Trigger Mortis

by Anthony Horowitz

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  PART ONE: WHAT GOES UP . . .

  One: Back to Work

  Two: Racing Uncertainty

  Three: Back to School

  Four: The Devil’s Own

  Five: No Regrets

  Six: Nürburgring

  Seven: Murder on Wheels

  Eight: Castle Sin

  Nine: A Leap in the Dark

  Ten: ‘Pick a Card . . .’

  Eleven: Jeopardy

  Twelve: Rocket Science

  PART TWO: . . . MUST COME DOWN

  Thirteen: The Man in Charge

  Fourteen: Dead of Night

  Fifteen: Follow the Money

  Sixteen: The Lion’s Den

  Seventeen: No Gun Ri

  Eighteen: ‘. . . any Card.’

  Nineteen: Six Feet Under

  Twenty: Naked Aggression

  Twenty-One: The Million-Dollar Train

  Twenty-Two: Tunnel Vision

  Twenty-Three: Final Countdown

  Twenty-Four: Travelling Time

  Acknowledgements

  About the Authors

  Also by Anthony Horowitz

  Also by Ian Fleming

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  It was that moment in the day when the world has had enough. The sun was sitting on the horizon, a soft red glow creeping over the tidewater while, high above, a flock of birds drew random patterns against an empty sky. The wind had dropped and the afternoon heat had become oppressive, trapped in a haze of dust and petrol fumes. Cutting through the middle of it all, the dark blue Crosley station wagon was suddenly alone, spinning along Route 13, heading inland from the coast.

  The Crosley was an ugly little car with its over-pronounced nose, slab-like cabin and rust already eating through the steel bodywork. The driver, hunched over the wheel with his eyes fixed on the road ahead, had bought it for three hundred dollars from a salesman who had sworn he would get forty miles to the gallon and speeds of up to fifty miles per hour too. Of course, he’d been lying . . . with the perfect teeth and the friendly smile of every small-town hustler. The Crosley could barely pick up momentum when the road dipped steeply downhill and here, close to Virginia’s Eastern Shore, the landscape was flat for miles around.

  The driver could have been a professor or a librarian. He had the look of someone who spent much of his life indoors with pallid skin, nicotine-stained fingers and glasses that, over the years, had slowly sunk into his nose until they had become a permanent part of his face. His hair had thinned out, showing liver spots high up on his forehead. His name was Thomas Keller. Although he now carried an American passport, he had been born in Germany and still spoke his own language more fluently than that of his adopted country. Without letting go of the wheel, Keller turned his hand and glanced at the Elgin 16-jewel military watch that he’d picked up in a pawnshop in Salisbury, almost certainly dumped there by some GI down on his luck. He was exactly on time. He saw the turning just ahead and signalled. In an hour from now, it occurred to him, he would have enough money to buy a decent car and a decent watch – Swiss-made, of course, maybe a Heuer or a Rolex – and finally, a decent life.

  He pulled up in front of a diner, a sleek, silver box that looked as if it had been delivered off the back of a truck. The name – Lucie’s – was spelled out in pink neon above the same four refreshments that defined the whole of American cuisine for most of its population, no matter which state you happened to be in: Hamburgers, Hot Dogs, Shakes, Fries. He got out of the car, his shirt briefly sticking to the vinyl upholstery, and dragged his jacket off the front seat. For a moment he stood there in the warm air, listening to a snatch of music from a jukebox, and considered the journey that had brought him here.

  Thomas Keller had only just graduated with a degree in physics and engineering when he had stumbled onto what would become the great passion of his life. It had happened at the Harmonie Cinema in Sachsenhausen where he had gone with a pretty girl to see Fritz Lang’s new film, Frau im Mond, The Lady in the Moon. Five minutes into the film he had forgotten all about the girl and, for that matter, his hopes of groping her afterwards in the cinema car park. Instead, the sight on the screen of a multi-stage rocket leaving the earth’s orbit had woken something within him and from that moment it consumed him. You could say that he was propelled, with the same irresistible force, first to the University of Berlin, then to Verein für Raumschiffahrt – the Society for Space Travel – and ultimately to the Baltic coast and the seaport of Peenemünde.

