Bad Company

Germany
London
Germany
13.

MAX KUBEL HAD been sitting in a bar in Berlin, The Tabu, when he had taken Roper’s call on his mobile. Born in 1957, he was the only son of one of the great Luftwaffe night fighter aces of the Second World War, also named Max Kubel, and a Knight’s Cross holder. He’d been another example of a man who couldn’t let go after the war, and had made a living out of flying in and out of East Germany in the Cold War days, once too often, as it happened, when a Russian MiG fighter downed him one night in 1973.

Because of his father’s record, Max had been allowed into a government-sponsored scheme to train as a pilot with the German Luftwaffe. That was both good and bad. He had a flair for it, like his father, but a restless temperament not much suited to discipline.

The years had rolled by, rather boringly, the German government’s reluctance to commit to combat situations leaving little room for his father’s kind of war, and Max had worshiped his father’s exploits, his life. In his case, there was no combat, just flying into countries in Africa or the Middle East on behalf of the United Nations, cargo planes, humanitarian work, and he hated it.

And then, out of Saudi and skirting Iraq, flying three UN peace officials, he’d been bounced by an Iraqi MiG and fired on. He had pulled his father’s old Luftwaffe trick, gone down low and used full flaps at the last moment, and the MiG had gone headfirst into the desert to avoid him. The three UN officials had been delighted at still being in the land of the living. One of them, an Irish woman, had said he deserved a medal. Instead, the Luftwaffe had thrown him out for flouting their no-combat rules.

Since then, he’d discovered the lucrative delights of various kinds of smuggling using an old Storch from the Second World War, doing night runs, sometimes as far as Poland.

He had fair hair and insolent blue eyes and wore his father’s old black leather Luftwaffe flying jacket, his personal talisman, and he sat there, thinking about the phone call. Roper had been impressive, had even managed fluent German. The mention of Ferguson was enough. Roper had said he only wanted information on the Baron’s movements at Neustadt, but there had to be more to it than that. It was quite exciting, really. He was aware of the Baron’s background, knew of the general whispers about who Rossi was, had a professional’s respect for his flying record. No, the prospect intrigued, and he did have that drunken oaf, Hans Klein, to call on, who helped him on occasion on cigarette runs. A bar girl approached him; he waved her away and dialed Klein’s number. After a while there was an answer.

The words were slurred. He’d been drinking. “Who is this?”

“Max Kubel. Where are you living now?”

“Not much better than a pigsty. The cottage at the back of the church. You know the Baron robbed me of my farm, and that son of his-”

“Beat the shit out of you.”

“I’ll have my day. What do you want? Are you doing another run?”

“Soon, Hans, but I need to know what’s going on in Neustadt. The Baron’s movements, and Rossi’s. Are they in or out?”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll pay you well, you stupid bastard, and you’ll do it anyway because you hate them. You’ve got my mobile number, so get on with it.”

He switched off, feeling suddenly incredibly cheerful, and the bar girl came back and stroked his hair. “A drink, Max?”

He ran a hand up her leg. “Very definitely. Whiskey, liebchen, malt whiskey. We’ll both have one.”

“And then? Can I come back?”

“We’ll see, Elsa, we’ll see.”

At Harry’s Place, they reached the end of their meal and split up. On the pavement, as they all started for their cars, Dillon said, “I’ll hang on with Roper and share his cab.”

“If you like,” Ferguson said.

They departed, the cab drove up, the driver got out and put the ramp down and Dillon pushed Roper inside. “Stable Mews,” he called to the driver when he got in, and turned to Roper. “On your way.”

“What are you up to?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m restless, that’s all.”

“That’s when I worry about you.”

“No need.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment.”

“He murdered Sara Hesser.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life. I should shoot him, but Ferguson says no, even though we’ve taken out people as bad as Rossi before.”

“Maybe Ferguson is intent on handling this differently.”

“And maybe Marco Rossi has his own ideas about handling. Maybe he’s a lot like me.” The cab drew up in Stable Mews and Dillon got out.

Roper said, “Sean – whatever it is – don’t.”

“You’re a great guy, Roper, one of the few people in this rotten old world I truly admire, but, as we say in Belfast, good night to you.”

