That decided it.
She walked out of her office and along the corridor until she reached Mark Nicklin-Donovan’s office, then knocked quietly on the door, which was half open.
The head of the U.K. Controllerate looked up from his desk, which was covered in papers and reports. The cover of the one in front of him looked familiar to Jayne—it was her tome on Olympic security. Mark had a red pen in his hand and smiled as she entered. Always a good sign.
“Jayne, just making a start on your report. Looks good at first glance. Nice job. What can I do for you?”
“Mark, sorry this is short notice,” Jayne said, “but I’m still owed two weeks’ leave this year, and to be honest, I’m feeling exhausted after ploughing through that report. It hit me this morning. Would you mind if I take ten days off, starting tomorrow? I might head off for a few days of sunshine somewhere.”
Mark raised his eyebrows, as Jayne had expected he would. Normally she booked her leave months in advance.
He paused, then shrugged. “Okay. As long as you’re back by the fifteenth, as we’ll need to start revising this report then. Thinking of anywhere speciaI?”
“Not sure. I’m going to look at what’s available.”
He nodded. “Fine.”
Jayne thanked him and headed back to her office, feeling light-footed.
She put on her coat, threw a few belongings into her bag, and walked to the lifts, while developing mental plans. It would probably make sense to travel under a legend, one of which she had carefully compiled prior to her stint in Argentina and which she still used on occasion.
Twenty minutes after she arrived back at her apartment, Carolina Blanco, a British national born in Buenos Aires of British parents on January 10, 1962, was booked on a direct British Airways flight to the Argentine capital, leaving at 10:25 p.m. that same evening.
Then Jayne began to make a mental list of what else she and Johnson would need. A car she could hire at the airport. Most other things she already had, apart from a gun and ammunition. But who was she going to call to procure those?
Her only likely candidate in Buenos Aires—and she grinned at the thought—was a police officer, now very senior, although when she had recruited him as an agent in her second year in Argentina, he had been further down the career ladder. Carlos Campos, currently chief of the Federal Police, was someone for whom she had a soft spot, although not in a romantic way. She kept in touch via the occasional e-mail, as she tried to do with several of her former agents. She never knew when she might need them.
Carlos always used to joke with her about the number of firearms—illegal, confiscated, lost, and otherwise procured—that he had stashed in a secure cupboard in his office.
Jayne never asked too many questions about where they came from or what Carlos did with them or, for that matter, about anything to do with his obviously well-padded bank account. Likewise, Carlos never asked too many questions about what Jayne was planning to do with the information he passed to her, particularly about the corrupt activities of many of Argentina’s senior politicians and military leaders.
It was a neatly symbiotic relationship. Jayne assumed that Carlos had other similar relationships with all kinds of people scattered across the country—probably from both sides of the legal divide.
She picked up her phone and dialed Carlos’s number.
“Carlos. Que tal?”
“Jayne! Good to hear from you. Como estas?”
He was astonished to hear she would be back in Buenos Aires the following morning and seemed to understand when Jayne was unable to explain exactly why. She went through the usual ritual of inquiring after Carlos’s family, then explained she was in the city for a short time on a private job and that she needed a favor.
“Your firearms cabinet. Does it need a clear-out?” she asked.
She was unsurprised to hear Carlos had a variety of weapons that he could offer. They settled on two Berettas.
“Anything else?” Carlos asked.
Jayne listed a handful of other items, including binoculars and a small camera with a zoom lens. They agreed she would contact him again the following morning, once she had arrived in Buenos Aires, to give him a delivery location.
Jayne paused before hanging up. “Oh, there's one other thing.” She went on to detail the other item she needed.
Finally, Jayne sent Johnson an encrypted text message.
Have thought over your proposal and have negotiated leave for next ten days. “Carolina Blanco” is leaving for Buenos Aires tonight. Arrive 8:15 a.m. tomorrow. See you there.
Frankfurt, Germany
The Cessna 340 had flown low and hard, steering a westward course north of Prague, then into Germany and past Bayreuth and Würzburg.
Now they were southeast of Frankfurt. Ignacio could see a number of large commercial jets, Boeings and Airbuses, circling the large international airport to his right and lining up to land.
But his pilot, Alfonso, had a different destination scheduled. He continued well south of the city until a much smaller airstrip came into view.
Frankfurt-Egelsbach Airport, around ten miles south of its bigger brother, had no scheduled services and was instead used by a variety of commercial and private aircraft, including business jets and helicopters, as well as flight schools.
For Ignacio, it was ideally placed: very anonymous and just a twenty-minute taxi ride from the main Frankfurt airport terminal where he needed to check in later for the Lufthansa flight to Buenos Aires, which was due to arrive the following morning.
He should have plenty of time for a shower in the airport lounge and to change out of his filthy clothes before the long-haul flight, he calculated.
Alfonso landed the Cessna safely on the 1,500-yard asphalt runway and taxied until he was just outside a hangar, where he brought the plane to a halt.
