Echo of the Reich (8 page)

“How much money?” Bronson asked. He didn’t think displaying a little avarice was a bad thing.

Eaton’s smile grew broader. “You’ll find that out a bit later on, if Mike and the others decide you can join us.”

Bronson finished his drink. “You’ll call me, right?”

Eaton nodded. “Yeah. Just make sure you can get back to the right area within about an hour. That time of the evening, the traffic can be a bitch.”

20 July 2012

Getting back to his car took over half an hour, partly because it was parked some distance away, but mainly because Bronson wanted to ensure that nobody was dogging his footsteps. But he knew he couldn’t just run straight evasion tactics because that would immediately alert anybody who was following him to what he
was trying to do. And if he really was just an angry citizen who objected to the Olympic Games being held in London, there would be no obvious reason for him to worry about being followed.

So he spent some time browsing in a bookshop, staying near the door so that he could look out into the street, and another few minutes sitting at a round metal table outside a small café where he drank a cup of coffee that he frankly didn’t need, or even like very much. Then he did a bit of window shopping. And he saw absolutely nobody who took the slightest interest in him or what he was doing. So either they weren’t following him—which was very good news—or they
were
following him and they were really good at it, which was obviously extremely bad news.

When he reached the car he took a final look around him, then unlocked it, climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away, keeping one eye on his mirrors. He maneuvered the vehicle through the side streets until he reached a junction with the A127, the Southend Arterial Road. He turned left and followed that route until he reached the junction with the M25, where he turned right and headed south toward the river.

Again, Bronson watched his mirrors very carefully, and wound the speed up to a little more than eighty-five miles an hour, just to see if anyone would try to keep up with him. Then he slowed right down before the next junction and swung the Ford east into the Lakeside shopping center at Thurrock. There were car parks everywhere, all fairly full, but he had no difficulty in finding a space at the southern end of the trading estate outside the IKEA store. There his blue Ford was just one more anonymous car. Bronson sat for a few moments in the driving seat of the Ford, looking around him. As before, nobody seemed to be taking any interest in him. And then another car—a dark green Vauxhall with two passengers—pulled up a couple of spaces behind him. Two men got out and started walking directly toward his vehicle.

Bronson tensed and wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the butt of the little Llama pistol as they drew nearer. But when they reached his car, they simply continued walking, heading toward the store entrance.

Only when they’d vanished from sight did he relax, take out his mobile phone and press the speed-dial button for the number—another mobile phone—that he wanted. Curtis answered almost immediately.

“It’s me,” Bronson said. For obvious security reasons, just in case the group they were trying to infiltrate had obtained scanners or other ways of hacking into either of the mobile phones, it had been agreed that neither man would ever mention their respective names. The previous year the newspapers had featured little other than phone-hacking stories.

Both men knew that hacking a mobile was far more difficult than most of the papers had made out. Many of the reported hacks had not only occurred several years earlier, when mobile network security was much less efficient than it was today, but most had also involved attacks on a user’s voice mail messaging system, and now the commonest way of communicating apart from simply making a call was to use text, and that was far more difficult to break into. Nevertheless, they were determined not to take any chances.

“How’d it go?” Curtis asked.

“I think you could say that I’m on probation. They’re doing some kind of operation this evening, and they’ve invited me along. But they’re cautious. I don’t know where it is, or exactly what time it’s going to be starting. John Eaton will call me on my mobile at six and tell me where to go, and I have to be within about an hour’s drive of the site. But I’ve got no idea when the action will kick off. I’d have thought they’ll probably wait until dark.”

“What are you going to do? Turn up, or do you want out now? If you call me as soon as you’ve been given the rendezvous, we could bust in and grab the lot of them.”

