Tentatively climbing out of the car, Sean made his way to the corner of the square. The fountain was about eighty metres away and Clive had warned him not to get closer than fifty metres to the gang, as he needed a good head start for safety. Plucking up his courage, he stepped out of the shadows of the side street and walked straight towards the statue. He could feel every movement of his body as his heart raced in anticipation of what was to come.
After ten metres, nothing happened, so he slowed his pace deliberately, counting down the distance between him and the skinheads. 65, 64… 58, 57… 46, 45… He was too close and he knew it… 40, 39. Way too close. 36, 35 ...
‘Hey, das ist der Engländer,’ he heard one of the group shout and point in his direction. He stopped no more than thirty metres from the group, waiting for the chase to begin, tensing his muscles ready to run.
The break came from the side of the group, from the same youth he’d confronted on the first night again. Sean turned and started to run, pushing his speed faster, while trying to avoid slipping in the snow.
When he glanced over his shoulder, as expected, the group was giving chase. Knowing that he needed to conserve energy, he ran at three-quarters pace past the car, where Clive was crouched down in the driver’s seat, hiding. The gang were now about forty metres behind him and not gaining ground, so he continued at the same pace, allowing something in reserve in case he got into trouble.
When he approached the sharp corner onto the river road, still coasting ahead of the angry group, his confidence was growing. Suddenly, as he attempted to round the corner, he felt his feet lose their grip on the cobbles and he slid across the pavement, falling headfirst into a snowdrift. Behind him, the gang gained ground quickly. He rolled out of the drift and onto the firm ground, righting himself as quickly as he could.
Just as the first of the skinheads reached the corner, he started to move away again, the thug’s outstretched hand failing to connect with him. As he picked up his pace again, he looked back to see the skinheads falling at the same spot that he’d slipped.
Somehow, they managed to right themselves more quickly than he had, and had gained some twenty metres, so he increased his pace and started to pull away, thankful for Clive’s advice about holding something in reserve, as the thugs struggled to keep up in their heavy boots.
When the lights on the bridge came into view, just 300 metres in front of him, with the gap to the gang growing to about forty metres or so behind, he started to feel confident he could get there before them and maintained his pace.
Then, with just seventy metres to go, he heard the sound of an engine revving hard, when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the pickup truck the thugs had used some nights before, skidding around the corner. A bolt of panic shot through his body and he picked up his pace to a sprint, pushing towards the bridge as the truck got closer.
Thirty metres before he reached the bridge, the truck pulled alongside him. One of the skinheads was leaning out of the window, hurling abuse at him, but steel street posts stopped the truck from mounting the kerb and Sean just carried on running, ignoring the abuse, hoping that they didn’t have weapons.
Just then, Clive’s rented car shot past on the bridge road, skidding to a halt ten metres onto the bridge. Right behind it, Sean flung himself around the corner and onto the bridge, while the truck slid sideways in the snow as it hit the junction. When Sean reached the car, he jumped into the rear seat and before he could close the door, Clive hit the pedal again, with Sean’s legs still dangling onto the street.
The wheels spun in the snow, trying to get traction, as the truck rammed the rear of the car, sending it careering forward. The violent crash threw Sean into the footwell and he lost his grip on the seat, suddenly slipping backwards out of the open door.
Somehow, Clive managed to regain control and steer to the centre of the road, with the truck still pushing at the rear.
Sean rolled to a halt against the railings of the bridge. When he looked back, he saw that the skinheads had stopped at the edge of the bridge, watching the car chase. When they saw Sean, they started to sprint in his direction.
A loud cracking sound came from the rear of the car, as the bumper was ripped from the frame and the truck swerved free.
Sean sprinted as fast as he could towards the German side of the bridge, with the group of skinheads behind giving chase, then suddenly in front of him, the truck stopped and started to turn around.
A signpost above the truck read; Willkommen im Deutschland. Clive was right! They won’t cross into Germany.
As the truck straightened up on the bridge, it was about thirty metres ahead of Sean and the skinheads on foot were about the same distance behind him. He was trapped.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Monday, 8th February. Braunau-am-Inn, Austria.
Sean glanced down at the freezing River Inn below the bridge. It was tearing underneath at a fast rate, boosted by the snowfall. He’d be dead in seconds if he tried to jump in.
The three skinheads from the truck were now out of the cab and walking towards him. Closing in from the other side, ten skinheads were approaching, also now at walking speed.
Sean looked for a gap between the two groups, but there wasn’t one. The only way out was the river, where he was sure that he’d end up anyway if the skinheads had their way.
When the two groups reached a point just five metres away from him, they stopped and formed a semi-circle around him. Sean felt behind him for the handrail of the bridge. It was cold and wet, but its touch meant that he was close enough to the edge.
The deputy leader took control of the group, centring himself in the semi-circle of neo-Nazi thugs. Hatred welled in his eyes as he pulled out a knife from his coat and theatrically licked the blade. ‘For your dick, Engländer,’ he said in heavily accented German. The other skinheads laughed at the comment, grabbing at their crotches.
