sThe Quiet Wart (16 page)

Sean glanced down at the freezing River Inn below the bridge. It was tearing underneath at a fast rate, boosted by the snowfall. He'd be dead in seconds if he tried to jump in.

The three skinheads from the truck were now out of the cab and walking towards him. Closing in from the other side, ten skinheads were approaching, also now at walking speed.

Sean looked for a gap between the two groups, but there wasn't one. The only way out was the river, where he was sure that he'd end up anyway if the skinheads had their way.

When the two groups reached a point just five metres away from him, they stopped and formed a semi-circle around him. Sean felt behind him for the handrail of the bridge. It was cold and wet, but its touch meant that he was close enough to the edge.

The deputy leader took control of the group, centring himself in the semi-circle of neo-Nazi thugs. Hatred welled in his eyes as he pulled out a knife from his coat and theatrically licked the blade. ‘For your dick,
Engländer,'
he said in heavily accented German. The other skinheads laughed at the comment, grabbing at their crotches.

Sean made a quick decision. There was no way he was going to let the skinheads cut off his penis; he'd rather take his chances in the freezing river. He swivelled around and climbed onto the stone wall that separated the road from the river. The drop was only five or so metres to the water. He'd survive the fall, but probably not the ice-cold glacial water.

The deputy suddenly stopped, a sadistic grin crossing his face.
‘Springen,
English
. Kaltwasser.
Dead,' he laughed, mixing up the two languages.

Sean looked down at the rushing water again, plucking up his courage. Then, as he twitched his leg muscles to jump, the Volkswagen, shot past the parked truck on the bridge revving hard and heading straight at the group of skinheads.

As they turned, Sean took the opportunity and ran along the wall of the bridge, jumping over the small stone pillars, every step dicing with the icy death that waited for him below, but getting away from the angry mob.

The Volkswagen continued to drive straight at the skinheads who were now running for cover. Then just before it reached the first of them, it hit a handbrake turn and skidded around to face in the other direction. Seconds later it was by Sean's side and slowing down. Sean quickly leaped down from the wall and dived into the rear seat, slamming the door behind him as Clive floored the accelerator and sped away.

Once they cleared the bridge, Clive slowed down to a normal speed. ‘That was close,' he said.

‘Too close,' Sean agreed, then he looked at the unconscious leader in the passenger seat and frowned.

‘He resisted arrest,' Clive said grinning.

‘Shit, Clive! what if he
is
a policeman?'

‘Then he should be a better fighter,' Clive laughed. ‘Don't worry, it's just a little trick Terry showed me. He'll come around soon.'

A few miles outside Simbach on the road to Munich, Clive pulled the car over into a layby. ‘Let's wake up laughing boy here,' he said, and reached out of the car door for a handful of snow, which he promptly rubbed into the gang leader's face.

‘Was ist … ?'
the leader shouted, coming to, staring at Clive.

‘Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you,' Clive said
. ‘He
might though,' he pointed at Sean.

After looking back at Sean, the leader slumped into his seat, realizing that he was outnumbered. ‘What do you want, Englishman? Why do you keep coming back to Braunau?'

‘Because somebody killed my friend, and I'd like to know who,' Clive said.

‘Then why bring a journalist with you?' the leader asked, looking at Sean. ‘Yes, I know who you are Mr McManus,' he added.

‘Then tell us who you are,' Clive said.

‘My name is Roland Glas. The man whose house you broke into is my grandfather,' the leader said casually.

It obviously wasn't the answer Clive had been expecting, as Sean saw his jaw drop slightly.

‘So it was
your
brother who had the fight in the playground with the child from the cottage?' Sean filled in the gap quickly.

‘No, it was my brother's son. They are new to town and don't know people yet, so they were confused, if that's what they told you.'

‘Why did you only hit him on the knee?' Sean asked.

‘Because he didn't deserve any more. My nephew is a horrible child and a bully. I felt sorry for the family.'

‘But you still went there, why?' Clive asked.

The question seemed to annoy the skinhead leader and Sean scrutinised his face as he turned away from Clive. He was young, but somehow possessed the presence of an older person and he clearly wasn't scared of Sean or Clive, somehow knowing that they would eventually let him go.

