Jonathan A. Taylor

MEYER-HOFMANN AG

1

Crouched in the boat, two figures surveyed the island coastline and prepared for their landing. The cloudless night sky filled the North Atlantic bay with moonlight. A dormant ocean swell heaved upwards, its smooth back broken by the bow wave of the small craft. The sound of the outboard motor, which coughed and sputtered through the cold water, was drowned out by waves breaking over a rapidly approaching shoreline. The light ground fog had been visible from the sea, but now, even though it surrounded the men in its icy cloak, their night-vision glasses gave them a clear view of the route for their approach. Steering the boat expertly between the rocks and boulders that protected the island beach, they cut the motor and allowed the craft’s forward momentum to carry them to the shore. With only the sound of water slapping against the boat’s hull, their advance was undetected.

They jumped from the boat and hit dry land simultaneously. Grasping the small aluminium craft with one hand each, they carried it over the pebble beach and set it gently down on a grassy bank. Handguns drawn, they broke into a run and made for the big house set back from the water’s edge. Effortlessly, they vaulted the house’s tall perimeter wall and landed softly in the garden, the sound of their landing suppressed by the autumn leaves blown from the garden’s two large ash trees. The athletic prowess of the men was shown to be all the more remarkable as each carried two heavy scuba diving tanks strapped to their backs. Crouching down under the trees, they would have been as good as invisible from the house. Black face paint accentuated the whites of their eyes, and tight black clothing hugged their muscular frames as they waited, primed like two panthers preparing to attack their prey. The men let their eyes pass over the property and synchronised their watches for the second time that night, communicating with hand gestures.

Moonlight lent the Colonial house’s white exterior a bluish tinge. It was a large property, with countless rooms and corridors, but the men knew it inside and out. Floor plans had been committed to memory, along with their targets’ presumed locations within the building. Despite the house’s prodigious size, it belonged to a family of four. They had bought it as a holiday home. It sat close to the point of the island and was only a stone’s throw from the beach. It was to be their haven, an escape from the hectic lives they led in New York. Chebeague Island attracted many New Yorkers, although not many could have afforded this house’s multimillion-dollar price tag. The house sat on two acres of gardens and included both a guesthouse and a boathouse on the beach.

From the cover of the trees, the men had a good ninety metres to cover across the gardens. Their chosen point of entry was the kitchen door at the back of the house. Their training enabled them to keep low, weaving from side to side, making their path unpredictable should armed guards lie in wait. It was 3:00 am, and the members of the Singh family were not expecting them. The men had exactly one hour, before they expected an armed neighbourhood security firm to check the property.

At exactly 3:05 am, they entered the kitchen using a key. With rubber-soled boots, they moved silently across both the kitchen’s terracotta tiled flooring and the hardwood flooring of the main house. A staircase with white bannisters rose over forty steps in a gentle curve from the vast entrance hall, leading to the first-floor bedrooms.

The first man nodded and watched his partner take the stairs two at a time. He followed, passed him on the landing, and stopped outside the first bedroom door. Gripping the cut glass doorknob, he turned it gently to the right. The door opened without resistance, giving them both access to the parents’ room. Rahul and Rani Singh lay asleep in their four-poster bed, both exhausted by the long drive up from the city. The men continued with stealth, and splitting up, they went to both sides of the bed, moving as close to the sleepers as the bedside cabinets would allow.

At 3:15 am they placed masks over Rahul’s and Rani’s faces. These were not diving masks, but much smaller rubber surgical masks that covered their noses and mouths. The men leant forward over their victims, prepared should they wake and try to resist.

Reaching over their shoulders, they opened the valves of their right tanks. The hiss of escaping gas broke the stony silence of the room. Neither of the Singhs stirred. Sevoflurane is a light sedative, commonly used to sedate paediatric outpatients during minor exploratory operations; it renders the patient unconscious but has few adverse effects.

At 3:21 am, the men switched to the second bottles on their backs. At a concentration of 12,800 parts per million, carbon monoxide will kill in less than three minutes. The gas is odourless and gives its victim no warning of their imminent demise.

At 3:24 am, the men checked the Singhs for a pulse, then made their way to the children’s rooms. They had orders to kill the children as well. Neither of the men had been involved in making that decision, but they knew there was no other way.

At 3:26 am, they entered the two rooms separately. The boy’s room was considerably smaller than his parents’. The room’s decorations were more typical of a child’s room from the ’70s than the present day. The wallpaper depicted a scene from the battle of Britain; a Spitfire and a Messerschmitt chased one another across two walls, whilst a squadron of Lancaster Bombers closed in on an industrial target ahead of them. Small model airplanes of the same era hung from the ceiling, giving the room a cinematic quality. The child was asleep on the top bunk of the bunk bed on the room’s far wall, his matching duvet cover offering little protection from his aggressor. The bed had not been in the plan, and the man stood for a moment, deciding how best to continue. He would not be able to get above the child to administer the poison. His best hope was to perch on the bottom bunk and use it as a stepladder.

At 3:27 am, a squeal came from the bedroom next door. The girl had awakened. Obviously, she had no chance against her attacker, but still, the man in the boy’s room glanced in the direction of the sound, as if able to see past the circling planes and into the little girl’s room.

When he turned back to the bed, the boy was sitting bolt upright, staring down at him, eyes wild with fear. Two swift steps and he was next to the bunk, stretching up with his right arm and taking the boy’s neck in his hand. He squeezed, blocking the child’s windpipe. The same arm swung out in an arc, carrying the child into the air towards him, his free hand catching the child’s right leg.

Suspended above the man, his eyes bulging, feeling the life being stolen from him, the boy lashed out with his right hand. His mother had reprimanded him for not cutting his fingernails that very evening, and he gouged the man’s face with them. The boy’s middle fingernail pierced the man’s skin under his left eye before ripping up through the lower eyelid and raking across his eyeball. The man did not make a sound. He pulled the boy down onto the floor, allowing him to land hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

Looking up into his attacker’s disfigured face, the boy gasped for breath, but none came. The boy felt strangely calm, considering his situation, just puzzled as to why the wound had not had more effect on his assailant. In all of his books and magazines, such an attack would have been rewarded with the chance to flee. Even as the man’s blood dripped down onto his face, he seemed totally unaware of the injury. Then a second man appeared, and the boy knew he had lost the fight.

Outnumbered. Two against one isn’t fair, the boy thought.

Hope briefly filled his heart as the grip on his neck was released and air flooded his small lungs, accompanied shortly thereafter by a heady feeling of euphoria. Then a mask was pressed firmly onto his face, and the sound of hissing gas reached his ears. The image of the man became fuzzy and distant, and the hissing was replaced by the beat of his own pounding heart. He felt very tired, terribly tired, and at 3:41 am, ten-year-old Adit Singh lost his life.

The second man broke with protocol and turned on the bedroom light. They had to check the scene. Without a word, both men busied themselves, applying first aid to the first man’s wound and cleaning the blood from the boy’s face and the bedroom floor. There was a reddening around the child’s neck, but there was nothing they could do about that. They placed him carefully back in his bed, replaced the duvet, and made for the basement. Despite the fact that the family was dead, the men proceeded with caution. They checked each room with military precision before entering the cellar.

“Maybe a fire would be better?” the first man suggested. The original plan had been to tamper with the boiler so that its exhaust fumes entered the house. It was not the newest model, and the rental agency had told their sources that it needed replacing.

“No, there is no time. Let’s hope they don’t look any further than the boiler,” said the second.

“The boy’s injuries?”

“Bad parenting or a schoolboy fight.”

They would stick to the plan. Both men nodded confirmation of the decision.

At 3:55 am, they left the house.

2

Michael Jarvis sat in his study at the antique replica desk. Sunlight flooded the room through the window behind him, gravity-defying dust particles dancing in the sun’s rays, illuminating the two pieces of paper that lay before him. Each was given a halo of reflected light, as if magnifying their importance. He pressed them flat with the palm of his right hand, ironing out their creases against the red leather inlaid surface. Written on high-quality paper, the second letter was embellished with a deeply embossed letterhead. He contemplated the effect these pieces of paper could have on his future, should he allow them to. Aligning them at right angles to the table, he sat back and let out a long breath. Unusual feelings coursed through him, feelings that were not completely unknown to him, but that he had rarely felt with this intensity before. Michael had experienced happy moments in his thirty-nine years on the planet, but he had also had more than his fair share of miserable times, enough to make him wary of good news. Life’s lessons had been harsh and left him insecure, a character trait he was not proud of, but powerless to change. In his experience, the lamentable by far outweighed the wonderful, and far too often, his negativity managed to take the gloss off his successes. Next to his academic career, the only real success, in his eyes, had been his marriage. He was, however, also certain he only had his wife to thank for that. Even on his wedding day, he had found himself doubting his happiness, wondering when it was all going to go wrong. If the bride would turn up, if she would say yes, and after she had indeed uttered those immortal words, whether she would not wise up and inevitably leave him. The euphoria that was bubbling up inside him now seemed immune to this negativity. Exhilarated by the opportunities the letters promised, even his logical, cynical, antipathetic mind had to accept that this was very good news indeed, and it was completely of his making.

Turning the second letter over and over in his hands, he juggled the options in his head.

It would mean change, but me and change are old friends, he told himself.

Michael had spent his early childhood in care, at state facilities or foster homes throughout the UK. Abandoned at the age of five by a mother he hardly remembered, his moods and tempers had not helped to win him the sympathy or affection of any adoptive family, until he was eleven years old. But after a tenth altercation with potential foster parents, he had made the conscious decision to hide his feelings in the future. This decision had immediately borne fruit, and his new adoptive parents had been more than he could ever have hoped for: loving, caring, even doting over him. That was until the birth of their own child, three years after his arrival. Things had changed. They became more distant, palming him off on friends and neighbours whenever possible. But they had honoured their commitment to him, and he bore them no malice. Michael had discovered an ability to adapt to his environment over the years, and an IQ of 132 helped him to fly through comprehensive school with eleven A Grade O-levels by the age of fifteen. The qualifications earned him a scholarship at the influential Harrogate boarding school Deacons, a welcome escape for both Michael and his parents. He had reacted to their distance with a distance of his own, and by the time he started boarding, they were barely speaking. Although he still saw his adoptive family during bank holidays and vacations, they had all subconsciously decided that boarding school was not such a bad thing for him. Five A grade A-levels later and a second scholarship, took Michael to Leeds University to study IT. Michael had his choice of Universities at the time, but Leeds was the only one prepared to cover his living expenses. IT is a subject that every spotty pubescent boy will tell you is close to their heart. Michael was no exception. Hours of video games and days without sunlight had only inflamed the acne that had disguised his good looks and kept his head in the books until he was twenty years old. Girls discovered him after a friend’s friend cut his blond mop of hair and turned the nerd into a dreamboat overnight. Looking back at his history, he had to admit that change had been more of an ally to him than a foe.

Both letters had arrived by registered post that morning; one was from EITA the ‘European Information Technology Association’. The EITA had nominated him for an award, and not just any reward, the most prestigious award in the industry. It recognised achievements that used IT in new and innovative ways. Michael’s achievement was to integrate an IT solution into the world’s largest paper mill. Solving problems was Michael’s passion, and he had been building and repairing things as long as he could remember. Starting with his beloved Action Man toy, and ending with the destruction of the boarding school’s washing machine. He saw his job as just a well-paid hobby. This project had been a real challenge; he had spent six months living on site in Toronto, Canada, at a paper manufacturer. The Mill had retained the services of his employers, Heggerty IT Solutions, to solve a serious and expensive problem in manufacture. The brief was to minimise the effect on production of rips and tears in unprocessed paper during the manufacturing process. This simple but large problem cost the industry millions, and Heggerty believed they had the man for the job. Michael spent weeks just watching and learning the manufacturing process, until he understood every single step. Freshly milled paper is pressed, rolled, and dried on huge rollers and conveyor belts. It is this stretching and pressing process that regularly led to the paper tearing, which required the entire production to stop until the tear could be manually repaired. Michael had not only solved the problem, he had produced a system that became the industry standard. A combination of stress sensors and cameras were installed to monitor the paper manufacture, detecting weaknesses in the paper before they ever became breaks in the roll. These weak points were then driven to one of the numerous repair stations integrated into the machinery, which sprayed a preparation onto the paper that strengthened the weakened area. The complete system worked without any human interaction and was controlled by software written by Michael for the task. That job had earned him a raise and his company a multimillion-dollar service contract, which now promised to proffer even greater rewards.

The second letter was even more intriguing. It was a job offer from a company Michael had never heard of, a company called Meyer-Hofmann AG. The world of IT was still very familiar, and he knew all the major players. Meyer-Hofmann was not one of them. Job offers in the IT industry were nothing new; if anything, it was surprising that this one did not come via one of the headhunting agencies that constantly bombarded him with offers. What set this offer apart was the nature of the job and the brazen use of money to get his attention. The salary was £250.000 a year before bonuses, more than double his present income, despite his recent successes. The job description was not without appeal either. Meyer-Hofmann boasted that it owned interests in many of the most important companies in the world. Their portfolio included many German household names, including Daimler, Bayer, Adidas, and Infineon. All the companies, German or otherwise, were multinationals. His job would be to set up a new IT department within Meyer-Hofmann with the goal of analysing and optimising the manufacturing processes within these companies. His research had confirmed Meyer-Hofmann’s holdings and shown them to have assets in excess of one billion dollars, which put them in the top five holding companies in the world. But what was strange in his eyes, was that the very nature of a holding company is a company that doesn’t have any operations, undertakings, or other business activities. Instead, it owned assets in the form of companies, brands, and commodities.

So why would Meyer-Hofmann want to set up an IT department? He intended to ask them.

3

Lisa Jarvis stepped out of the board room of PricewaterhouseCoopers in Leeds and took a moment to compose herself. She too had just received a job offer; hers, however, was without options or pay raises.

She had been instructed to move to the Munich office. After five years with the company, this was a slap in the face, whichever way they spun it.

They had tried to convince her that it was a big deal that she had been personally requested, and this would be a springboard to bigger and better things. But for Lisa, bigger and better things were waiting in London, not Munich. She had been with the company since leaving University and had achieved remarkable success. After starting as an accounts manager in Hull, she was now a senior associate in Leeds, and the normal progression would have made her a junior partner in London. Her main concern was that, at some level, the company had decided she was not the right material for promotion. The job was not, however, her only concern; she had to somehow explain this to her husband and had no idea how. An internal dialogue was racing in her mind.

