His half smile turned to a frown, his lips tightening and his forehead creasing. Now that he had discovered Bremmer’s hideaway, unmasked his pseudonym, the commandant should have been easier than the others. Bremmer was an old, pathetic, doddering, octogenarian who would offer little resistance.
He made no attempt to conceal his movements, had long ago convinced himself that he had successfully covered his tracks. And now, with legal protection against those who would have brought him to trial for his war crimes, he basked in the safety of his dingy terraced house. Every evening at nine he shuffled down the street to the pub on the corner, drank two double whiskeys, and returned promptly at ten. Wolskel had watched his intended prey every night for the past week, the other’s movements synchronised with his own digital watch. Any night would have done, Wolskel's only nagging fear was that death from natural causes might have cheated him at the final hour. He had almost permitted himself a day or two in which to savour the pending execution.
Until today, when he knew that it had to be tonight. And even tonight might be too late!
Whitehall had received information from one of its most trusted Middle East agents that the Hawk was believed to be in London, having slipped through Heathrow security on the previous day. A man whose very name brought cold sweat to surviving war criminals in their havens throughout the world, a fanatic who executed mercilessly, came and went like a sporadic show of winter sunshine. The agent had reported that the Hawk was believed to have located Bremmer, established proof of his identity as well as his whereabouts, and was poised to kill. That information was not known to The Department, only to Wolskel who had tracked down his man. And now the one known as the Hawk might beat him to it, mock him with a shot blasted or knife hacked corpse. There was no time to be lost.
Wolskel sat in his parked Volvo in the sparsely-lit street, watched the pub in his rear-view mirror. The night was misty, there was a hint of drizzle in the air. Visibility was poor. He glanced at his watch. 21.53. In seven minutes Bremmer would come out of that door, follow the pavement on the shadowy side until he reached number 53. Then he would fumble in his overcoat pocket for his door key and let himself in. Just as he had done on the previous seven nights when Wolskel had sat and watched. Tonight would be no different. It must not be.
It was.
22.05 and there was no sign of Bremmer. Wolskel was tense he felt slightly sick, tried to tell himself that perhaps tonight the Nazi had permitted himself a third double whiskey. He hadn't, he wouldn't, because his makeup was as rigid now as it had been half a century ago.
Wolskel searched the shadows on both sides of the street looking for a lurking figure. He laughed mirthlessly to himself. If the Hawk was here, you wouldn't see him. He shivered uncontrollably.
22.12. Maybe there was a perfectly ordinary explanation for Bremmer's non-appearance. Like he had a cold or a fever, or the night was too chilly for him to go out. Or that he was dead, either from natural causes or…
22.20. Lech Wolskel let himself out of the car, looked up and down the street. There was nobody in sight. He began to walk slowly along the uneven littered pavement until he stood outside number 53. His stomach churned, knotted. For the first time in his life he experienced fear, almost turned and fled. Only the thought of a father who he scarcely remembered stopped him from abandoning his mission. If Bremmer still lived, then he must hang, and his corpse must be destroyed in the ‘pit’.
The door was unlocked! Wolskel's outstretched fingers touched it and it creaked, opened a couple of inches. A low wattage bulb burned in the passageway and an odour of staleness wafted through the gap, the stench of an old man's den, a combination of an unwashed body and urine. His hand dropped to the pocket of his overcoat, felt the reassuring bulk of the .38 that nestled inside it. An illegal weapon. He laughed again.
Wolskel stepped inside, left the door slightly ajar behind him. He waited whilst his eyesight adjusted to the gloom. He listened, but there was no sound to be heard. Icy fingertips stroked his spine. Yet he sensed that he was not alone.
A door led off from the narrow hallway. His fingers depressed the handle, it was loose and rattled slightly at his touch. The room beyond was in darkness except for a shaft of light that penetrated the frayed curtains, an eerie glow that denoted silhouettes and created deep shadow. The atmosphere was heavy, almost suffocating, the stench so strong now that it rasped his throat.
Wolskel stood there in the open doorway, felt rather than saw the untidy, unclean room, the dead coals in the fireplace, food scraps on a plate on the table. He stiffened when he picked out the armchair, the huddled shape in it facing away from him. A balding head that slumped forward, legs stretched out. The other was either asleep... or dead!
‘Bremmer?’ Wolskel scarcely recognised his own voice, the way it quavered, the pistol heavy in his shaking hand.
There was no response. He had begun to back away when the figure in the chair stirred, the head lifted and turned, the features hidden in a patch of shadow.
‘Who... is... it?’ The voice was cracked, the invisible lips slobbering, but there was no hint of fear in the words. Just a question, curiosity because there was an intruder in the house.
‘You wouldn't know
