Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  She’d had time to give the briefest of statements to a particularly attractive German BfV officer. He was a true Aryan: tall, blond hair, blue eyes, and a charmingly efficient smile. Dressed in black coveralls, but having taken off his Kevlar jacket, all he lacked was a box of Milk Tray to complete the vision. The giddiness following the rescue had sent her libido into overdrive. She guessed it was her natural feminine instincts surging through: breed before you die. And get on with it. The caffeine probably wasn’t helping. Unfortunately, due to the state she was in and with her hair all over the place, she couldn’t see Herman the German obliging her. But it didn’t stop her imagination from running riot.

  Jane had phoned back to the policeman’s phone that Sam had used originally. He had come and found Sam, showing her the handy and smiling. Sam had taken it, and she and Jane had had a long chat. It was emotional for both of them. Sam had cried when she recounted the death of Wolfgang’s mother and had cried again when she described her captivity in the container. It was too raw, too new. Jane sounded like she was in tears for most of their conversation.

  The revelation that Manning had flown from the Middle East just to question her was surprising to both of them. His decision to do so had saved Sam’s life and had ended his. That was no bad thing. Sam had checked with the police, and they confirmed that five men had been killed in and around the warehouse. A further man had been injured and was on his way to the hospital, along with Wolfgang.

  Sam had mentioned to Jane about Manning and Mauning being related. It was complete conjecture, but it seemed to make sense. Manning, a third-generation US citizen with links to the church in Abilene, but originally from Germany, and Mauning, a German citizen, a member of the equivalent church in his own country. It seemed like a very plausible and convenient link. Jane said they would look into it.

  As to how and why the police arrived in the nick of time, Jane was able to throw some light on that. She told Sam that the BfV had staked out the warehouse, having originally searched the place and found nothing. Jane guessed that when Sam’s captors had come back and she and Wolfgang had been taken out of the container, the BfV had muscled in—guns blazing.

  They had cut their conversation short when Mandy arrived. Jane said she had Mandy’s number and would phone back in a while.

  Sam and Mandy had worked out timings. With a couple of hours spare to get to Köln, Mandy had insisted they drop by her place, where Sam could shower and get into some of her clothes. The shower had been a luxury that came with more tears. As for clean clothes, Mandy had obliged. They were a size different. Sam had to use a belt to hold up her borrowed jeans. She had always been into baggy jumpers, even if Mandy’s bright-red woollen jumper was a little too “look at me” for her taste. Combined with a black, roll-necked top, the setup worked perfectly. A brief look in the mirror, and Sam thought she did a good impersonation of Velma from Scooby-Do!

  They had set off with an hour and a half to spare. Mandy, so far, had driven like a demoness. Not that Sam had noticed—she was too busy sleeping.

  Sam popped into the loo and was back with the car after just a couple of minutes. Mandy was hot on her heels. As Sam got into the car, Mandy’s phone rang; it was Jane. She passed it to Sam.

  “Hi, Sam. How are you feeling?”

  “Warmer. And less hungry.” Sam had asked Mandy to keep the heat on in the Golf. At one point Mandy had had to open her side window to cool down. Sam, however, couldn’t get enough heat.

  “Two bits of news.”

  “Go on.” Sam encouraged.

  “This is an insecure line, so bear with me while I talk in riddles. James has been rescued. He was in the location you found. It couldn’t have gone more smoothly.”

  Relief engulfed Sam, and tears came again. They dribbled down her cheeks, and she batted them away with the sleeves of her borrowed jumper. She looked at the dampness and then across at Mandy and mouthed, “Sorry.”

  “That’s such good news. Was anyone hurt?’

  “Just Sahef and a couple of his men. Hurt is an understatement, I have to say.”

  “No! Two birds—one stone. That’s even better news!” Sam was smiling now, almost giggling. God knew what Mandy thought of her.

  They sped past another car. And another. Sam was thankful that German autobahns didn’t have speed limits.

  “You probably won’t have seen the news, but the Americans lost three men when they tried to search the Church of the White Cross in Texas. There’s a siege situation ongoing, and three more FBI staff are being held hostage.”

