Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  “For being the person I thought you’d be.”

  It was her turn to look out of the window now, a touch embarrassed by his affection. Her brain spun, trying to bring everything into focus. If Wolfgang were on to something with his madcap conspiracy theory, and this message seemed to tell them that he was, then maybe Uncle Pete had been murdered. All because somebody wanted someone else on the plane dead.

  That’s rubbish. It didn’t matter how you unpicked it, it still didn’t seem to make any sense.

  “They torched my apartment.”

  “What?”

  “Just before I came through customs, I checked the local TV station. The top floor of the apartment block has been arsoned.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “They don’t think so, but my neighbour, Herr Doppner, his place suffered from the fire as well. He didn’t deserve that.”

  They were both looking at each other now as the taxi driver navigated the late rush-hour traffic. Thankfully, most of it was going the other way.

  Both of them remained quiet, reflecting on the newly shared news.

  “I found the man in your apartment.”

  It was Wolfgang’s turn to show incredulity. “What?”

  Sam motioned ahead with her hand, pointing at the taxi driver. Then she raised her finger to her mouth, indicating silence.

  “Let’s wait until we get to the pub. Then we can discuss this further. We might have something.”

  “Sure. Good thinking.”

  For the rest of the journey they both sat in silence. Sam didn’t feel the need to say anything, and, it seemed, neither did Wolfgang. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence; it just seemed right.

  When they got to their destination, Sam paid for the taxi and led Wolfgang into the pub. They took a small table in the corner of the lounge bar, away from the noise of the darts match. She sat, while Wolfgang returned from the bar with a bottle of house Merlot and two glasses.

  As he was sitting down, Sam said, “You need to think about your family in all this. These people, whoever they are, are serious. If they don’t get to you, might they have a go at your mother?” Wolfgang had mentioned the death of his father and his surviving mother the first time they had met.

  “I’ll speak to my mother. She has good relations with the local polizei, and they will look after her. She knows nothing of my work, but I can make something up, and she will take some precautions.” He took a sip of his wine. “Who’s the man?”

  Sam took out her Nexus, which she opened in “nonwork” mode. It was easy to disguise, and it looked just like a normal tablet, other than its ruggedised shell.

  “Here he is.” The tablet displayed the non-Interpol version of the image of Herr Heinrich Bischoff that she’d put together. “He’s forty-nine, lives in Leipzig.” She handed the Nexus to Wolfgang, who studied it intently.

  “I’ve been able to do a little more research on him. He’s ex-Stasi, although he was a very junior agent when the Wall came down. He has a minor criminal record, most of which is for public disturbances at right-wing rallies. But, wait for it, he was cleared of arson in November last year.”

  Wolfgang stopped staring at the tablet and looked at Sam, a frown on his forehead.

  “What did he set alight?” There was no allegedly from Wolfgang. He had his mind made up about Herr Bischoff.

  “A sports centre”—Sam paused for effect—“that was housing refugees from eastern Europe and Afghanistan. Nobody died, but that was due to the quick thinking of a janitor who raised the alarm.”

  “Bastard.” Wolfgang made the statement through gritted teeth.

  He tilted his head to one side. “I don’t suppose you can tell me how you know all this?”

  Sam looked across the pub to the bar. The landlady had just come down the stairs and was serving a customer. She waved at Sam, who waved back. The landlady stared a bit longer than was necessary. Then she winked. Sam grimaced back.

  No, there was no way she could tell Wolfgang how she had accessed an Interpol database of national criminals considered to be an international threat. Nor could she tell him that she had interrogated their systems and dug up Bischoff’s police and court records.

  What she hadn’t been able to do—mostly because she had spent nearly all of the day going over new and old images from the southern Middle East, trying desperately to find something that might lead them to where Tony James was being held—was look at the scores of video clips SIS had of far-right demos in Germany. She wanted to try to paint the man onto a canvas, which was wider and more descriptive than just a mug shot.

