The Eagle's Covenant (10 page)

“You’re not German.”

As an observation, it wasn’t particularly bright because Conor’s German was heavily accented.

“I can still do what Jurgen can do.” He walked to the stairway. “Come on then, Oscar. There’s work to be done.”

Oscar wasn’t moving. “I want to see Jurgen.”

Conor gave him a look of exasperation. “He can’t talk right now,” he told him truthfully. “He’s tied up.”

Oscar hesitated, and then seemed to make up his mind.

“OK,” he said at last. “We can talk on the way.”

They went down the stairs to the BMW and were on their way to Conor’s place within minutes.

The talk was mainly of Oscar trying to figure out why Jurgen had not let him know of this change of plan and the fact that he didn’t know Jurgen had any English friends.

Conor did not wish to disabuse him of the idea that he was English, so said nothing. Instead he concentrated on trying to glean as much information from Oscar as he could.

Presently they pulled up in the street outside Conor’s apartment. All it needed now, Conor thought, was for Frau Lindbergh to look out of her window and glance down the street. He put the thought from his mind as they walked to the flat and up the stairs. When they got to the door, Oscar looked at Conor and put his fingers to his lips. To Conor’s amazement, Oscar shoved a picklock in the keyhole and opened the door.

Conor then followed Oscar in who was holding a silenced pistol in his hand. Conor followed suit. He went through the motions with Oscar of checking every room in the flat and coming to the obvious conclusion that the flat was empty.

Oscar dropped into a soft chair, obviously pissed off with the lack of a target.

“He’s not here,” he said unnecessarily.

“How did you know he would be here?” Conor asked. “Who told you?”

“The Dutchman.”

“The Dutchman? Who’s that?”

Oscar seemed to be a mile away. He suddenly looked up. “I don’t know. He’s just a voice on the phone.”

In the darkness it was difficult to see any expression on Oscar’s face. A thin light from the windows pierced the gloom. The familiar things in the room were picked out in soft relief; shades of grey and black.

“Perhaps he doesn’t live here anymore.”

Oscar reached over to a chair and picked up a discarded newspaper. “This wasn’t here last night. It’s today’s, so he must have been here.”

It was truer than Oscar realised. Conor had been back to the flat and left the newspaper. He had also made himself a drink, opened a tin of beans and threw the beans down the toilet. The can he had dumped in the rubbish bin in the kitchen. He had done enough to let them think, if they took the trouble to look, that the flat was still occupied.

“He must be out on the town, nightclubbing. We can wait till he comes home.”

Oscar shook his head. “We could be here all fucking night. It wouldn’t do to be seen leaving the flat in the early hours of the morning.” he stood up. “No, come on, we’re off.”

He was walking out of the flat before Conor realised what was happening. It wasn’t quite the way he had planned it. He had hoped he could learn more from Oscar, perhaps a direct link to Breggie or Joseph, by working his way into the man’s confidence. But judging from Oscar’s desire to leave the killing to another day, Conor had blown his chance.

He followed him down to the car, his mind working furiously on how best to gain an advantage out of this dismal situation. He reckoned on no more than a few hours could elapse now before the skinhead was missed and someone found him.

If he hadn’t got something from Oscar by then he would have to go back to his old apartment and wait for them to come to him. That would mean giving them an advantage because by then they might have guessed who had killed the skinhead. If so, Oscar would come back packing more than just a single gun.

Conor still hadn’t really made up his mind what to do when Oscar pulled up outside the skinhead’s place.

“You want off here?”

His thought processes were working furiously now. In a few seconds Oscar would ask him again. He had to make a decision which would be irrevocable.

“There’s something in Jurgen’s flat I want you to see,” he said suddenly.

Oscar looked puzzled. “What?” he asked.

Conor affected an apologetic air. “I should have showed you before we left tonight. It’s important though. I know Jurgen would like you to see it.”

“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

Conor shook his head. “I don’t think so. It may be gone by tomorrow.”

Oscar sighed heavily and killed the engine. “It had better be worth it,” he warned.

Conor got out of the car and led the way to Jurgen’s flat. He opened the door with the key he had taken from Jurgen’s body and ushered Oscar in.

“Down there,” he said, pointing towards a door at the end of the hallway, turning the light on.

Oscar began moving down the corridor, avoiding the trainers on the floor and the coat. Conor remained behind him. When Oscar reached the door, Conor urged him to open it. He placed his hand on the door handle and let the door swing open on its hinges.

The light from the hallway fanned across the interior of the room as the door swung open. Oscar saw the familiar impedimenta of Jurgen’s lifestyle coming into the light. The long settee on which he and Jurgen had shared many a beer came into view, followed by Jurgen’s feet. His legs sprawled at an unusual angle. One of them was covered in blood from a massive wound at the knee.

The door stopped swinging and Oscar edged it open. Jurgen lay there. Even in the half-light Oscar could see the whiteness of the skinhead’s flesh, blanched by the spectre of death against the obscene blackness of his dried blood.

Oscar knew, at that moment, his own life was over. He had walked into the hangman’s pit where death was the inevitable companion. He turned and looked at Conor who had pulled his gun and was now pointing it at him.

“You did this.”

It was a croak. The words cracked and scattered across his dry tongue. Beneath his jaw he felt his heart pounding inside its prison. There would be no release from death row.

“Sit down.”

Oscar was now looking at a different man. Gone was the ‘Englishman’ he had taken little notice of. Now he was staring at a killer. One who, like himself, showed no mercy nor feeling for his victim. But now he would know what it was like to feel the fear; to drink from the chalice of insanity and suffer its pitiful harvest.

