James Becker - Echo of the Reich

So he slipped away quietly, out of the back door and away down the street.

Epping lies at the edge of the forest of the same name, and he had no trouble finding an open area where he would easily see anyone approaching. There were a couple of wooden benches on one side, and he strode over to the nearest one and sat down.

Bronson still had two mobiles: his personal phone and the new cheapie Eaton had bought for him. He daren’t use his own phone because there was a good chance the Met would have obtained the number by now, so he took out the chip and worked it between his fingers until it cracked in two, then discarded it in a nearby rubbish bin, along with the phone itself. He’d planned to buy himself a new one anyway. Then he took the new mobile out of his pocket, checked the settings to ensure that his number wouldn’t be displayed on the recipient’s phone, and then called Angela.

He was feeling more than a little guilty. For the last month, they’d been talking about taking a holiday while the Olympic Games were being held in London, on the reasonable grounds that the capital would be hell on wheels during that period, and neither of them had the slightest interest in any form of organized sport. Angela had to work in London-she was a ceramics conservator at the British Museum-and the prospect of battling not only the regular London traffic and pedestrians but also the anticipated tens of thousands of spectators for the Games had been moderately daunting.

They’d discussed going abroad-any country would do, but France or Italy seemed to have risen to the top of the list-and just sitting in the sun by the sea and doing pretty much nothing. It was an enticing prospect, and Bronson had been on the point of making the booking when his superior had given him the bad news about his secondment to the Metropolitan Police.

Bronson and Angela had had a short and somewhat stormy marriage, and their separation and divorce had been almost entirely Bronson’s fault. The reason for their breakup had been a classic romantic novelist’s cliche, but like all cliches it was both common and fundamentally true: Bronson had actually been in love with Jackie Hampton, his best friend’s wife. Or at least, he thought he had been. But then Jackie had been killed-murdered, in fact-in Italy and since then Bronson had been doing his best to convince Angela that they should be together again. He’d also come to the conclusion that his feelings for the dead woman might have been, at least in part, simply a desire for the unattainable, though he also realized that could have just been him trying to rationalize his conflicting emotions.

Angela, quite understandably, was very cautious about committing herself again, and she had told him she intended to take things slowly this time, to wait and see what the future held for them both. Bronson was quite certain about her feelings for him-he knew that she loved him, that she had always loved him-but he was also keenly aware that she couldn’t stand the thought of being hurt again if he suddenly switched his affections elsewhere. Not that that was going to happen, Bronson was positive. So they had spent a lot of time together while she tried to come to a decision.

They had been very close over the last few months, and Bronson had already decided that it was the right time to propose to her again, although he still wasn’t sure what her answer would be. He had hoped that a holiday would help Angela clarify her thoughts, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen.

“Hi,” Bronson said, as soon as she answered.

“You’ve been on TV,” she replied immediately. “And not in a good way. What the hell’s going on, Chris?”

“I can’t explain it right now, but it’s all a part of this undercover operation they’ve shoved me into.”

That statement had the benefit of being almost true, as long as you excluded the most recent events from the explanation.

“You might even see more stuff about me over the next few days,” Bronson went on, “but none of it will necessarily be true. Now, as part of this, I’ve got to go away for a day or two.”

“Where to?”

“Germany, actually.”

“Germany? Why? I thought this operation was something to do with the Olympics?”

“It is, kind of, but it would take too long to tell you about it. I’ve got to go to a meeting in Berlin.”

Bronson paused for a moment, choosing his next words with some care.

“There’s something else,” he said. “You might be contacted by the Metropolitan Police about me, asking if you know where I am. Don’t tell them anything. Just say you haven’t seen me for several days.”

Angela snorted. “That’s not a problem, because I haven’t seen you, not for about two weeks. But why would they talk to me? Surely they know where you’re going and what you’re supposed to be doing?”

“Not all of them, no. This operation has been cleared at the highest level, but to maintain security they’re going to treat me as a wanted man, so the police in London will be looking for me. It’ll all help to establish my cover.”

That sounded almost believable, but Bronson doubted if Angela bought it for a second. And her next words proved it.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” she said.

“Only a little,” Bronson replied reluctantly. “And I really can’t tell you any more at the moment. As soon as I have a better idea what’s going on, I’ll let you know.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good,” Angela said. “I’ll hold you to that. And be careful. I worry about you.”

Bronson ended the call and then dialed the number he’d memorized: the number for Bob Curtis’s mobile.

“What?”

“Hi,” Bronson said.

“Where the hell are you? We’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“What number are you calling from?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Bronson said. “Have you got anything to tell me?”

There was silence for a moment, and when Curtis spoke again, his voice sounded almost resigned.

“I suppose you mean why did a van-load of coppers turn up at your meet?”

“Sounds like a good place to start.”

“Look, you know the way the system works. The sergeants tell the constables what to do, and the inspectors take the credit, just like any other big organization, right?”

“Yeah. Oh, and just so you know, I’m in a bus, so there’s no point in trying to triangulate where this call’s coming from.”

“I wasn’t.” Curtis sounded indignant. “Anyway, chain of command and all that, so I had to keep Shit Rises informed. After your last call, I told him what you’d said, specifically that you’d blow the whistle if you needed close support, and he decided it was a good time to roll up the group.”

“Just like that, despite what I’d said?”

“Just like that. He even called it an ‘executive decision,’ the pretentious prat. He forbade me from telling you what he’d planned, because he wanted your reaction to be natural when our blokes hit the meeting. The team used the GPS tracker to follow your car, but when they got to the site they didn’t know which building you were in, and that was why they were still waiting on the road when you drove out. I did try calling your mobile to warn you, but you never answered.”

“It was switched off,” Bronson replied. “I didn’t want it ringing when I was talking to those people and having to explain who was calling me.”

“Right,” Curtis said. “Well, you may not need to explain anything to them, but now you sure as hell need to explain things to us. Why the gun? Where did you get it? And why the hell did you fire it at those coppers?”

“Lots of questions.”

“Yeah, and I’m hoping for lots of answers. Good, solid, honest answers.”