  At the time, German rocket research was already well advanced, for although the much-hated Treaty of Versailles had placed huge restrictions on the development of weapons, space travel had been excluded. This played into the hands of the German military who quickly realised that liquid-fuelled rockets, launched from fairly simple, makeshift platforms, could travel further and faster than any artillery weapon, delivering their payloads into every major city in Europe.

  Keller was thirty-six when he met the man in charge of the German space programme: the rocket engineer (and SS-Sturmbannführer) Wernher von Braun. The son of a Prussian baron, von Braun came from a family that had been fighting battles since the thirteenth century and he had never lost his aristocratic streak. He strutted into rooms, snapped at anyone who argued with him and could be coldly dismissive when he was in a certain mood. At the same time, he was utterly dedicated to his work, demanding the best of himself and everyone around him. Keller feared and admired him in equal measure.

  Of course, by this time, a certain Austrian corporal had come to power and Germany was at war. But none of this particularly interested Keller. Like many of the academics and physicists who were his only friends, he had little interest in the world around him and if Hitler was going to plough funds – eleven million Deutschmarks appropriated from the Luftwaffe and the army – into rocket-powered interceptors and ballistic missiles, he could happily turn a blind eye to the Nazis’ other, less savoury preoccupations. Indeed, when he finally stood at Peenemünde, with the first V-2 rockets being launched in the summer of 1944, he never considered the death and devastation that they would bring with their one-ton payloads. He was an artist and this was his canvas. Watching the launches was for him a moment of pure ecstasy: the clouds of white smoke filled with tiny sparks from the igniter that suddenly rushed together into a brilliant red flame, the cables falling away and the sleek, elegant creature being released into the sky. The vibrations coursed through him. His entire skin seemed to come alive and he felt the thrill of knowing that he was one of the handful of technicians who had helped in its creation, that the motors would produce an astonishing 800,000 horsepower and that the rocket would soon achieve five times the speed of sound. The citizens of London would have no idea of the perfection, the sheer genius of the weapon that killed them. Often, Keller couldn’t help himself. He wept tears of pure joy.

  The war ended and for a brief time Keller wondered if he might have to face up to certain repercussions. He had actually been present when von Braun surrendered to the Americans and had subsequently been interrogated by them as part of the famous Black List, the code name for German scientists and engineers of special importance. But he wasn’t too worried. What von Braun and his team had created would be too valuable to the Allies and he was confident that somehow their work would continue. He was right. The two men were released from custody on the same day. Along with another dozen scientists and technicians, they were flown out of Germany on the same plane, finally arriving at Fort Bliss, an American army base near El Paso where, with new masters and – in a few cases – new identities, they continued their work exactly where they had stopped before they were so rudely interr
upted.

  Keller was fifty-four now and nearing the end of his career. He had lived in the United States for twelve years but nobody would ever have mistaken him for an American. He had the build and the physique of a foreigner, slow and cumbersome. His ponderous speaking manner and thick accent gave away his origins the moment he spoke. It didn’t matter. The war was far enough away. People no longer cared. And anyway, in his own mind he had assimilated in ways that mattered more – and which gave him complete satisfaction. Three years after he had arrived he had married an American cocktail waitress he had met in El Paso and the two of them had moved to an all-American home in Salisbury, Maryland. Keller had been employed as a general supervisor for the Naval Research Laboratory (NRL) at its rocket launch site on Wallops Island. He had left his office there less than an hour ago.

  And now he had arrived.

  He stepped into the diner and at once felt the chill of the air conditioning just as the jukebox struck up another tune by the Everly Brothers.

