Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  The prolonged silence from Jane prompted Sam to ask, “Is everything OK, Jane?”

  “Sure, yes, fine. Look, I need to think about this, quickly.” There was an alertness in her voice now; it was sharp—any previous hesitancy had gone.

  What’s changed? Is it something I said?

  “Look, Sam. You may have hit on something. Something big.” Another pause. “I can’t tell you about it. Not yet, anyway. But I do need to make it clear that you’re both in danger. My advice is to head home as soon as possible. Bring Wolfgang with you if you must, but I would abandon any further investigation. If you don’t mind me saying, neither of you are trained for the sort of situation you could be in.”

  Well OK, Jane. But we were shot at this morning and survived without too many perforations.

  “I need to think about that advice as well, Jane.” Sam’s mind was whirring. Wolfgang, who had listened to everything Sam had said since he’d delivered the coffee, had a frown on his face.

  “Do we have any agents in Germany? Berlin?”

  “What do you mean, Sam?” The question had thrown Jane. “I don’t think so. The Wall came down almost twenty years ago. Germany is an ally.”

  Sam was looking back at the kiosk. The attendant was on his mobile having an animated conversation. He was looking their way again. Something instinctively told Sam that they had outstayed their welcome.

  She pulled the phone away from her face and put her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Get the car moving.” It was a hiss at Wolfgang. He jumped up, looked over at the kiosk, and jogged over to the car.

  “Jane. I’ve got to go. But before I do, if the firm doesn’t have an agent in Germany and the problem is as big as something you’re not prepared to tell me, then you need someone in country who’s up to speed on the issues. That’s me. Phone me in a bit.”

  Sam didn’t wait for an answer. She was on her feet and met the gold Quattro as Wolfgang skidded the car to a halt. He was leaning over and had already opened the passenger door. Sam launched herself into her seat. As soon as her bum was down, and before she had chance to close the door, Wolfgang had pressed the “go” pedal.

  Chapter 15

  Western Czech Republic, Heading Northwest

  It took Wolfgang just a split second to also realise that the service station attendant was showing more interest in them than was necessary. They left the forecourt at speed, accompanied by a hail of gravel. Not long afterward he was back in the groove, driving what must be one of the best cars ever made.

  As the Czech countryside flashed past, Wolfgang held fleeting thoughts about the last couple of days. It was all something else. The whole thing. His life had been turned upside down by a combination of factors, the major one being Sam Green. He had no problem following her instructions, doing as she asked—actually it was more like “ordered.” That surprised him, as he wasn’t a natural follower. He’d much rather be in charge, but she had a sixth sense that he didn’t have—a sort of frequency dial that immediately tuned in to danger. And her reactions were razor sharp, both intellectually and physically. She was like no one else he had ever come across. A sort of female version of Jack Reacher. Only shorter and slightly more edgy.

  “How did they know we were at the petrol station?” Sam interrupted his chain of thought. It was another one of her rhetorical questions. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Wolfgang was too busy snaking the Quattro around the sublime Czech roads, all curves and dips, to add anything sensible to her questions.

  “Do you trust Tomas?”

  Whoa! That was too much. He nearly hit the brake pedal and threw Sam out of the car at that point. She might live in a world where you only trusted yourself and maybe one other person but, for him, family was family.

  “Explicitly.” He couldn’t stop himself from spitting out the word. “The Javiers have provided staff for my family for as long as anyone can remember. Tomas has been at my side since the day I was born. I will not have a word said against him.” He stared directly ahead, currently not wanting to engage Sam any more than he needed to.

  “OK, sorry, Wolfgang. What about, what’s her name? Gertrude?”

  Wolfgang drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. That’s a completely different question.

  “She’s been at the schloss for a couple of years. She’s a local girl from the village. She works terrifically hard, but I can’t say that I know her well.”

  It was Sam’s turn to remain quiet for a while. Wolfgang noticed that she gripped her seatbelt as he dropped a gear to overtake a large, slow-moving farm lorry that was stacked high with straw.

