Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  “Wolfgang’s . . . the butler at the schloss. It sounds grander than it is.”

  In the background they heard Wolfgang say, “No, it is as grand as that! He is my butler!”

  The chief looked at Jane. She knew this was probably the weirdest SIS telephone conversation he’d ever had. But she didn’t see incredulity; she saw deep frustration, bordering on anger.

  “I have the shooter’s photo, so I might be able to find him on the Interpol database, if he has a record. And we’re also going to Bischoff’s house later, to get a feel for the lie of the land in Leipzig.”

  The chief was shaking his head. “I’m going to put you on mute just for a second, Sam.”

  Jane obliged.

  The chief ran his hand through his hair.

  “Are we seriously going to let Green play Ethan Hunt in the backyard of one of our closest allies?” the chief demanded of Jane.

  I’m not sure why you’re asking me; it’s your call.

  Jane composed herself. Yes, the situation was difficult. Complicated. Sam Green was just an analyst. One who, only ten days previously, had had a breakdown for which she probably should have lost her job—she guessed David hadn’t told the chief about that. Now they had an even more complicated situation, and Green was in the thick of it. They were a man down in Yemen; finding him would be such a fillip for everyone involved—especially Tony James! They had two ex-CIA operatives on the loose, with absolutely no idea what their role was in anything—and they were popping up everywhere. Op Greyshoe was now being taken very seriously by the Americans. And David had been spiked with Stasi poison. All of which could be linked.

  And Sam Green, for all her inadequacies, was demonstrating an impressive resilience that might just help piece this together. However, looking at how effectively she was now being pursued, Jane didn’t think the window would be open for very long.

  “Let her run, sir. Just for another twenty-four hours. We have no one in the Berlin embassy we can task. And none within a day’s travel that could get up to speed and with the operation to start poking around.”

  The chief still wore a face of consternation. He smacked his hand on the back of his chair.

  “Whatever I decide, we need to let the BfV know now.” The chief was emphatic, although, strangely, Jane thought she could talk him out of it if she wanted.

  “Do you know anyone in the BfV whom you can trust with this? The right-wing camp across the whole of Germany has stretch—do we know how far? Or how deep? Sir.” Jane added the last word a little too late to be completely sure she was showing due deference.

  “Yes, of course.” It wasn’t the chief’s strongest commitment.

  He blew out hard.

  “Put her back on.” His tone was now one of resignation.

  Jane pressed an icon on the phone.

  “Sam?” the chief led.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You understand that currently everything you are doing is way beyond any boundaries we would ordinarily set for an operation like this. And I don’t have to tell you that you are acting outside the law in two countries we currently consider to be allies.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand that.” Sam carried straight on, obviously keen to make a point. “But, sir, if we go cold now and come in, any momentum we have with this will be lost. I feel we’re just ahead of the game at the moment.”

  The chief put his hand up just in case Jane was going to say something.

  “You have to understand that we can’t protect you.”

  There was a pause.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “OK. Much against my better judgement, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m giving you exactly twenty-four hours to pursue your leads. At that point, I am going to brief my opposite number in the BfV—you know who they are?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And then you come in. No questions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jane will brief the embassy in Berlin now, so they’re not surprised if the pair of you are arrested for whatever it is you’re going to do next.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I want every piece of intelligence you get passed directly back here as soon as you get it, so that we are fully briefed. And we will both have our phones with us. You must do the same. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The chief, who had been leaning forward with his hands on the back of his chair, stood up.

  “Good luck, Sam. And that count friend of yours. Any questions?”

  There was a short pause—all Jane got from the phone was the revving of an engine.

  “No, sir. Thank you.”

  The chief nodded, and Jane hung up the phone. He walked to the window and didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

  “I’m not happy about this, Jane. It’s a mess. I want a full, written brief on everything by five o’clock this afternoon. It needs to be penned in a way that we can share it with Greyshoe. I will speak to their director tonight. This is going to send some pretty big hares running over the Pond. Find someone in the building who knows someone in the BfV at their level whom they trust. And get one of your staff in now to be your wingman on this. I’d go for an analyst who can look over images. But it’s your choice.”

  That’ll be Frank, then.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Dresden Public Library, Germany

  They had made the briefest of stops at an old pal of Wolfgang’s in a suburb of Dresden. Sam hadn’t got involved, but she let Wolfgang talk his friend into lending them his car. Money and man-hugs were shared. It all seemed very convivial.

  As they drove away in a twenty-year-old, pale yellow Opel Kadett, Sam had asked, “Do you trust him?” To which Wolfgang had replied, “Whom can you trust?” But they had both agreed that borrowing a car from a friend was less likely to get them noticed than using either of their bankcards to hire one.

  The Kadett worked. That’s all you could say for it. Sam hoped they didn’t get into another car chase, otherwise the yellow peril might have a heart attack and blow a gasket.