  Bye bye love

  Bye bye happiness . . .

  Keller had no interest in American music but it had been impossible to escape the tune for several months. It seemed to him that the words were strangely inopportune, for he had driven here in the hope and the expectation of the exact opposite.

  The man he had come to meet was waiting for him exactly where he had said he would be, in the table at the corner window. He was wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, a button-down shirt and penny loafers, the same clothes he always wore. He had got there early. There was a newspaper on the table in front of him and he had partly filled in the crossword. Keller knew him as Harry Johnson but he was fairly certain that was not his real name. Slightly awkwardly, he raised a hand in greeting, then crossed the red and white tiled floor and squeezed himself in on the other side of the table. At the last moment, he realised he had forgotten to put on his jacket. Well, it was too late now. He was determined not to do anything that might look fumbling or ill-prepared. He laid the jacket on the banquette beside him.

  ‘How are you, Mr Keller?’ Johnson spoke with a flat, Manhattan accent.

  ‘I’m all right. Thank you.’

  Harry Johnson was ten or fifteen years younger than him but somehow seemed older with a long, drawn-out face, creases in his cheeks and closely cropped grey hair. He was rotating a ballpoint pen between his fingers. On one of them he wore a gold signet ring.

  ‘What’s the capital of Venezuela?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Keller was taken aback.

  ‘Nine down, the capital of Venezuela. It’s a seven-letter word beginning with C.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Keller said, irritably. ‘I don’t do crosswords.’

  ‘Hey – it’s all right. I was just asking.’ Johnson glanced away from the grid. ‘So is it done?’

  This time, Keller knew what he meant.

  It was the fourth time they had met. Keller remembered the first occasion, a seemingly chance meeting at a bar in downtown Salisbury. Johnson had somehow just been there, on the next stool. It was impossible to say when he had walked in. They had got talking. Johnson said he was a businessman, which was probably true but actually meant almost nothing at all. He seemed fascinated to hear that Keller was a rocket scientist and over a second round of drinks – Johnson insisted on paying – he asked a series of interested but innocuous questions, nothing to ring any alarm bells. Of course, it had all been arranged. He’d known everything about Keller before they’d exchanged a single word. At the end of the evening, the two men arranged to see each other again. Why not? Johnson was good company and, as he left, he casually mentioned that he might have a proposition to make. ‘Could make you a bit of money. Just a thought. Let’s talk about it next time.’

  But next time he held back. They compared wives, families, pay packets, aspirations. It was all man-talk although it was Keller who did most of the talking. It was only on the third occasion, when they knew each other a little better, that Johnson came out with his proposition. That was when Keller should have gone to the police or, better still, to the Naval Security office on the southern perimeter of Wallops Island.

  Of course he hadn’t. Johnson, or the people behind him, had chosen Keller because they knew that he wouldn’t. They had probably been sizing him up for months. And who exactly were they? Keller didn’t care. It was exactly the same myopia that had seen him through the war. He didn’t need to see the bigger picture. It wasn’t important. He simply focused on the proposition being put to him and the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, tax-free, that he would be paid if he complied. He agreed almost immediately and there was just one more meeting to discuss details. It was all very straightforward. What he was being asked to do wasn’t easy. It would demand a thorough understanding of solid mechanics and tensile stress – but these were his areas of expertise. And once he had worked out the precise calibrations, there was still the question of the work itself. At best, he would have four or five minutes alone. There was considerable risk – but there was also the reward. This had been his first calculation.

  ‘So is it done?’

  ‘Yes.’ Keller nodded. ‘The task was in the end much easier than I had anticipated. I was able to enter the assembly hangar during a fire drill.’ He paused. He had allowed his enthusiasm to get the better of him and he was in danger of underselling what he had achieved. ‘Of course, I had to work quickly. They always increase the security in the run-up to a launch. And it had to be done with considerable care. There was the chance, you understand, of a last-minute inspection. My work had to be . . . unsichtbar.’ He searched for the word in English. ‘Invisible.’

