She wasn’t happy. Not at all. It had been a rubbish day, made more rubbish by the fact that she had absolutely no idea what was going on. She was tense. Irritable. And now she was looking for a house among thousands with her search engine working with limited info.
She was trying to find an old friend, colleague - almost lover? - of hers: Wolfgang. Sorry, Count Wolfgang Neuenburg II. Wolfgang’s now-deceased parents - his father had died before Sam had met Wolfgang, and his mother was shot dead in front of both of them in a disused warehouse in Berlin - owned much of the bottom right chunk of Germany. She’d spent an evening at his schloß in the Bayerischer Wald a few years ago. At some point during their liaison he’d mentioned that his mother lived in a big house near Englischer Garten in Munich. And, as Munich was commuting distance from Wörgl, which is where she’d caught the train earlier today, it was an obvious starting point.
With few options she had to go somewhere; staying in Alpbach after her brush with red-ski-jacket man wasn’t one of them. And Wolfgang had talents. Talents that she could use right about now.
She’d skied straight off the mountain, waddled into the first clothing shop she could find and, for the exorbitant price of €749, had bought herself a pair of heavy cotton trousers, a dark grey multi-purpose jacket, a decent pair of walking shoes, some black gloves and an oversized black beanie. She’d left her skis, poles and boots outside a ski-hire shop, and ditched her ski trousers and jacket in the nearest bin. She was hardly incognito, but at least she wasn’t wearing what she’d had on first thing.
Sam had made the decision not to return to the hotel. And, whilst it broke a piece of her heart, she decided to leave Bertie, her bright yellow VW T5 camper van[RJ5], in the hotel’s car park. She hoped one day - once she had got to the bottom of what the hell was happening - to return and pick him up. She certainly couldn’t afford to buy another one.
Now changed, but without a toothbrush to her name, she had to find an escape route. But which one?
Chance was on her side. As she approached Alpbach’s small coach station a local bus was in the process of pulling away from its stop. As Alpbach was at the end of a valley, it could only go one way. So, she jumped aboard. At the bottom of the mountain she got off at Wörgl, where she knew there was a train station on the mainline between Innsbruck and Munich. Both had airports - and she chose the latter.
Throughout her 6-hour journey to Munich she’d employed the evasion techniques she’d learnt as an SIS case officer. It was simple stuff you could pick up from the Ladybird Book of Spying: doubling back; making late turns; altering your pace. However, the key ingredient to not being tailed, or successfully losing a tail, was to surprise yourself with your own decisions. If you were caught off guard by your own route choices, you could bet that any tail would be just as flummoxed.
Leaving Bertie behind and a chance climb-aboard a random departing bus - without any clear plan as to what to do next - was exactly what would have got her full marks at the SIS training base at Fort Monckton. She knew she hadn’t been followed.
Airports were out. As was hiring a car. And using her phone - which she’d turned off in the bubble as the cable car projected her to the top of the mountain. In Russia, just over a year ago, every security agency and their wives had managed to track her across the Urals because she’d had to pay for flights using a credit card with her name on it; and had used her phone to gather necessary data.
Now it was cash only and ‘call no one’. That must be her mantra. She had no real idea how sophisticated her latest enemy was, but ‘the eyes’ from this morning had told her a bit of the story. She knew of the man. She knew what he did, or had done, for a living. If he wanted to find her, he almost certainly could. Without SIS credentials and associated multiple aliases, Sam was just plain Sam Green. She was on her own. So, it was cash - and call no one. That was it.
All that led to her current half-baked plan. She couldn’t fly but could bus and train it round most of Europe. She couldn’t cross a non-Schengen border as that would mean showing her passport, but she did have most of the continent at her disposal. So, where should she go? Who did she know who might be able to help her unpick what was behind the latest debacle that was her life?
Count Wolfgang Neuenburg II.