“There we go, safely down. You need to be careful coming into this airport. There have been a couple of nasty crashes over the past few years—planes hitting that forest we came over heading in from the east.” Alfonso grinned. “No problems today though.”
“Excellent, muchas gracias, Alfonso. See you next time, if there is a next time.” Ignacio shook hands with his pilot, stepped down onto the tarmac, and climbed into a waiting black Audi.
“Frankfurt Airport, terminal one please, as quickly as you can,” he told the driver in passable German, reflecting as he did so that it might have been the only useful skill he had ever learned from his father.
Wroclaw
After a long wait, Johnson and Fiona had discovered that flight options out of Wroclaw Airport were limited.
They were eventually told by the sales agent that they wouldn’t be able to get to Frankfurt in time for the direct overnight Lufthansa flight to Buenos Aires, and in any case, the Buenos Aires flight was fully booked.
Instead, they were forced to settle for a tortuous route via Frankfurt and São Paulo that would get them to the Argentine capital only at 10:20 a.m. the following day.
Ironically, it was the same route that had been booked by Ignacio, prior to his no-show.
Johnson had just completed the payment when the text message arrived from Jayne. He blinked and had to read it twice. He hadn’t really expected her to take him up on the offer, even if he’d hoped she would.
“Looks like we’re going to have some assistance in Buenos Aires,” he said.
“Who from?” Fiona asked.
“Jayne. She’s taking some leave from work. She spent four years there with the SIS, knows the country, probably still has good contacts. She’s going to be there a couple of hours before we are.”
To his surprise, Fiona took the news positively.
Johnson tapped out a reply to Jayne.
That’s good news. Please ask Carolina to head to Brenner’s house and commence surveillance. We will join her.
He forwarded the text from Vic containing Brenner’s address to Jayne. Then, almost by reflex, Johnson checked his e-
mails.
There was a response from Ben at the HRSP. A cross-check with Brenner’s SS file showed it included copies of the memos detailing the disciplinary action, promotion, and transfer to Wüstegiersdorf.
This was a critical development. The documents that Ignacio had sent were authentic. They would be admissible as evidence in court, of that Johnson was certain.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Buenos Aires
Ignacio arrived at Ministro Pistarini International Airport just before seven o’clock that morning and headed to his ramshackle house in Barrio 31, his journey under the Franzes Konigen alias having gone without a hitch.
Not entirely to his surprise, when he landed, he received a text from his girlfriend, Lucia. She’d written that she was leaving the city and was moving to Rosario.
Earlier, more in hope than expectation, he’d sent her a text to say he would be home shortly. But there had been no reply. He knew then that she was likely to have gone.
Sums up my life, more or less, he thought.
Ignacio walked over to the cupboard in his kitchen, reached into the bottom drawer, and picked up the friend he actually could rely on, his Glock.
He checked the weapon and put it in his small backpack together with extra magazines of ammunition.
After showering, he also put together a few other favorite belongings in a travel bag. A framed photograph of his two children, whom he hadn’t seen for more than nine months, his collection of army medals, a silver hip flask, his laptop computer, credit cards, a leather bomber jacket, and a few other clothes.
That was about it. The sum total of his possessions.
Then he patted the inside breast pocket of the jacket he was wearing, just to reassure himself that the object inside was still there.
If his plan worked as he had envisaged, who knew when he would be back again. Or if he would be back again. Ever.
Buenos Aires
Feeling far better than she had expected she would, Jayne pulled her rented silver Toyota Hilux pickup onto Ombú, the upmarket, oval-shaped road in the Recoleta barrio, at around 10:15 a.m. A solid six hours of sleep on the overnight flight was more than she normally achieved on airplanes.
Returning to Buenos Aires was almost like coming home. She recalled attending a party hosted by an American embassy official in a luxurious town house just round the corner from Ombú in August 1996, only a few weeks after her arrival in the Argentine capital. She had drunk and flirted too much and then regretted it the next morning.
Now she parked under a tree on the opposite side of the road and about fifty yards away from Brenner’s house.
She settled down to wait and watch through the dark-tinted windows of the double cab Hilux, which she had rented in the name of Carolina Blanco. The manager at the car rental company, just like the customs and immigration official, didn’t give her passport a second glance, its shabby scratched cover adding to its authenticity.
The state of Brenner’s house came as a surprise to Jayne, with its peeling paint and loose-hanging shutters. It was definitely the shabbiest on the street.
Ombú was quiet. Occasionally a car pulled up next to the curb. Their occupants, mostly casually dressed but clearly well heeled, appeared to be mainly either taking children somewhere or returning from shopping trips.
Jayne sent a text message in Spanish to Carlos, telling her where she was parked for delivery of the items she had requested the previous day.
Hi Carlos. Arrived safely. Road is Ombú. I’m sitting in a silver Hilux, registration GVA 076. Can’t miss me. Just tell whoever brings it to be subtle. I’m on a house watch. Jayne
Half an hour later, there came a quiet tap at Jayne’s driver’s side window. A man dressed in a black jacket and pants pulled out a police ID card from his pocket and, after giving Jayne a look of utter incredulity, handed her a brown paper package and disappeared.
