Wolfgang started the Kadett and followed on. What was immediately apparent was that they were heading east, not back toward Mauning’s farm—that was in the west. Mauning was going somewhere else. To the warehouse? Thankfully, the Mercedes kept a steady speed, and the Kadett was easily able to match its pace. Tailing in the near dark was trickier than it had been this morning when it was light. He tried to keep at least one car between him and the Merc. But when a car in front turned off and the Merc stopped at some lights, they got within a few feet of its rear bumper. At that point, Wolfgang thought he saw Mauning check his rear-view mirror. Did our eyes meet? Surely it was too dark. He let the Merc get ahead and worked harder at keeping his distance.
Sam was tapping away on her phone.
“Letting work know what’s happening?” Wolfgang asked without taking his eyes off the road.
“Yep. Still nothing from the BfV. Oh well.” She pressed her screen and put her phone back in her pocket. “Just as a reminder, Wolfgang. When we get to the warehouse, my rifle is the top one—that’s the one I used the other day. Happy?”
He didn’t need to be reminded. He nodded his answer to Sam’s question.
The Merc drove on. The Kadett followed. In the dark and one car back, it was difficult to see clearly what Mauning was doing. Wolfgang was pretty sure that he saw him making a phone call.
“Can you see that?” Wolfgang asked.
“What?”
“Isn’t he making a phone call?”
Sam leant forward and looked hard.
“Sorry. Can’t see from here.”
“I’m sure he was on the phone.”
Maybe not.
How long before we run out of fuel? He checked the fuel gauge. The yellow warning light had come on.
“Scheiβe!”
“What?” Sam asked.
“We have about forty kilometres of fuel left. Let’s hope he stops soon.”
Sam didn’t reply. She was too focused on the Merc.
They were out of central Berlin now, driving down a road with old, communist-style, high-rise flats on both sides. Thousands of apartments were built in the 1950s to house postwar East Germans who had come in from the countryside looking for work. They were depressing and, with the darkening skies, added to his feeling of foreboding. For the first time he felt his initial drive and excitement knocked by a touch of fear.
In the distance Wolfgang made out an industrial complex. There were huge gas cylinders and what looked like a petrochemical plant. Flames shot out of the top of a tall, thin metallic chimney, burning off unwanted gas.
“He’s turning right.” Sam noted.
Wolfgang gave the Merc a few seconds and then followed it. He could make out the taillights about a hundred yards ahead. The minor road led on and on, dissecting factory complexes and large brick-style warehouses. We’re getting close.
“Warehouses,” Wolfgang said under his breath, stating the obvious. As he did, Sam quickly turned around and brought one of the Brownings forward. She rested it on her legs like she was sitting on the porch of an American ranch. She’s good. Cool as a cucumber. I’m so glad I’m with you, Sam Green. With his stomach turning amid growing anxiety, he meant it. He also knew he was a fickle so-and-so.
The Mercedes indicated left and turned off the road into one of the industrial complexes. Wolfgang gave it some room. Craning forward and looking left where the Merc had turned, he made out a couple of brick-style four-storey warehouses that were immersed in darkness and shadows. Behind them, more brightly lit, were stacks and stacks of shipping containers, piled eight to ten high.
“Turn off your lights.” Sam said.
He did as he was told.
“Poke your nose around the corner—we have to keep eyes on.”
Wolfgang pulled halfway across the road and looked for the Merc’s taillights. The vehicle was still driving further into the complex, now maybe fifty metres away. It was dark around the buildings, the light from the container park shielded by the warehouses. Once I’m in the shadow of the warehouses, the Kadett will be hidden.
He accelerated around the corner and into the lee of the first warehouse. Looking ahead, the Merc’s lights were further away now. How far down does this place reach?
He drove on slowly. Sam had wound down her window. The cold air caught their breath, turning it to mist. The Mercedes kept driving on.
Just ahead was a gap between two of the towering redbrick warehouses. A shaft of dull light turned blackness into brown. It wasn’t like a spotlight, but neither was it shadow. Is it bright enough that we’ll be spotted crossing the gap? Should they make a dash for it? Then, ahead of them, the Merc’s lights turned right, moving out of sight.
