‘My name’s Tate,’ he said, and handed over his passport. The policeman flicked through it and passed it to his colleague.
‘For your information, my name is Drachmann and my colleague is Müller. Why is an Englishman here –’ he gestured around him at the trees and bushes, and then at the body – ‘in such a quiet place?’ His eyes flickered coolly across to include Hefflin in his words. ‘Perhaps you do not know, but this is a restricted area, Mr Tate. Do you not have restricted areas in England?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said carefully. ‘That was my fault. I put pressure on Mr Hefflin, here.’ He indicated Ulf, who looked relieved but still worried.
‘Pressure?’
‘Yes.’ He produced the Warrant Officer card and passed it over. ‘I came looking for a member of our military who has gone missing. Mr Hefflin was handed his passport and a mobile phone, and called my number. I came to see if the soldier was in the region.’ It was as near to the truth as he wanted to get, and he hoped Ballatyne had the clout with the British Embassy in Berlin to back it up when the official questions progressed further along the diplomatic and police lines.
‘And why would this . . . man be here?’
Harry shrugged. ‘We can only make a guess at that. He left his unit and disappeared, that’s all we know.’
‘A deserter?’ Drachmann looked faintly disapproving.
‘Technically, yes. But there may have been extenuating circumstances. He has been under severe stress recently.’
‘Afghanistan?’
‘Yes. We wanted to find him before he did anything drastic. My job is to persuade men like this to return to their units.’
The policeman nodded and pursed his lips. ‘It is understandable. He is important, this man?’
Harry hesitated. Drachmann was quick on the uptake. ‘He has – had – specialized knowledge, yes. We wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.’
‘Of course. I understand.’ Drachmann nodded slowly. ‘But I have two questions: how did you know he was here? And how did Herr Hefflin know to contact you?’
Harry took a deep breath. This could be tricky and he hoped Hefflin was quick on the ball. ‘I was in London. I was keen for Barrow to get in touch with me, so I left a voicemail message with my number. When Mr Hefflin called me to say he’d found the passport and phone, it seemed reasonable to come and look around. I thought Barrow might have been in a car accident. I asked where the items had been found, and when Mr Hefflin told me, I persuaded him to bring me down here. Any blame for him being here is mine.’
The policeman lifted his eyebrows, but did not seem overly impressed. ‘You did not think to work through the proper channels? We have a common interest here.’
Harry smiled briefly. ‘I was impatient. I thought if I could find Sergeant Barrow and persuade him to go back, it would involve the minimum of fuss . . . for him as well as us. I’m sorry if I’ve gone about this the wrong way, but I’m sure you understand.’
To his surprise the man nodded and handed back his passport. ‘And is this definitely Barrow? You can formally identify him?’
‘Yes. It’s Graham Barrow.’ Harry handed him Barrow’s passport.
‘We will need to keep this, Mr Tate. And you will have to make a statement at the station in Schwedt. Perhaps you would be good enough to go there. One of my men will accompany you.’ He stared at Ulf. ‘Herr Hefflin also.’ He motioned to the waiting ambulance men to take the body away. ‘I will have the area sealed while we carry out more intensive investigations, although I do not think there will be much to tell us who killed this man.’ He didn’t look happy at the thought, and Harry got the impression that if things got sticky, he was going to have to rely on Ballatyne to call in some favours, status non-attributable or otherwise. Being stuck in the German justice system wasn’t going to help him find Paulton or Vanessa Tan.
TWENTY-SIX
Far away from Schwedt, in Bremen’s discreet Bürgerpark, a short drive from the city centre, Deakin was pacing the elegant columned foyer of the Park Hotel, his face taut with anger. He had just taken a call from the man following the mystery investigator. ‘I don’t bloody believe this,’ he hissed. ‘Petersen picked up our man coming through Tegel and tracked him to some place called Schwedt, on the Polish border. First thing he does on arrival is talk to a local guy, and less than an hour later they find Barrow’s body and call in the Federal cops.’ He snapped the phone shut with venom. ‘Christ, of all the places . . . how in God’s holy name did he find it so quickly? They might as well have fitted Barrow with a bloody tracking device!’
