James Becker - Echo of the Reich

“So, Mr. Policeman, now we have to decide what to do with you.”

Bronson said the only thing he could think of that might turn the situation around.

“You said the Metropolitan Police force was stupid, Mike. Well, from where I’m sitting, the only stupidity being shown in this room is what’s coming out of your mouth.”

Mike crossed the room in three quick strides and smashed his fist into Bronson’s face.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk when we put the screws on you. Until then, just keep quiet.”

Bronson’s cheek was numb from the blow, but he still seemed to have all his teeth, which was something.

“Do all your thinking with your fists, do you?” Bronson asked. “Easier to hit than use your brain?”

Mike spun round and raised his right hand again, but then a single voice cut across the office and he stopped instantly.

“Wait.”

Bronson had not even noticed the man until he spoke, probably because he was sitting in a chair against the far wall, rather than standing in a group with the other men. He had a thin, pinched face and a somewhat straggly beard that seemed barely attached to his chin, like some badly applied theatrical prop. He was slightly built, and although he was sitting down Bronson guessed he was well under six feet tall. But despite his unimpressive appearance, he exuded authority and seemed to be the dominant personality of the group. Certainly, his single word of command had stopped Mike in his tracks.

“You’re not going to listen to him?” Mike snapped.

“Sit down and shut up,” the seated man said, his eyes never leaving Bronson. Mike glared at him for a couple of seconds, then slunk over to one side of the room, dragged a chair forward and sat down on it.

“Right, Bronson-and I assume that really is your name, not ‘Alex Cross’-you’ve got sixty seconds. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t let Mike take you apart.”

“Simple, and I would have thought it was obvious. I’m not an undercover cop, and what’s just happened proves it.”

“Fifty seconds left. I’m not convinced.”

The seated man had a faint accent that Bronson couldn’t place. It wasn’t French or Italian, because Bronson spoke both, Italian fluently and French reasonably well, but it could have been German, or possibly he was from one of the Eastern European nations. The man’s English was fluent, but it clearly wasn’t his first language.

Bronson knew he had only the one chance, and his best bet was to tell the truth as far as he could, admit some things and hope they swallowed the big lie at the end. He’d discussed the possibility that he might be unmasked with Curtis before he went undercover, and between them the two men had concocted a story, a story that Bronson knew he was now probably betting his life on.

“My name is Chris Bronson,” he said, “and I was a police sergeant. But I left the force months ago. To be exact, I was thrown out.”

“Why?” the seated man asked. “Thirty seconds,” he added.

“If I’ve only got thirty seconds left, I’d rather skip the details.”

“Fair point. Go on.”

“I’ve done undercover work in the past, and to protect the identity of officers involved in that kind of operation, there’s a standard procedure that is followed by the media. Before any story is run that might identify a police officer, in any context, the Home Office has to be informed, just in case that officer is working undercover. If I was still in the force and trying to penetrate this group, that story”-Bronson nodded his head toward the TV set in the corner-“would never have been broadcast. And that proves I’m not who Mike thinks I am.”

In fact, Bronson had not the slightest idea whether any such procedure was followed, though he thought it would probably be a good idea if it was. But it sounded plausible, and that was what mattered. He guessed that Curtis would have been just as surprised by the contents of the news broadcast as he was, and he hoped he was even then doing something to mitigate its effects.

“Okay. You’ve bought yourself another minute. Why were you thrown out of the force?”

“I got a little carried away when I was questioning a suspect. He ended up with concussion and a broken arm and I got charged with grievous and actual bodily harm. And then they threw me out for good measure. That’s why I gave a false name when I was arrested at Stratford nick. If they’d known who I really was, they’d never have let me out-there’s an outstanding warrant for my arrest because I skipped bail after they charged me.”

The man with the straggly beard nodded.

“That’s a good story,” he said, “but we’ve got no way of verifying it. What we do know is that you were-or are-a police officer, and we have no wish to get involved with the forces of law and order here in Britain. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Georg.” One of the other men in the office was looking at the television set, pointing at the screen, at the live program being broadcast.

Along the bottom edge a ticker was running, saying “Breaking News,” and Bronson’s picture was again displayed on the screen.

“Turn up the volume.”

Somebody grabbed the remote control and pressed the “mute” button, and immediately the announcer’s voice filled the room.

“…now understand Sergeant Bronson was dismissed from the force some months ago following an incident, and that there is an outstanding warrant for his arrest on charges of assault. Members of the public are advised not to approach this man under any circumstances, but to contact the nearest police station immediately if they believe they’ve seen him. Also in London, a council official in Lambeth has-”

As the man again muted the set’s volume, Bronson looked across at the seated figure. “Now do you believe me?” he asked.

Georg shrugged. “That depends on how much credence you give to what they tell you on television.”

“You were ready enough to believe the first report about me,” Bronson pointed out.

“That’s another fair point, but I’m still not convinced.”

Bronson tried one last gamble. “Right. Untie me, and I can show you something that might help you make up your mind.”

“What?”

“Untie me, and I’ll show you,” Bronson repeated.

The seated man glanced round at the other men in the room, presumably assessing the chances of Bronson being able to overpower them, then nodded. The two men standing behind Bronson bent down and removed his bonds.

“Thanks,” he said, as his arms were freed.

For a moment he rubbed his wrists, getting the circulation going again. Then he stood up, turned to his right and smashed his right fist into the face of the man standing beside him. Before anyone else could react, he twisted around to his left and did exactly the same to the man there.

“Touch me again, you bastards,” he snapped, “and I’ll blow your bloody heads off.”

Then, as three of the other men started to move toward him, he whipped his right hand behind him, pulled out the Llama and aimed it straight at them, clicking off the safety catch as he did so.

“Just give me a reason,” he snarled.

All three men stopped in their tracks, mesmerized by the sight of the pistol.

“Still think I’m a cop, Georg?” Bronson asked, glancing momentarily toward the seated figure.

“Right now, I’m not sure,” the man replied, apparently unfazed by the sight of Bronson’s Llama. “But that doesn’t look much like a police-issue pistol, so that’s one point in your favor. Now, unless you think you are going to start shooting, I suggest you put the weapon away. Then perhaps we can talk.”