  “Is your phone off?”

  That wasn’t a rhetorical question. He nodded and said, “Ja.”

  “My phone is untraceable. Or, as I understand it, puts out multiple traces. Only my firm knows which one is kosher.” She raised her hands as if she were about to juggle. “So, the only answer is Gertrude?” Her hands quickly returned to her seatbelt as Wolfgang bent the Quattro around another sharp corner.

  Wolfgang thought it through. It made some sense. Not only did whoever was chasing them know that they had left the house, that person also knew which way they were heading. Did they need to change their plans?

  “If Gertrude had been eavesdropping, then she would have heard that we’re heading to the central library in Leipzig,” Wolfgang surmised.

  “My thoughts entirely.”

  Wolfgang expected Sam to come up with an immediate change of plan, but her facial expression had changed from nervous passenger to one of real concern. She appeared to be looking in the wing mirror.

  “Behind us!” Sam shouted, as she turned her shoulders around to look through the car’s slanting rear window.

  Wolfgang checked the rear-view mirror. It was a black or dark grey car, travelling at least as quickly as they were.

  “BMW. Tricky to say at this distance. Possibly an M3.” Sam was difficult to hear over the engine noise, especially now that she was facing backward.

  “Come off at the next junction . . .”

  Sam hardly had time to finish the sentence before Wolfgang slammed on the brakes and, with a quick pull of the handbrake, slid the back end of the Quattro around to join the front, which was now accelerating down a farm track pursued by a cloud of impenetrable dust. In the distance, Wolfgang noticed, was a ribbon of forest.

  “Slow down! We need to be able to see if they’re following us. And I can’t see a thing,” Sam was shouting to be heard.

  Wolfgang dropped the revs; with that, the dust started to settle to something less opaque. He checked the speedo: sixty clicks; fifty clicks; forty clicks . . .

  “Step on it!” Sam yelled.

  The lowering cloud of dust had dramatically changed colour. The billowing sand was cleaved in two by the bulbous bonnet of the black BMW. It was travelling so quickly that it took a combination of the Quattro’s acceleration and hard braking by the driver of the Beemer for the two cars not to shunt each other.

  Wolfgang used the near miss to accelerate away.

  After no more than a minute of frantic driving, they were in the forest, thick trees on either side, the track just wide enough for one car. The BMW was still on their tail.

  “Can we outrun it?” Sam was back in her chair now, still shouting to be heard above the noise of the tyres, the flying dirt, and the engine.

  “If it’s a new M3, not on the flat. But on these tracks . . .” Wolfgang stopped speaking as the Audi took off, having been launched from a rise and then slamming back down on the ground, its racing shocks easily soaking up the impact. “On these tracks we should be able to get ahead of it.” It was his turn to shout now.

  The car slid from side to side. Sam was hanging on. At one point, when the bank on the right-hand side of the car scraped along the door and took off the wing mirror, Wolfgang noticed that she’d closed her eyes. It’s not like her to be frightened.

  He checked the dials. All was well with th
e Audi. Shame about the mirror, though.

  They broke out of the forest, back into a sea of flat, arable farmland—ploughed fields after ploughed fields, with the odd barn and tree breaking up the pattern.

  Crack! Thump. Crack, thump! Ping!

  “Bastards!” Sam screamed. “They’re shooting at us.” She immediately got on her haunches, facing backward, trying to work out where the other car was. After a sharp turn, which slammed Sam against her door, Wolfgang looked over his left shoulder—they were fifty metres ahead of the Beemer, but now side-on, a broader target.

  Crack! Smash! The side window behind him burst into a thousand pieces. He looked immediately to his right. Sam was still very much alive. Thank God! He floored it again.

  “Can I get into the boot from here?” Sam was at screaming pitch.

  Wolfgang’s mind was racing. “Probably. The backseats come down. I think there’s a lever on the . . .” He shut up as he negotiated another ninety-degree bend. In the far distance was a village. He scanned left and right. It looked like the track zigzagged all the way there.

