A Necessary Hell

by Nigel Price

  “Well that’s great to hear,” Harry said, not believing a word of it. “Just do what I tell you, and leave the rest to us.”

  “It’s impossible though. You don’t know Gutman like I do. He will kill everyone. Anyone, to keep himself safe. And he has the men to do it.”

  “I know. I’ve met some of them.”

  “Yes. And beaten them. You’re a very impressive guy, Harry. I knew it the moment we met. Do you remember when you came for the recce, all those weeks ago?”

  “I hope this isn’t going to turn into some kind of buddy caper recap? All sentiment and hugs?”

  Hafner laughed. “Always you are joking. You English. I like you, Harry.”

  “Oh shit. Here comes the hug. Just keep your hands on the wheel or I’ll blow a hole in your guts.”

  More laughter. “I’ll see what I can do to help.”

  “Sure you will. Now drive.”

  Südfriedhof came into view some time later. Two giant iron gates stood open, vast concrete posts on either side of the entrance, each topped with a faux Gothic gargoyle. Tall mature trees stood behind the encompassing brick wall which seemed to go on forever. The car rolled through the gates and along the central driveway. The site was enormous. Lanes led off the central drive to left and right, disappearing among the trees and shrubs and acre upon acre of grave stones and monuments of all shapes and sizes.

  “Fuck me,” Harry muttered. “How the hell do we find our man?”

  “There’ll be a central building which will have a diagram and register. This is Germany, Harry. Everything will be recorded and mapped out.”

  Ingrid had woken up. She leaned forward looking between the two men in front. “Most of them are computerised now. There’s usually a terminal that anyone can use. Just punch in the name and details, and it gives you a reference saying where the grave is. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  It wasn’t. The building stood deep in the forested cemetery. It was old red brick but at some time had been gutted and refurbished with big glass floor-to-ceiling windows, white walls, floors of stripped pine, and an air of brightness and modernity in contrast to the ancient moss-covered stone of the surrounding tombs. They parked the car in one of the allotted spaces. They were the only visitors at that early hour, though they had seen people walking between the trees as they drove in, mostly dog walkers making use of the vast spaces, and a couple of early runners.

  There were three terminals, one of which was out of action. A piece of white paper had been taped over the screen apologising for the inconvenience. While Harry kept watch on Hafner, Ingrid sat herself in front of one of the other terminals, woke it up with a stab of the Return key then started to enter the details. Name: Heinrich Ziegler. Date of birth: 1923. Date of death: 2005.

  She hit Enter. The machine thought about it. It wasn’t the latest model.

  A result popped onto the screen. Ingrid leaned in to read it. Behind her, both Harry and Hafner peered at it too.

  “He’s wasn’t buried here,” she said.

  “What?”

  “He was cremated.”

  “Oh. That’s better, right?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it means we don’t have to dig up a grave. I mean, it’s quiet at the moment, but it wouldn’t stay that way if we started digging.”

  Hafner chipped in. “But in Germany there are strict laws about cremations and what the family can do with the ashes. They have to be buried too. In urns. So we’ll still have to dig.”

  Ingrid had been busy, typing another question into the terminal. The answer came back. “It’s okay. The ashes weren’t buried. They were interred in the memorial salon.” She studied a diagrammatic layout of the cemetery. “Which is there.” She put her finger on the spot.

  Harry had a look. “That’s about … what? Five hundred yards from here?”

  Ingrid cleared the screen, deleting the record of her search. They went back to the car. Hafner got back behind the wheel and they drove the short distance to the memorial salon, Harry pointing out the way, which wasn’t hard. It was in a straight line.

  The exterior of the building was identical to the one they had just come from. The interior however was a mausoleum. The walls were of dark green marble. Inset in them was row upon row of brass plates, each bearing an inscription, the details of the person whose ashes were interred behind it. The plates were of different sizes and intricacy. Some were simple, others decorative. Some bore pictures of the deceased, most simply had the name, dates of birth and death, and some sort of inscription, usually a biblical passage and a cross.

