Echo of the Reich (11 page)

He had a much better idea what he could do with that recording.

21 July 2012

The moment Chris Bronson followed Eaton into the office at the back of the old warehouse situated at the edge of a trading estate in Essex early the following afternoon, he knew something was badly wrong. He’d been expecting to see one or two other members of the group there, probably Mike and maybe the man Eaton had referred to as “Georg.” In fact, Bronson found himself staring at Mike and half a dozen tough-looking men with unfriendly expressions on their faces.

But that wasn’t what worried him the most. Bronson’s attention was caught and held by a plasma TV set in the corner of the room, the picture frozen, but perfectly clear. It was a remarkably sharp image of his face, and below that the caption: “Police officer implicated in act of vandalism.”

And even as he registered that, Bronson was grabbed from behind by two other men who’d been hidden behind
the door of the room. He twisted and turned, struggling to free himself from their grasp, but they were too strong. They hustled him across to a stout wooden chair positioned near the center of the room and forced him to sit down. Then, assisted by two of the other men there, they tied his wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the chair, completely immobilizing him.

“I knew there was something that didn’t smell right about you,” Mike began. “We caught this on the news this morning. I recorded it, because I thought you might want to see it. Your fifteen minutes of fame, so to speak.”

He turned round, picked up a black remote control from the desk behind him and aimed it at the digital receiver mounted just below the television set.

The screen sprang into life as the announcer’s words filled the room: “…caught on a security camera at a construction equipment yard not far from the site of the Olympic stadium.”

The picture changed—two men entering through the gate, heading straight toward the camera. Then it altered again, to a view of the yard from above this time. The two figures could be seen approaching a bulldozer, and then one of them, the bigger of the two men, began hammering at something on the side of the engine.

The newscaster continued explaining the sequence of events, just in case any of the channel’s viewers were too dense to grasp what they were seeing.

“The two men were recorded by the security system as they broke in through the locked gates, carrying heavy hammers and other tools. Once inside, they made straight for this bulldozer and caused several thousand pounds’
worth of damage to the engine and controls, according to the company’s owner. Sky sources have positively identified this man”—the image shown on the screen returned to the still picture of Bronson’s face—“as Christopher John Bronson, a police sergeant living in Kent. The identity of his companion is so far unknown, but—”

Mike clicked a button on the remote control. The recorded program vanished and the live news feed was displayed. He pressed another control and the sound was immediately muted.

“When I first met you,” Mike continued, his tone conversational, almost friendly, “I thought you could be an undercover cop, but then I decided I had to be wrong, because not even the Metropolitan Police would be that stupid. Well, guess what? They really are that stupid, and now here you are, up shit creek without a paddle. Or even a canoe, for that matter. You’ve got no way out of this, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend,” Bronson snapped.

“You got that right,” Mike sneered.

Bronson’s mind was racing, figuring the angles as he tried desperately to find some way out. The only asset he had was the Llama pistol, tucked into the rear pocket of his jeans and under his leather jacket. Nobody had searched him, probably because most British police were still rarely armed, and even undercover officers seldom carried weapons. But to get to the pistol he needed at least one of his hands free, and right then he didn’t see how he was going to achieve that.

What he did know was that there would be no point in appealing for mercy. From what little he knew of the
man, Bronson guessed that compassion wouldn’t be very high on Mike’s list of qualities. If indeed it featured at all.

He hadn’t had the radio switched on in his car when he drove out to this rendezvous, the time and location specified in a telephone message from John Eaton, and neither Curtis nor anyone else at the Forest Gate police station had called his mobile. He’d walked into the situation cold.

“So, Mr. Policeman, now we have to decide what to do with you.”

Bronson said the only thing he could think of that might turn the situation around.

“You said the Metropolitan Police force was stupid,
Mike
. Well, from where I’m sitting, the only stupidity being shown in this room is what’s coming out of your mouth.”

