The Berlin Conspiracy (The Division Book 4)

by Angus McLean

‘Wait one,’ the desk officer told him, ‘the boss wants a chat.’

  Ingoe came on the line. ‘No dramas?’

  ‘No. Just clearing my tail.’

  ‘No matches on that photo, we’ve flicked it over to a couple of other outfits to check their records. I’ve got no doubt he’ll be known to someone. We’ll let you know. In the meantime, thin out and do some sight-seeing.’

  ‘All good.’

  Archer rang off and tucked the phone away. It was half past eight now and workers were busy getting themselves off to their faceless offices for another beige day at the coalface. It was important now that Archer laid a trail of activity for the day. He needed something to show his whereabouts for the day on the off-chance he was somehow linked to the killing in Prague.

  He retrieved the car and returned to the Holiday Inn, taking the time to grab a late breakfast from room service and a decent shower. It felt good to be washed and dressed in clean clothes, and with a full stomach and a spring in his step, he was ready to play tourist.

  It wasn’t often that he got downtime on a job like this – usually his time was spent surveilling a target or taking direct action. For now at least, his time was free.

  He made his way to Checkpoint Charlie, the scene of so much dissent and skulduggery during the Cold War, had a look at the remains of the Berlin Wall and, quite by chance, stumbled across a walking tour of the city. He handed over his cash, took a guidebook, and tagged along with a bunch of multi-national tourists, all festooned with cameras and trendy walking kit.

  The tour guide was a well-spoken German girl in her late twenties with a bright yellow floppy hat and little round John Lennon glasses. Archer joined in the group, listening avidly to her tales of the Gestapo, the bombing during the war, the Stasi and the desperate attempts to escape East Berlin.

  David Hasselhoff was mentioned more than once and Archer couldn’t help but think of the talking black Trans Am, a perm that no man could ever reasonably excuse and spiffy Devon in the big truck.

  As they walked the streets Archer noticed people handing out flyers to passers-by in at least three different locations. He took one out of idle curiosity and scanned the brightly coloured writing. It was short and concise; Stop immigration! Save the Deutschland from foreign criminals!

  There was more scrawl after that but Archer quickly lost interest. It was the same old dribble that had been around for years. The only thing that stood out to him was the fact that, far from being skinheads in denim and chains, the people passing out the flyers were middle class, normal-looking people. One even reminded him of his mother.

  He screwed the flyer into a ball and tossed it in the nearest bin. He had bigger things to worry about than this crap. Besides, the girl in the yellow hat had an engaging smile and a toned set of legs that were holding his interest.

  Eventually he felt the hit of fatigue so slipped away from the group, picked up a large frothy coffee from a café and a bratwurst from a street vendor – fresher and hotter than the earlier effort – and fed himself while he walked to find a cab. He felt himself nodding off on the way back to the hotel, and it seemed like the driver had taken him on the tourist route for a few extra notes, but he was beyond caring.

  He made his way into the Holiday Inn, took the lift to his floor, and buzzed open the door. He had plans for an afternoon nap before he hit the gym, but as soon as he crossed the threshold of his room, he realised he was not alone.

  The woman standing by the window was facing him, her hands in front of her, fingers laced together, seemingly loose and relaxed. Her face gave the game away. It was watchful, sharp, her eyes running over him in an instant and watching every move. Archer had no doubt he was being assessed by a professional.

  She was dressed in a smart dark blue pantsuit. The whole scene was a lot more formal than when he’d spoken to her in the café over a bowl of ham and pea soup.

  The man to Archer’s left was bigger, strong in the shoulders, his jaw square and solid. His body language was quietly intimidating, as if he was waiting for something to kick off so he could explode into action.

  Looking at him, Archer had no interest in provoking such a reaction. It took a blade to know a blade, and this guy was clearly an operator. Probably GSG9, he figured. His bald dome gleamed and his dark beard was flecked with salt, his eyes hard and inquisitive. His nose had been broken at least once, and his black suit was functional and off-the-rack.

