Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  What am I going to do?

  He turned to face Sam, who had a sympathetic look about her. It’s a bit late for that.

  “I need to tell my people. They’ve been in contact with the BfV. You never know, the BfV might be onto the church. They could be ahead of us.” Her voice was calm.

  He disregarded Sam’s answer. He’d just thought of something else he needed to do.

  “Wait!” he hissed, in a tone close to contempt.

  He knew he was wrong. He knew Sam didn’t deserve to be treated like this. But, right now, he needed an escape valve. Something to press while he ruminated. While he fumed. He reached for his phone and turned it on. The bastards knew that he and Sam had just looked in on their gathering and heard much of what was going on in the barn. They might just want to get in touch.

  Sam remained quiet.

  He looked at his phone as the screen went through its start-up routine. It was too slow. Far too slow. He jammed his jaw together. He wanted to scream; to open the Kadett’s door and hurl the useless contraption into the field. Why don’t these things work when you want them to?

  As he was about to launch the phone out of the window, it finished its start-up routine. A tiny LED in its top corner flashed white, telling him he had new mail. It was from another indecipherable Hotmail address.

  We told you to drop it. Your mother will die as planned. And you and your friend Green will be next. Too late for apologies.

  Wolfgang smashed the phone on the steering wheel. He wanted to scream. To yell out to the world against the injustice of it all. But he didn’t do that. Instead something inside him burst. He did the only other thing he could do—he broke down.

  “Why have we ended up here? Why, Sam, why?” His words were interspersed with sobbing. He stared at her, wide-eyed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  She looked out of sorts. Unclear as to what to do next. Clumsily, she held out her arms, and he, uncomfortable with the gear lever and handbrake in the way, fell into them.

  He felt no embarrassment that he’d lost control. He had not cried when his father had died. Now, he was going to lose his wonderful mother because of something he had done. It’s my fault. That, surely, was too much for anyone to bear.

  Sam stroked his head and held him as close as the confines of the Kadett allowed. She took his phone from his hand, looked at it, and placed it gently back in his hands.

  “We have to move, Wolfgang. Your mother is not dead yet.”

  What? He pulled away from her. Confused, angry again.

  “Who are you to say that my mother isn’t dead yet? How do you know? Who are you?” The strength of his last sentence was accompanied by tears that sprayed onto her face, caught in the force of his words.

  Sam didn’t flinch. She stared at him impassively.

  “I understand why you’re angry, Wolfgang. You can blame me if you like. Go ahead. In the meantime, I need to phone my people and see what they’ve got. But before I do that, I want you to answer a couple of questions. Are you ready?”

  Wolfgang wiped his eyes and mouth on the sleeve of his thick merino wool jumper. It would make a mess of the weave, but he couldn’t have cared less.

  He nodded for Sam to continue, sniffling back the mucus that had started to drip from his nose.

  “In the barn. Was it clear who was going to kill your mother?”

  Wolfgang thought for a second, the angry fog of the last half an hour being forced to one side. “Mauning. He took the gun. It was definitely him who was being tasked to kill Mother.”

  “And did they say anything other than ‘the warehouse’?”

  He thought through the scene again. He ignored the first bit about Köln. That was a distraction. He almost lost it again when he visualised the handgun, but then he pulled it together.

  “No. All they said was the word warehouse.”

  “Is there anything else they said about your mother that might help us?”

  He thought some more.

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  Sam took an audible breath.

  “What about the stuff at the beginning, about Köln?”

  Wolfgang didn’t answer to begin with. He just faced the front. His mind was a blank. All he could think about was the plight of his mother. That’s all that’s important right now.

  “Nothing. It was nothing. Just some stuff about a forthcoming visit. That’s all.”

  “Are you sure?” Sam was pressing.

  “Yes! Of course I’m sure.” He smacked both his hands on the steering wheel. His phone took another hit. He looked at it. The screen was cracked. Other than that, it seemed to be working.