Greg Turpowicz was unmoved by Deakin’s mood. He thought the Brit was getting way too stressed for his own good. It was something that had been showing more and more just recently. Instead he gazed thoughtfully at the magnificent domed ceiling above them and said softly, ‘I know Schwedt; it’s in the middle of nowhere. Petrochemicals and paper, mostly. Jesus, if that’s where Beavis and Butt-head did their jig with Barrow, and this guy found it already, they didn’t exactly break their necks trying to hide the evidence, did they?’
‘They do a job we don’t want to,’ said Deakin defensively. It had been his decision to take on the two Bosnians and he disliked any criticism of their methods. ‘They’re not sophisticated but they’re good at what they do.’
Turpowicz shook his head, recognizing the futility of arguing, and walked over to a coffee table in one corner of the foyer, where they had been sitting waiting for their meeting. He turned the open laptop to face him, calling up the photo from the Continentale in Scheveningen, and stared at the picture as if trying to read beneath the face. ‘This guy’s smart; he moves quick and he asks all the right questions.’ He looked at Deakin. ‘Why do I find the hairs lifting on the back of my neck, Deak? Who the fuck is he and what are we going to do about him?’
Deakin shook his head. ‘I don’t know yet. Let me think about it.’ He sat down and took out his phone, and dialled a number. He checked in case anyone was close, but the hotel was quiet and nobody was paying any attention save for a slim Chinese man in a neat suit, standing by the reception desk. They had marked him down as a security man the moment they arrived. ‘Petersen? Are you still in that place . . . what’s it – Schwedt? Right. Stay put. I don’t care how you do it, but I want the name of the man you’ve been tailing. Drop some money on the local cops if you have to.’ He switched off the phone and looked at Turpowicz. ‘Good enough for you? We’ll find him and deal with him.’ His face was bleak.
Turpowicz grunted and checked his watch. ‘Where’s Paulton got to? I thought he was supposed to be in on this with us, putting up some front.’ It was a reminder that they had agreed on a united display to show the Protectory’s substance, something the Chinese were in favour of when negotiating.
Deakin waved a hand. ‘He’s busy on something else; sent a text to say go ahead without him. Anyway, once the monkey we’re seeing hears what we have for him, I don’t think he’ll care about how many we are. He’ll just want results.’
‘If you say so. Better not let him hear you call him a monkey, though. They can be a bit touchy about body image.’
But Deakin was ignoring him, his mind already on something else. Seconds later he was on his phone again, talking to Nicholls. ‘Did you get the photo I sent you?’
‘Yes. Is there a problem?’ Nicholls sounded cool.
‘There could be.’ He brought Nicholls up to date on the discovery of Barrow’s body. ‘Whoever this bozo is, he’s getting too close.’
‘I agree. But what do we do about it? Or are you planning on setting your tame bouncers on him?’ Nicholls had no more love for the Bosnians, Zubac and Ganic, than Turpowicz, an opinion he had never bothered to conceal.
‘Forget them. You need to contact our man in the MOD. Send him the photo and see if the face comes up on the official files. If he’s an investigator, he’ll be on record somewhere.’
‘All right. But it’s risky. He might get jumpy if he t
hinks we’re after one of their own.’
‘Tough shit.’ Deakin’s tone turned savage. ‘He gets enough easy money out of us for supplying names and numbers; now let him earn it. I want to know who this tricky bastard is!’ He shut off the phone again just as a uniformed under-manager came gliding across the floor and gave a hint of a bow. In the background, the Chinese security man stood waiting, hands crossed in front of him.
‘Gentlemen? Mr Wien Lu Chi will see you now. Follow me?’
Deakin nodded and picked up the laptop. As he turned to follow the under-manager, Turpowicz grabbed his arm, and said softly, ‘You didn’t really answer me, Deak. You said you’d deal with this investigator. What does that mean exactly?’