Michael’s successes have opened the floodgates on the job front for him, and I was sure we were destined for the capital. Maybe I should just quit and find another job? PricewaterhouseCoopers is not the only firm of accountants in the world. This is bollocks! How could they do this to me?

Her mind was in overload, and her indignation towards her employer grew with every passing minute.

I worked so hard for those ungrateful bastards, and now they let some arrogant German company ruin everything. Meyer-Hofmann, who the fuck are they? They may well be one of PricewaterhouseCoopers biggest clients, but what does that have to do with me? I have never even worked on their accounts! she fumed to herself.

Lisa left the office and headed to her favourite bar, after deciding she needed a drink. The Smokestack was one of the rising number of trendy watering holes in Leeds City Centre. She also knew that, there, she would find a shoulder to cry on, someone with whom she could share her sense of injustice. It was a typical November afternoon, and as she left the office, she had to pull up the collar of her black woollen overcoat to protect her from the bitter wind. A cold northern drizzle forced her head down and her eyes towards the dirty flagged pavement as she made off in the direction of Briggate.

The man had been waiting for her since his appointment at her offices that morning.

She hadn’t seen him, though she had walked straight past him. He smiled to himself, pleased with his ability to blend into the background.

Maybe I should do more of this type of work for the company. It is good fun, and I have an aptitude, but I am probably getting a bit old for it.

Curiosity more than anything else had encouraged him to follow her.

What kind of a woman was she? How would she react to the news? You could learn a lot about a man by getting to know his woman. She was certainly very pleasing on the eye!

Lisa’s svelte figure would complement any clothing, and she made office chic look like high fashion. Her hair was cut into a short blonde bob—it was not her natural colour, but it suited her nonetheless. She walked with confidence, and although the weather had forced her to adopt a bent posture as she battled with the November wind, it could not hide her natural grace.

She could have been a dancer or gymnast; our man has made a catch there,’ he thought to himself. Looks and brains.

He smiled and followed at a respectable distance, careful not to draw attention to himself, casually looking into clothes shop windows as he went. Stopping in front of a shop full of bright colours and risqué slogans, he slowly scratched the side of his face, an annoying patch of psoriasis beneath his right ear egging him on. As he watched her dance and skip between the puddles, he found his interest growing.

Maybe his doubts were unfounded.

He had been against this new capture from the start, but the rest of the board was convinced they needed Jarvis.

Either way, I am going to get to know Jarvis and his family better. Pulling his black woollen scarf tighter around his neck, he peered up into the cold, grey soup that was Yorkshire weather and took off in pursuit.

Arriving at her destination, Lisa shoved against the brown door and clattered up the old wooden stairs to the first-floor bar, where she immediately saw her friend sitting in the window booth. Lisa had met Jo Saddler on her very first day at the firm, and they had hit it off immediately. For a long time they had double dated, but since Jo’s separation from her long time boyfriend, their socialising had limited itself to lunch at The Smokestack. The normal course of business would be to listen to Jo’s gripes about the world, followed by a watered down version of the Jarvis’s success story, but today was different. It was obvious that Jo already knew what had happened; you couldn’t keep that type of secret in a firm like PricewaterhouseCoopers. Open offices and intrusive secretarial staff led to gossip and news being reported before it had even been decided. The women greeted with a casual kiss to both cheeks before Lisa slid onto the leather bench seat opposite her friend.

“How are you?” Jo started.

“I don’t know,” Lisa replied, still flustered. “I just don’t understand it! It’s mad. I’ve never worked for that company before, and now they can’t function without me? It’s crazy, Jo!”

“I know, I know. Have you talked to Brendan about it?”

Brendan Johnson was a senior partner at PricewaterhouseCoopers, and Lisa’s boss. He had mentored her since her arrival at the firm and, up until this morning, had always supported her.

“He was in the boardroom,” Lisa said, looking down at her lap, visibly hurt by her boss’s failure to watch her back. “He didn’t say a thing, just sat there and played with his bloody iPhone.” She spat the words out.

“It certainly is a shock; the whole office is talking about it. Wendy thinks that the orders came from the London office and that the guys here had no part in the process. Apparently, it was just as big a shock for them as it was for you.”

“I doubt that!”

Jo reached over the table and took her friend’s hand.

“Don’t worry, babe—who knows, this could be a great opportunity!”

Lisa looked up at Jo and tried a forced smile.

I am not going to cry,’ she told herself.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the urge to scream back down and looked around for a waiter. A young man in a crisp white shirt and blue jeans caught her eye and immediately made his way to the table. Lisa never had to wait long for service, not when the service was male.

“What can I get you ladies?” His voice was like chocolate, and Jo waited for the usual response from Lisa, a wink followed by a kick under the table, but neither came.

Jo still had half of a large cappuccino in front of her, a size of coffee cup brought to England by the American franchises, in which you could drown a small cat. Jo, now getting concerned about her friend, held up her hand and made a stop sign.

“I’m fine,” she said, at the same time trying to make a face that told the waiter it was not his fault.

“I’ll take a Gin and Tonic and a chocolate croissant,” Lisa snapped.

On any other day, she may have flirted with him. Lisa was an expert flirt and knew that some part of her business success could be put down to her ability to make men feel good about themselves, but today, her anger and frustration blocked the habit.

“Michael will never buy it. He has been working so hard, and SAP offered him a job in London last week. That was our plan. Shit, what am I going to do, Jo?”

At that moment, the man from the street shuffled into the booth next to them and opened a copy of the Times newspaper. He had been at the bar for five minutes or so, but found it impossible to hear what the women were saying. It was a very animated discussion, and it did not appear as if Mrs Jarvis had taken the news well.

Maybe the strategy had been wrong. They should have left her alone or offered her big money. But PricewaterhouseCoopers was a big company, and you can’t just change their internal wage policies, however good a customer you are. He consoled himself.

Jo smiled at her friend.

“Shit, if you don’t want to go to Germany, just tell them to stick their job. You could easily get another one!”

“But I have invested so much energy into that company. I know all the management, and I was sure they were going to offer me a junior partnership in the New Year.”

Jo let go of Lisa’s hand as the Gin and Tonic and croissant arrived, the waiter making a point of looking Lisa straight in the eyes as he delivered it.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, thank you.” She snubbed him and turned back to her friend abruptly.

“What do I tell Michael?”

“Oh, forget Michael; he’s not the problem. You just have to decide if you are going to take the job, then tell him your decision. Michael loves you; he won’t make a fuss.”

“Do you think so, Jo? Oh, I do hope so!” Lisa smiled warmly at her friend. “I’m just so pissed off. I’ll talk to Michael about it; he’ll know what to do.”

“Who knows, this could be your big break. I would love to go to Munich!”

Lisa debated this and took a large gulp of the Gin and Tonic. She felt herself calming down. Looking up, she motioned again for the waiter and, kicking Jo under the table, ordered a second drink, tapping the glass. As he left the table to get the treat, the conversation continued.

“He is so hot!”

“I am happily married, but you could have him.”

“Ooh, I would, but I fear he is too sweet for me. I’d kill him!” Both cracked up laughing, the morning’s tension released by the bad joke.

Their laughter signalled a change in their spirits that caught the attention of the man in the booth next to them. Finishing their drinks, Jo ordered herself a Gin and Tonic, and they caught up on her latest antics in the Leeds single scene, before heading their separate ways, leaving the man in the bar talking intensely into his mobile phone, in fluent German.

4

The Jarvis home was an end terrace in Guiseley and typical for the area. Only five miles from Leeds City Centre, it was perfect for Lisa’s commute. The old Yorkshire stone buildings had blackened over time, but the sooty walls gave the houses character, which only added to their charm. The couple had been enchanted from the first moment they saw it. Since purchasing the house five years earlier, they had totally renovated the property. Lisa fancied herself as an interior designer, and there was not a wallpaper manufacturer she did not know, or a DIY centre she had not visited. The house was on its second round of refurbishing after the Laura Ashley phase had quickly lost its shine; she was now looking for a more “shabby chic” look. Whatever that meant, Michael let her get on with it; the house always looked good, so he had long decided not to complain. He made the right sounds at the right times, showed interest in all her ideas, and accompanied her around the endless furniture stores. The only room in which she had no say was his study, which resembled a University Library. The main wall had been converted into a bookcase, holding a mixture of textbooks, autobiographies, and modern fiction. A large red, deep pile rug filled the centre of the room, with two light brown leather studded chairs and his desk in the bay window. A new iMac sat proudly on top of the desk, next to the mandatory iPad and iPhone. He had tried to resist the temptations of Steve Jobs’s company for years, believing him to have sold his soul for profit, but in the end, he had bowed to the practicality. Now he found himself being drawn to the same flame of financial security and personal wealth as Jobs, a warmth he had already decided he could get used to.

As the study door opened and Lisa entered, he lifted his head and smiled warmly at the open space, ready to greet her. But from the expression on her face, it was clear that something was wrong. Lisa was the light of his life and a happy soul; her example had done much to help him fight his personal demons. She was the first person he had ever completely trusted, and she had never let him down. With Lisa, he could be himself, no acting required. Since their marriage, he had found it easier interacting with the world around him. With her, he had learnt to take chances and live with life’s ups and downs. He could honestly say he was happy, and life was good. Looking at her standing in the open door, he feared that could all be in jeopardy.

“Whatever is the matter?”

She tried a smile.

“Hi, darling. Oh, I had a terrible day. The company wants me to move.”

His expression changed to one of concern.

“What? Where do they want you to go, for heaven’s sake?”

“Germany.”

He frowned at that and picked up his job offer.

“Where in Germany?” he asked, his voice distrusting.

“Munich.”

With that, he leant back in his chair and shook his head.

“No, they wouldn’t. Why do they want you to go to Germany?”

“They want me to work for some big company there. Meyer-Hofmann.”

He held the letter up for her to take. “It’s a small world. This might explain it.”

Lisa looked down at Michael quizzically before deciding to take the letter from his hand and read it.

What was he talking about? It took her a while to digest the implications of what she was reading.

“It’s a stitch-up,” she said finally, handing the letter back to him.

“You’re damn right, and if they think I’m working for them after this, they can take a long walk!”

Lisa slumped into the chair opposite the desk and stared back at her husband, before bursting into laughter.

“They must be bloody serious about getting you! A quarter of a million pounds a year, as a basic salary? Not to mention them manipulating PricewaterhouseCoopers into moving me to Munich. You have to talk to these people, Michael; they are serious. You could probably ask for more money.”

Lisa felt her mood lighten. She had been desperately worried that she had done something wrong at work and that they wanted to get rid of her. It now appeared that everyone has a price, including her employer. Michael’s expression softened as he saw his wife relax.

“It came this morning,” he said, gesturing to the letter. “I’ve spent the whole day wondering what to do. Are you sure you are okay with this?”

“I’m a bit pissed off that my boss didn’t put up more of a fight for me, but fuck them. If you are on a quarter of a million, I don’t have to work!”

She smiled and winked at him, her hair catching the sun’s light through the window, making his heart skip.

How did I get so lucky? he asked himself, admiring his wife. She is prepared to change her job for me, after all her hard work. One thing is certain: I could not be more in love with this woman.

5

Even the late autumn sleet showers could not diminish the inherent beauty of the city. Munich’s frozen streets glistened in a demonstrative show of its power and potential. Its buildings’ noble architecture was nowhere better illustrated than in the Odeonsplatz, home to the Bavarian Government’s Ministry of the Interior and just a short walk from the city’s University. The Odeonsplatz sits at the centre of a small and exclusive district, which is home to many foreign Consulates, as well as theatres, high-end shops, and bars. It was not by coincidence that Meyer-Hofmann had premises there, and not the usual mundane offices but a private club, where management could relax and entertain the company’s guests and shareholders. Set just off the Odeonsplatz, on Gallery Street, a bronze plaque was all that announced the club’s existence. Its polished black door, led to a sumptuous interior of lavish wallpaper, and hallways covered with deep dead pile carpeting. Modelled on an English Gentlemen’s Club, no expense had been spared. The antique furniture transported its guests back to the nineteenth century, where just being a member of such a club bestowed prestige and recognition. Meyer-Hofmann’s guests could indulge themselves in a level of service lost in the modern, hectic world. The experience was designed to be one that left them feeling good about themselves, and, of course, about the Company. It was in the third-floor stateroom that the board of Meyer-Hofmann assembled.

A long oak table dominated the room, set for twelve; a leather-bound folder marked each place, together with a gold pen and a letter opener. A cut glass tumbler and wine chalice gave the impression that the table had been set for dinner, and the deep red glow of Châteauneuf-du-Pape decanted in the middle of the table. The men gathered around a large open fire in the centre of the room, as stewards in white jackets fussed about them, serving single malt whisky and cigars. The fire crackled and spat around beech wood logs, pulsing red and orange tones onto the men’s faces, lending colour to their mostly pale complexions. All but one were in their late sixties or early seventies, but the conversation was not of grandchildren and family gatherings. They eagerly exchanged business news, with talk of corporate strategies and takeover plans. The discussion was of the Company’s holdings, current share prices, and business performance. Each man was an expert in his field, each with an identical agenda at heart: the well-being of Meyer-Hofmann AG.

Without the need for instruction, the stewards withdrew, and the ten men took their seats. Sitting opposite one another, the two end seats at the table remained unoccupied. A tall, distinguished man took his place at the middle of the table and held up his whisky glass, motioning for the others to follow. He was the tallest in the room, but it was his posture that demanded respect. Standing to attention, his neatly cut grey hair reflected the firelight as he started the meeting.

“Heil Hitler!” he said the words quietly. The men responded in unison.

“Heil Hitler.”

There was a brief moment of discussion before all but the toastmaster took their seats, and the room returned to silence. Herman Reichard was CEO of Meyer-Hofmann, and after taking a moment to correct the lapel of his grey tailored suit, he looked up and slowly made eye contact with each and every member of his board. Reichard was a born leader, and he knew that he had their complete respect.

“Gentlemen, welcome. I am sure you all know why we are here. I have some good news for you.” He smiled. “Herr Von Klitzing has acquired the whereabouts of one of our missing members. A direct descendent of Heinz Hofmann will be arriving here tomorrow morning for an interview.”

Reichard nodded his head in the direction of the man opposite him. The man who had been in the Leeds bar stood up briefly to receive the acknowledgment of his achievement, before bowing his head slightly and returning to his seat.

“I know many of you had misgivings about the effectiveness of the recollection process on a second-generation candidate, but Fredrik has shown us there is nothing to be worried about.”

