Timebomb (Paul Richter)

by James Barrington

  ‘Our office is always manned, but I’ll head back there straight away, just to make sure we get an answer to you as soon as possible. Will you still be available on this number?’

  ‘No. I’m heading home in an hour or so, but you can call my mobile. It’s an Enigma secure cellphone, so we can speak freely as long as you have compatible equipment.’

  ‘I’m sure our technical support people can sort something out. I hope to get back to you in a couple of hours.’

  Richter put the phone down and stared again at the photograph of the man in the driving seat of the Mercedes. Then he shut down his computer and locked his safe – part of the standard ‘clear desk’ routine FOE followed – and then took the lift down to the first floor.

  ‘You off home at last, then?’ the duty officer asked.

  ‘Not just yet,’ Richter replied. ‘Listen, regarding those pictures you got from Five. I’ve asked the German BGS to run a photo-comparison analysis, and they’ll call me with the result later this evening. If it is Morschel, I’ll want the watch order modified to start looking for him and his car specifically, and that will include motorway CCTV cameras and anything else the plods have got that might show where he went after he left Dover. You can handle that, through Five, on my authority?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll have to inform Simpson, but I think that can wait till Monday.’

  ‘Right, I’ll call you later this evening whatever the result. And while I’m here, I’d better sign the authorization chit for the watch order.’

  Dover, Kent

  Helmut Kleber drove without a pause through the exit lane at the ferry port, and then took the A20 southern coast road, heading for London. He knew Morschel would be staying somewhere in Rochester, but he himself had already booked a room in a hotel in Maidstone, a few miles south.

  There were two simple reasons for his choice. The first was that he didn’t like or trust Morschel and had no wish to be anywhere near him if he could avoid it. But the second reason was more pragmatic, as the headquarters of the Kent Constabulary were located in Maidstone, and Kleber considered that was the most obvious place to make his first move.

  He knew he would have to meet Morschel the following day, not least because they had now entered the final phase of the operation, and both of them would have a lot of tasks – though entirely dissimilar – to complete over the weekend.

  As he picked up speed and joined the M20, Kleber pondered exactly what his next move should be. He knew what he had to achieve, and he was well acquainted with the different sections of the British law-enforcement organization and the way they worked. Ideally, he knew he ought to find the answers to a number of questions before he did anything further, but he was afraid there simply wasn’t time, and time was now becoming his major concern.

  No, Kleber rationalized, he had to act sooner rather than later. In fact, he decided he ought to start that same evening, after he’d checked into the hotel, just to ensure that he got the wheels turning in time. That must be his first priority, he decided. If he delayed until tomorrow, it might be too late.

  Hammersmith, London

  The call from Wolff came just thirty minutes later, while Richter was still in his office.

  ‘Wolff,’ the German identified himself. ‘This is a secure line, which you can consider the good news. The bad news is that we’ve run the checks, and the best I can give you is what the Americans might call a definite maybe. The picture was, as you warned, slightly blurred, and that’s the main reason why we can’t be too specific here. The section of the image you asked us to analyse is quite small, which means the points we need to use for comparison are very tiny, so the results can’t be absolute. As you’ll appreciate, an error of even one or two pixels in the base data can dramatically alter the result of the analysis. I’m sorry.’

  In truth, that was more or less what Richter had expected. He’d tried to study the image of the driver’s face through a magnifying glass, and even then the features were relatively indistinct.

  ‘Thanks anyway, Karl. Look, I won’t hold you to this, but in percentage terms how likely is it that the man in the picture is Hans Morschel?’

  ‘You want my best guess?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wolff paused for a few seconds before he replied. ‘If you’d only shown me the picture and hadn’t explained the circumstances, I’d probably have said around fifty-fifty. But there are three other relevant factors to consider. First, he’s driving either a stolen car or at least one that’s running on false plates. Second, we’ve had two independent tip-offs that some kind of terrorist attack is planned for Britain, and this man you’re investigating was waiting to board the ferry to Dover. Third, as you requested, I asked the regular police to run a check on the individual whose passport this man used at Calais. As you know, the document itself was completely genuine, but we now know that the man to whom it was issued is still in Germany. To be exact, right now he’s in a cell in a Munich police station and pretty soon he’s going to have to find convincing answers to a number of awkward questions.’

  ‘And who is he?’ Richter asked.

  ‘At the moment, we don’t know much except his name, Anton Berg, and that he’s a junkie. The police were lucky to find him so quickly, but he’s still completely incoherent. His passport could easily have been lost or stolen without him knowing about it, just because of his lifestyle, such as it is, but he’s certainly never reported that happening. You’ll be aware that there’s a huge black-market trade in EU passports, so he might have simply applied for one and then sold it on, so it’s quite possible that he might have nothing at all to do with Morschel directly. Or he could even be one of his friends or acquaintances, or maybe a relative. Don’t worry, we’ll find out.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. The real question is how long it’ll take to break him.’

