Deception (14 page)

Harry thought that was rich, remembering how Rik had been canned from MI5 for nosing into restricted records and leaving a footprint, but he let it go. ‘Take my advice and blend. These people don't mess. Remember what happened to Pike.'

‘Gotcha, boss. That all?'

‘Yes. Ring me when you get close.'

He disconnected and checked the map. Schwedt wasn't far. Another forty minutes and he'd be there. He put his foot down and watched as the Passat gradually matched his pace. He slotted himself between two large trucks and the Passat began to overtake, then dropped back. Not a professional, he decided, or a cop. Just a man doing a job of work. But who for?

TWENTY-THREE

‘
W
ho the hell is this bloke?' Deakin was on his laptop studying the photo-snatch sent by Daniels in Scheveningen. It was clear enough to use, and he'd earlier forwarded copies to watchers at the airports of Amsterdam, Rotterdam and, to be safe, Berlin. These were all cities where he had contacts he could use at short notice. Most were gofers, available for simple tasks requiring no elaborate skills other than mobility and freedom of movement in exchange for a small fee. They usually had contacts with the local police, town halls and other agencies. A few were capable of more serious work if it was needed, or knew others they could call on. They cost more but it was a price Deakin was prepared to pay for his prolonged security.

Right now, he was waiting to see if anyone would spot the face.

He and Turpowicz were staying in the Goldenstedt Hotel in Delmenhorst, a southern suburb of Bremen. At two storeys and forty rooms, it was big enough to be anonymous, and close enough to the city's commercial zones for two foreign visitors to pass unnoticed. He and Turpowicz had made the move from Hamburg as a natural precaution, and would be moving on the following day. Staying ahead of trouble was something that had kept them all free for a long time now, and would do for the foreseeable future.

He traced a map laid out on the table alongside the laptop, trying to second-guess the man's movements. If the mystery investigator Daniels had warned them about chose to head south towards Antwerp or Brussels, both routes back to the UK, then the trail would go cold. But there was always the Eurostar terminal in London. Someone might pick him up there.

Greg Turpowicz looked over his shoulder at the screen. ‘Certainly looks like a cop to me,' he muttered. ‘Most likely military. Can your MPs operate anywhere they choose?'

Deakin shrugged. ‘You know what it's like: since Nine-Eleven everything's changed. It used to be they had jurisdiction only around British bases. Anywhere else, they'd have to get the local police involved. But now  . . . now I wouldn't bet against anything.' He bent and peered closely at the man on the screen. He was stocky and solid, an ordinary dresser by the look of it, not flashy; one who would blend in anywhere. A hunter. He switched off the screen. ‘I don't really care who or what he is. He's chasing a dead man. What I do care about is where he goes next.' He checked his watch. They had a meeting coming up on the other side of Bremen. And this was of major importance for the group's financial future. More importantly, if it went according to his plans, it would establish his position as undisputed leader of the Protectory.

Harry Tate entered the town of Schwedt on the main road and let it take him towards the border crossing, which his map showed him was through the centre. He was working on the basis of German logic placing Oderstrasse in the direction of its nearest stretch of well-known water, and wasn't disappointed. Two minutes later, he saw a sign for a church to his left. He checked his mirror. No sign of the Passat, but that had been the case for the last fifteen minutes. Maybe he'd got a puncture.

He turned left and saw the church rising above the surrounding houses. He parked against the church wall and turned off the engine. ‘
Ring this number
and I will find you
', the man had told him, before hanging up. That could mean he either lived in the centre of town and spent all his time watching for new arrivals, or he was someone of substance who had others to do his watching for him.

Harry got out and locked the doors, sniffing at the smell of petrochemicals in the air. From a panel on the map, he'd learned that Schwedt had been largely modernized since reunification, and although it had lost some of its population in recent years, it had not entirely ceased being an industrial centre for the region.

Across the road was a small expanse of green. Two elderly women were chatting, while a couple of small children played with a ball. On a bench nearby, an elderly man in working clothes was smoking a pipe over a newspaper. It was peaceful here, and off the main road, secluded.