  “Here he is.” Ingrid stood in front of a large brass plate set at ground level. Two foot by two foot, it bore the name Heinrich Ziegler and the dates 1923–2005, exactly as scratched on the back of the tablet. Harry crouched down to inspect it. He ran a finger round the edge. Four screws held it in place.

  “The heads are worn. Someone’s been opening this a lot. Now why would anyone want to do that?”

  “That must be because—”

  “Ernst, the question was rhetorical.”

  Harry stood up. Hafner was looking glum. “You’re not going to try and do anything stupid, are you?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like run when Ingrid and I are busy opening this?”

  “Harry, where would I run? Here take the car keys.” He tossed them over. Harry caught them. “I have had enough. I just want this to be over.” He rubbed his bruised face. “You hurt me last night. I don’t want to have anything more to do with this. I just want out.”

  “I expect Gutman will have a view on that.” He passed the keys to Ingrid. “See if there’s a screwdriver or any kind of tool kit in the boot.”

  She went away to check.

  “You’re a shit, Ernst. If any of us live through this, you’re going to jail.”

  “I no longer care. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  Harry wasn’t convinced. Ingrid came back with a large canvas wallet. “I found this.” She undid a strap and rolled it open. She pulled out a multi-purpose spanner full of angles and holes like a slice of metal Swiss cheese. “Will this do?”

  “Keep an eye on him. Stand by the entrance and tell me if you see anyone coming.”

  He knelt in front of the brass plate and searched for an edge on the spanner which could act as a screwdriver. His first attempt did more damage to the head of the first screw.

  “You’re going to destroy the thread and then you’ll never get it open,” Hafner said. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. He opened the screwdriver attachment. “Use this.”

  “How long have you had that?”

  “You never searched me.”

  “Fuck’s sake.” Harry took it from him.

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t about to stab you with the thing for getting stones out of horse’s hooves.”

  “Don’t push it, Ernst.” Harry set to work with the little screwdriver. It did the trick. “And don’t think we’re best buddies all of a sudden.”

  After several minutes of fiddly work, swearing and a cut, four screws lay on the floor. Harry opened the short stubby blade on the penknife, wedged it behind the plaque and levered it away from the wall. It popped straight off, falling on the floor before he could catch it. The clatter reverberated around the empty mausoleum.

  The space behind the plaque went deep into the wall. Filling it completely, stuffed all the way in, was an olive green canvas holdall.

  Forty

  Harry hauled out the canvas holdall. He checked there was nothing else in the wall cavity then screwed the brass plate back in place.

  The three of them stood looking down at the prize.

  “Well open it,” Ingrid said.

  “Ernst, you do it.”

  “Why me?”

  “It might be booby-trapped.” Harry sucked every ounce of enjoyment from the cold panic on Hafner’s face then added, “Just kidding.”

  He knelt down and un
did the zip along the top. He pulled the bag open. On the top was a fat folder. He lifted it out and opened it. He leafed through the contents, page after page.

  “Bingo.”

  “What is it?” Ingrid and Hafner both came over to see what he’d got.

  “It looks like a record of all of Gutman’s customers. With details of what they’ve bought from him. Treasures and – some of them – children.” He leafed some more. “Bloody hell. It even lists the specifications they gave him. Like mail order.”

  “For God’s sake.” Ingrid took the folder from him. “I recognise some of these. Him,” she said, picking one. “He heads a TV channel. And this one’s a government minister. Harry this is dynamite. No wonder Gutman has such protection.”

  Harry was digging deeper into the bag. “Each page is cross-referenced to the rest of the contents.” He lifted out a fistful of discs. “Recordings. Sound only on some of them. Others have video as well. Evidence. Krantz compiled a complete bag of evidence on the lot of them as his insurance policy. The contents of this bag can bring down … what? State governments? Businesses, industries, chunks of the media? All the people in the file should be behind bars.”

  “But—” Ingrid stopped. “Harry, we can’t use it. We have to hand it over to get Thomas back.”