He let himself into the cottage, went upstairs, changed into jeans and a bomber jacket, went down, opened the secret drawer under the stairs, selected a Walther and slipped it into the back of his jeans. He left a few moments later in his Mini Cooper.

After the meeting at Harry’s Place, Rossi had phoned Newton and Cook and told them to report to South Audley Street.

“You stay on Ferguson. First thing tomorrow, you find out every single place he goes.”

“But why?” Newton said. “What’s the purpose of this?”

“The purpose, you stupid oaf, is that we’re going to lift him at the right moment.”

There was consternation on both faces. “Now look here,” Cook said. “We’re not into that.”

Marco Rossi said, “You’re into what I say you are or I’ll see you never work again. Do what you’re told and don’t fuck with me.”

There was a moment of hesitation, then Newton said, “As you say, Mr. Rossi.”

“Right, get on with it. And don’t use your car. Get a white van, something anonymous, right?”

They went out and Gibson, who’d been in the room, watching, said, “They used to be SAS? No wonder the Provos did so well. What happens now?”

“There’s an old airbase at Fotley; it’s got a decaying runway but it’s usable. I’ll have one of our planes left there. When we lift Ferguson, I’ll fly it myself.”

“To where?”

“Schloss Adler. The game starts there. The game, Derry, that will bring in Sean Dillon.”

“Well, that will suit me fine.”

In South Audley Street, Dillon left the Mini and walked through light rain to the side street where the Rashid house stood. He stood in the shadows and watched, and suddenly the door opened and Newton and Cook emerged. He recognized them at once and drew back into the shadows. They crossed to their car and got in. It was only then that Dillon hurried across the street, opened the door and put the muzzle of his Walther to Newton ’s temple.

“Hello, guys, am I your worst nightmare or not?”

Newton said, “Christ, it’s you, Dillon.”

“As ever was. What’s going on with Rossi?”

“For God’s sake, we just work for Rashid on security. He’s our new boss. That’s all, I swear.”

He was genuinely fearful and Dillon sensed it. “Okay, piss off, but come up against me and I’ll kill you, both of you.”

They drove away. Dillon turned to walk and the door opened and Rossi emerged in a blue tracksuit, a towel at his throat. He started to run.

Dillon called, “Hey, you bastard.”

Rossi paused, turned and saw him. “Dillon, is that you? What are you going to do, shoot me?”

“I’d love to, but you’ve been put off-limits at the moment.” Dillon shook out a cigarette and lit it. “Killing the old woman – a big war hero like you. It couldn’t have given much of a kick.”

“Fuck you, Dillon,” Rossi said.

“You’ve got it wrong. Right time, right place, I’ll kill you, Marco. She was a nice old lady. You shouldn’t have done it.”

He turned and walked away. Marco Rossi took a deep breath and started to run again. Behind him, the front door of the house gently closed. The Baron had followed him, had wanted a word, and instead had heard everything. He turned, and with a heavy heart mounted the stairs.

The Daimler picked Ferguson up the following morning at Cavendish Place, where Newton and Cook were parked in a British Telecom van, wearing appropriate yellow anoraks. They followed at a discreet distance to Harley Street, watched the Daimler park and waited, Cook opening the rear door of the van, taking out a large toolbox and looking busy. Newton strolled up the street, glancing at the brass nameplate on the door as he passed, and returned to Cook.

He leaned against the van and lit a cigarette. “Some surgeon, name of Merriman.”

Professor Henry Merriman was a large, avuncular man who greeted Ferguson warmly. A young nurse stood at a side table, various medical items laid out beside her.

“A pleasure, General. We’ll get straight on with it. It’s a very quick procedure. Just strip to the waist and Emily here will take care of your things.” He went to the table.

Ferguson got his jacket, tie and shirt off. “I hope it doesn’t hurt,” he said cheerfully.

“Nothing a little local anaesthetic can’t handle.” He turned, a small plastic ampoule in his hand. “Sit down, please, and raise your left arm. It’s instant.”

A slight prick and his skin was numb. “Excellent,” Ferguson said.

