“Absolutely.”
Newton phoned Rossi again. “We’ve followed them to this restaurant in Wapping, Harry’s Place. They’ve gone in, and Roper’s turned up in his wheelchair.”
“Stay there.” Rossi turned to the Baron.
“Interesting,” von Berger said, and then, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll tell you what, Marco, let’s go meet them. Oh! And go and get Mr. Gibson. We’ll all go together. We’ll stir the pot! Won’t that be amusing?”
“Infinitely,” Marco said.
Harry’s Place was another of Salter’s warehouse conversions on Hangman’s Wharf. The whole place had been revitalized, its brickwork cleaned, new windows in mahogany. There was always a line, mainly of young people trying to get into the bar, which had become a smart place to be seen. Steps had been added to make the entrance more imposing, and there was a ramp beside it, which Roper used when his black cab arrived.
Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were on the entrance in black tie, controlling the line. They came down and got Roper out of his cab.
“Great to see you, Major,” Joe said, and pushed him up the ramp.
There was a young punk in a silk bomber jacket standing with two girls at the front of the line. “You’ve got to be a bloody cripple to get service here.”
Sam Hall, almost casually, slapped him backhanded across the face, then grabbed him by the front of the jacket. “That man is probably the biggest hero you ever set eyes on, sunshine. So you get to go to the back of the line. Alternatively, you could just sod off.”
The youth put his hands up. “Okay.” He pulled the girls away and went.
Joe Baxter said, “Sorry about that, Major.”
“Sticks and stones, Joe, I couldn’t care less. I’m lucky to be here.”
They went inside and the headwaiter, a dark energetic Portuguese named Fernando, came forward. “Major Roper, a pleasure. I’ll lead the way.”
With Baxter at the helm, they followed Fernando into the restaurant, which was beautifully designed in Art Deco. There was a small dance floor, a four-piece band and cocktail bar straight out of the thirties. The waiters wore cruise ship monkey jackets. The Salters, Ferguson and his people were all in the largest booth. Harry got up and roughed Roper’s shoulder-length hair.
“You still go round like a bloody hippie.”
“I express my individuality, Harry.”
Salter looked down into that burned, ravaged face and gave him a hug. “You’re a real piece of work, Roper.”
“Now don’t take pity on me, Harry. If that gets out in the East End, you’ll be finished.” He turned to Ferguson. “Okay. Most of this you know, some you don’t. The whole thing with Holstein Heath, of course, is that due to an error, it was never East German nor West. If anything, it was neo-Nazi, even though von Berger never belonged to the party. He’s kept the flame alight. For years after the war, all the police there were former SS, and so on.”
He took a drink of whiskey. “Von Berger frequently visits Schloss Adler, often with Rossi. They come in by helicopter at a landing area close to the Schloss, but it’s a huge meadow and they can actually land a plane on it, too.”
“Do we have any kind of connection there?” Ferguson asked.
“It’s a tight-knit community. As a matter of interest, though, about forty kilometers from Neustadt, on the edge of the Schwarze Platz, is a small village called Arnheim. There’s a handful of houses, but an old Luftwaffe base from the Second World War. It’s dilapidated, but it has a landing strip that can take most things, and it’s used by a man called Max Kubel.” He turned to Ferguson. “He’s been on your list out there for a number of years. A smuggler of most things, including people to the West, flies an old Storch plane on special jobs. His father was Luftwaffe in the war. He knows Neustadt very well. I’ve spoken to him.”
“Yes, well, knowing is one thing and being able to access the place is something else,” Dillon said.
“He does a lot of cigarette smuggling, uses people. He has one guy named Hans Klein in Neustadt, who was forced off his farm by the Baron and hates him. He could be a useful source of information.”
At that moment, Fernando appeared and said to Salter, “I’m so sorry. A Baron von Berger and a Signor Rossi are at the entrance to see you?”
Salter looked at Ferguson, and Ferguson nodded. Fernando went off, and Ferguson said, “Everyone, just go with the flow.”
The Baron came down the steps, followed by Rossi and Derry Gibson. “Why, what a surprise, General,” he said to Ferguson.
“I doubt it,” Ferguson said.
Dillon grinned up at Gibson. “Derry, you were lucky not to get wet.”
Gibson smiled reluctantly. “Damn you, Sean.”
“Oh, that’s already taken care of.”
Salter said, “Would you like a table, Baron? I think we can manage that.”
“Thank you, but Art Deco has never appealed. I just wanted to say hello.” He smiled. “And that I’m thinking of you all.” He turned to Rossi and Gibson. “We can go now.” He looked back at Ferguson and Dillon. “Take care now. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
They walked out. Harry said, “I don’t know what that was all about.” He shook his head at Dillon. “Let the old bastard do his worst.”
“That was the point, Harry. He’s daring us to do our worst.”
Outside, the three of them drove away, and Rossi leaned forward and closed the divider.
The Baron said, “So you’ve made a decision?”
“Yes. It’s Ferguson first. I’m going to kidnap him.”
“I love it,” Gibson said.
“What’s the point of that?” the Baron asked Marco.
“I’m going to take him to Schloss Adler and… explore the market, shall we say. With all Ferguson’s experience, I’m sure everyone would love to have a piece of him. The Russians, the Arabs, you name it.”
“Come on, Marco, you can’t fool me. The only reason you want to get your hands on Ferguson in this way would be to pull in Dillon – because you know very well that Dillon would come to his rescue.”
Marco smiled happily. “Let him try.”
“I think you underestimate Dillon, Marco. You’ve underestimated him from the beginning. Never play with a tiger. Finish him off – before he turns on you. But it’s your play. If you want to do this, I won’t give you my blessing, but I won’t stand in your way.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Give me a cigarette.” Rossi did, and the Baron sat back to smoke it, thinking of his son, his handsome son, Yale University, the war hero with the medals, and yet, in the end, so stupid.
Germany
London
Germany
13.
MAX KUBEL HAD been sitting in a bar in Berlin, The Tabu, when he had taken Roper’s call on his mobile. Born in 1957, he was the only son of one of the great Luftwaffe night fighter aces of the Second World War, also named Max Kubel, and a Knight’s Cross holder. He’d been another example of a man who couldn’t let go after the war, and had made a living out of flying in and out of East Germany in the Cold War days, once too often, as it happened, when a Russian MiG fighter downed him one night in 1973.
Because of his father’s record, Max had been allowed into a government-sponsored scheme to train as a pilot with the German Luftwaffe. That was both good and bad. He had a flair for it, like his father, but a restless temperament not much suited to discipline.
The years had rolled by, rather boringly, the German government’s reluctance to commit to combat situations leaving little room for his father’s kind of war, and Max had worshiped his father’s exploits, his life. In his case, there was no combat, just flying into countries in Africa or the Middle East on behalf of the United Nations, cargo planes, humanitarian work, and he hated it.