  “She’s right, Harry. If that becomes public, the boy dies. Instantly. What reason does Gutman have to keep him alive? He will be mad with rage. He will kill the boy, and who knows what he will do to him before he kills him? And he will get away too. He will fly out of the country and escape. But Thomas will be dead. Or worse, if Gutman takes him out of the country too.”

  Harry knew they were both right. The temptation to expose everyone in the folder was overpowering, but he had to stick to their original aim – to free Ingrid’s son. If they managed it and got away free, he would have to find some other way to shine a light on the vileness of Gutman and his folder of business associates.

  He stood up and stared at the surrounding forest of trees and graves.

  “Harry?” Ingrid said when he had been silent for long enough to frighten her.

  “Yes?”

  “What do we do?”

  “We arrange the swap. We give Gutman the holdall with all this filth and we get Thomas back.”

  He saw the look of relief on her face.

  “And this is how we do it. Ernst, you will drop us in town then go to Gutman. Tell him what we’ve got. You’ve seen it. Describe it to him. In all its wonderful, incriminating detail.”

  “Why don’t I just call him?” He held out his hand. “Give me your mobile. I can do it now.”

  “Just do as I say.”

  Hafner shrugged. “It would save time but it’s up to you.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “He will want you to meet him at Schloss Winterberg. Come with me. We can all go together. You can do the swap there.”

  “Give me credit for some fucking brains. I’m not going anywhere near bloody Winterberg. Tell him to meet me in Munich at the Viktualienmarkt.” He checked the time. “There should be enough time to set it all up by three this afternoon.”

  “Set all what up?” Hafner asked.

  “The meeting. For you to get to him, brief him, then for him to bring the boy to the market in town. By three. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that he won’t agree.”

  “Then I will find a way of making this public. It will take a little time but it won’t be that hard. All I need is a laptop and I can start putting it on the internet, the whole miserable lot. If I don’t know who I can trust in the media, I can post it all on YouTube, WikiLeaks, and whatever the fuck all the other shit sites are called.”

  Ingrid was appalled. “But Thomas?”

  “Yes, he will kill the boy,” Hafner gabbled, desperate to talk him out of it.

  “That’s his choice,” Harry said, voice hard as stone. “It’ll be like the Cold War MAD doctrine. Mutually Assured Destruction. He can hurt us, but I can destroy him and everything he’s built, and all of the bastards in this folder.”

  Ingrid grabbed him by the lapels. “That’s stupid. You won’t be destroyed! I will. You won’t be risking anything.”

  He looked at her. “Correct. Which is why Gutman just might believe I will do it.”

  “Fucking hell, Harry,” Hafner said. “I knew you were a hard man but would you risk doing this to a woman you love?”

  Harry nodded. “I would risk it to help her get her son back.”

  “Gutman will never believe you will do it,” Hafner said, confidence returning.

  “That’s up to him. He’ll have to ask himself if he’s prepared to take the chance, leaving all this with me. On the other hand, all he has to do to get it is hand over the boy. Then all this filth can be his.”

  Hafner thought about it. “The moment I’ve gone you’ll just make a copy of it. On your phone, you can photograph the pages in the file.”

  “And how long do you think that would take? Sure, I could probably photograph most of the pages in the folder. Perhaps even all of them. But without the back up of the sound and video discs and the mass of paperwork and documents, they’d be useless. Even if I had a whole recording suite with all the technical kit – and knew how the fuck to use it, which I don’t – there’s so much here it would take me a week or a month or – me being me – a year. The people in the folder are rich and powerful. They’re the sort of people who can hire the best lawyers money can buy. Without the back-up evidence, they’d wipe the floor with me if I posted just allegations. Which is all that copies of the summary pages would be.”

  Hafner smiled, slow and cold. “Okay, I’ll deliver your message. The Viktualienmarkt at three, you say? Whereabouts?”

  “There’s a bar in the far corner with outdoor seats under trees and awnings. It’s next to—”

  “It’s called Schiller’s. I know it.”