Emily was standing with what looked like a small aluminum pistol in one hand. Merriman took it from her. “I call it my stun gun, but that’s a joke.” He placed the muzzle against Ferguson ’s armpit, pulled a trigger. There was the slightest of clicks. He smiled. “You can get dressed.”

He handed the gun to the girl. Ferguson picked up his shirt. “That’s it? What happens now?”

“Nothing. Your implant is already code-indexed into the Omega Program’s computer. Where you go, it goes – any corner of the world.”

Ferguson finished dressing. It made him feel rather gloomy. “What about the toilet? Will it locate me there?”

Which the young nurse found very funny and laughed. Merriman smiled. “A possibility.”

Ferguson said, “Good morning, Professor. It’s been a sincere treat.”

Dillon called in at Roper’s and found him, as usual, at the computer banks. He paused from what he was doing. “Did you do something stupid?”

“I suppose so.” Dillon told him what had happened.

“Damn you, Sean, for an idiot. You’re baiting, stirring the pot.”

“It’s Rossi. I want to see him in…”

“I know – hell. Have you told Ferguson?”

“No. He wouldn’t be pleased. Anyway, he was doing the Omega thing today. Can you access that?”

“I can access anything, Dillon. I’ve already extracted his index code.”

“But he only had it this morning.”

“The microchip is precoded into the system, so he’s on the system from the moment he’s implanted. Watch.” His fingers danced over the keys. A map of England appeared. “There he is, the yellow luminous dot. Now we go in closer – London, and there’s the dot again. Closer, and there we are. Pall Mall and moving. Knowing Ferguson, I’d say lunch at the Reform Club.”

“Thanks for the information, but I’ll keep out of his way,” and Dillon left.

Rossi landed at Fotley, the old RAF airbase he had chosen, and found Gibson waiting for him. Rossi taxied to the end of the runway and turned, then switched off and got out and Gibson drove up to him.

“You found it, then?” Rossi said.

“I must have; I’m here, aren’t I? Queer sort of place. Everything looks as if it’s falling down.”

“It is. The war was a long time ago, but the runway’s still sound and that’s all that matters.”

“Twenty miles I made it.”

“That’s what I figured. Back to town.”

“To what?” Derry asked, as he turned onto a country road.

“You’ll see.”

To his astonishment, what he returned to was not what he had expected. The Rolls was parked outside the Rashid house, the chauffeur loading luggage into the trunk. The Baron appeared out of the door in his trilby and black leather coat and leaning on his cane.

Rossi said to Gibson, “Pull over and leave this to me.” He approached von Berger. “Father, what is this?”

“I’ve decided to go away, Marco. To Schloss Adler.”

“But why?”

“I need time to think. I heard you and Dillon last night, my son. You lied to me. You shouldn’t have done it. It wasn’t honorable.”

“But, Father…”

The Baron said nothing more. He got in the Rolls, the chauffeur slipped behind the wheel, and they drove away. Gibson said, “What in the hell was that all about?”

“Dillon,” Rossi said. “Damn him. He’s been a stone in my shoe too long. I’ll have him.” At that moment, his mobile sounded, and when he answered, Newton said, “We’re around the corner from the Reform Club in Pall Mall. Ferguson ’s gone in.”

“Probably for lunch,” Rossi said. “Okay, don’t stay. Go to Cavendish Place and set up there. I’ll send Gibson to join you. We’re going to do it today.”

“Now look, I’m not sure about this…” Newton said.

“I am. Look, Newton, I can finish you. Or I can give you a nice fat fee. Which is it? In or out?”

Greed, and fear, of course, won the day. “In.”

Dillon turned up at the Ministry of Defence and found Hannah in the main office at her computer. She stopped and leaned back to look at him.

“What’s up?”

“Why should anything be up?”

“I know my Sean.”

“Oh, I suppose I was a bit stupid last night.”

“Tell me.”

Which he did, lighting a cigarette and looking out the window. When he finished, she said, “You fool.”

“I know. It’s Rossi and what he did. I can’t get Sara Hesser out of my mind.”

“Sean, I’ve a psychology degree, so here’s a free reading. Oh, Rossi did the murder, but you feel as guilty as hell because you gave that woman a promise. What was it? ‘No harm will come to you on this earth, I swear it’?”

