The Reluctant Samaritan

by Brian Peters

  Seifert was a tall man in his fifties, muscular but slightly heavy around the waist. A pleasant face was rather spoiled by a broken nose, the relic of some act of violence from long ago. Deep-set eyes black as night and a high forehead topped by a shock of wavy dark hair. He stood as Kennet entered, smiled and proffered his hand.

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Kennet! I trust you had a pleasant flight?”

  Kennet shook Seifert’s hand, unzipped his blouson, seated himself, brushed his hair back and placed his briefcase on Seifert’s desk. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, puffing slightly from following the driver up the stairs to the office.

  “Ah no, it wasn’t particularly pleasant, no. The weather in England is much better than it is here. Dismal and wet outside, so it is. Not the best weather to land on that slippery grass.” His soft Irish brogue amused Seifert.

  “Well, the weather unfortunately I cannot control Herr Kennet. Other things I control very well! Now, shall we get down to business?”

  Not a man to waste time on niceties, thought Kennet.

  “I want very much to work with you, Herr Kennet. I need more suppliers and if you can provide good quality material then we can have a very profitable relationship. I know all about you Herr Kennet. I have very good intelligence in the United Kingdom. If I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be here. Now, you have a sample for me?”

  Kennet opened his briefcase and took out a clear plastic envelope filled with a white substance, and a sheet of plain paper. He was about to empty some of the contents onto the paper when Seifert laughed and held up his hand.

  “No need Herr Kennet. I will have it analysed by my people, they are more expert than I. I’m sure that you would not risk your life by providing below par goods, would you?”

  Kennet was aware of a slight note of menace in Seifert’s voice in spite of the smile on his face. He decided not to comment, just returned Seifert’s smile, shrugged his shoulders, sealed the envelope and pushed it towards him.

  Seifert left it on the desk in front of him.

  “I wouldn’t have asked you to come here if this was a simple business transaction supplying me with goods. The truth is, Herr Kennet, that I have a big problem and I need your help and, should we say, your specialist expertise. I have a powerful rival here in this part of Westphalia. The man who runs it is intelligent and determined. He has made it almost a crusade to make life difficult for me, but I have managed to keep one step ahead of him. He has no firm evidence against me as yet, as hard as he tries. I need to get him removed and replaced by someone who is more attracted to financial gain and is not so, shall we say, aggressive? You understand me?”

  Kennet didn’t understand at all and was wondering what was coming next. Seifert extracted a cigar from a box on his desk. He offered one to Kennet, who declined. What had this revelation to do with our proposed transactions, he thought. And what did he mean by my specialist expertise? He needed time to think. He inclined his head towards the coffee machine and raised his eyebrows instead. Seifert nearly choked on his first draw on the cigar and said: “I am so sorry Herr Kennet! Please excuse my manners. Coffee, yes, of course!” He rose from the desk and poured two cups of coffee, opened his desk drawer and produced a tin of Scottish shortbread. “From one of my associates in the UK,” he said, laughing loudly.

  Kennet took one and said: “So what do I have to do to help you, Mr. Seifert? I have no contacts in Germany, mind.”

  “Ach, no, that does not matter. Let me explain. I have been operating very profitably here for a few years now. But the man who is obstructing me has set up a, what I believe in England, you call a sting? You see I have inside knowledge of his workings. He has purchased a car, converted it to carry drugs and employed one of his men to infiltrate my system. This man has been working for me for two months now and thinks he is undetected. Not carrying drugs, you understand, just driving one of my lorries. He has no idea that I know all of this, of course. This is where you can help me. I intend to send this man over to England, to you, to collect what will be believed is our first transaction. He won’t know that it is anything other than a legitimate pick-up job. I’II want you to dispose of this man, Herr Kennet. I’ll want you to deposit the car with the body in it to the location of one of his contacts, a man who bought the car for him in Germany. And I may want you to deal with the Englishman also. I think that this man is also a dealer who has turned informant. He could well be a threat to me and my business in your country.”

  Kennet shifted in his seat and ran his finger around his collar, beginning to sweat. “Now hold on there now, Seifert! If it’s killings you want then that’s out of the question. It’s not my normal type of business at all, at all!”

  Seifert leaned back in his chair and took a long pull on his cigar, tilting his head back and blowing a series of smoke rings up to the ceiling. He leaned forward and opened a draw in his desk, extracted a sheet of paper and handed it to Kennet. “Read it, Herr Kennet. Read it.”

  Seifert put his elbows on the desk, making a steeple with his hands and staring at Kennet. No sign of a smile now.

  “Herr Kennet, I know all about your past connections with the IRA. I know. I can name the people you have had eliminated in the past. Would you like me to inform the British police about that? I think not.” He leaned back, put his hands behind his head and smiled while Kennet read the dossier.

  Kennet was amazed and alarmed that Seifert had amassed so much information about his past. He turned visibly pale as he read it.

  “Herr Kennet, you are shocked, yes? I also know that you have been under observation since last April by this adversary of mine.”

  Kennet was even more alarmed now.

  “I am a generous man to those who help me, Herr Kennet. I can assure you that you will be very well rewarded if you assist me. It will be worth a great deal to me.”

