James Becker - Echo of the Reich

He found what he was looking for on the fourth floor. A black BMW parked next to a Mercedes van, which shielded the car from the unblinking eye of the surveillance camera at the other end of that level, and with a vacant parking space nearby.

Bronson reversed the car into the vacant slot and waited for a few moments until the Mercedes saloon that had been behind him as he drove up the ramp passed him and continued up to the next level. Then he climbed out, checked that he was unobserved, and opened the trunk of his BMW. He walked across to the back of the other parked car and looked down at the number plate. As he’d expected, it was secured in place by two rivets, one at either side.

He walked back to his car, removed the hand drill from the trunk, inserted the countersunk bit in the chuck and tightened it firmly. He returned to the other vehicle, watchful that nobody had spotted him, then bent down, placed the point of the drill bit against the first rivet and started turning the handle. The bit was brand-new and made short work of the aluminum rivet, and in less than thirty seconds he was able to repeat the treatment on the second rivet. The moment the number plate came free, Bronson stood up, walked back to his own car and put the plate into the trunk.

Then he walked over to the front of the other BMW and repeated the process. In less than two minutes, he had both number plates stored in the trunk of his own car, and a minute after that he’d covered the other vehicle with the plastic weatherproof sheet, which would hide it from view and prevent anyone spotting the missing number plates.

He locked his car, leaving the weapons hidden under the seat, and set off for the lifts and walkways that gave access to the terminal buildings.

Thirty minutes later, he was sitting by himself at a table in one of the cafes in the arrivals hall, a cup of coffee in front of him, and a one-day-old copy of the Daily Mail in his hand. Beside him was a plastic sports bag containing a designer-label washing kit-the only one he’d been able to find-a couple of shirts and a selection of underwear, all of which he’d bought at the shops in the terminal building, because he’d needed to replace the bag and clothes he’d had to abandon in the Hyundai. He’d also found a twelve-volt universal phone charger for use in a car, and that was in the bag as well.

Angela’s flight arrived on time, and Bronson stood up, grabbed his new bag and walked over to greet her as soon as he recognized her in the stream of passengers entering the hall.

Bronson moved quickly through the melee of people, reaching her side before Angela even saw him. The moment she did, she lowered her bag to the floor and hugged him tight.

“I’ve been so worried about you,” she whispered. “I’ve had the police round twice, looking for you, and I swear that at least once somebody followed me to work.”

Bronson nodded. “I’m not surprised. I left Britain under something of a cloud, and a warrant’s been issued for my arrest.”

“Then you really are in trouble, aren’t you?”

“More than you can possibly imagine, for a whole bunch of different reasons. I’m really pleased to see you, but I’d still rather you were safely back in London.”

“It’s too late for that. I’m out here now, because I decided I couldn’t stay away any longer. Besides, I think you need my help.”

Bronson smiled at her. “You know,” he replied, “I think I probably do. I realized this morning that I had no idea where to go or what to do next, so I hope you really have got some information about this ‘lantern bearer’ thing.”

“I have,” Angela said, “and I’ll tell you all about it in the car on the way to Ludwikowice. You’ve got a car, I hope?”

Bronson looked puzzled. “Yes,” he replied, “I’ve got a car. But what-or where-is this Ludwig-whatever place?”

“It’s in Poland,” Angela replied, “and it’s where I hope we might find the answers to a lot of questions. It’s certainly the place where the story of the ‘lantern bearer’ began.”

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting side by side in the BMW, and Bronson had just finished programming the built-in satnav with Ludwikowice as a destination.

“It’s over two hundred miles from here,” he said, as the satnav finished its computations, “so it’ll take us most of the day to get there.”

He started the car and a couple of minutes later the barrier in front of them lifted and they drove out onto the exit road from the airport.

“We’ll get a few miles under our belt before we stop for something to eat,” Bronson went on. “So you’ve got plenty of time to tell me exactly what you’re talking about, and why this Ludwig place is so important.”

Angela leaned back in her seat and relaxed. “You’ll notice,” she began, “that I haven’t asked you how come you’re driving around in a BMW-a make of car I know you detest-on Berlin plates, or why there’s the butt of what looks to me like an automatic pistol poking out from underneath your seat.”

“It’s a long story,” Bronson replied, “and thank you for reminding me about the plates. I need to fix those as soon as I can. And it’s not so much BMWs I dislike-it’s the particular collection of arrogant and incompetent idiots who always seem to end up driving them.”

“What do you mean by ‘fix’?”

“You’ll see.”

Once they’d cleared the airfield, and had passed the intersection between the E36 and the Berliner Ring, Bronson turned off on the L40 toward Ragow and pulled into the first deserted turnout he saw. There, while Angela stood beside him, looking and listening for cars or pedestrians, Bronson quickly and efficiently swapped the registration plates on the BMW, tossing the originals over a hedge and into the adjacent field.

“Because of what you’ve just done,” Angela said, “may I assume that you’ve borrowed the car we’re traveling in, using the term ‘borrowed’ in its loosest possible sense? That we are, in fact, driving around in a stolen vehicle?”

“You assume correctly,” Bronson replied, getting back in the car and restarting the engine. He didn’t know what contacts Marcus might have with the Berlin police-if he had any contacts at all-but he knew that changing the plates would make it a lot more difficult for anybody to track him as they drove across Germany. Unless somebody checked the chassis number of the BMW, it would appear to be entirely legitimate, at least until the owner of the car in the long-term parking at Brandenburg Airport returned from wherever he’d flown to and blew the whistle.

“I’ve been very patient,” Bronson said, as he swung the car around in a U-turn to head back the way they’d come, “and you’ve been very mysterious. So why don’t you tell me exactly what you’ve found out about the ‘lantern bearer.’”

“Right,” Angela replied. “Since you called me, apart from running around most of London trying to find different places to call you from-calls you never actually answered, I’d like to point out-about all I’ve done is research, following on from everything that Steven told me. It has been,” she added, opening her handbag and taking out a small notebook with a dark blue cover, “grimly fascinating. First of all, have you ever heard the German terms Wunderwaffen or Vergeltungswaffen?”

Bronson shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. What do they mean?”

“The word ‘ waffen ’ translates as ‘weapon,’ so ‘ Wunderwaffen ’ means ‘wonder weapon’ and ‘ Vergeltungswaffen ’ translates as ‘vengeance weapon.’ Originally the Wunderwaffen were supposed to be various types of tactical battlefield weapons, while the Vergeltungswaffen were much more powerful strategic theater devices, but these days the term Wunderwaffen is often applied to both types of weapon. You probably know that toward the end of the Second World War the Nazis were desperately trying to find some kind of weapon or tactic that would turn the tide and force back the Allied advance, and keep the Russians off their backs.”