by David Laws
“Brought it on yourself, then.”
“See anyone hanging about, spying on my place?”
“Not that I’ve noticed, but then we get all sorts in here.” She leaned across the bar and adopted a confidential tone. “However, what I did see the last time you were in here was you with that woman…”
“Erika, you mean?”
“Her, yes.” A little grin. “We’re all a little intrigued by her, Harry.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“Are you two getting back together?”
Harry put on a serious face, shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Be very careful, Harry, don’t rush into anything.”
“Playing agony aunt again, Ziggy?”
She looked around to make sure they were not overheard, then said, “Look, can I be very candid?”
“Were you ever anything else?”
“You know I have your welfare at heart.”
Harry moved uncomfortably on his chair.
“There’s something distinctly odd about your lady friend. And that creepy boy of hers…” She shook her head.
“That’s not very generous of you.”
“Look, Harry, tell me to shut it if you like, but you should listen to an old woman who knows what she’s talking about. That Erika’s no good for you, there’s something very wrong there, and that boy gives me the shivers. And not only that, she’s far too old for you.”
Harry laughed and called her old-fashioned.
“Twenty years, is it?” Ziggy persisted. “She could be your mother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s nothing like that.”
“What, then?” When Harry hesitated, she said, “Come on, don’t pretend you don’t know. More than ten. A good deal more than ten…”
“Fifteen, as it happens, but in today’s world that doesn’t count. People live longer, look younger. And in place of vacuous youth, we now treasure maturity. Haven’t you heard the phrase, ‘in praise of the older woman’?”
“Oh, so I stand a chance then? They say sixty is the new forty.”
“You’re the wrong side of the bar to get fresh, Ziggy.”
“Could soon remedy that,” she said, hand on the bar flap.
Chapter 24
16 days to go
Erika prowled like a circling big cat at the zoo, round and round the kitchen, touching the sink, opening cupboards, checking the back door – all to no purpose. It was a nervous reflex. She wanted to get rid of this man before her son came home from his tutor’s. She’d never told Stefan about his father and feared the peril Fischer’s presence represented. She had to know why he had suddenly turned up on her doorstep, and was anxious over what the ‘irresistible’ offer might mean. Then she stopped to look at Fischer once more. Only half an hour earlier, had there been a Colt .45 or a Glock tucked into her waistband she would have used it. The instinct of revenge. For the spurned love and frustrated motherhood. It all added up to a personal betrayal.
But then there were those other memories, the ones that had seemed so positive and right – at the time. They were a covert force of elite operatives – that was how Fischer had described them. They were working to keep alive the impetus for the just society they’d all been striving for in the East. That was his line and she had bought into it. There were powerful enemies out there, he said. People who, as soon as the Wall was down, were acting like the enemy. Like the judge who convicted former officials of the East on trumped-up charges, the playwright with a devastating critique of the former system, the right-wing populist with the poison pen… all enemies of the people. It gave her a big purpose. A penchant for delivering punishment to the guilty. It was a powerful memory. Only later did she come to doubt it. Only later did she object and rebel.
Her mouth twisted and she looked hard at Fischer, giving him the stare that had spooked a dozen adversaries. “Why me?” she snapped. “Why suddenly drop out of my distant past and land this at my door? Haven’t you got a dozen others who could do the job? What about that mob you’ve posted around my cottage door?”
Fischer did a swerve to avoid any connection with the watchers at Barton. “I come direct from the Wolf.”
“So?”
“Simple. You’re the best.”
She snorted.
“It’s true. Time has taken its toll. Most of the others have fallen by the wayside, too old, not in a good place. And you’ve stayed fit and loyal, not gone native.”
“Don’t count on it!”
“And you’re a woman. This job has got to be done by a woman.”
She snorted again.
“When it comes to dedication, ruthlessness and cool,” he said, “you’ve no equal. No competition.”
“That was years ago,” she said dismissively.
He spread his hands. “Just take the oligarch,” he said. “Remember him? Now that was really impressive. No hesitation, no problem. A cool head, the absolute ultimate.”
She was lying up in a bird hide on the banks of the River Elbe. A lazy river, so wide the opposite bank was just a haze, the egrets and the swans so graceful, a peaceful scene. A false vision of serenity.
It was the ideal spot, just back from the bank, hidden among the trees, deserted and rarely used. She took from her rucksack the notice she had penned for the purpose – DANGER – OUT OF ORDER – CLOSED FOR REPAIR – and placed it on the outside. Inside, she jammed a stout branch against the door. Then she brushed aside cobwebs and intruding greenery, unloaded her equipment, checked and rechecked it, then sat silently to wait.
A narrow viewing slit of less than two feet ran across the side facing the water, protected by an overhanging ledge. Inside was sparse: a wooden bench seat and a mildewed ledge intended for bird books and binoculars.