  Kennet remained silent for several seconds.

  “It seems that I have no choice, Seifert.”

  Seifert stood up, smiling broadly and proffered his hand. “Good! Good Herr Kennet, I am so glad that you see it my way. You have just embarked on what I am sure will be a long and profitable business relationship.”

  Kennet remained seated.

  “When do you expect all this will take place?”

  “Oh, not for a little while. I will let you know in good time. I have prepared a detailed dossier for you; all the information is contained within it. It will give you plenty of time to arrange your end of the operation.” He sat down again, opened a cupboard in his desk and pulled out a large bulky envelope and a buff folder.

  “20,000 of your English pounds as a deposit and the rest when you have completed the task I have set you. Destroy the folder when you have read it. I need not stress that failure is not an option?”

  He stood up again and walked round to Kennet’s side of the desk. “Now, I have a very busy day ahead of me, Herr Kennet. I must say Aufwiedersehen.”

  Kennet stood up clasping the folder and stashing the envelope containing the money in his briefcase.

  “Have a pleasant flight back. My driver Willi will take you back to the airstrip. We will talk again very soon.”

  He ushered Kennet to the door. Seifert’s chauffeur Willi was standing outside with an umbrella and led him to the car. It was now raining heavily as if to emphasise the bad day that Kennet was having. A bolt of lightning lit the sky and a few seconds later the thunder followed. It’s going to be a bumpy flight home, Kennet thought.

  On the flight back Kennet wondered just how he could get himself out of this situation. He was feeling distinctly queasy now, his stomach echoing the thunder that roared around the plane. He wasn’t sure whether it was caused by the turbulence or fear of what he had albeit reluctantly agreed to do. The small Piper Cherokee was being thrown about the sky in the storm. His breakfast was now in grave danger of making a reappearance. By the time he was back over the landing strip the storm had
been left far behind, but the wind was still strong. The landing wasn’t the best he had made, the wind and his state of mind caused the Piper to bounce alarmingly over the grass runway, coming precariously close to damaging the landing gear.

  Once back at his home he opened the envelope and riffled through the money, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I’ve been railroaded into this. What a fool I am to be sure,’ he thought. He delayed opening the folder containing his instructions until he’d had something to eat and drink. He had already decided that Seifert would prove to be much too dangerous a man to double cross.

  ****

  Nearly a month had elapsed since Arland Kennet’s flight to Düsseldorf and his meeting with Franz Seifert.

  A motorcycle courier had delivered further instructions from Seifert Logistics the previous evening. Kennet had pored over them for most of the night before he decided to take the necessary action.

  He picked up the phone on his desk and dialled.

  It was answered with a grunt at the other end.

  “Arland here. Is that you, Topper?” he asked.

  “Of course it’s me, who the hell did you think it would be!”

  “You sound half cut, so you do.”

  “It’s three o’clock in the morning, for Christ’s sake! And you’ve just woken me up. How did you expect me to sound?”

  Kennet paused and glared into the phone, and then said in a low voice: “Get your arse over here straight away, Topper. I’ve a job for you. And it’s level one, so don’t keep me waiting, alright?” Kennet banged the phone down irritably.

  Topper - or Eric Sandling to use his real name - , reached for a cigarette from his bedside cabinet, lit it, threw the bedcovers off and got dressed, coughing and cursing to himself.

  Dawn was just breaking when he pulled the car through the already open iron gates and into the gravel drive of the large Georgian house. He stopped outside of the steps leading up to the colonnaded front door, got out of the car and walked towards the door. It opened before he could ring the bell.

  “Come up to the office, Topper,” said Arland Kennet, turning quickly and striding up the wide staircase, light on his feet for a big man. Topper followed him into the high-ceilinged room and took a seat in front of the large antique leather-covered oak desk.

  “Why do I have to be here at this ungodly bloody hour Arland? A man like me needs his sleep.”

  “Because I couldn’t sleep. A big job has come up Topper. Our German friends are sending over a car and driver and it’s arriving early tomorrow morning. Harwich, on the Stena overnight.”

  Kennet was careful not to give Topper the full story.

  “The Germans that I told you about want a nice clean job done. My contact tells me a man named Menken is using a Mercedes that’s been converted to carry our consignment. It’s his first trip for them and he’s no idea that they’ve tumbled him. He’s from a rival gang in Germany. Here’s the registration number of the car, his name and the number of his mobile.”

  Kennet passed him a piece of paper with the details written on it.

  Topper studied it, eyebrows knitted together, trying to clear his head after the heavy drinking session of the previous evening.

  “He’ll be waiting for a call when he arrives. Meet him at the port. Take him somewhere and take him out. Take the car and the body to the address I’ve given you. Don’t leave anything on him, nothing, you understand?”

  “What do I do with the car after?”

  “Leave the car behind a restaurant in Monks Eleigh. It’s in Suffolk. All the details are in that envelope. Leave it out of sight of the road. Leave him in the drivers seat. The directions are all there for you.”

  “Why do I have to leave it in Suffolk?”

  “Because another man named Lomax lives nearby and you need to deal with him as well – “ Kennet paused and gave a deep sigh of exasperation.