Deakin brushed off the American’s hand. ‘Simple. He’s a threat. I’m going to stop him. Permanently.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘You are free to leave, Mr Tate . . . Herr Hefflin.’ Drachmann handed both men their documents. He didn’t look pleased. They had been in the local station for over three hours, providing detailed statements along with answering a list of supplementary questions. It had all been very low-key, but there had been no mistaking the intensity behind the queries. ‘If it were my choice,’ he continued bluntly, ‘I would have you stay in Schwedt until we had completed our investigation. But I have my instructions from the Bundesministerium – the Ministry of the Interior.’
‘Thank you. What now?’
‘As long as there are no problems, the body will be released in a few days, after our Senior State Medical Examiner has satisfied himself. After that you may make arrangements for it to be returned to England.’ He stared at Harry for a long moment, giving the impression that he wanted to ask a lot more questions, but could not. ‘Our forensics personnel say that in their opinion the lack of gunshot burns indicate it cannot be a death by suicide. Somebody unconnected with the shooting may have found the body and removed the gun – perhaps to sell. We will never know. It would be useful to know who might have wished harm to Sergeant Barrow, a complete stranger in this area.’ He lifted his eyebrows and waited.
Harry shrugged easily. The tactic was one he recognized, meant to draw him into saying more than he might want to. ‘I wish I could help,’ he said eventually. Ballatyne must have intervened at a high level to facilitate their release. If so, it would explain Drachmann’s general air of reluctance to let the matter drop. ‘I’m as puzzled as you are. I can only think they might have been criminals acting on chance.’
‘Criminals.’ Drachmann considered the word as if it were new to him. ‘Ah. You mean the Mafiya?’
‘Of course.’
‘A possibility. They are everywhere.’ He didn’t look as if he believed it, but he nodded and walked away.
They were heading towards the hotel where Harry had booked a room in expectation of an overnight stay, when his phone rang. It was Rik.
‘Daddy, I’m home!’ he sang cheerfully.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m about ten minutes out. Where shall we meet?’
Harry gave him the name and location of the hotel. He hadn’t seen the Passat for a while but he could almost feel its presence out there. The man wouldn’t have followed him all the way here from Tegel just to lose interest and leave. ‘Come up to the room whenever you can. I’ll see if I pick up the tail on the way there.’
He drove Ulf to his flat and said goodbye. They would be unlikely to meet again, and for Ulf’s sake he wanted to put some distance between them. His story about finding Barrow’s phone and passport would only stand up for as long as it remained convincing and uncomplicated. If Harry stayed with Ulf too long, Drachmann might start to wonder why and dig a little deeper.
He arrived at his hotel, a functional, two-storey block near the outskirts of town, and saw Rik in the car park behind the wheel of an anonymous Nissan. He was taking his low profile instructions seriously. There was no sign of the Passat.
Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door of his room. He checked the spyhole. It was Rik. He was dressed in jeans and a casual jacket, and wearing glasses. His normally spiky hair was only just this side of tidy.
‘Your man’s outside,’ Rik told him. He slumped on the nearest bed. He looked drained and was nursing his shoulder. ‘He pulled in on your tail but stayed out on the road.’
‘Well done. Who is he?’
‘The car’s registered to a Carl Petersen. He’s listed as a security specialist, but for that read private eye. Ex-German military, sometime heavy for a small gang in Berlin, he does low-level divorce and commercial stuff.’
‘That fits.’ The man’s surveillance skills were hardly top drawer. He was a watcher, hired to follow and report. He brought Rik up to date on finding Barrow’s body. ‘My guess is this Petersen will have called it in already. What we don’t know is how much he knows or who he’s speaking to. If he’s any good, he’ll be looking for someone to contact in the local police department – possibly posing as a journalist. The Bundespolizei will be keeping it close to their chests, so it might take him a while. But he’ll get there eventually.’
‘Isn’t that what you want him to do?’
‘Yes, but I want to be the one he sees, not you.’
‘No problem. I’ll get out there and watch him.’ Rik saw the mini-bar. ‘Any chance of a Coke? I’m parched.’
‘Help yourself. I don’t know what Petersen’s main purpose is, or what he’s doing other than watching me. What’s with the specs?’ When he’d first met him, Rik was wearing oval spectacles which seemed a must for the geeky look. But over time he’d dropped them without explanation. Now they were back.
