The phone went dead.
Conor automatically moved his head away from the phone and looked at it. Then he put it back against his ear. It made no difference; the phone was no longer connected to the voice. He put the phone back on the desk.
At that moment, Conor heard a sound. It was a small, intrusive sound that was out of place in the undisturbed silence in the room. Only the distant, muffled noise of occasional traffic passing the house could be heard in the room. To Conor’s well- tuned instincts, it was a warning. And as he moved to rise from the chair he saw a movement on the extreme periphery of his vision. He ducked forward and pushed himself away from the movement, but he was too late. He felt the blow strike him on the side of the head and immediately everything went black. He was aware of the impact as his body hit the floor and then he lost consciousness.
*
Joseph had kept his word and contacted his controller. He arrived that afternoon with a doctor. Breggie came down from the bedroom where she had been struggling with the baby. Mercifully the little soul was finally asleep. Joseph did not introduce the doctor to Breggie. All three of them knew what the score was and expected nothing less.
“Where’s the infant?” the doctor asked.
Breggie took him upstairs. Joseph remained downstairs; his part of the job done. The doctor examined little Manny very carefully. Fortunately the boy did not wake.
“Tell me as much as you can about his condition,” the doctor asked Breggie.
She told him everything, including the affect it was having on her. The doctor listened without interruption. When she had finished, he pulled out a prescription pad and began writing.
“First of all I have to tell you that the baby is quite ill. But I think you know that.” Breggie nodded. “And he should be in a hospital, but you know that too.” Breggie nodded again. The doctor went on. “Because I am aware of the circumstances, I will have to treat the baby now. However, I cannot return here because of the distance I have to travel. If his condition has not improved in two days he will have to go into hospital.”
He opened his bag and brought out a pre-packed syringe together with a phial. “I am going to give the baby an injection which should help. Then I’ll write out a prescription for him.”
He injected the contents of the syringe into the baby’s arm and put the empty syringe on a table and told Breggie to dispose of it. Then he opened a prescription pad and began writing.
When he had finished, he looked up. There was no expression in his face.
“Don’t forget, if his condition has not improved in two days, he must be admitted to a hospital.” He closed his bag. “Or he will die.”
Breggie took the prescription from him. “He must not die.”
The doctor gave her a peculiar look. “That, I’m afraid, is in the hands of God.” He pointed to the prescription. “And by the way, don’t get that at a local pharmacy, go to a big store.”
Naturally, Breggie was curious. “Why?” she asked.
He stood up, ready to leave. “Local drug stores get used to handling prescriptions from local doctors. Better to have it filled out by the bigger store.”
The doctor had a coffee before he left. Breggie felt a little easier now the baby had been seen by him. She hoped she wouldn’t have to send for him again. It had taken four hours by the time Joseph had picked him up and brought him to the house. Two hours each way.
She was in the kitchen thinking about preparing an evening meal when it hit her like a bomb: it was late afternoon and Joseph would not be back until late evening. If she wanted the prescription filled out at a big drug store, she could not wait for Joseph to return. She would have to go herself.
She swore out loud and leaned back against a cabinet, tossing her head back in disgust. She had to have the medicine today. If she waited for Joseph he would have to find an emergency chemist. It would be a local and that would be against the doctor’s express wishes. There was nothing else for it but to go herself. And that meant taking the baby.
Breggie’s dilemma now was that she had no real option but to drive to the shopping mall she had visited with such disastrous results if she wanted the medicine before the shops closed. She wasn’t too happy about showing herself and the baby at the store because of her cock and bull story about visiting from the south. The nosey pharmacist might ask awkward questions again.
In the end Breggie knew she had little choice but to worry about getting her priorities right. There was only one and that was the baby. He needed that medicine. She went upstairs and lifted the infant out of his cot, wrapped him up well and put him in a chair while she manhandled the collapsible pushchair into the car. She then piled her hair up on top of her head and wrapped a headscarf round the blonde locks. With a fairly nondescript coat on, Breggie figured she wouldn’t draw too much attention to herself.
Before leaving the house, Breggie put a bottle of milk in the pushchair and crossed her fingers she could it make to the drug store and back without little Manny waking. She gunned the Volkswagen into life and headed for the centre of the town.
Much of the precinct was emptying now which made Breggie feel more exposed. That heightened sense of exposure unleashed little demons inside her and she could feel thousands of eyes upon her. In reality of course, no such thing was happening. Breggie was simply another shopper.
She approached the supermarket drug store attempting to relax and act normally. Her efforts probably made her more abnormal than ever, but she was not aware of it. The dispensing counter appeared like an obstacle to be overcome, looming large in her waking nightmare. There was no sign of the nosey pharmacist which gave her much cause for relief.
She put the brake on the pushchair, praying that the baby would not wake. All she needed was two or three minutes and she would be out of there. Little Manny could scream his head off then. An assistant took the prescription from her and passed it through to the pharmacists working behind screens at one end of the long counter.