Sean made a quick decision. There was no way he was going to let the skinheads cut off his penis; he’d rather take his chances in the freezing river. He swivelled around and climbed onto the stone wall that separated the road from the river. The drop was only five or so metres to the water. He’d survive the fall, but probably not the ice-cold glacial water.
The deputy suddenly stopped, a sadistic grin crossing his face. ‘Springen, English. Kaltwasser. Dead,’ he laughed, mixing up the two languages.
Sean looked down at the rushing water again, plucking up his courage. Then, as he twitched his leg muscles to jump, the Volkswagen, shot past the parked truck on the bridge revving hard and heading straight at the group of skinheads.
As they turned, Sean took the opportunity and ran along the wall of the bridge, jumping over the small stone pillars, every step dicing with the icy death that waited for him below, but getting away from the angry mob.
The Volkswagen continued to drive straight at the skinheads who were now running for cover. Then just before it reached the first of them, it hit a handbrake turn and skidded around to face in the other direction. Seconds later it was by Sean’s side and slowing down. Sean quickly leaped down from the wall and dived into the rear seat, slamming the door behind him as Clive floored the accelerator and sped away.
Once they cleared the bridge, Clive slowed down to a normal speed. ‘That was close,’ he said.
‘Too close,’ Sean agreed, then he looked at the unconscious leader in the passenger seat and frowned.
‘He resisted arrest,’ Clive said grinning.
‘Shit, Clive! what if he is a policeman?’
‘Then he should be a better fighter,’ Clive laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just a little trick Terry showed me. He’ll come around soon.’
A few miles outside Simbach on the road to Munich, Clive pulled the car over into a layby. ‘Let’s wake up laughing boy here,’ he said, and reached out of the car door for a handful of snow, which he promptly rubbed into the gang leader’s face.
‘Was ist … ?’ the leader shouted, coming
to, staring at Clive.
‘Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you,’ Clive said. ‘He might though,’ he pointed at Sean.
After looking back at Sean, the leader slumped into his seat, realizing that he was outnumbered. ‘What do you want, Englishman? Why do you keep coming back to Braunau?’
‘Because somebody killed my friend, and I’d like to know who,’ Clive said.
‘Then why bring a journalist with you?’ the leader asked, looking at Sean. ‘Yes, I know who you are Mr McManus,’ he added.
‘Then tell us who you are,’ Clive said.
‘My name is Roland Glas. The man whose house you broke into is my grandfather,’ the leader said casually.
It obviously wasn’t the answer Clive had been expecting, as Sean saw his jaw drop slightly.
‘So it was your brother who had the fight in the playground with the child from the cottage?’ Sean filled in the gap quickly.
‘No, it was my brother’s son. They are new to town and don’t know people yet, so they were confused, if that’s what they told you.’
‘Why did you only hit him on the knee?’ Sean asked.
‘Because he didn’t deserve any more. My nephew is a horrible child and a bully. I felt sorry for the family.’
‘But you still went there, why?’ Clive asked.
The question seemed to annoy the skinhead leader and Sean scrutinised his face as he turned away from Clive. He was young, but somehow possessed the presence of an older person and he clearly wasn’t scared of Sean or Clive, somehow knowing that they would eventually let him go.
‘What’s this?’ Sean said, passing him a copy of the organisation chart that they found in his room.
It certainly gained a reaction as the leader’s eyes opened wide at the sight of the paper. ‘I see you didn’t just break into my grandfather’s house.’
‘What is it?’ Clive said.
‘As you can see, it’s an organisation chart.’
‘For which organisation?’ Clive pressured.
‘The Fourth Reich,’ the leader said.
‘Is it real?’ Sean asked.
‘Very real,’ the leader replied.
‘Why were you filling in the names?’ Clive asked.
Silence. The leader didn’t speak.
‘Are you an undercover policeman?’ Clive asked.
The question seemed to shock the leader and he looked down, clearly grappling with something. ‘No, I’m not,’ he answered.
‘Then why are you trying to find out who all the people in the organisation are?’ Sean interrupted.
Again, silence, but then the leader seemed to change his mind. ‘Go back to England where you’ll be safe. You’re prying into things that will get you killed,’ he said.
‘Not without answers regarding my friend’s death,’ Clive pushed.
‘Okay, what do you want to know? But after I tell you, you must leave and never return to Braunau. Agreed?’
Clive considered the deal briefly. ‘Agreed,’ he said.
‘Okay, who are you really?’ Sean asked.
‘As I said, Roland Glas. Hans Glas really is my grandfather.’
‘Then why are you researching the organisation?’ Clive asked.
‘Because I’m helping the German security services,’ he answered.
‘The police?’ Clive asked.
‘Not exactly.’
‘You work for the BND?’ Clive said, raising his eyebrows.
‘What?’ Sean frowned at the question.
‘It’s the German Federal Intelligence Service. Don’t ask me what the letters stand for,’ Clive answered.
‘Bundesnachrichtendienst,’ the leader said. ‘And no, I don’t work for them. As I said, I’m just helping them.’
‘Why?’ Sean asked.
