The Olympic Games is simply too good an opportunity to miss.”
A heavily built man on the opposite side of the table shook his head. “You know there will be reprisals. If the British discover that we were responsible, military action against Germany is possible, perhaps even probable. And the United Nations and America might also become involved.”
Drescher shook his head, the smile still in evidence.
“We have taken steps to ensure that that will not happen. The vehicle to be used for the transportation of the device will have no connection to Germany whatsoever, and we are also employing measures to suggest that the real culprit, the author of the atrocity, is a much older and far more dangerous enemy than Germany.”
He smiled more broadly as he looked around at the other men.
“It is just possible that our action could rid the world of a contagion that has existed since the beginning of recorded history.” He paused again, and then continued. “Because, gentlemen, we are going to make it clear that the perpetrators of this attack have made their home a long way to the east, on stolen ground. We are going to blame it on the Jews.”
There was a brief silence, and then another of the men spoke: “How?”
“The details are not important, but rest assured we can achieve it. Once the attack is over, we will make absolutely certain that the Jews are identified as the perpetrators. The international backlash against the Zionist state should be enough to finish the task that the Fuhrer started.”
“And what about the effectiveness of the London weapon? What degree of lethality are you anticipating?”
Drescher shrugged his shoulders.
“That is very difficult to predict because we do not know how many people will be within the lethal radius when the device is triggered. But the weapon will be activated during the opening ceremony, so we anticipate that at the very least there will be thousands of casualties, possibly tens of thousands, in addition to the long-term effects caused by radiation damage-effects that are, of course, impossible to predict.”
Klaus glanced back at Marcus, who nodded.
“Thank you, Klaus.” Marcus now turned to the man seated on his left. “Hermann, can you bring us up-to-date with the situation regarding the vehicle?”
“Of course. Our people have already identified a suitable organization that will be sending a team to cover the Olympics, and we have our own vehicle prepared. We have agents watching the company, and as soon as they are ready to dispatch their lorry, we will move into position. We do not anticipate any difficulty with the substitution.”
Marcus nodded again.
“I have personally overseen the testing of the weapon,” he said, “up to a very low power setting, of course, and it worked exactly as we hoped.”
“Did you use test subjects?”
“That was the only way we could confirm its effectiveness. We picked up a handful of vagrants and used them. The results were entirely satisfactory.”
“Unfortunately,” Klaus Drescher interjected, “there were no Jews available.”
All the men smiled at that remark, and a couple of them laughed.
The meeting continued for another half an hour as various members of the group reported on their particular aspects of the operation, and then Marcus moved on to the other matter that he felt they needed to know about.
“And now,” he said, “we have a small problem that I am in the process of resolving. One of our recruits was discovered attempting to pass information to the police here. Fortunately, he was detected and stopped, but it is clear that we need to know if he was acting alone. My men will start their questioning in the cellar in a few minutes, so we have just got time for a drink beforehand.”
Five minutes later, Marcus led the way into a subterranean whitewashed room. Four men armed with pistols stood just inside the doorway, their attention focused on a man whose arms and legs were lashed to a stout wooden chair, the legs of which were bolted to the concrete floor. He was blindfolded and gagged, and was tugging frantically at his bonds, but to no avail. The leather straps were pulled tight, and held him immobile.
Two rows of seats had been placed along one wall of the room and, with the exception of Marcus, the new arrivals walked over to them and sat down. Most were still carrying small glasses of schnapps, and a couple of them had coffee as well.
Marcus gestured to one of the armed men, who moved across and stood beside the wooden chair, awaiting further orders. When he was satisfied that everything was ready, Marcus nodded his first command.
Without hesitation, the man leaned down, seized the little finger of the captive’s left hand and in one swift and brutal movement bent it backward. The snapping of the bone was audible to everybody in the room, and was immediately followed by a muffled but agonized howl of pain.
“That is just the start, my friend,” Marcus said, “just a taster to show you that we are serious. You will tell us whatever we want to know. Every time we think that you are lying or not telling us the whole truth, I will instruct my associate to break another of your fingers. When we run out of fingers, we will begin amputating your toes. It can take you days to die.”
Marcus glanced at the seated men along the wall. Every one of them appeared eager for the show to begin, their eyes fixed on the bound man.
“So now we’ll start,” Marcus said. “Take off the gag.”
The moment the gag was removed, the captive screamed his agony, then began sobbing, his desperation obvious to every man in the room.
And then the questions started.
5
20 July 2012
Chris Bronson pushed open the door of the pub and stepped inside. He spotted Eaton immediately. He was standing at one end of the bar, deep in conversation with two other men, both of them showing the kind of muscular development that comes from hard physical work, not time spent in a gym somewhere.
Bronson nodded to them, stepped up to the bar to order a pint and then walked over to the three men.
Eaton gave him a brief smile of welcome, then turned to his companions.
“This is Alex Cross,” he said, “or, at least, that’s what he says his name is. We met him at Stratford nick a couple of days ago. I reckon he could be quite useful to us.”
Bronson didn’t respond, and nor did Eaton’s two companions, who simply stared at him in a faintly hostile manner, looking him up and down.
The man on his left glanced round the bar and finally spoke. “John tells me you’ve been doing a bit of damage at the Olympic sites.”
Bronson nodded and took another sip of his beer.
“Don’t talk a lot, do you?”
“No.”
“So what’s your real name?”
“Alex Cross’ll do for now.”
“There some reason why you won’t tell us?”
Bronson nodded again. “Yes.”
Eaton grinned. “I told you, Mike. Man of very few words, is Alex here.”
The man he’d addressed as “Mike” glanced at Eaton, then back at Bronson.
“Thing is,” he said, “we’re just a small group of people trying to make a difference, and that means we have to trust each other. And if we’re going to trust each other, we have to know who we are. And we definitely have to know about anybody who wants to join us.”
Bronson shook his head. “I don’t want to join you.” He gestured toward Eaton. “John here thought I might be able to tag along on one of your jobs, but I’m not bothered. You want a CV from me, forget it. Go and find someone