Gentle ripples of water brushed a shoreline of muddy inlets. Shelducks and other waders stood in line at the water’s edge, industriously examining their domain for insects. Sunlight played interesting tricks of light and dark on the blue of the water. On the opposite bank, lush pastures receded to a curtain of trees. Tiny blackened shapes at the waterline indicated the presence of ancient wood pilings, a landing stage or perhaps a groyne. The most dramatic moment came when a flight of cackling geese, formed like some aerial armada, squawked their way upriver, then all was tranquil once again.
Very little river traffic, she noted. Just one small freighter loaded with timber, forging a bow wave to the banks.
She checked her instructions, her watch propped against the rim of the ledge to alert her to the passing minutes, and stared studiously across the water. Conditions were ideal: clear visibility, no human presence, absolute calm, her low heartbeat, total relaxation.
Such a shame she would have to shatter this tranquillity when the boat came.
The timetable for its arrival was, they’d said, elastic. Minutes passed, then the half-hour, then an hour. Perhaps, after all, it wouldn’t arrive and she could simply study the birds for the rest of the day.
A flash of white broke her reverie and a grim determination instantly transformed the slackness of her features. Without conscious thought the mantra flowed from her lips: “I am the messenger, the messenger of justice, the time for accounting has arrived…”
The whiteness transformed into a yacht as she moved her eye to the scope and examined the detail of the vessel’s shape, decking and outline. A brief glance down at her diagram confirmed it: the Atlantis.
She turned the focus ring to highlight the helmsman. Ditto. Tall, white hair, bronzed features. The main man, the top target, as per instructions. The man who’d just bought the Crown Jewels in a disgraceful sell-off of state assets. White Head was now a bloated oligarch. He had it coming, they’d said, after ripping off the East’s last remaining electricity utility. She was barely conscious of her own voice: “Stealing from the people…”
> By now the Atlantis was centre stage in her line of vision.
She drew back the bolt, steadied the stock on its tiny tripod and zeroed in on the helmsman’s shield.
Gentle pressure on the trigger, just as she had been taught, no snatching.
First pressure, second pressure, strike.
The shot produced a shattering report, echoing across the vast expanse of water and seeming to bounce back from the other shore. The birds erupted in a chorus of alarm and flew in panicked circles.
Her gaze, however, did not waver. She held the yacht in the scope and the reaction on the water was instantaneous. The helmsman must have clutched the wheel and hauled it down as he fell.
The boat leapt dramatically to port and seemed to charge the far shore. She could hear the wrecking sound of breaking wood, but the boat did not stop. That ancient pier or landing stage had performed the function of a cushion and created a ricochet effect, for the Atlantis was now heading back across the river in the opposite direction, directly in line for her.
She gaped, mesmerised, as it seemed certain that in a few fateful seconds the vessel would charge head-on into the shoreline at the exact spot where the bird hide stood. She was immobilised, gripping the big rifle, as if this would in some way stop a runaway vessel. She had the stark vision, then: her bloodied remains amid the shattered matchwood of the broken yacht and hide.
A loud blast of steam-driven noise erupted from the left.
A ship’s siren.
Just as the yacht looked set to complete its fatal charge, a black shape swam across her vision, followed by a metallic boom and an explosion the like of which she had not heard before.
The big black shape continued on its way, sounding its frantic and mournful siren, until it had passed beyond her vision, leaving behind a wake of bobbing white splintered flotsam in the water.
She realised then: the freighter, having delivered its cargo of timber upriver, had returned to be her shield.
“Listen,” Fischer said, when at last Erika came down from her memory mountain and met his gaze, “you need to hear what I’ve got to say.”
Still, she didn’t offer him coffee.
His ‘irresistible’ deal, as detailed across her kitchen table, amounted to this: the offer of a new life in another country, a new identity for her and for Stefan, a pretty house, a luxurious car, a large sum of money, guaranteed top-quality education for Stefan, an untraceable future.
“But where?” she heard herself ask, annoyed. She had meant not to listen, to tell him to go.
An undefined South American republic with large German- and English-speaking populations, he said, with new passports untraceable from Europe…
“So where’s this?”
A republic that did not have an extradition treaty with either the US or any European country, where her past could not possibly catch up with her.
“You must be joking. You think I’d trust you, take your word, after everything that’s happened?”
Guarantees, he said, on the headed notepaper of the London embassy containing a statement from the Ministry of Interior validating her application for a resident’s permit. Travel visas would be enclosed and letter from a bank would show the deposit of a large sum of money, plus airline tickets from Amsterdam; validation of all this from a lawyer’s office acting in her new name.
Then he withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket, tumbling out two new passports on to the kitchen table. “Open them,” he urged. That’s when she saw the boy’s photograph; all the names and the dates checked out. Then her passport and a new driving licence, with her photo already attached.
“There’s more!” Her South American birth certificate and an application in her name to join the German social club in the city. Plus a photograph of a beautiful villa overlooking a lush valley that he said awaited her. Also enclosed from the lawyer’s office: the deeds of the house in her new name.
“Brexit,” he said, shaking his head. “Time to get out of this country.”
“But Harry says I’ll be OK…”
“He’s just one man, not the Government. Things could take a turn for the worst around here, very soon.”
