Absence of Mercy

by Joe McCoubrey

  Once inside Germany, the main autobahn linking Mainz, Frankfurt, Leipzig and Berlin, was awash with opportunities to grab trains, buses or planes to just about anywhere in Europe. By the time Bartran reached the abandoned vehicle, Nightingale could have disappeared.

  What then would he tell Devon? Why hadn’t he called for back-up? Had retirement dulled his senses so much?

  It was time to eat humble pie.

  Bartran reached for his satellite phone, lying among the usual pile of horseracing magazines and daily papers on the passenger seat. He held it on top of the steering wheel and switched his gaze frantically between the console and the road ahead as he thumped a single speed-dial number that was burned into his brain.

  It took only a few seconds for the static to clear. A familiar voice echoed. “Claude, tell me some good news.”

  “Mike, mon ami, I have the mixture of good and bad. I have located the rat Nightingale, but I fear I might be in danger of losing him. I am an old fool. I think I have chewed off more than I can bite, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Close enough, Claude. Over here we go with biting off more than we can chew. You’d better tell me what’s going on.”

  Bartran outlined the events of the past few hours and finished by explaining his fears that he had fallen dangerously behind in his pursuit of Nightingale. He glanced at a road sign coming up on his left and called out his latest position. “Our friend will now be close to the German border. He could stop there and use the airport or train station at Saarbrucken.”

  There was a moment’s silence before he heard Devon’s response. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I have contacts in the BND. We will send them a picture of Nightingale and ask them to despatch people to each of the major stops where there is an airport or train station between Saarbrucken and Berlin.”

  Bartran was aware of the BND, Germany’s Federal Intelligence Service, which operated under the exasperating longhand title of Bundesnachrichtendienst. He had worked closely with them on many occasions, often marvelling at their speed and efficiency when it came to dealing with terrorist threats. “Let’s hope they can get their people in place quick enough to spot our friend should he choose to leave his vehicle.”

  “It’s the best we can do for now. Keep on the trail and let me know if there’s any deviation from this route, or if the vehicle becomes stationary for more than a few minutes. Maintain your current speed, don’t try to push it, and for God’s sake don’t attempt to tackle this on your own if Nightingale happens to stop somewhere. This is one sick individual, Claude. He won’t hesitate to start a killing spree if he thinks he’s being cornered.”

  Bartran shrugged. “I think I’m beginning to learn the limitations of my old age. I will not risk this mission any more than I have already.”

  “Nonsense, you old goat! If it weren’t for you we wouldn’t have a lead to follow. Just sit tight. I’m coming to join you.”

  Bartran smiled at the way Devon always seemed to put a positive spin on things. “You are a true friend, Mike, but I fear I have already wasted too much time on bringing you up to speed. Even you could not make it here on time, unless you have somehow sprouted wings.”

  There was the sound of a chuckle from Bartran’s earpiece. “Funny you should say that, Claude. I’ll explain when I get there, but suffice to say I will be touching down in Frankfurt in less than an hour. In the meantime keep calling me with updates.”

  Charles Nightingale shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to ease the stiffness brought on by more than four hours of driving. He reckoned he still had at least an hour of travel time to Mainz, the Rhineland capital city he knew well from previous visits.

  The earlier tension had left his body. Satisfied he wasn’t being followed, he had spent the last few hours working through a strategy for disappearing from the European scene, at least for a few years. He had enough funds to live comfortably anywhere in the world. Right now his preference was America.

  He would stop at a hotel in Mainz, register under one of his aliases, and then leave immediately. He would grab a taxi to the central train station, and head for Frankfurt. From there, he would take the first available flight to the USA.

  By the time anyone found the hire car, he would have already blended into life in Boston, Chicago or New York. It was just a matter of which city popped up first on the Frankfurt flight schedules.

  He smiled. Chalk up another successful operation to the master craftsman.

  Chapter 18

  DEVON SETTLED INTO THE LUXURY seating of the Dassault 2000EX and gazed out at the greyish-blue blur of the North Sea, looking strangely static from a view thirty-thousand feet away. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere.

  Before he had received the update from Paris he had intended to visit General Sandford at the hospital. He had to settle for a quick phone call to the surgeon in charge. The news was positive. The medical team had eased the General out of his induced coma over the previous two hours and were encouraged by the progress he was making.

  The surgeon warned they still faced a crucial few days, but the General’s chances of survival had been upgraded dramatically.

  Devon sighed with relief, realising once again just how much the old man had come to mean to him. The thought of losing him was not one he wanted to dwell on. At least now he could turn his full attention back to the mission in hand.

  The total flight time of less than eighty minutes would put him on the ground in Frankfurt a few hours sooner than he could have managed by having to go through the check-in and waiting times of commercial airlines.

  Plus, his arrangement with the BND came with a nice bonus. There would be no customs inspections, meaning he was able to carry his own weapons. He had agreed to a demand from his German anti-terrorist hosts that these would be solely for his own protection. The intention, they told him, was to take Nightingale alive, if possible, and to follow proper arrest procedures.

