“Are you sure it’s him?” she said, rubbing her hands together to try to warm them up.
“Hang on!”
A black Mercedes sped past their nose. It was impossible to say if the car was being driven by a woman or a man. Last night they’d both agreed that Mauning would be driving the Merc. His wife, if he had one, would drive the Toyota. They’d follow the Merc.
They’d struggle to keep up if the Merc carried on at that speed!
Wolfgang was a superb driver. The Kadett screamed out for mercy as he forced the car through the gears—but there was none coming. Wolfgang pressed the poor car harder. As a result, they were soon a sensible distance behind the Merc and maintaining the same speed; the engine noise from the poor old Kadett was tiresome. It had probably never been worked as hard in its life.
While keeping one eye on the car in front, Sam checked her phone. Nothing. She opened up her messages and SMSed Jane and Frank: “On the move now, following Mauning—we think. Heading into Berlin.”
“What time is it?” Sam knew the answer, but wanted to engage Wolfgang. They’d hardly exchanged words the three times they’d handed over lookout during the night. Sam hadn’t been able to test Wolfgang’s mood; she was trying now. She really felt for him. Who wouldn’t? She couldn’t expect any less than his initial reaction. Sam was more than happy to be the scapegoat for as long as it took—unless he put their lives in danger. That wouldn’t do.
“Seven thirty.” He steered the Kadett onto a schnellweg. Sam hoped that the dual carriageway wouldn’t encourage the Merc to take off into the distance. Thankfully there was already a buildup of traffic into Berlin, and the target car settled down to a sensible pace. Wolfgang pulled the Kadett into the slow lane, three cars back.
With Wolfgang still uncommunicative and not a great deal else to do other than wait for the Kadett’s very poor heating to warm her joints, Sam decided to check both the rifles. She reached into the back and took the top weapon, careful to keep it below window height.
“What are you doing?” Wolfgang demanded; his histrionics hadn’t dulled overnight. Oh dear.
“Just checking. That’s all.”
With cold fingers that still ached, Sam took off the magazine, pulled back the breech, and unloaded the seated round. She blew into the body of the weapon, wiping it clean with a tissue, and reassembled it. With another tissue, she cleared the front and rear lenses of the scope, which were covered in condensation. She checked the magazine housing, pressing down on the rounds to make sure the spring was working. She did the same with the second rifle, putting them both back onto the bench seat when she’d finished, and then covered them with the blanket.
She turned to Wolfgang and smiled at him. It was a forced smile, but the point was to try to produce a reaction.
Nothing.
This is dull.
The heating in the Kadett was working its hardest against the cold central European autumn morning. Sam was warming up—a bit. Seemingly unaffected by the chill, Wolfgang followed the Merc through the traffic until it pulled over in a suburban street, opposite a row of shops. He was caught out by the move, but he rolled the Kadett past the Merc and stopped further along. Neither of them looked into the car as they sailed past.
Checking his wing mirror, Wolfgang looked at what the occupant of the Merc was up to whilst Sam played with the rear-view mirror so she could get a better view. Thankfully, they both saw it was Gert Mauning who got out of the car, his arm still in a sling. He crossed the road and headed into an O2 phone shop.
“He’s getting a new phone!” Sam exclaimed.
She was already on hers. Tapping away.
“Where are we, Wolfgang?”
Wolfgang looked around and found the nearest signpost.
“Wilmersdorf Strasse.”
“Thanks.” Sam replied quietly as she focused on her screen. “Is he out yet?”
“No.”
“When he is, see if you can work out what make of mobile he’s bought.”
They waited for ten minutes. Then Gert Mauning, oblivious to the yellow Kadett, came out with a mobile in his good hand. In his slung hand he was holding a Sony bag.
“It’s a Sony. And he’s off.”
Without responding to Wolfgang, Sam finished typing and pressed “Send” to the e-mail she had been composing.
Hi Frank,
We’re following Mauning. He’s just bought a Sony handset from an O2 mobile shop in Wilmersdorf Strasse, Berlin.