‘What's this?' Sean said, passing him a copy of the organisation chart that they found in his room.

It certainly gained a reaction as the leader's eyes opened wide at the sight of the paper. ‘I see you didn't just break into my grandfather's house.'

‘What is it?' Clive said.

‘As you can see, it's an organisation chart.'

‘For which organisation?' Clive pressured.

‘The Fourth Reich,' the leader said.

‘Is it real?' Sean asked.

‘Very real,' the leader replied.

‘Why were you filling in the names?' Clive asked.

Silence. The leader didn't speak.

‘Are you an undercover policeman?' Clive asked.

The question seemed to shock the leader and he looked down, clearly grappling with something. ‘No, I'm not,' he answered.

‘Then why are you trying to find out who all the people in the organisation are?' Sean interrupted.

Again, silence, but then the leader seemed to change his mind. ‘Go back to England where you'll be safe. You're prying into things that will get you killed,' he said.

‘Not without answers regarding my friend's death,' Clive pushed.

‘Okay, what do you want to know? But after I tell you, you must leave and never return to Braunau. Agreed?'

Clive considered the deal briefly. ‘Agreed,' he said.

‘Okay, who are you really?' Sean asked.

‘As I said, Roland Glas. Hans Glas really is my grandfather.'

‘Then why are you researching the organisation?' Clive asked.

‘Because I'm helping the German security services,' he answered.

‘The police?' Clive asked.

‘Not exactly.'

‘You work for the BND?' Clive said, raising his eyebrows.

‘What?' Sean frowned at the question.

‘It's the German Federal Intelligence Service. Don't ask me what the letters stand for,' Clive answered.

‘
Bundesnachrichtendienst
,' the leader said. ‘And no, I don't work for them. As I said, I'm just helping them.'

‘Why?' Sean asked.

‘Because my family is a bunch of dangerous lunatics. Before I went into the army, I thought it was pretty harmless. But when the BND approached me, I realised that it was more; that it was growing like a cancer and needed to be stopped.'

‘Why you?' Sean asked.

‘Because my family name gave me an easy in; I was already trusted. My great-grandfather was the first to welcome Hitler into Austria in 1938, and he went on to rule Upper Austria with an iron fist for the Nazis, until the end of the war, when he was killed by his own people.'

‘And your grandfather?' Sean asked.

‘He used the wealth stolen by my great-grandfather to buy power, and has always been very proud of the family connection to Hitler. Believe it or not, being a person who actually met Hitler gives him some kind of celebrity status in this group.'

‘Why did he become an MEP?' Sean asked.

‘We don't know, but something changed in the Nazi groups when Wagner appeared, throwing his money around. They became more organised and started to put people into positions of power.'

‘What are they up to?' Sean said.

‘That's what people like me are meant to find out. Unfortunately, I can't even find out who's in charge above Wagner. What we do know is that activity has been building, and so has the Nazi rhetoric about seizing power.'

‘What? Nazis taking over Germany or Austria again?' Sean narrowed his eyes in disbelief.

‘We think their ambitions are greater: the whole of Europe,' the leader said.

‘That's nuts. How will they do that?' Clive said dismissively.

‘Again, we don't know. I agree it sounds unbelievable, but there are some very powerful people involved, and people like that don't usually waste their time on things that have no chance of success.'

‘Can't you just ask your grandfather about it?' Sean said.

The leader looked at him suddenly wary. ‘I'd be dead before I left the room. My grandfather might look like a harmless old man, but he's in this up to his neck, and he isn't a stranger to making people disappear. Be careful of him: you're already on his hit list.'

‘Who is Dorsch? It says he's the Propaganda Minister,' Sean asked.

‘He's a Bavarian businessman, heavily involved in providing private security contractors to war zones like Iraq and Afghanistan.'

‘There was a question mark by his name?' Sean asked.

‘Yes, I'm not sure. My grandfather met with him in Braunau a couple of times, and he has the resources, so I made an assumption. It could be wrong of course.'

‘One last question: all of the divisions on the org chart have letters and then 18 after them. What do they mean?' Sean asked.

‘The letters are the name of the district: BR is Braunau; KO is Köln; and so on. The 4R is the Fourth Reich.'