  Devon’s intentions differed somewhat. If he caught up with Nightingale, he would not be allowed to live. He knew there would be a massive fall-out from breaking his word, but right now all he cared about was hoping he wasn’t already too late.

  The information from Bartran’s vehicle tracking system, one that Devon’s team had presented to the Frenchman several years before, had already been relayed back to the LonWash offices where the satellite software was scanned and shared on a computer screen fixed to a console in the passenger cabin of the jet. Devon was now watching the blinking position of Nightingale’s Mercedes tracking its way across an enhanced map of Europe.

  It was still moving and still keeping to the main route into Mainz. So far so good.

  Alfie Cheadle fidgeted in the seat opposite him. “This is the way to travel. Have you worked out what we’re going to do when we reach Frankfurt?”

  Devon frowned. “Excuse the expression, but it looks like a case of flying by the seat of our pants. We will be met on arrival by a BND agent who has transport to take us down the autobahn towards Mainz. I want to close the gap on Nightingale so that we can react quickly to any deviations he makes. Instead of staring at a blip on a computer screen, we need to get eyeballs on that car as soon as possible.”

  “A lot can happen before we get there.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Devon responded good-naturedly. “To be fair to the BND boys they have already put a dozen cars unto the roads converging from various locations to try to pick up the trail. They have the car registration number and I’m hoping to hear soon that someone has moved into position behind it.”

  Cheadle thought for a moment. “By my reckoning, if Nightingale keeps going at his current speed he will reach Mainz before we do. Instead of striking out to intercept him, we might have to play catch-up in the opposite direction. It all depends on whether or not he stops anywhere.”

  “That’s why we have to be prepared for all eventualities. My big worry is that he stops somewhere soon and allows Bartran to close in. That old fool’s j
ust liable to rush in and get his head blown off.”

  The Hilton Mainz Hotel was ablaze with lights as Nightingale swung into its generous car park and found a vacant space alongside a tall perimeter wall. He killed the engine, climbed out, and stood for a moment to take in the surroundings. Raindrops glistened as they speared down from a dark sky, heavy with the threat of an impending deluge. He blinked them away and continued his sweep of the area, confident there were no signs of a tail. He reached into the back seat to retrieve his suitcase and marched confidently to the ornate entrance.

  Five minutes later he was in his room, having left a fake passport as part of the mandatory registration checks carried out in hotels across Europe. He would not need it again. There were plenty where that came from.

  He had presented a credit card for pre-verification of payment for a 6-day stay and asked not to be disturbed the following morning. It was not unusual for guests to have a sleep-in on their first night, usually because of fatigue brought on by long journeys. By the time hotel staff discovered he had done a runner he would be on the other side of the world.

  He worked efficiently, dumping the contents of the suitcase on top of the bed. Folded up in one corner was a small holdall, which was all he would need for the few belongings he intended to take with him as cabin luggage. He pushed a number of items to one side, discarding the usual detritus of the traveller. A paperback thriller, maps of Paris, a spare pair of Nike trainers, dirty socks, two pairs of used underwear, and a t-shirt that still had coffee stains from a trip to a cafeteria the previous night.

  He opened a small packet and removed one of his favourite Cuban Bolivar cigars, which he tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, together with a long, slim silver lighter. He would have one last satisfying smoke before entering the airport on the last leg of his journey.

  He crammed the rubbish into a plastic carry bag, retrieved from a small bin placed beneath a dressing table. Reluctantly, he lifted the Magnum and a spare box of cartridges and shoved them into the bag, knowing he could not take the items through airport security. It was like saying goodbye to an old friend, but he smiled at the thought of how easy it would be to acquire a new model in America.

  He packed the holdall with a smattering of essential items, which included a change of clothes and a small zipped bag of shaving accoutrements. Then he hoisted the holdall over his shoulder, grabbed the plastic bag, and exited the room. He was good to go.

  He stepped out of the elevator into a busy foyer and strode to the front door. Just another guest heading out for a night on the town.

  He walked to the rear of the building, looking for the hotel service area. A row of industrial bins lined one side of a fenced enclosure, which had an opened gate flapping in the strengthening wind. He marched inside, lifted the lid of the nearest bin, and flung the plastic bag among the littered contents. Returning to the front of the hotel he stood waiting under the entrance awning for a taxi. When one pulled up, he climbed in, and settled back for what he was sure would be his last journey in Europe.

  Claude Bartran didn’t believe in déjà vu. Yet here he was in another hotel car park, watching the same man stride from the entrance into a car, albeit this time as a passenger. Twice in the space of six hours, he mused. What were the chances of that?

  Thirty minutes earlier, Claude had contemplated giving up the chase. He was bone-weary, feeling every day of his seventy years, knowing he had little left in the tank. Then he noticed the light on his tracker was no longer moving. Nightingale had stopped, probably to switch transport and disappear into the ether.

  A burst of adrenaline flooded his system and his right foot seemed to take on a life of its own. It pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor, with such intensity it threatened to burst through the aluminium and fibreglass footwell. What followed was one of the most hair-raising drives of Claude’s life as he hurtled the little Renault at speeds it was never intended to safely cope with.

