The Eagle's Covenant (23 page)

*         

The streets around the apartment building came alive with flashing blue lights and wailing sirens as police cars and fire engines converged on the area. Hoffman made it to the front of the building five minutes after Conor had made his phone call. He was greeted by a phalanx of curious onlookers, residents from the apartments, firemen and the local police. He battled his way through until he found the senior fire officer who quickly informed him that no-one was allowed to enter the building until his men had located the fire and declared the building safe.

Hoffman was furious but no amount of argument would persuade the senior fire officer to let neither him nor any of his men through.

“We believe there’s a kidnapped baby in the top floor apartment and a suspect killer in there somewhere,” Hoffman had told him angrily.

“Are you armed?” the fire officer asked.

Hoffman shook his head irritably. “No, of course I’m not bloody armed.”

“Well get someone who is and they can protect my men.”

It was another two minutes before Hoffman had secured two plain clothes police officers from his own group with weapons. They went into the building with the firemen. Ten minutes later the senior fire officer received a call on his radio. He turned to Hoffman.

“You’d better go up,” he told him. “Your men have the baby, but there are two dead bodies in the flat. There’s no fire, so you can use the lift.”

Hoffman was gone before the man had finished speaking. When he reached the penthouse apartment one of the firemen pointed to the smashed fire alarm on the wall.

“It was triggered from here, sir.” He glanced back at the open door of the penthouse. “From what we’ve seen in there, it must have been a diversion.”

Hoffman thanked him and went into the flat. One of the plain clothes policemen was holding the baby. He looked at the sleeping child.

“Get an ambulance,” he said to the officer, “and have the baby taken to the nearest hospital. Then contact Frau Joanna Schiller, she’s at Godesberg of course,” he added, “and tell her we have a baby which we believe is her son. She will have to come to the hospital to identify the child and claim him. Get on to the local boys and have them provide an escort. And make sure the baby is guarded all the time.” He laid emphasis on the last sentence, his eyes burning with a threat that left nothing unsaid.

 “Now,” he said to the other police officer. “Show me what you’ve found.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The late editions had a field day. They carried photographs of Joanna Schiller with her baby, her face transformed into one of joy and beauty. With her in the pictures was some of the hospital staff who had received the baby and checked him over. Manfred Schiller’s personal secretary was also there representing the great man, as was Erich Hoffman who had been prematurely blessed by the German Press for the safe return of the infant. The television channels carried news bulletins reporting on the dramatic events leading up to the rescue, and there were several reports of burning buildings and western style shoot outs between the cops and the kidnappers.

The only man who knew exactly what had happened in that penthouse watched the events unfolding on television with amusement. Conor had returned to his apartment in Cologne, choosing not to use the Frau Lindbergh’s bed-sit. He had soaked in a bath, eaten a Chinese meal take away and contemplated his next move.

He got up from his chair and switched the television off. His options were quite clear: remain in Germany and risk running into the Dutchman, or leave. He knew the latter was the only course open to him, but not until he had finished with Joanna Schiller. But before that he had to clear the apartment of his few possessions, pick up his stuff from the bed-sit and find somewhere else to stay until the job was done.

He went through every room thoroughly, trying to eradicate all forensic trace of him being there, although he knew it was virtually impossible to leave the place clean; but he did what he could before walking out the front door with his bag. He slipped the key through the letter box and made his way across to Frau Lindbergh’s place.

He didn’t see her when he went in through the front door. He made it to the bedroom, breathed a sigh of relief and began collecting his few bits together. Barely a few minutes had passed when a knock came at the door and Frau Lindbergh’s voice came through the woodwork.

“Herr Buck? Do you have a minute please?”

Conor swore mildly under his breath and went to the door. When he opened it he saw Frau Lindbergh standing there with two men. Conor knew, instinctively, that it was the police.

“Herr John Buck?” one of them asked politely. Conor nodded. “May we come in?” Conor backed away and the two men walked into the room. They both flashed their warrant cards at him. They were big guys; not that it had ever stopped Conor before, but now was not the time to show his talents. Now was the time to bluff and keep on bluffing until they knew they had no good reason to hold him.

“Herr Buck,” one of them began, putting his warrant card carefully into his pocket. “You are under arrest on suspicion of handling counterfeit money. Anything you say.....”