Breggie tried to act casual but her head flitted from one object to another. Her movements were spasmodic, affected almost. She could feel her pulse rate rising. People stared at her. Or did they? God, she thought, get on with it. Get that bloody prescription filled!
The assistant returned, took payment for the medicine and handed it across the counter. Breggie thanked her and left. She had only taken two steps when she realised she had left the pushchair. She went back, grabbed the pushchair and practically ran from the store.
The assistant watched her go, and then went back to the dispensary where she spoke to the chemist who had just filled the prescription.
“Remember that South African woman who was in here a couple of days ago?” she asked.
The chemist thought for a moment. “Oh yes, had a problem with her baby.”
“That’s right. Well, she was just in. That prescription you filled; that was hers.”
The woman stopped what she was doing and went to the clip of prescriptions she had hanging beneath a label with her name. She took it down and studied it. After a while she handed it to the girl.
“Look, see if you can decipher that doctor’s signature. Then check it against the list of local practitioners.” She looked up. “She said she was up from the south for a day.” Then she shrugged. “Check it anyway. I’m curious.”
The girl, happy to be relieved of counter duty for a while, departed quickly and the chemist went back to making up medicines. Meanwhile, Breggie was climbing into her car thanking her lucky stars that the baby was still asleep. Soon she would be back at the house and everything would be fine. Panic over
*
Conor woke in darkness. He could feel the blindfold tight around his eyes and an unyielding hardness beneath him. His hands had been tied behind his back. He listened for some time before attempting any movement. If he heard a breath, a cough or voices, it would mean he wasn’t alone. If there was someone there with him, he wanted them to believe he was still unconscious. He m
entally ran the rule over his body but, apart from a pain on the side of his head where he had been coshed, there didn’t appear to be any other damage.
Conor thought back to the phone conversation he had with the Dutchman. Whatever he may have thought and however he had planned to tackle the man, he had seriously underestimated him. The Dutchman knew who he was talking to. At least, Conor presumed that. But how had he latched on so quickly? He remembered hearing the phone ring and the Dutchman answering it. Perhaps that was the call to tell the Dutchman where Conor was phoning from. A line trace perhaps? Would the organisation have that kind of power?
The suppositions were academic; they had picked him up as easy as taking sweets from a child. All Conor could do now was wait, and hope there was a way out of his predicament
He didn’t have to wait long. He heard a door open and the sound of music in the background. The sound was cut off as the door closed. Hands lifted him to his feet and took the blindfold off.
He was standing in what was obviously an office. There were the usual accoutrements one associated with such a place: large desk, swivel chair, telephone etc. Against a wall was a computer station. The decor was heavy and masculine. There were framed photographs of people; probably celebrity photographs. Behind the desk were heavy drapes. They were closed and presumably covering a window. From the sound of the music he had briefly heard, Conor assumed he was in some kind of club.
Standing either side of Conor were two men. In front of him was one of the fattest men he had ever seen.
“The Dutchman, I presume?”
The fat man moved and walked behind the desk. To Conor’s amazement he sank his massive frame into the swivel chair.
“So, you know my name.”
Conor shook his head. “No. I only know what they call you.” He sensed the two gorillas beside him tense up. The Dutchman made a small, sideways movement with his head. The two men relaxed.
“What are we to do with you, Mister Lenihan?”
That disappointed Conor. He had hoped, for a while anyway, that he could maintain the pretence that he was a certain John Buck. Evidently the Dutchman knew otherwise.
“My name is John Buck,” he told him, hoping the lie would stick.
The Dutchman shrugged. “Fine, if you want to be John Buck, you can. I just happen to know you are Conor Lenihan. And it was you who dispatched poor Oscar and Jurgen.”
“You don’t know that,” Conor argued. “You’re making it up. I told you; I worked for Oscar. I was supposed to go on a job with him.”
The Dutchman interrupted. “Stop it, Lenihan. You are wasting your time and mine. I know who you are and that you killed two of my men.” He adopted a condescending look. “The question is; what am I to do with you?”
Conor didn’t give much for his chances of getting out of this alive. He had been trained for such a scenario by the SAS. All he could do was maintain some kind of dialogue and hope some small chance or opportunity might present itself. A chance he would willingly take with both hands. If they weren’t bloody tied!
“What makes you think I was in Oscar’s place?” he asked the Dutchman.
The fat man pushed his bottom lip out. “We saw you go in.” He moved and his flesh wobbled. “You see, Lenihan, we knew there was trouble when Oscar didn’t answer his call yesterday. You weren’t too careful, you know.”
Conor gave a rueful smile. “So what now, are you going to shoot me?”
The Dutchman shook his head. “I don’t know yet. If I had time to finish this conversation, it would inevitably end in your death.” He stood up, with a great deal of effort, from the chair. “As it is I have more pressing business to deal with, so you will have to wait.” He gave a quick lift of the head to the two gorillas beside Conor. “Put him downstairs. We’ll finish this tomorrow.”
The two heavies took hold of Conor and marched him unceremoniously from the room through a door at the rear. They took him along a passageway, through another door and down some steps into what he presumed was the basement. Without a word they shoved him on to a packing case and left him there. He watched them disappear up the stairs, the door close and the lights go out. There was nothing around him except complete blackness.