  He tracked the static light straight into the Hilton Mainz Hotel and had just completed one circuit of the car park when he spotted Nightingale walking towards a taxi.

  Bartran breathed a sigh of relief.

  He kept the Renault three cars back from the taxi, thankful the rain showers had now turned into a full-blown downpour that made it impossible for Nightingale to pick up a tail. Just as he tracked it into the central train station entrance his satellite phone vibrated noisily on the passenger seat.

  He grabbed it, knowing already who the caller was.

  “Claude, what’s happening? We’ve noticed the Mercedes is now stationery. Where are you?”

  “Mike, I have him in sight. He stopped at a hotel, no doubt to throw us off the scent, but he is now pulling into the Mainz train station in a taxi.”

  “Great work, Claude. Now we have to figure his next move.”

  “Mon ami, it is not the science of rockets. He has to continue eastwards. My guess is either Frankfurt or Berlin. That is obvious, n’est ce pas?”

  There was a short silence before Devon spoke again. “Claude, you have to listen to what I’m about to tell you. I agree with your logic, but you are to break off the pursuit. We will be at Frankfurt long before the next train from Mainz makes a stop there. We can pick him up without too much bother, but we don’t need him spooked before he walks him into our arms.”

  “Ah, you think old Claude will make a blunder. Maybe my teeth are too old, but I was running counter-surveillance before you were in nappies. The day I can’t complete a simple assignment like this is the day I will put a gun in my mouth. Do not worry about me. What if we’re wrong and he does not go east? What if he simply exits the station and grabs another taxi somewhere else? Would you not look foolish pacing up and down the platforms at Frankfurt while our friend gets a free run?

  “Point taken. I just worry about you, you old coot.”

  “Très bien, we are agreed. I will follow this snake and keep you posted. Now, I must go and do my duty.”

  Chapter 19

  THERE WERE usually only three ways for this kind of situation to develop. As he stood on a deserted platform five at Frankfurt, Devon ran through the main scenarios, ignoring the umpteen other ways things could go pear-shaped. Dealing with cock-ups is best done if and when they arise.

  Best case planning was for Nightingale to walk straight into the heavy, covert police cordon. Public access to platform five was shut down while BND officers, in the guise of porters, travellers, and canoodling couples, attempted to present a scene of normality to the passengers stepping down from the Mainz Express. In an ideal world, the anti-terrorist operatives would simply box in their target and take him to the ground with a minimum of fuss.

  Worst case was Nightingale spotting the trap, grabbing a hostage, and trying to shoot his way to safety. Worst case was to be avoided at all costs.

  Somewhere in between lay the third option. Maybe Nightingale would remain aboard and ride the Express all the way to Berlin. In that eventuality, the police would swarm the compartments and attempt to take him in transit.

  Whatever way it played out, Devon was convinced of one thing. The assassin would not allow himself to be taken without a fight.

  And that would suit Devon just fine.

  No further messages had been received from Claude Bartran. That could only mean that Nightingale had boarded the Express and was on his way. Any deviation and old Claude would have been on the sat-phone immediately, unless of course he had been rendered immobile.

  Devon didn’t want to go there.

  He had resisted several urges to ring Claude, but held back. The last thing he wanted was to compromise his friend by drawing attention to him at an inopportune time. Despite his misgivings about Claude not being at operational peak he trusted the old boy’s experiences and instincts.

  What was really occupying Devon’s thoughts was how he could dispose of Nightingale before BND slapped on a pair of handcuffs. The capture of Nightingale was not enough to assuage the
desire for vengeance. The assassin had to pay for the slaying of Dave Carpenter, and wallowing in a German prison was not Devon’s idea of payment.

  One way or another it would end here.

  The squeal of breaks and the hammering of wheels on the track cross-ties stirred him from his reverie. The Mainz Express was slowing for its approach to platform five.

  Busy train stations the world over share cacophonous characteristics. The metallic clangs of carriages, being coupled or uncoupled, mingle with the thrum of idling engines across a dozen platforms to compete with the incessant shunting of baggage trolleys in a symphony of noise that breaches even the most liberal of decibel codes. To complete the mix, all that’s needed is to throw in the constant grating of tannoy announcements and the steady babble of humanity shouting farewells to departing loved ones.

  A train station is not the place to be for those of a sensitive auditory disposition.

  When Charles Nightingale stepped onto platform five something was missing. In fact, quite a lot was missing. No carriages were being coupled or uncoupled. No engines were idling on nearby platforms. No baggage trolleys were being pushed up and down the concrete walkways. The grey tannoy speakers were strangely mute. Oddest of all, was the complete absence of voices, save for those of the handful of people who exited the carriage with him.

  He quickly shifted his gaze to the people already waiting on the platform. There was no interaction between them, no-one spoke or gesticulated to each other. To a man, and one woman, they all stood staring at the roof of the train. It was unnatural. Then he noticed their bearing. Shoulders back, feet apart, two with their right hands buried beneath their coats. Nightingale had learned through experience to spot law enforcement a mile away.

  He had also learned to never look for a silver lining. Forget coincidences; don’t assume they’re after someone else. Take whatever has been thrown at you and get on with it.