This time, Reichard motioned towards the younger man at the end of the table. He too stood and took a small bow before Reichard continued.

“Heinz Hofmann was the co-founder of Meyer-Hofmann; we all knew and respected him. It was his vision that gave birth to this company, and he is essential to the future success of the mission. I thank God that he can finally take his rightful place at the helm of Meyer-Hofmann. Dr Ecker, would you like to say a few words?”

Ecker, who had been sitting opposite Fredrik at the end of the table, now took to his feet. He was a gaunt-looking man wearing a poorly fitted suit that hung from his small frame without shape or definition. He had a chronic heavy cough, and despite a vegan diet, his general health had always been a problem. But despite his physical ailing, he was a proud man, and he too stood tall and straight. His manner could easily have been mistaken for arrogance outside this room, but it was nothing other than a complete and utter belief in his ability and the magnitude of his discovery, the recollection process. Hours spent behind a microscope rigorously testing and questioning his findings had only served to confirm them, revealing new and exciting possibilities for the future. He was a brilliant molecular biologist, as his father before him had been, and no man had ever been as intimately connected to his father as he was.

* * *

Professor Armin Furtner began their work in the late 1930s, as one of the Third Reich’s many research scientists. He took advantage of the Nazis’ deep pockets to fund his research into the human genome. It was not until 1940, when he discovered the structure of DNA, that the Nazis took any real interest in him. Keen to promote the German propaganda machine, Furtner was invited to Berlin, where he would present his findings in the Technical University’s theatre. The Party’s elite were all there; even Hitler should have attended. Hitler was not amongst the guests, but judging by the number of high-ranking uniforms in the audience, anyone attending the presentation could have gotten the impression that the German Army had taken the day off. Standing on the small stage in the middle of the auditorium, he looked up at the steep semicircle of chairs, doing his best not to be intimidated. Hitler’s commanders in chief sat on the front row, weighed down by the countless medals that adorned their tunics. Behind them sat the gentlemen of the press, followed by VIPs and, finally, Party members. The speech had begun much as any other as Furtner greeted the dignitaries and honoured guests. It was his statement about discovering the code of life that got everyone’s attention. He had decided to try to make a splash from the start, and his speech aimed to get their attention as soon as possible. He saw this speech as an opportunity to get his research funded and start clinical tests. In short, this speech could change his life. He spoke with fervour.

“You may think your life’s path is influenced by God or destiny, but in fact, this is your guide.”

The projector had thrown an image of a helix onto the white screen behind him.

“This, Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a DNA double helix. You find it in every human cell, and it is life’s code. When a cell multiplies, it is the DNA that governs and controls it—a blueprint, if you will. DNA governs your strengths and weaknesses, both physical and mental. We all have them; they are all unique; they make us the individuals we are. Strong, weak, fast, slow, intelligent, stupid, tall, short, blonde, brunette, black, or white.”

He gave them a little time to digest the information before continuing.

“We will soon be able to change these strands, improve them. We will be able to do this with adult subjects, the unborn foetus, a woman’s unfertilised eggs. We will be able to improve our citizens genetically, optimise our children, mould the next generation, and engineer the master race.”

The applause took Furtner by surprise.

“Man can be the master of his destiny. Germany can be the master of its destiny; we no longer have to accept the decisions of a malevolent God. We will eradicate disease and suffering in the Fatherland; we will produce stronger, faster, more intelligent citizens. We will fulfil our destiny and become all that we can be.”

The audience enthused.

“If this is true…”

“He has discovered the answer we seek!”

“It is an alternative route to Hitler’s vision!”

“Maybe Germany’s military must not forge the new future?”

“This could be even more effective!”

Had the war ended differently, Furtner would have become famous, known for the massive medical and forensic advances for which his work and work like it would be responsible. As it was, the Nazis had a different plan for his talents. In early 1944, he met Heinz Hofmann for the first time.

“Professor, the war is not going well, and the German Army is in retreat. There is no time to wait for you to perfect these techniques, let alone wait for the next generation to be born, grow up, and save us from our enemies. You must find another way, a way for us to continue, even if we lose the war, even if our leaders are killed. Is that possible?” Hofmann had asked.

* * *

Ecker addressed the table.

“Gentlemen, we have all been through the process, and the results have been beyond our wildest dreams. When my father started his work in 1930, even he could never have imagined what we have achieved today. Now, I can look you all in the eyes and say, I surprised myself.”

The room laughed at the irony, and there was a smattering of applause before the doctor began again.

“The recollection process has come a long way in recent years. Our research continues to make daily advances. The process is now far more effective. With the help of new virus strains, we can reach dormant DNA memory and replace that of the present day, even in a second-generation candidate. Herr Von Klitzing assures me that Jarvis is a perfect DNA match, and I am convinced that we can return him to his former self.”

Von Klitzing smiled at the pen as he rolled it between his fingers. He had gone unrecognised for his work long enough; this praise was overdue. The fact that most of the men at the table didn’t have the faintest idea what he did for the company agitated him. For them, he was just a bloodhound, tracking down their old colleagues. He was much more than that, his rank had been that of an Obergruppenführer, a rank the Nazi Party Paramilitary first created in 1932 as a rank of the SA, or storm troopers. Until 1942, it was the highest SS rank, inferior only to the Reichsführer-SS, one Heinrich Himmler. Von Klitzing’s new role was as the head of security for the Meyer-Hofmann group, and in his opinion, reanimating Hofmann was a security threat. Jarvis would undoubtedly become the new CEO, and therefore held the fate of all of them in his hands. As in the past, Von Klitzing considered it his duty to protect the Company against all threats. Should this man fail to recognise his responsibilities, he would deal with him.

Chance had found Hofmann’s descendent. Von Klitzing had required that all Meyer-Hofmann personnel be given a blood test when entering employment. These tests went beyond the mandatory health checks and included a full DNA profile. Jarvis had been tested while working for a paper mill that the company owned in Canada, despite him being a consultant. The results had triggered an automatic alarm, which brought Jarvis to Von Klitzing’s attention. The rest should have been straightforward. Tracking the man’s history back to his father and then to his father’s father, Heinz Hofmann. But then again, had it been simple, they would never have lost him in the first place. Hofmann’s baby had been smuggled into a safe house in London, England, to be precise. This had obviously been a mistake, because something catastrophic must have befallen the family. The records showed that shortly after the child’s arrival, the family disappeared. They were part of the sleeper network and must have moved without informing their superiors. Whether they were captured, killed, or both nobody knew, but somehow, the child survived. That child was jailed in 1973 for the brutal rape of a fifteen-year-old girl in Brighton. He never left prison, killed two years later in a fight with three inmates. He was thirty years of age. The girl he had raped decided to keep the child. Her Catholic family forbade an abortion, but promptly threw her out after the birth, when she refused to have the child adopted. Her circumstances must have changed because, five years later, she put him into care. For the last three decades Von Klitzing had been tracking the children of the original Meyer-Hofmann board, and with the capture of Heinz Hofmann, they were only one man away from a full house.

In 1944, Hofmann had persuaded Furtner to join the board of a new company. A company set up by Franz Meyer and Heinz Hofmann to continue Hitler’s work after the war. Both had been industrialists and close advisors to Hitler before the war, and were replaced by men with a different skill set once it began. They were ruthless businessmen, who had recognised Hitler’s gift as an orator when he first joined the German Workers Party. Hitler was able to motivate huge crowds, and win massive support for the newly formed Party, which would soon fight for power against the ruling government of the Weimar republic. Constantly encouraging him to gain greater influence within the Party, they manipulated him away from his more socialist views. Their support of Hitler during his early years in power allowed them to become members of his inner circle and closest advisors. Once the war began, although they had little say in military matters, they managed the country’s economic future. They propagated a strong nationalist stance, which strove towards full employment and the redistribution of wealth. When the newly named National Socialist German Workers Party made Hitler their leader (Führer), Hofmann and Meyer encouraged the privatisation of core businesses, and the confiscation of others held by undesirables. This policy allowed them to acquire many profitable businesses from the German Jews, for a fraction of their real worth. Both men made fortunes, which they then channelled back into the Party to help Hitler and the Nazi cause. Their vision, and Hitler’s, were one and the same; they believed in strength through the motivation of the people, the creation of a master Arian race, and the future of the Fatherland. The new Meyer-Hofmann company had access to vast financial resources. It would shape the future of Germany and the world, whatever the war’s outcome. With Furtner’s help, they would reach their goals, with or without a war. They could use more surreptitious means. Their priority, however, was to keep the new board members alive. Germany’s future was in jeopardy, and any one of them could be dead in the morning. They needed time, and that was the one thing they didn’t have. Furtner’s solution was incredible; his research gave them the perfect panacea. Although it was unlikely that all of them would survive the war, their offspring could.

The plan was as simple as it was unimaginable. During his research, Furtner had discovered that DNA not only transferred the parents’ physical characteristics to the child, but much of their personalities, and even their experiences. Many of a parent’s traits would become noticeable in a child, but would be attributed to the child learning from and watching its parents. But the same characteristics had been found in the war’s many orphans, including children who had never met their parents. Furtner surmised that these traits were recorded in the child’s DNA, and he might be able to release them. By doing so, he could enhance the positive traits in the children. It was during one such experiment that he noticed a side effect. The children acquired not only the traits, but also many of the parents’ actual memories. They were able to remember and recount actual events and people from their parents’ lives. Many became sure they had experienced the events first-hand. They would experience déjà vu when visiting places from their parents’ childhood. They were often able to describe the places in great detail before the visit. One of the children in the study had become so confused by the experience that he could not recognise his own name, answering only to the name of his father. Further experiments would allow Furtner to tap into those memories, enhance them, and encourage the children to find and use their parents’ memories as the templates of their lives. In time, the parents’ memories became the child’s memories. Their brains’ synapses changed their regular pathways to information in preference for new routes. He found that the children started to act and interact more and more as their parents would the more they remembered of their parents’ lives. When the parents’ memories became exclusive, the child became, in essence, the parent. Although the technique was far from perfected at the time the decision was made, it was decided that this was their best hope.

Each of the board members would father a male child, whose DNA would be augmented. The children would be sent to safe houses spread out across the world, to be collected after the war was over. They would then be helped by the DNA manipulation process to recall their fathers’ lives and experiences and continue their fathers’ work. The board would, in essence, be reborn, with a complete memory of its past, a clear vision of its mission, and more importantly, the tools to carry it out. There was also a bonus: if they were careful, nobody would ever make the connection between the new board and any known members of the Third Reich. The children, who would all be adopted by new parents, with new names, would come from countries with no connection to Germany’s past.

Ecker returned to his seat. The board members muttered between one another before becoming quiet as Reichard took to his feet yet again.

“I would now like to address the matter of purification. Herr Von Klitzing, can you give us a summary before our area chiefs give their reports, please?”

Von Klitzing took to his feet and let his gaze slide around the table. As he collected his thoughts, his right hand went to his chin, pinching it between forefinger and thumb. He stroked it knowingly, letting them sweat. All looked at Von Klitzing with some trepidation. Despite little contact, they all had the greatest respect for him, although most of it was born out of fear. He had been a ruthless man during the war, and none doubted that the man before them was none other than Obergruppenführer Anton Brandt. The man’s incessant rubbing and scratching reminded them all of his grandfather’s habit.

“Gentlemen, this has been a difficult and dangerous procedure for our organisation. I cannot impress on you enough the severity of the problem. The infiltration of our holdings has become an epidemic. Although I understand that the purity of management structures in emerging markets is a challenge, the unbelievable indifference to our goals I have found in the leadership of some companies, is unacceptable!”

Many of the men at the table shuffled in their seats, aware that the admonishment was directed at them. Each was responsible for a group of holdings, their job to steer and manipulate them in a direction that served Meyer-Hofmann’s interests.

“We singled out one hundred and twenty-two employees for immediate redeployment. Of those, fifty-two were convinced by their department heads to seek employment elsewhere by means of a financial incentive. A further twenty-nine were headhunted by a friendly resources company, who redirected them to our competitors. This left us with forty-one difficult cases. Twenty-three of these were responsive to blackmail, the rest were liquidated. In all but one case, we were able to keep the liquidation clean, hitting only the targeted member of staff. In one case, however, we had to make it look like an appliance failure, which cost the entire family their lives. There are, at this time, no signs that any law enforcement agency has made links between the deaths or redundancies. This operation has been difficult to camouflage, and we need you all to be vigilant should any organisation take an unhealthy interest in our work.”

There was a general muttering around the table before Von Klitzing finished.

“This leaves us with one hundred and fifty undesirables in middle and lower management—you know who they are. I expect you to remove them from our holding companies by whatever means necessary. This process should be concluded by the end of the coming year.”

Von Klitzing sat down to a chorus of shuffled chairs and coughs. Reichard, standing again, addressed the man sitting to the right of Dr Ecker.

“Herr Ducker, would you give us your report, please.”

Ducker was the head of North American operations, and as such, the target of most of the accusations. He was not a weak man, and weighing sixteen stones, he was also not a small man. He had removed his jacket, revealing a sweat-sodden blue shirt, his double chin straining against the collar. As all eyes turned in his direction, his complexion became visibly redder. The veins pulsed on both sides of his forehead as water ran freely from his brow. Dabbing the sweat with a handkerchief, he got to his feet, his mind desperately confirming his strategy.

“It is not that easy, Von Klitzing,” he said, finding his composure. “North America, by its very nature, is multicultural, and our assets there are all large corporations. Their human resource departments are enormous; it is impossible to keep track of all their recruitments.”

Ducker had delivered the statement with more force than most at the table had expected. Von Klitzing was back on his feet, stung by the rebuke.

“Your father controlled the majority of the eastern front without forgetting policy. You are a pale imitation!”

Now Ducker was angry. The ultimate insult in this company was to be compared negatively to your father, and it infuriated him.

“Don’t you dare!” Ducker growled the words out. “You are the embodiment of your father, a sewer rat. I can tell you about the eastern front, if you want, Von Klitzing. I remember every day of it; what do you remember? All you have ever been concerned with is not soiling your suit when you torture your victims. I was a soldier, a leader of men—nothing has changed! We are no longer at war. We cannot do as we wish; we must use diplomacy and caution. Managing a company is no different than managing a battle. You must play to your strengths, whilst being aware of your opponent’s strengths and utilising their weaknesses. That is the only way to prevail.”

With both men standing, squaring off against one another across the room, Reichard interrupted.

