The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  Uwe glanced at Klaus and grinned. 'Must have made a big impression, eh?'

  'You could say that!' snapped Helga acidly. 'He's the bastard who killed the Fuhrer!'

  ‘What?'’ It took a lot to shake Klaus Ditmar. But that horrific day would remain in his memory forever. He had been a fervent nationalist practically since the day he was born. By the time he left school he was an unofficial member of the Neo-Nazi Party. Unofficial because his elder brother took him along with him to meetings and rallies. His first active involvement after he became a card-carrying fully paid-up Party member had been a street demonstration in Bonn. It had ended in an ugly brawl in front of the TV cameras, as was to become the pattern over the years. The leader of the Party since those days was a vitriolic man whose dubious background only strengthened his appeal. Inevitably he became known as the Fuhrer to the faithful.

  Through the seventies and eighties and into the nineties, the Neo-Nazi nationalists became a constant thorn in the flesh of the West German government. After reunification the sense of frustrated annoyance and embarrassment grew as indeed the strength of the Neo-Nazis grew. Their numbers swelled by recruits from the old East Germany seeking to express their understandably-strong nationalistic feelings.

  Three years previously the self-styled Fuhrer had been shot by an unknown sniper on the very steps of Party HQ in Berlin. Within days, rumours had swept outward from Germany that a large quantity of Euros had been paid into a Swiss bank on the day of the shooting. That the German Government was happy to see the back of the Neo-Nazi focal point was not disputed, but of course they strenuously denied any involvement. Of course.

  Klaus had been there that day, in Berlin. He had seen the blood-soaked steps with his own eyes. A sight he would never forget.

  'How could you possibly recognise him. Nobody knows who it was!' Uwe said scornfully.

  'Crap! Everybody knows who it was that pulled the trigger. The same man who did that raghead in Saudi a couple of years before.'

  Klaus looked skeptical. 'The American, Hollis?' That's never been proved!' He shook his head. 'And nobody knows what he looks like anyway.'

  'I know!' Helga stared him down.

  'How can you know that?'

  'Listen. Our parents split up when I was eighteen, it had been coming for a long time. Father was a civil engineer and he was always abroad on one job or another. We hardly ever saw him when we were kids. His last contract was in Brazil and he chose to stay on there when he retired. He had an apartment in Rio with a beautiful view over the sea.' Helga nodded to herself at the memory, the old man was dead now and she still missed him.

  'I've never heard you talk about this before.' Klaus was surprised. He had lived with Helga for quite some time, and thought he knew her well.

  'There was no reason,' she shrugged. 'Anyway, I spent six months living with him there in '91. I nearly didn't come back to Germany––it was wonderful place. While I was there I met an American one day at a street cafe. He was older than me but I remember finding him incredibly sexy.' She almost smiled. 'He said he was on a business trip, a few days away from the office. We had some fun, went to a few clubs, that sort of thing.' She didn't mention having slow and gentle sex on the beach one night, with warm seawater lapping over her feet.

  'And this was the assassin Hollis?' Klaus asked sceptically.

  'That's not the name he was using,’ Helga shook her head impatiently, ‘and of course I didn't know about such things at that time. But one night there was an almighty fuss. Police cars and sirens everywhere. You couldn't move in the city for roadblocks and police patrols––they all have guns over there you know.' Helga frowned, trying to recall the events.

  'I was in one of the bars with a couple of girlfriends when the word came round that there had been a shooting at the Yukishima building––'

  'I remember that!' Klaus stiffened, suddenly taking this a bit more seriously. 'The Vice-President of Yukishima was killed outside their office in Rio, with his mistress standing close on one side and an office manager on the other. Hell of a shot at long range. The company gave the impression of not being exactly heartbroken about it.'

  'Yes. Maybe he was raking off more than his share and someone got pissed off. Funny folk, the Japanese.' Helga looked out the window briefly. 'When I tried to call the American at his hotel the following day I was told he had gone. I thought nothing of it at the time––he had said he was only in Rio for a few days.

