Frederich’s hand reached out by itself to touch the man, before he turned suddenly and went back to his car. He snatched his pistol off the roof and got in and switched on the engine. The policeman had still not moved. Frederich put the car into gear and drove off without looking back.
11
Frederich had less than twenty-four hours to terminate five killers. Once the counter-offensive began, his targets would quickly figure out what was going on, and he would lose his opportunity. The only options were to get it done all at once, or pick off his targets one-by-one without leaving a mess. If he acted too hastily before the deadline, he could compromise the whole plan.
Bibby, Dikka, Pistol, Faust and Vent were their nicknames. Frederich had no idea what their actual names were, no clue at all who they were. Whether they had family, wives or children, it mattered little. He could not have cared less about what kind of music they enjoyed or what their favourite cuisine was. He only knew they had to go. According to the report from Gerricks, they were members of a hit squad which killed six League soldiers and injured three others. That was all the reason Frederich needed. Attached to the brief were even pictures of their attack, taken from a low position beside the street. Likely a hidden camera in a storm drain.
Bibby was monstrous in size, a beefcake with a fat neck and small head. Dikka was a skinhead with a psychopathic stare. Pistol looked too pretty to be part of such a vicious crew. Faust was German for fist. Probably a boxer, judging by his nickname, sturdy appearance and crooked nose. The only photo of Vent was a police mugshot of an anorexic looking man with a potent stare. He was nowhere to be seen in the attack pictures.
The London borough of Bromley where the five men all lived had a small-town feel. Frederich had spent the flight over carefully studying the map. Kraas always insisted that geography was crucial in the art of war. There would be no time for second-guessing when the time came. If things escalated quickly or went wrong, Frederich would need to know the area if he was to use it to his advantage. It was for this reason that he spent the morning walking through the sleepy neighbourhood, passing by each of the homes of his targets, noting the connecting streets along with places of interest such as parks or alleyways. There was no need for photos, partly because they would draw unwanted attention, mostly because Frederich trusted his memory. Later that afternoon, when he had seen enough, he decided to drop into the local pub for a beer.
The ‘Stern and Dolly’ was a light brown building which stood at the head of two intersecting streets on a backdrop of grey clouds. Two construction workers sat at the front drinking their beers on a bench beneath an outdoor umbrella compliments of the ‘Berett’ brewery. The pair were still dressed in their paint-speck-covered work shorts and steel-capped boots. They paused their conversation and gawked at Frederich as he approached the entrance, dressed in a black t-shirt and black jeans and his hair in a knotty mess. He wondered how he smelt, his only shower being that bath in the lake. Probably not great.
He stepped inside and immediately counted five people, including the bartender. On the outside the place looked decent enough, the interior on the other hand was rougher than he expected. The bar was at the back, fitted with over a dozen gold-coloured beer taps and a dark, stained-oak bench lined with black stools. Behind the bar were dozens of bottles of spirits and liqueurs. The surrounding area had a variety of old, randomly grouped, single and double seater leather couches which were worn and ripped all over. In the middle was a brick-pillar supporting a round standing-only table. Frederich spotted the word ‘pisser’ etched into the side of the wood. There was an exit door behind the bar and an opening covered in old stickers which led to the toilets. It was early in the week, so Frederich did not imagine the place getting too crowded in the evenings. According to the brief from Intel, the Stern and Dolly was where his targets met for a drink almost every night. There were two evenings to go before the assault began. Frederich would wait for them to come to the pub and leave, hopefully intoxicated, then he would strike. Anyone who did not show up would get a home visit instead.
“Can I help you?” said the bartender, a bald, middle-aged man with black-rimmed glasses.
“Yes,” said Frederich. “I’d like a pint of beer, and a bowl of nuts, if you have them.”
The bartender turned to one of his customers at the far end of the bar.
“Right, well, take a seat instead of just standing there,” said the bartender. “You’re making old David here nervous.”
“Only one who makes me nervous around here is you, Liam,” replied the man named David.
Liam the bartender snickered before turning back to Frederich and thrusting a small ashtray filled with salted peanuts in front of him.
“So what’ll it be? A pint of what?” he asked with his hands on the bar, signalling toward the beer taps with his head.
“I’ll have a stout,” said Frederich, taking a seat on the barstool.
“Coming right up,” said Liam after maintaining an abnormal amount of eye contact.
Liam fetched a glass and went over to the beer tap. Then came the question Frederich was expecting.
“So where you from?” said Liam, holding the glass at an angle while pouring the beer.
“Germany,” said Frederich. “Small town in the East.”
Liam looked up at Frederich with a curious expression.
“Germany?”
“That’s right,” said Frederich.
“What brings you to Bromley?”
“Visiting friends for a bachelor party this weekend.”
“Aha,” said Liam, wiping the excess head of foam from the glass and topping it up. “So you’ve