Dillon, never so emotional in his life, said, “And remember what happened? She touched my face and said, ‘I believe you. You’re a good man in spite of yourself.’” She had never seen him so haggard and drawn.

“Me, the great Sean Dillon and you know what happened and who was responsible, and I’ll see Rossi in hell for it.”

He turned and found the door to Ferguson ’s office open, and the general standing in the doorway. “Then you’ll go straight down the same road to hell yourself, Dillon. What on earth did you think you were doing? Confrontation, direct threats? It’s not the way to handle things at the moment. You were totally out of order.”

“I usually am.”

“Right, you’re suspended. Leave the office now. I’ll speak to you again at what I consider to be an appropriate time. You will surrender all your weapons.”

Dillon managed a gentle smile. “Ah, well, Charles, I always thought the day would come, but you’ve been a decent ould stick, and in spite of Serbia in the old days, when you sold me out, you’ve treated me well.” He turned to Hannah.

“Oh, Sean,” she said.

“I know. I always take the hard approach and I know that doesn’t hold with your fine Jewish morality, but revenge is a concept not unknown in the Old Testament. I’ll be on my way, and God bless all here.”

He disappeared and Ferguson said, “Damn him. Why did he do it? It unscrambles things in the wrong way.”

“It’s simple, sir. He can be more emotional than you think. He’s put himself on the line for me in the past, for you. All he could think of was an old lady who trusted him and ended up in the river. In spite of everything Dillon’s done, if you want a psychopath here, it’s not him, it’s Marco Rossi.”

“To hell with it. I’m going home. Order the Daimler.”

“It’s not available, General. Out for maintenance today, remember?”

“Then get me a bloody taxi,” and he stormed back into his office.

Dillon sat in his Mini Cooper, thinking about things. Well, everything had to come to an end, that was life. Still and all, there’d been a lot of water under the bridge. He reached for a cigarette, lit it, looked out and saw Ferguson walk to a waiting black taxi and get in. It moved off, and Dillon switched on the Mini Cooper and went after him. There was no logical reason that he should, except perhaps for some instinct, an Irish thing, but he did, eased out into the traffic and followed the cab.

In Cavendish Place, Newton and Cook had taken up a manhole to explain their presence. Derry Gibson, also wearing a yellow Telecom jacket, sat inside the van reading a newspaper. Newton moved to the passenger window.

“Come on, it’s been nearly four hours. Are we getting anywhere?”

At that moment, a black cab drew up. Derry said, “I think we might be,” and then Ferguson got out and paid the driver, who drove away.

“Now,” Gibson said and opened the small leather case on the seat beside him and took out a small plastic ampoule. “Get him.”

He got out, and as Ferguson turned away, they grabbed him by each arm and Gibson moved in. “A real pleasure, General,” and he jabbed Ferguson in the neck. The effect was almost instantaneous. Ferguson sagged, they walked him to the back of the van, Gibson opened the door and they put him inside, Gibson following. “Get going,” he said.

Dillon, turning in at the entrance to Cavendish Place, saw everything and put his foot down. A delivery van drove in front of him. Dillon braked and swerved. Beyond him, the Telecom van swung out into the traffic. He joined in, well behind. The usual London traffic made things difficult, but he always managed to stay focused on the Telecom van.

He got out his Codex Four and checked into Hannah, who answered at once. “I followed Ferguson home. He was jumped by Derry Gibson, Newton and Cook, and dumped in a fake British Telecom van. I’m following.”

“Where, for God’s sake?”

“ North London. I don’t know. Essex way. Get in touch with Roper. He can invoke the Omega thing. That should tell you where we’re going. Tell him to keep me informed.”

Derry Gibson called Marco Rossi. “We’ve bagged the bird.”

“I’m on my way. I’ll see you at Fotley.”

“Well, let’s hope you’re there before we are. Kidnapping draws at least ten years in this country.”

Roper cut into Dillon. “I’ve heard the story, I’m on the case. Omega is working fine. I’ll track and keep you informed. No reason to worry if you lose him. I’ll put you back on track.”

Dillon had a thought. “These three goons are working for Rossi, so where are they going?”

“Maybe it’s where are they flying? I’ll check.”

