Алистер Маклин - Prime Target

Ahlin punched Wolff on the mouth. The impact jerked Wolff’s head sideways against the door pillar. As he straightened up Ahlin punched him again. Wolff grunted, pursing his lips to stem the rush of blood from his mouth.

‘Don’t speak again,’ Ahlin told him. He looked over Erika’s shoulder at the road ahead. ‘What did the last sign say?’

‘Gristow, eighty-two kilometres.’

‘In that case I think you should drive a little faster.’

It began to rain, big drops exploding on the windshield.

‘You’re sure about this boat?’ Erika said, putting her foot down a fraction, making the car surge forward. ‘How do you know you’ll be able to use it?’

‘It is mine, so I am sure I can use it.’

Erika said nothing. Ahlin interpreted her silence as disbelief.

‘I stole it, you see. I decided that my destiny, if I had any, would be in this country, and as I have been a good sailor since childhood, I decided I would travel here on the water. I picked the nicest launch I could find at Arendal, in south-east Norway. It was stocked with fuel and food, it had the latest navigation equipment. It even had an armed guard.’ Ahlin laughed softly. ‘He was the first man I ever killed. I knew I had to do that. My fitness to fulfil my destiny was being tested.’

‘And nobody came after you?’

‘Probably somebody did. But they would have been looking for a white launch registered in Oslo. After I crossed the Skagerrak, and before I made it down the Kattegat to the north coast of Germany, I stopped at a rundown Swedish yard and for a small price they changed the registration and identity of my launch, which is now an attractive sea-green.’

‘How can you be sure it’s still where you left it?’

‘Because I see it quite often, Erika. I live on it. I like to stay at a distance from cities. I regularly hitch rides out of Berlin so I can sleep in my own little bunk. I can usually be in Gristow in two or three hours. Hitching in the other direction is even quicker.’

‘What are we going to do when we get there?’

‘You asked me that already,’ Ahlin said.

‘I’m asking you again. I have a life and I’m concerned about the turn it’s taking.’

Ahlin picked up a rag from the floor. It was oily, the kind of rag that might have been used to wipe the spark plugs. He dabbed it to Andreas Wolff’s bleeding mouth.

‘We will walk the last kilometre to where the launch is berthed,’ he said. ‘That will be after we have ditched this car.’ He leaned forward and spoke close to Erika’s ear. ‘Before we lose the car, you’re going to use its radio to transmit a very important message.’

For more than an hour Mike had driven a stolen motorcycle a full 50 metres behind the police Volkswagen. Earlier, gridlocked traffic had slowed the Volkswagen’s approach to the fast northern route out of the city, giving Mike time to spot the car break away from the herd and take a sudden detour the wrong way down a one-way alley. He followed and had been behind the Volkswagen ever since.

The bike was a big Kawasaki, a courier’s machine, scarred and battered, with a 500cc engine and enough poke in the acceleration to make it easy to manoeuvre. The crash helmet, on the other hand, was half a size too big. Mike had jammed a folded newspaper up the back to make it fit. Sabrina was on the pillion seat, her Burberry trenchcoat buttoned to the top, her head tucked down to conceal the fact she had no helmet.

Once he was used to the machine’s handling Mike drove steadily, keeping himself behind other vehicles on the straight, weaving forward or dropping back to keep the space between them constant. The first few times Erika detoured he did the same, until he realized she was following a main route north-east. After that he timed his speed to dovetail close behind her each time she rejoined the major highway.

‘All right back there?’ he shouted as the rain began to lash them.

Sabrina inched closer, getting her face near the gap at the bottom of his helmet. ‘I’m fine, but I noticed we’ve been skidding. Is everything OK?’

‘The tyres are worn from too much heavy cornering. Try to ignore it.’

As they passed the 50 kilometre signpost to Gristow the traffic became noticeably thinner. Mike dropped his speed, letting the Volkswagen get a good 200 metres ahead of him. Two minutes past the 30 kilometre marker a thunderstorm broke. Lightning flashed and danced over the highway. Even above the roar of the bike’s engine the thunder was a thudding rumble, like blows on the ears and ribs. A couple of times the bike lost its purchase on the road and sailed towards the shoulder. Each time Mike corrected and regained control, grateful that Sabrina knew to sit motionless and let him do everything.

A kilometre outside Gristow the Volkswagen left the road. It turned sharply along a rutted farm path towards the north-west shoreline, 3 kilometres away. Mike slowed until the car dipped out of sight, then he followed, chugging along at a trotting pace, listening to Sabrina mumbling with relief as the circulation came back to her hands.

At the top of an incline Mike stopped and straddled the bike, holding it upright. He took off the helmet.

‘They’re heading for somewhere on the shore,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘What time do you make it?’

‘Three-twenty.’

‘We still have satellite time.’

Mike kicked down the bike’s support and climbed off. Sabrina swung her legs to the side and flexed her ankles vigorously before she risked putting her weight on her feet.

‘Such fun, a biker’s life,’ she muttered, rubbing her hands.

Mike took the heavy rifle from his right shoulder and transferred it to his left. He shook the loose water from his hands, took out his mobile and tapped in the satellite code. At the contact signal he thumbed the automatic dial code for UNACO and pressed the phone close to his ear. After ten seconds of whistles and pops he heard the faint but undistorted voice of C.W. Whitlock.

‘It’s me, C.W. Mike. I thought the old man would appreciate a rundown.’

‘He already has one,’ C.W. said. ‘The Berlin police have worked out what happened. One of the Austrian bodyguards lived long enough to give them the meat of the story. A number of small assumptions have taken care of the rest – including one about a messenger’s bike that went missing from outside a café just after the shooting. Did you take it?’

‘Would I do a thing like that?’

‘Is Sabrina with you?’

‘She is. I have to tell you C.W., we have no idea what Einar Ahlin is up to. As far as I can tell, he’s got Erika Stramm driving the stolen police car with himself and Andreas Wolff in the back, and they’re heading for the shoreline at Gristow.’

‘Hang on, Mike…’

‘Don’t be long. Satellite time’s tight.’

‘What’s happening?’ Sabrina said. She was mopping her hair with her scarf.

‘No idea.’ Mike looked at the sky. ‘The rain’s stopping. On the other hand…’ He looked off towards the east. ‘There’s more thunder and lightning on the way.’

‘Terrific.’

‘How’s your arm?’

‘Sore.’

Mike laughed.

‘What’s funny?’

‘You look like a half-drowned refugee in an expensive raincoat.’

Whitlock came back on the line. ‘Erika Stramm has used the radio in the stolen police car to issue an ultimatum,’ he said. ‘It was routed to Interpol and they just channelled it to us. We got it while she was still talking.’

‘What does she want?’

‘I have a transcript.’ Whitlock cleared his throat. ‘Statement begins, “Juli Zwanzig gives notice that in three hours’ time the man Andreas Wolff will die, and the German Navy’s experimental station at Stettiner Haff will be blown up, unless one million US dollars is handed over in direct exchange for Wolff at a place and time to be specified in one hour, by which time the authorities should have been able to make the funds ready for transfer. This demand is modest, unmotivated by greed, and is generated purely by the need of Juli Zwanzig to continue its mission.” End of statement.’