Echo of the Reich (7 page)

He smiled more broadly as he looked around at the other men.

“It is just possible that our action could rid the world of a contagion that has existed since the beginning of recorded history.” He paused again, and then continued. “Because, gentlemen, we are going to make it clear that the perpetrators of this attack have made their home a long way to the east, on stolen ground. We are going to blame it on the Jews.”

There was a brief silence, and then another of the men spoke: “How?”

“The details are not important, but rest assured we can achieve it. Once the attack is over, we will make absolutely certain that the Jews are identified as the perpetrators. The international backlash against the Zionist state should be enough to finish the task that the Führer started.”

“And what about the effectiveness of the London weapon? What degree of lethality are you anticipating?”

Drescher shrugged his shoulders.

“That is very difficult to predict because we do not know how many people will be within the lethal radius when the device is triggered. But the weapon will be activated during the opening ceremony, so we anticipate that at the very least there will be thousands of casualties, possibly tens of thousands, in addition to the long-term effects caused by radiation damage—effects that are, of course, impossible to predict.”

Klaus glanced back at Marcus, who nodded.

“Thank you, Klaus.” Marcus now turned to the man
seated on his left. “Hermann, can you bring us up-to-date with the situation regarding the vehicle?”

“Of course. Our people have already identified a suitable organization that will be sending a team to cover the Olympics, and we have our own vehicle prepared. We have agents watching the company, and as soon as they are ready to dispatch their lorry, we will move into position. We do not anticipate any difficulty with the substitution.”

Marcus nodded again.

“I have personally overseen the testing of the weapon,” he said, “up to a very low power setting, of course, and it worked exactly as we hoped.”

“Did you use test subjects?”

“That was the only way we could confirm its effectiveness. We picked up a handful of vagrants and used them. The results were entirely satisfactory.”

“Unfortunately,” Klaus Drescher interjected, “there were no Jews available.”

All the men smiled at that remark, and a couple of them laughed.

The meeting continued for another half an hour as various members of the group reported on their particular aspects of the operation, and then Marcus moved on to the other matter that he felt they needed to know about.

“And now,” he said, “we have a small problem that I am in the process of resolving. One of our recruits was discovered attempting to pass information to the police here. Fortunately, he was detected and stopped, but it is
clear that we need to know if he was acting alone. My men will start their questioning in the cellar in a few minutes, so we have just got time for a drink beforehand.”

Five minutes later, Marcus led the way into a subterranean whitewashed room. Four men armed with pistols stood just inside the doorway, their attention focused on a man whose arms and legs were lashed to a stout wooden chair, the legs of which were bolted to the concrete floor. He was blindfolded and gagged, and was tugging frantically at his bonds, but to no avail. The leather straps were pulled tight, and held him immobile.

Two rows of seats had been placed along one wall of the room and, with the exception of Marcus, the new arrivals walked over to them and sat down. Most were still carrying small glasses of schnapps, and a couple of them had coffee as well.

Marcus gestured to one of the armed men, who moved across and stood beside the wooden chair, awaiting further orders. When he was satisfied that everything was ready, Marcus nodded his first command.

Without hesitation, the man leaned down, seized the little finger of the captive’s left hand and in one swift and brutal movement bent it backward. The snapping of the bone was audible to everybody in the room, and was immediately followed by a muffled but agonized howl of pain.

“That is just the start, my friend,” Marcus said, “just a taster to show you that we are serious. You
will
tell us whatever we want to know. Every time we think that you are lying or not telling us the whole truth, I will instruct my associate to break another of your fingers. When we
run out of fingers, we will begin amputating your toes. It can take you days to die.”

Marcus glanced at the seated men along the wall. Every one of them appeared eager for the show to begin, their eyes fixed on the bound man.

“So now we’ll start,” Marcus said. “Take off the gag.”

The moment the gag was removed, the captive screamed his agony, then began sobbing, his desperation obvious to every man in the room.

And then the questions started.

