by R. J. Dillon
Slowly Nick eased open the motorhome’s main door, entering not at a rush, but a foot at a time. Nick moved forward his H&K levelled at the prone figure lying by the front seats, a Russian he vaguely recalled from Moscow or maybe it was London, blowing frothy red bubbles, his fingers itching for an assault rifle Nick kicked out of reach. Raising his H&K, Nick fired a single shot into the Russian’s forehead. The body jerked one final time. Nick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand looking around; the interior was trashed and so was Tolz: a soft toy ripped apart. Drifting through the air, dust and fragments settled on the wreckage. Stepping through the mess, Nick dropped into a hunched ball on the motorhome’s step, drew up his knees and rested his head on his arms.
Nineteen
The Turning of Vilhelms Bliska
Winterthur, December
After landing at Zurich airport Nick took a local stopping train to Winterthur, slowly starting to doze his mind swimming with various possibilities that offered no clear solution, only a host of complications. With his eyes still hazy Nick stepped into Winterthur’s Bahnhofplatz and a hail shower. The cold night chilling him to his core as he fed in a handful of francs and dialled from a pay phone under the station canopy. Returning the handset, Nick made a show of searching for a second number on a scrap of paper. In the square a trolley bus lurched along, blue sparks spitting from the overhead wires in the moist air. From a bar opposite the heavy beat of a disco thudded like mortars as a police car toured slowly through the square, turning by the Migros Grocery store, and Nick felt the dryness settle on his lips.
The cold ran into his hands as the car took forever to pass, the policeman glaring into the night, his blond moustache as bright as his badge of office. Ring, Ernst, ring, he urged, working on five separate excuses in the empty minutes before Sargens returned his call. And after the brief exchange of more clear code merely confirming details, Nick, dead on his feet, secured a room in the Station Hotel using yet another discoloured smile as the clerk made an epic of booking him in, of offering the menu even though the restaurant had closed.
Depositing the bare minimum that he carried with him in his room, Nick hurried out again a different hotel in his sights. This one the Hotel Wartmann where outside a sign creaked to and fro, toiling under its message: Haldengut Bier. Echt gut Haldengut. Inside they were waiting for him; Bransk and Ernst Sargens huddled together like Horatio and Marcellus waiting for the ghost, in a private room behind the hotel’s main bar. The room had no windows and the biggest cowbell in Switzerland slung behind the door. The hot air reeked of leather from the tack hanging off the walls, bridles and halters and the odd saddle. On their table a candle flame spluttered in the heady air, licking the inside of a clear glass cup on a sandstone base. Ernst rose to greet him. Stocky and dark haired he had a gypsy tint to his skin that some women adored; his broad smile had the makings of a handshake all its own, but they still made a formal greeting.
‘Nick, Nick, but this isn’t a day too soon. How are you? My boys and girls I loaned you, they behaving?’ Ernst smiled, on his feet and sprinting nowhere. ‘They should, they get paid damn enough.’
With one of Nick’s hands clamped firmly in his own, Ernst pumped it up and down as if he was parched and badly needed water from a well. Thirty-nine and he spoke with a dignity and formal kudos of a sixty-year old. Ernst Sargens, ex-German special forces, a respected member of the Kommando Spezialkräfte, the KSK. Sargens appraised him. Nick the serious Englishman he’d adopted, cared for and protected on some dangerous missions; a surrogate brother not of Christ or crime, but the good time.
‘It’s good to see you Ernst,’ said Nick when they had settled at the table. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘Too long,’ replied Ernst, saddened by the fact. ‘This I know is personal Nick. A bad business. Harry has told me the details. We do all we can to help.’
A waitress brought a third coffee to the table without it being ordered, grinning angelically at Ernst.
‘Appreciated Ernst,’ said Nick, and out of embarrassment stirred his coffee.
‘Then we start,’ decided Bransk after an uncomfortable minute. ‘This is the lay of the land, Nick, okay. A rough outline and no more. It’s almost Ernst’s backyard so he can run you through it.’
As a preliminary gesture that marked all of Sargens’ briefings, he offered his cigarettes; the smoke remaining over their heads in a dense pall, clashing with the smell of cracked leather and food.