  There was silence for a few seconds. Then Sam spoke, quietly but firmly.

  “We’re going back in the direction of the farmhouse. I will talk to my people and see if the BfV have got anything. They may know where the warehouse is, and this could all be over tonight. They might have something more on Mauning. Who knows? We’ll see if the farmhouse is still occupied.” Sam paused for a second, in thought. “If it is, and we don’t get anything from my people, we’ll try to follow Mauning and see if he leads us to the warehouse.”

  Wolfgang computed all that. It seemed logical. Then he had his own minor revelation. Perhaps it made more sense to storm the farmhouse? Now! They had weapons, didn’t they? All of a sudden his mood had lifted. He could do something. Take action!

  “Why don’t we go and attack the farmhouse? Take Mauning and force him to show us where the warehouse is? We’ve got the two rifles.”

  Sam seemed to think for a bit and then, much to Wolfgang’s frustration, came back to the original plan and added afterward, “The thing is, Wolfgang, more than anything else, we need to find the warehouse. Mauning is ex-Stasi. He’s not going to take us to the warehouse under guard; he’s too well trained for that. And who knows what weaponry they have in the farmhouse. We might not make it through the front door. Let Mauning lead us to the warehouse. And then my colleagues and the BfV can do the rest. We’re not the people to storm a building and take our own hostages.”

  He thought about it for a couple of seconds. Then, without answering Sam, he started up the Kadett and spun her around.

  “Where shall we stop?” His tone was distant and resentful. He knew his actions and words were childlike, but he didn’t care.

  “I don’t know. We need to get close to the farmhouse so we can follow Mauning, but far enough away so the car can’t be seen. You choose.”

  Wolfgang was soon on the main road. It was very dark, a confusion of forest and field devoid of light. A two-dimensional, two-colour scene: black and dark greenish-grey; no moon. And with the cloud cover, no stars. He spotted the farmhouse and had to grip the steering wheel tightly to prevent himself from turning into the drive. That would be such a good feeling.

  Just beyond the entrance, he pulled up and backed into a small track that was closer to the farmhouse than they had parked in before. After a few metres of reversing, the Kadett was tucked away and couldn’t be seen from the road.

  Sam hopped out and, without explanation, jogged down the road about ten metres, constantly looking across to the farmhouse. After a prolonged stare, she turned around and jogged back. Wolfgang was out of the car waiting for her, keeping in the shadow of the trees.

  “What have you been up to?” He spat it out. He couldn’t stop himself.

  Sam was calm. “The two original cars that were parked in front of the farmhouse before the congregation arrived are still there. There’s a black Mercedes E Class saloon and a red Toyota Rav4. His and hers, I reckon. Can we see the road entrance to the farmhouse from inside the car? It’s there, where that sign is.” Sam was pointing.

  He didn’t know. He got back in the Kadett and strained to look for the signpost. Yes, he could see it. He got out to acknowledge to Sam that they could, when he realised she was on the phone.

  “Jane. OK we have a situation here . . .”

  Sam told her boss the story
of the farmhouse. She mentioned the map of Köln. She then asked a question.

  “Are the BfV involved?”

  Wolfgang couldn’t pick up all the details, as the response from her boss on the phone was too quiet.

  “So they’re sending a rep to you tomorrow morning?”

  A muffled response from Jane. Wolfgang moved closer to Sam, who pulled the phone away from her ear so he could hear the responses.

  “Are they aware of the church and the Famous Five?” Sam asked.

  Wolfgang could hear Jane now. It was high pitched, but he could make it out.

  “Yes. They’ve been investigating the church for some time but have never found anything to stick. They’re also aware of the Five. Two, Luis Schmidt and Lutz Gunther, as you found out, are thought to have disappeared. Probably to South America. They have records on Bischoff and Mauning and seemed pleased that I was able to provide some additional intelligence. Ramhart Haas lives in Berlin. He’s a lawyer and an academic. They have nothing on him, other than he’s a member of the church’s congregation.”