  Sam thought for a second.

  “Do we know what the demands are?”

  “I do. But the public doesn’t. I can’t tell you over the phone, but maybe if you get to an embassy line we can discuss it. The demands cannot be met, so there’s going to have to be a confrontation.”

  “Shit. That won’t be pleasant.”

  “No.” A single-word answer was all Jane needed.

  “Sam?”

  “Yes, Jane.”

  “Why are you going to Köln?” Jane didn’t wait for an answer. “Look, I’ve informed the BfV. The chancellor won’t stop her visit—she’s attending the university’s graduation ceremony as guest of honour. She’s handing out the degree certificates and making a speech. The BfV people there have said that they’re beefing up security, but they were reluctant to push the chancellor to call off her visit. Not without better intel. What difference are you going to make?”

  Sam was looking out the window, watching. In the dull, early morning light, cars shot behind them as Mandy kept the Golf in the outside lane, eating up the kilometres.

  “I don’t know, Jane. I just don’t know. But I need to be there until it’s over. Then I can come home.”

  “OK, Sam. That’s fine. As long as you’re not keeping something from me.”

  “I wish I were, Jane. At least then I’d have a plan.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Sure, Jane. And speak soon.”

  Universität zu Köln, Köln, Germany

  They made it to the university with an hour to spare. Mandy parked up and followed Sam to the front of the building. The large, red-blocked and multiple-windowed facade looked prewar—old, but not historic. The front entrance was closed off. Police tape warning people not to enter and a couple of businesslike policemen standing by, armed and ready. Signs directed guests around the side, and, sure enough, at the back, on a large paved square, there were tents, banners of welcome, and bunting. Rather incongruously, there was also more police tape and many more policemen. The only way in was via three door-shaped metal detectors, which, set in the middle of the square flanked by temporary metal fencing, looked unwelcoming.

  “Can you get us in, Mandy?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Sam stood back as Mandy had a fluent conversation with a German policeman. A plainclothes man came over. More discussion ensued, including a couple of calls on a mobile by the man in a suit, during which he gave Sam the once-over. Sam checked her watch; they were running out of time. When the second call ended, there was shaking of hands and a smile. Mandy beckoned Sam over.

  “It’s OK. They have spoken to Berlin officials, who appeared to fill them in on the last couple of days. We can go in.”

  Sam followed Mandy into the building and down a corridor into a huge chamber. It was filled with seats that were slowly being taken by hundreds of students wearing black capes. One or two had multicoloured hoods that draped down their backs. Having never been to university, it was alien to Sam. At the end of the room was a very elaborate raised stage, equipped with a dais, a microphone, and six green velvet and gold-legged chairs. At the back of the stage there was a table festooned with silver cups, shields, and stacks of papers.

  Sam checked her watch. It was 10.50. The chancellor would be here any moment now.

  She needed a vantage point. She looked toward the stage, above the crowd, and up and around. Long, tall, multiple-hued stained windows fill
ed the left wall—it was at least thirty metres long, and the windows were ten metres tall. The opposite long wall was just as tall, its space festooned with honour boards and portraits of past dignitaries. No vantage points there.

  Behind her, and above, was a gallery. She walked forward and craned her head to get a better view. It was full of video cameras and, she assumed, the press.

  “I’m going up there!” Sam pointed to gallery. “I need your phone.”

  Mandy dithered, unsure.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay here. Look out for something unusual. If you see anything, speak to”—Sam looked around—“that policeman there.” She pointed at a young policeman a few metres away. He looked Sam’s way and smiled. Sam smiled back. She stopped her still bubbling libido in its tracks by looking away and thrusting out her hand to Mandy, demanding, “Mobile!”

  Mandy shook her head, reached into her handbag, and handed over her phone.

  Sam was off. As she headed out of the main entrance doors and back into the corridor, she had to duck under the hands of another policeman who, with his back to her, was stopping movement. As Sam slid past, she knew why. Just in front of her, heading for the hall, was the chancellor’s party.

