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At the safe house, the masked men pulled him roughly from the vehicle and frogmarched him through the front door, down some steps and bounced him from side to side along a narrow corridor. A high backed seat sat just before a metal door at the end. Door opened, they forced him against a wall inside and searched him, removing his wallet, passport and weapon. For some reason, they missed the six spare rounds in his handkerchief pocket. A glance through the wallet produced Deutschmarks and two business cards, one in the name of John Baker, the other from a removal firm called Farralland. They kept Baker’s card, replaced everything else and stuffed the wallet back in his inside jacket pocket. If he hadn’t thought it before he was now certain this wasn’t a simple robbery.
They dragged him onto the heavy wooden chair, tying his feet and already bound hands to its frame. Unable to answer due to the wide gaffer tape fixed across his mouth, he simply nodded in response to the ‘heavy’s’ accented comment of: “Someone wants to meet you. You should know this room is soundproofed and if you scream, no one will hear. Do you understand?” The door slammed shut and he was left in semi-darkness, the light from the dirt-smeared window enough to let him know he was still surrounded by four walls. It was a long and somewhat chilly night.
He tried loosening the bonds on his hands but only succeeded in making his wrists and fingers very sore. Giving up, he thought of Clare, what she would be doing, what she’d be wearing, how much he missed her. He ran over what he’d learned during the evening and became even more convinced he’d cracked where Radler would make his final move. At various points, he fell into uncomfortable sleep, waking when his head would eventually jerk forward with unexpected force. He retried the ropes binding him but it was no good and to make matters worse, he badly needed to pee. His bladder felt as if it would burst and he regretted having the beers.
More drifting in and out of awkward sleep before the daylight permeated the grimy window leaving him hoping something would happen soon. Finally, when no hope was left, he simply wet himself. Enormous physical relief was tainted by instant regret and warm wet legs, soon to be cold wet legs. Tears began to slowly trickle down his cheeks. He couldn’t stop them. It wasn’t his current situation exactly that did it, more the fact he’d began to hum Clare’s favourite tune, hoping it could lift his spirits. The thought of never seeing her again caused a rupture in his mental flood gates. The light had increased and he guesstimated it had to be around 8 or 9 o’clock.
The sound of a lock being opened banished all thoughts but the ‘now’ from his head. The door was flung wide and fluorescent lighting flickered into life. A man stood before him and a ‘heavy’ closed the door, remaining outside.
Rupert Wilkinson looked down at his prisoner and sniggered. “You’ve pissed your pants and I haven’t even started yet.” He ripped the gaffer tape from Gally’s mouth leaving it flushed and looking as if a drunken clown had applied the ultimate dregs of makeup.
“I’ll get down to the hard questions first. Who the fuck are you?”
Gally, already filled with emotion, found it easy to play the part. “My name’s John Baker. I’m just a businessman. I’ve got no money, only what’s in my wallet. I’ve got an American Express card if that’s what you want.”
Rupert punched him on the jaw. “Stop snivelling. Been across the wall have you? Who did you meet?”
When he’d fought off the pain, he replied, “I saw a Herr Stahnke at Röstfein. Please, I don’t know what you want of me.” Somehow, he’d found a reservoir of tears he never knew he had.
A hard slap across the face. “I know you’re lying, Mister Baker. How about I tell you something? You’re an ex-London copper, thrown out after they discovered you were bent and being paid off by the Krays. Since then you’ve dabbled as a private detective and now you’re a fucking freelancer selling yourself to the highest bidder. You’re nothing more than a fucking prostitute.” He grabbed Gallagher’s hair and violently ragged his head around.
“I don’t care who you’re working for. I’ll give you one chance. I think you spoke with the old girl and I think you know exactly who wants to defect. I had a few words with her too. She wasn’t very co-operative at first, of course, but she did get round to telling me several interesting things. She was buying time, we both knew that but I didn’t have time left to waste on niceties and neither of us knew she had no time left at all. Now, who’s the other party? It can’t be the Brits, I’m here for that, so are you freelancing for the Americans? It’s not the West Germans, they’d never use a London half-wit like you but the Yanks can’t tell the difference.” Another hard slap. “Is that why you’re here, John, because otherwise, I can’t think of a reason for your existence in this scenario? Save yourself a lot of pain and tell me what she told you. You’re waiting on a Stasi official, aren’t you?” He punched Gally hard in the stomach leaving him doubled over and moaning between gasps for air.
