Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  “You and Gert Mauning are related.” Sam spat some more red saliva on the floor. It was warm and silky. She took another breath. Her lungs felt like they’d just completed a marathon. “Your surnames are similar. There’s a family connection?”

  Manning looked confused, frustrated. And then angry.

  He nodded at Bischoff again. As Sam imagined him winding himself up for a punch to the side of her head, she ducked, dropping her head between her knees. He missed her and the momentum of the man’s punch, which was obviously designed to create as much damage as possible, spun him around. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him struggle to stay upright.

  From somewhere inside, Sam found humour. She laughed, a suppressed childlike giggle that spread to her shoulders. She raised her fist to her mouth, a physical movement to stop the laughter. The whole thing was ludicrous. Ridiculous. For her, it was like watching Reservoir Dogs without the comfort of a sofa and a giant bag of popcorn. Her laughter, which teetered between hysteria and tears, took neither route. Eventually it died a natural death. She shook her head, smiling broadly. She coughed a final, embarrassed, laugh.

  “Sorry. Couldn’t resist that.”

  Manning’s face had turned red. He displayed all the signs of a man on the edge. He barked at one of the men, off to Sam’s left.

  “Rifle!”

  The man quickly jogged over, handing the rifle to Manning.

  Manning inspected the rifle and cocked it.

  “This one is expendable.” To Sam’s abject horror, Manning walked across to Wolfgang, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and took aim.

  Crack!

  Sam didn’t know where to look. She flinched at the sound, but couldn’t close her eyes. She couldn’t stop watching the horror. To her complete amazement, rather than seeing Wolfgang pirouette over the top of his chair, it was Manning who span around. He released the rifle, which flew away. A bulge ballooned from the back of his coat as an exiting bullet took out a lot of Manning’s insides that would have served him better if they had stayed where they were. He fell to the floor.

  Sam’s immediate reaction was to dive to the ground—to get out of harm’s way. She did this, but she decided to take Wolfgang with her. As she threw herself in his direction, all manner of chaos broke out.

  “Polizei—halt!”

  But the words were lost in a hail of gunfire. Gunfire that seemed to last forever. Sam dragged Wolfgang to one side, glad that neither of them appeared to be targets. A couple of Manning’s men went down. She thought Bischoff had run through one of the far doors. There was further gunfire outside, so he may well have copped it there. The noise was deafening, the cracks of the rounds accompanied by pings of ricochet. Glass smashed; in a corner, one of her captors screamed in pain—down, but not dead.

  After a time she couldn’t specify, the firing inside the warehouse stopped, but German voices continued. She listened to her breathing. It was erratic, but her senses were alive. She was feeling human, as though she had been injected with a new lease on life. As she lay on top of Wolfgang, one friend protecting another, she looked around. Both chairs were on the floor. Next to one was Kurt Manning’s lifeless body.

  One down.

  A German policeman, dressed in khaki and dark green, but sporting the very latest black Kevlar vest, jogged up to her. He bent down, slinging his rifle as he did. The smell of burnt cordite, which hung in the air, was all the more powerful as his weapon came within a few feet of her nose.

  “Are you OK?” The accent strong and clipped, but the English sound.

  “Yes. Thank you. This man”—she motioned to Wolfgang—“he’s injured in two places and very cold. Hypothermic. He has also suffered emotional trauma . . .” Sam continued talking, describing in unnecessary detail what they had been through. The policeman broke her diatribe.

  “Mediziner!” The policeman shouted. An order that reverberated around the room. The command did the same outside the warehouse as others passed on the instruction.

  Sam was on all fours now and was about to try to stand. Before she did, she wiped her mouth with her hand and inspected the outcome. More blood and spit.

  “Sam.” It was the quietest of calls.

  What?

  It was Wolfgang!

  She looked down. He had one eye partially open.

  “Don’t talk, Wolfgang. You’re safe now.”

  “Köln.” It was barely audible.

  Sam bent down further so her ear was by Wolfgang’s mouth. She was about to ask him what he meant when a medic arrived, all bright green and white, with high-viz stripes. Sam pushed her hand out, stopping the medic from getting close to Wolfgang.

