‘In that case I don’t recall seeing him. Now do the decent thing and piss off, Leutnant, before we throw you off.’
Hostner felt anger welling up inside him. He’d taken just about enough shit this morning. He instinctively reached down for his gun and pulled it out. ‘This is still a fucking army, and you are — ’
‘Put the gun away, unless you’ve got enough bullets in there for all of us,’ the man said quietly. Hostner looked around at the soldiers on the truck. They looked like they’d beat him to a pulp if he tried using it. Tense seconds passed by as he weighed up whether to risk continuing to assert his authority with the help of his handgun. The men in the truck weren’t even looking at it; they’d had their fill in recent weeks of agitated junior officers waving their guns menacingly and threatening death and damnation.
Hostner placed it back in his holster, and managed a conciliatory smile. ‘Look. I’m sorry… I — ’
‘There, wasn’t so hard, was it? Treating us with a little courtesy. You’re after Max Kleinmann?’
Hostner nodded.
‘Then you’ve found him. I’m Max Kleinmann.’
One of the other Luftwaffe men turned to face Max. ‘What the fuck — ’
‘Relax, Pieter, the bastards’ll track me down one way or the other.’
The SS officer looked at the other Luftwaffe men. ‘And these men are your crew?’
The second Luftwaffe man, Pieter, turned to two of the other men and shared a silent nod before turning back to Hostner. ‘We are his crew.’ He looked at Max. ‘We stay together, right, boss?’
Max nodded grimly. That was the deal. ‘Okay, Pieter.’ He turned to Hostner and nodded. ‘You heard him,’ he gestured to Pieter and two other Luftwaffe men huddled next to him. ‘These sorry-looking fools are my crew.’
Hostner smiled. ‘Thank God! I’ve been freezing my balls off here since first light. Gentlemen, will you come with me please?’
‘Why? What’s this about?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just following orders.’
Max sat up stiffly. ‘We’re not going anywhere until we know why.’
‘There is nothing to worry about, Oberleutnant. Listen, I have a truck parked nearby, with an oil heater inside… and a flask of soup. Huh?’
Pieter and Max looked at each other, and shared a glance with the other two.
‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Max.
Chapter 12
Chris kneeled uncomfortably on the hard tiles of the bathroom floor, counting out a forty-five-second photographic exposure, his familiar crimson studio-world temporarily obliterated by a blast of white light from the enlarger’s small fluorescent tube. He wore red-eye goggles to preserve his dark-adjusted vision.
His mobile phone started to bleep the Simpsons’ theme tune.
‘Shit!’
It was in the bedroom. He let it ring out, desperately trying to keep track of his countdown as it ran through the irritating ring tone three more times.
‘Three… two… one.’ He snapped off the light and covered the exposed photo-paper before lurching out of the bathroom to catch the phone before it rang off. He knew it would be his agency. Chris had been expecting them to get in touch to confirm receipt of the advance from News Fortnite.
The mobile predictably went silent as he grabbed hold of it.
‘Bollocks.’
Chris checked the number of the caller. It had been withheld. That was almost as irritating as answerphone messages from people who identified themselves with ‘It’s me’ and expected him to know who to phone back. Only Chris’s mum could get away with that.
He loitered by the phone for half a minute before deciding that whoever it was had either dialled a wrong number or reckoned whatever it was could wait.
He was reaching out for the bathroom door when it rang again. He was quicker this time and interrupted the first bar of the tune.
‘Hello?’
‘Good evening.’ The voice of a man. No one he recognised.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Uh… my name is James Wallace.’
Chris quickly trawled through his mental list of business contacts; the name meant nothing to him.
‘Sorry, mate, I’m not — ’
‘I used to work for the Office of Strategic Services during the war.’
A pause. Chris vaguely recalled that organisation from some documentary he’d seen on cable; the OSS was the precursor to the CIA. Wartime intelligence.
‘And after the war ended, the United States Airforce Intelligence. I’m retired now, of course. I have friends there still, but now I spend too much time watching daytime TV.’
The old man paused, presumably anticipating a muted laugh.
‘Go on,’ said Chris.
‘I… this is a little awkward over the phone… I gather you enquired about a certain wartime plane with the USAF museum over at Dayton? A Flying Fortress that went missing over Hamburg?’
How the — ? Chris took a second to compose himself.
‘Yes, I was asking about a plane called — ’
‘Please… It’s best if we don’t mention the name. Let’s just refer to her as “the find” for now, okay?’
Chris felt an adrenaline spike, and not for the first time in the last few days cursed the fact that he was on the cigarette-wagon. He reached out for a piece of chewing gum from the bedside table. If there had been a packet of cigarettes within reach, it would have been game over for this year’s attempt to quit.
‘How the hell would you know that? Hang on… how did you get my number?’
The elderly voice wheezed a small, knowing laugh. ‘Let’s just say I have a few old friends still in Airforce Intelligence, and those old dogs know a few clever tricks. I’d like to arrange a meeting with you, if that’s not any trouble.’
Not for the first time Chris felt his stomach stir uneasily. All of a sudden, his little scoop was beginning to attract a bit of attention. Was it the sort of attention he wanted, though?
‘Why? What do you want from me?’ he said, trying to keep the tension from his voice.
‘I know you are investigating a certain “find” discovered off the coast nearby. I thought maybe we could exchange some information about it. If it is the same plane, then I know a little about how she might have ended up there, and in return, I’d be curious to hear anything you might have discovered about her. A mutual quid pro quo. Does that sound of interest?’
Christ, what the hell am I getting myself into?
The missing father and son, true or not, was one thing. An old wartime intelligence spook emerging out of the gloom was very much another. Unsettling, but then Chris reminded himself he had exposed himself to far more worrying situations in the past, in the pursuit of the all-elusive cover-photo… Rwanda, Sarajevo, Iraq… This was, so far at least, nothing to get too jumpy about. Not yet anyway.
‘I suppose we can arrange a little show and tell,’ he answered.
‘Good. I’d prefer we had this little mutual show and tell in person rather than over a phone, if you understand me.’
‘Uh… I’m not sure I — ’
‘Relax. If my motives were sinister, I wouldn’t be asking your permission to talk with you, would I? You could just say no, and that would be that. But I suspect you’re just as curious about this plane as I am.’
True.