“Gentlemen, I think that is enough; you have both made your points. I agree with Herr Von Klitzing, there should be closure of this matter by the end of the year. It is, however, not Herr Ducker’s problem alone. We have all been negligent in this matter. We have all lost sight of our mission. I am also at fault. I was not born for the role that was forced upon me. Heinz Hofmann, on the other hand, was—this was his company, his idea. With him back in command, there will be no more mistakes. Now, please, Gentlemen, give your reports, and try to keep them objective.”

Von Klitzing returned to his seat feeling vindicated, whilst Ducker continued his report. Members of the board then took turns delivering similar excuses for neglecting company policy, before promising to comply with Reichard’s time scale. Von Klitzing listened carefully, taking notes where he thought it was necessary. Where, in his opinion, the board members had made poor excuses, he decided he would deal with them separately at a later date. His disappointment in his colleagues seemed to aggravate his skin, making the itching almost intolerable and leading to more vigorous scratching of his scalp and arms.

When all were finished, Reichard took to his feet for the last time.

“I suggest we meet again when Mr Jarvis has had some time to adjust. We will introduce Mr Jarvis and his wife to Munich, and with a little help from Dr Ecker, persuade him to join us here at the company that he founded.”

There was a smattering of laughter from the table. That, and a wave of relief that the subject had been changed.

“If there are no questions, I think we can adjourn.”

After a moment’s silence, the men began to rise and make their way back to the fire. The stewards returned, and the clink of glasses could again be heard against a background of conversation and subdued laughter.

Von Klitzing took a deep breath, inflating his chest fully. He stretched before taking the back of his neck in both hands and massaging it deeply. His psoriasis rumbled in the background, a physical indication of his emotional state. He had learnt to read it, and use it as a guide. For him, the night had just begun, and the idea did not enamour his body. Scanning the room quickly, he stood and made a beeline for Fredrik Petersen, ushering him to one side. Petersen was Von Klitzing’s most recent recovery. He had tracked him down five years earlier, in Sweden. As a baby, Petersen’s father had been hidden with a family in Denmark, the Tuxen family. They had, unfortunately, all been killed in a car crash. At least that is what the official documentation had said. Little Fredrik was not their only child, and for some reason, had not been in the car. The efficient Danish social system whisked him away to new adoptive parents in Aalborg, North Jutland’s biggest city and the fourth biggest in Denmark, where he was never traced. There, he became Fredrik Petersen and was to remain unaware that he had been adopted, right up to his death from pancreatic cancer aged only fifty-six. His life had been short but full. After marrying at the age of eighteen, he had become a lawyer, and together with his wife, Elke, had two children. A daughter called Alaine and a son, Fredrik Junior. Fredrik Junior had followed in his father’s footsteps, becoming a lawyer and joining his father’s practice. The practice grew, opening offices across Scandinavia, which sent Fredrik Junior to Sweden. There, he met and married a beautiful young lawyer named Britt. Von Klitzing became aware of him when he was hired to represent a chemical company Meyer-Hofmann owned in Sweden. Fredrik Senior would never fulfil his intended destiny. That destiny now waited for his son, a destiny that had begun with a visit from Herman Reichard, CEO of Meyer-Hofmann, with a job offer.

Von Klitzing had watched Petersen’s transformation with interest. He was the first second-generation candidate for the recovery process, and Von Klitzing had been sceptical. When Petersen had arrived in Munich, he was a very different man, mild-mannered, quiet, and he doted over his wife. That in itself was no surprise; she was the kind of woman any man would dote over: beautiful, sexy, and intelligent. But it was not only his wife he treated well; he treated all women with the greatest respect. Holding open doors, giving up his seat, standing when they entered the room. He was charming, warm, and very un-lawyer like. He started to change after his very first session with Dr. Ecker. He became distant and reserved, then loud and aggressive. His moods would swing wildly from one extreme to another, causing those closest to him great consternation. But by the end of his treatment, he had settled down and become the man he was today, a complete and utter bastard. Just like his grandfather.

Von Klitzing spoke quietly, avoiding eye contact with the other men in the room, especially Reichard. It was a matter of damage control, and he didn’t need everybody knowing and giving an opinion, or worse, an order. He needed to sort it out quickly, and with the least possible disruption to business.

“We have her,” he said.

“Thank God!” replied Petersen. “Where is she?”

“That is not important; what is important is how much she knows, and what she has done with the information she has.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed Petersen. “What can I do?”

“Nothing, just tell me what to do with her when I’m finished.” Von Klitzing was not expecting the answer nor its animosity.

“Do with her? Are you kidding? Just get rid of her!” Petersen spat out.

6

The Odeonsplatz got its name from the concert hall and ballrooms built by King Ludwig the First in 1825, the Odeon’s. Built in the classical style of Leo Von Klenze, the building was famous for its great acoustics. The neighbouring Leutenberg Palace, built to house the stepson of Napoleon, had the same ostentatious façade, and the buildings soon spawned a rash of similar developments, turning the newly named Odeonsplatz into Munich cultural centre. That was to change again after the second world war. Due to Munich’s strategic value, the home of companies like BMW and Dornier, the city was the target of intense bombardment. The destruction that it reaped was extreme, leaving only the two buildings’ façades and a few columns standing when the war was over. The reconstruction led to the Odeon being rebuilt, but this time, to house the Ministry of the Interior, whilst the Leutenberg Palace was rebuilt to house the Ministry of Finance. At that time, the allies were making themselves busy tracking down the Third Reich’s ill-gotten gains, so it would not have been prudent for Meyer-Hofmann to be seen to have any major assets during that period. But their close connection with the emerging German government allowed them to channel large sums of money into the country’s reconstruction, and especially the two government buildings on Odeonsplatz. As thanks for this support, Meyer-Hofmann was able to acquire a large plot of land directly opposite the Odeon’s. It ran from the corner of Brienner Street to Gallery Street. They immediately set to work on the prestige project, building shops and offices around small gardens known as Hofgarden, reserving only a corner of the property on Gallery Street for their use, which later became their private club. Its positioning was perfect—being so close to local government, Meyer-Hofmann was able to keep more than a passing interest in German politics, and those of Bavaria.

Thanks to their special relationship with the Bavarian Government, there was little problem with planning permission. The plans received only a cursory look from town planners before being passed, which allowed Meyer-Hofmann to be imaginative with their designs. The exterior of the buildings was classical, complementing the grandeur of the Odeonsplatz and the Palace. Where the real innovation had been used was below ground. Like many new German buildings, the entire structure was built on concrete cellars. What the plans did not show, was that these cellars were two storeys deep. The lower floor appeared nowhere on the official plans and covered both buildings and gardens. Had a planner taken time to visit the site during construction, he may well have questioned the depth of the foundations. But at that time, there was building taking place all over the city, and the last place to suspect violations was directly opposite Government buildings.

The secret basement rooms ran the full length of the buildings and gardens, with access through the elevator and stairs in the club. Like many basements, they housed storage and amenities. The basement was totally self-sufficient. With its power and water supply, it had been built to survive a direct hit from a non-nuclear device. It was typical of Meyer-Hofmann’s philosophy, being thorough and conscientious, as well as brutal and uncompromising. These basements would protect their more sensitive files, and three rooms of over two hundred square metres had been dedicated to record keeping. Next to the rooms were libraries, which were later updated to hold computers and modern communications. A large store room would also be converted to hold the bank of servers, which constantly hummed in the background and became the hub of Meyer-Hofmann’s data storage. Long corridors connected the labyrinth of rooms and offices, clearly signposted to help members of staff find their way around the maze. Security was a priority, and Von Klitzing’s signature could be seen at every corner. Guards were posted throughout the basement; Von Klitzing believed that trust was good, but control was better. You could not enter the Meyer-Hofmann basement without being controlled. Should anyone enter the Meyer-Hofmann lair uninvited, it would most certainly be a one-way ticket. The guards had their rooms and an impressive armoury in the middle of the basement, the most secure of which was the interrogation room. Sealed by a steel door, its walls and ceiling were insulated by soundproofing materials, making it look like an empty recording studio. The illumination was provided by strip lighting mounted along the edges of the ceiling, and an impressive group of spotlights hanging on a small aluminium scaffold in the centre. Mounted on the wall next to the door was a red fire hose, but that was the sum of the decorations on the dull grey-panelled walls. The room held only three pieces of furniture. In its centre was a high-backed oak chair, which would have been at home at a medieval dinner table. It had been secured to the polished concrete floor, above a drain sunk into the middle of the room. Thick leather straps were attached to the chair’s back, arms, and legs by solid steel bolts drilled through the hardwood. The chair’s seat had been removed, giving access to the drain below it, and leaving just a sharp wooden rim to take the weight of its occupant. By the wall sat a small metal table on wheels, of the type commonly found in hospitals. The table had three shelves. The top shelf held many articles also found in a hospital: syringes and vials, a scalpel, and rubber gloves. The second made more homage to a handyman, holding a hammer, pliers, and screwdrivers, as well as nails and a glue gun. The bottom shelf held a large yellow car battery charger and booster. A single small dial measured the charging current whilst two thick cables dispensed the charge via large bulldog clips on the end of the cables. Next to the table was a strange-looking chair. It was shaped like a saddle and mounted on two large rubber springs that allowed it to move freely around its axis. This assembly was mounted on a more traditional office stool base, allowing it to roll easily over the concrete floor.

Britt Petersen had been strapped to the wooden chair for the past five hours. She was cold and shaking uncontrollably. They had stripped her naked and hosed her down with ice-cold water, before strapping her to the oak chair. She had straps to her ankles, calves, hips, chest, neck, and head, as well as her elbows and wrists.

This is overkill, she thought

The head strap made it difficult for her to even turn her head, and the strap around her neck would cut off her air supply if it was any tighter.

My God, I am a woman, what do they think I am going to do?

The straps cut into her flesh, making any movement painful, and although the room was virtually empty, she felt very claustrophobic. The cold crept up her legs and torso from the wet concrete floor, making an unrelenting journey towards her heart. Once it arrived there, she was sure she would die. The morning had begun full of hope and confidence, but those feelings were now gone, blown away by the logical conclusion that she would not leave this place alive. After her capture, they had brought her straight to this building, and although she did not know exactly where she was, she surmised she was probably being held in the Company’s club. Her escape from Munich had been a disaster. She had known they were looking for her, but she could not run any sooner. She had planned to take a train to Stuttgart, and then Zurich, before catching a plane to Copenhagen, where she could cross the bridge to her hometown of Malmö, in Sweden. But first, she had to set up a safety net, for the eventuality that she did not make it. The information she had collected was dynamite—it would ruin Meyer-Hofmann and all of the bastards on the board, including her husband. She had needed to make sure it reached the public domain, whether she lived or died.

It was impossible to tell what time it was when her cell door finally opened. She recognised Von Klitzing immediately; she had researched all of the current members, as well as their fathers and grandfathers. Von Klitzing’s father had been an Obergruppenführer in the SS. His speciality was interrogation, and if her understanding of the recollection process was correct, he might as well have been the man entering the room. Despite his years, Von Klitzing moved across the room with ease. First steering the hospital trolley to the side of her chair, then wedging the saddle seat between the cheeks of his bottom and gliding expertly across the room, coming to rest exactly in front of her. He had brought a thermos and a glass with him, and proceeded to pour hot brown liquid into the glass. Without speaking a word, he lifted it to her lips, and she drank gratefully. Of course, she had no way of knowing what he was giving her, but whether he injected her or she took his drugs orally, she was in no place to stop him.

It tastes like sugared breakfast tea, but who could tell? she thought.

The main thing was that it was warm, and she felt the frost being pushed back, her life being extended.

A woman’s beauty did not often move Von Klitzing, but he was moved now by the woman in front of him. As the colour flooded back into her cheeks, he felt the urge to help her, to protect her, and even briefly considered it. Pushing himself far enough away from her to see her completely, he sat for a while and thought through his options. His right forefinger pressed into the middle of his lips, and he involuntarily pulled down his bottom lip, revealing the stained, yellow dentures of his bottom jaw.

“Well, well, Mrs Petersen, you led us a merry chase.”

His tone was friendly, but she saw it for what it was, just a game to him, just another inconvenience. She hoped he did not know all of what she had achieved in the past months. He was bound to have a good idea, or she would not be here, but her only chance was to scare him, sow the seeds of doubt in him. Doubt that he had not covered all the bases. That without her, he would be unable to trace every move she had made, and therefore unable to make an informed judgement of the danger that her information presented.

Let the game begin.

“I only have three questions for you tonight. What do you think you know? Who have you told? And where is your evidence? Once you have given me this information, I will let you go.”

Before she had time to consider an answer, she heard a loud thud and a crack. Confusion disrupted her thought process, and then came the pain. Starting in her left hand, it screamed up her arm, ripping its way up to her shoulder. It tore its way around her ear and into her brain, drilling its way into her head, and then exploding out, in a firework display of light, heat, and indescribable agony. She could hear her scream radiating from the pit of her stomach, blasting out through her throat and battering the walls of the room, determined to alert all Munich of her plight. But there it stopped, extinguished by the wall’s insulation. The guard sitting only two metres away, behind the steel door, heard nothing. Her eyes looked down for the source of the pain, and, blurred by tears, they found the hammer’s head buried between the metacarpal bones of her left hand. It lifted slowly out of the crushed mess, revealing her fingers, which were now bent in unimaginable directions. Her pinky finger and ring finger had formed a claw, whilst her middle finger was pointing directly at the ceiling, as if she were giving herself the “bird”. Her forefinger and thumb were twisted at right angles to the right. She made the mistake of trying to force them consciously back into line, before being punished by another brutal bolt of lightning pain. Looking up at Von Klitzing in disbelief, she found herself unable to comprehend what had just happened.

“He gave me no time to answer!” She thought.

Then their eyes met, and she knew. His expression was unchanged. The man showed no emotion; he was a blank. He had no empathy; this was not a game. She was shaking even more now. Shock was starting to set in, and her entire body seemed to be trying to escape its skin.

“Now that I have your attention, Mrs Petersen, I would like an answer to my questions.”

As his tone became more demanding, Britt drew in a deep breath and tried to control herself. Her hand still throbbed so that she dared not move it. She pushed the breath down towards her stomach and held it, while, at the same time, trying to press herself into the chair for support. The lack of a proper seat made this difficult, but she found herself calming down and was able to prepare her lie. But just as she was about to deliver it, her body heaved, her stomach turned, and she erupted. The tea had done its job: she vomited, defecated, then urinated, all involuntarily.

What is happening to me?

She had lost control. Strangely, her main worry was the humiliation.

