James Becker - Echo of the Reich

“Nobody knows for sure, but the best estimates suggest around a hundred kilotons, one hundred thousand tons of TNT equivalent. Put one of those babies in the ground floor of Centrepoint and light the blue touch paper, and all you’d be left with would be a bloody great hole about a mile across and full of rubble.”

Bronson shook his head. “I didn’t know they were that powerful,” he said.

“But that’s a nuclear weapon,” Weeks reminded him, “designed for use by the Russian special forces, the Spetsnaz. We still don’t know what this Bell thing is supposed to do. Or how big it is, or where they intend to place it.”

“That’s the trouble. All I do know is that Marcus and his cronies clearly have an agenda, and the core of their plan involves launching a serious attack on this part of London. Before the German who Angela shot in the mine finally died, he told me it wasn’t a terrorist weapon or a terrorist attack they were launching. He described it as a ‘vengeance weapon,’ like the V1 and the V2, and that’s what worries me the most. Whatever the Bell was designed to do, even back in the Second World War, it was still capable of killing people. I told you about this chamber in the mountain, a chamber lined with ceramic bricks-”

“That could suggest it produced radiation,” Weeks interrupted. “The Nazis might have been experimenting with different materials to try to contain it. And I have a feeling that ceramic materials are used for shielding in some parts of modern nuclear power stations, but don’t quote me on that.”

“Anyway,” Bronson continued, “we know for a fact that whatever it produced was lethal in nineteen forty-five, and since then this bunch of brand-new Nazis have had about seventy years to get it right, to miniaturize it or increase its yield or do whatever else they wanted. I think we have to assume that this weapon represents a clear and immediate danger to London.”

“And you can’t go to the police because…?” Weeks asked.

“I’ve tried,” Bronson said resignedly. “And I got the run-around, just as I expected, because of what’s happened. What the Met wants is to see me sitting in a cell facing firearms charges. Trying to get them to look beyond that is almost impossible. That’s the police mentality, I suppose. Arrest somebody for whatever offense they’re known to have committed, and take no notice of the bigger picture.”

“So it’s all down to you and me?”

Bronson nodded. “There are no more strings I can pull, nobody I can talk to who will take me seriously, and even if I knew somebody who had the kind of clout we’d need to get this area thoroughly searched, I haven’t got a shred of evidence to support what I believe is going to happen.”

“You’re not exactly filling me with confidence here,” Weeks said. “This Olympic site is huge, and the weapon could be anywhere. Oh, and by the way, access to the site is severely restricted, so if you had some idea about getting inside and looking for the Bell there, that isn’t going to happen.”

“I don’t think we need to get inside the Olympic Park or any of the stadiums,” Bronson said. “Like you said, access is very restricted, and it has been since pretty much the start of the construction. And today nobody’s getting anywhere near it without a ticket, and certainly not in a vehicle. I don’t think that Marcus and his pals would have been able to get a device positioned inside a building on any part of the Olympic complex. Don’t forget, all the reports about the Bell emphasized that it needed huge amounts of power, which would mean more than just plugging it in to a wall socket, and I can’t think of any way that they could have arranged to get the device installed and provide a dedicated high-voltage power supply to it.”

“Depends on how competent the architects and builders were, I suppose. But on the other hand, the builders would’ve been working to detailed plans, so if the device wasn’t on the plan, it probably wouldn’t have got installed. So you’re probably right.”

“And there’s another thing,” Bronson went on. “It wasn’t so much something that Marcus said, more the way that he said it. When I was with him in Berlin, I got the distinct impression that the device was on its way here, not already in position, which has to mean they’ll be putting it somewhere outside the complex. That means in a vehicle or they’re going to get it into a building near the site.”

For half a minute or so, the two men ate and drank in silence, then Weeks glanced out of the window, put down his mug and looked at Bronson.

“What?”

“Anybody know you round here?” Weeks asked.

“Not really. That group I was supposed to infiltrate was based in this area, but that’s all. Why?”

“Because when we arrived in this exclusive establishment, two men got up and left. One of them is now standing on the opposite side of the road looking this way, but I’ve no idea where the second one’s gone. I’ve never seen either of them before, so it looks to me as if they recognized you, and I wouldn’t mind betting we’re going to have company any time now.”

Bronson turned round slightly in his seat so that he had a view of the street outside. The figure Weeks was talking about was leaning against the wall of the building opposite, a cigarette cupped in his left hand, staring across toward the cafe. Bronson had a good memory for faces, and now that he could see the man clearly, he recognized him immediately. He’d never spoken to him, but he’d been one of the group at the warehouse when Bronson’s true identity had made the news.

Weeks was right. Bronson had no doubt that within a few minutes Georg or some of his men would be arriving, and because of what had happened in Germany and Poland, their response to his presence in the area would be violent, and possibly fatal.

“Well spotted, Dickie. We need to get out of here, right now. You reckon there’s a back entrance?”

“Bound to be,” Weeks said, standing up. “There’ll be a backyard or something.”

The two men walked across to the counter, lifted the flap and stepped behind it, to the immediate and very obvious irritation of the proprietor, who stepped over to block their path.

“You can’t go through here. It’s private.”

“Get the hell out of my way, fat boy, unless you really like hospital food,” Weeks said, lifting a large clenched fist to the man’s face.

For a second or two, it looked as if the cafe owner was going to try his luck, but then he shook his head and stepped to one side.

Weeks led the way through the back room, like the rest of the cafe a dark and grubby space, the shelves lined with tins and packets, a couple of fridges and a large freezer humming away in one corner, toward the rear door.

And as he opened it and stepped outside, Bronson realized what should have been obvious to him from the first. The only reason the man would have had for standing in plain view on the opposite side of the road in front of the cafe was to alert Bronson to his presence, and force him to pick another, less public, way out.

In fact, the man had been acting like a sheepdog, driving the sheep-Bronson and Weeks-exactly where he wanted them to go: out of the cafe through the back entrance.

Because the moment they stepped outside and the door clicked shut on the latch, Bronson saw a group of five men waiting about twenty yards away, covering the only exit from the narrow alleyway.

27 July 2012

Bronson knew immediately who they were, not least because the man he knew as “Mike” was standing in the middle of the group, a satisfied smile on his face.

“You might have fooled Georg, but I had you sussed from the start,” he snarled. “You fed us a long line of bullshit, but all the time you were just another bloody copper. And now you’re going to get what’s coming to you.”