  ‘Please,’ Archer said, turning back to the woman, ‘let yourselves in. Make yourselves at home.’

  She didn’t smile, but produced an ID wallet which she held out for him to see. He couldn’t read it from where he stood, but it looked official and they clearly weren’t there to play games.

  ‘Come in, sit down,’ she said in flawless English, her tone neutral.

  ‘How kind,’ he said, ‘considering it is my room…’

  The guy gave a harrumph and Archer looked at him.

  ‘What the hell is this about?’ he demanded, giving his best impression of an indignant tourist. ‘Who are you people and why are you breaking into my room? I’ve a good mind to call the police. I’m a bloody tourist…’

  ‘No.’ The woman cut him off sharply. ‘You’re not a bloody tourist, Mr Archer. You’re a bloody foreign asset operating on German soil without German authority.’ She eyed him coolly. ‘So stop the bullshit and please, take a seat. It is best if we talk civilly about why you are here and when you will be leaving.’

  Archer cocked an eyebrow and tossed his chin towards the man.

  ‘Or what?’ he said. ‘Smiley here breaks out his best moves?’

  The man grunted, unamused. He glanced at the woman as if seeking her direction. She gave a tiny shake of the head and gestured again for Archer to sit. Clearly she was in charge.

  ‘Please, sit,’ she said. ‘I am getting tired of asking, Mr Craig Archer from New Zealand.’

  Archer hiked his shoulders and moved to the bed. The comfortable studio room was suddenly crowded with three people in it. He sat on the edge of the bed and the woman took the armchair, angling it around to face him. Her companion moved positions, staying behind Archer, close enough to hear him breathe. Archer ignored him and focussed for now on the woman before him.

  Whatever was going to happen would be initiated by her. He knew he’d been rumbled, but how badly remained to be seen. Perhaps he could still bluff his way out of the hotel room.

  The woman’s next words blew that hope to hell.

  ‘Mr Archer, we know you work for the Security Intelligence Service,’ she said, ‘and we know why you are in Germany. You have no diplomatic status here and as soon as we are finished talking you will be escorted to the airport where you will board a plane and return home.’

  Archer said nothing. His only real hope now was that they didn’t know about his overnight trip to Prague. That wouldn’t be good.

  Her cool blue eyes watched him. She could have passed for Scandinavian, he thought idly. High cheekbones, perfect skin. The blue of her eyes was darker than he would have expected from such an Aryan-looking specimen. She was studying him closely and he felt exposed.

  There were procedures for dealing with exactly this sort of situation, which were drummed home to all officers throughout their training and beyond. The primary goal was always to avoid arrest and prevent political embarrassment. Archer had the feeling they’d moved beyond that already.

  ‘ID,’ he said, holding his hand out expectantly. She arched an eyebrow at him like a school teacher with a petulant child. ‘Please,’ he added.

  She removed the black leather wallet from her pocket again and handed it over, and he took his time checking her credentials

  Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz – Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution – as he’d thought. The BfV was the federal government’s domestic security service, and despite the odd scandal, they were very good. If his memory was right, they were an unarmed agency, and he wondered whether he would be a
ble to use that to his advantage somehow.

  Her name was Eva Graf, or so the identification card said.

  He took his time as he tossed up his options. Getting kicked out of Germany was hardly ideal, not when he was hot on the trail right now. The political fallout, however, would be significant and unexplainable if he pushed the envelope with an agency such as the BfV. These were not Third World thugs who could be bribed or bullied. He decided to go for some solidarity instead.

  ‘Department 5 or 6?’ he inquired, passing the ID wallet back to her. Department 5 dealt with foreign extremists, whereas 6 focussed exclusively on Islamic terrorists. It could prove handy to know what her assignment was.

  She arched an eyebrow again and looked mildly amused. ‘Does it matter?’ she replied.

  He shrugged nonchalantly as if he didn’t really care. ‘Not really.’

  ‘However, if I were to be from Department 5, that would make us almost the same, would it not?’ Her gaze was coolly calculating.