What must I look like?

She screamed again.

“No…!”

Von Klitzing moved himself swiftly out of the way, allowing the stool to carry him a safe distance from the wretched woman. Experience told him that it would take a few minutes before she was finished. He watched her struggle with her dignity, her face contorting in despair, every ounce of self-respect making a beeline for the drain under her seat. It amused him to watch people reduced to their base form.

They are no better than animals, he thought.

As her stomach spasms finally calmed down, Britt was able to grasp a modicum of self-control. Commanding her body to stop its madness, she fought with herself to show at least a little defiance to the beast sitting opposite her. His eyes hovered over her, relishing her discomfort and pain. She wanted to fight back, to scream her defiance, but fear had the better of her, and she watched as his gaze dropped to the drain. Slowly, he moved back towards her, reaching down towards the grate. She saw an opportunity, and forcing the last dregs from her body, splattered him with all that she had left.

Screaming with anger, the old man jerked back away from her, this time misjudging the stool’s stability as it tilted violently to the left, ejecting him to the ground like a bucking bronco.

A small feeling of satisfaction filled her, watching him haul himself up from the ground, for the first time showing his age, his right arm covered in her shit. Preparing for the next assault, she closed her eyes and braced herself. He stooped towards her, but she felt no impact. Instead, when she opened her eyes, he was standing in front of her with a smug grin on his face, holding a small stained plastic bag in his hand. He now held the first piece of her insurance policy.

The bag contained the USB stick she had hidden earlier in the day, and she watched as he walked calmly to the door, where he passed it to the waiting guard.

“Soon we will know what you know, Mrs Petersen. This is going very well.” He smiled.

Staring at him through disbelieving bloodshot eyes, her mind berated her for being so stupid.

How could he have known? Of course he knew; every novice border guard knows that trick!

After waiting at the door for a while, he returned, pulling something behind him.

This could not be happening; how could he know?

“There are more!” she blurted.

Snot and sick smeared her top lip and chin, and shit was splattered on her legs and feet. The cold water hit her full in the face, as he hosed her down for the second time that day. The water pressure blasted her back into the chair, ripping at her skin like a knife, ice-cold barbs, robbing her of any grain of resistance. When the water moved to her damaged hand, and pain again ravaged her, it seemed even worse than before, clawing at her brain, ripping at her will to live, killing her.

Von Klitzing started the second pass, seeking the stubborn dirt, watching the fight disappear from his victim until she passed out. He shut off the water and returned the hose to the wall mount. A bell sounded, and he opened the door. The young guard handed him a ream of papers, together with a large white bath towel. Returning to her, he placed the papers on the table, and then began to dry her with the towel.

She came back around, with the touch and smell of the soft, clean towelling on her ravaged skin.

He is actually quite gentle, she marvelled to herself.

Starting with her hair, he towelled it dry, before removing the rest of the vomit and excrement from her face, chest, torso, and legs. There was nothing sexual about the way he did this; on the contrary, he moved as if drying a child, firmly, quickly, and with parental authority. When it was over, he threw the towel onto the floor, and the brief interlude in her interrogation was over. Picking up the papers, he took a small pair of eyeglasses from his breast pocket and began to read. She watched him, hoping to see fear in his eyes, but there was no emotion. When he finished, he looked up and spoke to her calmly.

“This is a very comprehensive piece of work, Mrs Petersen. Well done! How many copies did you make?”

The lie sat on her tongue for a second time. She would only have one chance at this. She did not want to spit it at him—he had to believe her.

“Four.”

She tried to keep her voice matter of fact, but could not tell if she had been successful.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

She had no way of knowing if he had found any of the other USB sticks. She only knew he was not surprised to find the one she had hidden up her arse. Finding that, he had probably spared her more pain, but it made her nervous that he knew about the others as well.

“You found one. I sent another one home, to my parents’ house in Sweden.”

He was aware of a package intercepted on the way to her house, but not of its content.

“One is in a safe deposit box at the Commerce Bank in Ottobrunn.”

He knew about this as well. She had bought the box only two days before. As long as she was alive, it would be difficult to get to, but were she to pass away, her husband would be able to access it.

“And the last one, is on its way to the Süddeutsche Zeitung.” She tried to deliver this line with some bravado.

The Süddeutsche was Bavaria’s leading newspaper. It was her big hope. Should the newspaper have the courage to print her evidence, Meyer-Hofmann would be finished.

“Who did you send it to?”

“Michael Hörnig,” she answered without delay, defiant, hopeful of at least a small victory.

Hörnig was the chief investigative journalist at the Süddeutsche and had become renowned for uncovering all manner of corporate scandals.

He would have a field day with this. She smiled to herself, and the thought seemed to help her gain a bit more self-control.

Her body started to settle down, and she was able to sit more upright, despite the rim of the seat digging deeper into her bare flesh.

Von Klitzing also allowed himself an inner smile. He’d had Hörnig in his pocket for years. Many of his biggest stories had been at the expense of Meyer-Hofmann’s competitors. You didn’t need to be a genius to work out who his confidential source was. When Hörnig received the USB stick, they could be sure of his discretion. Von Klitzing thought it through.

She could be telling the truth; it all adds up. She has confirmed my suspicions, and the whereabouts of the sticks makes sense. She was bound to want to keep one on her person, which meant swallowing it, or sticking it in one orifice or another. My special blend of breakfast tea never fails. She would want to make her information public, and the newspaper would have been the perfect choice, were Hörnig the reporter he purported to be. The safe deposit box at the bank does not represent a problem, and the stick she sent home has been secured. I think everything is back under control. I will need to take a look at our security precautions, especially the rules governing our employees spouses, but it would appear the danger has passed. He decided that he believed her; Only saving her findings on the USB sticks makes sense.

His musings had taken some time, and she had watched him pace the floor around her chair. Occasionally examining her, rubbing his chin and ear, scratching his head. Then staring at her, as if he could see into her soul for the answers that he sought. As he paced, she became hopeful that she may escape this with her life. When he stopped in front of her, she looked up at him expectantly.

He had made his decision; he believed her. She breathed a sigh of relief and watched as he reached over to the table.

The realisation, as he took the scalpel in his right hand, hit her in the stomach with an almost physical force. With one swift movement of his right arm, he pulled the scalpel across her neck. Passing between the restraint and her chin, the blade severed the jugular artery, releasing a torrent of her life blood. At first, she was not sure what had just happened. There was no pain, but she had felt the impact. It was the blood that confirmed the severity of the injury. She pulled desperately at her straps, as if she may be able to save herself were her hands free, but to no avail. Again, their eyes met, disbelief in hers, curiosity in his.

In his younger years, in both lives, he may have taken more time with her. But he was getting too old for that, and she reminded him on some level of his daughter, Eva. Still, watching a human being die somehow never got boring. They were all different, and so he contented himself with standing and watching her bleed to death.

7

Joe Wilson’s desk had never been the tidiest in the department, but the devastation today set new standards. The two piles of case files and books, usually separated by his in-tray, had made a gallant attempt to join forces in a heap in the middle of the desk. Covering the tray and spilling onto the telephone, it was pure chance that he spotted the envelope. Were it not for the strange stamp, he may have never seen the letter, half-buried in a bundle of statements.

Doubtless it was delivered by one of the mailroom retards, who launched letters at the desk from twenty feet away.

The stamp was very picturesque, an architectural scene by Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann 1662-1736 Deutschland. Joe flipped the envelope back and forth, and held it up to the light as if the stamp and paper may reveal the secret of its contents. After a brief search of the desk drawers, he decided he would open the letter without the help of an opener.

Joe had worked for the Portland District Police all his life. Joining straight from school, he had spent eight years on the front line as a local policeman before moving to CID. He didn’t miss the work, but he did miss the uniform. Life in civvies meant washing, ironing, and choices, lots of choices. Colour choices, style choices, jacket, trouser, and tie choices. Today’s outfit consisted of creased brown corduroy trousers, a creased, light blue dress shirt, and a creased brown tweed jacket. Nicknamed “Scarecrow” by his colleagues, Joe had turned the weakness to his advantage, with a line of female officers pitching in to help him. His stubbly good looks won them over, again and again. Today, he was at the bottom of the washing basket and hoped that Margaret, his main squeeze, would feel sorry for him and do him a favour or two that evening. No need then to say that his travels had been limited to mainland USA. He could point Germany out on a map, but that was about it. Why he should receive a handwritten, hand-addressed letter from Germany was beyond him. Leaning back in the rickety wooden seat, he swung his feet up, resting them on a cushion of unopened reports and files on the desktop. Reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, he started reading. It was not long before the letter commanded his full attention. Taking his feet down slowly, he frowned and shovelled a hole in the middle of the table top, grabbed a notepad and pen, and read on. He was the investigating officer for the Singh case. A family of four who had been killed by carbon monoxide poisoning in their holiday home on the Islands. He had never been comfortable with the case—blood reports had shown that there must have been massive carbon monoxide levels in the house. Carboxyhemoglobin blood saturation levels were close to ninety percent in the whole family. Although they had found that the boiler was defective, the carbon monoxide levels in the house were not as high as you would expect. It was possible that the boiler had turned itself off before the family was found, but the weather had been so cold that it was unlikely. Furthermore, one of the children had some abrasions on his body that were consistent with a struggle. If this letter was true, it would explain a lot. Turning the letter over in his hands, he read the sender’s address: Britt Petersen, See Street 14, 87349 Feldafing, Germany.

She had written that by the time he read the letter, she may well have had to change her place of residence.

It was understandable, as, considering the letter’s content, she could be in considerable danger.

8

Michael and Lisa Jarvis had not only become accustomed to the idea of a move to Germany, they were positively looking forward to it. They filled their evenings with extensive Internet searches of the Bavarian capital. Its geographical location, at the centre of Western Europe, provided a stable climate, where they could enjoy the seasons in all their glory. Summer temperatures would regularly reach the 30° Celsius mark, and winters would guarantee snow. But it was autumn that looked the most spectacular. The large mixed forests that covered Southern Germany put on an extravagant exhibition of green and gold-covered woodlands, and they both agreed it looked spectacular. Munich was so close to other European countries, it offered them countless ways to fill their free time. Ski destinations in Austria were within an hour’s drive, the Italian Lakes only four hours away. They could visit Zurich or Salzburg and still be home in time for tea. Lying on the sheepskin rug in front of their open fire, Lisa’s head in his lap and an iPad full of opportunity balanced on her chest, Michael was buzzing.

“I can’t believe we never thought about Germany for a holiday; it looks awesome!”

“Yes. Look at that scenery!”

“I can’t wait to go skiing. Imagine, we can go every weekend, not just for a holiday.”

Lisa laughed. “You will have to work. I, on the other hand, will be able to go with Fritz and his gorgeous mates.”

“Who is this Fritz guy, then?” he replied with mock indignation.

“Oh, he’s my hunky German friend from the office.”

She rolled over so that she could see his face, placing the iPad on the floor next to them and resting her chin in her hands. He smiled down at her, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

“In that case, I will have to find a Helga.”

She laughed again. “They don’t call all their daughters Helga, Michael!”

“And they don’t call all their sons Fritz, Lisa!”

Michael picked the empty bottle of chardonnay out of the ice bucket, before returning it with an audible sigh.

“Should I open another one?”

“No, darling, let’s go to bed.”

She moved up onto all fours and kissed him hard on the lips. Smiling, he jumped to his feet and helped her up.

“Now that’s the second best offer I’ve had this week.”

“We will see about that!”

Taking his hand, she led him away to their upstairs bedroom, both of them giggling all the way up the stairs, like silly children. Only when she started to undress did they become quiet. Lisa had an amazing body, and she knew it. She also had no inhibitions and slipped off the cream wool sweater, letting it fall seductively to the floor. The jeans followed, leaving her in just her bra and knickers. As she turned slowly to face him, he had to catch his breath. Despite knowing her since University, dating her for five years, and being married for thirteen, she still made him feel like a teenager when she got naked. She was three years his junior, but to look at her, you would swear she was still in her twenties. She beamed at him and reached behind her back to unclasp her bra strap. Her breasts were full, round, and immune to the effects of gravity. Her erect nipples reminded him of the limited space his jeans allowed around his growing manhood. Hurriedly, he pulled at them, struggling with the buttoned fly, making her giggle again.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know.”

“You may not be, but if I don’t give this a bit of space, I could do myself an injury.”

“Ah, self-control issues again, Mr Jarvis?”

“Sexy bod, Mrs Jarvis?”

She moved slowly towards him, helping him out of his fitted shirt. He too had a body he could be proud of—a daily exercise regime had helped to keep the middle-aged spread at bay. His body was toned without being ripped. His six pack had a healthy look to it, and his skin was soft to the touch, with hardly a blemish. They held one another for a second, and she breathed him in. He had a smell all his own; even when he didn’t shower, he smelt great.

It’s unfair, she complained to herself.

“God, you smell good,” she said aloud.

“So do you.”

Putting his arms around her, he pushed his fingers into her knickers, cupping her bum in his hands. It was warm, round, and he loved the feel. As he lifted her up, she wrapped her legs around his waist, and they shared a long kiss. Their tongues pushed together, tasting, touching. He lowered her onto the bed, keeping her crotch pressed firmly against his own, tilting her forwards so that her shoulders sank deep into the thick white duvet. They parted, and he ran his hands up her body to cup her breasts. Her olive skin contrasted with the white duvet and sheets, as he knelt between her legs and kissed her. He could taste her through her cotton panties, and it made him hungry for more. Pulling the material to the side, he drove his tongue deep inside her. She sucked in air and let out a long, appreciative moan as he made his way to her clitoris. Kissing, licking, and pulling her lips, pressing her buttons, he played her like a musical instrument until she thought she would burst. Her moans and sighs ebbed and flowed as he worked, spurring him on. Pulling his hands from her breasts, he again took her bottom and lifted her up to his mouth. She pressed herself into his face and felt the orgasm blast through her. Wave after wave of bliss flooded her.

My God, where did he learn to do that? she thought.

Still breathing hard, she pulled him up onto the bed, and they kissed again. She could taste herself, and it made her want him. Rolling him over, she pulled down his pants, releasing his penis to the night air. He was hot and hard. Kneeling on the bed, she took him in her mouth, running her lips over his length. Pushing him deep into her mouth, pulling and sucking at the same time, she began to taste him. She could feel his hand massaging her arse, then brushing over her wet groin. His fingers caressed and probed her, getting her started again. His other hand reached down to her breasts, and her thoughts turned back to his shaft. Letting her tongue run around his bell end, she sucked and kissed it, masturbating him with her right hand. Watching her work, he could hardly believe his luck,

This beautiful creature is sucking my cock.

