the party. He’s kept the flame alight. For years after the war, all the police there were former SS, and so on.”
He took a drink of whiskey. “Von Berger frequently visits Schloss Adler, often with Rossi. They come in by helicopter at a landing area close to the Schloss, but it’s a huge meadow and they can actually land a plane on it, too.”
“Do we have any kind of connection there?” Ferguson asked.
“It’s a tight-knit community. As a matter of interest, though, about forty kilometers from Neustadt, on the edge of the Schwarze Platz, is a small village called Arnheim. There’s a handful of houses, but an old Luftwaffe base from the Second World War. It’s dilapidated, but it has a landing strip that can take most things, and it’s used by a man called Max Kubel.” He turned to Ferguson. “He’s been on your list out there for a number of years. A smuggler of most things, including people to the West, flies an old Storch plane on special jobs. His father was Luftwaffe in the war. He knows Neustadt very well. I’ve spoken to him.”
“Yes, well, knowing is one thing and being able to access the place is something else,” Dillon said.
“He does a lot of cigarette smuggling, uses people. He has one guy named Hans Klein in Neustadt, who was forced off his farm by the Baron and hates him. He could be a useful source of information.”
At that moment, Fernando appeared and said to Salter, “I’m so sorry. A Baron von Berger and a Signor Rossi are at the entrance to see you?”
Salter looked at Ferguson, and Ferguson nodded. Fernando went off, and Ferguson said, “Everyone, just go with the flow.”
The Baron came down the steps, followed by Rossi and Derry Gibson. “Why, what a surprise, General,” he said to Ferguson.
“I doubt it,” Ferguson said.
Dillon grinned up at Gibson. “Derry, you were lucky not to get wet.”
Gibson smiled reluctantly. “Damn you, Sean.”
“Oh, that’s already taken care of.”
Salter said, “Would you like a table, Baron? I think we can manage that.”
“Thank you, but Art Deco has never appealed. I just wanted to say hello.” He smiled. “And that I’m thinking of you all.” He turned to Rossi and Gibson. “We can go now.” He looked back at Ferguson and Dillon. “Take care now. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
They walked out. Harry said, “I don’t know what that was all about.” He shook his head at Dillon. “Let the old bastard do his worst.”
“That was the point, Harry. He’s daring us to do
Outside, the three of them drove away, and Rossi leaned forward and closed the divider.
The Baron said, “So you’ve made a decision?”
“Yes. It’s Ferguson first. I’m going to kidnap him.”
“I love it,” Gibson said.
“What’s the point of that?” the Baron asked Marco.
“I’m going to take him to Schloss Adler and… explore the market, shall we say. With all Ferguson’s experience, I’m sure everyone would love to have a piece of him. The Russians, the Arabs, you name it.”
“Come on, Marco, you can’t fool me. The only reason you want to get your hands on Ferguson in this way would be to pull in Dillon – because you know very well that Dillon would come to his rescue.”
Marco smiled happily. “Let him try.”
“I think you underestimate Dillon, Marco. You’ve underestimated him from the beginning. Never play with a tiger. Finish him off – before he turns on you. But it’s your play. If you want to do this, I won’t give you my blessing, but I won’t stand in your way.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Give me a cigarette.” Rossi did, and the Baron sat back to smoke it, thinking of his son, his handsome son, Yale University, the war hero with the medals, and yet, in the end, so stupid.
Germany
London
Germany
13.
MAX KUBEL HAD been sitting in a bar in Berlin,
Because of his father’s record, Max had been allowed into a government-sponsored scheme to train as a pilot with the German Luftwaffe. That was both good and bad. He had a flair for it, like his father, but a restless temperament not much suited to discipline.
The years had rolled by, rather boringly, the German government’s reluctance to commit to combat situations leaving little room for his father’s kind of war, and Max had worshiped his father’s exploits, his life. In his case, there was no combat, just flying into countries in Africa or the Middle East on behalf of the United Nations, cargo planes, humanitarian work, and he hated it.
And then, out of Saudi and skirting Iraq, flying three UN peace officials, he’d been bounced by an Iraqi MiG and fired on. He had pulled his father’s old Luftwaffe trick, gone down low and used full flaps at the last moment, and the MiG had gone headfirst into the desert to avoid him. The three UN officials had been delighted at still being in the land of the living. One of them, an Irish woman, had said he deserved a medal. Instead, the Luftwaffe had thrown him out for flouting their no-combat rules.
Since then, he’d discovered the lucrative delights of various kinds of smuggling using an old Storch from the Second World War, doing night runs, sometimes as far as Poland.
He had fair hair and insolent blue eyes and wore his father’s old black leather Luftwaffe flying jacket, his personal talisman, and he sat there, thinking about the phone call. Roper had been impressive, had even managed fluent German. The mention of Ferguson was enough. Roper had said he only wanted information on the Baron’s movements at Neustadt, but there had to be more to it than that. It was quite exciting, really. He was aware of the Baron’s background, knew of the general whispers about who Rossi was, had a professional’s respect for his flying record. No, the prospect intrigued, and he did have that drunken oaf, Hans Klein, to call on, who helped him on occasion on cigarette runs. A bar girl approached him; he waved her away and dialed Klein’s number. After a while there was an answer.
The words were slurred. He’d been drinking. “Who is this?”
“Max Kubel. Where are you living now?”
“Not much better than a pigsty. The cottage at the back of the church. You know the Baron robbed me of my farm, and that son of his-”
“Beat the shit out of you.”
“I’ll have my day. What do you want? Are you doing another run?”
“Soon, Hans, but I need to know what’s going on in Neustadt. The Baron’s movements, and Rossi’s. Are they in or out?”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll pay you well, you stupid bastard, and you’ll do it anyway because you hate them. You’ve got my mobile number, so get on with it.”
He switched off, feeling suddenly incredibly cheerful, and the bar girl came back and stroked his hair. “A drink, Max?”