‘I would say then, Nick, if you don’t mind,’ opened Ernst. ‘That all the indications point to us carrying off a successful operation if you wish, nothing too complicated here, we’ve plenty of options to get at our target,’ he concluded, handing over a package Danny Redman had delivered from London on behalf of Aubrey-Spencer.
By five the next afternoon they had as they say, walked the course. Römerstrasse was a long wide avenue built for prosperity, a pretty enclave with a view of the hills. An oasis of villas, each an individual statement, each one grander than its neighbour, each isolated behind walled gardens and electronic gates. The light had faded, slipping by them in an ebbing tide, a dull uneven gloom creeping into its place. Bare rowan and ash branches flailed in revolt as welcome home lights turned the drives into morning. A winter finality marked the day’s close; a bitterness that stayed on Nick’s skin, causing him to shiver for much of the walk.
‘That’s our friend’s.’ Ernst pointed to a villa over the road, heavy with rococo charm. ‘It’s been in his wife’s family for years, bought as an investment. Left to her by her father, a local politician who built his reputation as a major player when he served on the Zurich Canton Council. She’s quite a wealthy lady in her own right, our friend did his homework for sure. He’s landed on his feet since he became a Swiss national. The flat over the garage is for domestics, a live-in couple who do the cleaning, cooking and gardening. Our friend has four kids, but only one still lives at home and they just converted part of the garage into a sauna. The back is a nightmare, Nick. Fountains, statues, you just can’t move at night without risking breaking your neck. There’s even a grotto but that’s used for the Dobermanns.’
‘There was no way we could make an approach to him at home,’ Harry explained, as they came level with the gates. ‘He has the place well stocked. Pressure mats, beams, only a fool would make a forced entry.’ As if to emphasise the point, a large dog made a charge down the drive.
The sky began to clear. There was going to be a frost, Nick felt the chill sharpen as headlights passed them in a rush to get home.
‘It’s got to be outside then?’ presumed Nick. ‘Our best chance will be in the open?’
‘We shouldn’t have any problems,’ Bransk said. ‘Ernst’s put a good team together.’
‘My boys and girls are good, Nick, they’ve all got previous experience, know the ropes, know what’s needed, you worked with some of them previously. Anja cut her teeth with the military. Liesel and Ursel, they’re fine, can take it.’
‘Backup?’
‘All reliable,’ Sargens assured him. ‘Markus and Ignaz are steady, not likely to get shaky. Lukas is the driver, he can handle whatever comes his way.’
They were strolling side by side Nick and Ernst divided by their thoughts, Harry forever concerned about security dawdled at their heels. Why do we always end up plundering another life? Nick wondered. Lubov died at one end, the traitor is waiting at another. How many lives will need destroying in order to make the traverse, to get safely across? he asked himself.
• • •
The house in Goldenberg was new, typically Swiss, a split-level chalet with a flagpole for National Day. It stood behind the Kantonsschule and it had all the conformity to make it anonymous, thought Nick from the van. They were parked on a corner Markus flicking through the morning paper, Nick a clipboard on his lap. At eight o’clock Klara Tobel began her journey. Her Fiat sparked first time, its newness impressive as she drove on by. At the junction with Rychenbergstrasse, she
stalled and Nick had a heart stopping couple of seconds until the engine came back to life. Over gunning it, she turned left by the Musikschule-Konservatorium before turning down into Winterthur the morning overcast and cold, a thin mist stuck to the wooded hillside, deep cloud shutting out the sun.
Markus, a man of habit, waited exactly fifteen minutes before driving up to Tobel’s house as on previous mornings, down the van’s side the name of an electrical contractor dreamed up by Ernst, and a telephone number manned by Ursel in case anyone should ring. A rough key needed firm pressure, taking no more than a couple of twists before the door swung in. She has a few friends, Sargens had declared. Lives by herself and only has the one visitor who treats it like his second home. She never uses the front door, she keeps it chained and comes out of the back. Entering on Markus’s heels, Nick found the kitchen still warm, a smell of fresh coffee roaming in the air, but Nick couldn’t see a cup or mug. In the dishwater he told himself, and checked to satisfy his curiosity. The machine was empty leaving him unreasonably disappointed, as if finding an ordinary cup might have given hope that Klara Tobel really existed.