  The chancellor stopped herself as Sam emerged from under the arms of the policeman. Their eyes met. Sam immediately put up her hands to show she meant no harm and said, “Sorry, ma’am.” It was the briefest of encounters, but a connection was made. Sam dashed past in search of the entrance to the balcony. No one pursued her.

  Phew.

  It took Sam a couple of minutes to find the stairs, and she climbed them two at a time. She got onto the balcony via a double door, which was already open. The platform was about a metre deep, stretching the whole length of the end wall. There were industrial-size video cameras, normal still cameras with long lenses, and about five operators. She was able to stand to the right of the first tripod, squeezing in between two men to get a decent view. No one said anything to her.

  She looked around, searching for the absence of the normal. What was not there that should be there? Other thoughts ran through her mind. If she were going to take the chancellor out, how would she do it? Who would be able to do it? And get away?

  It all drew a blank. She had no idea.

  This is hopeless.

  The stage party took to their seats. A man, who she assumed was in charge of the university, got up, walked across to a microphone, and started talking. Sam kept looking. She searched everywhere. Nothing. She spotted four policemen in uniform and maybe two in plain clothes, one on the dais with the chancellor. But nothing else.

  The man talking went on and on, and Sam started to get bored. And restless. Tiredness was an ever-present threat, and the bruising to her face, torso, and hands throbbed away, sapping her energy further. I have to stay awake. I have to.

  The students, Sam reckoned there must be at least three hundred of them, looked like they were getting bored as well. They became fidgety. She could see one or two of them talking surreptitiously to each other, whispering behind their programmes.

  Programmes? Programmes!

  How would I assassinate a member of the stage party? What expertise do I have? Do I want to die trying? No!

  Wait. Yes! That’s it. Come on, Sam!

  Sam looked around for a programme just as the chancellor got to her feet to a rapturous round of applause. There was one in a bag on the floor. It looked like it belonged to the man to her right who was taking photographs. He had a big camera, sporting a large telephoto lens.

  She bent down and picked out the programme. As she did so, the man glared at her. She smiled and waved the programme at him.

  Sam opened it up, her bruised hands not working as quickly as her mind was. She was looking for a name. She scanned the first page. It was all in German, but seemingly introductory stuff. The second was blank, apart from a few words. Then the list of names started. A single title: Doktor der Philosophie. And then names, all followed by the initials PhD. There were about forty of them. He wasn’t among them.

  Sam stopped briefly and looked up. The PhD students were being called forward. There was clapping, the chancellor was handing out certificates, and, beside her, the camera lens was clicking away. It’s done in order. Next page.

  Come on!

  Over the page the list of names was longer. Sam reckoned seventy. She made a guess at a translation of the title: Master’s Degrees.

  The clapping continued, and the train of students kept coming.

  Come on!

  Using her finger, as she couldn’t trust herself to see with her usual clarity, she ran down the list. Halfway down she found him.

  Ramhart Haas MSc BA.

  Ramhart Haas MSc BA!

  The only one of the Famous Five who had kept a low profile. Bischoff and Mauning she knew. And she thought she knew where they were. One was dead, or injured. Jane had told her the other was in BfV’s custody. Two, Luis Schmidt and Lutz Gunther, were thought to be in South America. Ramhart Haas. Ramhart Haas. How had Jane described him? Living in Berlin. A lawyer and an academic. An academic! He was picking up another accolade.

  And murdering Germany’s chancellor at the same time.

  Where was he?

  She didn’t think that all of the doctorates had been issued. Those coming forward all wore black gowns with bright hoods. How long do I have?

  She took out Mandy’s phone, and, still keeping an eye on the students coming onto and off the stage, she dialled Jane’s number.

  Thankfully, as always, Jane picked up straight away.

  “Sam?”

  “It’s Ramhart Haas.”

  “Who? What . . . ?”

