‘Just one thing. How would a ship be faring out there right now?’ Sabrina asked.
The pilot stared out into the darkness. ‘It would have dropped anchor as soon as the fog closed in. Only a madman would try and navigate a ship in these conditions.’
Graham and Sabrina exchanged glances, each knowing what the other was thinking.
‘If you want to fly back with me to the airport I’ve got a car waiting there, I can give you a lift into town. We’re going to have to find a hotel for the night.’
‘Thanks, we’d appreciate that,’ Sabrina said.
As the rotors started up the same thought still nagged at the back of their minds. Unknown to the other, neither was prepared to hazard an answer.
Whitlock moved to the wall mirror to straighten his tie. He found himself staring at the stitches across his right eyebrow. An inanimate object had done what no opponent had managed to do in four years of amateur schoolboy boxing. Cut him. He had already come to fancy the idea of a scar, but this one would be fairly innocuous once the hair had grown back.
A scar had the ability to give a face both character and strength. He remembered the scars on his grandfather’s face, three on each cheek, which had been carved into his skin by a witchdoctor using the razor-sharp point of an incisor taken from the mouth of a slain lion. It had been part of the ritual initiation ceremony turning him from a boy into a man. His grandfathers couldn’t have been more different. His mother’s father, the tall warrior with the scarred cheeks who used to enthrall the young C.W. with exciting stories of past Masai battles; his father’s father, the short, red-faced British Army Major who was rarely seen without a thick cigar in his mouth and a bottle of cheap whisky in his hand. His father had had a three-inch scar between his shoulder-blades, the result of an inter-tribal fight, he had once told his son. It was only after his father died that his mother told him the scar had actually been the result of a drunken brawl in a Nairobi nightclub. Much as he loved her, he still resented her for telling him. It was as though a part of the African mystique had died within him.
He smiled. His Masai grandfather would have been proud of him. He glanced at his wristwatch. 8.07. He was due at Karen’s house for dinner at 8.30. The last supper, as he had called it. His work in Mainz was over. It was strange to think that twenty-four hours earlier he had been pacing up and down the very same room, frustrated at his lack of progress.
He pushed the Browning into the holster under his left arm, the threat of the mysterious motorbike rider ever present in the back of his mind.
The telephone rang.
He sat on the edge of the bed before picking up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘C.W.?’
‘Karen, is that you?’
‘Please help me, they’ve–’
The receiver was snatched away from her.
‘Be at the plant at 8.30 or the girl dies,’ a man’s voice snarled in German.
‘I can’t, my pass was revoked today,’ Whitlock said calmly, but hearing his heart thudding in his chest.
‘You’ll get in, don’t worry. 8.30 at the cooling pond. Come along; and no piece otherwise the girl gets it.’
The line went dead.
Whitlock disappeared into the bathroom only to emerge a minute later, his tie draped around his neck. He retied it quickly in front of the mirror, pulled on his jacket, then made his way down into the hotel foyer. After handing his key in at the reception desk he hurried out into the chilly night air to where his new rented car was parked on the opposite side of the road. It was a white Vauxhall Cavalier. He was determined to keep this one intact. With that thought in mind he used the highway instead of the old Frankfurt road.
He noticed there was only one guard on duty instead of the usual three as he approached the floodlit plant complex. Only when he drew up in front of the boomgate did he see the Finnish-made Jatimatic machine-pistol in the guard’s hand. It surprised him. Not only was the Jatimatic fairly new on the market but it was also rarely seen outside the Scandinavian countries.
It was the same guard who had turned him away that morning.
‘I hope you’re being paid overtime for all this devoted service,’ Whitlock said through the open window.
The guard ordered Whitlock to unlock the back door. Once inside he closed the door and pressed the Jatimatic into Whitlock’s neck.
‘Your piece, and take it out slowly.’
‘You told me on the phone not to bring one.’
‘Your piece!’ the guard snapped, his finger tightening on the trigger.
‘Okay, okay,’ Whitlock said in a placating voice and reached for the Browning.
‘I said slowly.’
‘If I go any slower my hand won’t be moving.’
The guard snatched the Browning from him.
‘Carry on straight but instead of turning into the visitors’ car park turn left and continue for another hundred metres. You’ll see a white door marked Seventeen. Park there.’
Whitlock followed the guard’s instructions and drew up in front of the white door with ‘17’ emblazoned across it in black paint. Underneath was stencilled: Entrance strictly prohibited to unauthorized personnel. As he climbed from the Cavalier something caught his eye in the reflection of the overhead spotlight.
The black Suzuki 1000cc was partially hidden in the shadows of an oak tree on the perimeter of the grass embankment. The guard prodded the Jatimatic into the small of his back and he returned his attention to the white door. It opened inwards.
‘Left,’ the guard ordered.
He did as he was told and a few feet further on found himself in front of the door to the storage pond Leitzig had shown him a couple of days earlier. The door was ajar and he pushed it open with his fingertips. He glanced over his shoulder, awaiting instructions.
The guard gestured to the metal ladder on the wall to his right. ‘Climb, to the top.’
Whitlock was hoping he could disarm the guard on the ladder but he was out of luck. The guard waited until Whitlock was halfway up before following him, careful to keep his distance at all times. As Whitlock neared the top of the ladder he was able to see the white leather boots and pants of the motorbike rider standing a few feet away on the catwalk. He clambered up on to the catwalk and saw the rider’s face for the first time.
Karen was wearing a pair of dark glasses to hide her bruised eye, her black hair contrasting vividly with the whiteness of the leather jacket.
The guard, breathing heavily, appeared on the catwalk and handed the Browning to her.
‘Frisk him,’ she ordered in German.
The guard frisked Whitlock quickly. ‘He’s clean.’
‘You don’t seem too surprised to find me holding the aces. Wasn’t my performance over the phone realistic enough?’ she asked.
‘It was the first time. What baffles me though is why you went to the lengths of a black eye if, and correct me if I’m wrong, you and Vanner were going to kill me once I reached the house.’
‘How did you find out about Vanner?’
‘Leitzig told me, before you shot him.’
‘Well, the black eye was an accident. Frankie, Frankie Vanner that is, opened the kitchen door into my face in his rush to leave the house on hearing the police sirens in the distance. That’s when our plan started to go wrong. We’d expected you to come alone.’
‘Who exactly is this Vanner?’
‘Hendrique’s right-hand man. He was originally supposed to have been on the train but Werner had him sent back here once you arrived.’ She held up her hand as he was about to speak. ‘My turn to ask a question.’
He glanced at the muzzle of the Browning pointing at his midriff. ‘I’d say that’s a fair request.’