With as much calm as he could muster, Rupert took a deep breath then said, “I gave her ample opportunity to give me a name but the old bitch had a fucking heart attack. Unbelievable! You see, anyone could work out who the ‘applicant’ worked for; the ‘old’ Interior Ministry was the clue so that was a piece of piss for me but she never got around to the name. She told you, though, didn’t she? My god, the Yanks must have put a good deal together, I’ll give them that.” A sudden hard strike to the side of Gally’s head left it pounding and his ear ringing.
Rupert wandered around the room, spittle in the corners of his mouth. His victim gazed down at his own wet pants knowing that unless he got a miracle he was going to die here. He’d known that from the moment Rupert walked in without hiding his identity.
His head was yanked up by his hair and Rupert leered into his face. “John. I have to know what you know, the very same things. I’m not like you, I’m not a prostitute. It’s not about the money. It’s about beliefs and commitment to an ideal. Now, tell me all you know then you get to walk away and we can both be friends.”
Gallagher squinted back at the figure before him. “My name is John Baker. I’m a coffee importer. The only name I know is Herr Stahnke.”
He was rewarded with a vicious punch to the face. “Coffee importer? Another one? Popular job.”
As blood dripped from Gallagher’s nose and lip, Rupert told him, “Right, you can’t say I didn’t try. I did try to help you, John, and now, all that follows is your fault.” He turned and went out of the door, leaving it open. Gally could see the high backed chair and, beyond, Rupert and the heavy had picked up a car battery and a box. They brought them in and set them down near to the entrance. For the first time, Gally noticed the wall-mounted telephone.
“I hadn’t wanted to resort to this but you leave me no choice.” Rupert smiled. “I’m sure you recognise the car battery, John, but what we have here are the things to make this simple essential item very unpleasant.” The heavy returned with a small wooden table and a bucket of water. Rupert placed some sort of control box on the table then waved a cattle prod at him. He turned to his companion. “Wire them up.” The phone rang.
Rupert answered. “Yes! I thought I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.” He paused then said, “I’ll be right up.” With a curt, “Tape his mouth and watch him carefully. I’ll be back shortly,” he left. The heavy, leather-jacketed even though it was summer, complied then stared at Gallagher, ignoring his attempts to make muffled conversation.
A few minutes, no more, and Rupert returned this time with a young man in tow. He dismissed the heavy with, “Oscar’s got your money.”
Gally watched the new arrival nervously eyeing him then the electrical goods then back again. Rupert interrupted both their thoughts, “Right, Tristan. I didn’t want you to see this side of our work just yet, too early in a career normally but seeing as you’ve once again disobeyed my instructions to remain at your fucking hotel you may as well stay. This man here is an East German Stasi agent, part of an assassination team sent to kill us. I’ve asked him nicely to co-operate but he’s chosen to do it the hard way.” As Rupert turned to speak with Tristan, Gally gave a wide-eyed shake of his head. The phone rang again. Rupert picked it up. “What now! How much! I never agreed to pay for the bloody van! Stay there, I’m coming up.” He looked at Tristan. “Get your bloody gun out and watch the bugger like a hawk. He’s a tricky fucker. I’ll be back in a minute.”
They heard him swearing his way along the corridor. Gally desperately tried to communicate with Tristan but all that came out were loud moans. The lad looked at him anxiously, uncertainty flooding his brain then he ripped the tape from Gallagher’s mouth.
“Thank fuck for that!” Gally gasped. “Listen, son. Does this look like the sort of thing you’d do? Your mate’s a nutter. I’m not a Stasi agent. I work for British Intelligence, just like you but a department you’ll not know about. I was sent to get a defector. Your oppo wants to stop it because he knows his days will be numbered if I succeed. He’s working for them. For God’s sake, there’s no time for you to fuck about. Get these ropes off me, please, or we’re both dead.”
Tristan holstered his weapon and began to loosen the ties.
Upstairs, Oscar, the leader of the heavy mob, wanted more money insisting he’d been very clear about the expenses involved. Rupert realised he didn’t have the time or the support to push things and handed him another wad of money. Oscar counted it and told him it was still 4,000 Deutschmarks light. A dash up the stairs to the next floor and a two-minute wait brought the missing cash.
In the cellar, Tristan had managed to slacken Gally’s bonds when they heard noises in the corridor.
“Leave them, leave them, I can manage now, son. The tape! Put the tape back on my mouth!”
