Timebomb

by Timebomb (retail) (epub)

  ‘And you are who, exactly?’ the officer asked.

  ‘I’m an armed intelligence officer overhead Rochester in a Royal Air Force helicopter, and I want to be patched through to Detective Inspector Mason.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s permitted.’

  ‘I’m not interested in what the rules and regulations say. Just do it. Bugger me about, constable, and I can make sure you end up pounding the beat for the rest of what passes for your career.’

  ‘Is that a threat, sir?’

  ‘More of a promise, really, so just get on with it.’

  ‘I’ll be reporting this to my superiors.’

  ‘Be my guest, but just get a fucking move on.’

  Ten seconds later, Richter heard Mason’s voice in his headset.

  ‘This is Richter,’ he said. ‘Give me a SITREP, please.’

  ‘Right, we’ve got two officers down, badly wounded but both should survive, thanks to their vests. They were running a check at a marina just outside Rochester, and two men were just leaving one of the pontoons. The officers called out for them to stop so they could question them, but instead the men opened up with submachine-guns. Then they drove off in a grey Mercedes. We’re assuming one of them must have been Hans Morschel.’

  ‘Certainly makes sense,’ Richter said. ‘Which way did they go? I’m in a chopper right now, so give me a direction, and we’ll run a search.’

  ‘We’ve no idea, because nobody saw which way they turned. There are two motorways and a couple of trunk roads nearby, so they could be heading in almost any direction except north, because that’s a dead end. My guess is that they’ll either try to lose themselves in London or blast straight down to Dover or one of the other Channel ports. We’re trying to cover everything now.’

  ‘Morschel’s not stupid, and he’ll have an escape route already planned. My guess is he’ll either have a clean car stashed somewhere, or maybe even another boat, so there’s a good chance we won’t find him. It’ll probably be a complete waste of time, but we’ll check the coast-bound motorways and see if we can spot him.’

  ‘Thanks. We’ll keep this line open, just in case.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Monday

  SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’

  ‘Sorry, but that’s about it. Our fuel state means we’ve got to cut this off now, unless you want to come back to Wattisham with us.’

  ‘An attractive offer, but no thanks,’ Richter said. ‘On the way, can you take me back to Hammersmith?’

  ‘Yes, I was already factoring that into the calculations. Same place, I suppose?’

  ‘Please.’

  The chopper had systematically flown up and down the coast-bound roads, its crew searching for a grey Mercedes on Austrian plates, but without result.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Richter said, as the Sea King began a long turn to starboard. ‘I think we’re missing something here. We know what Morschel looks like, so whatever car he’s driving now there’s a good chance he’ll be recognized at whatever ferry port he chooses. I somehow don’t think he’d take the risk.’

  ‘What about a boat, then?’ the pilot suggested. ‘There are dozens of places where he could pick one up in Kent.’

  ‘Agreed, but my guess is that he’ll want to get out of here as quickly as possible. Don’t forget, he’s left about twenty dead bodies behind him in London. In fact, I think he’ll want to fly out.’

  ‘You could be right, but which airport?’

  ‘How many are there in this area?’

  ‘Several, that’s the problem.’

  ‘OK,’ Richter said, ‘let’s try and narrow it down a bit. He won’t be flying commercial, so that eliminates places like London City and Gatwick, but wherever he’s chosen will most likely have a proper runway, not just a grass strip, because he couldn’t have been certain about the state of the weather. And it will be fairly close to Rochester, as he wouldn’t want to drive far with most of the Kent Constabulary out looking for him. You know the area better than I do, so what would be your choice?’

  ‘The closest is obviously Rochester itself, but that’s fairly busy – lots of microlights and stuff – so I’d guess Biggin Hill, or maybe Headcorn. Plus there’s Lydd, but that’s a bit too far away, right down by New Romney.’

  ‘Right, thanks. Don’t leave the area, though. If necessary, get some fuel at London City or Manston.’