She picked up the pace, and his body replied. He could feel it building, and he gave her warning.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

With that, the semen burst from his member. Her timing, as usual, was perfect; she allowed it to pass her face with inches to spare, arcing through the air and onto his stomach. He jerked four more times but remained silent. He rarely made a sound during their lovemaking. It had bothered her to begin with, but he assured her it had nothing to do with the pleasure he was having. She, on the other hand, was a screamer, and his fingers were now pushing deep into her, one then two, maybe three, stretching her, but she was so wet she didn’t care. Pressing down onto his hand, helping his fingers deeper and deeper into her, she panted and cried out with every thrust. She reached her second climax in a crescendo of sexual noise, before falling back on top of him, spent and fulfilled. She remained there a while, enjoying his warmth, his smell, letting his juices bond them together.

I feel safe with this man. He is my life. The thought completed the evening. All she had ever wanted was to be loved and cared for, and Michael fulfilled that need.

“We better get some sleep, Michael, big day tomorrow.”

She lifted off him, smiled, kissed him lightly, and headed off into the bathroom. Michael lay still on the bed, relaxed, his mind fighting away the urge to sleep. He stared at the ceiling, wondering.

Could life could get any better than this? Somehow, he doubted it.

9

The doorbell rang at exactly 9:00 am. Michael answered the door to the suited chauffeur. His engraved name badge revealed that Heinz would be their driver today.

“Can I get those?” the chauffeur asked in a thick German accent, pointing at the luggage in the hallway.

“Sure, thanks.”

The chauffeur was built more like an Olympic weightlifter than a taxi driver, so much so that his suit looked rather uncomfortable, restricting the circulation in his arms and thighs. He picked up the cases as if they weighed nothing and made his way back to the car.

“Are you ready?” Michael called into the kitchen.

They had skipped breakfast after their exertions from the night before in favour of a few more minutes’ sleep, and Lisa was making them some sandwiches.

“Just a sec, honey.”

She stuffed the foil-wrapped sandwiches into her large Gucci tote handbag. She was starving and couldn’t wait to eat, but they had both ignored the alarm, and her makeup had taken priority over food. The pair of them looked rather out of place leaving the small-terraced house in Guiseley. He was wearing a new dark blue wool suit from Hugo Boss with a light blue silk tie—he hoped his new bosses would appreciate the German connection. She had raided Harvey Nichols and splashed out on a Diane von Furstenberg lace dress. It hugged her figure, emphasising her breasts and bottom. She hoped it was not too much, but Michael had assured her she looked amazing,

The Germans would be in awe of his English rose, he had said.

The car rounded off the package. Heinz was holding the door open to a black Mercedes Benz S 600 Pullman Guard, an armoured limousine, more commonly used by politicians and celebrities. They both looked and felt like a million dollars, and if everything went to plan, that’s exactly what they would be worth in a few short years. As they slid into the back seat of the limousine, they were enveloped in the rich aroma of fresh coffee. A percolator sat on the middle console opposite their seat, bubbling the last drops of Columbian blend into a glass jug. Two china tea cups, a small jug of cream, and a bowl of sugar lumps sat next to the machine.

“Ooh, how lovely, should I be mother?”

She poured them both a cup as the car moved gracefully into the morning traffic. Both coffee and sandwiches were despatched post-haste, and the pair sat back to enjoy what would be a short ride to Leeds Bradford Airport. The limo surrounded them in leather and polished walnut panels, and Lisa made herself busy investigating the cupboards and minibar. A small compartment in the middle console held crystal tumblers and a bottle of fifty-five-year-old Glenfiddich whisky. The minibar overflowed with more expensive delicacies, including Beluga caviar and Belgian chocolates.

“I am going to enjoy doing Meyer-Hofmann’s books. It looks like they run up some serious expenses.” Lisa beamed at Michael.

Michael was watching the terminal building pass them on the right-hand side, wondering whether their German chauffeur had maybe missed a turn. It soon became obvious he had not, as the car slowed and made a turn towards a side gate to the airport. They were waved past the barrier by an armed security guard, and Lisa replaced their redundant passports into her handbag, rolling her eyes at Michael. A small road ran around the boundaries of the airport, and the limousine accelerated towards a small hangar on the outskirts of the facility. In front of the hangar was their ride, a Gulfstream G650, the gold standard in business aviation. The plane could cover over 7,000 nautical miles at a cruising speed of 0.85 Mach, and its interior was of a similar standard to the Mercedes Benz. Four large white leather seats were positioned around a smoked glass table. An ice bucket with a vintage bottle of Dom Pérignon Champagne waited for them, together with a silver bowl of fresh strawberries on the table. A beautiful platinum blonde stewardess greeted them warmly and served the bubbly as they took their seats.

“The flight will take a little under two hours. I have a full galley on board, and can offer you a full English breakfast, a choice of cold cuts with bread and cheese, or maybe some fresh fruit salad, if you would like?”

She waited expectantly. Lisa regretted the sandwich immediately. Their plastic ham on rye bread could not possibly compete, but she was full, and the strawberries would do for her. “No, thank you,” she replied with a disappointed smile.

“I’ll take the full English,” Michael said enthusiastically.

Lisa looked at him, surprised, but he just shrugged his shoulders at her.

“I’m starving.”

The stewardess looked positively delighted to have the order.

“Lovely, I will start the moment we get into the air. Please enjoy your flight, and if there is anything you need, just press the service button in your seats.”

The plane moved gently forward, as if it had waited for their dialogue to finish. It made a left turn, and without any further delay, the roar of the Rolls-Royce engines signalled their departure from the tarmac. The aircraft moved effortlessly up to its cruising altitude, and the couple settled back for the ride. Reaching across the table, taking her hands in his, Michael squeezed them gently.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Okay? I’m delighted, Michael—look at this! Darling, I think we’ve arrived.”

“I think we have. I can’t believe this, limousines, private planes. It’s another world!”

“You deserve it, Michael; you’ve worked so hard, and they are lucky to get you—this is no more than you deserve!”

He kissed the back of her right hand and sat back in his seat, breathing in the opulence of his surroundings.

I could get used to this, he thought, listening to the clink of cutlery from the galley against the steady hum of the plane’s motors.

After landing in Munich, they taxied to a private hangar, just a short distance from the main terminal buildings of the International Airport. An identical limousine was waiting on the tarmac for them, and Heinz had miraculously appeared next to it, wearing a pair of dark glasses and holding the door open.

“I think I am having déjà vu,” Michael said to Lisa as they descended the stairs of the plane.

“Where did he come from?” she asked, bewildered.

“He was probably in with the pilot.”

“No passport control here either,” Lisa remarked as they left the airport car park, and the car made its way towards the A92 motorway.

“Meyer-Hofmann must have some clout.”

Lisa blew out a deep breath to underline the statement.

“Yes, it’s amazing what money can buy these days.”

Heinz hit the accelerator, and they were both pressed back into the soft leather seats. Lisa squealed with delight. They both liked to drive fast, but Lisa was a real speed freak.

“I can’t wait to get on these motorways.”

“I know, darling, that’s what I’m worried about.”

They smiled at one another and held hands, supporting themselves as the car sped off in the direction of the Bavarian capital. The countryside rushed past them as trees and fields dissolved in a blur of greens and browns. Michael stared at their chauffeur in the driving mirror, somewhat perplexed. When he had picked them up from home, he was sure the man’s face was unblemished. Now, though, Heinz had removed the sunglasses to reveal a nasty reddish scar across his left eye.

10

Captain Myles Blackburn looked up from the reports on his desk as Joe Wilson entered. It was unusual for Wilson to visit his office, unless he wanted something. Blackburn’s hackles were already rising as the detective sergeant took a seat opposite him and handed him the letter.

Probably another plea for an overdue promotion, Blackburn thought.

Wilson was without doubt one of his best detectives, but he rubbed people up the wrong way. Male people that was, it seemed females were unable to see any of his many flaws.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a letter.” Wilson smiled.

“Great, wise guy. Why are you giving it to me?”

“Captain, you remember what I told you about the Singh case, that it wasn’t so cut and dried as everyone thought?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Read.”

The captain scanned the letter before rubbing his forehead and slowly shaking his head.

“Who is this woman? Can she be trusted?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been in touch with her yet. But I need you to stop them releasing the bodies until we have had a chance to examine them again.”

“The governor won’t like it. They were going to ship them back to India this week. The guy was some Indian politician’s son. Probably how he ended up running a company like HLH Partners.”

HLH Partners had started as a branch of Lehman brothers in 1995, before becoming autonomous three years later. It was a hedge fund, but diversified into managed funds and equities. After moving its headquarters from London to New York in 2000, the company had never looked back. It managed assets in excess of twenty-six billion dollars for investors, and it had become one of the big players on Wall Street. According to the letter, Rahul Singh had become the CEO of HLH at the end of 2010, after a rapid rise through the company’s ranks. He had created two of the most profitable funds on the company’s books and was well-known in the City. HLH had itself been acquired in 2001 by a large German corporation, a holding company called Meyer-Hofmann AG. Keeping the same board and management since the takeover, there had been no noticeable change in the company’s running. Apparently, that had changed recently, when Meyer-Hofmann took a closer interest in the company and its employees. The letter said that Meyer-Hofmann had been in no way pleased to see a man of Indian origins running one of their companies. According to the letter, Meyer-Hofmann had actively tried to move Singh on, but had been blocked by the board, who had backed Singh to a man. The letter went on to talk about written evidence, which implied that Singh should be replaced by other means. Mrs Petersen had been worried that could have meant murder. She had asked to be kept out of the investigation, but by putting her name and address on the letter, she must have known that would not happen. Still, it all seemed rather insubstantial to Blackburn, who put the letter down on the table before looking up at Wilson.

“I’ll talk to the governor, but you better get me something better than this. I need hard evidence.”

11

Munich Airport is approximately forty kilometres from the town centre, most of which is motorway, and within twenty minutes, Michael and Lisa found themselves driving down Leopold Street. The victory gate or Siegestor marks the boundary of the Ludwig Maximillian University. Both passengers craned their necks to get a better look at the monument.

“Wow, that’s impressive; it looks just like Marble Arch,” Lisa said.

The buildings also took on a more regal air at this point, and they both found themselves looking from right to left for a better view. Ludwig Street merges directly into the Odeonsplatz and the junction with Gallery Street. Michael was just about to ask Heinz if they would be able to visit this district of Munich again when the car came to a halt, and Heinz moved around the vehicle to open their door.

Herman Reichard was standing on the pavement, waiting to greet them. Michael rushed up, hand outstretched, recognising Reichard from photographs he had seen. This was the CEO of Meyer-Hofmann. He had not expected to be interviewed by him, let alone receive a personal welcome. But Reichard ducked around him, instead taking Lisa’s hand and introducing himself. Michael experienced a small moment of self-consciousness before the man took him warmly by the hand.

“Please excuse me, Mr Jarvis, but it is a German custom to greet a woman before the man, irrespective of his importance.”

Michael was instantly put at ease by Reichard’s charm, and found himself reprimanding himself for not introducing Lisa to Reichard first.

“No, no, no, my fault—where are my manners? Herr Reichard, this is my wife, Lisa. Lisa, Herr Reichard is the CEO of Meyer-Hofmann.” Reichard smiled at them both.

“It is lovely to meet both of you,” he said in almost accent-free English. “Please, do come in.”

He turned and made his way through the entrance, beckoning for them to follow. Michael took his wife’s hand and led her after the CEO, into the club on Gallery Street.

Once inside, a steward guided the party into the ground floor bar and dining room. The walls and ceiling of the room were clad with rosewood panelling, the floor covered in a deep, dark blue oriental-patterned carpet.

Lisa felt her Italian heels sink into the carpet’s pile, making her worry she might take a tumble if she didn’t watch her step. She was also grateful she had not worn her Vivien Westwood dress, which would have clashed horribly with the fussy pattern.

My God, who does your interior decorating? Yuk!

Michael looked at her as if he could read her mind, and was just hoping she didn’t forget herself and offer an opinion. They were led towards one of the teak tables, surrounded by large, comfortable chairs upholstered in an expensive cream material. These were more Lisa’s taste, and she thought that she might quite like one in her bedroom. Two men waited for them expectantly by the table. Both were in their seventies, and one seemed strangely familiar to her. Reichard waited for Michael and Lisa to catch up, and then introduced them to the other men.

“Mr and Mrs Jarvis, I would like you to meet Dr Herbert Ecker and Johann Von Klitzing.”

Ecker had to cough before shaking their hand, and both made a mental note to wash their hands at the first opportunity, as the man looked very unwell. With the exception of a reddish patch of skin on his forehead, Von Klitzing, on the other hand, was a picture of health. As a younger man, they imagined he must have been quite athletic. Reichard motioned for them to be seated, and the steward immediately set the table for tea.

“I trust you both take tea?”

“Thank you,” they replied in unison.

It was an Earl Grey, not Lisa’s favourite, but this wasn’t about her, and she was not going to make a fuss. Instead, she sat back, sipped her tea, and let the men get on with it.

“I hope our intentions are clear, Mr Jarvis. We would very much like you to come and work for us here at Meyer-Hofmann.”

Wow, he wasn’t messing about. Michael took a breath and collected his thoughts.

“Your offer is very generous, Herr Reichard. I would just like to get a better idea of what the job would entail, where we would be living, how much travelling I would have to do, that’s all.”

Lisa reached into her voluminous bag and placed Michael’s comprehensive CV on the table in front of him.

“Thank you, darling.”

Taking the CV, he passed it to Reichard, who gave it further to Von Klitzing.

“This is my CV.”

Michael watched as Von Klitzing opened it, and scanned the first few sides.

“If you don’t mind, I have a question?”

The men motioned for him to continue.

“My main concern is, I find it very unusual that a holding firm would be interested in setting up an IT department?”

He said it as a matter of fact, unable to decide whether to address his question to Reichard or Von Klitzing.

“I agree, it is not at all commonplace, but we at Meyer-Hofmann do not believe in doing things the normal way. We have noticed that many of our holdings could do better by embracing modern technology. Furthermore, we are sure that this could become a very profitable venture. It would allow us to move funds through our holdings more easily, allowing us to invoice our own subsidiaries at a price which we ourselves could set.”

Reichard watched for Lisa’s reaction to this, but she remained unmoved.

