The Samurai Inheritance

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When he’d paid the bill, Jamie offered to call Max, but Magda insisted she needed some fresh air. ‘Why don’t we walk to the U-Bahn instead?’ she suggested. ‘That lovely wine has gone to my head.’

As they made their way south down the endless shoplined canyon of Friedrichstrasse, she unselfconsciously slipped her arm through his. The unexpected physical contact gave Jamie a moment of guilty panic, but he quickly relaxed to enjoy the sensation of being with a beautiful woman who made men’s heads turn even in a city filled with beautiful women. It occurred to him that for a self-confessed wanderer she seemed utterly at home and he could sense her smiling as they walked.

When they reached the underground station Magda stepped forward to buy the tickets and led the way unerringly down to the platform. It wasn’t until they were sitting together on the half-empty train that she gave a hint of their destination.

‘In nineteen thirty-six Goebbels would have hailed every visit by a foreign delegation as an affirmation of Nazi culture.’ She raised her voice to be heard above the clatter as the swaying carriage picked up speed and thundered through the tunnel. ‘By that point every news outlet in the city was under his control or, at the very least, his malign influence, so it’s probable there would have been some sort of newspaper coverage of the events. Does that sound plausible to you?’

‘It seems likely enough,’ Jamie conceded. ‘I get the feeling Goebbels would have insisted on a full page with pictures on everything from Franco inviting Hitler over for a beach party to a visit of the Buenos Aires ladies free-style crochet champions. But doesn’t that make it more difficult for us? If they trumpeted the arrival of every overseas visitor it could run into dozens, even hundreds, and that’s if we could find any records.’

Magda’s reply was lost as they rattled into a station and the train slewed to a halt. Jamie saw her frown and it was only then he noticed the platform was filled with hundreds of young men wearing various combinations of blue, black and white. When the doors opened they were deafened by a wall of chanting as a group of twenty or thirty forced their way into the carriage.

Magda leaned across so her lips were against his ear. ‘Perhaps the U-Bahn wasn’t such a great idea after all.’ He gave her a reassuring smile and they sat back, trying to ignore the jostling mass that thankfully took station at the far end of the carriage to the sound of beer bottles being opened.

‘Schwarz-weiss-blau. Haa-ess-fau. Schwarz-weiss-blau. Haa-ess-fau.’

‘Hamburg fans,’ Magda shouted above the racket. ‘There must be a Bundesliga game tonight.’

Jamie nodded and glanced towards the chanting supporters. The instant his eyes locked on the teenager with close-cropped hair he knew he’d made a mistake. It was no surprise that every male in the carriage would be drawn to Magda Ross, but these eyes burned with hatred. As he watched, a snarl of feral savagery distorted the young man’s features before he turned back to his friends. He must have been giving instructions because other faces turned towards them and Jamie saw one or two of the Hamburg supporters nod.

‘Trouble,’ he said, pulling Magda to her feet.

The chanting faded as if his movement had triggered an off-switch and the phalanx of blue-and-white-clad men began to move purposefully towards them. In the hush that followed it seemed the entire carriage held its breath.

‘Get behind me and stay there.’ Jamie didn’t wait for an acknowledgement and he was thankful that Magda Ross wasn’t the kind of woman to argue or hesitate in a tight situation. He had no idea what had caused the young man’s reaction, but he knew they were in danger. The other passengers were the usual mix of young and old, tourists and backpackers, but unfortunately not any gun-toting Berlin cops. A middle-aged couple looked up, the man’s face twisted with frustration and anger. Jamie could tell he wanted to intervene, but wouldn’t risk putting his wife in any danger. The others kept their heads down as if, because they didn’t see what was about to happen, it was none of their business.

The young man with the burning eyes took the lead. He wore a dark blue replica football shirt with the words ‘Fly Emirates’ on the front and a curious badge of a black and white diamond on a blue background. Gym-toned muscles rippled beneath the material of the shirt and he approached with the steady, measured pace of a man with a job to do. His right hand hung over his jeans pocket like a gunfighter about to draw and Jamie tensed as he understood what the pose meant. Behind him, one or two of his supporters carried beer bottles by the neck. They were smiling.