  “What about Köln, Wolfgang?”

  He coughed, and she saw the pain spread across his face.

  “Chancellor. They’re going to kill the chancellor. Thursday. University. Eleven.” The words were raspy, quiet.

  She racked her brain for times and dates. That’s tomorrow!

  “Are you sure, Wolfgang?” She was insistent, but gentle.

  He just nodded and then passed out, his one slightly open eye closing slowly.

  The medic was no longer prepared to let Sam keep him to herself. On her command, the policeman gently lifted Sam and allowed the medic to access Wolfgang. Within seconds, space blankets were the order of the day, and drips were being prepared.

  Sam offered, “He’s got a wound on his left arm, and he’s got a puncture to his right leg. Above the knee.” It was incidental chatter as her brain thought through the gravity of what she had just heard. Instinct took over again. She was upright and human. Exhausted, starving hungry, and still bitterly cold. But human.

  “Can I borrow your phone?” she snapped at the policeman. “It’s important. I work for the British Secret Service! Phone. Handy. Now. Come on! Schnell!” She’d picked up a few new words since she’d got off the plane in Munich.

  The policeman shook his head in bewilderment and dug a mobile out of his pocket. After a couple of flicks of his finger, he handed it to Sam.

  She dialled Jane’s number. It took an age to connect. When it rang, Jane picked it up straight away.

  “Jane Baker.”

  Sam took a breath.

  “Hi, Jane, it’s Sam.” Sam’s voice was still croaky.

  The line went briefly quiet and then exploded.

  “Sam! I don’t believe it. Oh, Sam! Where are you? Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine, Jane. There’s a lot to tell you. But first you have to listen to some new intelligence.”

  “Where are you, Sam? At the warehouse?”

  “Yes. We’ve just been rescued by the German police. Manning, that’s Manning, not Mauning, was here. I don’t know where Mauning is—he was here yesterday.” She pronounced both surnames emphatically. She knew it sounded confusing, but she needed to press on. “He’s dead—Manning, that is. And Bischoff was here. He ran out, but I think they got him outside.” She realised at that point that any further explanation might well lead to confusion. And she had to move things along.

  “Now listen!” Sam was losing it. They didn’t have time for pleasantries. She took a deep breath at the same time as another green-clad medic put a space blanket over her shoulders.

  Come on, Jane. Get this.

  “They’re going to kill the German chancellor. Tomorrow at Köln University. Eleven o’clock. You need to tell the BfV.”

  Sam sensed Jane taking it all in.

  “Are you sure? How can you be sure?” Sam didn’t know what to make of Jane’s tone. Did she believe her? Listen to me, Jane. Come on . . .

  “Wolfgang overheard it. And you’ve seen the map—the one with the blue route marked on it. It’s her itinerary. Don’t ask any more details. You need to pass it on. Now.”

  “Sure, sure. It might be difficult to sell. Is Wolfgang OK?”

  “Yes, I think so. He took a hole in the leg and saw his mother executed in cold blood, but he’s alive.”

  “Oh my God.” The word
s trailed off as Jane said them.

  “Listen, Jane. Please. I need a member of the embassy staff here now. I’m going to Köln. I can’t drive, I can hardly stand. Even if I could find transport, I wouldn’t make it—so they will need to drive me. Get someone here. Like, now. We are at the warehouse. You know where that is? And then phone me back on this number and I’ll talk you through what’s happened. OK?”

  “I’m not sure I have that authority, Sam. I just can’t order the embassy to provide a driver for you.”

  “Yes—you can, Jane.” Sam’s frustration was not far below the surface. “And you must. If you can’t do it, get the chief to. I need to be there. I might be able to help. You have to make this happen.”

  Sam waited whilst Jane thought.

  “OK, Sam. Of course. I’ll do that straight away. I know where you are. I’m so pleased that you’re still with us. And, Sam . . .”

  “Yes, Jane?”

  “Look after yourself.”

  “Sure, Jane.”

  The phone went dead just as the medic returned with a steaming cup of coffee.