Finally, Fischer offered himself in this deal. “I’m a new man,” he said, “and I know you’re not hot for me at the moment…” He grinned. “But I admit it, I owe you.” He flopped on to the table a marriage certificate, as yet blank, awaiting her approval.
All she needed to do for this, he said, was accept his terms.
Chapter 25
Thursday 14th March 2019; 15 days to go
It was time to take to the air again, Harry decided, and to hell with Sergeant Rudd and his rules about flight plans and giving twenty-four hours’ notice.
Harry had been stalled in his quest at Highbury, frustrated by Bruno and the elusive Miss Corbishley, but his spirits rose when The Globe called that morning with a fresh assignment.
“Trouble brewing at Dover,” Heffernan said on the phone. “We’re short-handed today, can you cover?”
Of course he could. A flight to Kent was a job made for the Moth. He could fly almost directly across the mouth of the Thames Estuary instead of having to ride the Triumph the long way round via the Dartford Crossing. A couple of dog-legs to bypass forbidden zones and he’d make Manston Aerodrome in about an hour. He phoned ahead to have a hire car waiting.
“You’ll give me a hand?” he asked Erika, peering into the bottom of the wardrobe for his flying gear.
“For what?”
“Swing the prop and pull out the chocks.”
She snorted. “No way! You think I’m going to risk having my arm chopped off?”
“I’m on my own,” he said plaintively, “I need you to get me away. Only take you a few minutes. You’ll be back here in no time.”
But Erika knew enough – too much, in fact – to be cajoled. He’d have to find help elsewhere.
At Rougham, Control was as ever in a forbidding mood, quoting the new rules, but Harry came back fighting. “Keep this up and you’ll frighten off all the guys, then you’ll be out of a job!”
He was fortunate. Charlie Lema was in the hangar giving his yellow Beechcraft the once-over.
“Pushing your luck again, Harry?” he said, but agreed to suspend polishing and swing the prop. Once, twice, three times, but the Moth refused to start.
“Keep going!”
It took six swings before the Gipsy motor spluttered into life, with Charlie hanging on to a wingtip to swing the plane round to taxi out to the grass strip, then turn her into the wind. Thankfully, the day was bright with no forecast for rain as Harry took off, skirted Wattisham and Southend and made across the open water towards the tip of Kent and the Isle of Thanet.
Manston were not pleased to see him – “We’ve got the Border people round our necks and your paperwork’s not through” – but Harry waved a dismissive hand.
“It will be.”
His immediate problem turned out to be traffic congestion. The road to Dover came to a standstill before he was even halfway there. Long lines of lorries were stationary, parked up in both lanes, blocking the highway. Harry had no intention of sitting passively in a traffic jam, so he drove up the hard shoulder to find someone who could tell him what was going on.
He made perhaps a mile before being stopped by a raised arm – not that of a police officer, but someone wearing a blue armband he didn’t recognise.
“You’re not the police,” he said from the open car window.
“Oh yes I am,” said a tall, leathery figure with a beetle brow. “An auxiliary officer properly constituted and officially sworn in.”
“Since when?”
“Since last night. The Kent Constabulary can’t cope. Traffic chaos has stalled the whole county. They need us on the ground.”
Wow, thought Harry, a great
story already, and took the man’s picture. “Maybe I’ll walk to Dover…”
“One hell of a way,” said the auxiliary, “and I can tell you now, it’s just as bad there. The whole port is in lockdown.”
“How come?”
“Vigilantes. They’re sending a message to Whitehall. ‘We can shut down the ports any time we choose.’”
Harry shrugged an uncomprehending shoulder. “Now why would they do that?” He could guess the answer easily enough, but wanted a usable quote.
“Hard-line Brexiteers. The message is: ‘End free movement now, or we’ll end it for you.’”
After that, Harry went in search of a talkative lorry driver. He found a group of them seated around a brazier in a field. They had an assortment of camp chairs and boxes. Others played rounders. They looked as if they’d given up all hope of movement.
“Been here for two days already,” said Jimmy, a frustrated figure from Bradford, eyeing his high-sided articulated truck full of goods that wouldn’t make their intended destination in Amsterdam. “Got to sleep in the cab. When d’you think I’ll see my kids and missus? This side of Christmas?”
“What do you think about that?”
“I blame the cops. In league with the demonstrators. Refuse to move them on.”
“Mostly, the police round here seem to be auxiliaries,” Harry prompted.
“And who knows whose side they’re on?”
Harry recognised this as a significant moment. That the county police had been forced to resort to the use of auxiliaries was a mark of the disintegration of law and order. And the vigilantes were forcing a hard Brexit, closing off any chance of compromise on the free movement of EU nationals.
Just then he took a call on his mobile. It was the office. “Forget Dover.” Heffernan’s tone was clear and cool. He sounded as if he was moving counters around on a board. “We’ve got quotes from another source at the port. Instead, I want you to get over to Maidstone. There’s some sort of street battle looming. Rival demos. Police outnumbered. Can you do it?”