  Archer felt a kick in his chest at the reference to Division 5. Jesus, these people were very well informed. He did his best to look unconcerned. ‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about,’ he said blandly.

  Still no mention of a dead ex-KGB forger in Prague. So far, so good.

  The woman smiled. Her lips were full and a deep maroon. ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ she said. ‘Now unless there is something you would like to tell us, Mr Archer, it is time for us to go.’

  She rose to her feet, gesturing for him to get up. She stepped aside and pointed to the chair she had just vacated. Archer gave her a questioning look.

  ‘Sit,’ she said, ‘while we pack your things. It would not be nice to have any surprises, would it?’

  He sat reluctantly, grateful that he didn’t have any weapons with him. Such a find would have made things very difficult indeed. He watched while the woman – Eva – dragged his suitcase onto the bed and searched it. She was quick and thorough. That done, she recovered his toiletries from the bathroom and checked them carefully before adding them to his case.

  ‘No exploding toothpaste,’ he tried, ‘it’s okay.’

  The man eyed him like he was an idiot.

  ‘KSK?’ Archer inquired. ‘GSG9? KSM?’

  The guy’s eyes flickered at the mention of KSM, the naval Special Forces unit, and Archer nodded. The guy was, or had been, a maritime operator. He’d have plenty to talk about with the Shaky Boats guys. He’d never worked with the KSM, but knew of their reputation. It validated his reluctance to want to tangle with the guy.

  ‘Alright,’ Eva said briskly, securing the lock on his suitcase. ‘Let’s go.’

  Archer stood and moved towards the door, only for the man to block his way. He was a couple of inches taller than Archer and his dark eyes bored holes in Archer’s skull.

  ‘No funny business,’ he growled in a heavy accent, ‘no playing games, Mr Archer. It would be mistake for you, yes?’

  Archer gave a short nod and a reassuring smile. ‘No worries mate,’ he said, ‘message received and understood.’ He glanced back to where Eva watched the interaction between the two men. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll behave myself.’

  The man opened the door and Eva handed the suitcase to Archer, being careful not to touch him as she did so. She held his passport up for him to see. ‘I will hold this until we check in.’

  ‘We?’ Archer was surprised. ‘Are we all going?’

  ‘No, not all,’ she said. ‘Just you. But we must check you in. Understand?’

  Despite the situation and his impending deportation, he had to admit she had an X factor about her. Sexy in a very composed, Germanic way. He wondered what she was like in bed. Probably very efficient, he decided.

  ‘What is so funny?’ she said sharply and he quickly wiped the smile from his face.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said apologetically, giving himself a mental reminder to keep his fantasies to himself. He paused in the doorway, giving her his best winning smile. ‘It’s a shame we won’t have the opportunity to work more closely, don’t you think Miss Graf?’

  Eva gave him a cool look. ‘No, I don’t think, Mr Archer. Now please get moving. You have a plane to catch.’

  He began to turn away but caught her smiling to herself as he did so. She saw him clock her and immediately applied her game face again, but it was too late. He’d made a connection, and they both knew it.

  Chapter 25

  The ride to Berlin’s Schoenefeld airport was smooth in a plain black Mercedes V-Class MPV.

  Archer sat in the rear with the heavy behind him and Eva in front of him, twisting in her seat so she was side-on to him. Another muscle-man drove, using a heavy foot on both the accelerator and brake.

  The airport was just outside the city and Archer knew he had a limited time to do anything, if the opportunity rose at all. He didn’t trust the German officers not to be armed, and he didn’t fancy his chances with the two heavies. Running would be his only option, but he would have to be fast and effective, and his face would soon be taped to the front dash of every cop car in the country.

  Deciding that discretion might be the better part of valour right now, he queried Eva on the travel arrangements.

  ‘Sixteen twenty five, EasyJet to Gatwick,’ she replied shortly. ‘ETA seventeen thirty.’

  He nodded his thanks but stayed sitting with his elbows on the back of her seat. ‘Am I able to make a call to get picked up at the other end?’