When Rupert entered, he saw nothing amiss. “Tristan, when I tell you to throw some of that water over him don’t go bananas.” He moved nearer the table.
Gun back in hand, Tristan blurted out, “I need to speak to you! There are things I’m not happy with.”
Spinning round to face him, his colleague replied, “Come on, Tristan. Spit it out then.”
“You knew she was dead.”
“It was in the paper for God’s sake!”
“But it wasn’t. They only said it was a Frau Uhlmann. She lived with her sister who was the one who found her. But you didn’t know that because her sister wasn’t there when you were. You knew it was Greta because it was you that killed her.”
Rupert had known the kid had the potential to be a pain in the arse but he’d underestimated him. “Look, son,” he said soothingly. “Ok, I went in there, just to see if she’d be more forthcoming with an older agent. She was fine then she suddenly had a bloody heart attack and dropped like a stone. She was dead, I checked her. There was no point in getting involved so I made it look like a burglary gone wrong. It’s what we do.”
“She had strangulation marks around her neck, Rupert!”
“Ok, I may have applied a little pressure, she was being awkward. I knew she knew more than she was telling us and I wanted to know if this was a false flag operation designed to suck you and me into a position where the Stasi could...” He angrily pointed behind him at Gallagher. “He’s one of theirs, Tristan! You should be thanking me not accusing me. I’ve probably saved your life.”
He didn’t see Gally sliding the remaining rope from his legs. His concentration totally on his colleague, he knew he couldn’t fool him much longer. His hand went to his jacket.
Tristan levelled his PPK at him. “What are you doing? Don’t do anything, I’m warning you!”
“Calm down, son. I’m just getting something that will prove to you what I’m saying.”
He slid Gally’s two-inch revolver from his pocket, swiftly raising it one-handed. “Put your gun on the floor, Tristan. Do it now,” he said, calmly.
In that moment, Tristan knew there’d be no going back, he knew if he surrendered his weapon he’d be a dead man. Flicking the safety, he pulled the trigger. Click. Unfazed, his drills were good. Working parts back, unfired round sails towards the wall, slide hits home and he pulled the trigger again. Click. It unnerved him, he knew he’d rounds in the magazine, he’d checked it before he arrived. About to repeat the process, he got no further. Rupert shot him three times.
He sagged, slumped against the wall then collapsed on the floor. Rupert stood over him, shaking his head slowly and said, “I doctored the firing pin, son. You were almost perfect just then. I was really quite impressed.” Another two rounds into the boy’s head before Gally managed to cover the ground and whack him across the skull with the cattle prod. Rupert sank to one knee then sagged onto the floor after Gally hit him again.
Through the door, he grabbed the chair and wedged it firmly beneath the handle. It wouldn’t last long but maybe long enough for him to get out. He attempted a sprint along the passageway but having been restricted all night he felt like a fleeing baby elephant. He fell on the steps but picked himself up, hearing the metal door being violently kicked as he did so. He’d no idea what would await him on the ground floor but knew the layout from when they’d brought him in: surprise was his best weapon. No hesitation, door open, left turn, sprint up the hall and straight out the front door. There was no one; they’d left with their wages to get rid of the van. The double wrought iron gates on the entrance pillars were closed so he leapt over the wall. A quick look up and down the street showed him he wouldn’t make it before his pursuer got out so he crossed the road, entering the building site opposite. At a fast walk, pins and needles careering up and down his unsteady legs, he made it to the site hut with its open door; hard hat and reflective waist coat hanging on a peg. Suitably attired, he strode off towards the far side with a look of purpose on his face. Rupert made the street but there was nothing to see. Swearing profusely, he backtracked to the little office on the first floor and used the phone to file his report; a Stasi agent posing as businessman John Baker had found the safe house and overpowered him. His colleague had engaged but had been shot dead. Local clean up team needed urgently.
Fishing through a drawer in the desk, he recovered a firing pin then returned to the cellar to replace the one in Tristan’s gun, the one he’d deliberately shortened knowing it would almost certainly go unnoticed in normal handling routines. The unfired round placed back in the magazine, he fired two shots along the corridor at the door to the cellar then another two from inside the ‘interrogation’ chamber at the wall alongside the phone. It would look like Tristan had tried to repel an assault.
Gallagher walked back into the hotel having dumped the fancy dress but the desk man still gave a startled look.
“Herr Baker? What has happened to you? Should I call the Police?”
Gally sauntered past with a dismissive wave. “No need old chap, got drunk, fell over.