Shadow Conflict

by Shadow Conflict (epub)

  Chapter 46

  It was late afternoon by the time they exited the autobahn, and by that point their final destination had become obvious.

  Berlin had been the capital of a succession of Germanic nations, republics and empires for over 700 years, from Prussia to the divided East Germany of the Cold War. These days it was home to about six million residents.

  Lauren had visited it the previous year during a summer break, and though she’d certainly been taken by the scale of the city, she considered it an impressive rather than a beautiful place. It was too stark, too modern, too uncompromising to be called beautiful.

  Following the car’s navigation system, Alex steered a course north-east through the city, passing the abandoned Tempelhof airport before following the busy traffic towards the city centre, heading roughly towards the massive spire of the Berlin TV Tower. An immense needle-like structure with a large spherical section near the top, the tower was visible from practically anywhere in the city – a prominent, if controversial, landmark.

  Veering westwards after crossing the Landwehr Canal, they turned into the parking area of a large, semi-circular apartment block facing out onto Tiergartenstrasse. Pulling them into a space, Alex killed the engine, and seemed to relax slightly now that their journey was over.

  ‘We’re here,’ he announced. ‘Wherever “here” is.’

  ‘This is where we need to be,’ Anya said, stepping out of the car and beckoning Lauren to follow her. ‘Come with me.’

  The young woman was relieved to stretch her legs. She took in the evening air, tasting the fragrant scent of recently cut grass, the powerful smell of engine fumes from the main drag nearby, and the odours of cooking food from nearby restaurants. Alex and Yasin were already outside with her, looking equally pleased to no longer be travelling.

  Retrieving the bag she’d brought, Anya slammed the trunk closed and hoisted it over her shoulder.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she instructed, leading them towards the nearest apartment block.

  Making their way inside, they ascended via an elevator to the fourth floor. Anya led them confidently down the corridor, stopping outside apartment 412.

  The apartment key was held within a small, electronically controlled safe mounted on the wall. Anya punched in the six-digit combination. The safe access light flashed green and the door popped open, allowing her to retrieve the key.

  ‘Inside,’ she said, unlocking the door and hustling them in.

  The apartment was large but almost empty of furniture – clearly a safe house. What a waste, Lauren thought, surveying the impressive view out of the living room windows. From this height they could see all the way across the heavily wooded Tiergarten park, from the Victory Column in the centre to the Reichstag building on the north-east corner, rays from the evening sun glinting off the massive steel and glass dome cap. And beside it, the triumphal arch of the Brandenburg Gate.

  ‘You own this place?’ Alex asked, looking equally impressed.

  Anya shook her head. ‘No, but we can use it as long as we are in Berlin,’ she said, dropping her bag on the polished floorboards and kneeling down to unzip it.

  Lauren turned towards her. ‘What happens now?’

  Anya stood up, the taser in her hands. Lauren backed off instinctively, but instead Anya handed the weapon to Alex.

  ‘I must go out for a while,’ she explained, pressing the stun gun into his hands. ‘The power pack is fully charged, and the safety is off. If she tries to escape, use it. Don’t hesitate. Understand?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Alex said, clearly reluctant.

  Anya tightened her hold on the taser as he tried to pull it away. ‘I’m trusting you, Alex. Don’t fail me.’

  His expression hardened as the gravity of the situation was at last impressed on him. ‘That’s not going to happen,’ he said firmly.

  Nodding, Anya relinquished the weapon and turned her attention to the young woman she was leaving him to guard.

  ‘My trust extends to you as well, Lauren.’

  ‘Clearly,’ she replied, eyes flicking to the taser.

  ‘It doesn’t extend that far,’ Anya reminded her. ‘But I hope you have more sense than to try another escape. Cooperate, and you will be returned to your father tomorrow.’

  ‘So you keep saying,’ Lauren said, flopping onto the couch. ‘Talk is cheap, Anya.’

  Anya snatched up the car keys that Alex had left on the kitchen counter and turned to Yasin. ‘I could use some company on my journey. Will you help me?’