‘And the 18?' Clive asked.

‘The first and eighth letter in the alphabet, AH, for Adolf Hitler. It's a common symbol of Nazism. They use it, or 88 for Heil Hitler, so as not to provoke the police so openly in certain countries.'

‘Thank you,' Clive said when they dropped Roland Glas back at the bridge in Simbach. As he walked away, Sean considered the bravery of the decision made by the lonely figure stumbling over the snow-covered bridge. If he succeeded he'd lose all his family; if he failed he'd lose his life.

‘They know who you are? How?' Liz exclaimed.

‘I assume through the Austrian police following Terry's injuries,' Clive said.

‘That means they probably know where Terry is as well,' Liz said.

‘Yes, but I don't think he's in any danger. We're not a threat to them yet. We don't know anything, so I doubt they'll come after us,' Clive replied.

‘What do you propose we do now?' Liz turned to Sean.

‘I think we go after Dorsch. Going up the org chart makes more sense than going down,' Sean answered.

‘Okay, but I can only stay in Munich until next Sunday. Praew needs to go back to school next week,' Liz said.

‘That's okay. Dorsch lives in Munich anyway, so we'll work from here,' Sean agreed.

*

Following a night's sleep and a visit to the hospital, where Terry was still in the same condition, they began their research into Stefan Dorsch. Again, nearly all of the information was in German, but putting the text through an online translator gave them a general idea of what it meant.

Dorsch was forty-seven, single, and lived in an apartment in central Munich, close to his business offices on Prannerstrasse. In his twenties, he'd apparently been a mercenary, selling his services to any number of violent dictators across Central and Northern Africa. Then, after the Gulf War, he'd suddenly emerged as one of the leading security contractors in Iraq. Now his company provided heavily armed security to businesses and individuals working in Iraq, Afghanistan and a number of African states.

The photo of him that Liz had found showed that he was lean and muscular, with a chiselled face that looked younger than his years. His closely cropped grey hair was balding in the middle and he had a scar on his left cheek.
He even looks like a mercenary
, Sean thought.

‘We may need a bigger team to keep an eye on him,' Clive said.

‘How many?' Sean asked, mindful of the exorbitant costs of Clive's men.

‘Two should do it: one for the office; one for the home,' Clive said.

‘Okay,' he shrugged.

‘I'll have them here later today,' Clive said.

‘Did you see anything that might show a political allegiance yet?' Sean asked Liz, who was sorting through screens on her computer.

‘Nothing. Everything's about his business, which appears to be doing very well. They say he's a billionaire.'

‘That's two billionaires already: Dorsch and Wagner. It makes you wonder who the two people above them are,' Sean said.

‘And what kind of resources they've got,' Clive added.

‘Well, we know Wagner seems to have revived the whole of the Hitler Youth, and Dorsch actually does have a private army for sale, or otherwise,' Liz said.

Roland's words were echoing in Sean's mind:
People like that don't get involved unless they think that there's a chance it will succeed.

‘Bloody hell, Sean! You're a like a magnet for dangerous psychopaths,' Clive said.

‘What are we looking for?' Liz asked.

‘Where he goes; who he meets with; anything that'll lead us to the person next up in the chain of command,' Sean said.

‘Are we saying that Glas isn't responsible for Phil's death now?' Liz questioned.

‘Well, I wouldn't discount that he's involved in some way, but he's not calling the shots and he did seem genuinely surprised when we suggested that he tried to kill Anna Faustein,' Clive said.

*

They caught their first glimpse of Dorsch later that afternoon, when he walked from his offices back to his apartment complex. In real life, he looked far less threatening than in the photos. He was dressed casually in jeans and a thick padded bubble jacket, with a woollen hat covering his head. Instead of a suitcase, he carried a designer over-the-shoulder messenger bag across his chest. Even through the thick clothes, his athleticism was apparent, as he strutted through the streets quickly.

‘He looks fairly normal,' Sean said to Clive, who was walking beside him.

‘That's the thing with the real psychopaths: they hide it well. Remember David Findlow?' Clive responded, reminding Sean of the CEO of BW Corp, who had looked like a Hollywood film star, until he took off his clothes to reveal a body covered in sadistic tattoos. ‘The ones that openly show it are usually just mindless thugs, like the skinheads, who are usually scared of their own mothers, whereas,' Clive pointed towards Dorsch, ‘people like him are scared of nobody.'

