by Angus McLean
The hangars were each lit by a single external light, with plenty of shadows to give cover to a covert infiltration.
He lay in the undergrowth and surveyed the site one last time with the naked eye. He’d circled it completely over the previous hour, using the night sight to examine every square inch and ensure he knew what he was going into.
He needed to get in there and look for any evidence to properly identify the passengers or establish the true purpose for their visit to Germany.
There was no sign of guard dogs – no kennels, food bowls, discarded bones or toys, no piles of shit. No cameras aside from at the front of the admin building, but he doubted it was infra-red.
No sign of a guard on site aside from a light in the admin building. Nothing had moved, no shadows across the window, no noise to indicate a person was in there. Maybe it was just a light left on by mistake in an office. Maybe it was a team of armed heavies waiting to ambush him.
With nothing to verify either option, he had to assume there was somebody on site who was not actively patrolling. Possibly a static guard who spent his night watching TV and sleeping instead of securing his premises.
Sarah was parked up half a klick away in the Golf, keeping open comms through the cheap walkie-talkies.
They had spent a quiet day together, talking and planning, comfortable in each other’s company. They had ventured out to walk and eat, and both of them had commented later that they sensed the presence of watching eyes. Nothing seen and nothing heard, just the sensory pinging of highly-tuned antenna.
Whether it meant they had been pinged by local security forces or not, who knew? But it was the sort of instinctive response that kept operatives alive in the field. The rest of the day had been spent hunkered down in the hotel room, awaiting nightfall before sneaking out.
Archer had an earpiece taped in place and the radio itself tucked into an inside pocket of his jacket. He was clad in dark jeans, a grey and green shirt under a black windbreaker, and black trainers. He had only basic tools with him; wire cutters, a penlight torch, a multi tool, gloves and a cheap day pack.
The only non-standard tool he carried that distinguished him from an ordinary burglar was a lock-picking tool that resembled a small drill with a flat body. Even that was bought over the counter so did not necessarily identify him as anything more than a thief.
The night sight and his other kit was all wrapped in a plastic bag and stashed under a bush near the roadside where he could easily recover it.
He opened the front of his jacket and keyed the radio. ‘Moving now.’
‘Roger that. Moving up.’
She would move forward without lights and wait at an agreed RV point, ready for a quick getaway if he got rumbled. It would also give her some limited obs on the airfield.
He pushed up and scurried low to the fence. Fifteen seconds of cutting and there was a flap large enough to wriggle through, before lying flat and reassessing. The rattle of the chain link had seemed deafeningly loud to him but nothing else seemed to be disturbed by it.
He angled to his left, away from the admin building, crossing a stretch of green before hunkering down again and scanning. The shadows were deep and his breath steamed in the cool air. He was warm inside the jacket and was aware that he may be giving off steam from his body heat.
Another dash and he was angled across the runway towards the hangars, keeping to the shadows and moving steadily, bent over but keeping his head on a swivel.
Nothing.
He paused near the edge of the next stretch of green, taking a last couple of minutes to check his surroundings before making for the nearest hangar.
The geeks at GCHQ had come through with the info that the plane they were seeking was being housed in that particular hangar. How they knew that, Archer didn’t know. He’d never understood the world of Signint (signals intelligence), never cared for it aside from what it could give him to help complete his mission.
He moved to the pedestrian door at the side, over which hung a dull sodium light. The only other way into the building was the main doors at the front, which wasn’t an option. The noise of hauling one open even slightly would wake the dead.
Archer crouched at the door, his back to the wall, scanning and listening. No time to fuck about. He produced the lock-picking gun and checked the lock with his penlight. The lens was taped over with a tiny hole giving just enough light to see by.
He selected what he guessed was the right size attachment, quickly fitted it into place and inserted it into the lock. The gun did its thing in half a minute and the lock clicked open. Archer turned the handle and moved inside, hunkering down and closing the door.
There could have been people inside but he had no way of knowing until he got in there. No point in delaying for the unknown. He listened intently, tucking the lock picking gun away again.
No noise, no movement.
A Coke machine against one wall cast a faint glow of light into the hangar, and moonlight filtered in through the large skylights.
A stairway nearby led up to a gantry with a couple of offices of some sort, overlooking the hangar floor. Another office was at ground level on the far side; he could just make out its shape beyond the plane.
‘I’m in,’ he breathed into the radio, getting a click in return.
He moved along the wall, checking for sensors and cameras. He expected there to be alarm sensors, but there was nothing. Strange. Maybe the light in the admin building meant there was a guard on duty, for whatever he was worth. It seemed strange to have probably millions of Euros worth of aircraft on site with no alarms.
No point wasting time second-guessing; he had to get on with it. The longer he was on site, the more likely it was he’d be discovered or something would go wrong.
He trotted over to the plane, the soles of his trainers squeaking slightly on the concrete floor.
Sure enough, it was a blue and white Cessna Denali. He checked the tail number. It was the right one. The door was open and the steps were down. Archer moved up and flicked the light around inside. Nothing obvious.