‘It’s part of my disguise. You said inconspicuous . . . and as my mum always says, men don’t look at people who wear glasses.’
‘I think your mother was referring to girls.’ Harry watched as he groped about inside the fridge, inspecting the bars of chocolate and small bags of peanuts and crisps. He was worried about the effects of the journey on Rik’s wound, but decided against saying anything. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
‘Right, I’m going.’ Rik grabbed two cans of Coke and some chocolate, then left, promising to stay in touch. Harry decided to get his head down and recharge his batteries. Food could wait.
He was woken an hour later by a knock at the door. Rik was back.
‘Petersen’s been down at the police station,’ he reported, walking over to the mini-bar and helping himself to another Coke. ‘He was inside ten minutes max. He came out and was texting someone. He looked pretty pleased with himself, like someone who’d just got a pay day. I think you’re now more than just on the radar: you’ve been lit up like a Christmas tree.’
Harry nodded. Now the Protectory – if that was who Petersen was working for – knew his name. What they didn’t know was that his WO-2 status was a cover. He hoped it stayed that way for a while longer. For now, it would put the pressure on them to decide what to do about him. And pressure led to mistakes.
‘Is he still around?’
‘No. He headed for the Autobahn. Looks like he got called off.’
Harry nodded and got his things together. ‘In that case, they don’t intend any further action. Time to head home.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
In the Park Hotel in Bremen, Deakin and Turpowicz were ushered into a luxurious suite on the second floor. It was exquisitely furnished, with moulded ceilings and gold brocade at the windows, large armchairs and sofas, and a tented canopy over the king-size bed. It had the air of a sheikh’s tent and declared unashamedly that this was the temporary lodging of a very wealthy and influential man. The security guard who had followed them up from the foyer stayed long enough to check both men with a security wand, then withdrew without a word.
‘You don’t trust us?’ said Deakin. He looked slightly ruffled at the electronic body search.
‘I don’t trust anyone, Mr Deakin,’ Wien Lu Chi replied softly. ‘It is how I have survived so long in my business.’ He was po
rtly and sleek, with black hair and a purple port-wine stain on one cheek, and immaculately dressed in a dark grey suit and silk tie. A pair of black English brogues sat by the desk where he had been working on a laptop. He gestured at the shoes with an apologetic smile. ‘Please excuse me – I prefer to relax whenever I can. Feel free to do likewise.’
‘We’re good, thanks,’ said Deakin, and put down his laptop bag. Turpowicz, on the other hand, nodded with a touch of graciousness and kicked off his shoes, squishing his toes into the thick pile carpet.
‘So what is your business, Mr Chi?’ Deakin asked.
If Wien Lu Chi was offended by the careless misuse of his name, he gave no sign. He gestured instead for the two men to sit. ‘I am a facilitator, Mr Deakin – what you might call a middleman. You have a product to sell, I have clients who wish to buy but also to remain at arm’s length. I bring the two entities together in an amicable fashion, and we do business. It is a system as old as time.’
‘May we ask,’ said Turpowicz, ‘how you heard of us?’
‘I have many contacts in all walks of life, Mr Turpowicz. It is my job to know who is trading in what, and where certain products can be found.’ He eyed Turpowicz with a degree more warmth than he had Deakin. ‘I have been hearing of your organization for some time now. You are a unique undertaking.’ He paused for a moment, searching for the right words. ‘Not precisely replicated elsewhere, but your business model is understood by my clients. Thus, it seems we may have interests in common. Would you like a drink? I always have a whisky at this time. It helps my digestion. Mr Turpowicz, a bourbon for you, I think?’ Without waiting for a reply, he leaned over and picked up the telephone and ordered drinks from room service, then sat back and chatted politely about the weather.
The drinks arrived very quickly, an indication that they had been pre-ordered. Wien Lu Chi picked up his glass and took a sip with evident pleasure. Turpowicz exchanged a look with Deakin and did the same. The preliminaries were being observed.
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