  ‘I think once he comes down from his present fix he’ll start talking, but whether he actually knows anything is another matter. But to answer your original question, my guess is that the man caught by the cameras was indeed Hans Morschel. How certain am I? Sixty, maybe seventy, per cent.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me, Karl,’ Richter said. ‘Just to keep you in the loop, I’ll be sending out a revised watch order tonight, for both the man and the car. I’ll let you know immediately if we get any results.’

  As soon as he’d finished the call, Richter dialled the duty officer’s direct line.

  ‘This is Richter,’ he said. ‘I’ve just heard from Germany and the photo analysis was inconclusive, but the man in that car looks enough like Morschel for us to move. Contact Five and initiate a revised watch order immediately. I want all roads in southern England watched for that Mercedes and the man in it. Ensure that all police forces get details of the registration plate and also a description of the driver. And make sure they understand it’s a watch order. Under no circumstances are they to attempt to intercept or detain the driver. We just want to know where he is and what he’s doing. Nothing else.’

  Maidstone, Kent

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ the desk sergeant asked.

  ‘I hope so,’ the heavily built man standing in front of him replied. ‘I need to get an urgent message to your Security Service, MI5.’

  The sergeant had seen and heard it all before. ‘And why is that, sir?’

  Kleber didn’t reply for a few moments but simply reached into his pocket and produced two objects which he then placed on the desk. The first was a slip of paper on which were written a six-digit number and a single word, and the second was a golf-ball sized lump of what looked like plasticine.

  ‘Could you please pass on that word and that number to the Security Service duty officer,’ he said. ‘And that’ – he pointed at the round lump – ‘is sufficient plastic explosive to destroy a car.’

  The sergeant took a couple of steps backwards and as he did so pressed a bell-push below the desk.

  ‘You needn’t worry.’ Kleber smiled. ‘Semtex
is completely inert unless you stick a blasting cap in it to trigger it. But I need to talk to MI5 soon, because I know a man who’s got about 300 pounds of plastic. I think I know what he’s going to do with it, and he could be starting as soon as tonight.’

  Two burly constables had by now appeared in answer to the sergeant’s silent summons and seized Kleber’s arms, immobilizing him. He didn’t resist, because this reaction was exactly what he had expected.

  Five minutes later, having been searched thoroughly – to reveal absolutely nothing because he had left everything in either his car boot or his hotel room – Kleber was sitting in an interview room looking sceptically at a mug of dark brown liquid he had been told was tea, while being watched over by two large, but slightly apprehensive, uniformed constables. It isn’t every day that a man walks into a police station carrying plastic explosive and Kleber was still the object of considerable suspicion.

  The sergeant had talked to the duty inspector and then contacted Thames House on the open-line number, passing on the word and the string of numbers. The MI5 duty officer had promised to look into it.

  ‘And that,’ the desk sergeant remarked as he ended the call, ‘could mean any bloody thing.’

  Hammersmith, London

  ‘You’re still there, then?’ the duty officer asked when Richter answered his call.

  ‘Obviously What do you want this time? I was about to head off home.’

  ‘Just an oddity – well, two actually. We’ve just received a parcel here, addressed to you personally from somebody named Wilhelm Schneider with an address in Switzerland. We’ve run it through the scanner and there don’t seem to be any nasties inside it. Do you want to risk opening it, or what?’

  ‘I know Schneider, so I’ll risk it. What was the second thing?’

  ‘Five has just sent out a Flash “anything known” round robin. Apparently about twenty minutes ago some guy walked into a Kent police station and handed over what he claimed was a lump of Semtex.’

  ‘Really? And is it?’

  ‘No idea. Could be just plasticine, or even ear-wax, for all I know. He said he knew where there was another 300 pounds of the stuff, and that he believed the man who’s got it could be planning on using it soon.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Maybe even tonight, but that’s not what they’re asking about. This man also gave them a slip of paper with just a word and a number written on it. It doesn’t mean anything to the people at Thames House, or at least to my opposite number, who claims he’s about the only one left in the building. That’s why he’s asking around. The thing is, the single word is “Onex”, the place you went in Switzerland and had that spot of bother.’

  For a moment or two Richter was puzzled, then made an intuitive leap.

  ‘Hang on a second,’ he said, and accessed one of the files on his desktop computer. ‘Let me read a number to you.’

  He flicked through the report he’d written for Simpson after his return from Switzerland, found the six digits he was looking for and read them out to the duty officer.

  ‘Is that the same number this man gave the police?’

  ‘Yes. How the fuck did you know that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, but I need to go and see him right now,’ Richter said. ‘Which police station is he being held at? And what cars are available at the moment?’

  ‘Just a sec . . . Right, he’s at Maidstone nick, and they’re not likely to let him go in a hurry.’ He paused. ‘According to the list there are four cars in the garage – the two Fiestas, the Mondeo and the Jaguar.’

  ‘I’ll take the XJ6.’

  ‘Simpson won’t like that.’

  ‘He isn’t here to argue about it, and I don’t have time to hang about. Plus the Jag’s got satnav, and I barely even know where Maidstone is, far less the cop shop. Give the woodentops a bell and tell them I’m on my way down there. Tell Five the same. What’s the precise address of the station?’

  ‘Sutton Road – the Kent Police headquarters.’