They produced a pair of handcuffs and took him away. In passing, Conor looked at Frau Lindbergh’s shocked features and winked at her. Then he was in the back of a police car and being driven at speed to Hoffman’s headquarters. 

*

The heat from the burning sun did little to spoil Levi Eshkol’s day. He was in a contented mood, walking happily among the hills of the Negev desert, south of Hebron. There were no faxes, no phones, and no high pressure business meetings among the changing colours of the mountains. Here he could be lost in quiet solitude, absorbing nature’s peaceful remedy for stress.

That morning Eshkol had received a phone call from Manfred Schiller. The transfer of power would begin in one week. Once the National Press had exhausted all its interest in the kidnap and safe return of his grandson, he would have a clear field. They would have no further interest in him and there would be no more delays.

Eshkol, who had been in Hebron securing a deal with the Palestinians on behalf of the Israeli government, had decided to motor down from Hebron to Eilat on the Gulf of Aqaba. He had planned a few days, on his own, swimming in the warm waters of the Gulf, take in some scuba diving and a little sailing, and then he would fly back to Jerusalem.

Schiller’s phone call had changed Eshkol’s plans, but he deliberately took a day off to soak up the inestimable benefits of the desert peace. Tomorrow he would notify the team. One week from now, on behalf of the Israeli people, he would control the most formidable, private corporation the world had ever seen.

*

Conor’s vista was not so grand. He had little else to stare at except the four, grim walls of his prison cell. He had studied the graffiti of previous incumbents, that which had not been painted out. Deeply scratched names and dates, postulations about the police and all their bastard offspring; many of these slogans had survived the paint brush and were still readable beneath the glossy coating of an uninspiring grey paint.

The light from the high, barred window did little to brighten the gloom, but Conor had no quarrel with that. He had been in far worse prison cells than this. The Middle East variety did nothing for the health and welfare of the inmates, and Conor had been in the best (or should that be the worst?).

His predicament was nowhere near as serious as some of his earlier incarcerations. From what he knew of interrogation techniques, he could last the distance until there was no longer any reason to hold him. He had nothing to fear from a physical beating because it was extremely unlikely the German police would stoop to such tactics. He had also prepared himself well, mentally, and couldn’t think of anything they could, legally, lay at his doorstep. If he’d forgotten anything, he didn’t know what it was. And it was too late anyway.

They had taken most of his things including his belt and shoe laces. They had left him with his shoes, trousers and T-shirt; nothing else. He wasn’t unhappy with that either. He had lain naked once, in stinking filth, at very low temperatures for several days by jailers who had been determined to break him. But Conor was a tough bastard which was why men like him were employed by Governments to do their dirty work.

The door to his cell opened and a policeman hooked a finger at him. Conor got to his feet and walked in front of the policeman. He went up a flight of stairs and into an interview room. There was a table and a couple of chairs in the room. Against one wall was a mirror which Conor assumed was one way. It allowed others to witness the interrogation. There was also a tape recording device on a bench. A uniformed policeman stood at ease against a wall. Conor sat down, his back to a reinforced, frosted glass window and waited for his interrogator to come in.

A few minutes later the door opened and Hoffman walked in. He paused for a moment studying Conor. He seemed to make up his mind about something and switched on the tape. He gave the date, time and names of all those present in the room’ including Conor’s pseudonym; John Buck. Then he sat down opposite Conor.

“Do you smoke?” Conor nodded. Hoffman produced a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Conor lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out of his mouth, directing it away from Hoffman. “Do you want a drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea please, milk and sugar.”

“It’s out of a machine,” Hoffman warned him.

Conor shrugged. “So be it.”

Hoffman leaned back in his chair and asked one of the officers present to fetch a cup of tea for the prisoner.

“How long have you been in Germany?” Hoffman asked.

“Six months.”

“Have you worked at any time during those six months?”

Conor shook his head. “No.”

“Do you have any friends here, people who could vouch for you?”

“No.”

“So you’re a loner?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?”

Conor shrugged. “I like the country.”

“You don’t work, have no friends, but like the country which is why you stay. What do you do for money?”

“I have funds.”

“Counterfeit funds?” Hoffman suggested.

“Not as far as I know.”

They had searched Conor’s bed sit and his apartment, but had found no counterfeit money, nor evidence of any.

“What is your relationship with Frau Schiller?”

“She’s an old friend.”

“A special friend?”

“No.”

“Why did you visit her at Godesberg the day before yesterday?”