As Jamie backed away he searched his memory for a reason. This was no spontaneous attack. The supporters had been boisterous and intimidating when they boarded, but any violence was being kept for their rival fans. No, it had all started when the young man had recognized him. The last time he’d been in Berlin he’d been kidnapped by neo-Nazis from a group called the Vril Society, but there’d been a reason for that and the reason was long gone, tortured to death in the shower room of Jamie’s Kensington flat. A shiver ran through him. He felt fear, but he wasn’t frightened. In some men, fear slowed the reactions and froze the brain. Others — and Jamie was one — learned to channel that fear and turn it into energy and speed.

He reached the point where the narrow corridor between the seats widened into the open area at the doors. ‘Magda?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice came from next to his right ear and the determination in her tone lifted his spirits.

‘This is as far as we go. Get to the door and stay there. How far to the next stop?’

‘A minute, maybe two.’

He looked up at the wall of blue and white less than five paces away now. All he had to do was survive for a hundred and twenty seconds and pray that they could get out of this death trap. He dropped into the classic self-defence crouch, hands bunched into fists and ready to react. Jamie Saintclair had learned his gutter fighting from an expert, a Royal Marine commando instructor who could kill you with a single finger but advocated tearing your opponent’s throat out with your teeth if that got the job done more quickly.

Jamie grinned at the memory, and there was a momentary hesitation in the blue and white ranks.

‘Holen Sie ihn!’

‘Look out, Jamie!’

Jamie expected the young man at the front to lead the attack. He was fairly certain his opponent had a knife, but he’d fought knives before. If he could get a block in he might be able to disable the knifeman and use him as a barrier against his followers. But they had other ideas. At the command, the leader stepped into the space between two seats and the others surged past him to overwhelm Jamie. The Englishman got in a couple of good, solid punches, but the weight of the attack was too much and he was down before he knew it, curled up in a ball to avoid the fists and boots that sought him out.

‘Get him up,’ a voice ordered in German. Jamie was dragged to his feet and he found himself pinioned between two of the big Hamburg fans. Helpless.

‘Hold him steady.’ The young man produced a flick knife that opened with a sharp snick to reveal a four-inch blade of polished blue steel. Jamie struggled and kicked, aiming for the knife hand. The thug dodged the flailing feet and pulled his arm back, ready to plunge the blade into his victim’s unprotected body. ‘Hold the bastard still,’ he snarled. ‘This is for Berndt Hartmann.’

‘What?’ The name was so unexpected Jamie did nothing to protect himself. His disbelieving reaction made the knifeman hesitate — but only for a split second. Jamie saw the moment his eyes went cold and cried out in anticipation of that wicked blue spike piercing his body.

‘No!’

The shout came from the angry passenger as he launched himself at the knifeman regardless of the thugs who stood back to watch Jamie’s murder. As he struggled with the bewildered teenager his partner rose in her seat, lashing out with a handbag that must have been filled with rocks if its effect on the football supporters was anything to go by.

The thugs backed away under the onslaught and Jamie heard a shriek of pain. He looked up to see long fingers with scarlet nails clawing at the eyes of his right-hand captor. Momentarily, the pressure eased, and he tore himself clear, pivoting to bring his fist in a scything, roundhouse punch that sank into his remaining detainer’s groin. The impact was accompanied by a satisfying oomph of agony and he found himself free. Some instinct told him the U-Bahn train had arrived at the station and he scrabbled past the writhing man towards the doors. A hand dragged him upright and hauled him past more blue-and-white-clad football fans where he collapsed on to the station platform. He looked up and found Magda Ross studying him with a puzzled look in her eyes.

She was about to say something when someone reached down and helped Jamie to his feet. His anonymous saviour from the train dusted him down and nodded approvingly. The man’s wife stood to one side, smiling sheepishly and still holding the handbag as if she expected to need it again.

‘Danke.’ Jamie couldn’t think of anything else to say.

The man nodded.

‘You’re welcome,’ the man said in heavily-accented English. ‘Perhaps next time you should take the bus?’