‘The power is off and the phone is dead,’ Markus told him, unpacking his case, laying out the instruments clean enough for any operation. ‘She never leaves a thing out of place. You would think that no one lived here, except for the audio and video.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Nick, watching Markus go to work, surgical gloves on his eager hands.
Unplugging the kettle, Markus removed the socket cover retrieving the room transmitter. With a satisfied smile, he returned the original cover and screwed it back in place. It is so easy thought Nick, stealing pieces of other people’s lives, power sockets, telephone sockets, even the adaptors used for Christmas lights could carry away conversation.
‘How many rooms did you wire?’
‘Each room,’ Markus answered, his nimble fingers extracting two black micro wireless devices from a table lamp. ‘This is easy, yes. She has no knowledge, no friends to make a sweep, so I can afford to be generous. A main transmitter for sure, then I also provide a backup. Two to a room, no failures, the full story nice and clear.’
Weary, tired and irritable, Nick moved on.
Upstairs he found the same sterile scene; bleached floorboards supporting furniture cut to a simple pattern and finished by hand. Below in the living room he heard Markus scratching at a wall socket, as frantic as a mouse. In the bathroom, flying fish embossed on the shower screen dripped silently into a white plastic tray. He smelt a delicate fragrance; perfume or soap, he wasn’t sure. Tobel had nothing of value, he decided as Markus cheerfully whistling now somewhere upstairs, collected his precious transmitters and cameras. She has a lover who brings nothing but himself; for there were no touches of him here either, no second toothbrush, no shaving set, no large bathrobe behind the door.
Across the landing built as a poor minstrels’ gallery, Nick came on the main bedroom where a double bed rested opposite the window, its quilt matching the walls in their blank whiteness, a statement of virtue that failed to impress. I am becoming an expert on bedrooms he thought, remembering Sabine’s. On his hands and knees, Markus replaced the original socket for the bedside lamp.
‘The quality of sound could be better,’ Markus said, finishing off, packing his case. ‘Not too bad, you should have a close-up or two,’ he said, handing Nick a laptop, the audio and visual footage uploaded from what he’d picked up on the receiver and feeds in the back of his van.
‘Just as long as we have his face,’ said Nick to Markus’ departing back. Hung above the bed a solitary picture one of them must be able to see when they made love; a print of a desert island, the sun just rising or setting, a dream or illusion? wondered Nick. Klara’s joke perhaps? He looked to find an earring, a book with a page turned down, some loose change, even dust, anything to give Klara Tobel some shape; a reference that he could attach to her sullen face and make destroying her easier.
Standing back from the window Nick saw the Volvo arrive; a black estate with false plates and Sargens driving. A shot of pale sun broke through the clouds scorching Nick’s face through the glass. Casting glances along the block Ernst conducted the removal of a broad figure out of the estate, a bodyguard protecting an important guest. The man appeared to be in a shock, pale and ill, either that or they’ve hit him too hard, thought Nick. Liesel linked arms with the man, his pinstripe suite out of place, unnatural against Liesel’s tight jeans and sweatshirt; Anja and Lukas bringing up the rear, bags of shopping for cover.
A BMW drew up behind the Volvo with Ignaz at the wheel. And what could be more natural than for Klara Tobel’s lover to park his car outside her house? If Nick required proof that any of the neighbours should show customary Swiss zeal and inform the police, he had it at that precise moment. Two mothers wheeling prams passed the cars, neither of them offering so much as a second glance. Downstairs Nick heard raised voices, and someone put a CD on; a little music for the friends of Klara, that is not unusual either, decided Nick. Then the footsteps on the stairs, slow, assured, not a hangman’s coming to measure him for the drop, but Harry Bransk, actually smiling, the biggest smile of his life. Red in the face, the smell of a fresh Swiss morning on his jacket, he grinned broadly, bringing personal thanks from an ecstatic team to their elected coach.
‘No problems?’
Harry shook his head without losing his grin. ‘They’re one of the best teams I’ve worked with.’
‘No worries about being seen?’
‘A dream, total team effort, we took him clean,’ said Harry.