A shiver ran down Sean's spine as he examined Dorsch further. He walked bolt upright and dead straight, confident that people would move out of his way, which they did, without him even needing to adjust his fast pace.

‘The German police have a name for people like him. They call them “Tie Nazis”, whereas they call people like the skinheads “Boot Nazis”: the officer corps and the cannon fodder,' Clive said, as they watched Dorsch enter his apartment building.

*

Back at the hotel Liz was sitting at the desk with her computer screen open. ‘You need to see this Sean,' she said as Sean entered the room.

‘What is it?' Sean said, making his way over to her.

‘Is that Stefan Dorsch?' She pointed to the screen where a bald man was sitting at a dining table in a restaurant.

‘It's a bit pixelated, but I think so why?'

Sweeping her fingers across the track-pad, Liz expanded the screen to show the person that Dorsch was dining with. ‘What? So Dorsch knows Vladimir Koryalov,' Sean said pulling a confused face.

‘But there couldn't be any kind of link to 4R18… he's Russian. Maybe it's just a coincidence.'

‘There're a lot of neo-Nazis in Russia so I wouldn't discount the possible Nazi link. But any link to us must be pure coincidence, he couldn't know that we were thinking about investigating him and the incident at Praew's school would have to be unrelated,' Sean concluded.

‘I may have told his son that we knew where his father's money came from,' Liz admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

‘If he told his father that would certainly throw the cat among the pigeons, but it doesn't explain this. When was the picture taken?'

‘It looks like it was taken recently. It was added to Nikolai Koryalov's Facebook page last Wednesday, if that means anything?' Liz shrugged.

Sean shook his head. ‘I can't see it. It must just be a coincidence. It's not the most remote idea that two European billionaires would know each other. It's still a pretty exclusive group who have that kind of money.'

Nodding her head in agreement. Liz closed her laptop.

*

The two new men that Clive brought in were of a very similar ilk to all of the others Sean had met, two of whom were now dead: Colin in the BW case and Phil in this investigation. With Terry still on the critical list, it made Sean wonder whether it was worth it this time. In the BW case thousands of lives had been at stake; this time, he still hadn't identified the real risk.

‘Pete and Steve. They've all got such simple names,' Sean commented.

A smile broke out in Clive's face suddenly. ‘Some investigator you are. You didn't think they were their real names did you?'

‘No… well, actually yes. I just hadn't thought about it.' Sean felt like an idiot.

The prompt arrival of the two highly trained security guards made Sean realise again why they paid Clive's exorbitant fees. They simply couldn't do it by themselves. He watched the two muscular young men as they unloaded their surveillance equipment quickly and efficiently, while they grilled Clive, Sean and Liz about the target. It was only when they asked about Terry that they showed even the remotest of human emotions. It was clear that Clive had worked with them on many occasions before and knew what to expect from them.

‘Both ex-special forces,' Clive whispered to Sean. ‘Believe it or not, outside work, they're pretty good fun.'

It was indeed hard to believe. They looked so serious, but on the odd occasion that he'd seen Clive let his hair down, metaphorically speaking, he too had been able to transform himself from one of the most controlled men Sean had ever met, into a fun-seeking hedonist.
Maybe it's because they experience so much danger, so when they let go, they really make the most of it; just like soldiers on leave from a war zone,
he thought.

*

It was midnight before Pete woke Clive and Sean. ‘He's on the move. Steve's with him,' he said.

‘Where?' Sean asked.

‘He's on foot and heading south. Here.' He pointed to a map on his phone. ‘He looks kinda scruffy, so I doubt he's off clubbing,' Pete added.

Quickly clipping in his earwig device, Sean listened to Steve's commentary.

‘Let's go see what he's up to,' Clive said.

Grabbing coats, they ran quickly down Landsbergerstrasse and over to Prannerstrasse. When they rounded the bend, Steve was 200 metres in front of them, walking quickly, close to the buildings. Sean could just see Dorsch another 150 metres or so ahead of him, walking at the same aggressive pace he had done earlier.

