James Becker - Echo of the Reich

The other four men were carrying short lengths of timber, less obvious weapons than baseball bats, but just as effective in the right-or rather the wrong-hands.

But before any of them could move, a deep chuckle sounded beside Bronson as Weeks took a step forward.

“That’s the problem with some of you north London villains,” he said. “You talk too much, and you don’t think things through.”

Unhurriedly, he reached inside his jacket, extracted a Colt 1911 semi-automatic pistol, cocked the weapon and aimed it straight at Mike.

Beside him, Bronson took out the Walther and mirrored his actions.

Mike’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. The other men had frozen in place the moment the pistols appeared.

“We don’t have time to mess with you today,” Weeks said, “so you’re quite lucky, really. Why don’t you just take your bits of carpentry away with you and do something useful with them, like build a table. But if we see you around here again, we’ll make sure you don’t bother us-or anybody else-ever again. Now get the hell out of here.”

But as the five men turned to leave, under the silent threat of the two pistols, Bronson raised his other hand.

“Hang on a minute,” he said.

The group stopped as one and turned back to him.

“It’s just a question,” Bronson said. “Do you know what’s going to happen at the opening ceremony of the Games today? What Georg has got planned, I mean?”

Mike shrugged reluctantly.

“He’s organized a massive demonstration for this evening,” he said, “right in front of the cameras. That’ll get the message out to the biggest number of people possible. Then he’ll pay us off, and that’ll be it.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yes.”

Bronson shook his head.

“He’s fooled you all. You won’t get paid. In fact, if you’re in this area, you’ll probably end up dead. He’s smuggling a massive bomb here, and he’ll trigger it during the ceremony. That’s what all this has been about, right from the start.”

“Bollocks,” Mike snapped. “Georg is an environmentalist. He’s making a stand against overdevelopment, and especially against overdevelopment for sport. He’s committed to a nonviolent approach.”

“Glad to see that you remembered the official message,” Bronson said. “But don’t forget you killed that nightwatchman. That was hardly ‘nonviolent,’ was it?”

“That was an accident. We didn’t know he had a weak heart. Apart from that, all we’ve done is smash up machines and try to disrupt things.”

“Just following Georg’s instructions?”

Mike nodded.

“What Georg has been telling you is exactly what he thought you wanted to hear,” Bronson said. “You’ve been causing trouble to suit his agenda, and to divert attention away from his real target. If he’d told you that the other part of the group, the people in Germany, were planning on blowing up half of northeast London, you wouldn’t have helped him, would you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, welcome to the real world, Mike, because that’s his actual agenda. What you got involved with is a last gasp of Hitler’s Third Reich, if you like. Georg’s German friends have decided that the London Olympics will provide the ideal opportunity to finish off what the Nazis started with their V1 and V2 weapons. Their aim is to destroy as much of London as they possibly can.”

Mike just stared at him.

“Bollocks,” he said again. “You’re making this up.”

“Why would I bother?” Bronson asked. “I’m just giving you a reality check, and a warning about what’s going to happen.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Deadly,” Bronson replied.

Mike glanced around at his companions, all of whom looked somehow uncertain, so clearly Bronson’s words had had an effect on them.

“If you’re right,” Mike said, “if this isn’t just more bullshit, I mean, what the hell can we do about it?”

It looked as if Bronson had suddenly acquired a somewhat unexpected group of allies. But the reality, he knew, was that there was very little they could do, except keep their eyes open. So that was what he suggested.

“All we know is that the device they’re intending to position here is probably fairly bulky, and we think it’ll be arriving in a vehicle, possibly to then be unloaded and placed inside a building, just because it’s likely to need a main power supply. So keep your eyes open for anything like that.”

Bronson jotted the number of Angela’s pay-as-you-go mobile phone on a piece of paper, walked across to where Mike was standing and handed it to him.

“If you see anything, anything at all,” he said, “call me, and then call the police.”

Mike looked at him, and nodded.

“I heard the cops were looking for you-for real, I mean. Is that true?”

“Yes. Right now, I’m deep in the shit because they don’t believe that there’s any threat to the Games. That’s why I’m dressed like this.”

Mike nodded again, then turned to leave the alleyway. Then he turned back and looked at Bronson again.

“I think you ought to know,” he said, “that when Tom spotted you and your mate in that cafe, we told Georg about it. He told us to rough you up a bit, break one of your legs and leave you here. So he’s probably coming along pretty soon to finish the job. Might be useful, knowing that.”

Bronson nodded. “Thanks, Mike,” he said. “It is. Now you’d better make yourself scarce.”

As soon as the men had disappeared from view, Bronson turned back to look at Weeks, who was holstering his pistol.

“Not exactly what I expected,” Bronson said.

“What about this Georg bloke?” Weeks asked. “Think he’ll turn up here looking for you?”

“Probably,” Bronson said, “and that might be as good a lead as we’re going to get.”

He pointed further down the alley.

“There’s an open yard or something down there. If you take one of the Heckler amp; Kochs, you can cover me from in there. I’ll just lie against the wall here, and I’ll have the Walther right beside me. But don’t shoot unless you have to, because firing that MP5 will alert every copper in the area. This Walther’s silenced, so let me take care of this German bastard.”

Weeks took one of the MP5s out of the sack, checked it, took a spare magazine, and then walked away down the alley. In seconds he was out of sight, but Bronson knew he would be watching what happened from his hidden vantage point.

Bronson took the Walther pistol out of his pocket, checked it and then screwed the suppressor onto the end of the barrel. Then he lay at the edge of the alley, resting his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. He tucked the pistol almost under his right leg, where it would be immediately to hand, but at the same time invisible to anyone passing. Not that they’d seen anyone else in the alleyway-apart from Mike and his cronies-since they’d stepped into it.

He didn’t have long to wait.

About a quarter of an hour after Bronson had taken up his position, his left leg twisted awkwardly under the right, as if it was broken, two men turned into the alleyway from the adjacent road and walked steadily toward him. Recognizing them wasn’t difficult. The slight figure of Georg was quite unmistakable, and the last time Bronson had seen the taller man walking next to him was in the concrete-lined cellar at Marcus’s house outside Berlin.

“This is a surprise, Bronson,” Georg said, stopping beside him. “Got a bit of a problem walking, have you?”

Bronson didn’t reply, just looked up at him. He was actually in some pain, just because of the awkward position of his leg.