20 July 2012

Chris Bronson pushed open the door of the pub and stepped inside. He spotted Eaton immediately. He was standing at one end of the bar, deep in conversation with two other men, both of them showing the kind of muscular development that comes from hard physical work, not time spent in a gym somewhere.

Bronson nodded to them, stepped up to the bar to order a pint and then walked over to the three men.

Eaton gave him a brief smile of welcome, then turned to his companions.

“This is Alex Cross,” he said, “or, at least, that’s what he says his name is. We met him at Stratford nick a couple of days ago. I reckon he could be quite useful to us.”

Bronson didn’t respond, and nor did Eaton’s two companions, who simply stared at him in a faintly hostile manner, looking him up and down.

The man on his left glanced round the bar and finally
spoke. “John tells me you’ve been doing a bit of damage at the Olympic sites.”

Bronson nodded and took another sip of his beer.

“Don’t talk a lot, do you?”

“No.”

“So what’s your real name?”

“Alex Cross’ll do for now.”

“There some reason why you won’t tell us?”

Bronson nodded again. “Yes.”

Eaton grinned. “I told you, Mike. Man of very few words, is Alex here.”

The man he’d addressed as “Mike” glanced at Eaton, then back at Bronson.

“Thing is,” he said, “we’re just a small group of people trying to make a difference, and that means we have to trust each other. And if we’re going to trust each other, we have to know who we are. And we definitely have to know about anybody who wants to join us.”

Bronson shook his head. “I don’t want to join you.” He gestured toward Eaton. “John here thought I might be able to tag along on one of your jobs, but I’m not bothered. You want a CV from me, forget it. Go and find someone else.”

The three men stared at him, then Eaton gave a short, mirthless laugh.

“Jesus, Alex, we don’t want your life story. We just want to find out a bit more about you.”

It was, Bronson thought, almost like the start of a sexual relationship, each party probing the other, showing interest but not wanting to appear too eager, and he remembered an old quote about courtship he’d heard
somewhere: how a woman always begins by resisting a man’s advances, and ends up by blocking his retreat. This situation was different, obviously, but the principle was the same, though he had no intention of allowing his retreat to be cut off. As soon as he’d found out enough about the group for “Shit Rises” and the team back at the Forest Gate prison to pick them up, Bronson intended to return to the relative sanity of Tunbridge Wells.

“Look,” he said, “I’ve done a lot of stuff in the past, been in plenty of different jobs. The longest was in the army. Right now, I’m just a pissed-off citizen, pissed off for a bunch of different reasons, in fact. I’m fed up with the money this city is throwing at these bloody Games, and I’m trying to do something about it. That’s all you need to know.”

“What did you do in the army?” Mike asked. “Ever use explosives, anything like that?”

Bronson shook his head. “I was infantry, not a sapper. I know about weapons and grenades, and I did some work with explosives for a while. Give me some plastic and a detonator and I can blow a hole in something, but I’m not a fully qualified demolition specialist.”

“Pity.”

“Why?” Bronson asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a stash of C4 or Semtex?”

He watched the faces of the other men closely. If this group had access to plastic explosives, that made them infinitely more dangerous than Davidson and Curtis had expected. The detective sergeant had told Bronson that the activities of the group were a nuisance, and that the death of the nightwatchman was more likely to have been manslaughter
rather than deliberate murder. But if they possessed high-grade military explosives like C4—Composition Four—then he knew they were looking at serious terrorists. Perhaps that was what Curtis had been hinting at when he’d said there were fears that the group posed a more serious threat than simple vandalism. Suddenly, Bronson was even more thankful that he had bought the little Llama pistol from Dickie Weeks.

Mike took his time before he replied.

“Might have,” he said finally. “We’ve got contacts, people who can get us what we need. And we’ve only just started.”

