Sean rang Madeleine on his mobile once we were on the road again. By the time we got down to his base of operations in Kings Langley on the outskirts of London, she had sorted me a room in a small privately-owned guest house nearby. The owner turned out to be a slim, upright chap in his eighties, a retired Royal Marine Commando with a line in war stories that kept me riveted late into the evenings.
My days were lost in whatever groundwork Sean could devise. He ran through roughly the kind of syllabus he expected them to teach until my head swam to overflowing with information I couldn’t hope to digest.
On the practical side, I reckoned my biggest problem was going to be the defensive driving section. My passion for motorcycling meant I hadn’t seriously driven anything with four wheels since I’d left the army. I was badly rusty, and it showed.
Sean didn’t seem to share the same concerns. “As you stand now you’re as good, if not better, than most of the people who come to me having completed one of these courses,” he told me, but I had a feeling he was just trying to bolster my confidence.
He and Madeleine both came to Heathrow to see me off and Sean had one last piece of advice to offer. “Don’t forget, if this is as dodgy as we think, they’re most likely going to be expecting you,” he said. “Not you personally, but someone. And they’re going to be expecting them to be good. You’re going to have to tone it down, Charlie. Play it quiet and you’ll be OK.”
I wasn’t so convinced.
***
Outside Stuttgart airport, I snagged one of the line of Mercedes diesel taxis, and gave the driver the address of the school. As he pulled out into traffic he radioed to his controller, in German, complaining about the distance he was having to travel outside town.
“If it’s too much trouble, mein herr,” I said, a little tartly, “then please tell me.”
I saw his eyes flick sharply to meet mine in the rear-view mirror. It was only then that I realised the old cupboard in my brain had fallen open. The one where I stored those years of school German lessons. I’d forgotten it was there, let alone what might be still inside.
It took just short of an hour to reach the little village of Einsbaden where the school was located. At normal speeds it probably would have taken two, but once we were out onto one of the main twin-lane roads my driver put his foot down. He cruised with the speedo needle quivering at a hundred and sixty-five kph. I did some mental juggling from klicks back into miles per hour and found we were doing a sliver over a hundred. Even at that speed he was constantly being flashed out of the way by other drivers.
Once we’d got away from the uniform industrial drabness of the city itself, the countryside was surprisingly pretty, even if I was holding on too hard most of the time to really appreciate the scenery.
He flashed through Einsbaden village itself hardly lowering his speed. The little I saw of the place was picture postcard stuff. A square with a fountain, a small café, a couple of shops, a bar. Then the houses thinned and we were back into thickly wooded countryside again.
A couple of klicks the other side of Einsbaden the driver finally slowed and swung the Merc between a pair of tall stone gateposts with poised griffins on the top of them. There was no signage, but the driver seemed confident over direction.
The driveway was narrow, pocked with water-filled ruts. It twisted out of sight into the forest that surrounded us. The driver proceeded with caution, and I let go of the centre armrest for probably the first time in the journey, edging forwards in my seat to peer out of the windscreen.
The afternoon was slipping away and the light level had started to drop fast. Under the thick, evergreen canopy it was downright gloomy. The driver switched on his headlights.
Just round the next bend there was a small security checkpoint, like some throwback to the Cold War. The lowered barrier across the road gave us no choice but to stop.
We braked to a halt alongside a hut that looked as though it had started out life as a large garden shed. A figure in camouflage gear emerged, carrying a clipboard. He and the driver spoke together too quickly for me to catch the words, and the driver grunted.
“He says this is far as I go,” he said to me. I paid the seemingly exorbitant fare without complaint, even though it bore no relation to the amount displayed on the meter. It was Sean’s money I was spending, after all.
I grabbed my kit bag and climbed out into a temperature that was cold to the point of hostile. The driver didn’t bother to wave goodbye as he performed a rough five-point turn, his headlights bright enough now to carve swathes and shadows through the trees.
The wood went back much further than the reach of the lights, shrouding the sound of the Merc’s engine and tyres so there were no echoes. It hinted at a scale that was monumental, like something alive and breathing. Something implacable in its patient pursuit, and without mercy.
“What’s your name?” the man asked. He was short and dark, with an aggressive Northern Ireland accent that made his words sound like an invitation to a fight. He had a long scar that ran from the lobe of his left ear across his cheek to his nostril, then curved down to his upper lip, so maybe someone else had felt the same. I gave him my details trying not to hold my breath.
Madeleine was something of a master hacker and there wasn’t much she couldn’t get out of – or add into – anyone’s computer records. She had managed to slip my name to the top of a standby list of people waiting to go on courses at Einsbaden Manor. Sean had called in favours to make sure there was a suitable dropout. Some unsuspecting would-be bodyguard from another agency would be waiting for the next intake before they could undergo their training.
The man ticked my name off without any apparent alarm bells ringing and I let my breath out slowly, like I was on false papers. He jerked his head towards the shed. “Wait in there.”
Inside, it was bright, clean, and surprisingly businesslike. A fan heater was going full blast, provoking heat and condensation in roughly equal measures. It was sitting precariously propped up on the narrow bench which was fixed along one wall.
There were two other people already in the shed, a man and a woman. My arrival made it cramped. The woman had taken the single folding canvas chair and she didn’t look set to relinquish her prize without a struggle.
I didn’t have to hear her speak to know she was German. Even sitting down she was tall and solid, with dark hair cut in a ruthless bob, and wearing glasses with thin rectangular frames. The man was lounging against the bench, youngish, much more casual, with wavy mid-brown hair brushing his collar. By the looks of her stiff discomfort, and the obvious amusement dancing behind his eyes, the man had been trying to hit on her.
“Ah,” he said as I came in, “another willing victim to the slaughter.” He was Irish too, but in contrast to the gatekeeper his voice had the soft flows and rhythms of Dublin running through it. “Will you not come in, darlin’, and make yourself at home?”
I shut the door, and set my canvas bag down next to the other cases. If this was all their luggage, everyone was travelling light.
“I’m Declan, by the way, Declan Lloyd,” the Irishman said, holding out his hand for me to shake.
“Elsa Schmitt.” The woman’s grip was firmer than his. Behind lenses which had a faint pink tint to them, her eyes had that watchful quality. It set up a warning jangle somewhere in my subconscious.
“I’m Charlie Fox,” I said, perching on the edge of the bench and hoping it was up to the weight of two of us. “How long have you been waiting?”
Declan shrugged. “Not so long. They don’t seem to know quite what to do with us.”