The Eagle's Covenant (4 page)

He wondered about them. He had no idea how they had been recruited. He had been approached by Schneider in a restaurant. In Conor’s world of secrecy and opaque understanding, it didn’t surprise him that somehow he had been found by their organisation. He assumed it had been his links with the IRA. Perhaps his masters had passed on his credentials because they had no further use for him.

It was academic really as far as Conor was concerned. So long as it was work they were offering and bearing gifts of ready cash, he was willing to listen. And Schneider was promising cash by the bucketful.

Conor assumed the others had been chosen for their respective talents. His was explosives and an ability to kill. He had got to know Karl Trucco, the American, quite well and liked him. It seemed he had been some kind of right wing militant in the USA and had fled the country for his own safety. But whatever the American’s politics or affiliations, the only thing he had in common with the man was this job.

He was introduced to Breggie shortly after his first meeting with Schneider. Something in Breggie’s manner made Conor mistrust her from the start. He couldn’t put his finger on it but went along with his own instincts. As far as he was concerned she was to be kept at arm’s length, and the sooner he was out of that house the better he would feel.

“When do we get paid, Joseph?”

It was Franz who had spoken. The others looked up. Breggie turned round. She was holding a baby’s milk bottle in her hand. Conor assumed she had just made it up in the kitchen. She said something to Joseph and left the room. They could hear the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.

“Breggie has to feed and change the baby first,” Joseph replied. “When she comes down I shall go and get your money.”

Franz looked disappointed. “You mean it isn’t here?”

Joseph shook his head. “It would have been too risky. The house could have been broken into any time.”

“So where is it?” Conor asked.

Joseph shrugged. “It’s in a safe place. Breggie will stay here with the baby while I’m gone. If that’s what you’re worried about,” he added.

Trucco went back to his magazine. Conor continued to feel uncomfortable but could do nothing about it. The others seemed to be quite happy with the situation though and Conor wondered, for a moment, if he was worrying over nothing.

Nothing at all.

*

Hoffman was still studying the wreck of the car which had taken the force of the limpet bomb when he heard a car pull up. He turned in the direction of the noise and swore quietly under his breath. Jansch heard his boss and watched as the car came to a stop. The door opened and a tall, very well dressed man got out. On either side of the road, the pine trees that stood tall and elegant seemed to pale against the invisible but almost tactile aura that emanated from the man. It was Doctor Aaron Kistler, President of the North Rhine-Westphalia Police.

Kistler was more of a politician than a policeman; a man who had little time for the realities of police work and was more interested in the public face of the force and the importance and esteem of his own office and his own person. He held sway over one of the finest police forces in the Federal Republic and demanded total respect from all his subordinates, which he received in public but rarely in private. He walked the short distance from his official car to the wreck by which Hoffman and Jansch were standing.

“Good day, Herr Hoffman.” He ignored Jansch. “What progress are you making?” It was typical of him not to enquire about the number of deaths that had occurred or how any survivors might be getting on.

“None yet, sir,” Hoffman responded flatly. “It’s a little early. But we do know it was a well-planned and skilfully executed attack.”

Kistler quickly scanned the scene. Even he was aware that he would be more of a hindrance than a help; his visit here was merely cosmetic, more for public consumption than anything else.

“Dreadful business,” he said, looking at the carnage with a deep frown creasing his forehead. Then his expression changed and it brightened.

“I am going up to Herr Schiller’s residence,” he informed Hoffman. “I expect to have good news for him within a day or so, and for that reason I want you to spare no-one and nothing in the search for the kidnappers. You must,
must
,” he emphasised with a moving finger, “drop everything else and draw in as much manpower as you can possibly muster on this. You will have my fullest support. And I want to be briefed daily. Understood?”

“Thank you sir,” Hoffman answered dryly, knowing that Kistler’s fullest support would not get them one millimetre closer to finding the killers.

Kistler dipped his head in a perfunctory nod and returned to his car. Hoffman and Jansch stood aside as Kistler’s chauffeur manoeuvred the car past the wrecks. Despite the obvious ramifications of the attack, Kistler seemed strangely ambivalent and unmoved by it all.

At that moment, Jansch’s mobile phone rang. He pulled it from his belt and lifted it to his ear. Hoffman watched him answering in monosyllables and thanking somebody. He snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into the waistband of his trousers.

“They’ve found the police car sir. It was burned out.”

“Crew?”

“No sign yet. Forensic are on it, but they don’t hold out much hope.”

Hoffman was thoughtful for a moment. “Get on to the military,” he said after a while. “See if we have a satellite scan. From sunrise this morning; anything that passed over.”

“They’re not going to like that, sir.”

“Bugger what they like. Probably find Schiller’s company built the satellites they’re using anyway.”

Jansch allowed himself a smile. Schiller owned satellites and companies that built space rockets. But he didn’t own military secrets or anybody else’s for that matter. He knew his boss didn’t expect miracles though. This idea was a long shot; any still photographs taken at the time of the kidnap might help the experts to identify something that would lead them to the kidnappers.

“Shall I take your car, sir?”

Hoffman shook his head. “No, I’ll have to get up to Schiller’s place and start tugging the forelock. Clean up the bullshit Kistler leaves behind. Grab one of the patrol cars. Call me the moment something new develops.” He sighed heavily. “We’ve got to catch these bastards Uwe. Never mind Kistler or Schiller or whoever else pokes their nose in; we’ve simply got to.”

