James Becker - Echo of the Reich

He walked for almost twenty minutes, taking a circuitous route along unfamiliar streets and roads, but always heading toward the east, looking out for one of the landmarks that he had memorized. Finally, he saw a street name that he recognized. He again checked that nobody was behind him, did a complete circuit of a block of terraced houses to flush out anyone who might have gotten in front of him and be keeping him under surveillance, and only then headed for his objective: a small area of waste ground between two buildings.

A confusion of tire tracks close to the street suggested that the vacant ground was used for unofficial parking during the day, but at that time of night there were no vehicles on it. The back of the lot was overgrown, rough grass and a handful of stunted bushes struggling for supremacy among the detritus of urban living: a couple of abandoned shopping trolleys and a crop of plastic bags, empty bottles and cans. On the right-hand side were a handful of empty paint tins; it looked like they’d been dumped there by some builder.

He stepped over to them, checked again that he was still unobserved, then lifted up one of the tins. Under it was a tatty plastic bag, which he picked up and opened. Inside it was a pay-as-you-go mobile phone, a cheap model from an obscure manufacturer that no self-respecting thief would go anywhere near. Cross slipped the phone into his pocket and walked away.

A few hundred yards down the street, he again checked that no one was anywhere near him, then switched on the phone and accessed the contacts list. Only one number was listed, and no details were given of the identity of the recipient, who was listed solely as “A.” He pressed the appropriate key to dial the number, which rang only twice before being answered.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” Chris Bronson said. “I think I’m in.”

20 July 2012

The pub sat on a fairly quiet street corner just northeast of Gallows Corner, where the A127 split off from the A12 and speared down to the southeast to intersect with what the locals called the world’s biggest car park, London’s orbital road, the M25.

Bronson had met Eaton and Williams as planned the previous evening and had arranged to meet them again that lunchtime. He parked his car-a nondescript five-year-old Ford saloon supplied by the Forest Gate police station-in a side street about a hundred yards away from the pub, facing away from the building, and on the last parking meter of a short line, where it couldn’t easily get boxed in by other vehicles. He wasn’t expecting any trouble, but it never paid to assume anything.

He was early, over two hours early, in fact, because he wanted to walk around the area a couple of times to familiarize himself with the layout of the streets, just in case he had to make a run for it. And he had another appointment in a backstreet cafe that he needed to keep first.

As far as Bronson knew, Eaton and Williams had bought his story about having a grudge against society and trying to take it out on the forthcoming Olympics. But there was always the possibility that they were smarter than they looked, and had somehow guessed that he wasn’t exactly what he seemed. And while the mobile phone tucked into his jacket pocket could call in reinforcements, Bronson knew that if he had to make the call, it would probably be too late. He could handle one or two of the group without much problem, he thought, but against half a dozen angry men armed with baseball bats-or worse-and a good reason to use them, he would stand little chance. He was acutely aware that this group were responsible for the death of the unfortunate nightwatchman. If they found out that he was a police officer trying to infiltrate them, he guessed that he could expect to meet the same end.

And this time, it wasn’t just Eaton or Williams he was going to meet. As a prospective new member of the group, Bronson knew there would be other people checking him out. Curtis had claimed that there was no chance anyone in the group could possibly know who Bronson really was, but sometimes the cosmic joker rolled the dice in a certain way and the long arm of coincidence stretched out, tapped you on the shoulder, and the impossible happened. Bronson firmly believed that Sod’s Law had just as much force and validity as any other rule of life, and frankly wouldn’t be surprised if half the members of the group he was trying to infiltrate had met him before. Sometimes, that was just the way things worked out.

And that was why he’d taken another precaution before coming to this meeting. Bronson had told Curtis that he’d never been to this part of London before, and that was true, but it didn’t mean that he didn’t know anybody in the area. For years, he’d kept in sporadic contact with a man he’d gotten to know while he was in the army, a former sergeant named Dickie Weeks, but who everybody in the unit knew as “The Fixer.”

Weeks had finally been thrown out of the army after one of his more optimistic schemes had been uncovered by a senior officer who couldn’t be persuaded-or bribed-to look the other way. The only reason he had avoided prosecution was probably simple embarrassment on the part of his superiors-in open court the full extent of his various wheeler-dealings would have been exposed to public scrutiny, and the reporters from the tabloids would have enjoyed a serious feeding frenzy. Because Weeks had managed to spirit away the better part of a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of army gear and dispose of it for cash to people who appreciated having access to that kind of equipment.

The man was, by any definition, a treacherous thief, but that didn’t stop almost everyone who met him from enjoying his company because Weeks was, whatever his faults, a thoroughly likable man, with a ready smile and quick wit. Bronson had never commanded him, but on a couple of occasions he had appreciated the rogue sergeant’s ability to obtain precisely the right equipment at precisely the right time, no questions asked. And that morning he had arranged to meet Weeks before his lunchtime rendezvous at the pub.

The cafe Weeks had suggested-in a parade of shops on the west side of Straight Road, north of the main Gallows Corner intersection-was easy enough to find. When Bronson pushed open the door, accompanied by a melodic tinkle from a small bell attached to the door frame, he immediately spotted Weeks sitting at a table for two in the far corner, his back to the wall and the remnants of a full English breakfast on the plate in front of him. It was counter service only, so Bronson ordered a mug of black coffee and a bacon sandwich before walking across to join his former comrade in arms.

“Diet going well?” Bronson asked, gesturing to the congealing fat and bits of bacon rind decorating the plate in front of the other man.

“You know me, Chris. Eat like a bloody horse and I never seem to gain an ounce.”

That was both true and irritating. Weeks was a big man-almost as bulky as Bronson-but despite having a prodigious appetite for all the wrong food, he never seemed to put on weight. If there was a scrap of divine justice in the world, he would have weighed a quarter of a ton and be suffering from a variety of digestive-system-related maladies. As it was, he radiated health and was, Bronson knew, extremely strong.

Bronson, in contrast, did have to watch what he ate, steering clear of what had become the traditional diet of most Britons-pizza, pasta, curry and fish and chips-because he knew that all the excess calories made straight for his waistline and took up permanent residence there. On the other hand, he had the frame to take it. He stood over six feet tall and was, in a word, wide-heavily built with broad shoulders. He exuded an air of barely restrained menace that he’d found useful in his early career as an army officer, and even more useful as a policeman. As his encounter in the pub he’d visited with Eaton and Williams had demonstrated, his physical presence could be quite intimidating.