  Bliss.

  Chapter 21

  Farm Complex, Shabwah, Yemen

  Tony felt his mood lifting. Just slightly. He had developed a routine. And he liked routine. He longed for it. It made him feel safe. He didn’t like changes to his routine. He didn’t like it when his food was delivered late, or when it came on a different plate.

  So tonight he hadn’t coped well when they had changed the prayer routine. But, looking back, it had been an unexpectedly special occasion. The first real joy in his life for what seemed like a very long time. Up until this evening, he had prayed in a room across the courtyard with the other men, on a red and white mat. It had upset him that the mat was dirty and dusty, but it was his mat. He liked his mat.

  After dark, a few hours ago, they had come to collect him for prayers as usual. He looked forward to it. Not the religious side. That still made him feel uncomfortable. It was complicated. Even after the countless recitations of the Koran, he still didn’t get it. He didn’t understand it. Religion was a big thing, and his mind couldn’t cope with big things. It wasn’t just Islam; it was the whole of religion. Christians and Buddhists and . . . He couldn’t think of any more religions. It was all far too deep. Something prevented him from having deep thoughts. He wasn’t sure what was stopping him, but something inside told him not to think about it.

  No, he enjoyed the prayers because he liked to be with the other men. To feel their warmth and friendship. They smiled at him, said the odd word or two that he understood, like, “OK, English?” They patted him on the back, and they prayed with him. He felt part of a family. A brotherhood of sorts.

  Tonight, things changed. Not huge things. But change nonetheless. They had come to collect him as usual, the nice man with his rope and big smile. But they hadn’t taken him across the courtyard. This time they had led him through some gates onto a street. That is, they had tried to. But he didn’t want to do that; he couldn’t cope with it. It was different, and he struggled with different. He fought against the change. He knew he didn’t have the energy to stop them from making him do something he didn’t want to do, but he couldn’t stop himself from pulling back and digging his heels in. He was frightened and confused.

  He even said some words! No and Please. It was a revelation. Shocking. It had stopped the man with the rope in his tracks. Tony hadn’t said anything out loud since Ted and Sandy. Words hadn’t come, although he had practised and practised in the quiet of his cell. So it had surprised him that words had popped out. Not big words, not sentences. But words nonetheless. Words of disquiet and rebellion.

  The man with the rope had slapped him across the face. The shock of being hit and the anger in the man’s eyes were enough for him to overcome his fear. To quell his small rebellion against change. Reluctantly he had followed on, his eyes looking left and right, trying to cope with the difference. The unknown.

  They had taken him out of the compound to a mosque. It was a short walk, although he was tired by the time they got there. His leg was still sore, and he dragged it behind him. His energy levels were low, and he was weak and feeble. He knew that. But that changed when he entered the building. He wiped his feet. With his head bowed, he walked into a big, angled room that was highly decorated with white walls and red, black, and gold ornaments and decorations. Candles lit up the space, and carpets adorned the floor—it was beautiful. Mesmerising. Enchanting. It was an island of colour and compassion, afloat on an ocean of sand, grit, rock and hurt.

  He loved it. He wanted to get down on his knees and pray straight away. Pray to someone for the beauty of this space and for its majesty. For its colour and its calm. He was led to his space beside a blue and brown mat, next to the man with the rope. That mat was clean, and it was bright. He felt everyone looking at him with inquisitive eyes, but no one spoke above the silence of the mosque. He felt different, because he was. But he also felt just a little bit special. He was in a wonderful place, and people were looking at him because he was special. At that point, the sting left over from the slap across his face dissipated. With his head bowed, he found himself smiling. Just a half smile.

  Prayers lasted for a while. He didn’t do time well nowadays, so couldn’t be specific as to how long, but it took longer than usual. Afterward, he shuffled out of the mosque into the semidarkness, following the man with the rope. Many men came up to touch him, to feel him. He liked the touching; he liked their warm hands. He nodded and smiled at the men. There was quiet discussion in Arabic. He knew some words, but the dialect was so strong most of it was unintelligible. The man with the rope had seemed proud—proud of him. That made him feel good too. He was worth something. Something to someone.