Mike crossed the room in three quick strides and smashed his fist into Bronson’s face.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk when we put the screws on you. Until then, just keep quiet.”

Bronson’s cheek was numb from the blow, but he still seemed to have all his teeth, which was something.

“Do all your thinking with your fists, do you?” Bronson asked. “Easier to hit than use your brain?”

Mike spun round and raised his right hand again, but then a single voice cut across the office and he stopped instantly.

“Wait.”

Bronson had not even noticed the man until he spoke, probably because he was sitting in a chair against the far
wall, rather than standing in a group with the other men. He had a thin, pinched face and a somewhat straggly beard that seemed barely attached to his chin, like some badly applied theatrical prop. He was slightly built, and although he was sitting down Bronson guessed he was well under six feet tall. But despite his unimpressive appearance, he exuded authority and seemed to be the dominant personality of the group. Certainly, his single word of command had stopped Mike in his tracks.

“You’re not going to listen to him?” Mike snapped.

“Sit down and shut up,” the seated man said, his eyes never leaving Bronson. Mike glared at him for a couple of seconds, then slunk over to one side of the room, dragged a chair forward and sat down on it.

“Right, Bronson—and I assume that really is your name, not ‘Alex Cross’—you’ve got sixty seconds. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t let Mike take you apart.”

“Simple, and I would have thought it was obvious. I’m not an undercover cop, and what’s just happened proves it.”

“Fifty seconds left. I’m not convinced.”

The seated man had a faint accent that Bronson couldn’t place. It wasn’t French or Italian, because Bronson spoke both, Italian fluently and French reasonably well, but it could have been German, or possibly he was from one of the Eastern European nations. The man’s English was fluent, but it clearly wasn’t his first language.

Bronson knew he had only the one chance, and his best bet was to tell the truth as far as he could, admit some things and hope they swallowed the big lie at the end.
He’d discussed the possibility that he might be unmasked with Curtis before he went undercover, and between them the two men had concocted a story, a story that Bronson knew he was now probably betting his life on.

“My name
is
Chris Bronson,” he said, “and I
was
a police sergeant. But I left the force months ago. To be exact, I was thrown out.”

“Why?” the seated man asked. “Thirty seconds,” he added.

“If I’ve only got thirty seconds left, I’d rather skip the details.”

“Fair point. Go on.”

“I’ve done undercover work in the past, and to protect the identity of officers involved in that kind of operation, there’s a standard procedure that is followed by the media. Before any story is run that might identify a police officer, in any context, the Home Office has to be informed, just in case that officer
is
working undercover. If I was still in the force and trying to penetrate this group, that story”—Bronson nodded his head toward the TV set in the corner—“would never have been broadcast. And that proves I’m not who Mike thinks I am.”

In fact, Bronson had not the slightest idea whether any such procedure was followed, though he thought it would probably be a good idea if it was. But it sounded plausible, and that was what mattered. He guessed that Curtis would have been just as surprised by the contents of the news broadcast as he was, and he hoped he was even then doing something to mitigate its effects.

“Okay. You’ve bought yourself another minute. Why were you thrown out of the force?”

“I got a little carried away when I was questioning a suspect. He ended up with concussion and a broken arm and I got charged with grievous and actual bodily harm. And then they threw me out for good measure. That’s why I gave a false name when I was arrested at Stratford nick. If they’d known who I really was, they’d never have let me out—there’s an outstanding warrant for my arrest because I skipped bail after they charged me.”

The man with the straggly beard nodded.

“That’s a good story,” he said, “but we’ve got no way of verifying it. What we do know is that you were—or are—a police officer, and we have no wish to get involved with the forces of law and order here in Britain. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Georg.” One of the other men in the office was looking at the television set, pointing at the screen, at the live program being broadcast.

Along the bottom edge a ticker was running, saying “Breaking News,” and Bronson’s picture was again displayed on the screen.

“Turn up the volume.”

Somebody grabbed the remote control and pressed the “mute” button, and immediately the announcer’s voice filled the room.