  They had found a free computer in the library, which was slightly out of the way. Sam had created a bit of cover by standing nonchalantly in front of the desk, while Wolfgang got on his hands and knees and attached some wires to the back of the tower. He was now working on a screen that Sam didn’t recognise and doing things she didn’t understand. The screen was all dark grey, and, as Wolfgang typed, the letters emitted a light green hue. It was like watching someone attempting to get into the Matrix.

  Using her tablet, Sam flipped through the Interpol images, trying to find a match with their assailant from this morning. She remembered that it took her a couple of hours to have success with Bischoff, so she needed some luck. Or, she hoped that Wolfgang could find something on their assailant’s phone that might help.

  Her phone pinged. It was an e-mail from Jane.

  The BMW was registered to a Michael Maus. Unless the Germans are completely humourless, that’s a dead lead.

  Frank has come in. He can act as a remote analyst if you need him. He’s going to try to get the embassy to see if they can establish the name of the man who shot at you this morning by going straight to the local police.

  Note also, new images are in from Yemen. I realise you have your hands full, but you chose the targets, so if you get the chance, look over those.

  And finally, be careful. I have some unshareable intel on the Church of the White Cross. This could be the key ingredient to what’s going on. Look out for it.

  Keep in touch.

  Jane xxx

  What is it with that church?

  Sam chastised herself for forgetting her day job and made a promise to Tony James that she would look over all of the images before close of play. They would have to find time. She went back to the Interpol images.

  “Sehr gut,” Wolfgang retorted.

  Sam, who was sitting next to him on an uncomfortable plastic chair, looked acro
ss at his screen.

  “What do you have?”

  “Look, here.” Wolfgang pointed to a long list of initials and what looked like telephone numbers. “These two are Berlin landlines, this is Leipzig . . .”

  Sam pointed at one near the bottom. The letters were HL. The number started with 001.

  “That’s a US number,” she said.

  “Correct. A US landline number.” He stared at them some more. “But no names. Just numbers and initials. But . . . look. Here’s HB. Which could be Bischoff’s mobile number.”

  Sam drew her seat closer to Wolfgang’s. Their legs touched. It was a good feeling.

  “Can you cut and paste them into an e-mail?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do it now.”

  Wolfgang swiftly did as he was told.

  “That’s not your e-mail address.” Sam was confused.

  “I have a number of them. This is the least likely one anyone can associate with me.” Wolfgang looked pleased with himself.

  “Don’t be so confident.”

  “To whom do I send the list?”

  Sam gently pushed him aside and took hold of the keyboard. In the “To:” box she typed in Frank’s insecure work address. She topped and tailed it, asking him to get whatever he could from GCHQ. If they could tap the HB one, that would be a bonus.

  “Who’s Frank?”

  “A colleague of mine. He knows some people who should be able to put faces to a few of these initials. And, do we know the number of the mobile?” Sam pointed to the smartphone on the desk that they’d taken from the man in the forest.

  “Yes. Can I?” He gestured to the keyboard and typed it in.

  Sam pressed “Send.”

  Wolfgang’s mailbox got a response from Frank immediately. It was three words:

  “Roger. Be safe.”

  “Have you been able to find out who the phone belongs to?” Sam pressed Wolfgang.

  “Not yet. I’m now going to look at any SMS history and then see if we can access the e-mail account and any Internet search history.” He was already typing.

  Sam was just about to add something when she stopped herself. She looked at him, tapping away. What were they up to? What forces had they taken on? Once before, in West Africa, she had led a man into a situation that had almost cost him his life. Was she doing the same now? Looking at Wolfgang, could she afford to lose him?

  Four years ago, in Afghanistan, she had loved and lost a wonderful man. It had broken her, and, even now, any thought of the event that took him made her want to lie down and curl up into a ball. After Chris’s death, she didn’t think she could ever love again.

  But Wolfgang was different from anyone she’d ever met. And, while she had absolutely no idea what her true feelings for him were, or if her fledgling feelings might be reciprocated, she knew she wouldn’t cope if she lost him.

  He turned to her, that rakish smile spreading warmth.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, you idiot. Get hacking.”

  Kaltstrasse, Leipzig, Germany

  It was getting dark as Wolfgang drew the Kadett to a stop on the side of the road. They were maybe two hundred metres from where Sam reckoned Bischoff lived.

  “Drive past,” Sam instructed.

  Wolfgang did as he was told.

  The road was a normal German suburban strasse. Most of the buildings were sturdy three- and four-storey blocks, purposely built as apartments. Wolfgang was always amazed at how the British needed their independence and, where possible, lived in detached houses. In Germany, particularly in the old East, most people were happy to live in a block of flats.

  Cars were parked on both sides of the road. Behind the buildings there were other areas for parking and some garages. Each block had a narrow front garden, and most seemed to have access to cellars—a very German necessity. The street was well lit and, at first glance, reasonably affluent. Most of the cars seemed new. Looking through the odd window that didn’t have its shutters down, the rooms appeared tidy and well looked after. Large flat-screen TVs lit up the rooms in ever-changing colours, and through one window, Wolfgang spotted a couple decorating a Christmas tree. In November?

  Sam spotted Bischoff’s apartment block and pointed it out. It was no different from the others.

