Deception

TWENTY

Harry was eating a late lunch at Rotterdam airport when Rik called.

‘We got an answer from Barrow’s mobile. I was out but the caller left a message.’

‘Hold on,’ said Harry. A nearby group of elderly men in colourful tracksuits were making too much noise to hear properly. ‘I need to get somewhere quiet.’ He stood up and walked around the terminal until he found an alcove used for storing luggage trolleys. There was no background noise other than the faint sound of the tannoy. ‘OK. Can you play it?’

‘Sure thing.’

He waited while Rik held his mobile close to the answering machine. A voice crackled with surprising clarity, the tone at first halting, then gaining in confidence. ‘Hello. Please believe me. . we have not caused anyone any harm. This Handy was found and we wish to return it for a fee. . a reward for service. Also we have a passport. . the name is Graham Barrow. .’ The voice struggled with the first name ‘. . from England. Please, this is not a trick. We wish only to send back what is not ours to keep. Please call. . but quickly as I think the battery is weak. Thank you.’ There were a few moments of forced breathing, some dull clunks, then the call ended.

Harry found he’d been holding his breath. He asked Rik to play the message again. It sounded genuine enough, but there was no way of knowing. Someone after a reward, as he had claimed? Or some elaborate ploy?

He told Rik to count to ten, then play the message again, giving him time to set up the recorder on his own mobile. Once that was done, he played the message over and over, pausing for coffee and prowling the terminal lounge, trying to read in the deep, slow voice a sign as to the identity of the caller. Educated, obviously. Articulate, too, although English wasn’t his first language. Maybe not used much. Middle-aged by the tone and depth, even courteous in his request. And then the word Handy: it was what they called mobiles in Germany.

He dialled the number.

It was answered on the tenth ring, as he was about to give up.

‘Ja?’ A man’s voice, flat and hesitant. In the background Harry heard someone whispering urgently. A woman’s voice, cut off by the man saying something sharp.

Harry introduced himself. ‘You were kind enough to call about this phone, the Handy,’ he said carefully, avoiding any sign of accusation. ‘And the passport. Are you willing to trade?’

‘Trade?’ the man sounded wary.

‘Sell. Are you willing to sell them to me?’

A whispered conversation and the man came back. ‘Ja. . Yes. . We wish to return both items. Your name is Harry?’

‘Yes. Harry Tate. What about the man who owns these things? Is he hurt? Have you seen him?’

‘Nein. . no. We have not seen the man in the Pass — the passport. Only this and the telephone.’

Harry decided to cut to the chase before the man lost his nerve or the phone died on him. ‘Where can we meet?’ he asked. ‘Can you give me your name?’

There was a silence, and for a second or two Harry thought he had gone. Then the man said, ‘Schwedt. You must come to Schwedt. You will bring money?’ His voice faded on the last question, suddenly unsure. . or embarrassed.

‘Where is Schwedt?’

‘Near the Oderbruch,’ the man said. ‘Fifty kilometres north-east of Berlin, by the border with Poland. You must come to Tegel, I think, then by car to here.’

Berlin. Barrow hadn’t gone far, then.

‘Mr Harry. . are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m still here. How will I know you? Where will we meet?’

A second or two of silence, then the man said briefly, ‘You come to the church in Oderstrasse. Then ring this number and I will find you.’

The phone went off.

Harry returned to the main concourse and bought a ticket for Berlin on an early Air Portugal flight the following morning. It meant an overnight stay, but at least he could get his head down in a hotel, ready for whatever lay ahead. Next he went to the bureau de change and bought a thousand US dollars. With no idea what the mystery man in Germany might be asking for the return of phone and passport, it was better to be on the safe side.

He called Rik and told him of his plans, then Ballatyne. The MI6 man was concerned.

‘You might have dug a stick in the wasps’ nest, Harry.’

‘That was the intention. I’ll never get anywhere following vague trails. I need them to come to me.’

‘If Paulton is involved with the Protectory and this is a trap, he might bolt the moment he hears your name.’

‘That’s the risk I have to take. I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.’

In the flat in Schwedt, Ulf Hefflin sat back with a sigh. His chest was hurting with the strain of making the call, but he felt good. He glanced at his sister. She seemed to have gone into a trance, eyes fixed on some distant horizon, and he wondered how many of the blue tablets she had taken. Too many for her own good, probably. On the other hand, he wasn’t the one fighting the pain.

‘He will come,’ he said softly, and went to make more coffee. He would have liked something stronger, but once he started down that road, it would be hard to stop. The stress of getting Sylvia’s tablets was burden enough; now he had to meet this Englishman and go through the humiliation of asking for money for the phone and the passport. ‘Harry Tate will come.’

Back at the Continentale Cafe, the barman, Daniels, was staring at the screen of the security monitor in the back office which showed a still picture from the CCTV camera over the front entrance. It was the British guy, frozen as he stepped through the door. It was a good shot, and should be easy to get a make on him for someone with the right contacts.

And the man he’d been talking to earlier, the one he knew as Deakin; he would have the contacts.

He took a copy of the frozen frame and added a brief identifier: ‘The Brit who came in asking questions. D.’ Then he sent it off to a Google Mail address where Deakin could pick it up.