He backed out and moved around the machine, not really sure what he was looking for. It was like that sometimes. Often you didn’t know what you were seeking until you fell over it. Completing a full circle, Archer paused again and looked around him. The nearest wall had a workbench along it, tools neatly arranged on the hooks above it, other gear in storage bins beneath the benchtop.
He moved to the bench and ran the penlight over it. There was unlikely to be a signed note anywhere saying, “I’m a terrorist and I was here,” but there was always the chance of a scribbled note from a mechanic or member of the ground crew that may be unintentionally useful.
He found a discarded packet of cigarettes, a newspaper and a lottery ticket. A pin-up on the wall displayed a buxom blonde girl in all her glory, with a calendar courtesy of an engineering firm. A large plastic trash bin beneath the bench contained a bundle of grey fabric, maybe a tarpaulin.
The plane had been grounded long enough to have been cleaned, so anything inadvertently left on board should have disappeared by now.
He leaned against the workbench, letting his mind run on its own. There was nothing here that appeared to be of any use. The last places to check were the interior of the plane and the offices. The offices would take the longest time, so he settled on the plane first – plus, it was closest. He pushed off the bench and started to move towards the steps, when something twigged in the back of his brain.
He paused, turned, and stared at the trash bin again. Grey fabric.
He stepped back to it and pulled it out from under the bench. He grabbed a bunch of the bundled fabric and pulled it out. Not a tarp at all.
Silk. An unfolded parachute.
Archer pulled it out completely to make sure, finding the harness. He held it in his hands, adrenaline kicking in. This was it. This was the unknown clue he had been seeking, not knowing it until he saw it.
Kozlowski
hadn’t entered the country on a false passport at all. He hadn’t been hiding on board when the Cessna landed, because he wasn’t there.
He had parachuted in. The plane would have dropped him some distance away, probably over farm or woodland, and he had jumped. A guy with his background would be a competent jumper. The plane would have landed as normal, everything checked out legit, and he had been picked up by a team on the ground.
The clever bastard. A simple plan, but clever.
A parachute was not an unusual thing to find in an aircraft hangar, but being a private hangar – not used by a sky diving team or jump school – an unpacked one was. They were a pain to pack properly, so there was only one reason for a chute to be unpacked – it wasn’t going to be needed again any time soon.
Archer stuffed the chute back into the bin and placed it back where he’d found it. He checked his watch. He’d been on site for nearly twenty minutes now. Sweat was running down his back. Having found the chute and what he believed to be Kozlowski’s method of entry into Germany, he felt like he’d be pushing his luck to stick around too much longer.
He lifted the radio close to his mouth and pressed the talk button as he started up the stairs to the offices.
‘Found a used parachute in the hangar. Nothing else.’
‘Roger that.’
Archer was about to step into the Cessna when he heard Sarah’s voice in his ear.
‘Stand by, stand by. Vehicle approaching.’
He froze, listening.
‘Turning in. Black SUV, at least two-up. Unlocking the gate.’
Not good. Archer backed down the steps and ran a quick check over himself to make sure he hadn’t dropped anything.
‘They’re in, coming straight to your hangar. They’re not mucking about; they’ve been alerted. You must’ve tripped something. You need to get out.’
Chapter 9
Archer was already moving, racing to the pedestrian door he’d come through. He cracked it far enough to get a visual and could see headlights flying towards him from the direction of the gate. A quick glance towards the admin building revealed that the door was open. There had been somebody inside after all.
‘Move to the ERV,’ he snapped into the radio, ‘I’m going off comms.’
Without waiting for a reply he ripped the earpiece out and yanked the radio from his jacket. It was a dead giveaway and he couldn’t afford to be caught with it. He quickly closed the door again, the racing SUV nearly at the hangar now.
He ducked inside, shoved the radio kit into the nearest box of rags and covered it, before pausing to listen again.
Running footsteps could be heard over the rumble of an engine. He bolted across the hangar towards the main doors, but already they were opening. He cut left instead and made for the stairs up to the walkway.
If he could get up there then he could get to the roof and have a chance at escape.
Before he’d gone more than a few steps two guys burst in through the big doors, M4s in hand. Their torches fanned across the hangar, seeking a target. No time to shag around, he decided. Archer pumped his knees and arms, making a good few strides before a light swept across him. He kept going, ignoring the shouted warning.
A suppressed double-tap sounded and rounds pinged off the stairway beside him. He kept going. The third round was better placed and cracked past his ear so close he felt the wind brush the side of his head.
‘Don’t be a dumb-ass,’ a voice shouted. ‘The next one won’t miss.’
Archer stopped where he was, raising his hands in the air. Someone found a switch and the hangar was flooded with light.
The pedestrian door opened and two more gunmen entered, training their carbines on him from only a few metres away. Like their colleagues they were clad in casual jeans and jackets but moved with the confident physicality of professional soldiers.
‘Keep your hands up, asshole,’ one of them called out. He was stocky and muscular, with a mop of blond hair. ‘Come down backwards, nice and slow. Do anything stupid and we blow your ass away, unnerstand?’
