as he could to keep up with the inexplicable woman he had just watched in his apartment. Mein Gott! Sie schnell war! She had sprinted round the corner to a bright yellow VW transporter, jumped in, and quickly turned it over. Wolfgang had made it to the front of the vehicle as she switched on the lights. He just had time to lift his hands from his knees and recover his composure before he was in the full glare of the main beam.
Now, standing directly in front of the vehicle, exposed like an animal caught in its headlights, he was effectively blind.
The woman revved the vehicle, but it didn’t move. He assumed that she couldn’t reverse—there must be a vehicle behind her.
He had no idea what her facial expressions were—he couldn’t see past the lights. He assumed that she was in some state of panic. He’d just witnessed her entering the flat, make her way expertly over bits of furniture, books, and papers and through into the lounge. When surprised by the burglar—or whatever he was?—she had struck him with the noteworthy bronze statue of his great-great-great-uncle, Ferdinand Neuenburg III. Ouch! It brought tears to his eyes thinking about it. Knowing his ancestor’s predilection for men, Wolfgang imagined Ferdinand would be happy with his current resting place.
He had watched all of this on his iPad, which was remotely linked to eight hidden cameras in various locations in his flat. He knew there’d been a break-in as soon as the door was forced—his home-built security system had pinged his mobile. He was in a taxi heading from the airport at the time. Within thirty seconds he had full visual on his iPad, watching an oaf of a man, probably one hundred and ninety pounds, tall, black T-shirt, unremarkable denim jacket, tatty jeans, and the worst sneakers you could find on the Dresden flohmarkt, systematically going through each room.
The man’s actions were all very odd. It appeared to Wolfgang as if he were looking for something. He seemed to inspect each room expertly, open lockers and drawers carefully, take things out and turn things gently upside down, inside out. Only then, once he’d checked each room in detail, did he trash the place. And he didn’t mess about with the trashing.
The man with the bad shoes had tried to get into Wolfgang’s computer by turning it on, but his machine had so many levels of security it was a hopeless task. He had taken off the back of the tower and removed the hard drive, then put it together again, as though it hadn’t been touched. Clever. But why? He wasn’t worried about losing the drive. Everything he worked on was immediately backed up onto his own baby “cloud” at the family home in Munich. He’d hired the fibre optic routing to ensure that it was all exclusive to him. And all of his work was encrypted with the latest 256-bit key cryptography. All that could be dug out of the drive would be recent shadows of some work he had undertaken. Nothing important.
With the hard drive placed in a brown rucksack the man had brought with him—along with one or two other of Wolfgang’s more blingy possessions, and two thousand euros he kept in a pot on the mantelpiece—he’d taken a screwdriver to the very expensive LED monitor and was just about to do the same to the tower when the doorbell rang.
Wolfgang, who by now was crouched out of view behind the hedge of a garden opposite, had immediately stood up and looked across at the front door of the apartment block. He couldn’t make out who the visitor was from where he was hiding, but it was a woman. She had a certain familiarity about her that he couldn’t place.
He looked back at his iPad and was surprised that the man had gone to the flat’s front door and pressed the “Enter” button on the intercom. More surprising still, he had opened the front door so it was just ajar, then retreated to the bedroom. Hiding?
What, up until now, had been a mildly annoying event, immediately became a “spectacular.” It was like watching a female version of Clint Eastwood—his favourite—wander into a bar and kill all of the baddies without ruffling his poncho.
He had no idea who she was. The video quality was good, but the camera positions and the placing of the lights failed to give a good view of her face. But she had made his day. The good news was that the clip would have been rushed down the fibre optics to the cellars in Munich, where his Synology backup drives would hold it for posterity. He’d have to watch it all again later—not necessarily just for entertainment value, you understand.
And now, just like Mr. Eastwood, he was standing in front of the heroine’s carriage, stopping her from galloping off into the hills. It was all very dramatic.
He held his ground. His breathing much easier now.
The engine revved again, the body of the bright yellow transporter rocking gently with the motion of the engine.
But nothing changed.
They were still at a standoff.
Then the woman in the VW turned the main lights off, so only the sidelights were illuminated.
He could see her face now.
Scheiße! He rocked back ever so slightly. It was her! The woman from the crash site!
What? Why?
Wolfgang lifted his hands in mock defeat and involuntarily smiled at the ridiculousness of the situation. And that seemed to break the deadlock.
He didn’t have time to process any more information as, while they both kept each other’s stare, she was beckoning him forward, using a heavily bandaged hand to motion “get in the passenger’s seat . . . quickly.”
He paused, just for a split second. He looked into her eyes. She was too far away to make any real connection, but there was something about her that emanated trust. She had just damaged the man who had ransacked his apartment. Had done that expertly—and then run away. Not coolly enough that she had time to look round the flat, make a cup of tea and give the man one last kicking for his troubles. But still a very good show. Better than he could have done.
On reflection, she was good, but not that good.
Why was she here in the first place? From Abondance to Dresden. Why was she following him? So many imponderables.
Wolfgang looked down at his shoes as if thinking about the options. And then, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, swiftly but lightly made his way to the passenger door of the VW and got in.
This is going to be weird.
Somewhere on the Saudi Peninsula
The sound of the turning lock registered in Captain Tony James’s brain. It grated somewhere deep. As did the screeching noise coming from the door’s hinges. His mind fluttered, back and forth. Thoughts and images bounced around his mind, none taking the time to stay still long enough to coalesce. No, that didn’t describe it well at all. More like they couldn’t come to rest because the ground was too hot for them to step on. Burning hot. Yes, that was more like it. Thoughts and images floating about, unable to land for fear of scorching . . . nice.
Fuelling the Fire Page 11