“Go for it!” Sam shouted through her teeth.
Wolfgang put his foot down. The Kadett responded, accelerating forward. But progress didn’t last long. As they reached the middle of the gap, someone unleashed the dogs of war.
The crunching sound of metal on metal was so shocking, he couldn’t stop himself from flinching; his left hand involuntarily released the steering wheel. The momentum of the spin forced him against the driver’s door. The immediate excruciating pain in his wounded arm made him yelp. Sam, who was wearing a seatbelt, still managed to smash into him—her rifle flew in front of his face and exited through his side window, which broke into a thousand pieces. How it missed his head was a mystery.
They spun through three hundred and sixty degrees, maybe more—all the time he felt consciousness draining from him. Something was digging into his leg, something sharp and uncomfortable. As he spun the pain in his leg grew, and as his world reeled out of control, it was difficult to say which of his limbs hurt more. Both his leg and his arm screamed out for attention.
The turning movement subsided, but it was replaced by a dawning sensation of terror. This was no accident. Above all of this, the crash, the spin, and the now intolerable pain, he heard Sam shout, “Get out, Wolfgang!”
He tried to respond. But then, all was peace.
Church of the White Cross, Abilene, Texas, USA
As Albin drove the Ford at a very sedate pace up the gravel drive, they arrived atop a rise, and there, in front of them, was the main church about three hundred metres away. It had been built on a small mound, a white clapboard building with a single tower and red-tiled steeple. It was pretty. The church was surrounded by a group of buildings. The biggest and most impressive was new-looking, concrete, brick and glass, and single-storey. It was where the gravel track led them. A brand new billboard made it clear they were approaching a serious Christian establishment: “The Church of the White Cross. God welcomes those who repent!”
If that was the entrance test, Albin wasn’t sure he would be welcome among the congregation.
His boss Jim, the Washington agent, and Samantha, the FBI media rep, had all remained quiet on the drive from Abilene. By the time they approached the main entrance to the offices, Albin would have described the atmosphere in the Ford as “tense.”
He stopped the black pickup directly in front of the entrance. His boss had made it clear that he wasn’t to park in a designated car space, but “leave it right out front.” That’s what he did. He always did as he was instructed. He always did it right.
Without any discussion, the team of three got out and made their way to the main door of the administration building—Albin had just noticed a sign by the door, which gave the place a title. There was a single, tiled step leading to a double glass door, which the three of them entered. Albin stayed in the Ford with the engine running. The engine’s cooling fan hummed into life—the dash was reading eighty-five degrees in the sunshine. Albin was comfortable, though. The aircon worked beautifully, and it was certainly a good deal less than eighty-five in the cab.
The minutes ticked along. He couldn’t see into the building, even though he bent his head forward. The glass doors appeared to lead into a small lobby, but he wasn’t sure. The bottom halves of the doors weren’t se
e-through, and above the smoked glass, all he could make out was a ceiling fan. There was certainly no sign of his team who had just gone in.
Albin drummed his fingers on the dashboard, chewing away at a new piece of baccy. The main radio clicked, and he expected some words to follow. But there was nothing. It was all eerily quiet. That’s good, isn’t it? If his boss needed support, he would be calling for it. He was sure of that.
He checked the dashboard clock: 14.37. Three minutes and the main team would be here. Red and blues flashing away. Just like in the films.
Wait. What’s that? Albin spotted a window to the left of the glass doors being opened. He couldn’t be sure . . .
But now he was. The barrel of a rifle emerged from the gap. Holy shit! His eyes darted around, matching the speed of his rising heart rate. Then, on top of the admin building, he made out a man crawling on the roof. The man wore green fatigues and appeared to be carrying a weapon of some sort.
Holy shit! And now there was a second man on the roof. And a third? This is all going belly-up. Shit! Shit!
What should he do? What should I do? Albin was instantaneously caught between getting the hell out of there and, well, what exactly? He was unarmed, so couldn’t storm the building. But running away—that was the wrong thing to do. Wasn’t it?
Impulse didn’t wait for any further discussion.
