Dead at First Sight

9 Wednesday 26 September

The single-engined Cessna bumped and yawed through the grey cloud swirling past the windscreen in front of him. Through his headphones, Andreas Vogel heard the calm exchange between the English pilot, seated to his left, and the St Helier tower on Jersey. The little plane reminded him of his time, years back, as a sniper in the US military in George Bush’s Iraq, being flown places in Black Hawks. Not the greatest of memories. Sitting on his helmet to avoid losing his nuts if someone fired at their helicopter from the ground.

For most of the journey they’d flown in silence. The pilot, who used to fly for Qantas, he’d told him, and who had flown him from the little private airfield outside Rennes for a very large wad of cash, had attempted to chat to him, but Vogel had said little in response. He didn’t do small talk.

And he was still thinking about Munich, which he had left on a private flight to Rennes early this morning. What a screw-up that had been. He’d never normally have let something like that happen — his current illness was really impacting on his judgement.

Moments later the cloud became wispy, then was gone. Below them appeared the grey, white-flecked water of the outer extremity of the English Channel. He saw a couple of rocky outcrops. Then the green, hilly land mass of an island ahead. Clusters of houses; a town; a tall smokestack; a harbour mole.

Vogel saw the long, straight tarmac of the runway. The pitch of the engine changed and the plane began losing height rapidly. It bounced on the runway, veering right then left, then the wheels touched down again and settled. After a short taxi, the pilot turned right towards a series of hangars, in which there were parked several executive jets. They turned left and he saw a batman ahead, waving them forward with paddles. Finally, they stopped. The pilot killed the engine and removed his headphones. Vogel removed his.

‘Welcome to Jersey,’ the pilot said.

Vogel did not reply.

‘Nice talking to you.’

He didn’t respond to the sarcasm in the pilot’s voice.

The pilot reached across him and yanked on a door handle. ‘The best way to get out is put your right leg on the rubber strip on the wing, kneel, turn around and put your left leg on the rung just behind the wing.’

Vogel did what he was told and jumped down onto the tarmac. Then the short, wiry man with an angry face waited in the strong, gusting wind that billowed his camel sports coat as the pilot removed the brown holdall from the luggage locker behind the rear seats and handed it to him. Vogel always travelled light.

As he took the leather bag and turned away from the aircraft, limping from an injury earlier this year, he looked around warily for any signs of an official. But, as he had been previously reassured, there was none in sight. A woman in her thirties strode out of a building beside the hangars and greeted him. ‘Mr Vogel, welcome to Gama Aviation. Your car is here for you.’

He followed her through the building, passing a couple of empty baggage carts in a corridor, and then outside, where a black, long-wheelbase Range Rover was parked. A bald-headed giant of a man, in wrap-around sunglasses and a sharp suit, jumped out and strode towards him.

‘Mr Vogel?’

He gave a short nod.

‘Welcome to Jersey, sir. Your first visit?’

Vogel did not respond.

‘Mr Barrey sends his regards. You will see him at midday tomorrow. It’s important to be punctual, Mr Barrey does not like people who are late. I’ll be here to make sure you are not late.’

Again Vogel did not respond.

The man took his bag and ushered him into the rear of the car. As they swept away from the airport, Andreas Vogel glanced through the darkened glass. No one knew he was here. Just as no one knew he had left Germany. That was how he needed to travel. No checked baggage, no record of where he was. His mobile phone had been in airplane mode since before leaving Munich. It would remain in that mode until he returned.

Munich was his new home, for now. For the next few days he would be using a phone that had been placed on the seat beside him for his convenience. Programmed into it were all the telephone numbers he would need. It had no GPS capability. He wasn’t exactly persona grata on English soil these days. Maybe it was dumb to be accepting a job that took him back there. But the truth was, word had gotten around in the US that he had murdered one of his previous paymasters — and that hadn’t been great PR for him. Clients weren’t exactly tripping over each other to hire him any more.

Maybe it was time to quit. Cash in his chips.

‘You been to the Channel Isles before, Mr Vogel?’ the driver asked. Vogel did not reply.

He didn’t particularly like his current name, Vogel, either. It was a make of healthy bread sold in supermarkets, and not his choice. But it would suffice for now.