‘What are you looking for, specifically?’
‘I haven’t got the punch to gain access to Cambridge University graduate files or unlock the MOD’s records. You do. Did something happen while she was at university which could have had a delayed reaction — made her vulnerable? Did she meet someone after joining up who could have influenced her in some way? Anything like that could be a lead to help track her down. There’s certainly nothing else out there.’
Ballatyne looked unconvinced, but appeared to relent. ‘Very well. I’ll see what I can find.’ Then he changed the subject. ‘On my way here, I got word from the security boys at London City airport. Two supposed German males boarded the scheduled Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt at seven fifteen, the same evening Pike and Wallace were killed. The timing fits; it wouldn’t have taken them long to get from the A12 to the airport. They could have lost the Merc anywhere along the way; left the keys in the ignition on a side street in east London and the local bangers would have done the rest. It’s probably gathering a thin layer of desert sand on a dock in Dubai even as we speak.’
‘Sounds like it was planned,’ Harry agreed, ‘if it was the same two men. Do we have pictures?’
‘Not good ones — and nothing from the hospital cameras. They were offline. Highways Agency computer problems made their pictures grainy. Both men were heavily built, one medium height with dark hair, the other tall, but bald, possibly shaven.’
‘What made them stand out, then?’
‘One of the girls on the desk is German. She said their German wasn’t that good and believed they were either Czech or Bosnian. She thought it odd enough to mention it to her supervisor who called it in.’ He shrugged. ‘We got lucky: the supervisor used to be in Immigration and thought it worth passing on.’ He checked his watch. ‘Got to go. What are you doing next?’
Harry explained about his intention of following Pike’s trail back to Holland. ‘Wherever Pike started his return journey, he must have had a meeting prior to that, presumably to sell what he knew, which generated the payment through Grand Cayman. Getting a line on where he came from right before he used the cash machine in The Hague will help me backtrack him from there.’
‘We know he was in Thailand,’ Ballatyne pointed out. ‘Long way to go.’
‘It’s also too big and crowded. You could hide an entire regiment out there and nobody would know.’
‘Fair comment. But why travel anywhere? We’ve got people who can do the research online and on the ground. Ferris could do it, given the right equipment. How is our wounded soldier, by the way?’
‘He’s fine. He’ll be all right when he’s rested up and got something to concentrate on.’ He paused, then said, ‘I want to rattle a few cages over there, to see what I turn up. If I cross the Protectory’s trail along the way, they might get to hear about it. That won’t happen working online.’
Ballatyne pursed his lips. ‘It’s a risky strategy, rattling cages. You never know who or what you might wake up.’
‘I know. But I’m short of ideas at the moment.’
‘Fair enough.’ Ballatyne nodded. ‘Just watch your back.’
He walked out, leaving Harry to shut the door.
SEVENTEEN
A sickly dawn was lifting over the horizon as former railroad worker Wilhelm Dieter plodded slowly away from Schwedt, following his ritual daily walk, a determined but joyless defence against advancing old age. He absorbed little of the surrounding scenery to interest him; he’d been seeing it for too many years to count and doubted it would bring anything new to arouse his curiosity or brighten his day. It was why he alternated between this route and another going north, hopeful that maybe the change would keep his mind engaged along with his body, and throw up something distracting to look at once in a while, even if only some wildlife.
As he neared the strand of pine trees running along the border like a prickly rash, he noticed a group of carrion crows in the upper branches. Nothing unusual in crows, he reflected, the bloody things were everywhere. But clumped together like that? They looked like a bunch of priests on a day out, dark and faintly shabby, united in their bickering.
Tyre tracks in the mud — and recent, too. He’d have noticed them if they’d been here on his last walk two days ago. Nothing much came down here these days other than the occasional border patrol, although they were rare, too. There wasn’t the same need now, for patrols. Not since the Wall had come down.
He stopped and gave vent to a hacking cough, the result of too many cheap cigarettes, a lousy diet and damp living conditions, and tugged irritably at the woollen cap with the ear-flaps flying loose about his head. He shivered and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat, feeling the cold easterly wind coming across the trees and surrounding grassland. Christ, if only we could have a bit more sunshine, he thought. It would liven up this bloody back-of-nowhere place for a start.
He continued walking and skirted a puddle, his ears prickling with tension. He stopped and studied the ground. Footprints everywhere, and more than one set, by the look of it. The tyre tracks ran on through the mud, leading towards the bend and the thicket where a few irresponsible louts from the town were forever dumping the rubbish they couldn’t be bothered to dispose of properly.
He decided to take a look. There was nowhere down here for a vehicle to go, not unless it was military or police. The track ended in a heavy gate, although if one were determined, it might be possible to blast through. But why bother? It only led to Poland for God’s sake; same scenery, different language.
He followed the track, his curiosity aroused. If there was anything salvageable, he could maybe get some cash for it in town. Anyway, what else did he have to occupy himself? Then he noticed a shallow furrow leading off to one side of the track, as if something heavy had been dragged through the grass towards the trees where the crows were gathered. A sack of something, perhaps? Probably somebody’s worthless shit, but worth a look at least. .
As he stepped off the track he noticed a coat spread over a tangle of blackthorn, the khaki colour darkened almost black in places by moisture. An old jacket, he decided, military surplus by the looks of it and widely available in places if you knew where to look. But why was it here? He felt the beginnings of a worm of excitement beating in his chest, and stepped forward to retrieve it.
Two hours later, less than two kilometres away, a former government office worker named Sylvia Heidl sat in a bare flat on the second floor of an ugly concrete block looking out over a featureless landscape. She was staring at a shiny black object on her kitchen table. It had a small green power light in one end which was flashing intermittently like a deficient ceiling bulb. It was a sign of energy and life, seemingly mocking the fact that her own vital signs were fast diminishing.
Outside, thin rain pattered against the windows, cold and relentless. In the quiet of the room, her breathing was quick, bird-like. It matched the throbbing of a pulse at her temple, visible under the translucent skin marked by the blemishes of old age. But old age wasn’t the problem. She looked down at her hands. They were like a collection of bony sticks; sticks which had lost their strength over the past few months and weeks along with the rest of her body, the disease which had overtaken her turning her into an old woman in no time at all.
A sound outside brought her head up, fear clutching at her breast. Then she relaxed, recognizing old Bendl’s asthmatic coughing. He shuffled down the foul-smelling stairs in the darkness each morning, on his way to the refinery where he worked as a clerk. Like the few who had jobs here, he started early and finished late, eager to work punishing hours for next to nothing, since earning nothing was simply to fade and die.
As the footsteps receded, she wondered what Ulf would say. Her brother was a doctor, although not the kind who could help her. An army medic for many years, he knew a lot about battle wounds but precious little about cancerous growths caused by the toxic air which attacked you as you breathed. But with his part-time job at the hospital, he knew people he could ask. . people with access to drugs which helped manage the pain she was suffering with increasing regularity.
She reached over and picked up the mobile phone, and brushed off a thin smear of mud, where old Wilhelm had handled it.
‘See if Ulf can sell these in town,’ he’d suggested tentatively, pushing the mobile and the slim red book into her hands. He had come straight round after his walk and woken her up, pounding on the door as if his life
