Lisa was still in Accident and Emergency when Michael arrived. She heard the sirens outside and watched the rush of activity preparing for his arrival, but had no idea that all the commotion was for her husband. Only when the gurney carrying Michael into Intensive Care flew past the half-closed curtains of her hospital bed, with Günther Müller and Monika Keller in hot pursuit, did she understand what was happening.
“MICHAEL!”
41
A knock on the door brought Von Klitzing back from his machinations. He straightened his silk tie and inspected the grey business suit he had chosen especially for the occasion. Admiring himself in the sitting room mirror, he took a deep breath. With everything ordered in his mind, he knew it was going to be a close thing. He had to convince Cerf to authorise an attack on Iran, and this had to happen before any negative information reached them from Munich. It was not unusual for plans to hang in the balance, but Von Klitzing really needed this one to succeed.
Benjamin Cerf was wearing a cream cotton suit and open-neck shirt. The men embraced like old friends, but Von Klitzing found the full body contact uncomfortable. He made a note to find Cerf after the attack, and if he was still alive, to give him a proper death. The pair smiled at one another for different reasons.
“So, my friend, what is so urgent that you dash across the world to meet with me?”
Von Klitzing put on a stern face and remained standing as Cerf took a seat on the luxuriant sofa.
“Benjamin, there is a situation in Iran you should know about.”
He had certainly caught Cerf’s interest. He pulled himself up on the chaise lounge and leant forward.
“You have my attention.”
“As you know, I still travel regularly with the German government on different trade missions. Last week, we were in Iran visiting their nuclear plants. I always carry a hidden camera. I need you to take a look at some pictures.”
“I hope you have no cameras now, my friend?” Cerf asked with a high laugh.
“Of course not!” Von Klitzing’s mock indignation was accompanied by a knowing smile. He laid the photos out one by one on the glass coffee table, like a poker player revealing a winning hand.
Cerf rubbed his chin and reached into his pocket for some eyeglasses.
“And you took these where?”
“Bushehr. It’s on the coast—”
“Yes, I know where it is!” Cerf cut him off. “How many centrifuges did you count?”
“There were a lot. As you can see, they were sealed off from the party. I only got these pictures by doubling back and taking them through the windows.”
The photos were taken through the dirty glass of an indoor window, which separated two laboratories.
“Well, to be honest, Johann, we have known about their enrichment program for many years. These photographs just confirm it.”
“No, Benjamin, at the back of the room, behind the door.”
Cerf looked closer. At the back of the laboratory was another glass door, behind which there were what looked like silver urns stacked down the middle of the room. Von Klitzing gave him time to draw his own conclusions.
“They are containers for storing plutonium.”
Von Klitzing handed him another photo. Cerf took it and held it in front of himself, using his reading glasses as a magnifying glass. The picture showed the tops of a group of the cylindrical containers, with the numbers and letters 239PU 22% 240PU. That was reactor grade plutonium. But at the back right of the picture, you could make out different percentage markings, which went as low as ten percent.
“Fuel-grade plutonium.”
“Yes.”
Cerf wiped his forehead and looked up at Von Klitzing, who, knowing he had his man, handed him the last photograph. It was a close up of the very last container at the back right-hand corner of the pile, it read 239 PU 7% 240 PU.
“Weapons-grade plutonium.”
“I’m sorry. I feel my Government’s reticence is partly responsible. We should have shut them down long ago!”
Cerf shook his head.
“It can’t be true. We have heard nothing of this! How can you confirm these?”
“I took them myself, Cerf. They are part of the BND records. Their reference number is at the top of each photograph. The German government knows, but they can’t tell you. At least not officially. That is why I am here.”
“Your Government sent you?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Thank you, my friend. We owe you a great debt! I must go now. I take it I may take these with me?”
“Of course, Cerf. May God be with you.”
“And you.”
Cerf was on his feet, the photographs back in the safety of the plastic folder he now clutched in a suddenly sweaty hand, and was out of the door. Von Klitzing waited until he was sure that Cerf had left the building before ringing down to reception.
“I need a car to the airport.”
Checking the room for his belongings, he thought about rubbing it down to remove his fingerprints.
In a couple of days, this place will be ashes, he thought with a smirk.
42
In the war room, Bremen had started pacing. He felt like a spare wheel and was jealous of the men he could now see on the screens in front of him. The text message from Von Klitzing read simply “Package delivered”, but meant much more. In essence, it was the key to the real pandemonium they had planned. It was more good news on a day, which, despite a rather mediocre start, was picking up. The stock markets were all down by more than eleven percent. Meanwhile, the world governments were pleading for calm, issuing statements about glitches and anomalies and pleading for people to have faith in the new laws and controls that they had passed since 2008.
At the same time, Meyer-Hofmann’s anarchists were flooding the social media with horror stories about crashes and depressions on a scale not yet seen. Recommendations for everyone to withdraw their savings from the ailing banks before it was too late were abundant. Queues were already forming on high streets around the world fanned by still more rumours on Twitter that they didn’t have enough money to pay out all of their customers.
Meyer-Hofmann’s politicians appeared on live television. They were busy distancing themselves from their old political parties and preaching a new brand of federalism for Northern Europe, with promises of financial aid to anyone suffering hardship who was willing to join them.
Bremen watched as Anton Brandt moved from one tent to another, carrying cases of supplies and munitions, ready for the move to Bushehr. Clone soldiers, moving twice as fast and carrying far heavier loads than their Iranian colleagues, kicked up clouds of dust as their heavy boots trod a beaten path between the tents and the waiting trucks. The men oozed self-confidence, and Bremen could tell the whole camp felt invincible. When the trucks were loaded and the small company was ready to leave, the troops fell into line for some rousing words from their new German commander, Anton Brandt.
Brandt had changed into camouflage fatigues similar to those the Americans wore in Desert Storm. An old cloth military cap was the only sign of bygone days. He looked down the line of men, from the dishevelled ranks of the Iranians to his clone warriors. Each of them was a perfect Heinz, not quite identical but scary as hell. The Iranians had named them ‘hell’s brothers’, which Brandt found quite appropriate under the circumstances.
“Gentlemen, this is the start of a new era. An era that will see the rise of a new world order. A world order where Germany and Iran will take their rightful place.”