  “Do we have anything else from any of the stuff that we sent across from Mauning’s phone and Bischoff’s computer?’

  “No, nothing. Bischoff’s computer is more secure than Fort Knox, according to DI, which is interesting intelligence in itself.”

  “OK, Jane, thanks. In a second I’ll send through the details of the cars that were parked outside the farmhouse. And Wolfgang”—she touched his arm—“is understandably keen to do something. We are back outside the farmhouse. If Mauning leaves, we’ll follow him. Hopefully to the warehouse. I’ll let you know if and when that happens.”

  “That’s a mistake, Sam. I’ve assured the BfV that you will come in by this evening. They can’t operate freely if you’re out on the ground. Blue-on-blue and all that.”

  Sam stopped herself at that point and looked directly at Wolfgang. He shook his head violently and pointed to himself and then to the ground. I’m staying here!

  “OK, Jane. That’s not going to happen. We’re still one step ahead of the BfV at the moment. Give them my number. If they can replace us on stakeout here, I think I might be able to persuade Wolfgang that they can take over. Until then, we’re going to remain with Mauning and follow any journey he takes.”

  Wolfgang noticed that it was the other end of the phone that went silent for a while.

  Then Sam’s boss said, “I’ll tell them that Wolfgang is staying where he is. As a German citizen he can do whatever he wants, I guess. I’ll also tell them that you’re coming in—I just won’t put a time on it.”

  “Thanks, Jane. I’ll call in first thing tomorrow, unless something happens between now and then.”

  Sam closed the call. She seemed to be getting cold, she was hopping from one foot to another, her hands buried in her armpits. One part of Wolfgang wanted to hold her, to make her warm. But another part disregarded her feelings as an irrelevance. He was really struggling with all this.

  Then Sam said, “I’ll take the first two hours and you take the next two. We both need to get some sleep. Everyone’s reactions lose their edge with lack of sleep. I think we’re going to need every ounce of our wits in the coming twenty-four hours.”

  Wolfgang nodded.

  This might just work . . . Follow Mauning. Get to the warehouse. Save Mother. This might just work.

  He touched Sam’s arm.

  “Thanks, Sam. Thank you.”

  Sam smiled, nodded, and made her way to the car.

  One Kilometre North of Shabwah, Yemen

  Kevin checked the GPS. They were five hundred metres short of the compound that London had marked as the latest possible location for Captain Tony James. The pair of them had dropped the battered old Land Rover County at the base of the small range of hills that lay just north of Shabwah. The best they could do was hide the vehicle in a shallow hollow, half sticking out behind a large sandy rock. He and Martin had then laid a desert poncho over the top and tied it down with brown bungees, in the vain hope that it would be difficult to be spot from a distance. On reflection. it wasn’t such a bad job.

  They weren’t soldiers. They weren’t trained in vehicle camouflage, nor did they have the right equipment to hide big, white boxes, like their trusty Land Rover, in a landscape of sand and rock. They were spies. Their job was to run agents and informants. Mix with politicians and senior military officers, elicit state secrets, and, on the odd occasion, go undercover in urban areas—not work on the top of an exposed hill, in the middle of the Yemeni highlands.

  But, as the senior SIS officer in Yemen, Kevin had made the decision that they needed to do something. The execution of the two SRR soldiers had hit them all hard. His team’s inability to find a reliable source close to Sahef had meant that there was little they could have done to prevent their deaths. They had tried—pushed their known informants and, in the process, had lost one of their most valuable assets. He had failed to turn up for a drop a couple of days ago, and subsequent efforts to track him down had proved fruitless. Kevin assumed that his body would come to light at some point in the future.

  When London identified a new target for Tony James’s location, he really had no choice. He’d asked Martin, accompanied by a smile, if he had anything else better to do over the next couple of days. Then they’d packed up and, after dark last night, had driven the six hours from Sana’a to Shabwah. He’d pinged London with their intentions after they had left. An e-mail reply had come back immediately from his desk officer Tim: Stop! Reconsider. He had ignored it and kept driving.