Get the number and, if nothing else, triangulate it. Assumption is he’s heading to the warehouse sometime today. Let BfV know of his movements.
Thanks.
Sam xx
The Kadett followed the blue Merc into the depths of Berlin. It eventually stopped in a car park outside of an office block not far from, Sam noted, Altglienicke Strasse. Mauning got out and, with a briefcase in his slung hand, locked the Merc and disappeared into the entrance of the offices. They had pulled up on a road that ran alongside the car park.
“Work?” Wolfgang barked.
“Presumably.” Sam replied. A one-word question deserved a one-word reply. “Look, Wolfgang, we might be here for some time. Let’s find a better parking spot and I’ll pop out and get some coffee and food. We can then rotate again, like we did last night, and try to get some more sleep.”
Wolfgang just nodded, still no words. I’m not getting through to him.
He drove the Kadett a couple of spaces down and parked up. He turned his back on Sam. She assumed it was so he didn’t have to crane his neck to get a clear view of the entrance to the offices and of the Merc, but she wasn’t so sure.
This is tough. I’d rather be on my own at this moment.
Sam’s frustration at Wolfgang’s lack of communication almost broke through. She very nearly said something along the lines of, “You have to help me, Wolfgang. I am on your side,” but thought better of it. Instead she sat still for a couple of seconds with her eyes closed, finding what little humour she had. After about a minute, she got out of the car and jogged back down the street in the direction of where, previously, she had spotted a Starbucks. Decent, strong coffee. That’s what we need.
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London
Claire popped her head around Jane’s door.
“You’ve got a call from the deputy director.” She winked at Jane.
Jane moved some things around her desk to make it look tidy—that was completely unnecessary. She picked up the phone.
“Hello, sir, Jane here.”
“Hi, Jane. Thanks for the briefing note on Greyshoe. I’m sorry I didn’t get chance to call you yesterday. We’ve been busy with the Israeli thing. You know how it is.”
“I understand, sir. Good luck with that.” The DD was referring to the latest spate of tit-for-tat bombings and missile strikes between Israel and Lebanon, which had resulted in the deaths of two American tourists.
“Since your note, my team here has looked for equivalent churches in all of the main European countries, using our liaison officers who are based with the national security services. They’ve been trying to establish if this is wider than just us and the Germans. Both the Italian SISMI and the Spanish CNI have come up trumps. It seems that there are equivalent organisations in Italy, Chiesa della Croce Bianca, and Spain, Iglesia de la Cruz Blanca. Between us, we’re now looking into these sister organisations.” The DD’s accents were poor.
“Wow,” Jane said. “This thing has some stretch. Where’s the hub?”
“We’re pretty confident that the main organisation is in Abilene, although it’s going to take some time to piece the whole thing together. Whilst its gestation might have been in, say, Germany, we’re pretty clear that the church in Texas is the major player. After some digging, the FBI reported that just this year the Church of the White Cross has distributed over $10 million overseas; $3 million went into a Berlin bank account, $1.5 million into an account in Riyadh, $1 million to Milan, and a further $1 million to a ban
k in Madrid. In addition, a large number of individual payments were transferred into unmarked accounts in Geneva and Luxembourg.” The DD paused to take a breath.
“Where do they get the money from?” Jane asked.
“That’s a good question, and that’s why I phoned.”
“Go on, sir.”
“I’m letting you know that we’ve got a warrant to search the main church and its grounds this afternoon. That’s no small task—the site is over thirty-five acres. The search is planned for three o’clock Texas time; that’s ten in the evening your time. It’s a federal event, so the FBI is leading. They’re going in with support from state and local law enforcement. I’m telling you because you probably want to alert your team on the ground in Germany. And I was wondering whether or not you want to brief the BfV. We’re talking with the CNI and the SISMI.”
Jane took stock just for a second.
“I’ve got a BfV liaison officer coming here in about”—Jane looked at her watch—“any moment now, actually. I’ll brief him. I’m guessing they’ll be wanting to keep a close eye on the congregation in Berlin to watch for any reaction.”
