No Sleep for the Dead

Chapter 1

Germany — 1989

Like nature’s sugar icing, a thin layer of snow began to dust the runner’s body.

Two hundred metres away, beyond the strip of barren land marking the border between the two Germanys, a watchtower loomed against the sky, a sinister symbol of repression that would, like the Berlin Wall 300 kilometres to the north-east, soon be a ghostly landmark in history. On the tower, a guard in a heavy coat scanned the scene through binoculars. Below him, a patrol vehicle’s engine gave a raucous clatter. A guard-dog yelped eagerly, its cries echoed by others in the distance, each a soulful, lonely message, drifting on the wind across the fields.

Minutes before, the runner had been a living, breathing being, hugging the ground among the thin brush growing in a tangle along the low ridge. He had inched with agonising care past warning markers and stones, checking for tell-tale ripples in the soil indicating a mine, or the hair-thin glint of trip-wires. Ahead lay a field, his route to the West. A US army tower in the distance was a reflection of its East German counterpart. The thick windows showed no sign of movement.

He flexed his shoulders, dislodging a layer of ice crystals formed while lying motionless in the night. In the tower, the guard yawned at the coming dawn, impatient for his shift to end.

The runner wormed free of the thin cover, sucking in deep, energising breaths. Then he was up and stumbling at a stomach-burning crouch, one hand reaching to touch the frozen earth. Twenty metres, thirty, forty…he was in full view if the guard should turn and look west. Not that he would, if all went to plan…

He ran faster, responding to the tantalising pull of safety. Suddenly, over the sound of his exertions, a shout. His stomach tightened. He ran harder, dancing sideways as a searchlight sliced through the thinning gloom. He tripped and fell, then pushed off again, coat flapping like broken wings. The searchlight caught him a glancing blow, moved away then darted back, bathing him in its glare. His shadow, thrown ahead by the light, raced on alone, unstoppable toward the west.

Another shout, followed by two flat reports snapping out across the cold morning air. The runner staggered, splay-footed, then pitched forward and lay still.

And the new dawn began edging the horizon.

On the western side of the border, clear of the searchlight’s reach, stood three men. Two wore leather jackets and boots, with woollen hats pulled down over their ears. One of the men was zipping up a long, slim bag, which he threw over his shoulder.

The third man wore a long, dark coat and a burgundy-coloured cashmere scarf. Middle-aged, of medium height and build, with thinning, sandy hair, his glasses were speckled with moisture. He nodded to the others.

‘Call it in,’ he said quietly, his voice tinged with what sounded like relief.

The man with the bag walked over to a mud-spattered Range Rover nearby. Placing the bag on the rear seat, he picked up a radio handset and began to speak.

‘Twenty minutes,’ he announced moments later. He clapped his hands, the sound echoing out across the field.

The man in the long coat checked the emerging outline of some woods half a mile away, and a farmhouse, huddled low as if clinging to the earth. He thought he’d seen movement earlier, but knew that couldn’t be. The area had been checked carefully.

‘When they stop playing with that bloody searchlight,’ he muttered, ‘go fetch him. Don’t leave anything behind.’ Then he turned to the Range Rover and climbed in. Picking up a flask, he unscrewed the top. The interior of the car filled with the smell of coffee. As he poured his drink, the searchlight dipped and went out, and his two companions looked at each other before stepping out warily across the uneven field.

Change was coming, the man was thinking idly, watching them. Change of a magnitude that would repaint this sorry corner of Europe forever. And God help those who hadn’t seen it coming.

The men returned with the body, placing it near the car. Twenty minutes later, a dark green Opel estate appeared, bouncing along the track from the main road, the headlights pushing back the gloom and highlighting the skeletal trees, withered grass and sagging fence posts marking the boundary of the farm’s land. The vehicle had a long radio aerial bolted to the tailgate, and contained two people.

The man got out to meet them, flicking away the remnants of his coffee.