She opened it. Inside were two Berettas and six spare magazines, together with a black plastic box about the size of a cigarette pack, with two chunky circular magnets attached to it and a sheet of paper with some instructions.
Jayne sat back in the driver’s seat and chuckled. Nothing had changed in Argentina. It wasn’t about what you knew in this country but who, and how you greased their palms.
At just after eleven, an old dark blue Peugeot parked carefully in a spot on the other side of the road about forty yards away, near Brenner’s house.
Jayne watched, her left elbow propped on the windowsill and her hand cupping the side of her chin. Nobody got out. Instead, she saw the driver wind his window halfway down, and then a white curl of cigarette smoke floated out, to be swiftly whisked away by a gust. After the driver finished that cigarette, Jayne noticed he tossed the stub onto the road and immediately lit another.
Interesting. The guy was clearly watching and waiting for someone.
There was a ping on her phone as a text message arrived. It was Johnson, saying his flight had been delayed by more than three quarters of an hour, but he now had landed. He would head over to her as quickly as possible.
Then at ten past eleven, an old black Mercedes pulled up outside Brenner’s house, and a white-haired old man, stooping and carrying a walking stick, emerged from the gate.
That must be Brenner. Jayne leaned forward, fascinated to get a glimpse of what he looked like. He climbed stiffly into the back of the Mercedes, which then drove away.
Instantly, the driver of the blue Peugeot started his engine and also drove off, following the Mercedes at an unobtrusive distance.
Jayne swore out loud. Surely he wasn’t tailing Brenner as well? She too started her engine and pulled into the road, keeping well back from the Peugeot while at the same time trying to keep an eye on where the Mercedes was heading.
The black car made its way along the long, straight Avenue Coronel Diaz, until it came to a crossroads with five exits. There it parked outside Café Nostalgia, on the corner. Brenner eased himself out of the car and walked into the café. Jayne smiled to herself. Another old haunt—she had several times met one of her agents for a clandestine late-evening drink at Nostalgia.
The driver of the blue Peugeot had also stopped and took a space across the road, next to a police car.
Jayne drove around the corner and parked her pickup out of sight behind a large delivery truck being unloaded in front of a fruit shop. Then she grabbed the props she had bought at the airport: a newspaper, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. She rarely smoked but had found that in the field, and especially in Argentina where many people smoked, cigarettes were a very useful tool for breaking the ice with contacts and as cover when carrying out surveillance.
She strolled into the café just in time to see Brenner sit down at a table in the corner opposite a middle-aged man in a black jacket, who was sipping a coffee.
The man shook Brenner’s hand and appeared to introduce himself. Brenner nodded, and then Jayne watched as the man immediately pulled a fat brown envelope out of a briefcase and handed it to Brenner, who very swiftly put it straight into his inside jacket pocket.
Jayne sat at a table on the other side of the aisle to Brenner, unfolded her newspaper, lit a cigarette, and ordered a latte in fluent Spanish.
Then the man in the black jacket handed Brenner a small dark-blue booklet, which he also tried to place into his inside jacket pocket.
However, the old man, in his haste, missed the pocket; the booklet slipped down between his jacket and his shirt and onto the floor, where it lay for a few moments until he bent to pick it up again.
There was no mistaking what it was. Jayne had seen many of the blue booklets with embossed copper-colored lettering and a coat of arms on the front. It was a Chilean passport and was clearly in pristine condition.
Brenner quickly looked around, but by then, Jayne was pretending to concentrate on her phone.
The implications of what she had seen were clear. Jayne briefly considered i
ntervening right there and apprehending Brenner solo at gunpoint; she couldn’t afford to let him slip out of the country with a new identity. But she almost immediately ruled that out: the location was too public, there were police outside, and it would guarantee a major diplomatic row. She would have to wait for Johnson’s arrival and make a more calculated plan.
After only a few minutes, Brenner left and was driven back to his house, still tailed by the man in the Peugeot. Jayne, careful to avoid being seen, maintained a suitable distance behind.
Back on Ombú, Jayne parked farther away from Brenner’s house than she had previously. She then walked around the oval road until she spotted the black Mercedes, which was parked a couple of hundred yards away from the house, underneath a tree.
Jayne wandered toward the Mercedes. Then, as she drew level with the black sedan, she let the cigarette lighter she was holding fall to the ground and into the gutter, right next to the car.
She bent down to retrieve the lighter. As Jayne picked it up, she simultaneously and with lightning speed reached underneath the Mercedes. There was a loud clunking noise.
Jayne quickly stood, appearing to check her lighter. Then she lit a cigarette and sauntered back to her Toyota.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Washington, D.C.
David Kudrow poured himself another coffee. It was his third in the space of two hours, and now the volume of caffeine he was consuming was becoming counterproductive.
To compound that, he got only a minimal amount of sleep the previous night. He had been up until midnight talking to Philip and his lawyer over the wording of a press statement, in case Inside Track or another news site decided to publish a story about his family’s finances.
The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1) Page 34