  Richter changed channels and opened the line to Mason again. ‘Richter. I’m only guessing, but I think Morschel will want to get out of here as quickly as possible. Can you check with the airfields at Biggin Hill, Headcorn, Rochester and Lydd and see if any of their aircraft are flight-planned for departure to France today, or specifically if any two men have booked a flight together, with or without a pilot.’

  ‘Got it,’ Mason replied. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. That’s about the only idea I’ve had. Any progress on the ground?’

  ‘Nothing yet. And, realistically, they could be almost anywhere by now. We’ll keep looking, obviously, but I’m not hopeful.’

  Kent

  Morschel wasn’t heading for either London or the Channel ports: he had a very different destination in mind. He’d steered the Mercedes south down the A229 as far as Maidstone, then pulled the car into a multi-storey park on the northern outskirts of the town. He took a ticket at the entrance, waited for the barrier to lift, then drove up to the fourth-floor level. In one corner stood a dark blue Jaguar on British plates, and Morschel slotted the Mercedes into an empty bay a few yards away.

  He climbed out, retrieving the ticket, waited for Hagen to pluck their bag of weapons off the back seat, then locked the car and pocketed the keys. Then Morschel took another set of keys from his jacket and aimed the remote control at the Jaguar. Hagen deposited the bag on the floor right in front of the back seat, where it would be easily accessible if necessary, though neither man really expected to need the weapons again.

  Morschel backed the Jaguar – purchased by one of his men almost a month earlier and parked here waiting for this moment – out of its space and drove it down the ramps towards the exit. He stopped on the second floor and fed the ticket into a machine, paid the modest charge – having been in the car park only about eight minutes – then drove on down to the exit. The automatic barrier lifted as soon as he inserted the ticket in the slot, and he turned the Jaguar out of the car park and onto the street.

  ‘We need the southbound A229,’ he instructed Hagen, who was studying a map of Kent. ‘Keep your eyes open.’

  Because of the traffic flow, and the sheer volume of vehicles on the road, they had little option but to drive through the centre of the town, but that wasn’t a problem. They now had plenty of time in hand.

  ‘OK,’ Hagen said, ‘straight on here, and just follow the signs for Staplehurst. When we get to Shepway, look out for the left turn towards Tenterden. That’s the A274.’

  ‘Got it. Make the call now and tell them we’re about ten minutes away.’

  Hagen pulled the mobile from his pocket and dialled a Kent number. ‘This is Mr Williams,’ he announced, in fluent and unaccented English, once his call was answered, ‘just advising you we’ll be with you in about ten minutes. We’re running a bit late, so if you could be ready as soon as we get there, that would be much appreciated.’

  He listened for a few seconds, then ended the call.

  ‘They’ll be waiting for us,’ he confirmed.

  SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’

  Mason was back on the line in under four minutes.

  ‘All the airfields have flights booked that fit your criteria – lots of training trips, first-time experience flights and PPL lessons, but only Lydd and Headcorn have bookings for flights to France. There are three from Lydd and a couple from the other airfield. In all cases the passengers are a couple of males.’

  ‘Thanks. We’re guessing that Headcorn’s the most likely, because it’s closer to Roches
ter. Thanks for that. We’ll take it from here.’

  Richter got back on the intercom. ‘Headcorn,’ he instructed the pilot.

  Headcorn, Kent

  Just eight minutes after leaving the outskirts of Maidstone, Hans Morschel was driving over the bridge at the southern end of Headcorn village on the Biddenden Road. Almost immediately beyond, he pointed to the left.

  ‘There it is,’ he said.

  Hagen nodded and replaced the map in the glove box.

  A few seconds later, the Jaguar turned left off the main road into Burnthouse Lane, and then swung left again, taking the second entrance into Headcorn Aerodrome.

  ‘The weapons?’ Hagen gestured to the bag stashed behind the front seats, as soon as Morschel had pulled the car to a stop.

  ‘We’d better take them, just in case.’

  Each man was wearing a modified shoulder holster designed to carry the MP5 with the stock folded. Within a few seconds they’d pulled the submachine-guns from the bag, checked that each magazine held a full load, and carefully tucked the weapons out of sight.

