The Eagle's Covenant (17 page)

“Schneider is dead.”

Conor’s ears pricked up despite the pain, but he maintained the pretence of unconsciousness. The Dutchman spoke again.

“The bitch killed him.”

“Has she gone?” one of the men asked.

“Yes, baby too.”

“Where?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got to think.”

Conor’s mind was racing despite the pain he still felt. He had no doubt that the ‘bitch’ referred to was Breggie de Kok. Why she had killed Joseph was obviously a mystery, but it was academic: Schneider was dead. That’s what the Dutchman had said. It looked like the whole thing was falling apart, but Conor wasn’t happy; he still wanted revenge despite the circumstances he was now in.

“We’ve got to find her.”

“And where do we start looking?” Conor heard one of them ask.

There was silence. Then a chair scraping as the Dutchman got up from his desk.

“We’ve got to look in Hans Schiller’s place.”

“In Godesberg?”

“She won’t be there,” the other voice said.

“No, but the answer will,” the Dutchman replied.

Unknown to anyone else in that room, the Dutchman was aware of Hans Schiller’s propensity for keeping his most intriguing secrets on file. He also knew that Hans Schiller kept a love nest for himself and Breggie de Kok, but not where it was. He was quite sure that he would find the answer to that in Hans Schiller’s house at Bad Godesberg, where Joanna lived. He looked down at Conor’s prostrate body.

“Throw him in the cellar. We’ll deal with him later. Then get back here and I’ll tell you what I want you to do.”

Conor felt the rough hands groping for him. He allowed himself to sink heavily as a dead weight and was dragged from the office to the cellar door. There was no courtesy extended by the men who already considered him to be a dead man and he was thrown, unceremoniously, down the cellar steps.

*

Hoffman had just stepped into his official car when his phone rang. He punched the speak button.

“Hoffman.”

“Kommissar Hoffman, Doctor Kistler. Where are you?”

“I’m just leaving Herr Schiller’s place.”

“Good. When you get here, I would be grateful if you would come and see me immediately. Thank you.” He hung up.

Hoffman’s surprise was etched all over his face. He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

When he arrived back at police headquarters, Hoffman rode the lift up to Kistler’s office suite. Kistler was waiting for him.

“Thank you for being so prompt, Hoffman. Please, sit down.”

Hoffman did as he was invited and said nothing, but his curiosity was ratcheting up several levels. Kistler wasn’t seated. Instead his bulk seemed to fill the windows overlooking the River Rhine. It was a while before he spoke and Hoffman wondered if the Doctor was composing himself for something. The answer wasn’t long in coming.

“Frau Schiller has identified her grandson’s kidnapper.”

It was a simple statement, spoken with a certain level of fatalism that Hoffman thought he detected but chose to ignore. The impact of the statement however was like a minor earthquake. It sent tremors through Hoffman’s body and caused his stomach muscles to tighten. He was unable to speak for several seconds.

“Would you say that again, sir?”

Kistler turned away from the window and slipped his bulk into the leather chair behind his desk.

“Frau Schiller has identified her kidnapper. She is a South African woman. Her name is Breggie de Kok.”

Hoffman frowned and fixed his eyes on Kistler’s poker like expression. There was nothing in that face to suggest anything other than the conveying of a simple message. But Hoffman could not dismiss the nagging suspicion that his President was acting duplicitously.

“When did you learn this?” he asked calmly.

“Last night.”

Hoffman closed his eyes and opened them again. His temper was rising and he was doing his level best to control it.

“Why have you waited until now to tell me?”

Kistler leaned back in his chair and put up a defensive hand.

“I had to promise her something. When she phoned the department, she specifically asked for me. She told me she had identified the kidnapper but was not prepared to tell me who it was unless I promised to keep the lid on it.”

Hoffman put his head in his hand and shook it in despair. Then he looked at Kistler.

“That is preposterous. How can you keep something like that a secret? It’s imperative we are told everything. Time is always important.”

