James Becker - Echo of the Reich

The trouble was, there was almost nothing he could do. His relationship with the group, such as it was, was reactive and responsive: they had his mobile number, but he had no way of contacting them. The only person who ever called him was John Eaton, and he had configured his mobile so that the sender’s number was blocked. Apart from the warehouse on the small industrial estate he had just left, the only other physical points of contact he’d had with the group were a couple of pubs.

He would just have to wait until somebody-Georg or Eaton or another member of the group-called him and arranged another rendezvous. And then he’d have to decide if that was the right time to let Curtis loose the dogs to roll up the group. Or not.

Bronson frowned, started the Ford’s engine again, pulled out of the pub car park and turned back onto the road.

22 July 2012

“And bring your passport,” the voice on the mobile instructed, then rang off.

For a second or two, Bronson stared at the handset, then shrugged and replaced it in his jacket pocket. Why the hell did he need his passport? Did Georg or Eaton want to confirm his identity by looking at the document? Or was there some other reason?

It was the day after the meeting at the warehouse, and Bronson had just been summoned to another rendezvous, this one back in London, in Stratford. It was a residential address, maybe a safe house, which might mean that the group was beginning to trust him. At the very least, it was the first meeting place that wasn’t either a pub or a warehouse, so it was progress of a sort.

For the duration of the operation, he had taken a room above a pub in Epping, a cheap and anonymous lodging from which he could come and go as he wished, because the first-floor accommodation was approached by an outside door that was independent of the pub’s entrances. He had traveled up to London with the bare minimum he thought he would need-half a dozen changes of clothing, his washing kit and a couple of paperbacks-but he had brought along his passport. In fact, he rarely traveled anywhere without it.

The decision he had to make was whether to tell Bob Curtis about the meeting. On the one hand, if most of the major players from the group were going to be there it would offer an excellent opportunity for the Metropolitan Police to grab the men involved in the killing of the nightwatchman. But if a squad of officers kicked down the door and found only John Eaton, for example, then Bronson’s cover would be comprehensively blown and there would be no chance of identifying the other members of the gang. And, from Bronson’s point of view, no possibility of finding out what else Georg had planned for London, because he was still sure that the German-and he thought he’d identified the man’s accent now-had a much more dangerous agenda planned than the mindless vandalism that had taken place so far.

Realistically, there was only one option that made sense. Bronson looked at his London A to Z, spent a couple of minutes studying one page of it, then took out his mobile phone again and pressed the now familiar speed-dial combination.

“It’s me again,” he said when Curtis answered. “I’ve been summoned to another meeting this afternoon, but I think they’re still checking me out, so there’ll probably only be one or two of them there.”

“You said there were a whole bunch of them waiting for you at that warehouse yesterday,” Curtis pointed out.

“I know, but then they thought they were confronting an infiltrator, an undercover cop, which is why they were there mob-handed. That’s also why they told me to drive out into the wilds of Essex, so that if they decided to beat the crap out of me, or worse, there’d be nobody around to hear, or to interfere.”

“No witnesses.”

“Exactly. You knew where I’d gone, but if they’d decided that I was a liability they could do without, I’d have been dead and buried long before you could have got a team organized and out there to find out what had happened to me.”

“So why are you sure you won’t be walking into a bullet or a knife this time?”

“Mainly the location,” Bronson replied. “The meet’s in a residential district. One of the neighbors would be bound to notice any unusual noise, so I think I’ll be safe enough.” He paused for a moment. “But if you could keep a car or two, or maybe an ARV, in the vicinity until I call you afterward, I’d appreciate it. Just in case I’ve read it completely wrong and I do need to call the cavalry.”

“No problem. Give me the address and the time.”

Bronson read from the brief notes he’d made during his earlier conversation.

“Right,” he finished, “I’ll talk to you later today, once I leave the meeting. And it might be worth checking out who owns or rents that property.”

“Already doing it,” Curtis replied.

Ten minutes before the time specified, Bronson parked his Ford in a neighboring street, checked that the Llama was secure in his pocket and fully loaded, then climbed out of the car and walked along to the address he’d been given.

He was still about twenty yards away when the door of a dark gray Vauxhall saloon car swung open in front of him and John Eaton leaned out.

“Hop in, Chris, we’re going for a ride,” he said.

Bronson stared at him for a moment.

“I thought we were meeting in that house,” he replied, pointing up the street.

Eaton shook his head. “No. Georg picked that address at random, just to provide a location where we could meet you. The meet’s a couple of miles from here.”

Bronson nodded. “Right. Well, no offense, John, but I’m not getting in the car with you, not after what happened at the warehouse. My car’s parked about a hundred yards away. I’ll go and get it, and then I’ll follow you.”

“Mike said you had to be in this car.”

“You really think I give a toss what Mike says? No way am I getting in that car. You want me at a meeting, I’ll drive there myself. If you don’t like that, I’m walking away right now.”

Eaton nodded in resignation. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it. I’ll stay here. What kind of car is it?”

“Blue Ford Focus, on a fifty-seven plate,” Bronson told him. “I’ll be no more than five minutes.”

As soon as Bronson turned the corner and knew he was out of sight of Eaton’s car, he pulled out his phone and called Curtis.

“Really quick,” he said. “Forget that address because it’s nothing to do with the group. They just picked it as a location for me to get to. I’m going to get my car and follow John Eaton to the actual site for the meeting. You’ve still got the GPS tracker on the Ford?”

“Yes, and I know that it’s working.”

“Good. Make sure you keep an eye on my position, and keep an ARV close behind me. And if I call this number but don’t say anything, it’ll be because it’s all turning to rat shit and I need help, fast.”

Bronson reached the Ford, unlocked it and dropped into the driver’s seat.

“Right. I’m in the car and about to move off. Talk to you later.”

“I hope so. I really hope so.”

22 July 2012

Eaton’s estimate of a couple of miles wasn’t too far out. Bronson followed about fifty yards behind the Vauxhall as Eaton threaded his way through the afternoon traffic. Their route was toward the east, through districts Bronson had never visited before, moving steadily away from the congestion of the city and deeper into the suburbs.

Eventually, Eaton turned into another small industrial estate-the group was obviously fairly consistent in its choice of rendezvous locations-and pulled up outside a unit that either had been abandoned early in the life of the estate or had simply never been used at all. It was impossible to tell which, and it really didn’t matter.