“Listen, Mr Jarvis, we are well aware of your qualifications and are convinced you are the right man for the job. We would like the opportunity to show you both the benefits of a move to Munich. If you don’t mind, we have made a small itinerary for the pair of you?”

Michael shook his head.

“I suggest you first get comfortable. We will take you to the hotel and get you settled in, then pick you both up at 3:30 pm. I would like you, Michael, to meet your future colleagues at our headquarters next to the Donnersberger Bridge, whilst your wife may like to look at a few of our company flats?”

They both nodded their consent to this, and Reichard sat back in his chair. Von Klitzing then leant forward.

“If it is okay with you both, I have arranged for Mrs Jarvis to meet the people from PricewaterhouseCoopers tomorrow?”

This surprised Lisa. It was not at all usual that PricewaterhouseCoopers offices worked on Sundays, but she thought that it would certainly be a worthwhile exercise.

“And, Mr Jarvis, the doctor would like you to do a small medical examination tomorrow, if that is all right?”

The couple looked at each other quizzically, prompting Reichard to interject.

“It is quite usual these days in Germany; all executive officers are subject to a medical. After all, we are paying you a considerable sum of money. We just want to protect our interests.”

“Of course, of course, no problem.”

Michael was unflustered. A medical held no fears for him. The meeting continued in a congenial fashion for another fifteen minutes before they rose, and Reichard led them back to the waiting limousine.

“I have not arranged anything for this evening, but I can recommend the hotel restaurant. It is called Trader Vic’s. If you like Asian food, it is very good.”

With that, he closed the car door and disappeared back into the club. It was only a short ride to their hotel, the Bayerischer Hof. The closer they got to the hotel, the more lavish the shops became. It was obvious that this was Munich’s version of Oxford Street. Michael smiled as they got out of the car.

“I know this place—the England football team stayed here, I think, during the Euros. And this is where Liam Gallagher got his teeth knocked out.”

“No! Really? I can’t imagine anybody fighting in this place.”

Lisa looked around at the lavishly decorated lobby. A little staid for her tastes, but a definite improvement on the old man’s club they had just left.

“Not in here, in their nightclub. I read about it in The Guardian, I think.”

They had been given suite 705 on the panorama floor. A book on the lounge table told how interior designer Siegward Graf Pilati had styled the 120-square-metre suite into a Mediterranean dream. They were greeted by yellow tones and high ceilings. A large studio window overlooked the rooftops of Munich and led out to an 80-square-metre terrace, complete with fountain. Lisa immediately opened the window and went out. The view was stunning. Michael came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and she pressed back into his warm chest.

“I like his place.”

“The hotel?”

“No, Munich. I like Munich; it’s a beautiful place.”

The afternoon passed as planned. He met his new team at the firm’s HQ, while she was shown round three exclusive flats, all overlooking different parks in the heart of Munich. They met up again just before 7:00 pm in the suite and collapsed on the large double bed.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Good, they were really nice.”

“I’ve run us a bath,” she cooed.

“Ooh, good idea.”

She took his hand and led him past the open fire and into the enormous bathroom. The centrepiece was a sunken whirlpool bath big enough to contain a rugby team. They undressed and climbed into the hot, healing water. Jets massaged their shoulders and tickled their toes, while the sweet smell of bath salts cleared their heads, rejuvenating and invigorating the pair. Lisa moved onto his lap and helped his hands up to her breasts. The water made them feel even fuller than usual in his hands. Michael kneaded them enthusiastically, and holding her nipples expertly between his thumb and forefinger, he rolled them gently. She pressed her bottom against him, manipulating his manhood between her legs. Leaning her head back on his shoulder, she let out a small groan as he entered her. Pressing against one another, they rhythmically moved their hips together, him gyrating, her gently lifting and lowering herself on his length. Slowly increasing the speed of their movements as if guided by an invisible conductor, they were in perfect unison until they both exploded. Their orgasms came simultaneously. She lifted off him, her back arching out of the hot water. Her noise was coarse and wild, free of inhibition. His breath was heavy, as he sucked in air to fill his void, but only a sigh left his lips to announce his satisfaction.

12

The following day their rides arrived together, punctually at 8:00 am. Heinz had lost his name tag but found an even worse-fitting suit than the one from the day before. It looked as if his arms were being held up by strings, and a single button strained to keep his chest contained in the jacket. Kissing Lisa on the cheek, Michael climbed into the back of the limo that made a quick left turn down the side of the hotel and disappeared into the Munich traffic. A colleague from PricewaterhouseCoopers collected Lisa. The young woman was wearing a blue trouser suit and only minimal makeup. Despite her youth, she had a confident air, her long brown hair was held back in a simple ponytail, and she wore sensible but elegant black shoes. Introducing herself as Sophie, she added quickly that Lisa should just call her “Soph.” She drove a metallic grey BMW 330D, which didn’t inspire at first look, but took off into the traffic, like a rat up a drainpipe. Both women grinned all the way to the office as the BMW ate the curves and bends of the inner city. Their destination was PricewaterhouseCoopers offices on Bernhard-Wicki Street, only three kilometres from the Bayerische Hof as the crow flies. The modern office building was home to over seven hundred eighty employees on a weekday, specialising in assurance, tax, advisory, and all things money-related. The pair reached the front door at 8:10 am, which was some feat on the busy Munich streets.

“You will give accountants a bad name driving like that, Soph.” Lisa laughed.

Sophie just grinned as she held open the door for Lisa to enter the building.

“We will be great friends,” Lisa announced.

Few people could get away with such an assumption, but Sophie’s delight was obvious to see. It seemed in Germany, as in England, everybody wanted to be Lisa’s friend. The women marched through the open plan office space with panache. The fact that there was nobody there did not seem to inconvenience them. Their march ended on the second floor, where, on a working day, half of the staff would be dedicated to Meyer-Hofmann’s affairs. Over one hundred people would busy themselves with the holding company’s assets, controlling balance sheets, researching acquisitions, planning takeovers and mergers, whilst trying their best to avoid corporate taxes and levies of the German Government. Steve Walker was the man in charge of the department, and he greeted Lisa with a double handshake. Steve was a legend in the company. He had become the youngest partner in PricewaterhouseCoopers history at the age of thirty-five. An expert in international tax law, he had famously saved a chain of coffee retailers ninety percent of their corporation tax payments, by reinventing the franchise business. Many had been amazed that he had decided to move to the Munich office. After the way Meyer-Hofmann had courted both Michael and herself, Lisa was sure that Walker had received adequate remuneration. Unlike the managers in the Leeds branch, who lived in their suits, Steve wore just a pair of tailored slacks and an open-necked light blue checked shirt.

Maybe a weekend outfit, Lisa thought.

The shirt brought out the blue of his eyes, which shone with some intensity. Lisa swallowed; not easily impressed, she decided the move to Germany may not be so bad.

“Hi, I’m Steve Walker.” Steve spoke with an Aussie twang. “Great to meetcha.” His smile widened, revealing brilliant white teeth.

“My pleasure,” Lisa practically purred.

This guy is a real dish, model material. If I was not a happily married woman, I might be tempted. Lisa reprimanded herself; there would be plenty of time to check out the talent. Right now, I have to find out if my new boss sees me as a colleague, or a problem thrust upon him by head office.

“Lisa, I am delighted that you are here. Is it okay if I call you Lisa?”

“Yes, of course. Look, excuse me for being blunt, but we both know why I am here, and it has more to do with my husband’s qualities than my own.”

Steve’s face became serious for a moment, his voice resolved.

“Lisa, don’t underestimate Meyer-Hofmann; they only employ the best. Your taxi driver is also originally from the UK and has an honours degree in economics. I think you know my history. They would have just paid you off if they weren’t convinced of your abilities. You are going to be my right hand here, and in a normal week, we deal with equities worth in excess of a billion dollars.”

He finished with a flourish, and he knew he had convinced her. Her determined expression had softened, and there was the crease of a smile. Starting to deliberate on the destination of his bonus, he also allowed himself a smile, knowing that she would misinterpret it.

The rest of the day was spent introducing her to the extensive portfolio of the holding company. Steve took his time, showing genuine interest in all of her questions. Sophie helped her get accustomed to the software they used in the office, and the intranet that, although running on the PricewaterhouseCoopers server, was totally separate from all its other business clients. By the time Sophie dropped her off at the Bayerische Hof, Lisa was praying that Michael had passed the medical and accepted the job.

When she entered the hotel room, he was sitting on the large light brown leather sofa, enjoying a very large glass of whisky. It was unusual for him to drink during the day, and for a moment she was concerned, but his wide smile soon dispelled her fears.

“Sorry, darling, I started without you. God, please tell me you are happy with your guys!”

She grinned at him and nodded.

“They were really nice, Michael. If you are happy, it is okay with me.”

He surprised her by taking her in his arms and swinging her around the room, making her scream for him to stop. She had rarely seen him so animated, but somehow, the situation seemed to merit it.

It was a new beginning for both of them.

“Michael, Michael, please.”

He let her fall onto the soft sofa, causing it to make a large farting noise, which had them both in fits of laughter for minutes.

“I take it you passed your medical?”

“It was difficult, but I just about managed it.”

She moved over so he could sit next to her and took his face in her hands, kissing him long and hard.

“We are going to do this, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” he replied.

13

The bodies of the Singh Family had been moved to the offices of the State Examiner in Augusta, Maine, a short drive north of Portland. The box-shaped grey building could have housed any manner of office facility, giving no clue as to its actual purpose. Only the ambulance parked at the rear loading bay gave anything away. Dr Michelle Jackson was waiting for Joe on the front steps, when he got to the Examiner’s Offices in the State House Station. The young examiner was an attractive woman, and Joe was pleased to see her again. Despite her lack of makeup and the boring white lab coat, she exuded a quiet confidence in her appearance. She had a mane of shiny auburn hair, tied up in a ponytail, and dark brown eyes, sharp and intelligent. Joe took the opportunity to greet the doctor with a warm handshake and a peck on the cheek, which she didn’t try to avoid. He had been there only four days previously, investigating a woman’s death. The young doctor had been able to identify the cause and time of death, and she had found traces of the attacker’s DNA all over the victim’s body, making his job a formality.

She is not only a looker, but good at her job, he said to himself.

For some reason, the Singhs bodies had not been sent to Augusta for their post-mortem, instead being examined at Portland’s City Hospital. According to the hospital report, they had been delivered by the Chebeague Island Coroner’s Office. Documentation included time and cause of death on all of the victims, which the hospital had verified and entered in the death certificates. It was highly irregular for victims to be treated in this manner, and Joe wondered who had organised it.

“Whoever it was, they must have had a lot of influence.” Joe was talking aloud to himself, a habit he couldn’t seem to shake. He gave Michelle a smile and shrugged his shoulders.

She seemed agitated, ignoring his behaviour and ushering him into her office. The office was a relief for Joe, who was very squeamish, and didn’t enjoy the sterile world of dead bodies and formaldehyde that would have greeted him down in the morgue.

“Joe, I have examined the family, and there are some abnormalities with the male child. The boy had fragments of human skin under the middle and forefinger fingernails of his right hand, consistent with him scratching someone. We are cross-checking the DNA database now, to see if we can find a match. He also had contusions around his neck, consistent with throttling, bruising on his shoulder blades, and to the back of his head.” She was quickly flipping through her report, checking she had not forgotten anything.

“Excuse me?”

She looked up again.

“Choking and bruising—the boy was probably restrained and choked, shortly before his death.”

“Whoa. Are you sure? And what about the carbon monoxide poisoning?”

“That was undoubtedly the cause of death, but I believe he was restrained by someone before he died.”

“Murdered?”

“Most probably. Yes.”

“And the rest of the family?”

“It’s too early to say for sure, but there are no marks on any of the other bodies. They most probably died of carbon monoxide poisoning, but we can’t see any signs of a struggle. There is something else as well. We got the blood work back and found traces of a sedative in the boy’s blood.”

This was a lot of information to take in, and Joe gestured for her to slow down.

“There was a sedative? What kind of sedative?”

“Sevoflurane, it’s a sedative used a lot in paediatrics.”

“That doesn’t make sense, does it? Who would use a sedative on a small boy, outside of a hospital?”

“I can’t say. It’s quite readily available, and it is very effective.” Michelle raised her eyebrows.

“And the others?”

“Nothing. We are checking if the boy underwent any medical procedures recently. It is, however, possible that the whole family was subjected to the sedative, and the boy was simply administered a higher dosage.”

“Can you prove that? This servoflurane, can it knock out an adult?”

“Yes.” Her answers were always to the point. He liked that about her, no messing around the bush. His mind was racing, running scenarios against the evidence. The mumbling began again.

“They could have been sedated, maybe.” He had not meant it as a question, but she answered it anyway.

“It’s a pretty mild drug, but it could certainly be used for that purpose.”

“If you were just trying to keep someone quiet long enough to administer something more potent.” Again, he orated his thoughts.

They were standing in the middle of Michelle’s office. She had started reciting her findings before they had even closed the office door. Joe sat back on the edge of her desk and took a deep breath, taking in the implications of her report. She moved up close to him. Close enough that he could smell her perfume.

Not one that he recognised.

Picking up the file from the desk behind him, she offered it, the crease of a smile on her lips.

“I will let you know when the DNA tests get back.”

“Thanks, but somehow, I don’t think we will find a match. How did we miss this?”

“We never got to see them!”

“I know. I will have to look into that as well! When I arrived on the Island, the local police were all over it, couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Whoever organised the whole thing, it had to be someone high up. To get the post-mortem done by the local hospital, in the case of a suspicious death, breaks all usual protocol. Even if it were just a faulty boiler, there could still be litigation. They should have been sent here.”

“Who were these people?”

“The Singh Family. He was the CEO of a big finance company in New York. A major player by all accounts.”

“Why would anyone want them dead?”

“According to my source, it was racially motivated, but I am still checking that out. If it is true, whoever it was certainly went to a lot of trouble!”

14

The headache started on the plane ride home. Michael had never suffered a migraine before, and if this was normal, he never wanted to again. The right half of his head throbbed like it would burst, accompanied by a general feeling of nausea that he fought all the way home. Everything had gone so well.

It must just be the excitement, he thought.

The sound of the plane seemed to be magnified, and the sun’s light through the windows was blinding. Lisa did what she could for him, reclining the seat and blacking out the cockpit. The stewardess supplied paracetamol and a cold, wet towel, which they placed over his eyes. When they arrived at Leeds-Bradford, Heinz carried him to the limo, then up the stairs to his bedroom. Unfortunately, even the comfort of his bed could not alleviate the symptoms. Michael spent the following two days in his room, with little improvement. The local GP was called to the house, but was of little help. Prescribing bed rest, more paracetamol, and trying to convince them to visit the hospital, if it didn’t get better within twenty-four hours, was all he could do.

