Jonathan Taylor - Meyer-Hofmann AG

“Then he hosed me down with freezing cold water. I thought I would drown. The force of the water was so strong, and he blasted it full into my face. I couldn’t breathe, my mouth and nose were full.”

The tears were welling up in her eyes as she spoke, and she cuddled herself for warmth, remembering the cold water.

“Then, when I wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he stabbed me in the leg.”

“And the teeth?”

“Electric shocks. I thought I was on fire! My whole body was racked with pain. Everything, I can’t explain it—it was awful!”

A lonely tear dropped between her legs onto the blue plastic material of the gurney she was perched on. She watched it fall in slow motion, impacting with the bed then ricocheting off in all directions, and with it, her feeling of self. She felt lost.

“He might as well have killed me.”

She spoke the words quietly, as if whispering to a child, as the ambulance came to a stop.

Sergeant Richard Weger met Heinz at a side door to the station.

“I can’t get involved! That is not what I signed up for!”

Weger was a small man, and not a typical policeman. He wore his green police issue trousers at half mast, his waist so small that his trousers rarely had the correct leg measurement. The shirt was also too large for him, the uniform sweater making it crease up into the V-neck, giving the impression he was wearing a blouse. A pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose were threatening to jump at any moment.

“What are you going to do?” Weger said, pushing the disobedient glasses up his nose with his forefinger.

Heinz looked him up and down once, with no sign of emotion, lifted the silenced Walter PPK in his right hand, and shot Richard between the eyes before setting off towards the cells.

Michael stood when he heard someone at the door, the old lock mechanism dragging the large bolt out of the thick cell walls, the cell door opening outwards into the hall beyond. When the door finally opened, he was only a metre away from the two men who stood before him, a guard he knew and another man in plain clothes, who immediately offered his hand.

“Mr Jarvis, my name is Günther Müller.”

Kill him!

Michael reached out towards the hand as a picture flashed through his mind. A martial arts throw, where the victim is taken in a handshake before being put on his back and killed with a blow to the neck.

Michael took the hand and shook it.

No! You idiot!

“Mr Müller, I have to get out of here. I believe Meyer-Hofmann will send someone to kill me.”

“You are quite safe here, Mr Jarvis, believe me.” Günther’s words were followed by a dull thud, and the guard behind him fell into the cell, a dark red patch growing on the side of his head. Both Günther and Michael threw themselves at opposite sides of the confined space. Günther struggled to release his own Walter PPK service revolver from its hip holster, whilst Michael tried to make the target as small as possible.

The bullet hit him in the left side of his chest, accelerating him into the wall. Günther, now on his back, raised his gun and emptied the clip into the man mountain that was standing in the doorway. No single shot had a deadly effect, but the sum of the parts battered the soldier into his grave. Going down on his knees, Heinz’s facial expression never changed, even as the life left him, and he fell face-first onto the cell floor.

Lisa was still in Accident and Emergency when Michael arrived. She heard the sirens outside and watched the rush of activity preparing for his arrival, but had no idea that all the commotion was for her husband. Only when the gurney carrying Michael into Intensive Care flew past the half-closed curtains of her hospital bed, with Günther Müller and Monika Keller in hot pursuit, did she understand what was happening.

“MICHAEL!”

A knock on the door brought Von Klitzing back from his machinations. He straightened his silk tie and inspected the grey business suit he had chosen especially for the occasion. Admiring himself in the sitting room mirror, he took a deep breath. With everything ordered in his mind, he knew it was going to be a close thing. He had to convince Cerf to authorise an attack on Iran, and this had to happen before any negative information reached them from Munich. It was not unusual for plans to hang in the balance, but Von Klitzing really needed this one to succeed.

Benjamin Cerf was wearing a cream cotton suit and open-neck shirt. The men embraced like old friends, but Von Klitzing found the full body contact uncomfortable. He made a note to find Cerf after the attack, and if he was still alive, to give him a proper death. The pair smiled at one another for different reasons.

“So, my friend, what is so urgent that you dash across the world to meet with me?”

Von Klitzing put on a stern face and remained standing as Cerf took a seat on the luxuriant sofa.

“Benjamin, there is a situation in Iran you should know about.”

He had certainly caught Cerf’s interest. He pulled himself up on the chaise lounge and leant forward.

“You have my attention.”

“As you know, I still travel regularly with the German government on different trade missions. Last week, we were in Iran visiting their nuclear plants. I always carry a hidden camera. I need you to take a look at some pictures.”

“I hope you have no cameras now, my friend?” Cerf asked with a high laugh.

“Of course not!” Von Klitzing’s mock indignation was accompanied by a knowing smile. He laid the photos out one by one on the glass coffee table, like a poker player revealing a winning hand.

Cerf rubbed his chin and reached into his pocket for some eyeglasses.

“And you took these where?”

“Bushehr. It’s on the coast—”

“Yes, I know where it is!” Cerf cut him off. “How many centrifuges did you count?”

“There were a lot. As you can see, they were sealed off from the party. I only got these pictures by doubling back and taking them through the windows.”

The photos were taken through the dirty glass of an indoor window, which separated two laboratories.

“Well, to be honest, Johann, we have known about their enrichment program for many years. These photographs just confirm it.”

“No, Benjamin, at the back of the room, behind the door.”

Cerf looked closer. At the back of the laboratory was another glass door, behind which there were what looked like silver urns stacked down the middle of the room. Von Klitzing gave him time to draw his own conclusions.

“They are containers for storing plutonium.”

Von Klitzing handed him another photo. Cerf took it and held it in front of himself, using his reading glasses as a magnifying glass. The picture showed the tops of a group of the cylindrical containers, with the numbers and letters 239PU 22% 240PU. That was reactor grade plutonium. But at the back right of the picture, you could make out different percentage markings, which went as low as ten percent.

“Fuel-grade plutonium.”

“Yes.”

Cerf wiped his forehead and looked up at Von Klitzing, who, knowing he had his man, handed him the last photograph. It was a close up of the very last container at the back right-hand corner of the pile, it read 239 PU 7% 240 PU.

“Weapons-grade plutonium.”

“I’m sorry. I feel my Government’s reticence is partly responsible. We should have shut them down long ago!”

Cerf shook his head.

“It can’t be true. We have heard nothing of this! How can you confirm these?”

“I took them myself, Cerf. They are part of the BND records. Their reference number is at the top of each photograph. The German government knows, but they can’t tell you. At least not officially. That is why I am here.”