He decided to take a scouting tour first. It took him all of forty minutes to make a rough tour of the centre and get his bearings. Just before arriving back at the church, he dialled the number of Barrow's mobile.

‘
Ja?
' It was the same voice.

‘It's Tate. I'll be at the church in two minutes.' He switched off and continued walking. When he arrived at the car, an elderly woman was standing alongside it, as if keeping guard. She had grey hair and was poorly dressed in a thin coat and worn, faded shoes, although she carried herself with a certain dignity. Her eyes were ringed with dark shadows, and Harry thought she looked sick.

‘
Herr
Tate?' The old woman's lower lip was trembling slightly, and she looked frightened. Harry wondered what she had to be concerned about.

‘That's right,' he replied. But before he could say anything else, the old woman turned and walked away at a surprising clip, leaving him to follow. He had no choice but to hustle after her.

The woman led him down a narrow walkway between houses and gardens, and stopped near a large block of flats. The building was old, unlike its neighbours, and made of concrete; a throwback, it seemed, to another era, and called a
Plattenbau
, Harry remembered. Originally for workers, most had been torn down or renovated.

The old woman beckoned him inside. A flight of bare concrete steps led upwards, and she wheezed ahead of him, then motioned him along a landing and opened a door. She ushered him inside and pointed to a clean, sparsely furnished room with a table and three hard-backed chairs. The flat smelled musty, and the light was poor, blocked by heavy net curtains. He sat down on one of the chairs.

‘You must wait,' the old woman told him in heavily accented English. ‘He comes soon.'

‘What's his name?' Harry asked, but she shook her head and walked through into a small kitchen area, where she put a saucepan of water on to an ancient stove. Then she produced a small tin of coffee from a cupboard and with almost genteel care, set down a clean mug before him. Her eyes gave nothing away, although he could have sworn the trembling in the old woman's frame might have been generated by some kind of expectation or excitement, rather than the frailty of old age.

While the water was boiling, he tried in his limited German to get some response from her, conjuring up phrases from his time in Berlin.

‘When's he coming  . . .
Wann kommt er?
'

But she refused to play, staring instead at the saucepan as if too nervous to meet his eyes. When the water was boiled, she made the coffee, then placed sugar alongside his mug. There was no milk. After stirring the saucepan, she poured the black mix into the mug, sniffing in evident pleasure as she did so.

‘
Danke
.' He stood up and walked to the window, mug in hand. The coffee was very strong, good, pure Colombian. If he was at all suspicious, he would have begun to think this was all turning into a wild goose chase. But since when did con artists drag someone across Europe, then leave the mark alone with a little old lady to ply him with expensive coffee?

The view of the houses opposite showed cracked walls and peeling window frames. There were no vehicles in the street, merely a bicycle propped against a house further down. Just above the houses rose the church spire, where his car was parked. By leaning close to the glass he could see the length of the street, and, beyond it, the roofs of the town centre.

As he watched, a car drove by. It was a dark-blue Passat with a white mark on the front wing.

Harry felt the hairs move on the back of his neck. ‘I have to go out,' he said, putting down the mug.

The old lady looked alarmed, and he raised both palms to reassure her. He struggled for the words, hoping they were right. ‘
Ich bin
g
leich wieder da
 . . .'

She seemed to understand, but there was no way of knowing. He left the flat and ran down the stairs, startling a child sitting on a front step. By the time he reached the end of the street, there was no sign of the Passat. He walked back to the church, staying close to buildings, and stopped at the corner. He could see the area in front of the building, and his car. Nearby was a beer delivery truck with the driver hauling himself into the cab.

No sign of the Passat.

Harry wondered if his nerves were getting the better of him. Yet he was certain he'd recognized the car just a few minutes ago. As he turned to leave, the beer truck started up and pulled out on to the street. Behind it was the dark-blue Passat. It was empty.

Harry froze and waited. He wondered if he was being watched right now from another vantage point, and resisted the temptation to turn and scan the surrounding buildings. Moments later a large man in jeans and a leather jacket emerged from a narrow side street and walked over to the Passat. He stood for a moment, staring at Harry's VW, all the while talking on a mobile phone.