  “I know someone who knows someone. Let’s leave it at that.” She took a sip of her wine. “To complete my research, my friend did establish that Herr Bischoff has links with the Church of the White Cross. It’s a thinly disguised Christian/fascist group that advocates white supremacy and takes much of its doctrine from the Masoretic Bible.”

  Wolfgang looked confused.

  “It’s a Hebrew version of the Old Testament and thought to be the oldest known version of the Bible. I had to look the last bit up,” she added with a smile.

  “So, is it Bischoff or the Church of the White Cross who is after me?”

  Sam didn’t answer immediately. She took a final sip of her wine. It felt late, and she hadn’t eaten yet. She looked at her watch. It was 9:00 p.m.

  “Have you had anything to eat? I’ve made up a chilli, if you’d like some.”

  Wolfgang was all smiles again now. Not that look again. He’s got to stop that.

  “My favourite,” he replied charmingly.

  Grrr.

  “Let’s go back to my place. It’s a short walk from here.” Sam was pointing unnecessarily in the direction of her flat. “You can do some more research while I get food on the table.”

  “What about the wine?” Wolfgang placed his hand on the unfinished bottle.

  “Take it with us.”

  With that, Sam led, giving the landlady a final wave. She winked back again, mischievously.

  Oh, don’t.

  As they got outside, Sam turned to Wolfgang. “Turn the data off on your phone. And if your iPad is data enabled, do the same.”

  Wolfgang stood still for a second and, before following Sam’s instructions, asked, “Why?”

  “If your phone is on data and they know your number, they will be able to triangulate your position.” Oops, probably shouldn’t use such technical language.

  Wolfgang didn’t ask any questions about how she was quite so savvy. He just turned off both devices.

  Once in the flat, he was very complimentary about this and that. She had tidied it before she’d left for work that morning, although it was always immaculate—too long in a barrack block for the discipline to wane. While she busied herself in the kitchen, he walked round the sitting room, making kind, but banal, comments like, “This is a nice vase.”

  Sam ignored them.

  “Tell me about your conspiracy.” She raised her voice to be heard in the sitting room. She was putting some more cumin in the chilli, whilst helping herself to the glass of the Merlot Wolfgang had poured for her.

  So he started. It was a long story, which included some amusing anecdotes about a boy called Josh Baxter. By the time he’d finished bringing Sam right up to date, they were halfway through the chilli, with Wolfgang helping himself to some more salad.

  “Nice dressing.”

  “Thanks. It’s my mum’s speciality. How many crashes do you consider to be significant?”

  “OK. You ready?”

  Sam took another mouthful of food. Wolfgang was sitting opposite her at a dining room table just big enough for the two plates, salad bowls, and their wine. He’d mellowed over the past couple of hours, and she was fascinated by every action—the way he pushed his pasta onto his spoon with a fork; the way he wiped his mouth with his napkin after every mouthful. He sipped his wine just as you’d expect someone who lived in a castle might—she was no further forward
in discovering exactly where he lived, but she hoped it was a castle—and his manners were impeccable, but not overly fussy. He helped her to food, served her wine, and only started eating when she was ready. He was, there was no doubting it, a perfect gentleman.

  As Wolfgang opened his iPad, he beat her to any admonishment by commenting, “It’s OK, it’s not connected to the Internet.” He swiped and prodded the screen and then started.

  “First, 1975, Air Maroc 707 out from Casablanca—one hundred and eighty-eight dead; same year, Olympic Airways NAMC YS-11A out of Athens—fifty dead; 1979, American Airways McDonnell Douglas DC-10, an internal flight from Chicago—two hundred and seventy-one dead; 1982, Pan Am 727 internal flight out of Dallas—one hundred and forty-five dead . . .”

  Sam interrupted him. “Hang on, Wolfgang, this might take some time. Save you reading out all the detail, can I look at the document?”

  “Sure.” He handed her his iPad. She studied it for a moment.