She and Wolfgang had been thrown together by a series of unfortunate events three years ago. It was all to do with planes crashing, an ultra-orthodox Christian sect, and two rogue ex-CIA agents - one of whom was now (thankfully) dead. The live one, Ralph Bell, cropped up in Sam’s dreams more often than she would have wanted. Even awake she saw him at least once a week. In a crowd. On a bus. On TV. None of them was Bell. She knew straight away that it was her imagination playing tricks on her - she had a thing with faces. But that didn’t stop facsimiles of him popping up time and again in some unexpected place. She shivered at the thought.
She’d only spoken to Wolfgang briefly after the events of three[RJ6] years ago. They’d lived in each other’s pockets for a week as the conspiracy unfolded - it was fair to say that they’d ‘got close’. But the death of his mother, some pretty serious injuries, and their abominable two-day internment in a shipping container, had put paid to any feelings they might have had for each other.
But, he lived in southern Germany - which was as close as you could get to the Austrian Tyrol. And he was an expert computer hacker and programmer. And that’s the skill she needed right now.
First, though, she had to find him. Then hope that he was home. And then hope he would see her. None of those three was a dead cert.
It was getting dark. Huge houses rimmed Englischer Garten. They were all set back from reasonably narrow roads. Cars parked on both sides constricted the roads further. Some of the frontages were fenced; the remainder used bushes and trees to create a barrier. One or two of the mansions had been split into flats, which meant Sam could strike them off immediately. The Neuenburgs would own the whole shebang. The other good news was that most of the houses had postboxes fixed to their gates - another German trait. Slim, coloured, metalled boxes with a slot for mail, under which was the emblematic post horn of the Deutsche Bundespost. Nearly all of the ones she’d seen so far displayed a name tag.
Sam checked her watch. It was 4.35 pm. She was hungry, which was making her more irritable. She’d give herself an hour and a half of looking. Then she’d go and find something to eat. She decided not to plan beyond that.
There it was. She was 80 minutes into the 90 minutes she’d assigned for her wandering and she was just about to give up and feed her hunger. The house was easily the biggest on Flemingstraße. Its ornate gardens, lit by Narnia-style street lamps, were a beautiful combination of manicured lawns and under-control rhododendrons.
The plaque above the slit on the postbox told her all she needed to know: Neuenburg. And there were some lights on.
Success.
There was an intercom beside the gate. Sam rang it. A pause. She rang again, a little too soon after the first press. The connecting speaker in the house was probably six miles away from an able-bodied human, down endless corridors. But irritation, fuelled by a nagging hunger, had turned to impatience.
Feed me. Soon.
There was a click.
‘Guten Abend – Wer is da, bitte’, the box crackled.
A young woman’s voice?
Sam put her mouth close to the speaker. She decided on English.
‘Good evening. I am here to see Wolfgang. Is he in?’
There was a moment of silence.
‘Who is this?’
‘Sam Green. I’m an old friend of Wolfgang’s.’
The intercom went silent. There was a metallic clunk as a bolt withdrew somewhere and then the large, ornate, metal gates started to move sideward, into a concrete recess which Sam hadn’t noticed before.
That’s clever. Where am I - Tracy Island?
Sam shrugged her shoulders and set off down the drive.
The house was on four floors. But, like
nearly all German dwellings, there was almost certainly a cellar. It was white-rendered, the bottom floor had tall bay windows and the entrance was defined by a large, raised porch with a white, triangular balustrade supported by four Roman columns. Either side of the over-sized, double, wooden front doors was a topiary tree. The trees were lit up by very tasteful white lights. The place was majestic, but somehow understated.
Sam took the four steps up the porch two at a time. She then strode across the marbled floor to an inset, brown welcome mat. As she did, the left-hand door, with its huge brass hexagonal handle, opened.
She could now put a face to the voice on the intercom.
The apparition at the door was something off the front page of Stern magazine. Sam first thought it might be Claudia Schiffer’s daughter, all blonde flowing locks with a face to rival Aubrey Hepburn’s - and a figure made from the best bits in the body-parts cupboard. The apparition was dressed very casually: dark blue leggings and an all-white button-up collared shirt with tails that hung down to her thighs.
Was the shirt one of Wolfgang’s?
