E. Seymour - Final Target

In common with most ‘big men’, Phipps was into security. He had a couple of bodyguards with him at all times. He rarely drove, preferring a trusted driver. His food was checked. He never went anywhere without having the location swept for listening devices, weapons or explosives. A man rarely alone, the only exception was when he was screwing, which Phipps, again in common with the breed, did quite a lot. He oozed a rare, potent mix of sexuality and intelligence that women found bewitching. The fact he was also extremely dangerous added to the allure. Notwithstanding this, he always had a man posted outside the door of every place where he hung his hat. So how come he’d wound up alone in his car with a bullet in his temple? Surely, in the wake of Billy’s demise, a guy like Phipps would take special measures? The more I thought about it, the less sense it made. In the old days, I’d have asked around, but that time was past and I couldn’t afford to take a risk. And that was the problem with my life. Deprived of danger, I ceased to be.

I made myself a sandwich and ate it while reading the business section. I washed up the plate, set it on the drainer and considered any number of tasks that could gainfully engage my time. Maybe I’d go for a walk, catch a film, prop up any one of a number of bars and play anonymous.

I did none of these things.

I picked up the phone and punched in McCallen’s number.

‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Part of the job description.’ Her flippant response did not answer my question. If she wanted me to play ball, she’d have to do better.

‘I can’t help if I don’t know what I’m dealing with exactly.’

Nothing gave. Maybe she was thinking. Maybe she was asleep. I tried again.

‘You implied that Lars was threatened. Like to explain?’

She paused, as if weighing up how much to divulge before taking the plunge. ‘He thought he was being followed and believed that his phone was tapped. Someone broke into his house in London.’

‘Little things.’ I hoped to get a lot more out of her now that we were safely separated by a telephone line.

‘I reckoned he was paranoid. It happens sometimes when assets lose their bottle.’

‘But he wasn’t.’

‘No,’ she said quietly.

‘Anything else you’d like to tell me?’ Confess to, admit to, and tell the truth about, I thought.

‘Someone tried to push him underneath a train on the Underground.’

Breath ripped out of my lungs. I wanted to ask her to repeat what she’d said, but I didn’t need to. I’d heard it right the first time. The train trick was the same method I’d used to kill Billy Squeeze. McCallen knew this. I thought she might openly say so. She didn’t. Was someone imitating my methods? Was I seeing patterns and connections that didn’t exist?

‘Did he see who it was?’

‘It happened too quickly. A commuter grabbed him and undoubtedly saved his life. It really put the wind up him.’

And me. This piece of news demanded a step change in my thinking. I wondered whether to tell McCallen about Chester Phipps. McCallen was still speaking.

‘Afterwards I couldn’t shake Lars off. He was becoming a liability.’

Hardly the odd phone call, I thought, remembering our previous conversation. ‘Remind me of the timeline again.’

‘From the end of January until a few days before he died.’ Which wasn’t what she’d originally told me. I almost missed what she said next because I was too wrapped up in the Billy death scenario. ‘We spoke often on the phone. I met him in person twice.’

‘Where?’

‘Remote locations. He insisted on it.’

‘You should have cut off all contact.’ Basic procedure.

‘Fortunately for me I did, which was why I didn’t keep the appointment.’

Something snagged inside me. ‘You were supposed to meet him on the day he died?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the New Forest?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Have you considered the possibility that Lars could have been faking it? You had no independent evidence that the threats to him were real.’

‘Correct.’

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’

‘The post-mortem on Lars Pallenberg.’

‘What about it?’

‘Was there any reference to the amount of adrenalin in his system?’

‘No.’

Had there been, it would suggest that Lars had known his killer and knew what was about to take place. It indicated to me that Lars had no clue that he was about to be killed. It was all over and done with in moments, which was as it should be with a professional hit. There was an alternative scenario. A distant yet familiar sound, like the echo of ancient gunfire, rattled through my brain.

‘Do you think he deliberately set out to trap you?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Either way, he was clearly deemed expendable.’

‘It explains why the killer took a heavy-duty weapon with him instead of a simple handgun.’

‘Because Lars was meant to be eliminated after I’d been taken care of.’

This meant McCallen was on someone’s death list, that her interest in her asset’s killer was of secondary importance. Her real concern stemmed from the danger to herself.

‘Do you have a file on Pallenberg – background, family ties, friends and so on?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘Depends.’

Caught in the grind, I’d spoken before I’d had a proper chance to think through the full implications. ‘Can you get me a false passport?’

‘I can even arrange the flights.’

I flew to Berlin four days later.

After landing at Tempelhof I took a cab ride, courtesy of a Turkish driver who ran red lights and had a death wish, and booked into a modest hotel in Friedrichstrasse, close to Unter Den Linden. I’d changed my appearance by bleaching my dark hair blond and wearing a pair of fashionably oversized glasses with clear lenses. I wore a navy suit, shirt, no tie, and a wool blend overcoat with velvet revere collar favoured by bankers and high-end estate agents. Playing by Moscow Rules, the highest level of tradecraft, I checked the lobby to make sure that nobody struck a discordant note. It was just me and two receptionists – one male, one female.

The Israelis are the best in the business but I believed that, even if they cottoned on to my new whereabouts, I’d be long gone before they got a bead on me. At least that’s what I hoped. To be safe, once I’d entered my room, I checked it for listening devices and explosives, starting at the door, including the lock, and making a close examination of the carpet, ceiling, window and, Mossad’s speciality, the telephone. I did the same in the bathroom. Afterwards, I measured the distance from the second floor to the ground below and mapped out an escape route. If I ran into trouble on this excursion, there would be no help from Messrs Heckler & Koch. I was flying solo.

Satisfied with the room, I took out the file and recommitted to memory what passed for an obituary on Lars Pallenberg. I freely admit that he was not what I expected. For a start, he had blond hair and looked more like an economics lecturer than an artist. Fine-boned, he had blue eyes, even features and a reflective expression suggesting that he was a man of intelligence and given to introspection. I guessed he was a sensitive soul. Is this what had turned McCallen on? If so, it put me out of the running. Probably my height, around five eleven, Pallenberg did not look particularly fit or like the kind of guy who worked out. Standing still and lifting a paintbrush is not the same as moving fast and lifting a semi-automatic.

McCallen had also thoughtfully provided me with a rundown of Dieter Benz, Pallenberg’s old art school friend and right-wing agitator. Sleepy-eyed, with the dissolute appearance of a habitual drug user, his expression concealed ruthless intelligence. He’d been arrested countless times for racial abuse and incitement to violence against foreigners. This was the peripheral stuff. Security services suspected that he was plotting a campaign of terror, targets and locations unspecified. Reading his profile, it seemed to me that Benz had retro leanings, harking back to the 1970s and ‘golden age’ of the Baader-Meinhof group. I could see how men like him drew parallels. Replace the opposition to the war in Vietnam with the war in Afghanistan; disgust with rampant capitalism, evidenced by a number of spectacular bank raids at the time, with the current crisis in the banking system. Hatred of Jews was also on his agenda, but added to his hate-list were immigrants of any persuasion, and Muslims. Germany had done its fair share to offer sanctuary to others. It hadn’t always gone as smoothly as it might. The average German was sick of propping up sick European states so, for Benz, part of his pitch was an easy play to a disgruntled German electorate.