  The two men left the main parking area and headed for the terminal buildings, but almost the first thing they saw when the runway came in sight was a large yellow Sea King helicopter, emblazoned with RAF roundels, sitting on a hardstanding.

  Hans Morschel had survived as long as he had through possessing a highly-developed sense of danger, and the moment he spotted the chopper he stopped dead.

  ‘We saw one just like that over the Medway,’ Hagen remarked anxiously.

  ‘Exactly,’ Morschel replied, his glance flicking left and right, searching for any signs of a police presence. But he saw nothing to give him cause for concern, and then began to relax as Hagen pointed out a bowser approaching along the taxiway and coming to a halt beside the Sea King.

  ‘It must have just come here to refuel,’ Hagen said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Morschel responded. ‘Or maybe not. Let’s assume it didn’t, so keep your eyes open, just in case.’

  Then they carried on towards the building housing the air charter company they’d booked with.

  ‘Is that them?’ asked Richter, staring through the window at the two approaching men, both carrying large holdalls.

  ‘Could be,’ said the young pilot standing beside him, ‘but don’t forget I’ve never laid eyes on this man Williams. The booking was done over the phone, and he’s supposed to be paying cash, so I’ve no confirmation that’s even his real name. The timing’s about right, though.’

  He glanced at the combat shotgun Richter had stashed behind the office door. ‘What are you going to do now? Arrest them?’

  ‘Probably shoot them,’ Richter confessed, ‘once I know for sure they’re the two men I’m looking for.’

  ‘Jesus,’ the pilot muttered. ‘They don’t look much like terrorists.’

  ‘If we knew what terrorists actually looked like, identifying them would be a whole lot easier. Right, give me your name tag and then thin out. I’ll take it from here.’

  The pilot handed over a plastic clip-on identification badge that bore a set of stylized wings and the name ‘Peter Hughes’. He then disappeared through a door at the rear of the office.

  Richter clipped the name tag to the lapel of his leather jacket, which he had to keep on to conceal the shoulder holster he was wearing, picked up the SPAS-12 and carried it behind the counter that ran along the back of the room.

  Moments later, the office door opened and the two men he’d been watching from the window walked in. The moment Richter saw the thin-faced man clearly, and from a distance of no more than fifteen feet, he was ninety per cent sure he was looking at Hans Morschel. The image Karl Wolff had originally shown him was indelibly imprinted on his mind.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Richter began, in his best corporate voice. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hagen placed his bag on the floor and stepped towards the counter. ‘You’ve a reservation for Williams plus one, for a flight to France?’

  For a bare half-second, Richter glanced down at the booking ledger lying open in front of him, then looked up with a smile. ‘Dinner in Le Touquet, I gather, gentleman,’

  ‘Actually, we’ve got business there this evening,’ Hagen said, ‘and we decided to spend the night.’

  ‘Good decision. Le Touquet airfield closes at eighteen hundred UTC, so you probably wouldn’t be able to get back tonight anyway. And what about tomorrow? Do you want to book an aircraft for your return journey?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Hagen said. ‘We might decide to stay on for a day or two. We’ll let you know later.’

  ‘No problem,’ Richter said. ‘We’ll be taking the Piper PA28 Cherokee that’s parked just outside.’

  He pointed to a red and white aircraft visible through one of the office windows and, inevitably, both men glanced in that direction. As they did so, Richter dropped his gaze from their faces and looked at their chests or, more accurately, their jackets, and could see the distinct bulges under their left armpits. OK, that was far from conclusive – they could just have very fat wallets – but it suggested they were armed and that was almost enough for him. But there was still the faint possibility that he was mistaken, and he needed to be absolutely sure before he acted.

  As the two men returned their attention to him, Richter stared at Morschel. ‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere,’ he said. ‘Have you flown with us before?’