  Between them they had two Canon Eos5 still cameras, a FLIR infrared camera, a couple of small tripods, two pairs of binos, their usual communication paraphernalia, and an additional small rucksack holding water and some basic provisions. Kevin planned on spending no more than twelve hours in the OP. If they hadn’t seen signs of James by then, they would have done their best.

  They both carried their SIS-issue Glock 17 9-mm pistols. These were great personal self-defence weapons and were accurate out to about fifty metres. But they weren’t long-range rifles. The enemy would doubtless have at least a couple of Kalashnikovs, which were accurate up to 250 metres. If they spotted the pair of them first, they’d have a real struggle extracting. If you looked at it like that, what they were doing was reckless. Hence the recall from London, which he had ignored.

  They had to do something.

  Martin, who was also breathing heavily when they reached the ridgeline, motioned for Kevin to stop. It was still dark. Looking over his left shoulder, an orange hue was just beginning to make itself known on the horizon. He reckoned dawn was about forty minutes away. They both took off their rucksacks, and Kevin dropped the additional holdall he was carrying. Martin, who was now flat on his stomach on top of the ridge, beckoned him forward.

  Once beside Martin, he took in the scene below. It was far too dark to pick out any of the details, but he orientated the satellite photo he had in his mind to the scene below him. There was a single road that ran away into the distance. The hamlet straddled the road. There were five dwellings to the left of the road, three on the street, and two behind. On the right were two farm-like compounds. Closest to them was a small mosque, a single minaret proclaiming the centre of religious worship. The target was the farm/compound furthest away on the right.

  He remembered what it should look like, but he couldn’t make out any of the details. It was still too dark.

  Piercing the silence of the early desert morning came the call to prayer. It caught them both by surprise. The melodic wailing resonated from the hamlet below. It must be almost dawn. The call was the Fajr, or predawn, call, the first one of five that broke up the day. As is often the case, it was prerecorded, but it was easily loud enough to wake everyone in the hamlet. Kevin knew the early morning call, wherever it was played, often frustrated non-Muslims living within earshot. He admired the tenacity of those who responded to the call and prayed. And it never bothered him that he often w
oke with the lark because the local mullah had proclaimed it essential that he did.

  A new day was just beginning in the hamlet of Shabwah.

  I wonder if it will be our day?

  Martin slid back off the hill and returned with the infrared camera. He set it up. It took him a couple of minutes.

  “Anything?” Kevin asked quietly.

  “No. There’s the odd warm body in the farm, but nothing to suggest that it’s James.”

  “Are there any vehicles?”

  “Possibly. But if they’ve been cold all night, they’ll be difficult to make out from the surrounding ground and buildings. Especially after the night we’ve had. Hang on.”

  Martin spent a few more seconds looking through the sight, twisting the focus as he did. Kevin waited for Martin to come back to him.

  “There’s nothing in the central area, so either the black pickup has moved away, or it’s in a garage somewhere.” He stared some more. “No, we’re going to have to wait until it’s light to get a decent view.”

  Kevin motioned for Martin to move to one side. He looked into the eyepiece. It was, as he expected, a pretty indistinguishable mass of irregular shapes in various shades of green. He could just make out the far farmhouse. They had a good, clear view from here—which was a stroke of luck. But, the heat differentials weren’t strong enough to help with the detail. What they needed to do now was set up their daytime cameras, wait for dawn. In the meantime, have some of that hot coffee that they had brought in the flask.

  Farmland Near Falkensee, Berlin, Germany

  “Sam! We’re off!”

  Sam felt her shoulder being shaken, and then the Kadett’s engine started. She came to about a second later. She’d been flat out and had woken abruptly to the very uncomfortable feeling of being perishingly cold. It was beyond dawn, but they were in that in-between time when it’s so damp, grey, and bitter, that you’d prefer if it were still night. There was no range of colours, just greys and greens.