James Becker - Echo of the Reich

“Suppose he goes to the authorities? He might decide to take the chance, to try to argue that he was forced to kill Polti.”

“What information can he take to the authorities? He knows nothing. Our hands are clean. We are all respected businessmen and citizens of Germany; he is a proven killer. And I’m quite certain that Bronson will be desperate to avoid coming to the attention of the police in either Germany or Britain. I still think he’ll be somewhere in this area. And I want him found and killed.”

Drescher nodded. “You’re probably right, but finding him won’t be easy.”

“I didn’t say that it would be. I just want it done.”

Wolf switched his attention back to the man standing in front of him.

“Do you understand? This is positively your last chance. If you can’t do this, don’t bother coming back here because if you do I will kill you myself.”

Oskar nodded, turned away and walked out of the study, his companion hobbling painfully along behind him.

“Do you think they’ll track him down?” Drescher asked.

“They’d better. I want Bronson dead.”

“But suppose that they can’t find him? He could be almost anywhere. What then?”

Wolf shook his head and smiled grimly.

“Whether he’s alive or dead won’t make the slightest difference to our operation. There’s nothing that one man-that any man-can do to stop us now.”

25 July 2012

Bronson woke, stiff and cold and aching, just after six in the morning. Dawn had already broken, the first pale streamers of the rising sun spearing slim shafts of light through the trees, and birds were greeting the new day with a medley of songs.

He opened the door and stepped out of the car, stretching and straightening his aching back, and for a few moments just looked around him and listened. He appeared to be entirely alone. He could see neither houses nor other cars, and no signs of walkers either.

He walked the few yards to the shore of the lake, bent down and splashed water onto his face. It was so cold it almost seemed to sting him, but it very effectively completed the process of waking him up. He had nothing to eat or drink in the car, and he badly needed both a cup of coffee and some food; he was ravenously hungry.

He also needed to decide what to do next. Getting back into the house near Spreenhagen would be impossible now. Marcus and his men knew that he hadn’t trotted back to London as he’d been instructed, and they would be even more alert than before to the presence of any intruder. He had no idea what would eventually happen about the undercover policeman he’d killed and the unarguable forensic evidence he’d been forced to leave in the house and, because he could do nothing about that situation, he tried to dismiss it from his mind.

He also didn’t know if he’d killed the man who had tried to stop his car near the clearing the previous night, but he certainly wasn’t going to lose any sleep over him-if he hadn’t shot him with the silenced Walther, he knew beyond any doubt that the man would certainly have shot him. In that situation, it was kill or be killed.

But the bigger question, the one that really worried him, was what Marcus and his men had planned for London. Exactly what was the “lantern bearer” that he’d mentioned? What could it do? And why was a group of reborn Nazis trying to mount a terrorist attack on Britain’s capital city?

Bronson glanced at his watch. It was too early to ring Angela, but he turned the phone on anyway and deselected the “silent” option, just in case she decided to call him. Then he fished out the map book, opened it at the page that showed the area to the east of Berlin, and for a few minutes just stared at it. He knew exactly where he was, but he had absolutely no idea where he should go next, or what he should do.

His mobile phone suddenly burst into life, the speaker playing the opening bars of “The Ride of the Valkyries,” and he made an immediate note to change this for something less offensive-or at least something more modern-as soon as he could. Bronson’s musical taste had stalled somewhere in the mid-seventies, and his CD collection was almost exclusively rock ’n’ roll.

Without even looking at the screen, he knew it had to be Angela, simply because nobody else knew his number.

“Chris? Thank God. I’ve been trying to call you for hours, but your bloody phone has been switched off all night.”

“I know,” Bronson replied. “I had no option. It was-”

“Tell me later,” Angela interrupted. “Listen. Thanks to Steven, I think I know what Laternentrager refers to, and it’s not good.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you. That’s what I was really ringing you up for. I’m in a taxi heading for Heathrow; I’m booked on the morning Lufthansa flight to the new Brandenburg Airport in Berlin. The flight gets in at about ten, and I expect you to be in the arrivals hall no later than quarter past, and pleased to see me.”

“I’m always pleased to see you, Angela. You know that. But I don’t think you coming out here is a good idea. I’m involved with some really dangerous people.”

“I always thought you were quite dangerous, Chris, and I’m sure you can take care of yourself, and take care of me as well. Anyway, I’m coming, because you’re going to need my help to sort this out. I’ll see you at the airport.”

And with that, she rang off.

Bronson stared at the phone in his hand, then shrugged and put it on the seat beside him. In truth, he was pleased that Angela was flying to Germany. He was sure that whatever information she’d discovered would help point him in the right direction, and it would be really good to have her around. He just had to make sure that he kept her well away from the clutches of Marcus and his gang of homicidal thugs.

He looked at his watch again. He had hours before she landed, plenty of time to find somewhere, some quiet cafe, where he could buy breakfast, and then make his way to the airport, which he located quickly when he looked again at the map. It was in the Schonefeld district, just a few miles almost due south of the center of Berlin.

A thought struck him, and he realized that there might be something else he could do at the Brandenburg Airport while he was waiting for Angela to arrive. He smiled to himself, then started the BMW, bounced over the uneven ground where he’d parked for the night and got back on the road.

Two hours later, having breakfasted cheaply and copiously at a small cafe on the outskirts of Hoppegarten, and still well before Angela’s flight was due to touch down, he drove into the long-term parking area at Brandenburg. He knew he was only going to be there for a short time, but he was looking for something very specific, and he thought that that parking area represented the best chance he had of finding it.

On the way to the airport he’d stopped at an out-of-town shopping center, where he’d found a large hardware store. He’d bought a pop rivet gun with a selection of rivets and washers; a hand drill and half a dozen drill bits, including a countersunk bit; a plastic vehicle cover; and finally a basic toolkit.

All he needed now was to find the right car.

The long-term car park was the usual multi-story structure, each level covered by a single surveillance camera, which meant Bronson would need to be careful where he parked and what he did, to avoid attracting attention. He drove slowly up to the third level, then slowed down even more as he started looking for another black BMW 3-series. He had plenty of choices. He counted over twenty such vehicles as he drove through the car park, but he needed one that looked clean, which would suggest that it had been parked recently and implied that the owner wouldn’t be back to collect it for at least a few days.