  She considered that for about a nano-second, and gave the answer he had expected. ‘No.’ Then she gave a slight smile. ‘Gatwick is not a dangerous place, Mr Archer. You will be safe while you wait for a pick-up, I am sure.’

  ‘Oh, you never know.’ He gave her a straight face. ‘There could be Moonies, overweight Americans with their cameras and loud voices and Hawaiian shirts…there might even be some English football fans. They can get pretty unruly, y’know. I wouldn’t fancy my chances most days of the week.’ He gave her smiley eyes and could see she was amused, despite herself. ‘But I appreciate your faith in me, Eva. It’s doing wonders for international relations.’

  She cocked her eyebrow again. He was getting used to that, in the short time they’d known each other. ‘Are all New Zealand men so full of shit?’ she asked.

  Archer pretended to mull that for a moment, before nodding. ‘Some, yeah. It’s a gift we have Down Under.’ He followed her lead and cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Have you ever been Down Under with a Kiwi, Eva?’

  She did her best not to laugh aloud at his blatant come-on, but couldn’t hide a bemused smile. ‘No, Mr Archer, I have not been…Down Under, as you say.’

  The heavy behind him made a growling noise in his throat to let them know he was listening and disapproved.

  Archer ignored him and kept his focus on Eva. Aside from being sexy as hell, she was also the leader of this little contingent, and he knew that any concessions he could get would come from her.

  ‘Look,’ he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, ‘I’d really appreciate it if I could touch base with my head office. It could be pretty embarrassing for both our governments, you know…perhaps a courtesy call…’

  She was about to answer when her own cell phone rang. She answered it with a simple ‘Ja’ then listened for nearly a minute, nodding occasionally to herself. She rang off and turned back to him.

  ‘Do not worry, Mr Archer,’ she said, ‘a courtesy call has been made from my superiors to yours. They will be expecting you at Gatwick and then I understand you will be flying straight back to Wellington.’

  Archer felt his heart sink. He could imagine the Director’s reaction to this debacle. It was going to be an unwelcome reception, and if he was going back to Wellington rather than Auckland, then it meant he was being sent to front up to the Director himself. A cloud of doom started to settle on him.

  Eva was silent for a moment. The tyres were rhythmic on the tar seal. The heavy in the back breathed loudly.

  ‘I am sorry
,’ she said softly. ‘But you know how it is.’

  Archer nodded and was about to speak when the driver cut him off sharply. His eyes were fixed on the rear view mirror and his shoulders were tense. He barked something in German and both Eva and the heavy in the rear craned to look out the back window. Archer followed suit, just in time to see a grey BMW 5-series racing up the right hand side of the MPV. The windows were tinted but he could make out two shapes in the front and maybe a third in the back.

  The BMW was moving fast, and so was the vehicle behind it, this one a white VW sedan.

  The driver shouted something else and there was a rapid exchange between the three Germans, too fast for him to catch. Archer had no idea what was happening but figured whatever it was, it wasn’t good. He was suddenly slammed into the back of Eva’s seat as the driver hit the brakes. There was a heavy impact from behind and the crunch of crumpling panel work. The BMW went past and the driver floored the gas again.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Archer shouted.

  He heard pinging sounds from the front of the MPV and lifted himself to see the windshield spider webbing under the impact of multiple shots. There was a spray of red and the driver slumped to the side, letting go of the wheel and pinning the accelerator to the floor.

  Archer was turning to look behind them when he felt another big shunt from the VW, shoving them forward. The driverless MPV swerved to the left and they were all thrown like rag dolls.

  Pushing himself up off the floor, Archer stepped over Eva and dived for the front seat, reaching over the bloodied driver to grab the steering wheel. He could see now that they were on a stretch of highway with farmland ahead of them on what should have been their right.

  They were heading straight for a hard shoulder that dropped quickly into a ditch with a raised berm beyond that. Cars were dodging the out-of-control Mercedes MPV, one spinning out as it went by, horns blaring all around. The grey BMW was tracking them across the autobahn like a sheep dog. A guy was leaning out of the rear passenger’s window with a submachine gun of some sort in his hands.