Kistler nodded. “I know and I fully appreciate your concern, but!” He made a defensive gesture with one hand. “Frau Schiller was absolutely adamant: she had her own reasons for wanting it this way. She wouldn’t say what those reasons were, but she does not want this getting back to Herr Schiller, which means it must not get into the newspapers.” He shrugged. “Don’t ask me why, but those were her terms. I was to tell you and you were to go about your business, catch this Breggie de Kok woman and Herr Schiller would be none the wiser.” He paused, letting it sink in. “The reason I haven’t told you earlier is because I have been with the Herr Molke all morning.” He sat back, explanations over.

Hoffman digested it. He also considered the implications. Keeping it from the Press would not be impossible, but it would be tricky. If the newshounds got hold of this it could prove to be a double edged sword: it would greatly increase their chances of tracing the South African woman, but greatly increase the risk to the baby. It was something he knew he had to consider carefully. He would also have to consider Kistler’s culpability; without proof there was nothing he could do to prove the Doctor was deliberately impeding the investigation.

“Thank you, sir. Perhaps I should go and interview Frau Schiller myself.” He got up to leave. “And perhaps, sir, in future you will let me know immediately if you receive any other little gems that might help the inquiry.”

“Of course,” Kistler answered pleasantly, “of course.”

Hoffman got up from the chair, making a pointed examination of the man’s face. The last time he was in this office there had been a look of thunder in the President’s countenance. But this time Hoffman was convinced there was nothing but a smug expression planted on Kistler’s face.

CHAPTER TEN

Conor opened his eyes and did a quick, mental check of his condition. Apart from feeling sore and bruised, he was still intact. He struggled to a sitting position and started moving around the floor until he came to the foot of the stairs. Using this point as a reference, he began to visualise the layout of the cellar using the picture he had retained in his mind from the brief light shown when the two gorillas had opened the cellar door.

He worked his way over to a packing crate, fumbling until he could get his back against a corner of the crate. The he levered himself up to a squatting position and felt his way up and down the edge of the crate with his bound hands until he found a sharp edge.

He had no way of knowing if he had found a nail or screw head, or even a piece of protective, metal edging. But whatever it was, he began rubbing his bonds up and down against the sharp edge.

It must have taken Conor twenty minutes or so before the last strand of the cord that bound him sprang free. His hands fell apart and blessed relief swamped his burning and aching muscles. The first thing Conor did was to drop his trousers and pants, and defecate. Sweet, merciful deliverance flooded his mind and a wholesome smile broke his scarred features.

When his bowels and bladder were empty, he dressed himself and made his sightless way over to the open plan staircase. He took up a position beneath the stairs and began a patient vigil which he hoped would not be too long. He knew he would have one shot to do what he was planning. If it failed, he was a dead man.

After four hours, Conor heard a footfall beyond the door. He was sitting on the floor, with his back to the wall, beneath the stairs. He immediately stood up so that he was standing beneath the tenth step from the bottom. The door to the cellar opened and the light above him flooded into the cellar. Conor was quite certain that he could not be seen. Not that the Dutchman’s gorilla would be looking for him.

The man came through the open door and began descending the staircase. Conor was pinning his hopes of success that there would only be one of them. As the man’s foot touched the ninth step, the one now opposite Conor’s head, Conor reached through the opening with his hand and grabbed the man’s ankle. He pulled it back with such strength that the man was pitched forward into space. The drop to the concrete floor was about two metres. Added to that the height of the man’s head and shoulders, and it was a considerable height to fall.

The cry was muted as his head crashed against the concrete. The gun he was carrying went skidding across the floor. Conor moved swiftly, coming from beneath the staircase and driving his fist on to the man’s head. There was no need for anything else; the man was either unconscious or dead.

Conor immediately glanced to the top of the staircase but could see no-one else. He then dropped to his hands and knees and searched frantically for the man’s gun. Fortunately it had pitched up against a crate. Mercifully not the one Conor had used.

He picked the gun up and went back to his victim, searching his clothes quickly. He found a spare magazine clip, a wallet and a bunch of keys. He could see in the light from the door the unmistakeable Mercedes gun sight on the key fob.