Sam aged the apparition in her late 20s. And for a reason she couldn’t put her finger on, she was immediately more irritated than she had been a few moments previously. It may have been because Sam was dressed all chunky greys and blacks, with cloddy walking shoes topped with a beanie cum tea cosy. Maybe ...
Give it up, girl. What is wrong with you?
She metaphorically shook herself. Then she looked round the apparition, to the lobby beyond.
‘Hi, I guess you speak English?’, Sam asked.
It smiled.
God, that’s beautiful.
‘Of course. Wolfgang is on his way. Would you come in, please?’
Wolfgang had attended some snooty boarding school in England and then went on to study the violin at The Royal College of Music in London - as a result, his English was impeccable and unaffected by accent. The apparition’s had a German twang: Wolfgang pronounced ‘Volfgang’. That was annoyingly attractive as well.
The apparition stood to one side and, with her hand, showed Sam into the lobby. She accepted. It was all deeply varnished pine, off-white walls and thick pile, cream carpets. A double staircase rose in front of her, and oil paintings of Wolfgang’s ancestors adorned the walls. To her left was a corridor. A door opened at the end of it and out hobbled Wolfgang.
In many ways he was exactly as she remembered him. He was wearing ‘hunting, shooting, fishing’ cords, a white viyella checked shirt, brown brogues and, what she thought was, a red cashmere cardigan. He was something straight out of a Savile Row catalogue.
He was still tall, still off-blond and still rakishly attractive. But two things had changed. First, as he got closer and the light of the lobby allowed for more definition, he looked older. A lot older. His complexion was pallid. He had bags under his eyes and he was thinner on top. Second, and more striking, he was using a wooden walking stick. In typical Wolfgang style it was beautifully carved with an ebony handle and gold banding. But, by the way he was half-dragging his right leg, he needed it.
He stopped a few feet from her. Cocked his head to one side. And smiled - the same smile that had disarmed her time and again during that turbulent week three[RJ7] years ago.
‘Hello, Sam. I was just about to call you. It seems that serendipity has beaten me to it. Nice hat …’
What? I was just about to call you?
He was waiting for a reply. She was waiting for her brain to catch up.
‘Hello, Wolfgang …’, she nodded to his leg. ‘Are you OK?’
He smiled again. The apparition moved slowly round, closer to him. The three of them were now in a loose triangle.
‘You always did look after me, Sam,’ He let out a small laugh. ‘It’s nothing. My doctor tells me it’s arthritis, caused by the wound, compounded a little by the shock of mother.’ His expression soured, ever so slightly. The smile was lost. ‘I get by.’
‘Anyway!’ He was smiling again now. ‘You’ve met Ingeborg?’ He lifted his stick and playfully pointed at the apparition.
Ingeborg? No, I could never get used to that …
‘Uh, no.’ Sam held out her hand. Ingeborg took it tenderly and shook it. ‘I’m Sam. Wolfgang and I …’
Ingeborg stopped her with a flashing smile and a nod of recognition.
‘I know all about you, Sam. Wolfgang has told me everything. At least three times.’
Sam sensed the last sentence was meant as a compliment, so she too forced a smile.
‘Oh dear. I’ll have to tell you the truth if we can find the time.’ It was the best she could do.
Wolfgang continued. ‘Are you staying? We have supper in 30 minutes - pork of course! You must stay, Sam. We have a lot to discuss.’ Wolfgang was animated now.
Sam hesitated. She had no idea why. She had nowhere else to go. She was as hungry as a waking bear, and now, in the safety of a huge house in Munich, she was tired. And, back on mission, she needed Wolfgang’s advice - and maybe support. A delicious supper, wine that she knew she wouldn’t be able to find in Tesco, and a good night’s sleep under a duvet the size of Wiltshire was exactly what she needed.
‘Yes, please, Wolfgang. That would be ideal.’
Sam put the last spoonful of kirsch cherries and chocolate ice cream into her mouth. It was, like the rest of the meal, delicious. If she’d been at home, she’d have picked up the bowl and licked it clean. But it was probably not the best choice of manners, what with half of Wolfgang’s family staring down at her from the walls of the large dining room. She placed the silver spoon back on the ornately decorated bowl (her mum, bless her soul, would have picked it up and looked for the manufacturer’s mark), took the damask napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. That was something else she’d learnt by watching Wolfgang - whose manners were impeccable.