  The German shook his head firmly. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Oh,’ Richter said, reaching down behind the counter and seizing the pistol grip of the SPAS-12. ‘Then it must have been over in Germany, just before GSG 9 hit your base in Stuttgart.’

  For an instant, neither man moved, then almost simultaneously they stepped apart, moving sideways to present separate targets as they reached inside their jackets, their movements very smooth and well practised.

  Although Richter was expecting them to do exactly that, the two Germans moved much more quickly than he had anticipated. Before he could bring the shotgun to bear, Hagen squeezed the trigger of his MP5, and Richter had to dive for what little cover the counter offered him.

  A stream of nine-millimetre bullets tore through the thin wood that formed the base of the structure, smashing into the wall behind as they sought out their target. He popped up for an instant, squeezed off one round at Hagen from the combat shotgun, then ducked back down and rolled the other way.

  Both MP5s opened up on him, their staccato yammering deafening in that confined space, and Richter knew he had to finish this, and quickly, or else they’d finish him. If the two Germans reached the opposite ends of the counter while he was still behind it, he’d be caught in a crossfire, and seconds later he’d be dead. He poked the muzzle of the shotgun over the top of the counter, fired blind, then ducked back again, dodging sideways.

  Richter heard guttural shouts in German and, from their voices, guessed where the two terrorists had to be standing. He jumped up, finding Hagen right in front of him, sighted instantly, and fired another shell from the SPAS-12 directly towards him. Then he threw himself sideways as Morschel swung round the muzzle of his MP5.

  A three-round burst from Morschel smashed through the wooden counter and into the brick wall less than three feet from where Richter was crouching. But it was, he noted, now only a single weapon firing. Hagen’s MP5 had fallen silent, so maybe the last shot from the SPAS-12 had hit home.

  And it actually had been the last shot, he realized. The breech of the shotgun was locked open, meaning that the magazine was now empty. Without hesitation, Richter dropped the weapon on the floor, pulled the Browning out of his shoulder holster and clicked off the safety catch. For only the briefest of instants he debated which way to go, then the sound of Morschel’s footsteps made the decision for him.

  As the German stepped over to one end of the counter, Richter scuttled to the other, leapt out from behind it and turned instantly, the Browning held at arm’s length, his left hand bracing his right, th
e weapon aimed steadily at Morschel.

  The German was caught totally wrong-footed, his submachine-gun pointing downwards and in the wrong direction. Immediately he swung around, bringing the MP5 up to the aim. But it was never going to be fast enough. Richter pulled the Browning’s trigger once, then a second time. Morschel tumbled backwards, his shirt suddenly turning deep red as the two bullets struck him, the Heckler & Koch falling from his grasp.

  Richter took a quick glance to his left, where the second German lay motionless. The three-inch magnum round from the SPAS-12 had blown a six-inch wide hole in the middle of his chest, and he was very obviously dead. But Morschel wasn’t, as Richter realized when he took a couple of steps towards him.

  He was lying flat on his back at one end of the ruined counter, his left hand pressed against the sodden front of his shirt. It looked as if Richter’s bullets had both hit close to his right shoulder. He was cursing fluently in German and using his feet to try to reach the MP5 he’d dropped. Richter stepped around him and kicked the weapon out of reach.

  Morschel glared up at him, and switched to English.

  ‘Get me to a fucking hospital, you bastard.’

  For a few seconds, Richter just stared down at him, then he shook his head. ‘Sorry, my friend, but I’ve had explicit orders about you. You died in the fire-fight when I tried to arrest you. Just like your friend over there.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Morschel snarled. ‘That’s murder.’

  ‘Tell me about it – you’re the expert, aren’t you? No, my boss told me he doesn’t want the expense and inconvenience of a trial, but even if he did, I’d kill you anyway. And this has nothing to do with the bank jobs your men pulled up in London today, or your failed attempt to blow up the Richard Montgomery.’

  ‘So why, then?’ Morschel spluttered.

  ‘Because I met Helmut Kleber, or rather Gregory Stevens, on the last night of his life. And then I saw what you did to him. For me, that’s reason enough.’