Алистер Маклин - Prime Target

‘Well done,’ Whitlock said.

‘I’ll be in touch as soon as matters here are concluded.’

‘Right. And if I could just ask…’

‘Yes?’

‘When you dispose of the remains, be gentle with me.’

At three in the afternoon Erika Stramm and her companion, Gregor Bryusov, returned home from a luncheon appointment. It was a good lunch and they had both taken a lot of wine. They had been the guests of a magazine publisher with a flair for mingling business and pleasure, and in the course of the meal a deal had been struck. Erika would write a series for the intellectual monthly Deutsch Herzfeuer, a ten-part study of the transforming effect of socialism upon the arts in Germany since 1946. A commission like that, she told Gregor in the taxi home, was like being paid to play with her favourite toys.

They talked intensely as they entered the apartment, each overlapping what the other said, but in the gloom of the hallway Gregor suddenly stopped talking. He pointed to the strip of carpet between the hall and the door to the sitting room. A single nylon thread lay coiled against the dark fibre, glinting in the dim overhead light. Since the American journalist broke in, Gregor had taken to fixing a thread across the sitting-room doorway each time they went out.

Erika kept talking, her face serious now as she watched Gregor step carefully into the sitting room. He switched on the light, walked to the centre of the room and stood there, looking slowly round.

The bedroom door off the sitting room was half open. It had been closed when they left. Gregor took a leather cosh from his pocket, hooked his thumb through the thong and silently wrapped it around his wrist. He crossed the room and kicked open the bedroom door. It flew in against the wall with a bang and swung back.

Erika came into the sitting room. She saw Gregor step through the bedroom doorway. He moved out of sight, towards the fitted wardrobes along the left wall. She heard him open a door. He grunted, just once, then there was the unmistakable sound of a body falling.

‘Gregor?’

She went to the bedroom door. There was no sound. She put one foot forward, using her leg as a prop, and leaned into the room. Gregor was lying face-down in front of the wardrobes. Erika turned her head to look behind the door.

‘Can we do this peacefully?’ Sabrina said.

She came forward, her arms extended to the sides. She was in her black worksuit and rubber-soled boots, her hair clipped tightly behind her head. Erika moved back a pace, tensing herself.

‘I only want to ask questions. They are important, and answering them will not hurt you or impinge on your liberty.’

Erika looked at Gregor’s motionless body. She could see he was handcuffed.

‘I don’t have to talk to you.’

‘Well maybe you do.’

Abruptly Erika jumped back, pulling a knife from the pocket of her jeans. The blade flicked open, long and thin.

‘Any questions that get asked,’ she said, ‘you’ll be answering them.’ She jerked her head at the sitting room. ‘Get in there. Now!’

For an instant Erika looked down at the knife, positioning it in front of her. When she looked up Sabrina’s fist was an inch from her nose, moving fast. It hit her with a snapping sound. She fell. Sabrina stepped out from behind the door and kicked her twice, hard, in the ribs. Erika tried to scream but she had no breath. She began to gulp, trying to suck air into her stricken chest.

Sabrina shook the knife from her hand, took her by the ankles and dragged her into the sitting room. Erika pulled back her leg, trying to aim a kick. Sabrina let the leg drop and jumped on it with both feet. Now Erika did scream. She doubled over on the floor with her knees curled to her chin, clutching her injured calf.

‘Right then, ups-a-daisy.’

Sabrina got behind Erika and took her by the armpits. She hoisted her into a straight-backed chair, pushed her hands through the slats and slipped on a pair of handcuffs.

‘There.’ Sabrina came round in front, wiping her hands on the legs of her worksuit. ‘You and the boyfriend are a matching set now. You were both a lot easier than I expected.’

‘You won’t get away with this,’ Erika panted. ‘You or the other one, Miles or whatever he calls himself.’

‘Please, spare me that.’ Sabrina tucked a loose strand of hair into the clasp at the back of her head. ‘I just did get away with it. Didn’t I?’

‘That’s what you’ll pay for,’ Erika said. The pain of Sabrina landing full-weight on her shin had brought tears to her eyes; they had flowed freely down her cheeks, taking a quantity of mascara with them. ‘I’m talking about later.’

‘Do you want me to make it rougher still?’

‘You wouldn’t dare harm me.’

‘I’ve already harmed you. And your friend.’

‘What did you do to him?’

‘Given the difference between his weight and mine, and given the fact I knew I had to deal with two of you, I played dirty pool, Erika.’

‘What did you do to him?’

‘Knocked him out with a blast of CS.’ Sabrina held up the silver canister, then dropped it back in her pocket. ‘He went down like he’d been shot. In a couple of minutes he’ll come round and he’ll be fine. For the time being. If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll take it out on him.’ She went into her pocket again and brought out a hypodermic syringe, the needle capped and in position. ‘Pentothal, Erika.’

Erika looked shocked.

‘And don’t tell me I wouldn’t dare.’ Sabrina nodded at the syringe, which contained yellow-tinted water. ‘There’s a big overdose in there.’

‘You’re a crazy woman!’

‘Well, you obviously know that when the subject’s heart is really pounding, a big dose can bring on a spectacular brain seizure.’

‘You could kill him!’

‘Yes, I could.’ Sabrina moved close. She bent down, putting her face level with Erika’s. ‘Shall we talk?’

‘What the hell do you want with me? I don’t know anything.’

‘You have information I need. Please don’t wear down my temper by denying it. Listen – I won’t come to harm for any of this. But your boyfriend could. Don’t doubt me, that would be a bad mistake.’

‘What do you want, for God’s sake?’

‘The name, address and timetable of your assassin.’

Erika said nothing. She lowered her head.

‘Am I to take it you’re refusing?’

‘Why do you want to know this?’

‘I work for an organization that has to stop what you’re doing to the men on Emily Selby’s list.’

‘What organization?’

‘I can’t tell you. But in spite of what you think is evidence to the contrary, we are on the side of the angels.’

‘A Nazi would have no difficulty saying that.’

‘Erika, I don’t like Nazis. Did you ever hear of a neo-fascist called Klaus Schneider?’

Erika nodded. ‘I heard of him. Was he a friend of yours?’

‘I brought him in.’

Erika stared. ‘That’s easy to say.’

‘The details of how he was caught were never made public,’ Sabrina said. ‘But I bet you know what happened.’

‘Perhaps I do.’

‘So. Schneider was on a bench at Unter den Linden on a warm night in August 1992. He was waiting for a consignment of stolen heroin which he planned to sell below the going price. It was one of his ways of raising funds for the cause. At the appointed time a young woman arrived and he followed her into the bushes to make the exchange. Except she turned on him, beat him up, stripped off his clothes and tied him to a tree. Then she took a Polaroid and sent it to his compadres, those who thought he was the new Führer. They got the picture with a note saying the same would happen to them. Dispersal of the group was my mission. It worked.’