Albin reached for the radio handset at the same time as knocking the Ford into drive. He flattened the pedal to the floor, turning the wheel sharply with one hand, whilst pulling the handset to his mouth with his free hand. As gravel spewed from all four tyres he screamed into the mike, “AMBUSH! AMBUSH!”
As the Ford slung its back end around to align itself with the front wheels, which were heading back down the drive, sounds and noises like he had only ever heard in a war movie burst into his brain. A hail of bullets sprayed the Ford, the rear window shattered, the front windscreen splintered into see-through crazy-paving—he had to smash a hole so he could see where he was going. The padding on the passenger seat split open, as if it had a will of its own. Shit! That’s a bullet. Albin involuntarily brought his knees together to protect what was important to him.
Other pieces of the Bronco took hits with accompanying pings. He twisted and turned the Ford, snaking it down the drive, trying to save his life, which he knew was never more than an inch from ending. Steam was now billowing out from under the bonnet of the Ford, and the driver’s side window was no longer there.
Ping, ping, ping! Where did those bullets go?
As he launched the Ford up the rise, he was met by the lead vehicle of the second tranche of the search. It was a state trooper patrol car.
Except soon it wasn’t. As it hit the brow and showed the underside of its radiator grill to Albin, an almighty whoosh flew past his left ear. The whoosh was followed by a trail of dark smoke, that was pursuing instant death to its target. The patrol car appeared to stop and then lift, as if it had been hit by the club of a giant. The car, its blue and red lights announcing the second wave, took off like an aeroplane at the end of a runway. Albin saw a firework of spinning, black undercarriage and blue and red flashing lights as the patrol car twisted in the air accompanied by sparks and shrapnel. He was at the scene a second later, rounds still hitting the Ford. Somehow the bullets miraculously missed him. He turned the steering wheel violently left to avoid the airborne patrol car—which was on its way back down to earth. At that point, the Ford hit a large rock or something similar. It was now Albin’s turn to cartwheel in four tons of pickup. Airbags blew and pinging noises ricocheted around him as the Ford continued to take incoming fire as it rolled. He was in his mamma’s washing machine. But the smell wasn’t detergent. It was chaos and death.
And then it stopped, as abruptly as it started. Just a gently rocking movement, the dust from the airbags, and no gunfire. The Ford was on its tyres, but it was no longer the vehicle that he knew. He shook his head—he was all right, wasn’t he? There seemed to be a lull in the battle. Am I out of view?
In front of him was a convoy of static vehicles, patrol lights flashing: the second tranche. He snapped his head backward to look behind through the open gap where there was once a rear window. All he could see was a mound of grass and beyond that, only sky. The Ford had travelled far enough to be out of sight of the admin building. Am I safe?
Albin closed his eyes, exhaled, and shook his head.
“Hey, son, are you all right?”
Albin opened his eyes. It was one of the local police officers.
“Yeah. Yeah. Think so. Shaken a bit. What’s happening?”
The policeman had now been joined by a Fed. They were both wearing Kevlar vests. He should really get one of those if they did this again. As he looked around, everyone was out of their vehicles. Men were crawling up to the skyline; others were on their radios. The lead state trooper vehicle was at the very top of the ridge, upside down, flames and smoke lapping at its black and white paintwork. Albin saw a man in police uniform crawling to reach the vehicle.
Shit! Is this really happening?
“What went on back there?” the Fed asked.
Albin was brought back to the here and now.
He dithered.
“The team went in as planned. Err, you know—my boss, the Washington Fed, and media. And they didn’t come out. And then . . .” All of a sudden he felt very emotional. Hold it together, Albin. Come on! “Then I saw a gun at the window and two or three men on the roof. I just tried to get away.”
He drifted again, looking around, trying to take it all in. He looked away from the two men who were standing there, questioning him, by his nonexistent window. Around him, others were barking orders at men wearing helmets and flak jackets. Further away to his right, the crawling man in uniform had just about made it to the upturned state trooper car on the brow of the hill. Albin noticed that the engine compartment, which was facing away from the direction of the church, was burning hard, licks of flames coming out from where the front left wheel used to be. That could go up any minute.