TWENTY-FOUR

W
hen he returned to the flat, Harry found a bear of a man sitting at the table drinking coffee. Although several years younger than the woman, he looked drawn, as if he had not slept in a long time. But he stood up readily enough and offered his hand.

‘Ulf Hefflin,' he said, and looked awkward, as though he wasn't sure what to say next. He shrugged and murmured to the old woman, who poured more coffee for Harry before slipping into her coat and leaving.

Hefflin studied Harry from beneath heavy eyebrows. The look was steady, and gave Harry the impression of a sharp mind, in spite of the tired exterior.

‘Did you bring money?'

Harry nodded, relieved that the man was getting to the point. The coffee was strong enough to float a brick and he was already beginning to feel the effects of the caffeine pounding through his system.

Hefflin stood and took a small cardboard box from the top of a cupboard near the kitchen sink. He took out a burgundy-coloured passport and placed it on the table with what seemed almost reverence, then took a mobile from his pocket and placed it alongside.

Harry picked up the passport and turned to the back. Barrow's photo stared up at him.

‘Where did you get them?' he asked quietly.

Hefflin motioned him to sit down. ‘Please  . . . I will tell you what I know.' He crossed his hands on the table in front of him and looked squarely at Harry. ‘Sylvia, my sister,' he said, nodding towards the door, ‘has cancer. She needs drugs. Drugs we do not have here. I can get them  . . . but not easily.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that. Is that why you want money?'

‘Harry – I may call you Harry?'

‘Of course.'

‘Thank you. I am Ulf. You have heard of the
Staatssicherheitsdienst
, Harry?'

‘The
Stasi
? Yes.'

‘They employed many people. Young, old  . . . ordinary people, some of them. Their job was to watch others. Spies for the state, spying on foreigners, on travellers, dissidents, artists  . . . but mostly each other.' He tapped the table nervously. His fingers were strong but clean and smooth, Harry noticed. Not a labourer's hands.

‘Sylvia and Claus – her husband – both worked for the
Stasi
,' Ulf continued. ‘Until the change, of course.'

Harry nodded. ‘They were disbanded. I know.'

‘Disbanded, yes. But life for them is not easy. Many became known after the Wall came down. They suffered – some disappeared. Sure, they did wrong  . . . they spied on their friends, even their own families. But it was the way of life here. You worked for the state  . . . and sometimes you found you were working for the
Stasi
, also.'

‘What has this to do with this passport?'

‘Sylvia worked in a weapons factory. Research and development. The safety systems were non-existent. They were exposed to chemicals.' He sighed deeply and stared through Harry, remembering.

‘What about you?' Harry asked.

‘Me?' Ulf grunted. ‘I was a doctor in the army. Sometimes with the East German army, sometimes with the Russians  . . . we went where we were told.' He studied Harry's face. ‘You were military, too, I think?'

Harry nodded. ‘Yes.' Ulf being a doctor explained his command of English and the smooth skin of his hands. ‘How much do you want for these?' he asked, indicating the passport and mobile.

‘Five hundred dollars.' The answer was calm, unemotional, with just a hint of a reservation in the tone, as if it might be asking too much  . . . or too little.

Harry counted out the money and pushed it across the table. Added another two hundred. Ulf let it lie, as if good manners wouldn't allow him to touch it.

‘It is for Sylvia,' he explained. ‘You understand?'

Harry nodded. ‘Of course.' He gathered up the passport and phone, adding, ‘For the extra money, I need to know exactly where they were found. Can you take me?'

Ulf looked puzzled and wary. ‘Of course. But why do you want to go there?'

‘Because things like these don't just appear as if by magic. Someone left them, lost them or threw them away. I'd like to find out which it was.'

On the other side of the street, in the shadow of a doorway, the driver of the Passat watched as Harry Tate and another man came out of the block of flats and walked back towards where Tate had parked his Golf. The watcher hurried back to his car. He was already dialling the number of the man who had hired him.