  “Haas is the third of the Five living in Germany. Bischoff and Mauning are out of it. Haas is an academic.” Her words were quiet, but given at a gallop. She slowed herself. “Today. He’s being awarded an MSc from the chancellor. His name’s on the list. It’s here in front of me. We’ve got about ten minutes before he’s shaking her hand. I’m not sure how he’s going to do it, and I’m not sure if I can affect things here, but I’ll do what I can. Do something!”

  “I’ll phone Karl now.” The line went dead.

  Sam tried to work out what was happening on the stage. She thought the doctors were getting their degrees. The master’s degree bunch would be next. She couldn’t really see how they lined up. They just came out of their chairs and made their way to the front. But . . . there must be a system. This was Germany. Everything has a system. The first up were in the front seats. The master’s students would be in the next set.

  What should I do? I have no idea what Haas looks like, but I might be able to pick him out by the order in which they’re called.

  Without further thought, she left the balcony still holding the programme, the photographer remonstrating as she did. Sam mouthed “sorry” again—that’s becoming a habit—as she darted downstairs.

  Bugger. The main doors to the hall were locked.

  There must be a side door. She remembered seeing one at the front on the right. If she couldn’t find it, she’d go back to the balcony and make a scene. I must stop Haas somehow. Muted clapping continued from within the hall.

  Sam ran through the corridors with no real idea of where she was going. She came across a couple of dead ends and, at one point, turned a corner and nearly knocked over a middle-aged lady carrying a pile of books.

  “Sorry!” There I go again.

  She ran on, turning left and left. And there it was—a short corridor, at the end of which was a double door. The clapping had gotten louder—there was some cheering as well. She stopped and caught her breath. The corridor had no windows and was poorly lit. Focusing on the double doors, Sam realised that one was ajar. A man stood at the entrance, guarding it. Light from the Main Hall plastered the shadow of the man against the wall of the corridor. He and his shadow looked official—a policeman?

  As she walked forward, Sam spotted a peak
ed hat and, at waist height, a pistol. Usual polizei accoutrements. The policeman turned as she approached.

  “Halt!” He put out one hand. Sam edged forward. She was a couple of metres from him.

  “Was willst du?”

  Good question. Here goes.

  “Sprechen sie Englisch?” Other than kann ich bitte ein Bier haben, she was out of joined-up German.

  “Nein.” He still kept his hand out. He looked nervous. Unsure. One hand hovering above his pistol.

  Let’s try speaking with conviction, without many verbs.

  “Man.” Sam opened up the programme and pointed. “Here. Ramhart Haas.” The policeman stretched forward, looking at the programme, the pages lit by the light from the hall. Even with an outstretched hand it was too far away from him to read. “Kill. Kaput! Chancellor!” She drew her hand across her throat in a cutting motion. “Ramhart Haas. Here!” And then she pointed to the hall. “There! Halt! Ramhart Haas. Halt! Chancellor kaput!” As she spoke, her words got louder.

  The policeman was at a complete loss. He’d obviously been briefed on an attempt on the German leader. But something was stopping him from thinking Sam was the threat. Otherwise I’d have been shot by now. Her loud English striking a note somewhere. He kept his hand out to prevent Sam from moving and lifted his spare hand from his pistol and reached for his radio. Clapping echoed around them.

  Before he could use it, the radio burst into life. It was shrill. Orders seemed to rattle across the airwaves. It was incomprehensible to Sam, but she definitely heard Haas’s name.

  The policeman dropped his hand that was stopping Sam from moving forward and stuck his head around the door and into the hall. Sam gently took the door from him and pulled it open further, also sneaking a look. She was right on the policeman’s shoulder, their bodies touching. She was sure she felt his racing heartbeat pounding away through their clothes.

  They were in the far right corner of the hall, as she suspected. The side of the stage was in front of them, as was a set of stairs leading to the platform. A woman was about to climb the steps, and a man waited behind her. Sam could see him clearly. He was middle-aged, medium build. Significantly, he was red-faced, and she could see sweat dripping from the back of his short blond hair. Was it him? Was it Hass? Then she spotted the weapon. Not an AK-47. Or an explosive belt.