“…now understand Sergeant Bronson was dismissed from the force some months ago following an incident, and that there is an outstanding warrant for his arrest on charges of assault. Members of the public are advised not to approach this man under any circumstances, but to contact the nearest police station immediately if they believe
they’ve seen him. Also in London, a council official in Lambeth has—”

As the man again muted the set’s volume, Bronson looked across at the seated figure. “Now do you believe me?” he asked.

Georg shrugged. “That depends on how much credence you give to what they tell you on television.”

“You were ready enough to believe the first report about me,” Bronson pointed out.

“That’s another fair point, but I’m still not convinced.”

Bronson tried one last gamble. “Right. Untie me, and I can show you something that might help you make up your mind.”

“What?”

“Untie me, and I’ll show you,” Bronson repeated.

The seated man glanced round at the other men in the room, presumably assessing the chances of Bronson being able to overpower them, then nodded. The two men standing behind Bronson bent down and removed his bonds.

“Thanks,” he said, as his arms were freed.

For a moment he rubbed his wrists, getting the circulation going again. Then he stood up, turned to his right and smashed his right fist into the face of the man standing beside him. Before anyone else could react, he twisted around to his left and did exactly the same to the man there.

“Touch me again, you bastards,” he snapped, “and I’ll blow your bloody heads off.”

Then, as three of the other men started to move toward him, he whipped his right hand behind him, pulled out the Llama and aimed it straight at them, clicking off the safety catch as he did so.

“Just give me a reason,” he snarled.

All three men stopped in their tracks, mesmerized by the sight of the pistol.

“Still think I’m a cop, Georg?” Bronson asked, glancing momentarily toward the seated figure.

“Right now, I’m not sure,” the man replied, apparently unfazed by the sight of Bronson’s Llama. “But that doesn’t look much like a police-issue pistol, so that’s one point in your favor. Now, unless you think you
are
going to start shooting, I suggest you put the weapon away. Then perhaps we can talk.”

21 July 2012

Bronson hadn’t put the pistol away, but he had sat down again, clicked the safety catch back on and lowered the weapon to his lap, keeping it within easy reach of his right hand.

“So who are you, exactly?” he asked.

“You don’t need to know that.”

“I do if I’m going to work with you.”

Georg shook his head. “We’re a long way from deciding that,” he said.

“Fine,” Bronson replied, and stood up. “Then I’ll go.”

Georg lifted a restraining hand. “No, not yet. I think you could be useful to us, but we have to be sure where your loyalties lie.”

“And how are you going to find that out?”

“There are ways,” Georg replied calmly. “But having a former policeman in the group makes sense. You know police tactics; you might even have friends on the force,
people who could be persuaded to supply information that would be useful to us.”

Bronson laughed shortly. “You obviously know nothing about the way the police force works. For what I did, I became an instant pariah. None of the people I worked with would cross the street to piss on my head if my hair was on fire.”

“A colorful metaphor, but I understand what you mean. Still, your knowledge of police tactics and procedures could help us, especially when we put the last pieces in place. And we already know you’re handy with your fists.”

Georg glanced at the two men who’d grabbed Bronson when he walked into the office. One was still rubbing his jaw while the second sat on a chair in the corner, holding a handkerchief to his bleeding—and possibly broken—nose.

“I can take care of myself, yes.”

Georg looked at him for a few seconds, apparently considering. Then he nodded, as if he’d just come to a decision.

“Right, Bronson,” he said. “It’s not my decision, and obviously we’ll have to run a few checks on you, but my feeling is that you’re probably telling the truth.”

Bronson inclined his head, but didn’t respond.

“That pistol, for one thing, is a giveaway,” Georg continued. “If you
were
undercover and your masters had decided you should be armed, I’d expect you to be carrying a full-bore pistol, probably a Glock or perhaps a Walther, not some piece of Spanish crap that you picked up in a dodgy deal somewhere.”