Bronson shook his head as he replied. “I’d love to walk away from this, but I don’t think that would work,” he said. “All I’ve been told is that I’ll need to rendezvous somewhere, presumably close to the site, at seven this evening. What I don’t know is whether I’ll be meeting the rest of the group there, or just one or two of those I’ve already seen. If I was a betting man, I’d say they were still suspicious of me, and the rendezvous position that I’ll be given will be nowhere near where the rest of them will be assembling. So if you do send in a team of officers instead of me, you’ll be lucky to grab one or two of them.”

“And that will spook the rest and blow your cover completely,” Curtis finished for him.

“Exactly. And one of them—he was introduced to me as Mike, no second name and I’ve no idea if that’s really any part of his name—actually said to me that I could be an undercover cop trying to penetrate their operation. I think I talked him out of the idea, but that’s still a bit worrying.”

There was a short silence while Curtis digested this unwelcome piece of information. “You sure about that? I mean, do you think he was being serious, or was it just a kind of throwaway remark?”

“I don’t know. But if I’m going to get inside this group, I can’t see any alternative to my turning up tonight.”

“Well, just be careful, that’s all. And if it looks as if it’s
all turning to rat shit, get the hell out of there and call for backup. I’ll make sure there are a few extra patrol cars and a couple of ARVs in the general area from about eight o’clock onwards, so if you do blow the whistle, we can have officers with you in just a few minutes.”

That was some comfort, but Bronson knew that a lot could happen to him between the time he raised the alarm and the first car arriving.

“Thanks,” Bronson said. “I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Right,” Curtis said briskly. “I’ll brief Shit Rises on your progress so far. Anything else you need to tell me?”

“Yes, three things. First, if what John Eaton told me at lunchtime today is correct, then this group working in London is just a small part of a much bigger organization. But before you ask, I’ve got no idea what it is, where it’s based, or what its agenda is. I got the feeling that we’re not just talking about another bunch of low-lifes doing malicious damage in Edinburgh or Cardiff or somewhere. I think this other organization is directing the London group, telling it what targets to hit and when to hit them, which suggests a high degree of control. That’s interesting, maybe even surprising, though I don’t know much about this kind of criminal activity.

“The second point’s related to that one. According to Eaton, the superior group, for want of a better expression, actually pays this London mob to carry out their attacks. They’re acting as mercenaries, or maybe even paid employees, of this other lot.”

“That’s a new one, no mistake,” Curtis said. “I don’t think we’ve ever met that before. I’ll pass it on. A couple
of years ago we found a group of vandals—nothing very violent, mainly daubing slogans on buildings, that kind of thing—who had all paid into a fund so that if any of them were caught and fined, the fund would pay it. That was unusual enough, but I’ve never encountered what you might call vandals for hire before. And the third thing?”

“This is what worries me most of all. They were quizzing me about what I’d done in the past, and I told them I spent a few years in the army. The first question they asked me was if I knew anything about explosives, and they hinted that they had access to plastic explosives, through this other group.”

“Shit,” Curtis muttered. “That’s all we need.”

“‘Shit” is an understatement. Most terrorist groups—and I think we have to consider them as terrorists rather than vandals—have to manufacture their own explosives. They use something like potassium chlorate or ammonium nitrate, which is a major constituent of most fertilizers, and mix it with a fuel like diesel oil. It can produce a hell of a bang—”

“You don’t have to remind me,” Curtis interrupted. “I was in Docklands when the IRA Canary Wharf bomb exploded back in ’ninety-six. That was a fertilizer bomb, and when it went off you could hear the bang over most of East London.”

“I remember it, too. Most of the estimates suggested it was about a half-ton device, about eleven hundred pounds, and I think it did about ninety million pounds’ worth of damage and killed a couple of people. But military-grade plastic explosive is about five times more powerful than a fertilizer bomb.”

“So do you think these comedians could get their hands on plastic explosive?”

“I’ve no idea. The trouble is that C4 and Semtex—that’s the civilian equivalent, if you like, used in quarries and so forth—are readily available if you know where to look, and especially in Europe. There are supposed to be literally tons of Semtex unaccounted for, so if these people can locate a source, I suppose they could get some into Britain.”