‘Then we should be fine,’ said Nick, appreciating that without Ernst, Danny and Harry he’d be playing to an empty house. ‘I think it’s time that you brought up our guest,’ said Nick, checking he’d everything ready.
Escorted up by Ernst and Lukas who actually had to pull and push, Vilhelms Bliska chose to stay with his back to the bed. That’s fine, I know where you’re coming from, facing your own lust in front of strangers isn’t easy, decided Nick. Bliska remained by the window, a burly figure with a wise face and dark thinning hair. The looseness in his shoulders stiffened as footage of him and Tobel played on the laptop set squarely on the bed by Nick, the hissing clearing to Klara giggling and groaning as Bliska asked if she wanted more. Fake sounds of joy, a straight playback of regular bedtime action spreading through the room, the unmistakable sweating face of Bliska clear and visible as his mistress rode him. Whether it was Klara’s clinical performance, Bliska’s enthusiastic grunts of pleasure or pure embarrassment, the majority shareholder and managing director of SVZkom suddenly awoke as though coming out of a dream. Ashen faced he threw the laptop against the wall, shattering it with a bang. Nick glanced unconcerned at the wreckage.
‘We have additional footage,’ said Nick, raising his eyebrows.
‘You are crazy,’ Bliska stormed, fluently switching on his English. ‘You are all mad, animals, thugs. We have laws in Switzerland to protect men like me. I am Herr Bliska. I am the manager of an international company. You are fools to think you can keep me.’
Lunging forward at Nick, Bliska only gained a couple of steps before Ernst and Harry restrained him, whilst Nick the object of his rage, remained unmoved on a corner of Klara’s bed.
‘Don’t touch me, get your filthy hands off me,’ Bliska snarled, more in exhibition than threat. ‘Is this the way to treat a man of my position? Answer me? Do you understand justice?’
‘We all understand justice, it’s the interpretation that’s difficult to define,’ suggested Nick, fixing Bliska with resolute eyes. ‘Now sit down and be quiet.’ Nick waved his hand for calm, in perfect control.
Bliska erupted once more. ‘Who do you think you are dealing with? So I have a mistress, who will care about an extra-marital affair in the twenty-first century,’ he said brightly, finding a seed of hope, his confidence returning.
‘Paid for by Moscow.’
‘Moscow… Moscow. Where is your right to m
ake these accusations?’ he blustered, rising to his full height, Ernst and Lukas promptly at his side. ‘If you leave now, I will forget that you even tried to blackmail me. That is my option, that is my deal.’
‘Whether we leave or stay, Moscow is going to kill you,’ said Nick reasonably. ‘They will assume that you have told us many privileged things.’
Taking measured steps to the window, Bliska studied Nick as though he needed more persuasion. ‘I am a man of substance,’ he declared indigent once more. ‘I am in receipt of a considerable salary, I have invested wisely and this,’ he said with a wave of both arms, ‘is my reward, an investment. Moscow,’ he snorted, ‘has nothing to do with this or me.’
‘Moscow has already killed to prevent us reaching you,’ said Nick. ‘What are they going to think when they find that we have interviewed the managing director of a wholly owned GRU company, namely your own? They will assume that Herr Bliska, an agent they believed they could trust has disclosed many things. How his company SVZkom, uses GRU funding transferred here from Panama to assist his R&D development that is a cover for cyber-terrorism and espionage,’ Nick continued. ‘You are equally dispensable, you should not forget that.’
Visibly shaken, Bliska’s composure withered. A man without a counter-claim or an excuse, he floundered for something to say, his heavy eyes looked first to Lukas, then Ernst, coming at last forlornly to Nick.
‘This is a lie, totally untrue.’
It was the final protest and they all knew it. Uttered flatly without any conviction or feeling, it was an act of defiance that even Bliska had no faith in.
‘Why not sit down,’ offered Nick. ‘We have evidence of the movements of funds from Moscow to Approva Holdings and Investment in Panama. From there, the transfers to your company here including the times, dates and amounts. You cooperate and there’s no reason for Frau Bliska or your GRU controllers to watch your performances with Klara. We can even assist you to start a new life if you come over to us.’