Emerging from London, the traffic thinned a little, not all that much, but enough to keep Dillon well back. Roper came on.

“The Baron just left Northolt, destination Munich. I’ve checked there. He’s got a helicopter booked for Neustadt.”

“Has he now?”

“Even more interesting: Rossi had a plane delivered to a place called Fotley in Essex this morning. It’s an old RAF airbase, now disused, with a long runway. I think that’s where you’re going. I hope you make it, Sean. Are you carrying?”

“I damn well am. But what if I fail? Where are they going?”

“Well, Omega will confirm, but I think we both know. Schloss Adler.”

“Right, then I suggest you get on to this Max Kubel. He can alert the Klein man at Neustadt. Tell Kubel to put in place whatever plan we’d need to mount a rescue operation. It’ll be a huge payday for him. I’ll press on and hope to catch them at Fotley.”

In the end, he failed, mainly because of a farm tractor on a narrow country road. He finally made the old airfield only to see the abandoned van and the Gulfstream already moving. As it lifted and roared past, Newton looked out.

“Jesus,” he said. “That’s Dillon’s Mini Cooper.”

“Is that a fact?” Derry Gibson laughed. Ferguson, unconscious, was strapped in one of the seats. Derry patted his cheek. “I’ll go and tell Rossi. He’ll be so pleased.”

At Arnheim, Max Kubel was working on the Storch prior to a foray into Poland. He’d always remembered the adage from the Second World War: Half the airmen who die aren’t shot down by the enemy. They die of engine failure. It was why he’d always taken care of his own maintenance. He closed the engine cowling and slapped the fuselage, which had a fresh coat of dull black paint.

“Good girl,” he said, and his mobile went.

He listened to Roper for a long five minutes and was immediately interested and full of energy. “I’ll talk to Klein.”

“This meadow outside the Schloss, can it accommodate Rossi’s plane, especially at night?”

“It’s huge, and the Schloss is floodlit. There’s plenty of light.”

“So what would we do? Could you fly in while Dillon attempts a recovery?”

“Come off it. The minute I attempted a landing, the whole thing would be blown.”

“Then how would we get to Neustadt? What could we do? Parachute in? Dillon’s done that before.”

“Not into Schloss Adler. Battlements, courtyards, roofs – it isn’t nice.”

“Then when you want to make a nefarious trip into Holstein Heath, how do you do it? I know how mysterious the damn place is. The locals must be suspicious of any kind of strangers.”

“Yes, but if I put a group together for an in-and-out job, they won’t look like strangers. The police in Holstein Heath look very like the Vopos of the old East German days. Believe it or not, they still use Russian Cossack motorcycles and field cars.”

“So what are you saying?”

“In the past, I’ve gone in with my people when I’ve needed them, using those vehicles and uniforms. Would Dillon buy that?”

“Well, his German is fluent.”

“He couldn’t do it on his own.”

“What about you?”

“No way. My task would be to do the extracting. Dillon and whoever, helped by Klein’s intelligence, pull Ferguson, and all hell breaks out, so the smart thing would be for me to fly in from Arnheim. It’s a short flight. I’d drop in at the Schloss in my Storch and pick them up.”

“And you’re confident you could do that?”

“To the great Kubel, anything is possible, and to avoid any problem with angry foresters, it would be the only way. These are the Baron’s people.”

“You mean it’s Indian territory?”

“Exactly. Another thing. In the Storch, I could manage Ferguson, but only two others. Two men only to take on the situation at the castle. I’ve got the idea that Dillon’s that crazy, but does he know someone else who is?”

“Oh, yes,” Roper said. “I think so. There’s a big payday for you on this, by the way.”

“Stuff the payday. I’ve been getting stale and I’ve looked you up, Roper. You’re what the Jews call a mensch. I’m a great admirer.”

“Flattery is always appreciated.”

“I’ll speak to Klein and get things moving.”

At his cottage behind the church at Neustadt, Klein took the call from Kubel and listened to what he had to say.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Let me know the minute the Baron turns up in the helicopter. After that, Rossi in his plane. Can you get into the Schloss?”

“Of course I can. I’ve known it backwards since I was a child.”

“In spite of security?”

“The security is crap. I can go around all that.”