‘Because my family is a bunch of dangerous lunatics. Before I went into the army, I thought it was pretty harmless. But when the BND approached me, I realised that it was more; that it was growing like a cancer and needed to be stopped.’
‘Why you?’ Sean asked.
‘Because my family name gave me an easy in; I was already trusted. My great-grandfather was the first to welcome Hitler into Austria in 1938, and he went on to rule Upper Austria with an iron fist for the Nazis, until the end of the war, when he was killed by his own people.’
‘And your grandfather?’ Sean asked.
‘He used the wealth stolen by my great-grandfather to buy power, and has always been very proud of the family connection to Hitler. Believe it or not, being a person who actually met Hitler gives him some kind of celebrity status in this group.’
‘Why did he become an MEP?’ Sean asked.
‘We don’t know, but something changed in the Nazi groups when Wagner appeared, throwing his money around. They became more organised and started to put people into positions of power.’
‘What are they up to?’ Sean said.
‘That’s what people like me are meant to find out. Unfortunately, I can’t even find out who’s in charge above Wagner. What we do know is that activity has been building, and so has the Nazi rhetoric about seizing power.’
‘What? Nazis taking over Germany or Austria again?’ Sean narrowed his eyes in disbelief.
‘We think their ambitions are greater: the whole of Europe,’ the leader said.
‘That’s nuts. How will they do that?’ Clive said dismissively.
‘Again, we don’t know. I agree it sounds unbelievable, but there are some very powerful people involved, and people like that don’t usually waste their time on things that have no chance of success.’
‘Can’t you just ask your grandfather about it?’ Sean said.
The leader looked at him suddenly wary. ‘I’d be dead before I left the room. My grandfather might look like a harmless old man, but he’s in this up to his neck, and he isn’t a stranger to making people disappear. Be careful of him: you’re already on his hit list.’
‘Who is Dorsch? It says he’s the Propaganda Minister,’ Sean asked.
‘He’s a Bavarian businessman, heavily involved in providing private security contractors to war zones like Iraq and Afghanistan.’
‘There was a question mark by his name?’ Sean asked.
‘Yes, I’m not sure. My grandfather met with him in Braunau a couple of times, and he has the resources, so I made an assumption. It could be wrong of course.’
‘One last question: all of the divisions on the org chart have letters and then 18 after them. What do they mean?’ Sean asked.
‘The letters are the name of the district: BR is Braunau; KO is Köln; and so on. The 4R is the Fourth Reich.’
‘And the 18?’ Clive asked.
‘The first and eighth letter in the alphabet, AH, for Adolf Hitler. It’s a common symbol of Nazism. They use it, or 88 for Heil Hitler, so as not to provoke the police so openly in certain countries.’
‘Thank you,’ Clive said when they dropped Roland Glas back at the bridge in Simbach. As he walked away, Sean considered the bravery of the decision made by the lonely figure stumbling over the snow-covered bridge. If he succeeded he’d lose all his family; if he failed he’d lose his life.
Chapter Thirty
Monday, 8th February. Munich, Germany.
‘They know who you are? How?’ Liz exclaimed.
‘I assume through the Austrian police following Terry’s injuries,’ Clive said.
‘That means they probably know where Terry is as well,’ Liz said.
‘Yes, but I don’t think he’s in any danger. We’re not a threat to them yet. We don’t know anything, so I doubt they’ll come after us,’ Clive replied.
‘What do you propose we do now?’ Liz turned to Sean.
‘I think we go after Dorsch. Going up the org chart makes more sense than going down,’ Sean answered.
‘Okay, but I can only stay in Munich until next Sunday. Praew needs to go back to school next week,’ Liz said.
‘That’s okay. Dorsch lives in Munich
anyway, so we’ll work from here,’ Sean agreed.
*
Following a night’s sleep and a visit to the hospital, where Terry was still in the same condition, they began their research into Stefan Dorsch. Again, nearly all of the information was in German, but putting the text through an online translator gave them a general idea of what it meant.
Dorsch was forty-seven, single, and lived in an apartment in central Munich, close to his business offices on Prannerstrasse. In his twenties, he’d apparently been a mercenary, selling his services to any number of violent dictators across Central and Northern Africa. Then, after the Gulf War, he’d suddenly emerged as one of the leading security contractors in Iraq. Now his company provided heavily armed security to businesses and individuals working in Iraq, Afghanistan and a number of African states.
The photo of him that Liz had found showed that he was lean and muscular, with a chiselled face that looked younger than his years. His closely cropped grey hair was balding in the middle and he had a scar on his left cheek. He even looks like a mercenary, Sean thought.
‘We may need a bigger team to keep an eye on him,’ Clive said.
‘How many?’ Sean asked, mindful of the exorbitant costs of Clive’s men.
‘Two should do it: one for the office; one for the home,’ Clive said.
‘Okay,’ he shrugged.
‘I’ll have them here later today,’ Clive said.
‘Did you see anything that might show a political allegiance yet?’ Sean asked Liz, who was sorting through screens on her computer.
sThe Quiet Wart Page 16