the left in a gentle curve, and a further sign warned of a left-hand junction. Bronson braked gently but firmly, ensuring that the car’s tires left no marks of rubber on the road that could alert the men in the following vehicle, and as soon as he saw the junction ahead, he swung left off the road and into the entrance of a small industrial estate. The road was comparatively wide, and he was able to swing the car around in a U-turn so that it faced back toward the main road.
He pulled the BMW to a stop at the edge of the road, switched off the lights, pulled on the handbrake and lowered the window on the driver’s door. There were trees over to his right-the whole area seemed heavily forested-which would prevent his car being spotted by any approaching vehicle on the main road, but the area to the west of him was comparatively clear, and he could actually see the autobahn junction about eight hundred yards away down a completely straight road. As long as his pursuers didn’t guess that he’d pulled off the road, he knew he’d be able to see which direction they turned.
And although the roads he had driven on so far had been devoid of traffic, he’d already spotted several vehicles on the Berliner Ring, which would further confuse the pursuit.
Moments later, he heard the sound of a powerful engine running at high revolutions, and a black Mercedes saloon swept past the junction where he was waiting and powered on toward the autobahn interchange.
The car’s brake lights flared into life as the vehicle reached the junction, and Bronson could imagine the conversation taking place inside. Reduced to its barest essentials, it was a simple choice: left or right?
The Mercedes came to a complete stop, engine idling, in the road a few yards short of the entrance to the northbound slip road. Then the motor roared again and the car lurched forward, past the slip road and on toward the southbound carriageway.
For about five minutes, Bronson just sat in the driver’s seat staring out at the autobahn junction over to his left. He had always been taught never to assume anything-he remembered an old adage that one of his sergeants had frequently trotted out during his time in the army: “assume makes an ass out of u and me”-and because he hadn’t actually been able to see the Mercedes heading south on the autobahn, he didn’t know that was where it had gone. It was possible that the car had stopped just out of sight, and that the occupants were looking back, in the direction they’d come, in case he’d managed to fool them.
He thought the possibility was remote, but still he sat there, just in case.
Then he turned on the ignition of the BMW and checked that all the instruments were giving correct readings. He climbed out of the car and made a quick visual check of the tires-what little he could see of them in the dark- because they would obviously have suffered from the treatment he’d given the car during the pursuit. But they were intact and, as far as he could see, they had plenty of tread left.
The glovebox of the vehicle produced nothing particularly helpful, apart from a map book and the car’s handbook written in German, but tucked under the driver’s seat Bronson found two full boxes of nine-millimeter ammunition. The other thing he found, which particularly pleased him, was a built-in satnav. He changed the language to English, which took him a couple of minutes, and then used the map book to pick a destination at random-a satellite town to the east of Berlin-and plotted a route to it. He needed somewhere quiet where he could park the car while he slept inside it, and he needed to talk to Angela.
Bronson drove back onto the main road and then took the slip road leading to the northbound Berliner Ring. The dashboard clock told him it was after two in the morning, but still there was quite a lot of traffic on the road, an almost equal mix of cars and trucks.
Twenty minutes later he pulled into a heavily wooded area beside a lake, switched off the engine and closed his eyes.
32
24 July 2012
Marcus Wolf’s cold blue eyes bored into the face of the man standing in front of him.
“And then, Oskar, you simply let him get away.” His voice was low and laced with barely contained fury.
The man shook his head, but didn’t reply. He knew this was an argument that he couldn’t win.
“There were three of you, armed with pistols and a submachine gun, and he”-Marcus pointed at another man slumped in a chair by the wall of his office, a man bent forward and clutching his stomach-“was in the pursuit car. And still the Englishman managed to get past the three of you. Not only did he get past you, but he killed Pieter and stole a car. It was a complete shambles.”
Wolf fell silent and picked up a SiG semi-automatic pistol from the desk, hefting it in his right hand. As he did so, the two men in front of him visibly tensed.
“We do not tolerate failure in this organization, but we are now so close to the final act that every man must pull his weight. Too many of our men are deployed elsewhere for me to be able to afford the luxury of simply shooting you both. You’re lucky, because you have one more chance. So get out of here, find Bronson, and kill him.”
“He could be anywhere by now,” Oskar objected. “Where do we start looking?”
“You’re beginning to try my patience,” Wolf said. “Use what brains you have. You know which car he stole, so the first thing you do is call up one of our contacts in the Berlin police and request that a watch is started for that vehicle. Make sure that whoever you talk to understands that this is an unofficial request. I definitely do not want Bronson apprehended by the police.”
Klaus Drescher, who was sitting in an armchair to one side of Wolf’s desk, made a suggestion.
“Don’t you think it’s possible that he might simply have headed for the Channel ports, to get back to England?”
Marcus Wolf shook his head.
“There’s only one possible reason why he would have been hanging about near this house. He knows that the pistol and the film we took in the cellar are enough to hang him, and I’ve no doubt that he was hoping to somehow get inside this house and recover that evidence. He didn’t manage it, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t try again, so I think he’ll still be somewhere here in Germany, working out a way to achieve that objective.”
“He’d be mad to try it again, surely?” Drescher said.
“I think he’d be mad not to. One thing Bronson has already shown us is that he’s capable and resourceful. He’s been inside this house, and I expect that he’s got a good idea of the way the security systems work. He’s probably hoping that we’ll leave the place unoccupied so that he can try to break in.”
“But we’re not going to do that?”
Wolf shook his head.
“Of course not. Or not until we head for London, and by then it’ll be too late.”
“Suppose he goes to the authorities? He might decide to take the chance, to try to argue that he was forced to kill Polti.”
“What information can he take to the authorities? He knows nothing. Our hands are clean. We are all respected businessmen and citizens of Germany; he is a proven killer. And I’m quite certain that Bronson will be desperate to avoid coming to the attention of the police in either Germany or Britain. I still think he’ll be somewhere in this area. And I want him found and killed.”
Drescher nodded. “You’re probably right, but finding him won’t be easy.”
“I didn’t say that it would be. I just want it done.”
Wolf switched his attention back to the man standing in front of him.
“Do you understand? This is positively your last chance. If you can’t do this, don’t bother coming back here because if you do I will kill you myself.”
Oskar nodded, turned away and walked out of the study, his companion hobbling painfully along behind him.
“Do you think they’ll track him down?” Drescher asked.
“They’d better. I want Bronson dead.”
“But suppose that they can’t find him? He could be almost anywhere. What then?”
Wolf shook his head and smiled grimly.
“Whether he’s alive or dead won’t make the slightest difference to our operation. There’s nothing that one