  “That’s the one. Tell Gutman to bring the boy there. We’ll be sitting outside in the open. Where he can see us. Nice and public.”

  “That won’t stop him doing whatever he wants,” Ingrid said. “Remember Nuremberg. He’ll have his men gun you down in public if it suits him.”

  “I’m not so sure. This is his home ground.”

  “All the more reason for him to feel confident he can get away with it.”

  “If he’s got brains, and I suspect he has, he’ll operate on the principle: Don’t Shit Where You Eat. In any case it’s a risk we’ve got to take. Better there in a very public place, than somewhere quiet and out of the way. It’ll work. Trust me.”

  Ingrid wasn’t convinced. “How do you know this place, Harry?”

  “I know Munich. The Viktualienmarkt is my favourite place in town. That and Marienplatz next to it. This’ll work.”

  “Yeah I know. Trust me.”

  “Better get going,” Hafner said, happy at the prospect of being separated from his captors.

  “How do we know you’re not just going to disappear?” Ingrid said as they left the building, Harry carrying the holdall.

  “Because if he did,” Harry answered for him, “Gutman wouldn’t be a very happy chap when this appears all over the internet and he finds out that Ernst could have stopped it.”

  “Of course I won’t just disappear. I’ll go to Gutman.” Hafner headed for the Passat. Ingrid handed him the keys. He clicked the fob and unlocked the doors. “Then Gutman will come to you.” He smiled. Not nicely. “You can bet on it.”

  They got in the car and set off. The runners continued their morning exercise. Dog walkers wandered along the forested avenues between the graves. They headed out of the cemetery and northwards for the town.

  North through Neuperlach then on into Giesing – plush suburban districts of smart houses set in leafy green gardens, the homes of wealthy citizens going about their lives oblivious to the evils conducted by some of their most notable and influential neighbours.

  They drove over the Ludwigsbrücke
crossing the broad sluggish Isar. Hafner pulled over on Frauenstrasse. Harry and Ingrid got out.

  “Now fuck off down to Winterberg,” Harry said. “Come back with Gutman and the boy.”

  “Of course. Gutman and the boy. I’ll sort it, Harry. You can trust me.” Harry slammed the door and the car sped away.

  They watched him go. “Why didn’t you let him use your mobile to call Gutman from the cemetery? We could have done the swap sooner,” Ingrid said.

  “Gutman might have men in town that he can call on. They could have got here before us and been waiting. This way I know Viktualienmarkt is clean.”

  They saw the tail end of Hafner’s car disappear in the direction of the Isar on its way south towards the mountains.

  “And I need some Ernst-free time to get ready for the exchange.”

  Forty One

  Lipman accelerated north towards the city. He liked being down in Bavaria. It gave him a chance to drive the Mercedes-AMG. Beside him, Ernst Hafner leaned over the seat talking to the boss in the back. Next to the boss, the boy. The kid looked tiny and terrified.

  The boss was looking remarkably composed. The blow-up when he had first heard what Hafner had to say had been terrific to witness. Not being on the receiving end, Lipman had been able to stand on the sidelines and enjoy the whole ranting, foaming performance. Operatives had been summoned, advice given, options sorted, decisions made and plans set in motion. At last Gutman had calmed down. The disappointment that his small army at Winterberg wasn’t going to be needed had initially spoiled Gutman’s day. However now he was sitting back with grim smugness, staring out of the window as Hafner nervously prattled at him.

  Lipman had been surprised that the boss had insisted on coming himself. The advice had been to leave it to his contractors. After all, that was what they were paid for. He had waved that aside. He had been let down by enough people, enough times. He was going to oversee this himself. And so to the drive.

  Of course he wasn’t going to be alone. Gutman was never alone. He always had others on hand to do the really shitty jobs for him. The best had been selected. Other cars were converging on Munich from other points of the compass at that very moment. Spiders scuttling in to the centre where two hapless, helpless flies were stuck fast to the trembling web, their efforts to break free sending out the very signals that had called in the killers. All of them now speeding towards the centre. The Viktualienmarkt.