James Becker - Echo of the Reich

“I’m not exactly a volunteer, am I?”

Curtis grinned again and shook his head. “No, not really. But he needed somebody from out of the area who wouldn’t be recognized as a police officer. And he also needed a man with certain talents and experience, so he checked all the local forces and the name that popped up at the top of the list was yours. So you’ll have to do.”

“So this really isn’t just a shitty little job then? I mean, it actually matters?”

“Oh, it matters. It really matters. That was just Shit Rises trying to be funny. As all of us working here know, he has a well-developed sense of humor,” Curtis added, with a perfectly straight face. “This is important, and you’ll get whatever help and support you need. Make no mistake about this. As you said, the Games will be starting in exactly ten days, and we have to take this group of vandals off the streets before then. Between you and me, I think the powers that be are worried that there’s something else planned.”

“Like what?”

“I have no idea. But if there was any kind of attempt to disrupt the opening ceremony, for example, that would be really embarrassing for London and Britain, with a worldwide audience of billions, and the Met would be so deep in the shit that we’d probably never be able to dig our way out.”

“So no pressure, then?” Bronson said.

Curtis shook his head, and his expression remained grim.

“I’m not trying to con you, Chris. This isn’t going to be easy, and to make it worse, you’re going to have to work alone. We can support you, and provide backup if it’s needed, but basically it’s all down to you.”

Then Curtis passed the slim file across the desk, leaned forward and explained precisely what Davidson wanted Bronson to do.

19 July 2012

“Got another one here,” the uniformed constable announced, as he and his colleague made their way somewhat erratically toward the desk.

The reason for their unusually halting progress was the man between them. He was dark haired, unshaven and wearing stained jeans and a leather jacket. He was big and solidly built, and it was immediately clear that subduing him would not have been easy. He was still struggling and mouthing abuse, and it was taking all the efforts of the two officers to keep him heading in the right direction, despite the handcuffs that secured his wrists in front of him.

Two other suspects were already standing beside the desk, accompanied by three uniformed officers, but these two men were not giving anybody any trouble.

“What’s the charge?” the desk sergeant asked, eyeing the approaching trio.

“The usual,” the constable replied. “Malicious damage, resisting arrest and abusive behavior. And once we’ve shut him up and got a Breathalyzer mouthpiece between his lips, I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to add drunk and disorderly to that lot.”

After a couple of minutes, while the sergeant completed the processing of the other two men, the dark-haired man seemed to calm down a little, possibly realizing that he had no chance of getting out of the police station, at least until his handcuffs had been removed.

“Where did you find him?”

“He was cutting his way through the boundary fence around the new hockey stadium,” the constable said. “We were coming down the street in the car and saw him doing it. Had a crowbar and a club hammer with him as well as a set of bolt-croppers, so he obviously intended to do some damage once he got inside. Oh, and a couple of cans of spray paint as well. They’re all in the car outside-we’ll haul them in here as evidence as soon as he’s been processed. He’s a big bugger. Took us all our time to keep him quiet until the van arrived to take him away.”

“Open-and-shut case, then,” the sergeant remarked, looking at the third suspect, who had now fallen silent, but was glaring at him with naked hostility. “This joker say why he was doing it?”

The constable nodded. “Didn’t shut up about it, even when we were sitting on him. Pretty much what you’d expect. He told us the Olympics were a sham, some international conspiracy organized by big business simply to make money, and had nothing at all to do with sport. You know, I think he might have a point about that. He also seemed to know quite a lot about the costs involved. He reckons London will take years to get out of debt because of the Games.”

“He’s got a couple of soul mates over there, then,” the sergeant said, aiming the point of his pen toward the two men who had already been processed and were now sitting in a couple of chairs that lined the wall near the desk. “I don’t suppose he has any idea how getting into the site and breaking a few windows is going to help the situation? And if he was targeting the hockey stadium, I suppose that proves he knows sod all about sport, ’cause there’ll only be about a dozen people who’ll want to watch the matches.

“Right, then. Name?” The sergeant paused and looked expectantly at the dark-haired man.

The man shrugged. “You choose,” he snapped.

“I just love comedians.” The sergeant turned back to the uniformed constable. “Any ID on him?”

“Nothing useful. When we checked him at the scene, all we found in his pockets were twenty quid in fivers, a day ticket for the tube, a comb, a handkerchief and a door key. No wallet, driving license or car keys. Probably stashed them somewhere while he did his bit of amateur B and E.”

The sergeant glanced back at the suspect. “Come on, mate,” he said, “don’t mess me around. You’re only making things more difficult for yourself. What’s your name?”

The dark-haired man shrugged again. “Alex,” he said finally. “Alex Cross. No ‘e,’” he added.

The sergeant looked at him somewhat questioningly. “I’ve heard that name somewhere before,” he said, “somewhere recently. Is that your final offer?”

“It’ll do for now.”

“Right. If that’s the way you want to play it, that’s fine by me.”

Just over an hour later, the three men walked out of the Stratford police station together, Cross having apparently convinced the sergeant that he had given his real name and address, or maybe the middle-aged police officer really didn’t care too much about the veracity of the information he was writing down, as long as he’d completed the paperwork and ticked all the appropriate boxes. Although all three men had been arrested, their actions had not been deemed sufficiently serious for them to be detained. Cross had even passed the Breathalyzer test, despite the smell of alcohol that the constable had noticed.

For a few moments, Cross glanced around him, up and down the street, then he zipped up his leather jacket, stuck his hands in his pockets and strode away.

A couple of seconds later, a voice rang out down the street. “Hey! Hang on a minute.”

Cross stopped in his tracks and glanced back to see the two men walking swiftly toward him.

“What?” he demanded.

“You fancy a drink somewhere?”

Cross hesitated, then nodded. “Sure, why not? Get rid of the taste of that cop shop.”

They walked the short distance to the nearest pub, its rough and battered exterior a perfect reflection of the appearance of most of its clientele. Cross pushed open the door and the three men stepped into the saloon bar.

It’s a familiar cliche that when a stranger enters a particular kind of bar, all conversations stop as the locals assess the new arrival. But like all cliches, it contains more than a grain of truth because there are places like that even today, places where any new face is a potential source of trouble or perhaps of opportunity. The East End of London has more than its fair share of such establishments-pubs that the tourists never visit, where the only bar food on offer will be packets of crisps and pork scratchings, and where anyone asking for a drink as suspect and effeminate as a glass of wine is likely to be thrown bodily out into the street. These are places where deals are discussed and concluded, where a man wishing to obtain a weapon for a robbery can lease a pistol and a fully loaded magazine for a day or a week, where a contract for the permanent disappearance of a business rival or an enemy can be negotiated, and the price agreed, and where strangers are at best tolerated for the money they hand over, but are always discouraged from paying a return visit.