  “There are thirteen aircraft on here, dating back to 1975. Although this doesn’t include Uncle Pete’s, I notice. How many passengers are we talking about?” She did a quick sum. “Two thousand three hundred?”

  “Actually, two thousand four hundred and seven, to be precise. And I’m sorry, but I haven’t yet found the energy to include the latest crash, although I do think it will be the fourteenth.”

  “And how many individuals are you interested in?”

  “Well, if you look at the other tabs on the spreadsheets, you’ll see that I have all the manifests. Go on from there, and I have associated age”—he was pointing across the table and touching the bottom of the screen—“nationality, gender, occupation, and some other fields against all of the passengers.”

  “Religion?” She looked up from the tablet.

  “Yes, where I have been able to find out.”

  “And what’s the diagnosis? Can you find thirteen or fourteen connected victims?” Sam could have smiled at that point, mocking him. But with his latest news, who was she to say he was wasting his time?

  Wolfgang cleared his plate and took a sip of his wine. He placed his napkin, ruffled, on the table beside his plate.

  “No. Sorry.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I have tried to cross-reference many individuals against all number of fields, but I can’t, yet, find a common thread.”

  “So, not religion?”

  “No. Not that I can see.”

  “Although . . .” He paused.

  “Go on,” Sam pressed.

  “Look. Some of the stuff I’ve being doing hasn’t quite been above the law. Low-level hacking and similar. Very recently I was attacked—that is, my machine was breached—by a server I had targeted. The person who did it was interested in nuclear power. Actually, power companies per se. You remember that I mentioned the Pennsylvania meltdown event in 1979, the one that may not have been an accident? Well, they were looking at that as well. So, I thought maybe this is about energy. The control of energy. Worldwide reserves and things like that.” He was excited now. Like a child. His enthusiasm was infectious. And attractive. “I did a very quick enquiry on my database, and there is someone on nine of the flights who has an energy-related background. I need to look again at the remaining flights and see if I can find anyone else.”

  “And the Koreans!” It was Sam’s turn now. “They were professors from KSTAR, the experimental nuclear fission centre in Daejeon. You met them.”

  “Yes, of course. That would be ten! I need to look at this. Now!”

  “Hang on, Wolfgang.”

  Sam put her hands out to signify “stop.”

  “I have to work in the morning. And the dishes need to be done. We have time tomorrow. You could sightsee and do some research—but not here in the flat. If anyone is watching your data, you know—and we could compare notes by e-mail during the day and make a plan for tomorrow night. And the weekend.”

  Wolfgang was already on his feet, collecting the dishes. He was almost in the kitchen when he said, “Let’s go to Leipzig.”

  “What?” Sam was on her feet now, but not because there was washing-up to do, although she would help. She couldn’t talk about this sitting down.

  “Let’s go and find out more about Herr Bischoff. And if we fly into Munich, we can overnight at my castle.”

  Sam dropped the plate she was carrying. Thankfully it was only a few inches above the table and, apart from making a clattering sound, didn’t break.

  “Everything OK in there?” Wolfgang was making his own noises in the kitchen.

  “Did you say castle?”

  “I think I did.” Wolfgang was making more noise now, as if trying to hide from the question.

  “Is it a big castle?” Having got a grip of her plate, Sam was now chasing after him into the kitchen. It didn’t take long.

  “It’s more of a schloss than a castle. But aren’t all castles big?” It was a nonchalant remark, yet the impact was anything but.

  Sam put the dishes to Wolfgang’s right. He had already turned the hot tap on and was reaching for the washing-up liquid.

  “OK then. Yes, let’s do that. Yes. That would be great.”

  Blimey.

  Chapter 13

  SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London

  Jane was running on empty. She had left the office after midnight and was back at work by six thirty.

  Yesterday was about two key meetings. The first was the JIC. The focus there was the direction of intelligence gathering to try to find Captain Tony James. The mood was buoyant, but other than “do what you do,” nothing substantive came out of the meeting, save a small reallocation of money between departments. The chief’s “five o’clock” was a prolonged affair, focusing on the news that David had been spiked with a Clostridium botulinum/ricin cocktail.