  “Scheiβe!” Sam hit his arm with one of her feet as she scrambled up over her chair to get into the backseat. Wolfgang felt momentarily faint as a wave of pain swept through his shoulder and torso. He regained control.

  “Sorry!” was the muffled apology from the backseat.

  Crack! Crack! Thump! Thump! There was no additional sound. Wolfgang assumed the shots had gone wide or high. But he checked in his rear-view mirror and saw Sam’s bum bouncing around. She seemed OK.

  As Sam cursed and swore in the back, Wolfgang expertly negotiated the tracks. Left, then right. Accelerating, braking, sharp right, accelerate away. He checked in his one remaining wing mirror. They had a hundred metres on the Beemer now. They might make it. But what about when they got back on tarmac?

  Sam unceremoniously clambered back into the passenger seat, expertly missing Wolfgang’s arm this time round. She had one of the Browning rifles in her hand.

  “Stop! Now! Past that old trailer!” Sam was pointing to just ahead of them.

  Wolfgang threw on the brakes and, thinking that he knew what Sam was going to do, slid the Quattro to a halt behind the trailer in a billowing cloud of dust. As best he could, he had got the Quattro out of sight of the BMW.

  Sam was already out on her feet when he heard her shout, “Keep the engine running.”

  Wolfgang bent forward, and by the time he had twisted his head, Sam had the rifle in her hand, had cocked it, and, with her eye on the scope, had fired off a shot. Toward a tree off to their left. What? That was nowhere near the BMW! . . . which he could now hear approaching, gravel spitting everywhere. Its engine screaming at high revs.

  Sam, having turned to face the noise, raised the scope to her eye, took a breath, and, as calm as a sniper, let off two rounds—one directly after the other.

  Clump! Clump!

  Wolfgang couldn’t see what he heard; he was behind the trailer. The ensuing noise mirrored every staged car crash he’d ever seen in an action movie. A massive clunk!, a smash!, then nothing, as he imagined the car spinning through the air. Another clunk and smash. Some scraping, grating, and then, at the end of it all, the noise of a wheels spinning.

  Wolfgang tried to get a view of the broken car by straining his head around behind him.

  “Let’s go.” Sam was already back in the passenger seat. She was wearing a faint smile. The rifle between her legs.

  “Are they dead?’

  “I don’t know. Don’t care! I didn’t kill them! I put a couple of rounds into the engine compartment. I think one must have caused the car to crash. Come on, let’s get going!” All at a gabble. Sam was using her hands to gesticulate forward movement.

  Wolfgang wasn’t going anywhere. “Shouldn’t we check?”

  Crack! Ping!

  That sounded like a bullet ricocheting off the trailer. Scheiβe!

  He didn’t need any further instructions. Within a split second they were off down the farm track, spewing grit everywhere, accompanied by another couple of shots that Wolfgang recognised as flying overhead. A few seconds later they were out of harm’s way.

  Neither of them spoke until they got to the village, at which point Wolfgang slowed the Quattro right down, almost to a crawl.

  Everything was covered in dust. Them, their clothes, the dashboard. Sam was staring straight ahead. Under a sand-coloured film, flecks sticking to her eyelashes, she appeared dazed, but somehow in control.

  “Where to now?” He needed new instructions.

  “Anywhere where we can access computers in a public place—that isn’t Leipzig. Although, as you do the geography, we will need to visit Leipzig tonight. To Bischoff’s place.”

  Sam’s tone was already softening. Wolfgang thought that her adrenaline levels were probably dropping. He’d seen the same thing in the forest. Fight, then flight. During the fighting, some button on Sam was pressed; a switch flicked. She changed from being a very quirky, slightly odd, reasonably adorable but recognisable human being to an automaton. Now that facade was slowly fading.

  “And we need to lose the car. Sorry, but we do. And sorry to your dad.”

  Wolfgang was working through the first instruction when he took in the second. Where to? Computers, public place, and hire car. Close to Leipzig. And then get Tomas to recover the Audi and get it sorted!

  “OK. I know where we should go. Dresden.”

  SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London

  Jane was waiting for the chief to say something. He looked fraught, distracted. After her telephone conversation with Sam, she’d very quickly pinged him an e-mail. He was out for lunch with his wife in town, a liaison he dropped like a heavy rock to come straight into the office.

  “So what we’re saying is—and I’m going to leave the source, Green, out of this. You trust her completely?”

  “Yes, sir. Completely.”

  He shook his head, bewilderment now an accompanying look. “We have images showing Ralph Bell very likely supporting and possibly manipulating an antimigration riot, in some far-eastern provincial town in Germany?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In terms of time, that bridges the gap between when we last saw him in West Africa three years ago and very recently in Yemen. In between which, we thought he was dead.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

  “And the rally was attended by an ex-Stasi thug who has links with an ultra-Orthodox Christian religious cult called the Church of the White Cross. To be exact, the German wing of the church called die Kirche des weißen Kreuz. The US version of which we know is likely to have been involved in recent firebombings of mosques in California and Vancouver—when was that?”

  The chief was pacing, up to the window and then back to his desk.

  “Three months ago now, sir.”

  “To which Miles Johnson, the ex-DD of the CIA, is one of only six known church leaders.”

  “So far, you’re spot on, sir.”

  “Thanks, Jane. I’m known for my retentive memory.”

  Jane wasn’t sure if the chief was sharing a joke or scolding her. She decided to abandon any further quips. This obviously wasn’t a time to be jocular.

  “And we know this because a German, a Herr Bischoff, ransacked and subsequently set fire to the apartment of a German count, whom one of my staff is currently dating?”

  “Well, we don’t know if they’re an item, sir.” That wasn’t necessary. “But what we do know is that, on the basis that her bloke had been hacking into US and other computer systems, they were shot at this morning. The count caught it in the arm. He seemed to have been following a wild hunch that air disasters are a way to murder prominent renewable and nuclear energy experts without getting noticed.”

  The chief had both hands on the back of his chair. Jane thought he looked odd not wearing his usual Savile Row suit.

  “That’s where you lose me, I’m afraid.”

  “Me too. But it is lik
ely that, for some reason, somebody is trying to stop the count from . . .”

  Jane’s phone rang.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  She looked at the caller. It was Sam.

  “I need to take this.”

  “Is it Green?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Put her on speaker.”

  Jane made the connection, and they went “secure.”

  “You’re on speaker, Sam. I’m in the chief’s office.”

  There was no reply to begin with, other than what appeared to be background mechanical noise of an engine revving and the odd squeal of rubber.

  “Hi, Jane. Hi, sir.” Sam’s voice dropped a bit and they heard, “Slow down, Wolfgang—I can’t hear myself think!”

  “We have another situation here in the Czech Republic. We were pursued by a Black BMW. I’ll SMS the registration to you once we’ve finished. We went off-road to lose them, and they shot at us a number of times. High-velocity rounds. The car took a couple of hits—we’re both OK.”

  Jane looked across at the chief, whose face was scrunched up in concentration. He was mouthing, “What a bloody mess.”

  “I took the car out. When we left the schloss this morning . . .”

  Schloss? Where the hell has she been, thought Jane.

  “We took a couple of hunting rifles with us just in case. Anyhow, the Beemer crashed. I know at least one person got out alive, as they shot at us again. But we’ve lost them.”

  The chief exhaled noisily. Then he asked, “Where are you now?” His frustration was not well hidden.

  Again, a quiet Sam. “Where are we, Wolfgang?”

  They heard Wolfgang say “Odrava.”

  “Odrava.”

  “OK, Sam. We’ll get the embassy in Prague to deal with this mess. Where are you heading to?” The chief was trying to piece the jigsaw together.

  “Dresden, sir. We have the mobile from the guy who shot at us this morning. Wolfgang has the expertise to hack it. We have no idea who the man is, although I’m guessing the local police now know. We told Tomas to hand him over after we left.”

  Jane looked as confused as she felt. “Tomas?”