“Precisely.”
“What are you expecting to find?” Jane asked.
“We’re not sure. Thanks to your team’s work and the German linkage, at least now there’s enough evidence for a judge in Dallas to issue a search warrant. We could have given it a couple of days, but the problem with waiting is that, whilst additional investigations might throw some more light on the workings of the church, the longer we leave it, the more likely we are to have spooked them. Then who knows what they will hide, if they haven’t hidden things already.”
“I can see that, sir. Any further news on Johnson, Manning, or Bell?”
“Johnson’s coming in next Wednesday to the Hoover Building. He’ll have his testimony concerning the five hundred thousand taken under oath. That’s another good reason to search the church now, before he thinks we’re really onto him. My team’s casual review of online records has shown that both Manning and Bell are noted as congregational members of the Church of the White Cross, which is a significant piece of intel. Also, what about this interesting snippet . . .” The DD didn’t finish the sentence.
“Go on, sir.”
“Manning is only second-generation American. What do you think of that?”
Think of what? Jane didn’t think anything of it. But, to humour the DD, she ran through likely originating countries. And then, the penny dropped.
“His grandfather came to the States from Germany”—Jane did some maths—“eh, at the beginning of the Second World War?”
“Spot on.”
“So the gestation of this organisation might well be German based?”
“That’s what we’re looking at, Jane, yes.”
“OK, sir. That makes sense. Will someone back-brief me on how the search of the church goes?”
“I’ll do that first thing tomorrow. Unless, of course, it makes the news first.”
What are you expecting to find, deputy director?
The call ended, and through the glass panelled wall, Jane spotted Frank waiting in the corridor. She motioned for him to come in.
“Hi, Frank. How can I help?”
“Hi, Jane. We’re out of favours with GCHQ, I’m afraid. I have used them all up. As you know, they’re doing their best to tap landlines and mobiles around Shabwah and are making real progress there. I’ll let Mike brief you when we meet after lunch, but the Doughnut’s SIGINT indicates that the compound/farmhouse definitely belongs to Sahef. They even reckon he might be at that location as we speak.”
“That’s great news, Frank. Don’t worry—I’ll sound and look genuinely surprised when Mike mentions it this afternoon. And?”
“We’re onto Mauning’s new phone, the one Sam spotted this morning. The Doughnut is not prepared to access the mobile without the chief’s say-so. Apparently, there’s an issue about tapping within an ally’s boundaries. They can triangulate without that level of authority, although they’d rather not. But I know some people.” Frank tapped his nose and looked very pleased with himself. “So, assuming it’s turned on, we can now see where the phone is.”
“Good work, Frank. Does Sam know? Oh, and whereabouts is she at the moment?” Jane had lost touch with exactly where Sam was over the past couple of hours.
“I’ve told her. And they’re both still parked outside the offices. And, because I have the GCHQ feed on my machine, I’ve been able to corroborate Mauning’s location. Sam and Mauning’s phone are all at the same place.” He playfully stuck his thumb up.
Claire stuck her head around the door. “It’s Oberwachtmeister Klaus Homberg to see you, Jane.”
A slim, middle-aged man wearing a fawn ankle-length coat waited behind Claire.
Frank mouthed, “BfV?”
Jane nodded.
“Come in. My colleague here was just leaving.”
As Oberwachtmeister Klaus Homberg came in, Frank left, giving Jane a cheeky little wave as he did.
Jane and the Oberwachtmeister exchanged pleasantries and, via Claire, she ordered some coffee. The Oberwachtmeister insisted that Jane call him by his first name. As Jane was at least an equivalent civilian rank, if not higher, she irreverently thought—and you can call me Jane. She really needed to get some sleep; otherwise, she didn’t know how long she could keep these flippancies to herself.