  'But then my father pointed out a story in one of the newspapers. About an American who had abandoned his luggage and disappeared without paying his bill on the night of the shooting. Hadn't been heard of since, and the police were looking for him as a possible suspect. So––'

  'So, you could be mistaken. Just a coincidence, maybe,' said Uwe. He hadn't heard about this before either.

  'No.’ His sister looked across at him. ‘The more I have thought about it since, the more I am sure. I remember his eyes,' Helga nodded to herself. 'And his face.' She pointed out through the windscreen at the world outside. 'He is the one, I know it. He killed the Fuhrer!' She was calmer now, and very determined.

  There was a doubtful silence.

  'I want him dead,' stated Helga. 'Today!'

  'Well, we can do that all right. But what if it's the wrong man?' asked Klaus.

  'It isn't. And anyway, what would it matter?'

  Klaus looked back in silence.

  'If there is any chance at all of avenging the Fuhrer, we must take it. This bastard killed him for money!'

  Klaus made up his mind. He still wasn't sure that Helga was right about this. Memory could play funny tricks, particularly over a gap of several years. But still, suppose she was right. At worst they would have killed an innocent man. It wouldn't be the first time, and as Helga said: what did it matter?

  'All right. That Range Rover didn't appear to heading out of town, so it may still be here somewhere. See if you can find it, Uwe.'

  Twelve minutes later Helga cried: 'Stop!'

  Uwe glanced quickly in the rear-view mirror and then leaned heavily on the brakes. 'What?'

  'That last side-street. It's down there!'

  Uwe didn't want to call attention by backing up, so he continued to the next junction, turned and came back. They rolled slowly past the Range Rover. It was empty so Uwe pulled into the space in front of it. 'Where do you think he is?'

  'God knows,' Klaus said. 'Give it a few minutes and see if he shows up'. This looked to be a nice quiet place, perfectly suitable for their purpose.

  Fifteen minutes passed.

  'Where is the bastard?' Helga muttered.

  Klaus made up his mind. They couldn't sit here all day. 'Helga, you and I will take a walk, he may just have gone for a meal in the town. If we can find him we'll follow him back here and do it. Uwe, you stay in the car.'

  The pair climbed out and walked down the street. Klaus stopped and came back. 'Move the car a bit closer. He doesn't have much room at the back either. If we block him in that will give us a bit extra time if we need it.'

  'Okay.'

  'Thanks' Hollis took his change and walked out onto the pavement. That was better. Nothing like a full belly to make a new man of you. He decided to buy a newspaper and made a detour to find a suitable shop, having to walk a couple of extra blocks down Main Street. It meant his return journey to the car became a slightly longer route than the direct one.

  That was by how much the two Germans missed him.

  As he unlocked the drivers door he noticed the green Escort parked right in front. While he was figuring that he wouldn't be able to get past it, he noticed the drivers seat was occupied and a pale face was staring directly at him through the glass.

  Uwe couldn't believe it. He had been fiddling with the radio/cassette player, and when he looked up there was the clown getting his keys out. When their eyes met, Uwe knew he had to do something, and quickly. The guy had obviously realised the Escort hadn't left him enough room to get his car out. He was
sure to have a lot to say about that.

  'Shit!' Uwe muttered. He would just have to bluff it out and hope the other two would get back before it all got out of hand. He was no coward, but if this man was indeed who his sister believed then young Uwe might just get his head blown off if he didn't take care. Perhaps if he pretended not to have much English he could drag things out long enough…

  Hollis saw the young man with longish fair hair get out of the car and move towards him. He had one hand stuffed in a pocket of his tatty bomber jacket, and Hollis noted the lump under the leather: he was holding something in his right hand.

  Wexford town centre was not really the sort of place Hollis would have associated with muggers, although this had all the hallmarks. A pair of hard, pale blue eyes bored into his and it was this more than anything else which dictated what happened next.

  If Uwe had projected an apologetic appearance and relied on the language thing, he might well have got away with it. The arrogant stare and purposeful stride finally triggered the alarm bells in Hollis' head, and as soon as the young man was close enough Hollis hit him twice. Hard.