  Yasin didn’t need to be asked twice, leaping from the kitchen stool he’d been sitting on. The request for help had stirred his youthful pride and chivalry, not to mention excitement at the prospect of exploring a foreign city.

  ‘Of course. Where are we going?’ he asked, hurrying to catch up with Anya as she made for the door.

  ‘To see an old friend.’

  Chapter 47

  ‘Where does this old friend live?’ Yasin asked, as Anya manoeuvred the vehicle down the thronging shop-lined streets of central Berlin.

  ‘Not far from here,’ Anya replied. She had an unusual look about her, Yasin thought.

  As they threaded their way eastwards, crossing the Spree river into the Friedrichshain district, the character of the city and its architecture changed considerably. They were now in what was once East Berlin, a portion of the city occupied by the Soviets for over four decades.

  For obvious reasons, much of Berlin had had to be rebuilt after the war. The British and Americans had pumped a great deal of money and resources into reconstruction work in the west, eventually building it into one of the most advanced and affluent cities in Europe. The same could not be said of the Soviet sector.

  They were advancing eastwards along Karl-Marx-Allee, formerly known as Stalinallee after the Soviet dictator who commissioned it. A wide, tree-lined boulevard, it was flanked by monumental eight-storey buildings constructed in the elaborate wedding cake style of classical Soviet architecture, complete with marble and ceramic facades.

  This was one of the Soviets’ grand efforts to reshape Berlin into a socialist paradise, even if it was only for the newsreels. Still, it all looked very grand, clean and elegant.

  Turning right about halfway along, Anya steered them into a quieter residential street. Apartment blocks loomed over both sides of the road, recently refurbished but probably dating back several decades.

  The further they got from the central boulevard, the less clean and elegant their surroundings became. The quality of the buildings began to deteriorate, graffiti started to appear, and even the cars looked older and cheaper than in other parts of the city.

  The stereotype of the former East Berlin was of crumbling 1960s-era apartment blocks, derelict pre-war buildings peppered with old bullet holes, and ramshackle market areas peddling shoddy counterfeit goods. Things had changed a lot since reunification, with vast investment still flowing east, but some vestiges of the Soviet occupation remained.

  Pulling over, Anya pointed to an older apartment block opposite. Likely a survivor of the earlier nineteenth-century Prussian architecture that used to dominate the city.

  ‘This way,’ she said, locking the car and leading Yasin towards it.

  Halting by the intercom panel, Anya pressed a button right at the bottom of the list.

  ‘Ja?’ a gruff, old-sounding voice asked.

  ‘Ich bin da, Felix,’ Anya replied. ‘Mach auf.’

  There was a pause, followed by the buzz and click as the door’s lock was disengaged. Holding it open, Anya waited until Yasin had passed her before swinging it closed.

  The central stairwell beyond was pretty much standard for an apartment block of this age. High ceilings, stone floors, moulded steel railings that had been repainted so many times the details had long since been obscured, and the faintly stale, damp smell that often lingers around old buildings.

  Rather than heading up, however, Anya took the stairs down to the basement. Yasin h
ad an uneasy feeling as he descended the stairs beside her, their steps echoing off the cold stone walls. In his experience, basements were places where bad people lived, and worse things happened. Unconsciously he moved a little closer to Anya, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

  Only one door stood at the bottom, apparently a residential dwelling. Who would choose to live in a windowless basement, he wondered.

  Approaching it, Anya knocked gently on the door. Seconds ticked by until they heard a muffled voice from within, the sound of footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate, then the click of chains and bolts being withdrawn.

  The door swung open then, revealing a most unlikely figure.

  Yasin had expected some sinister, thuggish beast of a man. What he saw instead was a small, gentle-looking old man with snowy white hair, dressed in faded brown corduroy trousers and a woollen cardigan. He must have seen 80 years at least, his body shrunken by age and his face deeply lined like a walnut. A pair of rounded spectacles perched atop his long nose.

  He looked up at Anya and broke out into a beaming smile of affection.

