James Becker - Echo of the Reich

Every second car seemed to be a Vauxhall, and after three or four minutes Bronson started to worry that Eaton wouldn’t appear, for whatever reason. But then he saw a car indicating left, and stepped out of the way as Eaton swung the Vauxhall to a stop a few feet away from him.

Bronson waited a couple of seconds, until no other cars were passing, then walked over, pulled open the passenger-side door and sat down.

“Go, John,” he instructed.

Eaton nodded, pulled the Vauxhall back onto the road and drove away.

“What took you so long?” Bronson asked.

“The bastards stopped me,” Eaton explained. “They were right pissed off at what you’d done, and as soon as I drove up, they made me stop. I told them I’d been in the other building, the one where the fire alarm went off, and they couldn’t prove that I wasn’t, so they let me go. Checked all the documents, of course, but the car’s straight, and I don’t have a record or nothing, so there wasn’t anything they could do. None of ’em recognized me from the TV, like.” He paused and grinned at Bronson.

“Never thought you’d blow their tire like that. Bloody good shot.”

“I didn’t want to,” Bronson replied, “but they were going to stop me as well, so I had no choice. If I’d stopped and they’d got a good look at me, I’d be in the slammer by now.”

“And you had to dump the car because they’d seen you driving away in it?”

“Exactly. One of them would have got the number for sure, and there’ll be an APW out for it by now, so I couldn’t take the risk of driving it any longer than I had to.”

“Your motor, was it?”

“Yeah,” Bronson replied, “though I hadn’t finished paying for it. I was going to sell it anyway, so it’s not a great loss.”

“And they’ll know it was you in the car, waving that gun around?”

Bronson nodded. “The car was registered in my name, and I’d be amazed if one of them didn’t recognize me.”

“So now they’ll be after you for firing a pistol at them, as well as the other charges?” Eaton indicated left and took the next turn, moving them away from the main road and the industrial estate.

Bronson nodded again. “You got it. I was aiming for the front tire of the van, obviously, but I’ve no doubt the Crown Prosecution Service could spin that into a charge of attempted murder if they wanted to. Then there’s possession of a firearm, discharging a firearm in a public place, attempting to endanger life, malicious damage, failure to stop, evading arrest, and even littering because the pistol ejected the cartridge case onto the road. About the only charge they won’t be able to stick me with is assaulting a police officer, because the cop who climbed out of the passenger door didn’t come any closer when he saw the pistol. But the book, as they say, will be thrown at me.

“And all that lot does leave me with a problem,” he continued. “I have to get to Berlin by tomorrow, and because of what’s just happened my face’ll be on a watch list at every port and airport and there’ll be a stop order against my passport.”

“How would the pigs know you were planning to leave the country?” Eaton asked.

“They wouldn’t. It’s just standard procedure, part of the All Ports Warning. So I’m going to need a new passport-or rather a different one-and a new set of wheels, preferably today, so you need to talk to Georg as soon as possible. Fill him in on what’s happened and see what he can come up with.”

“Right. I’ll just put a bit of distance between us and the scene of the crime, so to speak.”

That suited Bronson, and for the next fifteen minutes he sat in silence in the passenger seat as Eaton steered the Vauxhall down a succession of largely unmarked roads. He knew they were still somewhere in the tangle of suburbs that lay to the northeast of London, but exactly where, he had no idea. He just hoped that Eaton did.

“You know where we are?” he asked eventually.

Eaton nodded. “My old stamping ground,” he said, “though it’s changed a bit since I was a kid. We’re on the edge of Epping Forest, near Loughton.”

A couple of minutes later, Eaton pulled the Vauxhall off the road and into a long and wide turnout, in the middle of which stood a mobile canteen van, painted dark blue and with the legend “Joe’s Lite Bite” written in somewhat shaky and uneven white letters on the side. He took out his phone and dialed.

Eaton’s call was answered quickly, and he explained what had happened at the industrial estate after Georg and Mike had driven away.

“You should have seen it,” Eaton said. “He pulled up beside the coppers’ van, stuck his pistol out of the window and shot off their front tire. Bloody marvelous.”

“It was only one round from a twenty-two caliber pistol,” Bronson pointed out. “Not the bloody Gunfight at the OK Corral.”

“Anyway,” Eaton continued, getting back to reality, “now he’s got a problem because the pigs know he’s carrying a weapon and he says there’ll be a watch out for him at all the ports. So if you still want him to go to Berlin, we’re going to have to find him a different passport and another car.”

Eaton listened for a few moments, then spoke again.

“Yeah, but does he still have to go to Germany? I mean, after what he did today?”

Another silence, then Eaton glanced across at Bronson and nodded.

“Okay, I’ll tell him. Where do you want to meet?”

Eaton ended the call and slipped the phone into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Georg still wants you to go to Berlin. He said it’s all set up. He’ll sort out a passport-there are a couple of blokes in the group who look a bit like you, probably close enough for you to get out of the country-and he’ll find you a car as well.”

“We’ll meet him, then?”

“Yes. Don’t know where or when yet, but he’ll call me back.”

Bronson nodded. “So what do we do now?”

Eaton shrugged. “Georg said you should just keep out of sight.”

“Right. Then you can do me a favor. My mobile’s given up the bloody ghost, so can we drive to a shop somewhere so you can buy me a new one? Nothing fancy, just a cheap pay-as-you-go.”

Eaton nodded. “Sure.”

Twenty minutes later, Eaton walked out of a large newsagent on the outskirts of Epping carrying a plastic bag that bulged around the shape of the box inside it. He passed the bag to Bronson, who opened it and pulled out the box.

“I got you a car charger as well, just in case,” Eaton said, pointing at the second, smaller packet that the bag contained.

“Thanks, John; good thinking.”

Bronson opened the box and took out the basic Nokia it contained and plugged the car charger into the cigarette lighter socket to make sure the battery had a good charge before he started using it.

“There’s thirty-five quid on the SIM,” Eaton said. “The phone came with ten, but I asked the bloke in the shop to add on an extra twenty-five. Thought that would do you for a while. I’ve got a note of the number, as well, so we can reach you.”

“Thanks again.” Bronson reached into his pocket and took three twenty-pound notes out of the envelope Georg had given him. “There you go, John,” he said, handing them over. “Thanks for the phone. And for picking me up. Been a bit poorly placed if you hadn’t.”

“No need for that,” Eaton said, but Bronson insisted, thrusting the notes at him, and finally he took them.

“One last favor,” Bronson said. “I’m staying here in Epping. Can you take me about a quarter of a mile down this street and then drop me off? I’ll need to sort out my stuff for this trip to Germany. Then I’ll be ready to go as soon as Georg does his bit.”