  ‘The engine will fail?’

  ‘No. But it will not be effective. The quantity of propellant being pumped into the combustion chamber will be insufficient. It is as I explained to you. The result will be exactly what you wish for.’

  The two men fell silent as a waitress approached with coffee and iced water. Two menus lay unopened in front of them. They did not intend to eat.

  ‘What about the timing of the launch?’ Johnson asked.

  Keller shrugged. He did not like coffee. How many gallons of the stuff had he consumed since he had come to America, smoking and working through the night? He pushed the cup away. ‘It is still timed twelve days from now. I have looked at the forecasts. The weather is good. But you can never be certain. The wind shear is all-important and if conditions are not right . . .’ He let his voice trail away. ‘But that is not my concern. I have done what you asked me. Do you have the money?’

  The other man did not speak. His eyes were fixed on the German. Then he reached out and unclipped a pair of sunglasses that had been hanging from his front pocket. It was a sign that their business was concluded. ‘There is an attaché case under the table.’

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘It’s all there.’

  Johnson was about to leave but Keller stopped him. ‘I must tell you something,’ he said. ‘It is important.’ He had rehearsed what he was about to say. He was rather proud of the formulation he had come up with, how carefully he had thought things through. ‘I will not count the money. I will assume it is all present. But at the same time, I must warn you. I do not know who employed you and I do not care. You are clearly working for serious people. But a quarter of a million dollars is a lot of money. The stakes are high. And it is possible that for your own security, you may choose to silence me. It would not be so difficult, nein? For all I know, there could be an explosive device in this attaché case of yours and I could be dead before I even reach my car. Or there could be an accident on the freeway.

  ‘So what I want you to know is that I have written down everything that has taken place between us and everything that I have been asked to do. Not only have I described you, I have taken your photograph. I hope you will forgive me for this small deceit, but you will, I am sure, understand my position. I have also made a note of the car you drive and its registration plate. All th
is is lodged with a friend of mine and he has been instructed to hand it all to the authorities if anything suspicious should happen to me. Do you understand what I am saying? There will be no rocket failure. And although it may take the police some time to find you, they will know of your existence and they will for ever be on your tail.’

  Johnson had heard all this in silence. Keller finished and Johnson gazed at him with incredulity. It was the first time he had shown any real emotion at all. ‘What sort of people do you think we are?’ he asked. ‘Do you think we’re gangsters? I have to tell you, Tom, you’ve been reading the wrong sort of books. We have asked you to do us a service. You have rendered us this service and you have been paid. You are wrong, by the way. A quarter of a million dollars is not a great deal of money in the scheme of things. You will hear from us again only if it turns out that you have not done as we have agreed – and it is true that, in that instance, your life may well be at stake. But although you do not trust us, we have absolute faith in you.’ He threw a few coins down on the table to pay for the coffee, rolled up his newspaper and got to his feet. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Wait . . .’ Keller felt embarrassed. ‘Caracas,’ he said.

  ‘Caracas?’

  ‘Your crossword clue. The capital of Venezuela.’

  Johnson nodded. ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  Keller watched him leave. It was true that his speech had been a little melodramatic, inspired by some of the movies he had seen with his wife. It was also, as it happened, untrue. There was no record of what had happened, no photograph, no friend waiting to go to the police. He had merely thought that the threat of it would be enough to protect him should the need arise. Had he been wrong? Had he made a fool of himself? Then he remembered the money. He scrabbled under the table and felt his knuckles rap against something that stood against the wall. The briefcase! He pulled it up and flicked the locks, opening it just enough for him to peek inside. It seemed to be all there: bundles of fifty-dollar notes, banded together in neat piles. He closed the case, pulled on his jacket and hurried out. There was no sign of Harry Johnson in the parking lot. He went over to his own car, threw the attaché case onto the front seat and climbed in.