  It was an unparalleled attack on British soil. But who was behind it? Was David working on something that had made him a target? Was it a revenge attack? They had identified the main organisations that had the wherewithal to plan and carry out an attack. But the emergence of so many terrorist groups, loosely affiliated with religious militants—including a number of independent two- and three-man cells—made narrowing down the field almost impossible. And the breakup of the Soviet Union, even though it was some time ago, still provided opportunities for residual experience, talent, and resources to be bought and used. It was all highly complex.

  The chief had asked Jane to stay behind. After metaphorically checking her pulse, they had discussed Greyshoe.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as more than just a coincidence that David was attacked within a day of the reopening of Greyshoe?”

  The link hadn’t been lost on Jane, especially as she was now code-word-cleared and, as such, a potential target.

  “If they can run ex-CIA agents as far afield as the Middle East, then whoever, or whatever, it is must be capable of almost anything,” Jane had replied. She was still convinced that Greyshoe was a worldwide conspiracy. Probably led by the West’s far right, to further polarise opinion and force an all-out religious war between Christianity and Islam.

  “Maybe. I guess you’re on the East-versus-West conspiracy theory. I’m more along the lines of paying back David for thwarting the Ebola incident. If Linden Rickenbacker is putting the pressure on his predecessor, then Johnson might just be warning everyone to leave well alone. But, I have to say, it all seems pretty unlikely.”

  He had been tidying his desk and was now reaching for his coat. It was late.

  “Press your team on who might be capable of producing the poison. Stick to Europe only, as we discussed at the meeting. See if they can come up with anything. Who is it, Tim . . .? Sorry, I can’t remember the chap’s surname. He’s an old Iron Curtain man. See what he has. And, Jane . . .”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Be careful; someone is after us.” He was staring straight at her, his coat in his hand. “And get some sleep. In that order. You’re no good to me if you can’t function.”

>   It was all well and good, the chief sending her home, but she had a mound of files greater than the number of weeks she had left in the year. And now she had to put something out so that her team would be thinking about the poison issue in preparation for tomorrow morning’s meeting.

  That was yesterday. Now, still under pressure and still feeling tired, she was arriving a couple of minutes late for said meeting.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  There was a steaming cup of coffee in front of where she normally sat. Claire was ready to take notes and half pulled out Jane’s chair so she could sit down easily.

  “Thanks, Claire. And for the coffee.” A soft retort, almost under her breath.

  Jane looked up at the group. It now included a new team member: Mo Alfari, an Iranian-born analyst who specialised in the emergence and spread of so-called IS or “Daesh.” The chief had seconded him onto the team as soon as it was clear that Tony James might be alive.

  “I hope you’ve all had chance to say hello to Mo, although I guess most of you have met him around and about. And you’ve seen my note about David’s attack?”

  Everyone around the room nodded.

  “So, two things. First, Mo. Anything to add on Glasshouse?”

  “Thanks, Jane. There’s a lot happening among Daesh’s hierarchy on the Saudi peninsula at the moment. There has been a rift in Yemen between the so-called leader, Abu el Afari, and Ali Abdullah Sahef, the deputy. The latter has claimed responsibility for the capture and murder of the SRR soldiers. In Saudi, Daesh’s leader, Omar Ahmad, is reportedly unwell, either from natural causes or after a US drone attack on his headquarters in Al Jawf a couple of weeks ago. My understanding is that Sahef is looking to consolidate Daesh leadership in both Saudi and Yemen.” Mo paused for breath.

  “And where does that put Tony James?” Jane asked.

  “He’s a prize. Sahef has scored countless brownie points with the hostage affair. Now he has his own tame British soldier, whom he can showboat.”

  “You mean like a tiger on a leash?” Sue asked, in a disgusted tone.

  “That’s exactly what I mean. But this is good news for us.”