Those words sent a chill through Bronson.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t mind painting slogans on walls and smashing up a few machines, but if you’re serious about having access to plastic explosives, that’s a whole new ball game. When I was in the army, I saw the damage that just a few ounces of explosive could do to a vehicle or even to a building. If you go that route, you’ll lose any public support you’ve got, and when the police come after you—which they will—they won’t be carrying truncheons. They’ll have Heckler & Koch MP5s and they’ll be happy to use them. That’s a dangerous game you’re playing.”

Mike looked at him for a few seconds, then smiled slowly.

“So you can talk,” he said, in a tone of mild surprise. “I didn’t say we had explosives. I didn’t even say we could get explosives. I just said we had contacts who could get us what we need. I’ve no idea if we’ll end up trying to bring down one of the buildings in the
Olympic village using a few lumps of plastic—that won’t be our decision—but if we do go that route, it’s good that you know something about demolition.”

Eaton looked from Bronson to Mike and back again.

“I told you that we could use you, Alex. I just didn’t guess you knew anything about explosives.”

“Hang on a minute,” Bronson said. “I haven’t said anything about joining your group, and after what he”—he pointed at Mike—“has just said, I really don’t think I want to. Sounds to me like you’re getting into dark and dangerous territory.” Bronson switched his attention from Eaton back to Mike. “And what did you mean when you said that if you used explosives it wouldn’t be your decision? If you don’t decide things like that, just who is pulling your strings?”

Mike grinned at him. “We’re just a small part of a much bigger group, and they call the shots.”

“And they are…?” Bronson demanded.

Mike shook his head firmly. “You’ve just walked in off the street,” he said, “and we still know sod all about you, so there’s no chance of me saying anything else. You could be an undercover cop for all I know.”

“Do I look like a bloody cop?” Bronson demanded, feeling the first faint stirrings of unease. Did they know something about him? Had he said something to blow his cover?

“No, but you wouldn’t, would you? That’s what it means to go undercover. You try to blend in with your targets.” Mike took a step forward, moved closer to Bronson and stared straight into his face. “I don’t trust
you,” he said, “and I don’t think I’m going to like you. The only reason we’re here at all is that John reckoned you might be useful. In my book, there’s only one way to find out whether he’s right. Either you piss off out of it right now or you do something to prove who you are. We’re doing a job tonight, and you can tag along, if you want to. If you do, you’d better do exactly what we tell you, how we tell you, when we tell you. If you do okay, then we’ll think about letting you work with us. If you don’t, well”—he smiled unpleasantly—“let’s just say you won’t be seeing any of us ever again. In fact, you might not see anybody ever again.”

It was hardly a veiled threat.

“And if I don’t want to play your games?” Bronson asked.

“Like I said, you just turn around and walk away and hope that none of us see you again.”

For a few seconds the two men stared at each other in silence, the tension in the air almost palpable.

Finally Bronson nodded, because he had absolutely no option if he was to stand any chance of penetrating the group.

“Okay,
Mike
,” he said, “you’ve talked me into it. I’ll play your game. Where and when do I meet you?”

Mike shook his head. “It’s not quite that easy. We’ll be ready to roll at about seven, so John’ll call you at around six. He’ll give you the rendezvous position and tell you what we want you to do. After that, we’ll see what happens. If you do turn up, we’ll be watching you.”

He reached for his glass, drained the remainder of his
beer, nodded to Eaton and then strode out of the pub, his bulky companion—who’d said not a single word the entire time—following behind him.

Bronson watched them leave, then glanced back at Eaton. What he’d learned from the man called Mike was both interesting and disturbing, but in reality he wasn’t really that much closer to finding out what was going on. Everything depended upon him being accepted by these people, and on him then being able to identify the ringleaders.

“You didn’t tell me your lot was part of a bigger group,” he said.

Eaton shrugged. “You didn’t ask,” he replied, “and I don’t think it really matters. We act pretty much by ourselves, but they just pay the bills. And us,” he added.

“You mean they pay you?” That was a wrinkle that Bronson hadn’t expected.

Eaton grinned at him. “You might be in this because you’re running some kind of one-man crusade against the Olympics, but most of us are involved because there’s money to be made.”