  ‘Anya! Es ist schön dich wieder zu sehen!’ he said, warmly embracing the woman like a dear friend. ‘Wie gehts?’

  Anya returned his gesture, and Yasin sensed her affection for him was genuine. Who was this man? Her father? Grandfather? He looked old enough to be either.

  ‘I’m well, Felix. Thank you,’ she replied, speaking English for Yasin’s benefit. ‘It is good to see you, too.’

  She turned and gestured to her young companion. ‘This is my… friend,’ she began, hesitating slightly as if searching for a word that better described her relationship to him, and coming up short. ‘His name is Yasin. Yasin, this is Felix. He lives here.’

  The old man nodded and smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you, young man. Any friend of Anya’s is welcome in my home,’ he said, his grasp of English almost as strong as Anya’s. Then, as if remembering himself, he gestured inside. ‘Where are my manners? Please, come in, come in.’

  As the old man turned and shuffled off down the corridor, deeper into the apartment, Anya held the door open for Yasin. He gave her a questioning look as he passed, to which she answered in a whisper, ‘Trust me.’

  Yasin’s sense of bewilderment only intensified the more he saw of Felix’s living space. Basement apartments in rundown areas of town weren’t exactly desirable spots, and given that an old man seemed to live here alone, it seemed inevitable that he’d be living in squalor and neglect, surrounded by a lifetime of hoarded junk.

  What they found instead was a neat, tidy, well cared for and surprisingly spacious living area that seemed to occupy almost the entire footprint of the building, and complemented by tasteful-looking furniture. The polished oak floorboards were covered in places by thick, intricately decorated rugs. The faint smell of wood smoke directed the boy’s attention to an open fire on the far side of the room, a couple of logs crackling and popping in the flames.

  Even the lack of natural light didn’t seem to be an issue, as a careful arrangement of lamps and overhead lights created instead a cosy atmosphere that made Yasin feel almost immediately at ease.

  ‘I must say, I was pleased to hear you were coming, Anya,’ Felix said as he made his way slowly into the room. ‘It’s not until you become old that you truly learn the value of good company.’

  ‘You live here alone?’ Yasin asked, unable to contain his curiosity. He still didn’t understand what particular errand had brought Anya here. Surely now, with so much at stake tomorrow, she wouldn’t waste time on social calls?

  ‘Yes. For a long time, young man,’ Felix said, then gestured to the selection of couches and armchairs positioned around the room. ‘Please, make yourselves at home. Would you like some tea or coffee?’

  Anya shook her head. ‘I was hoping to talk business with you first, Felix. Did you manage to get everything I requested?’

  The old man nodded. ‘Of course. Come, see for yourself.’

  Conducting them through to what seemed to serve as a small office or study, he gestured to a canvas holdall resting on a small, floral-patterned chair in the corner. Anya knelt down and unzipped it, pulling the bag open to expose the contents.

  Yasin gasped in disbelief as his eyes alighted on the array of military-grade weaponry carefully packed away inside. The display of deadly technology stood in such marked contrast to the homely, peaceful study that he was having trouble processing what he was seeing.

  Anya, however, immediately went to work. The first item to emerge was the distinctive frame of a UMP-45 submachine gun. Designed by Heckler & Koch, it was essentially an updated and lightweight version of the venerable MP5 that had been in use since the 1960s. This one was fitted with an under-barrel laser sight and a forward hand grip to make it more versatile in confined spaces.

  Racking back the charging handle to make sure the breech was empty, Anya shouldered the weapon, pointed it at the wall and pulled the trigger. There was a smooth, efficient click as the firing pin engaged. She also checked the laser sight to make sure it powered up.

  Next out was a suit of Kevlar body armour, followed by several grenades. Rather than the pineapple-shaped devices depicted in the movies, these ones were cylindrical in appearance – smoke and stun grenades, designed to obscure and disorient rather than kill.

  The last items were a trio of olive-green plastic boxes, rectangular and slightly concave in shape, with a pair of steel prongs mounted on their undersides. Their faces were printed with black Cyrillic lettering that Yasin couldn’t decipher, but he knew enough to recognize them as anti-personnel mines.