  ‘Right, got that. One last thing – tell the duty driver to get the XJ6 out of the garage and into the street, then give its number to the Met and the Kent Police. Tell them the approximate route I’ll be taking, because I won’t have the time or the inclination to argue with a car full of Black Rats trying to pull me for speeding. If possible, try and get me an escort.’

  South-east England

  Before he finally left the office, Richter used his computer to check conditions on the roads in south London, and decided his best bet was to rely on the Jaguar’s speed and take the M4 and then drive all the way round London on the M25, where the traffic was unusually free-flowing for a Friday evening. It would almost double the distance he had to drive, but he still reckoned that would be quicker than trying to fight his way through Richmond or Croydon or some other clutch of suburbs.

  As soon as he picked up the M25 he switched on the headlights, eased over into the outside lane and wound the Jag up to a touch over 110. Three sets of speed cameras had flashed him before he reached the M23/Gatwick junction, but he saw no police cars until he peeled off the M25 and joined the M26 near Sevenoaks.

  Then, coming up fast behind him, he saw a typical ‘jam sandwich’ – a Volvo estate car with the usual high-visibility paint job, blue lights flashing behind the front grille and its roof bar pulsing like a disco light show, the whole effect augmented by the two-tone wail of the siren. For a few seconds, Richter debated about simply accelerating away: he knew that the Jaguar could lose the Volvo without any particular difficulty, but it would mean winding the car up to over double the legal speed limit. On the other hand, the police could be on their way to an accident somewhere, so he eased over to the centre lane.

  The Volvo pulled alongside him and matched his speed, but the officer in the passenger seat simply pointed ahead and nodded, then the car accelerated away. Richter nodded in turn, and fell in behind the estate car, the Jaguar easily matching its speed. The two cars powered along the M26, swept on to the M20 near Borough Green, and continued east at well over a hundred miles an hour. When they reached junction six, Richter had expected the Volvo to turn south towards Maidstone – which the satnav suggested was the most direct route – but the police car continued on to junction seven.

  Richter glanced at the satnav, though the navigation system was virtually redundant as long as he had the Volvo in sight, and guessed they’d chosen that route to avoid driving through Maidstone town centre.

  Less than five minutes later, the patrol car turned right into the first of the two entrances to the police station, and Richter swung the Jaguar across the road right behind it. The station was enormous, more like a vast sprawling country house than a normal cop shop, but at least there was plenty of parking. He found a vacant space, slid the car into it, switched off the engine and climbed out. The two officers stepped away from their Volvo, which they’d stopped close to his Jaguar, and one pointed towards the doors at the front of the station.

  ‘Thanks, guys,’ Richter called out as he walked across to the building.

  As he stepped inside, a uniformed sergeant approached him. ‘You the bloke from MI5?’

  ‘More or less,’ Richter admitted.

  ‘Can I see some identification, please?’

  Richter proffered a small leather wallet. The sergeant studied it, nodded and handed it back. ‘You got here quickly,’ he said.

  ‘I had help. Now, where’s this man with the lump of Semtex?’

  Rochester, Kent

  Just after seven that evening, Hans Morschel locked the door of his hotel room, followed the corridor to the main staircase and descended to the ground floor. He entered the fairly empty bar and ordered a beer, speaking in fluent but heavily accented English. The barman didn’t seem disposed to make small talk, which suited the German just fine. He signed the chit for his drink, picked up the beer and a newspaper and took a seat at a small table in the corner.

  He’d been sitting there about twe
nty minutes when another man walked in, and Morschel raised his hand in greeting. Ernst Hagen nodded in recognition, bought himself a drink, then walked over to the table and sat down.

  ‘Any problems?’ Morschel asked, in German, and Hagen shook his head.

  ‘None at all. I came straight through. And you?’

  ‘The same. Where’s the car?’

  Hagen gestured towards the windows overlooking the car park. ‘Outside, right behind yours, in fact.’

  Before they left Stuttgart, they’d discussed the best method for liaising with each other and had decided that the easiest way was to simply act like tourists. With the notorious reluctance of the British to speak any language but their own, Morschel had reckoned that the chances of anyone understanding what they were saying were slim. Even so, they would take care to keep their conversation non-specific and avoid any detailed discussion of the operation unless they were absolutely certain nobody could overhear them.

  ‘Where’s Helmut right now?’ Hagen asked.

  ‘I’ve not heard from him since just before I left Stuttgart. But don’t worry, he’ll get here. Did you get yourself a new mobile number?’

  Hagen nodded, fished in his jacket pocket and passed a slip of paper across to Morschel, who glanced at it before tucking it away in his wallet. Then he repeated Hagen’s actions and gave him a card with his own mobile number scribbled on it.

  ‘What about the others?’ he asked.

  Hagen glanced around before replying, but there was nobody anywhere near them. ‘As you know, the recce group arrived here three weeks ago and they had no problems getting everything sorted. The vehicles are in position in long-term car parks, all fully fuelled and checked. They hired the warehouse and bought a front company and once they’d done that they closed the bank accounts they’d been using, to stop any tracing action. They researched the areas you’d already nominated and then selected the most suitable of them. We have four stolen vans to use as delivery vehicles.’