‘Any security following?' Steve asked.

Pete scanned the area around them. ‘Nothing visible and they'd have to be mobile, so I'm guessing not.'

‘That's odd,' Clive said.

‘What?' Sean asked.

‘How many billionaire heads of security firms do you know that would walk the streets of a major city like Munich at night, without some kind of security close by?' Clive responded.

‘Maybe he doesn't want anybody to know where he's going,' Sean suggested.

‘Exactly,' Clive raised his eyebrows. ‘Don't lose him, Steve,' he said.

After a few more minutes' walking, the streets were suddenly deserted. Long empty offices and warehouses lined each side of the wide street.

‘He could be leading us into a trap?' Sean said.

‘I don't know how he'd know we were here though. Any sign that he knows he's being followed?' he asked Steve.

‘No. He could just be good though,' Steve replied.

In the distance, Dorsch suddenly turned off into what looked like a side street between two warehouses. Steve automatically sped up in order not to lose him.

‘Bollocks!' Steve said over the radio.

‘Have you lost him?' Pete asked.

‘No, worse than that,' he said.

‘What?'

‘He's gone straight into a gay sauna. I'm going to have to take my radio off before I go in, nowhere to hide it in there,' he said.

‘Be careful. It could be a cover for something else. We'll stay around the corner. Let us know when he comes out,' Clive said.

‘And remember… you're just in there to follow him,' Pete added, grinning broadly.

‘Fuck you!' the reply came swiftly from Steve.

A few metres further on, they found a quiet spot in a car park and hid between some large rubbish bins, waiting for Steve's signal that Dorsch was leaving.

‘Not where you'd normally expect somebody with his political views to be hanging out,' Sean said.

‘We don't know whether he's involved yet. Remember Roland said he wasn't sure; that he'd just put two and two together,' Clive replied.

‘You're right. I guess this is probably good evidence that he's
not
involved. As far as I can remember, Nazis don't have a very high opinion of gay people.'

*

An hour and a half later, Steve's voice re-appeared on the radio. ‘He's out and coming your way,' he said.

‘And?' Clive asked.

‘It wasn't a cover. It's exactly what it said on the tin and our friend participated… heavily, shall we say,' Steve replied.

‘You can tell me all about it later, darling,' Pete laughed.

Less than two minutes later, Dorsch rounded the corner in front of them and started making his way back in the direction that he'd come from. Pete stood and followed, while Sean and Clive waited for Steve.

Within ten minutes, Dorsch was back in his apartment and Sean, Clive and Steve returned to the hotel, leaving Pete on watch. Back at the hotel, Steve filled Liz, Sean and Clive in on the events inside the sauna.

‘It seemed to be a regular thing for him. He was too familiar with the surroundings for it to be his first time and he seemed to know what he wanted, while lots of other people just stood around watching.'

‘What was that?' Liz asked.

‘Is that really relevant?' Steve said, obviously reluctant to go into details.

‘I don't know. It could be,' Liz replied.

‘Okay, he went into a darkened room where a leather swing was hanging from the ceiling, climbed into it and let seven men have anal sex with him, while he gave fellatio to three others,' Steve said.

‘Sounds submissive? Odd, given who he is,' Liz said.

‘Not really. It's a fairly common thing I've seen over the years. Powerful man during the day is turned on by submissive fetishism at night,' Clive said.

‘What's his body like? Covered in tattoos?' Sean asked.

‘See for yourself,' Steve said, producing his phone. ‘I managed to get a couple of snaps over my shoulder in the changing rooms, before I had to put it in the locker.'

The two images of Dorsch's naked body showed that he was extremely well-toned, with veins pushed out over hard muscles, but he didn't have a single tattoo in sight. Three large round scars covered his chest.

‘Bullet wounds,' Steve said, pointing them out.

‘Brilliant,' Sean said, as he saw the sign for the sauna above Dorsch's head. ‘That should give us something to talk to him about.'

‘What?' Liz curled her lip.

‘I figure that he obviously wants to keep this quiet, so we can use it to push him for a name,' Sean replied.

‘What if he's completely innocent and his only crime is that he's a closet homosexual?' Liz asked.