*

It was close to mid-day when an EL Al Jumbo jet landed at Frankfurt airport. In the business class section Levi Eshkol glanced up from his copy of
TIME
magazine and peered through the window. He looked up at the cabin clock and reset his watch to Federal time. He still had several hours in hand before he was due at his meeting later that evening. He would eat a light lunch first before driving to the pre-planned rendezvous. Later he would dine with his colleagues and maybe drink a little wine; a celebration perhaps.

Levi Eshkol was a native of Israel. He had been born in a
Kibbutz
near Jerusalem forty five years earlier. He had no other family now. His father had died in the
Yom Kippur
war, one of the children of Israel who had escaped from Nazi Germany to find sanctuary in Palestine. His mother had died a few years after his father.

Eshkol had shown great potential as a scholar and had been widely tipped for a senior role in Government. He studied law at Haifa University and completed his doctorate before his twenty-first birthday. He had a brilliant future ahead of him but, to the surprise of many of his close friends, chose not to pursue a career in the corridors of power.

Levi Eshkol became a ‘fixer’; a man who worked behind the scenes to achieve a satisfactory conclusion for his clients. In the powerful world of Middle East politics, public deals were merely the gloss on the cake. Politics on the hoof by American emissaries, brokering deals for consumption by the world media, were never possible without men like Levi Eshkol.

It was because of Levi’s brilliance, his connections and his knowledge of international law coupled with complete discretion that he was able to move easily among the powerbrokers of this world. But for all the doors that opened for Levi Eshkol, he remained a faceless enigma.

He cleared customs and immigration very quickly and was inside the main terminal building within minutes. He only ever travelled with hand luggage which saved him the trouble of jostling with other travellers at the luggage carousels.

As he passed the news-stands he could see the later editions of the newspapers screaming out banner headlines ‘
Schiller kidnap’
. He picked up a copy of
Bild Zeitung
and hurriedly scanned the opening paragraphs. A frown gathered on Eshkol’s face. To any passer-by it might have appeared that he was naturally troubled by the kidnap and multiple killings. That much was true, but for a very different reason. He brought some change out of his pocket and paid for the newspaper.

The meeting he was attending that afternoon was now about to take on a different agenda. He tucked the paper under his arm and went off to catch his connecting flight to Osnabruk.

*

Hoffman had seen enough. The place was crawling with forensic experts, detectives, mortuary attendants and official photographers. They would all do their stuff and have all the relevant information on his desk as soon as it was physically and humanly possible. Everybody wanted to score on this one. He walked up to his official car and climbed into the back seat.

For a while he sat there gathering his thoughts. It occurred to him that he should phone his wife and explain that he would probably be late. If he did it now, he wouldn’t forget. His driver sat patiently waiting for instructions. The interior of the car smelled of stale tobacco, impinging on the familiar smell of the leather upholstery. He wondered what it must be like, cocooned in a car, fighting to avoid a hail of bullets, knowing there was no escape. He pulled a cigar box from his inside pocket and took out a Canadian Reas half corona. He lit up, blowing the smoke carefully out of the open window.

His wife, Elke, answered the phone almost immediately.

“Hallo
liebchen
, it’s me.”

“Are you on that awful kidnap?” she asked. It was always nice to hear her voice, even if they had only spoken a few hours earlier at breakfast.

He drew heavily on the cigar, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs. “Of course,” he answered. “Kistler’s poking his nose in as well.”

“He’ll be a tremendous help,” she remarked acidly. “I suppose this means you’ll be late again?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ll stay at the office tonight, but I’ll come home for breakfast.” The end of the cigar glowed again. He expelled the smoke. “I’ll ring you when I can.”

“Good, and when you do finally come home, I’ll introduce you to your children again. Just in case they’ve forgotten who you are”.       

She was teasing him, he knew that, but lately the joke was getting a little tedious. He wondered just how much longer it would go on before his wife began openly resenting his job. She had asked him more than once to resign from the police and find work in the private sector, but she had never laboured the point. In fact, she was quite philosophical about.

“I love you sweetheart, speak to you again.”

He switched the phone off and told his driver to take him up to Schiller’s residence.

He reached Schiller’s sprawling villa after going through a security check at the barrier. What was incredible about this place, he thought to himself, was that all the security was at the top of the hill rather than at the bottom. But then, several kilometres of perimeter fence through the woodland on the lower slope would be difficult to police properly.

He found his boss, Doctor Kistler, talking quietly with the billionaire industrialist. They were in a room which had a commanding view of the River Mosel threading its way through the pine covered hills towards Luxembourg in the west. The huge sliding windows to the balcony were closed and outside an armed policeman patrolled. A mite unnecessary now, thought Hoffman.

Kistler looked up as Hoffman was shown into the room. He acknowledged him and spoke to Schiller. The old man turned his head. He looked pale and shaken. Hoffman greeted him.

“Herr Schiller,
Guten tag
.” He lowered his head just a little in greeting. “First let me tell you how deeply saddened I am by the attack on you and your staff, and the kidnap of your grandson.” Schiller tipped his head forward but said nothing. Hoffman went on. “I can offer you nothing concrete at the moment but will say that we are doing everything in our power, naturally, to bring the perpetrators of this terrible crime to justice.” He glanced at Kistler. “I am quite sure we shall have something firmer to work on within an hour or so, and, perhaps, in a few days will be in a better position with regard to bringing you hopeful news.”

Schiller shook his head slowly. “You’re as bad as Doctor Kistler, Hoffman. I would have hoped for something less sycophantic from you.” His voice was firm, demonstrably so.

Hoffman looked at Doctor Kistler who appeared to be deeply wounded. Hoffman could have kicked himself; he had dished out that tripe more for Kistler’s benefit than Schiller’s.