“Get this right, Hans. There’s a lot of money in it for you.”

“And where the Baron is concerned, it will be a pleasure. I’ll go and check things out up there.”

Kubel switched off and Klein got a hunting jacket on, put a sawn-off shotgun in one pocket, a double handful of cartridges in the other and went out, smiling.

On the final stretch back to London, Dillon listened to everything Roper had to say. “Fine,” he said. “Alert Hannah. Tell her to book Lacey and Parry. Alert the quartermaster. The destination will be Arnheim.”

“There’s one thing, Sean,” Roper said. “You can’t do this on your own. Don’t tell me you’re going to ride a Cossack through the Schwarze Platz and do a ‘Dirty Harry.’ You need a friend.”

“I’ll get a friend.”

“You’re sure?”

“Trust me. I’ll ask him, and for this, he’ll be there.”

Dillon turned down to Hangman’s Wharf and The Dark Man, parked and went inside. There were only a couple of customers, Dora at the bar, and Harry and Billy in their usual corner booth. Harry looked up and frowned.

“You look stressed.”

“You could say that.” Dillon sat down. “Just listen.”

When he was finished, Harry said, “I knew that Rossi was bad news.”

Dillon’s phone sounded and Roper said, “No question, Sean, it’s Neustadt they’re aiming for. Everything all right with you? The extra man?”

“We’ll see.”

“I’m sure you will.” He switched off.

Dillon said, “Billy. You heard the story. I’m going to go in like a Vopo on a Cossack. It’s a good thing I speak German.”

“Which I don’t, but you need a gun, and I can wear one of these Vopo uniforms as well as you can.” Billy had that cold, pale smile on his face.

It was Harry who cut in. “We’d better get sorted, Dillon. We can’t leave Ferguson in the hands of these bastards. Anyway, I like the old sod. You and Billy do it. Billy’s come on a bit since you took him in hand. Right, Billy? Likes doing something because it’s the right thing to do.”

“I should say so.” Billy got up. “I’ll go and pack.” He smiled at Dillon. “This is getting to be a habit.”

At Farley Field, Dillon arrived to surprises. First of all, the presence of Hannah Bernstein. He said, “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“I speak German, Sean, and it’s my boss at the sharp end. I think I should be here.”

Then the Salter Rolls appeared and disgorged not only Billy, but Harry, both with hand luggage.

Dillon said, “What is this?”

“This German police thing. I’m going with you. I’ll stay back at base with the superintendent, if you want, but you always want to do it on your own. Well, this time you can’t. It’s too important.”

Dillon said, “Fine, just don’t get in the way.” He walked toward the Citation, and Lacey came out, dressed in anonymous flying overalls. “You know what we’re up to here?”

“The superintendent filled us in. You’ll notice we’ve sprayed over our RAF rondels. Don’t want anybody identifying us.”

“You know where we’re going?”

“Roper’s filled us in. Sean, this is something else. I mean, the general.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring him back, I swear it. I don’t want crew, just you and Parry. Board and I’ll see the quartermaster with Billy.”

The department’s quartermaster waited with his list.

“All loaded, Mr. Dillon. Walthers and Carswell silencers, three MP40 machine pistols.”

“That’s going back a bit.”

“I’ve checked, Mr. Dillon, and the police in the Holstein Heath area are rather old-fashioned. I would point out that the Schmeisser is still an extremely efficient weapon. Some stun grenades. Some smoke. That should do you in the present circumstances.”

“You know what they are?”

“Mr. Dillon,” the sergeant major said, “twenty-five years ago in the Grenadier Guards, I was trying to hunt you down in the IRA in South Armagh, and failed. I’m glad, because it means you’re here to save the general, who is one of the finest men I’ve ever known. Now, I’ll load these items for you, sir, and you’ll return them to me when you get back.”

Dillon walked out with Billy, who said, “Well, he’s got faith in you.”

“A lot of people do. It can be a burden, Billy. Come on, let’s go. We’re not saving the world; this time, we’re saving Charles Ferguson.”

He went up the Airstairs door, followed by Billy. Parry closed the door as they joined Harry and Hannah. A few moments later, the engines turned over on the Citation and it lifted up into the sky.