He ran to the top of the stairs and glanced carefully into the passageway. It was empty. There was a door at the far end which Conor hoped led out to a yard or something. He ran to the door, slipped the bolts and pulled it open. He was right; it opened on to a backyard.

He figured that this was the rear of a nightclub. The dead man’s car would have to be parked somewhere, probably in a staff car park. He climbed over a fence and dropped into a street. Then he walked quickly but carefully towards what looked like the main street. He soon found himself in front of the club which had the name Pandora emblazoned above it. He thought of Pandora and the Flying Dutchman and wondered if it was significant. Then he went in search of the car.

Five minutes after pulling the gorilla’s feet from under him, Conor was driving a Mercedes away from the Dutchman’s nightclub.

*

A short distance away from Frau Lindbergh’s boarding house in bed-sit land, a police Opel was parked. There were no markings on the car to indicate it was a police vehicle, and the two policemen inside were not in uniform. It was close to midnight and they were getting bored. They had been on shift almost two hours and there was little prospect of anything exciting happening for the remainder of their night shift.

“What I don’t understand,” one of them was saying, “is why we have to watch some little old lady just because she spent a few, bent Euros at the local shop.”

His partner shifted in his seat in an attempt to ward off the stiffness that was creeping into his limbs.

“This one’s come from the top though.”

“She must be ninety if she’s a day,” he complained, “probably got the forgeries out of the cash point.”

“Don’t be daft; she’s too old to know how to use one.”

They lapsed into silence, each one with his own thoughts. The street was deserted save for the occasional car parked here and there. One of them glanced at the dashboard clock; thirty minutes before they would be relieved. He arched his eyebrows and wished he was home in bed cuddled up to the warm, soft body of his wife. He hated night shifts.

A movement in his wing mirror caught his attention. He could see the figure of a man walking towards them. That in itself it wasn’t even exciting, but it was movement; a break from the grinding boredom of sitting there doing nothing. Their orders were to keep an eye on the Lindbergh place and make a note of any late visitors. They had a list of her current tenants and the local constabulary were in the process of running a check on them. At the moment, none of the tenants were under suspicion.

The figure crossed the road and continued to walk toward them. He passed the unmarked police car and paused outside the Lindbergh place. Both of the policemen stiffened. The figure began searching through his pockets. He stopped and walked a few paces towards a Volkswagen which was parked a couple of metres from him. He put a key into the lock, opened the door and reached inside for something. The he shut the car door, locked it and crossed the road. He walked about thirty metres and went into a tenement block.

The two policemen looked at each other.

“Why would he want to park his car that far away?” one of them asked. He didn’t expect an answer because the question was largely rhetorical. “Run a check on it,” he suggested. “It’s something to do, anyway.”

His companion picked up the microphone from beneath the dash and contacted the police control room. He asked for a licence plate check on the Volkswagen. He gave them the number plate details. Within two minutes the licence holder’s name and address was being typed out on small printer inside the car. He tore it off and read it under the map light.

“John Buck, nationality Irish. Lives at....” He looked up. “Down there. So why has he parked his car outside the Lindbergh place?”

The other policeman said: “Hang on a minute.” He opened the glove box and pulled out the list of names of Frau Lindbergh’s tenants. “I thought so,” he declared cheerfully. “There’s a John Buck listed here as a tenant.” He showed his partner.

“Perhaps we’d better have a little chat with him.”

“We can’t, can we? Our orders are to observe and report.” He shrugged. “So we report.”

Conor let himself into his apartment. He had been afraid that he’d left his door key in his bed-sit at Frau Lindbergh’s. Then he remembered he’d left it in the Volkswagen; now he could enjoy a long soak in the bath and work out his next move.

*

Breggie wandered around the apartment in a dream. Each room held special memories for her. Each step led to a treasured moment. How happy she had been with Hans Schiller. How they had loved those carefree days, lost in a world so far away from the realities of life.