The three of them had been served without ceremony by a matronly woman called Elisabeth, whom Wolfgang thanked and complimented continuously.
‘Elisabeth is the best cook in Bavaria. Isn’t that so Elisabeth?’
Sam sensed that Elisabeth’s English was patchy and admonished Wolfgang playfully under her breath, ‘Du würdest kein gutes Schweinefleisch wissen, wenn[RJ8] du dich in der Rückseite bissest.’
Wolfgang started to translate, but Sam stopped him.
‘My German’s picking up. Personally, I don’t wholly agree with Elisabeth. You probably would know decent pork if it bit you on the backside.’
They all laughed.
It had been a very convivial supper. Just the three of them: Wolfgang, herself, and now the more-easily-named ‘Inge’. Sam could cope with Inge. It still didn’t do the woman justice. She would have preferred Sophia or Alexia.
Inge didn’t say much. To be fair, she didn’t get much chance. Sam and Wolfgang rambled on about their past, how he was coping with the estate, whether or not he’d got his father’s Audi Quattro fixed, having smashed it about when they had last been together. She led the conversation, avoiding any gruesome bits, and Wolfgang seemed fine about filling in the details. She was so happy that he was at least some way back to being the man she remembered before his mother had been murdered.
Inge sat politely and smiled a lot. Sam didn’t get the sense that she was a dumb blonde; far from it. She just seemed incredibly well brought up and knew when two old pals wanted to reminisce. What Sam didn’t know was how she fitted into everything. But that would come.
Wolfgang put his spoon down and lifted his napkin to the table. He took a breath.
‘Well, Sam. How are you coping now that you’re not working?’
What? I haven’t told him I’m not working.
‘Uh[RJ9], fine Wolfgang. Thanks. I’m sort of between jobs.’
‘You don’t miss Secret Intelligence Service, then?’
Sam was struggling. Where this was going? How did he know? Working with SIS was a secret. She’d never told anyone outside of the organisation. Maybe she’d had too mu
ch of the red wine - wine that was so thick she could have skated on it.
‘No. No, I don’t. Thanks …’
Wolfgang continued, ‘And what about your dealings with the erstwhile oligarch Sokolov? I guess that they’ve left some lasting impressions on you?’
What? What?!
That was too much. How did he know about her dealings with the Russian oligarch-in-chief? She was working for SIS at the time. Everything she did was classified. Nothing made the news, not even her part in preventing the dirty bomb from exploding in Rome.
She didn’t say anything. She looked across at Inge, who had sensed the uncomfortableness of the conversation and was fiddling with her napkin.
Sam looked back at Wolfgang. His expression was gentle, kind. But he was clearly expecting an answer.
She spoke softly.
‘How do you know about Sokolov, Wolfgang?’
He reached behind him and took hold of his walking stick. He pushed his chair back as he stood.
‘Come with me Sam Green. I’ve got something to show you.’ He turned to Inge and touched her arm gently. ‘Would you give Sam and me some time? And maybe ask Elisabeth to bring some coffee to the cellar?’
Inge beamed a smile at Wolfgang, placing her hand on top of his.
‘Of course. Of course.’
Wolfgang led Sam through a maze of corridors until they reached a metal door. He took out a key from a pocket in his cords and opened it. A light went on, illuminating a small room, no bigger than a hotel lift. There was another metal door in front of them.
‘Please come in, Sam, and close the door.’
Sam was in a trance. She trusted Wolfgang. But, even so, this was all well off the weird scale.
And Sokolov? What had Wolfgang been up to? She couldn’t shake that thought.
She pulled the door to. Wolfgang took out a second key and opened the new door. Immediately Sam sensed a change of pressure, as though they were leaving an airlock. The new air smelt fresh - and it was cooler.
Wolfgang led them down a set of concrete steps. The walls were clinically white. Everywhere was clean. Fifteen steps later she knew why.
For Good Men to Do Nothing Page 4