Curtis grunted. “This is sounding a bloody sight worse every time you open your mouth,” he said. “And you know how urgent this is. We’ve got a matter of days to get it sorted. But you’re right. You have to meet these people tonight and try to find out as much as you can about them. But the moment you get any definitive information about their identities or where we can find them, and especially if you get a firm lead on this plastic explosive, you blow the whistle and get out. Understood?”

“You’ve got it,” Bronson agreed, and ended the call.

He sat in thought for a couple of minutes, then took a different mobile phone from the glovebox, inserted the battery and dialed another number, one he knew from memory.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Angela; it’s me.”

“I’ve been trying to call you, but your mobile is permanently switched off. Where are you?”

“Sorry, it’s a long story. The short version is that I’ve had to go undercover, and that means no phone calls to anyone who could identify me. I’m taking a risk calling you now, but I wanted to tell you what was going on.”

“I thought you were just going up to London to be an extra body in the run-up to the Olympics.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Bronson replied, “but I was completely wrong. I can’t go into any detail, but it does actually have something to do with the Games. Anyway, I’m stuck with it for the moment, but with any luck I might be finished in a few days, maybe a week at the most, because the timescale’s really tight.”

“I suppose this means that I won’t be seeing you for a while?”

“Not until this is over, no.”

Angela was silent for a few moments, then Bronson heard a deep sigh.

“Well, just be careful,” she said, then rang off.

Bronson switched off the mobile and removed the battery, replacing the unit in the glovebox.

He didn’t like to think what his former wife would say if she knew he was sitting in a car with a loaded—and completely illegal—pistol in his pocket, waiting to be summoned by a gang of putative terrorists to join them in engaging in some serious vandalism in London.

But he didn’t think she’d be too happy with the idea.

20 July 2012

He got the call he was expecting at ten minutes past six, and the man who phoned him—Bronson thought it was probably John Eaton, but he couldn’t be sure—simply gave him a time and a place, and then rang off.

Fifty minutes later, Bronson parked his Ford in one of the side streets close to the West Ham Cemetery. The street was quiet and largely deserted—parked cars occupied most of the available spaces, but very few people were visible. Lights were on in the majority of the houses that lined both sides of the road.

He was sure that nobody had followed him to the rendezvous, but he still sat in the car for almost five minutes, checking his surroundings. Reassured, he took out the Llama pistol, dropped the magazine out of the weapon, unloaded it and then reloaded it with its maximum load of ten rounds of ammunition. He left the box of cartridges in the glovebox, because if he needed more than
ten bullets he reckoned he was going to be dead anyway. Then he clicked the magazine back into place. He was very aware that semi-automatic pistols, unlike revolvers, are prone to jamming, and that the commonest reason for a stoppage is a cartridge not feeding properly into the breech from the top of the magazine. Unloading it allows the magazine spring to fully extend, and many people believe that that helps to reduce the possibility of a misfeed.

Then he bent forward and slid the pistol under the driver’s seat of the car, because at that moment he’d had a change of heart, deciding it would not be wise to carry a weapon, not to that meeting.

His logic was simple enough: if Eaton and his cronies were still unsure about him, it was likely that he might be searched, just in case he was wearing a wire or another type of recording device. And the last thing he wanted was for any members of the group to discover that he had a weapon. That was his ace in the hole.

Bronson opened the door, stepped out onto the pavement and glanced around him; nothing he saw or heard gave him even the slightest twinge of concern. He took out his A to Z of London, located the street he was standing in, and where he needed to get to, which was literally just around the corner, memorized the layout of the immediate area, and slipped the book back into his pocket.

The rendezvous was another pub, the Lamb and Flag, but this time Bronson had been instructed to wait in the car park behind the pub, rather than go into the building. He could, of course, have parked his Ford in the car park, but he was concerned about being boxed in if he did so,
not to mention one of the group somehow being able to trace the Ford’s registered owner. So he’d decided that his best option was to leave the car nearby instead.