  “Pull over,” Sam said quietly.

  Wolfgang slid the Opel in behind a Mercedes and turned off the engine.

  “OK, as we discussed, I’ll go and check on the entrance and exits to the house and clock all of the cars. You see if you can find a telephone junction box.” She smiled and touched his arm below the wound.

  “How is it?”

  “Throbbing. But OK.” Actually it hurt more than that, but as is always the case with an injury, Wolfgang only really noticed it when he sat still long enough. And that didn’t happen much with Sam Green around.

  “I’ll re-dress it later.” She stopped herself from getting out of the car, just for a moment. “If anything happens and we get split up, I’ll meet you at the hauptbahnhof as we agreed. And put your phone on every hour for ten minutes.”

  Wolfgang nodded. He looked over his shoulder to check the Browning was still on the backseat. They had loosely covered it with a blanket his friend had left in the car. Seeing the rifle jogged something that had been playing on his mind.

  “Why did you shoot at the tree?” he asked.

  Sam turned around and stuck her head back in through the passenger door. She initially looked confused, and then a light seemed to go on when she understood what he was after.

  “I zeroed the rifle. Picked a spot on the tree, fired at it, and checked the fall of shot. As a result, I was able to aim off when I shot at the BMW.”

  “And if you hadn’t done that?”

  “I’d have hit a crow and we’d now be tied up in someone’s cellar.”

  “Oh . . .” That makes sense.

  Then she was gone. Wolfgang got out too, but he didn’t lock the car. He had his laptop and some wires with him.

  He took in the scene. Sam was already across the road, skipping up the steps that led to the main door of the apartment block. He looked up and down the front of the flats, hoping to spot a telephone junction box. If he could find one, and the computers in the street were still fed Internet over copper wire, he might be able to clip in and hack into the systems. If they were fibre optic, he’d be stuck.

  He crossed over the road, stopped, and looked toward the apartment block. There was nothing on the front of the building, or in the street. He moved on, turning left to walk down a side-alley that led to some garages. Nothing here.

  Wait. In a garden, to the right of the last garage, was a small box, raised from the ground on a concrete plinth. He made his way over to it. The grey plastic box had the inscription DT on it—Deutsche Telekom. It was partially covered by a bush affording some cover. The rest of the garage area was lit, but not so brightly that he couldn’t find a shadow or two if needed.

  The box was locked with a normal Yale-type lock. But between the door and the housing there was enough room to force a screwdriver. He looked around and up to the windows that were not shuttered. All seemed clear.

  Wolfgang took his screwdriver out of his jacket pocket and, after a bit of effort, the lock burst and the door flew open with a chhewang! The noise made him cower—his heart was pumping so loudly that his ears reverberated and his arm throbbed. In the dim light, he glanced down at the wound and saw some red coming through his jumper.

  Blood.

  Calm down, Wolfgang.

  He looked around again. Nothing. Still quiet.

  He opened his laptop and let the light from the screen illuminate the switches, connectors, and wires in the darkness. There were four sets of the six wires coming out of a central connection box. Four separate apartments. He recognised the six different coloured wires—they were standard Deutsche Telekom. He had the same in his flat. Out of the bottom of the box was a central black rubber sheath heading into
the plinth and then, probably, trunked underground and away.

  He should choose one apartment. Which one? Or, he could open the sheath with his pocketknife and see if there were an obvious couple of wires that might provide the Internet tracking for all of the apartments. He discounted the latter option. When cutting the sheath, his knife might slice through a wire.

  Bischoff lived at Number 3. That would be on the bottom floor. The four sets of six wires were laid out vertically. Which one? Two from the top? Or two from the bottom? He chose the bottom.

  The next bit was relatively straightforward. Using a pair of tiny crocodile connectors, he gripped onto the red/white and yellow wires making electrical connections through the coloured rubber. On the end of his wires he had already made up a modem junction box. He plugged his computer into that and—hey, presto—he had Internet. Except he wanted to track backward to the apartment, and not just piggyback on the free connection. Now he needed to engage his coding expertise.

  He typed some code against the DOS prompt and pressed “Enter.”

  Then he was spooked.

  Somebody had come out of the back of one of the houses into the garden. Although his computer was partially shielded by the bush, Wolfgang was out in the open. The person in the garden paused, lit up a cigarette, and coughed. He then turned to walk on his way. After a split second of indecision, he gently closed the lid on his laptop, leaving it ajar enough to keep working. It still gave out a sheath of blue light, but that was a risk he’d have to take. On tiptoes, Wolfgang shuffled quietly away from the man into the shadow of a tree by one of the garages.

  He stood perfectly still. And waited. He forced himself as close to the tree as he could. In shadow.

  The person turned out to be an old man, but no one he recognised. The man walked toward him, puffing away at his fag. He sang to himself. Wolfgang thought he recognised the tune? Was it: “Eins, Zwei, G’suffa”?

  The old man got so close to Wolfgang’s laptop he almost stood on it. He shuffled for a second, looking directly at Wolfgang.