The baby was comfortable now, responding to the medication, and sleeping. It gave Breggie the time to think about her position, and time to think of what might have been.

The apartment was their secret; one which no other person shared. It was exclusive and discreet. Hans would leave on a business trip for a whole weekend, never questioned by his perfect little wife, Joanna, and spend those glorious moments with Breggie.

The apartment was in Koblenz and overlooked the Mosel River where it merged with the mighty Rhine. Hans had purchased the deeds shortly before his marriage to Joanna and presented the key as a ‘wedding present’ to Breggie. She had never openly questioned his choice of partner. Reasons in the stratospheric world of Hans Schiller were never without substance, and Joanna’s qualities, both from a business point of view and as a partner to Hans had never been open to debate. The glossy magazines loved the union, the international business community approved of it, and the glitterati positively swooned over it. Breggie simply took him into her bed and made him feel like the most important person on the planet.

She wasted no tears on her memories; those days were past. For the moment she could look back and feel a warmth and fondness as she moved from room to room. In the master bedroom she paused and remembered the last time they had made love. It was the night before he had been killed in the plane crash. His passion had burned as furiously on that night as it did the very first time he had made love to her.

She smiled wistfully and went back into the luxurious kitchen. She had made coffee earlier and now needed to sit and think about the situation she found herself in.

Breggie, quite wrongly, believed Joseph had been ordered to kill her because she had failed to eliminate all five of their colleagues. She was not aware that she had been identified. Had she given it serious thought, she would have realised that Joseph was equally to blame as her. Bombing the house had been their joint responsibility.

Breggie’s problem now, of course, was how to turn this to her own advantage. She held the trump card at the moment. To play it too soon could prove disastrous. Returning the baby to the Schiller family could net her a fortune. Now that she was no longer part of the organisation she could simply demand a ransom for the return of the child. The problem was; how to do that and get away with it?

She resolved to give herself a couple of days and hope she could come up with a foolproof plan.

*

At the same time Breggie de Kok was considering her future, Levi Eshkol was taking lunch at a pavement café in Tel Aviv. He had walked from his apartment, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun, and despite the trauma of the kidnap, was feeling in good spirits. He honestly believed that Schiller would complete the transfer of power, and sign the covenant, within a few days.

He finished his bagel and pushed the plate to one side, drawing his coffee towards him. On the chair beside him was a copy of the Jerusalem Post which he had purchased while walking down from his apartment to the cafe. He stirred his coffee and picked up the newspaper. He hadn’t bothered to look at it earlier, leaving that pleasure until now. But as his eyes fell on the lower corner of the front page, he felt small icicles of fear cascade over him like steel needles.

PROMINENT AMERICAN JEW FOUND SLAIN IN MIAMI.
Former
Presidential
Security
Adviser
,
Alfred
Weitzman
,
was
found
brutally
slain
in
the
Everglades
just
north
of
the
city
of
Miami
.
Florida
State
Police
are
not
releasing
details
except
to
say
that
the
killing
had
all
the
hallmarks
of
a
professional
execution
.
The
FBI
....

Eshkol raised his head slowly and let the paper sink into his lap. Alfred Weitzman. He shook his head. It couldn’t be, not the Alfred Weitzman he knew. He looked back at the newspaper. ‘
Former
Presidential
Security
Adviser
’. It was unequivocal; there in black and white.

He stood up, his legs feeling quite weak, and took enough Shekels from his pocket to cover the bill. He scattered them on the table and hurried back to his apartment.

Eshkol’s first phone call was to Avi Binbaum, one of the four men who had worked on the covenant. The former Shin Bet chief came to the phone almost immediately.

“
Shalom
, Avi,” Eshkol greeted him

“
Shalom
. I think I know why you are phoning.” Binbaum sounded mournful.

“You’ve seen the story about Weitzman?” Eshkol asked him.

“Ah, yes. I have been in touch with my former colleagues in Shin Bet. They have asked the Americans for details, but they know very little.”

“I fear the worst, Avi. Molke’s behind this.”