by Geoff Wolak
* * *
Ricky walked into a small car-hire shop with two agents. He had not slept much in three days, his appearance even worse than normal, enough to frighten small children in the street. Behind the counter the top of a bald head was just visible.
‘Guten Tag?’ Ricky asked in German.
A very short man peered over the counter. ‘Tourist, not local,’ the top half of a face stated in an oddly slow and heavy Germanic accent. ‘I speak many languages, including perfect English.’
‘Might be easier if you stood then, instead of talking to the fucking desk,’ Ricky snarled.
‘I am standing.’
Ricky peered over the counter. ‘Oh, right. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be, I’m not. Now, what can I help you three large gentlemen with?’
Ricky thrust a photo of Rudenson over the counter and to within an inch of the man’s face. ‘Have you given a hire car to this man?’
‘I may be short, but I am not blind,’ the little man pointed out, studying Ricky through very thick glasses. He took the photo. ‘Yes, this morning. He was nervous and in a hurry.’ He handed the photo back. ‘I can see why now. Are his library books overdue?’
Ricky was about to say something, but just stared down at the man, wide eyed. ‘The vehicle and registration, if you please!’
‘Which are you going to offer, money or threats?’
Ricky pulled out his pistol and placed it to within an inch of the man’s forehead. ‘Which will get me to my next sugar fix the quickest?’
‘The money. Death does not frighten me.’
Ricky withdrew the pistol, slapping a wad of euros on the counter. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’
The attendant took the money, handing up a sheet of paper almost immediately.
Ricky turned and read it. ‘Rudenson’s hire car - Passat, KB PC 537, green,’ he shouted. A guard called in the information.
‘He’s Swiss, Zurich by the sound of him, you’re English, and the man hiring the car was German, Bavarian I am sure. Since you are both armed, and wealthy, I would surmise that you are from Zug?’
Ricky turned back, offering a cold stare. ‘If you know who we are, then you’d know the danger that you are in right now.’
‘I know that you do not kill people for nothing, that you are normally far more stealthy. To be this open you must be in a very big hurry.’
Ricky considered killing the little man. ‘Don’t make me come back here.’ He turned to leave.
‘Wait!’ the man called. ‘I have more.’
‘More what?’
‘Information. When he first came in he did not see me, he made a call and went over to the cars, then came back.’
‘Don’t know how he missed you,’ Ricky muttered. Then louder, ‘And how much did you hear?’
‘All of it. He is heading towards the Czech Republic, he spoke to a Serbian man about a passport, it sounded something similar to ‘Yani’. Going to meet him. Not an easy language, Serbo-Croat.’
‘You understood him?’
‘Oh, yes. Meeting in a bar at 3pm in the town of Protovin. I did not get the bar’s name, but the other man was coming by train, so probably close to the train station. I believe it is on a main line south. Herr Rudenson, not his real name I guess, will be driving through the Bohemian Forest in a few hours, a quiet and lonely road either side of the border.’
Ricky just stared, wide eyed.
The little man continued, ‘There is a gasoline station ten kilometres before the border, always busy because there are not many on that road. He has enough gasoline to get there, but he will need to fill up at that station.’
Ricky turned to the first guard. ‘Get that? Call it in. I want everyone available on that border, in that town and get that petrol station staked out!’
‘Glad to be of service,’ came a sarcastic voice, the midget now pocketing the money.
Ricky leant over and handed the man a Bank business card. ‘Call me, Ricky, on that number if you think of anything else. And if you want a frigging job.’
‘My name is Herr Mole.’
‘Mole? Great, Johno will love you.’
4
The road leading up to the castle was now lined with staff, three or four deep in places. All stood silent, staring at the prisoner and his escorts. Graf, terrified and covered in blood, and with makeshift bandages on his head, glanced at the faces.
Silence. They just stared back at him.
Two agents led the handcuffed and gagged prisoner slowly up the road, deliberately slowly; it took nine minutes.
At the castle, six spacemen stood waiting, along with Otto, Johno and Beesely. As Beesely stood waiting, observing the staff turnout, he could not help thinking why the staff were here for this, such a dramatic show. He could not help thinking that Otto was making a statement, and that the staff were the ones meant to be getting the warning.
Beesely stepped forwards and took a moment to study Graf. Finally, he stated, in soft tones and with no hint of emotion, ‘We’ve prepared a room for you.’ He turned his head up and around to the windows of the restaurant.
Graf struggled, squealing through the gag.
Beesely added, ‘Not up to our usual high standards, I’m afraid, it’s being renovated as we speak. Suffered a bomb attack. Got rid of most of the nerve agent, just a few damp areas remaining.’ He nodded to the spacemen, who now took over, dragging Graf up the stairs, through decon’ one, now with the water switched off, and into the gutted restaurant.
The prisoner was placed in a chair, a rope loosely thrown around him as he screamed. A gloved finger rubbed around the inside of the bomb’s aerosol can then onto Graf’s lips.
At first he just sat wondering if it was a trick; nothing happened for a few seconds. Then he twitched. His head began to jerk involuntarily, his lips starting to swell and burst with pus and blood. He screamed through the gag as his eyes started to bulge, blood oozing out of the corners, his body twitching violently, bones breaking against the restraints. The spacemen turned and left.