  ‘These are not Claymores,’ Anya said.

  Felix made an apologetic face. ‘Claymores are not easy to come by these days, especially at short notice,’ he explained. ‘I had to use MON-50s instead. Russian, but still good. They have more explosive content and a bigger kill radius than the American mines, and they cost half as much.’

  Yasin stared in awe. He’d taken Felix to be nothing but a doddering if good-natured old man, but now he realized there was something very different at play. Much like his basement apartment, his appearance was a carefully cultivated facade designed to hide his true purpose.

  ‘This will work,’ Anya decided, carefully packing the explosives and weapons away. Reaching into her jacket, she produced a roll of banknotes, easily several thousand euros, and handed it over to him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Felix replied, pocketing the money in his cardigan.

  ‘Where did all this come from?’ Yasin asked in amazement.

  ‘Felix is a fixer,’ Anya explained. ‘One of the best in Germany, as it happens. Whatever you need – weapons, equipment, passports – he can get.’

  Felix shrugged as if uncomfortable under such praise. ‘I’m retired now, mostly,’ he added. ‘Such adventures are for young men, and my contacts are not what they once were. But sometimes I do favours for old friends.’

  ‘And they appreciate your help,’ Anya said, zipping the holdall closed.

  With the matter concluded, Felix clapped his hands together. ‘Well, in that case, who’s hungry?’

  Ten minutes later, all three of them were seated around the apartment’s big mahogany dining table as Felix served up dinner. Having been forewarned of their arrival, he’d taken the liberty of preparing a meal of pot roast, sauerkraut, steamed vegetables and potato dumplings, accompanied by a bottle of red wine.

  Anya took only a small measure of this herself and, much to his chagrin, refused to allow Yasin any. Had he been of a mood, he might have pointed out that he’d already tried a variety of alcohols, not to mention other substances, while living with other groups of displaced youths in Pakistan, but he’d already learned it was unwise to argue with her.

  In any case, the quality of the food was enough to quell any dissent on his part. Pot roast and sauerkraut was a flavour combination unknown to him, but he recognized good food when he tasted it. If you’d spent much of your li
fe fighting to find enough scraps to get through the day, the simple act of sitting down to eat a leisurely meal seemed like the height of luxury.

  ‘I hope the meal is to your liking,’ Felix said, amused by how quickly the boy was clearing his plate.

  ‘It is good,’ Yasin replied through a mouthful of bread, crumbs falling on the table.

  ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full, Yasin,’ Anya said.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ Felix assured her. ‘The boy is hungry. And by the looks of him, he could use a little feeding up.’ He flashed Yasin a conspiratorial grin. ‘You should have seen Anya when I first met her. She was rude, impatient, no manners whatsoever.’

  ‘I was nothing like that,’ Anya said gently.

  ‘Tell me more,’ Yasin implored, eager to learn more about his protector from someone who really knew her.

  Felix took a sip of his wine, considering. ‘Well, I first met her back in the old days, when the Wall still stood in Berlin,’ he explained. ‘You could only travel from one side to the other with special papers, you see. I was told that a contact would be coming to me, that they needed a full set of documents. I waited all afternoon, and nothing. Then, at midnight, I get a knock on my door, and there I find a young woman with messy blonde hair, bruised and bloody hands and torn clothes. I ask the poor girl what on earth has happened to her, and…’ – he struggled to contain a laugh at this point – ‘she pushes past me, sits down in my chair and says, “I have just beaten down two East German agents who tried to abduct me. I am tired, and hungry, and I want my documents, old man.”’ He was shaking with mirth now. ‘And that was the first time I met Anya.’

  Yasin couldn’t help laughing too. And, much to his pleasure, even Anya smiled at the memory. ‘You did not catch me at my best that night,’ she remarked, which only encouraged more laughter.

  The two guests remained there for another hour or so, listening to Felix tell stories of his long and apparently very eventful life, and laughing together. Yasin couldn’t help but glance at Anya occasionally, surprised and perhaps a little taken aback by the change that had come over her.