  If you have to put someone down, make sure they don't get up again. The army instructors had drilled that concept into him with sweat and blood and it had been second nature for so many years that it no longer needed conscious thought.

  Hollis dragged Uwe's limp form into the doorway of the car showroom. The right hand flopped out of the pocket and a small handgun rattled on the concrete pavement. 'Fuckin' popgun!' Hollis muttered in contempt, slipping it into his own jacket. Getting into the driving seat, he moved the Escort back as far as he could. There still wasn't much room––another car had been parked immediately behind.

  Cursing, Hollis climbed into the Range Rover, running it forward until it nudged against the Escort's front bumper. Winding the wheel round to full lock he reversed carefully, easing past the car behind. The Range Rover had both rear wheels on the pavement now and felt the slight jolt as he made contact with the corner post of the steel gate leading into the car dealer's yard. Not to worry, the way ahead was clear––that was what mattered. He pulled out past the Escort and gunned the Range Rover down the street, turning at the next corner into George's Street and then again into John Street, heading north. A few minutes later he was clear of the town, on his way to Larne.

  Just as Hollis crossed the town limits, Helga Wrasse and Klaus Ditmar, on their way back after a fruitless search, saw the empty space in front of the green Escort and began to run.

  Helga squatted down beside Uwe, who was still groggy and sporadically retching up his last meal. Hollis' first strike had been to his forehead, stunning the young man's Pineal gland and producing severe pain and violent disorientation. The effect was not unlike extreme motion sickness––and with similar results. Seeing he was not badly hurt, she joined Klaus at the edge of the pavement. The Range Rover was not in sight.

  'Fuck it!' Klaus said between his teeth. 'What the hell happened?'

  'Uwe will tell us when he's able.' Helga was thoroughly pissed off. Her brother had better have a damned good explanation or she was going to kick his stupid arse from here to Dusseldorf!

  'Is he all right?'

  'He will survive.' She turned briefly to look. 'He seems to have been in a fight, I think we can guess who with!' Turning back, she added, 'Now we've lost that murdering bastard.'

  Klaus sighed heavily. So near. So bloody near.

  'What's this?' Helga held up a small piece of yellow plastic.

  He took it from her. 'Where did you get it?'

  'It was lying here on the pavement. I don't remember seeing it before.'

  Klaus went over to kneel in the doorway alongside Uwe. 'Uwe, how did he get the Range Rover out of here. There was not enough space.'

  Uwe coughed, scowling at the sour taste of vomit in his mouth. He had a fierce headache as well. 'He managed to back it right up here against the wall.' He touched another tender spot on the right side of his neck under the ear, where a bruise was forming.

  'Really. Well, in that case we will have another chance.'

  Helga's looked up. 'What?'

  Klaus held out the shard of plastic. 'I believe this came from his rear number-plate. He must have broken it against the wall. Look, here!' He indicated a graze on one of the stone pillars and two parallel scratches in the paint on the steel barred gate. 'British number-plates are white in front and yellow on the rear, see,' Klaus walked over to an adjacent parked car bearing British plates and tapped the yellow reflective plastic with his fingers.

  Helga inspected the thing more closely. Black letters on part of it read: "––stal Motors, Inverness", and part of a telephone number. ‘You think this is where he lives?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Klaus spread his arms out, palms uppermost. 'Have you forgotten that we have a job to do in Britain? If this man Hollis lives in Inverness, we will find him. Finish him once and for all!’

  Helga smiled.

  13

  16 – 17 August, 2013

  Darkness.

  And then in the darkness an ethereal reverberation, shaking the very fabric of the universe. Even more disturbing: the blackness ebbed and flowed with multicoloured patterns in astonishing, effortless harmony. Part of him watched, engrossed, while the shifting light moved back and forth through the spectrum, each oscillation becoming brighter, clearer. It was confusing, fascinating.