CHAPTER NINE
Hoffman had finished eating breakfast and was drinking a cup of coffee, his thoughts on the latest football results which were in the paper he was reading. His wife, Elke, had removed the dishes from the table and was back at the table, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“You’re not making the news anymore,” she told him. The coffee pot was put down with a flourish and movement of the shoulders which Hoffman was quite familiar with. It was a kind of ‘I told you so’ movement.
“It’s because we are not making any progress,” he answered and went back to his paper. He didn’t make a habit of discussing cases with his wife unless he felt he could tap the treasure trove of feminine logic. Then he would leak little pieces of information to her and wait for the gem that the entire police force had failed to come up with. Naturally he would go back to the office and claim all the credit. “The kidnappers are being unusually quiet.”
“Why, because they haven’t spoken to you?”
He put his cup down. “They haven’t contacted anyone, I can assure you.”
Elke thought about this for a while. She watched her husband put his head down to the paper again and wondered how she would react if she had a child kidnapped.
“The police always get in the way,” she said.
“Mmm?”
“Well, it must be obvious that all Herr Schiller would want to do is pay up and get his grandson back.” There was no immediate response, so she went on. “All you lot want to do is flood the place with police and frighten the kidnappers away.”
He put the paper down. “This is not a straightforward kidnap.”
“Are there other kinds, then?” she asked. Her eyes hooded over for just a fraction of a second. “Schiller is a powerful man, but if you lot get under his feet, you’ll just annoy him.”
“Are you suggesting we give up and go home?”
She bridled at that a little. “No of course not, but it must be obvious; Schiller has more people working for him than you do, and more resources. He could be in touch with the kidnappers right now and you wouldn’t know about it.”
He disagreed, shook his head and went back to his paper. “We’ll find them,” he said without conviction. Then he looked up again, quite suddenly. She caught the expression on his face.
“Well?
“Oh, nothing,” he lied. “Something I have just remembered.” He finished his coffee in one gulp and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Must go,” he told her, getting to his feet. “I’ll ring you later about dinner this evening.”
He came round the table and kissed her on the lips. “I love you, sweetheart.”
Elke smiled, perhaps a little smugly, and went to the door with him. Hoffman climbed into his car, waved back at his wife and reached for his portable phone. He had Jansch on the end of line within seconds.
“Uwe, Hoffman here. I want you to put a tap on Schiller’s phone. Now.”
“I’ll need a court order —”
“You won’t get one,” Hoffman interrupted. “Schiller’s too powerful to be trifled with. The court will never agree.”
“I could go to the Minister.”
Hoffman shook his head and started the car. He was moving when he spoke again. “That would mean Kistler knowing. He would block it. Just do it Uwe; I’ll accept full responsibility.”
It was Elke who had triggered the thought. With Joanna Schiller away from the house, Schiller could be using her to communicate with the kidnappers. He could have kicked himself for not thinking about it sooner.
He put the car into gear and rolled out of the drive.
When Hoffman arrived at Police Headquarters, Jansch was waiting for him. Hoffman went through into his private office, beckoning Jansch who immediately followed him and
closed the door behind them.
“Well?” Hoffman was impatient to hear that Jansch had carried out his order.
“I’ve had to invoke Special Powers as a matter of State Security, sir. I passed it down to ‘Eleven’. They weren’t happy but, seeing as your signature will be all over the document....” He left it at that.
Hoffman was satisfied. “Good work, Uwe. I want twenty four hour surveillance on the line and all messages recorded. If that bastard starts talking to the kidnappers, I want to know about it.”
Jansch was surprised at Hoffman’s choice of words and his reasons. “What makes you think Schiller is in contact with them?”
Hoffman looked away. “I don’t. But it didn’t occur to me that Frau Schiller’s departure from Schiller’s residence may have been a subterfuge.” He looked back at Jansch quite suddenly. “I take it there has been no contact?”
Jansch shook his head. “None yet sir; as far as we know.”
Hoffman relaxed, sinking back into his chair. He indicated to Jansch that he should sit down. “Good. Now, what have you got for me, anything new?”
Jansch held up one hand, splayed his fingers and with the other hand began ticking off each point as he made it.
“The counterfeit inquiry has dried up a bit. Oberkommissar Lechter might downgrade it. I couldn’t find anything in Cologne that might implicate the kidnappers. However” – he moved on to the second finger – “two stiffs have turned up in a flat in Cologne. One of them is a local hood. Both shot to death. No reason at all why this should have anything to do with us, but I spoke to the Chief on the phone last night. He said he would take it on board as part of the counterfeit investigation in case there is a link.” Third finger. “The limpet bomb – the one that was used in the attack?”
Hoffman’s mind was already drifting away to the reasons why Joanna Schiller had left. He dragged it back.
“What about it?”
“Well, forensics identified part of a serial number on the casing. It has been traced to a shipment dispatched by the Czech manufacturer. The Czech Government were very helpful on this. They had to be.”
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