Jonathan Taylor - Meyer-Hofmann AG

“The address is Nadi Street 6, Olympic Park.”

“Excellent, well done, please stay on the line until the ambulance arrives, and inform me of any changes in your husband’s condition.”

Lisa pushed the coffee table to the side and placed a cushion under Michael’s head, in an attempt to make him more comfortable. When she was finished, she took his hand and tried to force a smile.

“Lisa, I can’t remember me!”

“What? Just relax, darling, the ambulance is on its way.”

“No, you don’t understand. I haven’t got much time. They drugged me.”

“Who? Who drugged you?”

She could tell that he must be in some pain. Michael’s eyes always became smaller when he was in pain. His pupils were tiny, and his face was pale, the colour washed out of it. But what he was saying was even more disturbing.

He had been acting strangely since returning from the club. Could they have given him something? Drugged him? But why?

“Who drugged you, Michael?”

He was losing control again. He could feel his dominance diminishing, his world slipping away. He felt himself falling, sliding into oblivion, a bottomless well, unable to halt his descent, the world’s lights and sounds becoming a distant pinpoint somewhere above him. The body’s pain abating, its muscles relaxing, Michael accepted defeat. All he could do now was prepare himself for the next opportunity, the next battle.

Hofmann squeezed the woman’s hand and sat up.

“No, Michael, lie down; they will be here any minute.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t fuss!”

He pushed her to the side as he stood up, and Lisa lost her balance, sitting down hard on the sofa. Staring up at her husband, who was now standing over her, her expression was a picture of shock and surprise.

“Michael, what are you doing?”

“I’m all right! I’m fine now. I just need a little time. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you.”

They looked at one another, uncertain what to do or say. The doorbell saved them. Hofmann seized the opportunity, making his escape in the direction of the front door. Lisa remained on the sofa, unable to decide what had just happened.

What was the matter with her husband? She called after him, but he was already in conversation with the paramedics.

Was he ill? The drugs! Lisa was up and on her way to the door, the phone still clutched in her hand. The muffled voice of the operator was pleading to be heard. Michael was at the door, trying hard to persuade the paramedics that he was fine and didn’t need treatment.

“Wait, Michael, let them help you. They could do a blood test. Maybe they can tell if you have been drugged?”

The young paramedic had almost given up trying to persuade his belligerent patient to let him help, when he heard Lisa’s remarks.

“Drugs? What drugs, sir?”

“There are no drugs. I was having an episode. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“You said you had been drugged,” Lisa interjected, hoping her reminder would help him see sense.

“I’m perfectly fine!”

“Sir, I am afraid I will have to insist. Either you come with us to the hospital or we will wait for the police to arrive, and they can decide.”

Hofmann scowled at Lisa.

“Okay, okay, I will go with you, but you stay here.” He turned and pointed a finger at Lisa that left her no less clear about his feelings at that moment than if he he had pointed a gun at her.

He might as well have shot her. The shock of that image physically rocked her. I was only trying to help! The tears welled in her eyes again.

“Please let me go with you. I want to be with you!”

He pulled his coat from the stand and stepped out of the door, without looking back.

“Let’s get this over with!” He gestured towards the paramedics and headed for the staircase.

It was a fifteen-minute drive to the nearest general infirmary, Rechts der Isar , even with the blue light and siren. The paramedics insisted on securing him to the gurney for the duration of the trip, which agitated Hofmann even more.

Trussed up like a Christmas bird ready for the oven! Who do they think they are?

Wires and cables monitoring his body’s every function hung from his arms and chest, spiralling together on their way to the monitors suspended above his head.

His mind was spinning alternatives, deciding how he would deal with the hospital staff, but more importantly, how he would deal with his unruly host and its wife.

I need time. As long as I am fighting for control of his body, I have to get some distance from Jarvis’s wife. I will tell her I have to go away on business to get acquainted with the Company’s holdings, worldwide. She won’t like it, but that is not my problem. I will stay at the club. Six weeks should do it, give Ecker and his drugs a chance to finish the job, while protecting me from another scene like we had today. Then I need to get rid of her. I just have to decide how.

Danger had always been part and parcel of Hofmann’s life. There was never gain without risk, or change without pain. Hofmann was used to dealing out pain, but not quite so used to being on the receiving end.

I have to get back to work.

When the ambulance finally came to a halt, he had decided to find whoever was in charge and discharge himself immediately. Fortunately, it was not necessary, as waiting at the doors of Accident and Emergency were Herr Von Klitzing and Dr Ecker.

The International Crime Police Organisation, better known as Interpol, was set up in 1923 to help cross-border intelligence between police departments of member countries. With one hundred and ninety member countries, it is the second largest intergovernmental organisation after the United Nations. Functioning as an administrative liaison between forces, Interpol allows communication between law enforcement agencies across language boundaries. Collating an immense criminal database, it then places it at the disposal of all member countries. Untethered by national boundaries, this multilateral knowledge database and its seven hundred personnel, is in a far better position to construct a larger picture of international crime than national agencies.

Joe Wilson’s request for information on Britt Petersen was entered into the database and passed on to the Bundeskriminalamt , Germany’s version of the FBI. They, in turn, contacted Munich’s Criminal Police. For this reason, Detective Inspector Günther Müller and Detective Constable Monika Keller had left their office on Ett Street and were heading in the direction of Starnberg. They had been unable to reach Mrs Petersen by phone, her mobile phone jumping to voicemail after the first ring. On account of the allegations and his position in the Company, they had decided not to talk to her husband, at least not yet. Both officers had discussed the matter at length. Mrs Petersen’s husband was on the board of a very big company. It had connections to German Industry and politics at the highest level. Any allegations must be substantiated, before anything became public. It was an opportunity for them both. Günther was in his twenty-fifth year at the Kripo (criminal police) but, at forty-eight years of age, he was still ambitious.

This could be a dream job. Industrial espionage and murder—it is like something out of the movies.

Slowly stroking his short-cropped, light brown beard, he pondered the opportunity as he accelerated the unmarked police car down the motorway.

Monika was still in her first year at the Kripo. She had flown through the police college, and after a short spell as a Munich Police Officer, she had been moved to the criminal police. She originally joined the police as a way of supporting her sporting ambitions. She had been an Olympic speed skater at the age of eighteen, and the police were one of only a few employers who would tolerate the constant demands of sporting ambition. It was quite a surprise to her that, in the last four years, she had grown away from her sport and become more and more interested in the job. So much so that when the opportunity to become a detective came up, she had grabbed it with both hands, despite it costing her a second chance of success at the Olympics in Russia. Getting to work with Müller had been a major feather, as he was one of the best detectives in Munich and was tipped to become the chief inspector someday. Looking across at her boss in the car, Monika could feel the nerves flutter in her stomach, much as they had done during competition. The difference was that, here, she felt she was making a difference. She signalled that Günther should take the next exit and sat back deep in her seat, theorising what puzzle might be waiting for them. Despite the German tendency to use only surnames in the work place, Günther had offered her the more personal first name term (du) shortly after they started working together.