  “Do I have to explain the whole bloody thing, Topper, it’s all written down there for you. Read it man, remember it and then destroy it.”

  Kennet leant back in his chair and watched Topper reading the sheet of paper. When he’d finished reading it he said: “Topper, that’s all you need to know. It’s best if you don’t know any more than what’s written right there, so it is. Now don’t leave any prints. And do a clean job, we don’t want blood all over the car, now do we now.”

  Kennet handed him another fat envelope. “Half now, half in a couple of weeks time if nothing comes to light. Any questions?””

  Topper pocketed the envelope without checking the contents.

  “How do I get there?”

  “Train. Stay overnight in Harwich and get a taxi to the terminal. Don’t leave your real name. I’ll get someone to meet you where you’re dropping the car off in Monks Eleigh. Well, get a move on, man.”

  “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on then, Arland?”

  “I’ve set everything up that needs to be done, so I have. I’ve already told you, you don’t need to know any more than you do already. It’s safer that way. Right?”

  Topper nodded, smiled, tapped the packet bulging in his inside pocket then got up and left. He drove his battered old BMW past Kennet’s big black Audi A8 and out of the drive, through the open iron gates and headed off home. He was elated, smiling to himself. He looked forward to a bit of violence, the sort he had performed for Kennet in Northern Ireland years ago. Nothing had ever gone wrong then and he would make certain that nothing would go wrong this time. He classed himself as a professional, and he wouldn’t always be dancing to Kennet’s tune.

  Kennet felt relieved that Topper had swallowed the story without asking too many questions. He might have wanted more money if he knew the price that Seifert was paying him. This man Lomax will get a shock when he discovers the body. Seifert is going to be well pleased with me, he thought smiling to himself. He opened the cupboard in the pedestal of his desk and extracted a bottle of Irish whiskey and a glass. He poured himself a large measure, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and savoured it sip by sip.

  ****

  It was breezy outside in the port’s Stena Line car park. Ulli Menken stood by the silver Mercedes and dialled the mobile number he had been given. A voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ulli Menken here. I believe we are meeting? I’m parked in the car park in a silver Mercedes 320 …”

  “I can see you. I’ll be right over.”

  Menken cast about and saw a man carrying a light suitcase hurrying across the tarmac towards him. He was quite small, hunched, shabbily dressed. Menken held out his hand in greeting when he approached.

  “Hello, I believe we are going to meet your boss? Have we far to go?”

  Menken noted that the man’s handshake was brief and weak and his hand was clammy. He didn’t look directly into Menken’s eyes, just grunted, opened the passenger door and settled himself in the seat without speaking.

  “So where are we heading Mr…”

  “Topper. Call me Topper. Just drive, I’ll tell you where to go.”

  Menken began to feel uneasy. The greeting was not exactly what he had been hoping for. This man was shifty and seemed agitated. Menken stole a look at him and the man turned his head away and looked out of the window.

  “Just follow the signs to Colchester, I’ll tell you when to turn off.”

  Menken shrugged, started the car and drove. He had driven from Harwich many times in the past, before he became involved in the drugs business. After a few miles he asked Topper how long a journey they’d got. Topper looked at him suspiciously and snapped “Why?”

  “I’m bursting for a piss, that’s why,” Menken said, smiling and trying to lighten up the situation. Topper paused and then said “Take the second exit at the next roundabout, drive for a couple of miles then you can stop.” Menken shrugged and carried on. He needed to phone his boss to let him know that he had arrived safely and made contact as
planned. After turning off the main road they drove along a narrow country lane and Topper pointed to a farm track entrance on the right. “Pull in just there, it’s the entrance to a field. Go and have your piss and be quick.”

  Menken hid himself behind a hedge, relieved himself, and made his call. He turned and walked back to the car. He was surprised to see that Topper was standing at the driver’s door facing him and smiling, both hands in his coat pockets.

  “Are you going to drive then, Topper?”

  They were his last words.

  CHAPTER 4

  The purchase of the car and the business with the mysterious Herr Kohler had faded into memory; any misgivings Luke may have had were now almost forgotten, but not by Asil. That is until one Monday evening in October, after a late meal at home. They went upstairs to the bedroom just before 11 p.m. Asil was drawing the curtains before she put the light on. She called Luke and said: “Luke, there’s a car outside. A man looks as if he’s taking photo’s of the house!” Luke rushed to the window. A large black Audi saloon with its engine running was parked just outside on the road. The passenger window was wound down and a man was pointing binoculars at the house. The man saw a movement in the upstairs room and quickly closed the car window.

  As the car sped off,. Luke noted that the lights were turned off. He was unable to read the number plate. Alarm bells instantly began to ring.

  He drew the curtains and put the bedroom light on. He turned to Asil. Neither of them knew what to say. “It wasn’t a camera, they were binoculars, Asil. But why would anyone be looking at the house?”

  “Perhaps he’s a peeping Tom, hoping to see me undress.”

  “Yeah, could be. It wasn’t a local car; at least, I don’t know anyone in the village with a dark coloured Audi. Do you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Oh well, they’ve gone now, let’s get to bed and forget about it.”