“Just wanted to say hallo.”

“You were seen leaving her house just before midnight, in darkness and in what can only be described as ‘unusual circumstances’. Why did you do that?”

“I wanted to avoid the Press.”

“You then made your way to Koblenz. Why?”

“I heard it was a nice place to visit.”

Hoffman didn’t say anything for a while. He just studied Conor, without expression, wondering how tough this man would prove to be.

“You were seen at the Hoeffler Apartments. Why were you there?

“No particular reason. They were on my way I guess.”

“And did you go in to the apartments?”

Conor shook his head, took another lungful of smoke in and blew it away.

Hoffman took two photographs from his pocket. One was of Jurgen Krabbe, the other of Oscar Schwarz. He pushed them across the table to Conor.

“Do you know, or recognise either of these men?”

Conor studied the two photographs at length. His expression never changed until he screwed his face up. “No,” he said, pushing them back across the table at Hoffman.

“Let me try some names on you.” Hoffman kept his eyes on Conor’s, hoping to see some small blink of a memory. “Breggie de Kok?” Conor shook his head. “Joseph Schneider?” The shake of the head again. “Karl Trucco?” Same result. Hoffman knew he was wasting his time. The door opened and the police officer came in with Conor’s tea. Hoffman waited until Conor had the tea and continued with the questions.

The interview went on for another two hours. Hoffman tried every subterfuge he knew to unbalance and trick Conor into some kind of admission that he could work on. But Conor’s answers were resolutely economic, almost monosyllabic, and bloody hard to break down. Hoffman terminated the interview and switched the tape off.

“Can I have something to eat now?” Conor asked before he left. “And am I entitled to a phone call?”

Hoffman laughed quietly. “We’ll get you something to eat, naturally. But a phone call?” He left it hanging in the air for a moment. “You want to contact your solicitor, right?”

Conor shook his head. “I don’t have a solicitor.”

“We could get you one,” Hoffman informed him.

Conor laughed. “I bet you could, but no thanks. I may want the phone call later though, but not yet.”

Hoffman tipped his head in a mock bow. “Very well Herr Lenihan, as you want. You will be taken back to your cell now and some food will be brought to you.”

“My name is Buck,” Conor reminded him. “John Buck.”

Hoffman nodded. “My apologies, it was a slip of the tongue.” He had hoped Conor might have reacted normally to his real name, by not reacting in the way that he did. Because Hoffman’s department had identified Conor, there was no reason, no legal reason why Conor couldn’t have changed his name to John Buck. He decided that it was not important. For the moment.

“Oh, there’s one other thing,” Conor said.

Hoffman smiled. “One other thing?” he repeated mockingly. “Why not?”

“When can I go?” Conor asked him.

It was Hoffman’s turn to laugh. “Go? Never, I hope. Why?”

“I want to know when to make that phone call.”

Hoffman was intrigued. “I don’t understand.”

Conor sat upright in his chair. He held one hand open and tapped its palm with the finger of his other hand. “You can only hold me for so long, right? Then you either let me walk, or release me on bail. How long?”

“We can hold you for quite some time yet, Mister Buck. We can get a magistrate’s order to extend the period if we believe we have sufficient grounds. But as far as releasing you on bail, who would post it and where would you go?”     

Hoffman couldn’t help chuckling at what he believed was a dilemma for Conor. But somehow he had an uneasy feeling that Conor was already one step ahead of him. He shook his head despairingly and walked out of the interview room.

*

Uwe Jansch and Otto Lechter had sat behind the one way mirror for the entire length of the interview. The room was thick with the smoke from Lechter’s cigarettes. The debris from potato crisp packets and chocolate bars littered the table, mingling with the stained, plastic coffee cups that had fortified them throughout Conor’s skilful handling of their chief.

Jansch pushed himself up from his chair when he saw Hoffman leave the interview-room and arched his eyebrows at Lechter. The message was left unsaid but it carried a great deal of meaning. Lechter nodded his unspoken reply and they left the room together.

Hoffman was on his way back to his office. He glanced back over his shoulder and waited for the two men to catch him up. They said nothing, not even as they went up in the lift to Hoffman’s operations room, keeping quiet until they were all seated round the desk, the door closed behind them.

“Well?” Hoffman asked. “What’s the verdict?”

Jansch waited for Lechter to speak, giving way to his seniority. “You’re not going to break him, Erich. He’s too clever.”