This was a modern war room. Bremen was confident of their success.
He coughed loudly, and both of the officers hurried to their superior.
“Sir.” The first officer clicked his heels.
“This is Captain Klingel, and I am Captain Bald. All systems are operational and awaiting your command, sir.” Bald wore a crisp dark green uniform adorned with service medals Bremen didn’t recognise. His highly polished boots reflected the little light the room had to offer.
“Captain, this all looks very impressive. I take it, it will all work when the bullets start to fly?” Bremen questioned.
“Yes, sir, everything has been tested for every eventuality, sir. Both myself and Captain Klingel have run similar situation rooms for the German Armed Forces, sir.”
“Good. What is the state of the stock exchange at the moment?”
“No change at this time, sir, but the news of both banks’ difficulties has not yet filtered through to the markets. With your permission, we will start to sell our stock now?”
Bremen nodded, and Bald turned and called across to one of the operators.
“Herr Fink, proceed, please.”
A button click later, and Meyer-Hofmann started to sell over a billion dollars worth of shares on the world’s stock markets.
“Nothing is happening!” Bremen remarked impatiently.
“No, sir. It will take time for the markets to notice. Should we notify the press about the banks’ insolvency?”
“Yes.”
Another nod and another button press later, news stations around the world were being warned of the imminent bankruptcy of two American Banks. Reuters was, as ever, the first to break the news officially. Just forty-five minutes after the anonymous tip, Reuters had published an article online, including quotes from high-ranking officials at the banks involved, admitting they were:
“Experiencing some problems with liquidity.”
The Hang Seng was closed, but the DOW had just opened, and the European markets were coming to the end of their trading days. On the left-hand screen in the control room, red numbers slowly started to appear.
“When do we know if it has worked?” Bremen asked.
“A high single percentage loss on the DOW would be a good sign, double figures and we can be sure,” Bald answered.
“When do our politicians start to make their feelings known?”
“We have the Europeans booked on nightly news shows and the Americans on their midday bulletins.”
“So all we can do is wait?” It was a rhetorical question.
“How about damage limitation in Munich?”
“The Jarvises are still at the police headquarters, but our informants have not as yet been in touch.”
“Get hold of them. I need to know what the police are planning.”
“Their evidence is circumstantial. We have the Jarvis woman’s computer, and Steve Walker will have them chasing their tails for months. By the time they get even close to hurting the company, the world will be a very different place.” Bald said the words with such conviction that everyone in the control room was convinced.
“What about Jarvis? He has full knowledge of our operations, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but not for long. We have a man in the station at this very moment.”
Bremen looked back at the screens. The DOW was down by five percent.
39
Earlier that day, the rest of the Meyer-Hofmann board had met briefly at Munich Airport, before taking a mix of private and scheduled flights to destinations around the world. Anton Brandt made use of the company’s private jet to fly to Abadan International Airport on the Iran/Iraq border. His destination was a training camp near Bandar Mahshahr, some 100 km from the airport and 300 km from their target in Bushehr. The Arab spring had played into Meyer-Hofmann’s hands perfectly, opening the door to countries directly on Israel’s border. Both Syria and Egypt had become so unstable that Meyer-Hofmann’s people were now able to move around with virtual impunity. Groups of clone and mercenary soldiers had moved training camps into both countries. Meyer-Hofmann had been funding the Arab resistance since the founding of the state of Israel in 1948. That had won them many friends in the region, and when they had suggested that a strike against Israel was not only a possibility but an imminent event, that support had become unbridled. The plans for Iran had remained a secret. Attacking an Iranian Nuclear Plant would not have been condoned, whatever the motives. It was decided that there would be a covert operation, carried out by first-generation clones. A small group of soldiers had already moved into Iran under the premise of training fighters for the future attack on Israel. Meyer-Hofmann’s training camps in Pakistan were well known to the Iranians, who would often pay for their own people to take part in exercises there. When Von Klitzing suggested that they train directly in Iran, the offer had been accepted with enthusiasm.
Brandt would make the trip to Bushehr with the small clandestine force. He had not seen duty in any of the desert campaigns in World War II, and now, watching the sandy landscape pass him by through the truck’s dirty window, he was grateful.
What a place. I shall be glad to get back home. He watched the heat shimmer on the horizon. The bleak landscape of dunes and stony ground interspersed with blue-green shrubs and bushes stretched out as far as he could see.
The flat-roofed houses of Bandar Mahshahr, with its dusty roads and unkempt palm trees, did nothing to change his feelings towards the barren country.
I would take the green hills and forests of Europe, any day!
As the small convoy of trucks bumped and rumbled its way into the distant hills, Brandt found himself becoming ever more excited by the plan.
This plan is really of my own making, even if a generation separates me from Von Klitzing.
He marvelled at his ingenuity, and most of all, at Meyer-Hofmann’s’ survival, despite the massive odds stacked against it.
We are still fighting, and this time, we have a huge chance of success.
Pride filled him as he turned and looked at the hulk of a man sat next to him. The driver was steering the lumbering German truck down the broken streets of Iran.
“How long until we arrive, Heinz?”
“About half an hour, sir. The base is at the bottom of the group of hills you can see on the horizon.” Heinz pointed a stubby finger in the general direction.
“When do we move down to Bushehr?”
“Two days, sir. All being well, you can expect an Israeli strike by the end of the week. We must be in place by then.”
“I agree. Are the weapons ready?”
“We have already got fifty percent on site, the rest we take with us.”
“Good. Very good!”
Now all we need is for Von Klitzing to persuade the Jews that they are in mortal danger. That neurotic nation will take the bait, hook, line, and sinker. He was certain.
Von Klitzing was meeting with an Israeli official he had been nurturing for years. Gaining trust from anyone in the Israeli Military was an almost impossible task. They were all paranoid, and not without reason. Benjamin Cerf was a colonel in the Mossad, who had been in the military since he was sixteen years old. Like many men of his age, he had seen action in the Yom Kippur war, a war that started after Egypt and Syria had chosen the holiest day in the Jewish calendar to launch a surprise attack. He was stationed in the Golan Heights at the time and found himself in the middle of the Syrian Invasion. The horror of that three weeks had changed him forever. He had sworn his life to the protection of his country and had actively sought out a job in the Mossad when his military service ended.