  And then they were back in the courtyard, and he was back in his room. There was a coffee ready for him when he arrived and another small chunk of chocolate. New, small, pleasant additions to his routine. Good additions. Not bad ones.

  He was content. He washed himself with a slab of soap the man had provided earlier, and, having sat on the slop bucket and wiped himself, he lay down on his mattress.

  Sleep, which had been elusive for so long, came to him immediately.

  Bang! Crash! Bang! Thud!

  Tony’s dreams, which were all purple, reds, and golds, were interrupted by the noises of the devil.

  Crack, crack, crack, crack! Bang, bang, bang, bang! Shouting. Now screaming.

  He was awake and immediately frightened. Still lying down, he pulled himself into a ball and pushed his hands against his ears. Like a young child escaping from a nightmare.

  Please, make this go away. He was crying again now, his pillow already damp.

  Crack, crack, crack! Bang!

  “32 Alpha, room clear!” Some words that he recognised.

  Bang! Thud! Crack, ping, crack, crack! More screaming. Shouts in a language he didn’t understand, followed by some words he did.

  “32 Alpha, room clear!”

  Thud! Thud! It was his door. His own door.

  “Captain James?” A bark from outside, just about distinguishable through his hand earmuffs, amid more loud bangs and shouts.

  He curled up tighter. He wanted everything to be as it was. For all this noise to go away.

  Crack, crack, ping, crack! A scream.

  From a far distance, “32 Bravo, room clear. Two enemy dead!”

  Thud! Crack, crack, ping!

  “Captain James! We’re going to blow the door off its hinges. Please get as far away from the door as possible. In ten seconds. I’m going to count.”

  Tony understood that. He was now feverish, panicky. What to do? He was close to the door, but not so close. He wanted for it all to go away. For these intruders to leave him alone.

  “Ten! Nine! . . .” Then something small changed. Flight took control. He uncurled himself, and with all of his effort, he scrambled for the far corner of the room, knocking over the slop bucket as he did. The sm
ell was repugnant.

  Crack, crack, ping! Seemingly a huge distance away. The counting was closer.

  “Five! Four! Three! Two! One!”

  Bang! Thud! Whoosh!

  He had his back to the door, curled in a ball. The orange light of the explosion came first, bouncing off the walls. Then a peppering of his back as if some bully had thrown stones at him, followed by shafts of white light. Lights that flickered left and right, up and down, among dust and sand.

  He pulled himself tighter still, protecting himself from the onslaught. The change. The shattering of his routine.

  “Captain James?” A man had his hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him around. He looked toward the light. There were three dark figures and two beams of bright light. The man closest didn’t have his own light, or he had switched it off. He could just make out his face. It was blackened with dirt, but his teeth were white. He was smiling.

  “Come with us, sir. We’re taking you home now.”

  German Autobahn A2, Heading West toward the Ruhr and Then Köln

  Sam had slept for a straight four hours. She was woken as they pulled into a tankstelle to get some fuel, the change of speed and the bumping on the uneven tarmac shaking her. She felt her face. There was bruising on her ear. Her side hurt like hell from where she had been kicked. But the cold was gone. And although her hands were useless, she could move all her fingers. She checked again. Yes, they all work.

  “Ten minutes here?” Mandy said.

  Sam shook the sleep from her head and nodded.

  “Yes, please, Mandy.”

  She glanced across at the satnav. It showed a time to destination of 9.15. She checked her watch. It was 5.10. Dawn was moments away.

  Mandy had been brilliant. She had arrived at the warehouse about half an hour after Sam’s first conversation with Jane. While waiting, Sam had been treated to a full medical by the lady in bright green and white and had been wrapped in more space blankets than a space shuttle. And fed more hot coffee than her bladder could cope with. Thank goodness for the “peeing in a bush” training she’d not forgotten from her army days. Sandwiches and buns were also on the menu, but when they had asked her to go with them to the station, Sam had refused. She was waiting for “Mandy.” Jane had passed on the name of the woman from the embassy.