Crack! A single shot. The crawling man’s body lifted and fell; then it was motionless. Everyone else ducked. Albin flinched involuntarily. Shit! It was like something from Armageddon. He was playing an extra’s role to Bruce Willis. It was unreal. He stared at the man who was no longer crawling up the hill, and his stomach gave an involuntary lurch. He couldn’t stop himself. He threw up all over the steering wheel and onto his pants. He felt the two men by his window reel, as if to avoid the vomit. Thankfully it had all stayed in the car. They needn’t have worried.
He was shivering now. Uncontrollably. Something was happening to him.
To add to his embarrassment, a woman in a green uniform had just turned up. She must have been a medic. The woman pushed the two men out of the way. She was elderly. Perhaps his mamma’s age? She had a nice smile.
“Come on, son. It’s time we got you out of here. Any pain? Can you move your legs and your arms?”
Albin tried. Yes, they all worked.
“I’m OK. Just mighty cold.”
“That’ll be the shock. You’ll be fine.”
She tried to open the door, but it was so badly dented it stuck. Between her and the Fed they managed to open it—the creaking sound hurt Albin’s ears. The woman in green reached for the seatbelt buckle and undid it. He tried to stop himself from falling out of the Ford, but he couldn’t. His body had turned to a sort of jelly. She held him as he fell.
“There, there, son. Everything’s going to be OK now.”
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London
“What have we got, Frank?” Jane was standing by Frank’s shoulder looking at a fairly detailed map of eastern Berlin on his main screen. Oberwachtmeister Klaus was standing by Frank’s other shoulder. At least he’s taken his raincoat off.
“Both phones, Mauning’s and Sam’s, came to a halt here.”
Frank was pointing to what looked like an industrial complex. Jane reckoned that it was
twenty kilometres outside central Berlin. There was no electronic indication on Frank’s screen to say that the phones were still bleeping where he had his finger, although she did spot a red dot moving westward, back through the centre of Berlin.
“And?”
“Well, that’s the strange thing. Sam’s phone stopped communicating with us, at”—Frank looked down at a notebook—“17.45; that’s 18.45 central European time.”
“Why?” Jane was impatient. Sam’s phone not working wasn’t good news. She didn’t have a great feeling about this.
“Turned off, out of batteries, broken, or smashed?” Frank gave a list of options from which to pick.
The last one is my bet.
“Go on, Frank.”
“Mauning’s phone remained at the spot, which is an old industrial complex next to a container depot—I’ve Googled it to be sure—for another forty-five minutes.” Frank twisted his head to speak directly to the Oberwachtmeister. “I’ve relayed all of this to your team in Berlin, sir. They’re up to speed.” He turned to face Jane again. “Then Mauning’s phone left, just ten minutes ago. As you can see, it’s now here.” Frank was pointing at the red dot, which had travelled another centimetre to its left.
Jane was about to ask a supplementary when Karl started talking in German into his mobile phone. Her French was adequate and her Arabic pretty sharp, but her German wasn’t great. She picked out very little. She focused back in on Frank’s screen.
Where are you, Sam Green?
Karl finished his conversation and closed down the phone.
“We have a team at the gates of the industrial complex now. They will move in ten minutes. I hope they’re not too late.”
I think they probably are.
Chapter 19
Disused Warehouse Complex, Altglienicke Industrial Estate, Berlin
Sam’s teeth were chattering uncontrollably. Her whole body was a spasm of shivers. She was bitterly cold. The metal of the shipping container was acting as a heat sink for any warmth she and Wolfgang generated. She had suffered from hypothermia before and had survived. She recognised the tell-tale signs: the lethargy; the lack of focus; the clamminess of her skin. She knew that at some point in the future, unless their situation changed dramatically, she would become delirious. All the heat her body could generate would be directed to keep her vital organs warm. Her brain wasn’t as important as her heart and lungs; it was a minor organ in the fight for survival over debilitating cold. Starved of warmth, the brain would shut down. And then her organs would give up one by one, as her involuntary muscle spasms failed to generate the heat needed to overcome what she was giving away. It was only a matter of time.
Fuelling the Fire Page 36