Archer said nothing but did as he was told. Coming down backwards made it harder for him to try and spring a surprise attack on them; it was a smart move on their part. It also told him they knew what they were doing.
He reached ground level again and stopped. The instructions were smooth and clear; hands on the head, interlock the fingers, on your knees, look at the ground, cross the ankles. While the others covered him, one guy approached from behind and secured his hands behind his back with interlocked cable ties. A hood over the head blocked his vision and muffled his hearing.
The concrete was cold and unforgiving and his knees soon began to ache while he waited in silence. He adjusted his posture, as much as a test as to relieve the discomfort, and got a swift answer. A boot heel ground painfully into the back of his calf and he stifled a gasp.
‘Stay still, asshole,’ a voice told him. Like the other voices, it was an American accent. He couldn’t place the regional inflection, but it didn’t matter.
He stayed still, concentrating on taking in as much info as he could gather. Trouble was, there was nothing; the gunmen didn’t speak and didn’t even seem to move. There was no discernible sound for a good few minutes until the furthest away door opened and he heard a new set of footsteps approaching. Light and confident, quiet – rubber soles, probably. They stopped several metres away and he heard one of the gunmen move to join the unseen newcomer.
The door had let in a cool evening wind, and with it the fragrance of whatever was growing outside. Jasmine, maybe. He wasn’t too good with flowers.
Archer kept his mouth half open to try and catch anything that was said, but could only hear very muffled talk. It was like listening to a conversation from underwater. In less than a minute the light, confident footsteps moved away, followed by the door closing.
‘Up.’
A hand on each arm assisted him to his feet and didn’t let go. He could smell aftershave on one of them.
‘Okay buddy, make it easy,’ the main voice said, in front of him now but a couple of metres back. Safe, and in control. ‘What’s your name and why are you here?’
Archer said nothing, deciding to let it play out. It played out by way of a kidney punch that blasted a bolt of pain right through his core and made him want to piss his pants. He gasped and started to buckle, but the two hands held him up. He was still gasping for breath when the question was repeated.
When no answer came, another blow came, directly on the same spot. The pain was excruciating and stars danced before his eyes. His knees gave way and he hung limply by the arms, his insides consumed with agony. He couldn’t see past the pain, let alone form any kind of an answer.
‘Roll ‘im up.’
Archer was yanked backwards and felt himself stumble, his feet unable to keep pace with the two men dragging him by the arms.
The cable ties were biting into his wrists. He let himself go slack and heard a grunt from one of the men as they took his full weight. Better that they get tired from carrying him than him by trying to keep up.
They dragged him backwards for several metres before lifting him upright and pushing him against a steel pillar. He heard the sound of duct tape being unrolled, and a moment later he was being wrapped to the pillar. Round and round, chest and waist, knees and ankles.
‘Name?’ The same voice again. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Stealing.’ Archer muttered the word, keeping his voice low and muffled to try and disguise his accent. It was his only hope right now. A Kiwi burglar was highly unlikely in Berlin, but it seemed a better option than admitting to being a Kiwi spy.
‘A thief?’ The man’s tone was disbelieving. ‘You expect me to believe that you’re just some dumb-ass burglar?’
‘Lemme go.’ Archer injected some desperation now, a touch of pitiful pleading. ‘Need my pills.’
‘Say what?’
‘Nee’ my pills.’ Archer was givi
ng it his best shot. If he could convince these guys he was just some vagrant out for a night’s stealing, one of life’s less fortunate, then he may have a chance of getting out of here alive.
‘Fuck.’ The man sounded pissed off now and Archer heard the movement of feet.
Maybe the guy was looking to his team for their thoughts. Was this guy for real? Just a dumb-ass burglar?
He heard a murmur of voices, then a decision from the team leader.
‘Uh-huh. Do it.’
He knew what was coming and pushed the thought aside for now. Don’t worry about what you can’t control. He focussed instead on preparing himself for the inevitable as best he could. Deep breaths to oxygenate his blood and bracing himself, knowing it wouldn’t be long.
They didn’t disappoint. These boys were good at what they did. No discussion, just straight into it. Gut punches first, left, right, left again.
Breathing hard, but no major damage. Yet.
Left jaw, hard enough to snap his head sideways, blinking under the hood. Gut again, nearly winding him, gasping, right jaw, head snapping back the other way, right ear now, a good solid shot that squashed the ear flat against his head. That one was going to bruise, for sure.
Up under the ribs, burying deep with rock hard knuckles. Fuck, that one hurt. Gasping again, trying to get some air into his lungs, but no chance. More torso shots, a constant barrage that stopped him from breathing, shot after shot landing in the same places. Didn’t feel like any breaks or cracks yet, but he doubted his organs would be in great shape if they carried on like this.
And they did.
A hand grabbed his head and slammed it back against the steel pillar. He hung there, unable to move, the strips of tape holding him in place.
Bang! Left side of the head, colourful stars bursting across his vision. He let out a groan and the fist came in again, same place, his head held in place by the other hand and taking the full force, unable to ride it through. Again, a fourth, a fifth.