His legs started to tremble. Their strength seemed to wilt until he feared he would fall. The shaking rippled through his body and blurred his vision. Tears formed behind his eyes and unseen fingers gripped his loins.

In less time than it took him to walk the length of Jurgen’s room, Oscar had become a nervous, bumbling wreck.

“On the settee, next to your friend.”

Conor had to push him. Oscar stumbled across the floor and collapsed on to the settee next to the lifeless form of the skinhead. He tried to edge away from the body as though fearful that some contact might unleash a plague on him.

“What are you going to do?” he clamoured forlornly.

Conor pulled an upright chair round and sat astride it, still pointing the gun at Oscar.

“You know what I’m going to do, Oscar.”

“No, please. Let me go. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay anything.” Oscar’s pleading was a rambling, coward’s attempt at begging for mercy. Conor hadn’t really expected it.

“I have some questions for you.”

“Anything, anything.” He had his hands up like a priest blessing a congregation. “Ask anything you like.”

“Who’s the Dutchman?”

Oscar slumped back in despair. “I don’t know. I swear.”

Conor believed him. It would have been most unusual for the foot soldiers in a well-run terrorist organisation to know their commanders. Or at least, know where they lived and have direct access to them. It did happen though, but often through a lack of disciplined control.

“How do you contact him?”

“I don’t. He contacts me.”

“How?”

“By phone.”

It seemed reasonable to Conor. The Dutchman would issue his orders when necessary. The troops would always be waiting around for those orders. Otherwise they would get on with their lives.

“Is there a code word you both use?”

Oscar nodded. “He gives me the new code word each time he phones. I use it when he phones again.”

“So the next time he rings, you repeat the code word he last gave you?”

Oscar nodded again. He wasn’t looking so wretched now. Probably, mused Conor, because he feels a little less threatened.

“What’s the next code word?”

Oscar lifted his head but was reminded by Conor waving the gun at him that resistance was futile.

“Gullit,” he said weakly.

“What?”

Oscar drew a deep, painful breath. “Gullit. He was a famous, Dutch footballer. He uses Dutch footballers all the time.”

“So when he phones, you simply say ‘Gullit’?”

“Yes. There’s nothing else.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Oscar shrugged. He made a small movement with his hands. “That’s it. He tells me whatever it is he wants me to know or do. I repeat it. He gives me the next code word and hangs up.”

Conor nodded thoughtfully then stood up and shot Oscar twice in the chest. The force of the bullets threw Oscar back into the settee. His arms opened out and fell by his side and his chin dropped on to his chest.

Conor went across to him and put his fingers on the side of his neck. There was no sign of a pulse. He went through Oscar’s pockets, took his wallet and car keys and walked out of the flat.

*

When Oscar died, Breggie was nursing a very unhappy child. Throughout the previous day and through the night, the baby would only sleep for short spells, after which it would wake up crying. Feeding the baby did not always pacify him, and his temperature was giving Breggie cause for concern.

Her own problems were pushed to the back of her mind as she fought to control her temper and alleviate her tiredness by snatching sleep whenever possible. Joseph had proved to be quite unhelpful and had no patience at all.

It was about four in the morning when Breggie laid the infant Manny in his cot, gently pulling her hands away and almost holding her breath for fear of disturbing him. She laid the back of her fingers very lightly on his cheek and could feel the worrying heat from his soft skin. She yawned and lay down on the bed beside the cot. Within minutes she was fast asleep, but not before promising herself that she would seek advice when day came.

Luckily the baby slept until about eight o’clock. When he woke Breggie, she was quite pleased to think she had got four hours of uninterrupted sleep. The baby’s tears were through hunger, and Breggie was much the happier for that. She got Joseph out of bed and told him to make coffee and sort himself out, and then she tended to the baby’s needs. One hour later, Breggie was ready to seek the advice she had promised herself.

She drove herself to the shopping mall she had visited two days earlier, intending to take advantage of Joseph, and leave him longer than the thirty minutes she had promised. Breggie had no intention of staying out too long though because she did not feel she could trust Joseph enough to leave Manny with him for more than an hour.

She found a large chemist department store and waited until she caught the assistant’s eye.

“Could I see the pharmacist?” she asked, glancing towards the dispensing end of the counter.

“Of course.”

The assistant brought the pharmacist over. She was a tall woman, bubbly hair, blonde. More like a dancer than a chemist. Breggie felt unusually nervous. If she had been pulling an Uzi out to gun the woman to death, she would have had that familiar adrenalin rush and sexual emotion she enjoyed at the kill. But now she was a kitten.

The chemist smiled. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I some medicine.”

“Is it for you?”

“No,” Breggie replied, “it’s for my son.”

“What’s wrong with him?” the pharmacist asked.

Breggie could feel her hand trembling. She pushed it into the pocket of her coat. “He isn’t sleeping too well. He has a cough.”

“A cough,” she repeated. “How old is he?”

Breggie had to think. “He’s three weeks old,” she said eventually.

The woman straightened. She blinked and stared at Breggie. “Three weeks old. Well goodness, why haven’t you taken him to your doctor?”

“Oh, it isn’t that bad,” Breggie blustered. “Not bad enough to see a doctor.”

“Well you should, you know. I can’t prescribe anything for a child that age.” She let it sink in. “Who is the baby’s doctor, anyway?”

Breggie wished she had never asked. It would have been much easier to have purchased a child’s cough mixture from the counter.

“We don’t live here. We’re from Munich. We’re on holiday.”

It was all going to pieces and Breggie knew it. Other customers at the pharmacy counter were beginning to take an interest in the conversation.