“It’s good of you to make the effort to come to the UK, Klaus.” They both sat on the only two comfy chairs Jane had in her office. There was a small coffee table between them. He was medium height, medium build. He had short, dark, glossy hair—which could be gelled?—and sported small, steel-rimmed glasses and a goatee beard. Jane thought he’d just come off a modern-day ’Allo ’Allo set.
“It’s no problem. Clearly SIS has a healthy interest in die Kirche des weißen Kreuz, and we have to thank you for alerting us to its US connections. We were aware, as you know, of the poorly entitled ‘Famous Five’ and had made the link between Heinrich Bischoff, Ramhart Haas, and Gert Mauning and die Kirche.” Jane was grateful that Klaus spoke good English, even if his th’s were pronounced z’s and his w’s as v’s. More ’Allo ’Allo. It was a scream.
I must concentrate.
“Unfortunately, we have little evidence that any of the three men have committed a crime that we can pursue in a court of law.”
Jane sipped some coffee. Looking over her cup, she said, “But we have video evidence I shared with you of Bischoff breaking into an apartment rented by Wolfgang Neuenburg, an apartment that was later set on fire . . .”
Klaus stopped Jane sharply, politely raising his finger.
“Count Neuenburg is also of interest to us. We have immutable evidence that the Count has hacked many business’s computers, both in Germany and abroad.”
Jane wasn’t so happy with being stopped midsentence, so she continued as soon as Klaus took a breath.
“And one of my agents reports that Mauning shot at her and Neuenburg on the grounds of the count’s schloss two days ago. The count was wounded in the arm. That’s attempted murder.”
“Once the good count reports the crime formally to the police.” Klaus smiled, a smile that was very gently laced with arrogance. “Please don’t misunderstand me, Jane. We are clear that some of die Kirche des weißen Kreuz’s activities are illegal. Certainly, one or two of the church’s congregation have stepped outside the law. For example, we know that Bischoff has attended a number of antimigration rallies, and we were very close to putting him behind bars for arson just over a year ago.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
“But not close enough.”
Jane wasn’t convinced that the BfV had really understood the size or gravity of the situation. Surely they had thought through the US connection? She’d made that clear in the briefing note.
“Have you seen my note from last night? My agent and Count Neuenburg were shot at again at a farmhouse, just
outside Berlin late last night, having been fired on earlier in a car chase in the Czech Republic. The previous morning, Count Neuenburg had been shot and injured in the south of your country. And we believe the church has kidnapped his mother, the countess.” Jane was on her feet now, turning away and stopping the Oberwachtmeister from replying directly to her. She needed to effect some form of power play over the German. To get him to understand that this was bigger than just a touch of reckless rioting and casual arson. And she loved the fact that she could call Sam “her agent.” It was pretty much the truth, as things stood at the moment. Agent sounded so much better than analyst.
She walked over to the window—the old “David trick.” Klaus the German remained quiet. She looked out across the Thames and let things hang for a second.
He started speaking as soon as she turned to face him.
“We need the count to come in and make a statement. We understand that he is working alongside a member of the British Secret Intelligence Service. An agent, you have to understand, who is not registered to work in Germany and who has no BfV-level clearance to operate independently. They both need to make themselves known.”
As the German spoke, Jane had put her desk between herself and Klaus. Another power-play trick. She wore her sternest face.
“My agent is following a lead that she cannot afford to lose. Currently, she is sitting outside offices in Altglienicke Strasse, Berlin, waiting—hopefully—for Gert Mauning to lead her to a warehouse where members of die Kirche des weißen Kreuz are holding a member of your royal family.” She paused for effect. “With the clear intent of murdering a German countess. If they haven’t done so already. Has the local Munich polizei been in touch yet to say she is missing?” It wasn’t a question that Jane waited to be answered. “My staff passed my agent’s phone details to your team this morning. Both she and I would be delighted if someone from the BfV would get in touch with her and there could be some form of handover. In the meantime, she is not going to lose Mauning by sloping off to a police station in Berlin.” She softened her tone. “You must understand that?”
Fuelling the Fire Page 34
