The Shadow Project

hundreds of hidden underground bunkers, experimental research stations and factories around occupied Europe, constructed by armies of forced labourers transported from Auschwitz and the other death camps. He’d read that some historians believed not all of those secret facilities had been found. It looked as if they’d been right.

Adam could barely imagine the construction project for a place like this. It would have been like a scene from ancient times, the building of the pyramids. Tens upon tens of thousands of workers labouring fifteen hours a day for months, even years. A huge mass of human ants driven back and forth by their masters, worked until they dropped dead with their shovel or pickaxe still in hand, while more doomed souls arrived under armed convoy from the camps each day to take their place. How many must have died here, nobody would ever know.

Between the mouth of the cave and where he stood was an aircraft, its fuselage and wings streaked red with corrosion. He stepped away from the guards and walked underneath one of the rusty wings. He’d seen this type of plane in documentaries. It was the infamous Luftwaffe Me 262 jet fighter, the revolutionary plane that could have won the war for Germany if its development hadn’t come so late. But this one seemed to have some very strange engine modifications visible through its nose canopy – modifications whose function he could only guess at.

What had they been doing in here? Adam swallowed. He already knew the answer, but it was too incredible to contemplate.

The guards interrupted his thoughts, moving him on at gunpoint through more corridors. They stopped at a door and one of them knocked. A voice answered, and they went in.

Adam was surprised to find himself stepping inside a pleasant office. Classical music tinkled softly in the background. Behind a mahogany desk sat a sandy-haired man in a smart suede jacket. He stood as Adam was shown inside, and walked up to him with a smile. The guards left and shut the door.

Adam studied the man warily. He wasn’t like the three hardcases who’d brought him from Graz, or the brutish guards. In his early forties or thereabouts, he was handsome in almost a dashing way, with a high forehead and twinkling grey eyes that hinted at high intelligence and a careful, logical mind.

‘My name is Pelham,’ the man said. The accent was English, educated, upper class. Adam’s blood chilled as he recognised the voice. It was the one that had talked to him on the phone the day Rory was taken.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Professor Connor,’ Pelham went on. ‘Or should I say, Professor O’Connor? You haven’t been the easiest of men to find, changing your name like that.’ He motioned to an open drinks cabinet behind the desk. ‘Would you like a drink?’

Adam glared at him. ‘I’d like to see my boy, you sonofabitch.’

Pelham shrugged, reached for a decanter and a glass and poured himself a measure. ‘There’s no reason why this should be an unpleasant experience for either of us,’ he said. ‘But suit yourself. Here, take a seat.’

Adam remained standing.

‘My employer regrets that he can’t be here personally to greet you. Unfortunately, his schedule just doesn’t permit it.’

‘Well, that’s a shame. I’d have liked to meet this guy. Give him my regards. Who is he?’

Pelham smiled. ‘Afraid I can’t say.’

‘No, I didn’t suppose you could. Where’s Rory?’

‘Actually very close by. Closer than you might imagine. You’ll be seeing him soon, I promise. And please rest assured that he’s been very well looked after here.’ Pelham smiled. ‘Your son’s a fine boy. You should be proud of him.’

Adam was palpitating with rage. The man’s smooth charm just made him angrier.

Pelham smiled reasonably and sat at the desk. Setting down his glass, he laced his fingers together and leaned forward. ‘Now, let’s waste no more time. There’s been enough delay already. It’s thanks to our difficulty finding you that we first had to approach your colleagues, Drs Goodman and Miyazaki.’ He frowned. ‘Regrettably, they were of little assistance. We had to let them go.’

‘Murdering bastard. They were my friends.’

‘It’s all down to you now, Adam. May I call you Adam? I hope you understand the degree of trust we’re placing in you, and that you’ll co-operate with my employer’s wishes. In a very real sense, what we’re offering you here is the opportunity of a lifetime. A chance to achieve something quite extraordinary.’

Adam leaned across the desk, so that his face was just a few inches from Pelham’s. ‘What the fuck am I doing in this place?’

‘Please don’t play games with me, Adam,’ Pelham said softly. ‘You already know exactly what you’re doing here. You’re going to make the Kammler machine work for us.’

Chapter Thirty-One

Lenny Salt was pretty pleased with himself.

As he drove out of Laugharne as fast as the old Vauxhall would go, heading away from the coastline through the maze of winding lanes that criss-crossed the countryside like a spider’s web, he had a big smile on his face. He reached out and patted the camera on the passenger seat. Nice work. He’d got some great snaps of the Red Scarf Man. That would teach Them to send some spook out to trick old Lenny Salt. Information on Kammler? Lenny smiled. Yeah, right. As if these people could tell him anything. Nobody knew more about Kammler than the Kammler Krew.

He thought about the man he’d photographed, magnified up close in the long lens. Probably mid to late thirties, in good shape. Almost certainly ex-military. Those guys all had that look about them. MI5 or CIA? he wondered. Then again, what did it matter which agency he was working for – it was all part of the same evil global fraternity.

Them. Lenny thought about Them a lot. The bastards were all in it together.

He’d seen this whole thing coming, for a long time. Had anyone listened to him? Had they fuck. And now look what had happened. Michio and Julia dead, and it was only a question of time before They got to Adam as well.

It’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you, he thought. That was one of his favourite sayings, and it never failed to make him smile to himself, because he knew he was way too smart ever to let them catch him. He’d been too clever for Red Scarf Man today, same as he’d been too clever to let himself be duped by that girl last year, that German or whatever she was, the one calling herself Luna.

Luna – what kind of stupid made-up name was that?

Lenny grinned to himself at the memory of how he’d fooled her. Same system he’d used today. Agree to the meet, watch them from a vantage point, take the pictures and slip away. Know your enemy. That was another favourite saying of his, one he took seriously. This was war. It was a matter of survival.

As soon as he got back to the caravan he was going to download the pictures onto his laptop with the others: all the people who’d ever tried to follow him, lure him or pinch his ideas. He was still working on a lot of the names, and of course most of them were phoney anyway – that was the way They worked. But he had all the faces memorised, and he was always watching out for them, everywhere he went. More enemies would come for him in the future. He was certain of that – but he’d be ready for them.

They weren’t going to get him. No chance. Not him, not wily old Lenny Salt. Always one step ahead, always on the move, untraceable, checking his emails from a different library or cyber-cafe every day, always paying cash and giving false names to the farmers whose bits of land he rented. Then, every couple of months, or whenever he felt the heat, he’d move on.

And now that Red Scarf Man was sniffing around, it was going to be time to pack up and relocate again. Away from west Wales, maybe up to Scotland this time. Or perhaps Cornwall. Plenty of places to hide away there, and there was always a hippy retreat or new-age healing camp where you could buy a bit of hash.

After half an hour’s drive Lenny was deep in the countryside. At the end of a long, twisty single-track lane he stopped at a farm gate, got out of the car and opened it, drove through and stopped again to shut it behind him. Cows looked up from their grazing and eyed the Vauxhall lazily as it bumped through the field. Across the other side, he reached the next gate and passed through into the wooded area where his camp was.

A few yards further up the track, half-hidden behind a sprawl of gorse and brambles, was the old Sprite