Bad Company

Jack Higgins Bad Company

Book 11 in the Sean Dillon series, 2003

For Amber

On the morning of 26 April 1945, two Junker 52s loaded with tank ammunition managed to land in the center of beleaguered Berlin on a makeshift runway constructed from a city road. Russian artillery was pounding the city hard, and within a few days it would be the end of the Third Reich and Hitler would be dead by his own hand.

The Junkers were not the only planes to land that way. That same day Luftwaffe General Ritter von Greim flew in to Berlin in a Fieseler Storch, accompanied by air ace Hannah Reitsch. Von Greim became badly wounded, however, and Reitsch took over and managed to land the plane on East West Avenue near the Brandenburger Tor. Von Greim, promoted to field marshal, left again the following day in an Arado piloted by Reitsch.

There are reports of many other light aircraft at that time leaving Berlin using streets as runways. Legend has it that Martin Bormann, himself the most powerful man in Germany next to Hitler, escaped to Norway that way to join a U-boat bound for South America.

And there is another legend, one even more extraordinary: the story of SS Sturmbahnfuhrer Baron Max von Berger, who escaped in a Fieseler Storch, taking off from East West Avenue shortly after the Fuhrer’s marriage to Eva Braun and carrying with him Hitler’s most enduring legacy…

DaunceyVillage West Sussex London 2002 1.

IT WAS RAINING when they buried Kate Rashid, Countess of Loch Dhu, a rain that swept in across Dauncey Village like a solid curtain, sending people hurrying for the shelter of the church. They were all there, the great and the good, to say farewell, their cars blocking the High Street.

General Charles Ferguson’s Daimler had just arrived. He sat in the rear with Sean Dillon, who took a silver flask from his inside pocket, swallowed a little Bushmills whiskey and lit a cigarette.

“Are we going in?”

“No,” Ferguson said.

“Then why are we here?”

“It’s the civilized thing to do, Dillon. It’s a great story, after all. The world’s richest woman crashing into the sea off the English coast at the controls of her own plane. Her cousin Rupert mysteriously disappeared.” He leaned back. “You couldn’t improve on it if it was a made-for-television movie.”

Dillon took another swig from his flask. “I’ve said it before, but it’s the cold-blooded bastard you are, General.”

“Really? I thought that was you, Dillon.”

“All right. But I repeat: If we’re not going in, what are we doing here?”

“Patience, Dillon. I’m waiting for someone.”

“And who might that be?”

“Well, for starters, a good friend of yours.” A Mercedes rolled in and braked behind them. “And here he is.”

Blake Johnson emerged, ran through the rain and scrambled into the back of the Daimler.

“Great to see you, General.” He took Dillon’s hand. “And you, my fine Irish friend.”

“And where in the hell have you come from?” Dillon demanded.

“The White House, of course.”

Blake was in his early fifties, his hair still black, and an ex-Marine. He was also director of the White House’s General Affairs Department, though everyone who knew it – which wasn’t many – just called it “the Basement.” In actuality, it was the President’s private hit squad, totally separate from the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service or any other governmental organization.

Dillon was intrigued. “But what are you here for?”

Ferguson ignored him. “Is it true? About the Baron?”

“Yep. Just announced. The President ordered me straight to you, General, and here I am.”

“And who’s this Baron creature when he’s at home?” said Dillon.

“You’re about to find out,” Ferguson said.

A Rolls-Royce pulled in at the church gate. A uniformed chauffeur emerged, got an umbrella up and opened the rear door. A young man in his early thirties emerged, a trench coat over his shoulders, and hurried to the other door and waited.

The man who stepped out was very old, wore a black leather overcoat and slouch hat, and carried a silver- topped walking stick. The young man held the umbrella over him, offered his arm, and they went up the path to the church.

“There he goes,” Blake said.

Dillon frowned. “Who is he?”

“Baron Max von Berger,” Ferguson said. “An exceedingly rich man. And – as Blake has just confirmed – none other than Kate Rashid’s silent partner.”

“Rashid?” Dillon said. “Just a minute. Are you saying Berger as in Berger International?”

“That’s right.”

“But they’re worth billions.”

“Exactly.”

“And they now have control of Rashid Investments?”

“Unfortunately so.”

“Well,” Dillon said, and paused. “That could be a problem.”

The rain hammered on the roof, organ music swelled from the church. Blake said, “Why does it always rain at funerals?”

“It’s the way Hollywood does it,” Dillon said. “It’s life imitating art. Who was the hard man?”

“The one escorting him?” Blake nodded. “Interesting you should call him that.”

“It’s the broken nose, Blake. I’d hate to see what was left of the man who did that to him.”

Ferguson joined in. “The name is Marco Rossi. He studied economics and business at Yale, then joined the Italian air force and flew a Tornado in Bosnia. You’d have a lot in common with him, Dillon. He was shot down and had a very energetic time behind Serb lines. Very unreasonable people, the Serbs, but then you know that. His