  He was unaware of precisely when he ceased to regard the phenomenon as an actual physical presence. Cerebration was returning, and with it, reason. Driving now deliberately and powerfully upwards through the remnants of the dark. The pulsing vibration faded. Although it had never really existed except in the recesses of his mind. Where the primeval guardian, an unreasoning cretin whose only interest is survival, had been on watch for predators. Shocked by the alien intrusion into its cosy existence it reacted in the only way it knew how: bringing full autonomous awareness back on-line to deal with the problem.

  Hollis came awake to the plaintive beeping of his digital alarm clock. It was 6 am, and as he got dressed, soft rain began pattering on his bedroom window.

  By the time he had finished breakfast and started on the last of his packing the rain had passed. Behind it the sky appeared to be brightening, giving at least some promise of a reasonable day. At a little after seven o'clock Hollis went outside and sat on his still unfinished drystone wall, a product of several years intermittent work. He sat with his elbows on his knees, gazing out to sea where a blue dot was making passage through the gap between Eigg and Muck. A fishing boat, perhaps out of Mallaig, or even Tobermory on Mull.

  This was a ritual he had performed many times before.

  He had found peace here in the wildness of western Scotland. It was the only place in the whole world that he called home. The only place, yes, that he felt truly safe. Safe from vendettas and arrest. Safe from people. The only place he could live like a civilized human being instead of a hunted animal. A hell of a way for a man to make a living. But he had reflected on that before: many times before. 'No-one forced you, boy!' He spoke aloud without being aware of the fact. Above his head a herring gull, wheeling gracefully in the air, called as if in response.

  For years now, the last thing he had done before leaving to fulfil a contract was to sit here and enjoy his beloved solitude. He had never expressed the feeling in words, even to himself, but these few moments of peace might represent the last time he would ever see this place. His affairs were in order: were always in order. In a solicitor's vault in Inverness was a Will making Gojo the sole beneficiary of everything Mike Hollis owned, including the Swiss bank account and whatever it contained at the time.

  The careful planning was completed. The preparations were finalized and even the bags packed and ready to lift. Today was Friday thirteenth of August. Hollis had smiled to himself when he discovered which day he would have to commence his journey. An omen or what? Fortunately he was not a superstitious man. He had a reservation
for tomorrow on the Orkney ferry sailing at 12 noon sailing from Scrabster, just outside Thurso on Scotland’s north coast. The operation would take place in precisely one week.

  He had done everything possible to ensure the odds were in his favour. And hopefully he had a better than even chance of coming out the other side in one piece. One more job––no, one last job and it was over. Finally. Thankfully.

  The fishing boat had passed out of sight and he knew it was time for him to leave. But Lord, this time he was afraid.

  Mike Hollis closed his eyes and let the sounds of his world engulf him, unimpeded by the distractions of visual stimulus ...

  Alison Basker watched nervously as the huge French truck rumbled past in the outside lane. She glanced across at the speedometer and saw that Ken was keeping it steady on 70 mph. The truck pulled ahead and rapidly increased the gap between them before pulling out to pass another vehicle. This time it stayed in the outside lane, powering northwards up the M6, overtaking the long stream of traffic and finally taking up front position nearly a mile ahead.

  'Well, he'll be happy now he's at the head of the queue!' commented Ken sourly.

  'Are those thing allowed to travel that fast?' Alison asked.

  Ken snorted. 'Nobody's supposed to drive at that speed. Least of all articulated trucks this size. Damned French juggernauts!'

  Alison looked round to check on the two youngsters. Eric appeared to be dozing and Joanne was engrossed in a book. Alison had tried reading in the car herself but always ended up feeling slightly nauseous. She envied her daughter's immunity to motion-sickness. 'They seem to be everywhere: these foreign lorries.'

  'They are everywhere! Blame the EC and their policy of open markets.' Ken grumbled.

  His wife smiled. Ken wasn't a Euro-fan, and that was a fact. With little provocation he would explain in great detail what he thought of the UK being rapidly submerged in the European Superstate. Not, of course, that ordinary folk had much choice in the matter.