Алистер Маклин - Prime Target

‘I think the help you bring us today,’ Kretzer said, ‘will go some way to establishing a solution. The business of eliminating Red Sea pedestrians has always been costly. Your moral and financial support are twin buttresses. I never tire of saying so. Without them we would not have achieved as much as we have. But now we have to change our focus, we must redirect our resources and find a way to destroy JZ at its core.’

‘I never imagined,’ Gibson said, ‘when we arranged a certain boating accident, that knowledge of the Jugend would pass into the hands of the daughter, and the other…’

‘Small wonder that I get depressed,’ Kretzer said. ‘Think of the lives we lead, think of the endless furtiveness, never openly acknowledging each other, always communicating by routes that would make a juggler dizzy – it tells on the spirit. And now, at a time when we should be feeling some pleasure in our achievements, we are instead fearful for our lives, because we are being picked off one by one–’

‘Ssh…’

‘I’m sorry, my friend. I am despondent. In such a state I should keep my mouth shut.’

‘Just hold a few good thoughts,’ Gibson said. ‘In the fifty years of your existence, you’ve carried out the work the Führer passed on. Be proud. Leave despondency for the kind who deserve it.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ Kretzer said. ‘We should count our blessings.’

‘And try to remember that JZ is small and narrow. They’re fragile at bottom. They’ve just been lucky, that’s all.’ Gibson patted Kretzer’s hand. ‘Now I’ve got to go, I have to be at the bank at eleven sharp. Everything should be waiting ready for my signature. Where will we meet?’

Kretzer smiled thinly. ‘Today, I thought we would meet at the International Congress Centre.’

‘I think I know the way.’

‘Between the Messedamm and the S-Bahn. You can get there on the Avus motorway, there is plenty of parking space.’

‘As I recall, it’s a big development, Viktor.’

‘Yes, so I have decided on a precise spot for us to meet. Shall we say twelve-thirty?’

‘Where?’

‘Outside the Jewish Community House. It’s a double irony, Harold. The place was designed by architects I particularly despise.’

They stood and Kretzer handed Gibson a set of Mercedes keys. ‘It’s in the west-side car park. Drive carefully.’

They parted at the door to the concourse. Gibson went straight to the parking area, navigated the neat system of paths to the west section and stood by the first row of cars. He pressed the button on the ignition key. Halfway along the second row the lights of a blue Mercedes saloon flashed.

He squeezed his bulk between two cars, strode to the Mercedes and put his bags in the boot. He got in, started up, and fumbled in his pocket for his cassette. He found it and popped it into the player.

As he pulled out to the airport perimeter road Andy Williams began singing ‘Home Lovin’ Man’. Gibson turned up the volume. This was his favourite album of all time, he never went anywhere without it. He had told his wife till she was probably sick of hearing him say it, they could keep the simpering crooners they called singers nowadays. This was proper ballad singing by a man with a man’s voice, singing about a man’s emotions. And the music had a tune.

He reached the bank at three minutes to eleven. The submanager recognized him and beckoned him to a side room. Without a word Gibson was seated at a table and given a pen. He signed three identical withdrawal documents, declined a cup of coffee, and stood again to receive a black leather attaché case, brought by the sub-manager from the secure area at the rear of the banking hall.

‘A pleasure, as always, Herr Gibson,’ the submanager said.

‘Nice to see you again.’

Gibson slapped the little man’s shoulder and left.

The car was parked across the street. He skipped through the traffic, panting with the effort, and got in. As he pulled the seatbelt across his chest he saw a young man at the corner watching him.

Or it looked as if he was watching.

Gibson sat still for a minute. The watcher had gone now, vanished round the corner. But he had been watching, Gibson was sure of it now. Maybe he should make different arrangements for receiving the cash next time.

Gibson fumbled the ignition key into the lock. He did not see there was something extra on the dashboard now, a small metal prong attached to a stick-on circuit board the size of a shirt button.

He turned the key. The surge of ignition put micro-power through the tiny device on the dashboard. It transmitted a signal a distance of 90 centimetres to a receiver in a plastic bottle under the front passenger seat. In response to the signal, the receiver was configured to produce a spark. The spark ignited 2 litres of aircraft fuel, also in the bottle. The chain of events, from transmission of the signal to ignition of the fuel, took a two-hundredth of a second.

The car exploded. Windows and glass doors along the street shattered. Burning debris and showering flames set fire to two shops and a telephone kiosk. For five minutes the heat from the burning car was too intense to allow any approach.

When firemen were finally able to get close and douse the wreck with foam, a charred body was seen arched backwards across the driver’s seat. Beside it lay the blackened remains of an attaché case.

Sabrina had been warned she should go to the tourist office at Avenue Mohammed V, where a few dollars would buy her the services of a guide to show her round the old town.

‘You will become lost if you go alone,’ the man at the hotel reception warned her. He was a tall stooping Indian, with a look of bottomless grievance, as if some wrong had been done to him for which there was no remedy. He held up a finger as Sabrina moved away from the desk. ‘Even if you do not become lost,’ he said, ‘you may see only a small proportion of what might have been revealed to you with the help of a guide.’ He made that possibility sound like a tragedy.

Sabrina promised him she would be fine on her own, and left the hotel. At the end of the road she hailed a battered replica of a Yellow Cab and showed the driver the scribbled address she had for Lucy Dow. The man screwed up his eyes at the paper, as if it caused him pain.

‘Is small place,’ he said, holding up his hands, the palms an inch apart. ‘I drive you near, is all.’

‘Do what you can,’ Sabrina told him.

It took twenty minutes through narrower and narrower streets, until finally they were in a passage-way only a couple of metres wider than the car. The driver stopped and pointed up ahead to a narrow gap between two tall buildings.

‘Is place,’ he said, and held out his hand for the fare.

When he drove off Sabrina walked slowly towards the alley. She had expected a populated spot, but this place was deserted. The stillness was weird. It was the kind of silence that made her imagine dozens of people holding their breath. The houses around looked empty, but she could imagine people were there, tucked back into the shadows, watching.

‘I’m only paranoid because the whole world is out to get me…’

At the mouth of the alley she stopped and looked at her piece of paper again. The single word KABILA was pencilled above the street address. She looked up and saw it again, painted on a piece of lath pointing along the alley.

She moved into the gloom, smelling dampness and cats. On her right, 10 metres along, there was a solitary doorway. She went in and saw thin beams of daylight from high up, dappling a splintered staircase.

‘Nice little pied-à-terre, Lucy.’