The following day, the migraine was gone. Michael lifted his head cautiously from the pillow, a movement that would have resulted in an explosion of pain the day before.

Nothing.

He shook his head unconsciously, as if trying to get his bearings.

Still nothing. The pain was gone.

Looking around the room, he noticed it seemed strangely unfamiliar. He knew where he was, but at the same time, didn’t feel he was at home. Spontaneously touching the furniture and curtains as if searching for some connection, Michael wandered through the house like a guest.

The sound of cooking was coming from the kitchen. Steel pans could be heard colliding with one another, as they were released from their cramped cupboards. The clink of porcelain cups and saucers being set at the table, the whistle of the escaping steam as the kettle boiled. Then the smell of fresh pancakes, and he remembered his favourite breakfast and his beautiful wife. By the time he entered the kitchen, there were tears streaming down his face. Lisa, hearing him enter, let the last pancake slide onto a serving plate and turned to face him, a bright smile instantly transformed into a look of fear and concern.

“My God, are you all right?”

She rushed across the room to him, where he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her like a lost child. Intense emotions were coursing through him, his body heaved of its own volition, and a great sob broke from his lips. He felt a sudden and enormous sense of relief. Bewildered, he just clung to her, trying to contain himself and understand what was happening.

“Michael, Michael, talk to me, please!” Lisa implored him, but he was unable to talk. His brain was resetting; working like a computer after someone chose a new start, it was busy creating order out of chaos. Gulping air into his lungs, he tried to get his bearings. Holding her was all he could do at that moment, and he felt like he should never let her go.

“Are you in pain?”

The assumption was not out of place. Lisa had never seen Michael cry.

He must be in pain, she thought, near panic.

Breaking free from his grip, she rushed for the phone, only to be stopped by his words when he finally spoke.

“I’m all right. I’m all right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, it’s just, it’s just that I thought—”

He stopped speaking abruptly, and she turned to see his face full of confusion, close to despair.

“What did you think, Michael? What’s the matter? Is it your head?”

Holding the kitchen chair for support, he decided to sit, slumping down on the white rattan seat.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. The pain is gone, but God!”

He held his head in his hands, fighting for control of his frame. Breathing deeply, he ordered his body to calm down, to stop its madness. And slowly, very slowly, he felt it respond.

Lisa was now on her knees in front of him. Unsure what to do, she took his hands in hers and squeezed.

“Come on, darling, you’ll be fine. Just breathe, that’s it, deep breaths.”

It took some minutes, but finally, Michael felt he could stand up. Still holding her hands, he looked down into his wife’s tearful face and tried to console her, to help her understand.

“Wow.” He blew out a breath. “I have never known anything like that. I am so sorry, darling.” He squeezed her hands. “I woke up, and I didn’t know who I was.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was like a dream. This was not my house, you were not my wife, it was like I had woken up in another man’s body. And then I smelled the pancakes, and saw you, and it all came back. Christ, it felt like I had lost you—I had lost everything.”

Another tear rolled down his cheek. Getting to her feet, Lisa gently brushed it away, and clasping both sides of his face in her hands, she kissed him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Buster; you are going to have to put up with me for the rest of your life! Now let me call the doctor. This is not usual for a migraine.”

The national health system was its usual inefficient self. After an afternoon in A&E, a Junior Doctor examined Michael. As there were no symptoms left to report, the pair were reduced to repeating their story to the overworked child, who just shook his head and peered through his Otoscope into Michael’s eyes and ears. Giving them promises of appointments with specialists in the coming weeks and an MRI scan early the following month, the young man was happy to see the couple capitulate, and head for the exit. Out in the car park, Lisa had to remind Michael where they had parked the car.

“It’s over here,” she said, pulling at his arm as he set off in the wrong direction. “We should go private, the bloody NHS. You could be dead before you get a proper diagnosis.”

“Don’t fuss, darling. I am feeling loads better. If it happens again, I will get it checked out in Germany. I promise!” They were both to be privately insured in Germany, so this made sense to his newly booted mind.

15

The tip off had come by way of a text message. His mobile phone made its distinctive ping, and after retrieving it from his overcoat’s pocket, Von Klitzing looked down impassively at the display. American Police had contacted Interpol, looking for help in contacting Britt Petersen.

He frowned. The source was reliable.

This was not good news.

His mind sped through the possible reasons that an American police officer would take interest in Britt Petersen.

None of them were comforting. Feeling his skin creep, he hurried back to his office in the club’s basement, verbalising his racing thoughts as he went.

“That bitch. I should have spent more time on her. What has she done? The Bitch.”

A young couple had to separate, to let the ranting individual pass between them. His eyes stared at the ground, his mouth constantly repeating the word, whilst his hands madly scratched at his arms, face, and scalp.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch.”

Von Klitzing’s office was immaculate. Nothing was out of place, and everything was labelled. The complete right-hand wall was covered with a bank of small wooden pharmacy drawers. Each with a bronze, handwritten cardholder. The information they held had long been digitised, but Von Klitzing still preferred the traditional method. Opposite the drawers hung a large oil portrait of Adolf Hitler, held in a gilded frame, and between them was his desk. Von Klitzing turned to the painting and made a short bow, before, still muttering to himself, he turned back and pulled open one of the drawers at the centre of the left wall. Retrieving an information card, and flipping it over and over in his hands, he took his place behind the desk. Another futuristic-looking chair, this time with a high leather back and shoulder support, took his weight, moving back and to the side before finding its centre. It was mounted on the same spring assembly and wheels as the chair in the interrogation room. He swung round the curved table top, to pick up the telephone, before angrily punching in the international code zero, zero, one, and the area code six, four, six before the number. Waiting for an answer, he rubbed at an angry patch of psoriasis on his scalp and cursed under his breath.

“Deputy Chief Hanson here.”

“Hanson, Von Klitzing here. We have a problem. The Portland Police are looking for a woman called Britt Petersen. I need to know why! And I need to know soon!”

“Very well, sir, I will get straight back to you.”

Von Klitzing replaced the receiver, sat back in the chair, and closed his eyes.

Hanson was by no means as composed. He had long regretted his association with Von Klitzing, but, as ever, he was too weak to change it. Von Klitzing had appeared some ten years earlier, as his career was taking off, and his gambling problems had not yet reached their peak. At the time, he thought it was a chance meeting, at a roulette table in Vegas. As time passed, however, he learned that Von Klitzing didn’t do anything by chance. The two men had struck up a friendship over a mega gambling session, which saw them both lose a considerable amount. Von Klitzing had seemed unperturbed by his losses, offering Hanson a loan to tide him over. Against his better judgement, he had accepted. That was $250,000 ago, and their relationship had moved to a more formal one. Hanson got $25,000 a year, and, in return, Von Klitzing got what Von Klitzing wanted. He had given him information about investigations, mostly involving Wall Street companies. Occasionally, he would receive a tip about unlawfulness in the financial sector, which he would then investigate and prosecute. But as his need for funds had increased, so had Von Klitzing’s demands. In the last year, he had stopped three investigations into suicides of Wall Street employees, for which he received a modest increase, of $15,000 a year.

It didn’t take him long to get the information Von Klitzing needed. A deputy chief in the New York City Police Force always got what he wanted. Hanson was beginning to wish he hadn’t. Von Klitzing picked up on the second ring.

“What’s going on?”

“She sent the investigating officer of the Singh case a letter. It incriminates a company called Meyer-Hofmann. It implies that the Singhs were murdered! Apparently, she has proof, documentation. What have you got me involved in, Von Klitzing? You told me I was doing our State departments a favour.”

Von Klitzing had never told Hanson who he was working for. Now he was glad he hadn’t. Hanson would have spooked. Keeping his voice calm and unaffected, Von Klitzing continued.

“Calm down. I have no more idea about this than you do. Just keep a low profile, and as soon as I know anything, I will be in touch.”

“Were that family murdered? I can’t keep a low profile, I’m the Deputy Chief of Police, for Christ sake!”

“I will deal with it, Hanson!” Von Klitzing’s tone left no room for misunderstanding, “I will be in touch.”

Hanson slouched in his chair and stared at his phone. Von Klitzing had told him the Singh family and the suicides were bad for business, a danger to shareholder’s dividends, not murder. There had been two jumpers. One from a multi-storey parking lot, and the other from the top of an office building. The third suicide was found on New Year’s Day in his car, parked in the garage, with the door closed and the motor running. The investigations were expedited. There were no suspicious circumstances.

This is bad, very bad, he told himself.

The cases were swept under the rug, in the name of large case loads and prioritisation.

If anyone finds out I was involved…

He had ordered the Indian family diverted to the local hospital, by involving his cousin, a local police officer with the Portland PD.

I have to cover my tracks, distance myself from Von Klitzing.

The sweat ran down the inside of his shirt, speckling the material like blotting paper. Picking up the phone, he called a Portland number.

Von Klitzing’s usual phlegmatic disposition was also being tested. The situation presented him with a whole list of problems, and he couldn’t escape the fact that he was probably responsible for a lot of them.

The German Criminal Police would want to know where Britt Petersen was. If she had sent a police officer in the US a letter, what else had she done? He needed to make sure that there were no more hidden USB sticks. Hanson could link him to the murders in New York—it was only a matter of time before he worked it out. Picking up the phone again, he resolved to sort out that problem first.

16

Time flew by for the Jarvises. Heggerty IT wished Michael well, and PricewaterhouseCoopers made Lisa promises of partnerships and promotions. Meyer-Hofmann kept a subtle distance, helping with the removal of furniture, but otherwise letting them get on with it. They decided to rent out the property in Guiseley rather than selling it.

“It gives us options should we need them,” Michael had explained.

They had both attended the EITA awards ceremony in London. Michael received the award for innovation, to much praise and adulation. The solid silver miniature laptop would decorate a cupboard in their new Munich home, and the cheque for 10.000 pounds would help to furnish it. The distinction would provide him with job opportunities for the rest of his career. They left the event revitalised and inspired. Michael had experienced no recurrence of the migraine, nor the memory loss. The pair were optimistic and excited about their future in a foreign land.

It was the first Saturday in February when they moved to Munich. The plan was to take two weeks before starting work, to set up home and tackle German bureaucracy. As they stood in the furnished penthouse flat overlooking the Olympic Park in central Munich, Lisa smiled to herself.

It looks a lot better than when I viewed it the first time, she thought.

The open-plan flat was tastefully decorated with hardwood floors and modern appliances. The panorama windows allowed them a view of the Olympic Tower, which stood at the centre of the park. But this was not her dream home. It had no soul—it was too modern and clean for her tastes. That had been the pull of their house in Guiseley, probably only a third of the price of this property, but it had a warm, inviting quality about it that was missing here. Michael could tell immediately that she hated it.

“It’s only a stopgap solution, darling. We can start looking for our own place whenever you like.”

He had read her like a book, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek, along with a mischievous giggle.

“I think we need a detached house this time, darling, somewhere with some privacy, like Greg and Joyce’s.”

Greg was his old boss at Heggerty. He had bought a mansion just outside of Leeds, in the village of Linton. It was a movie star-type house, set in four acres of perfectly manicured gardens, opposite Wetherby Golf Club. Michael had never understood why a couple without children needed seven bedrooms.

The conversation didn’t change on their way to the club. They had been invited for lunch by Reichard, and Lisa was still debating the merits of on suite bathrooms with Michael when they sat down at the table.

“I take it you are happy with the flat we found for you?” Reichard asked expectantly.

Lisa saw the opportunity and took it.

“No, it’s horrible. Don’t you have a nice bungalow, somewhere quiet for us, Herr Reichard?” A subtle flutter of her eyelids accompanied the question.

Reichard smiled at her and reached over to pat her knee. Many men had been slapped for less, but Lisa let it go with a sideward glance in Michael’s direction. Three waiters arrived at the table simultaneously. A large bowl of salad was placed in the middle, and a freshly grilled halibut put in front of them. The head waiter poured them each a glass of sparkling water, then waited for consent from Reichard to serve the 2004 Grün Burgunder.

“I hope it is okay, but I ordered for us all. The fish here is remarkably good.”

“That’s fine,” said Lisa, slowly rolling the white wine around her glass, before testing its nose and taking a small sip to taste. “Ooh, the wine is very good! You must try it, Michael!”

Michael followed her guide and smiled in agreement.

“Very good.”

“There are very many fine German wines you will both have to try, and I am sure we can find you a fine German property as well. In fact, now that I think of it, there is a property in Starnberg that will soon be available. It belongs to a partner of ours, Fredrik Petersen. He is recently separated and is looking to downsize.”

“Starnberg, I’ve heard of that. Isn’t that the big lake where the Bavarian King drowned?”

“Indeed it is. You are very well-informed, Mrs Jarvis. King Ludwig II drowned mysteriously, whilst being held at Castle Berg. Starnberg is one of the most beautiful lakes in Bavaria. The German aristocracy have been going there for centuries. I have a holiday home there.”

“Wow, how wonderful. What was mysterious about his death?”

“King Ludwig had been spending money like it was going out of fashion, building castles and monuments all over Bavaria, and the politicians were scared he would bankrupt the local country. They locked him up, saying he was mad, and then he was found, together with his physician, drowned in waist-high water, near the castle.”

“They were both dead? Had they had a fight?” Lisa loved a good mystery.

“The doctor did have some injuries, to his head and shoulders I believe, but Ludwig had no visible injuries. It remains a mystery as to what happened. King Ludwig is probably solely responsible for the tourist industry in Bavaria. There are some wonderful places to visit. Surely you have heard of Schloss Neuschwanstein? It is the Castle Walt Disney copied.”

“Oh, gosh, yes. Is that close to here?”

“About an hour’s drive.”

“Ooh, Michael, we must see it!”

“Yes, darling, of course. Tell me, Herr Reichard, is Petersen selling or renting?”

“Selling. I think he wants about one point five for the house.”

“Million?”

”Yes, but on the money we are paying you, that shouldn’t be a problem, Michael.”

Michael wasn’t convinced—what if the job fell through or he didn’t like it? Despite the look on his face, Lisa surged ahead.

“When can we see it?”

“Just a moment.”

Reinhardt reached into his pocket and took out his mobile, hitting a speed dial number. Petersen answered immediately. There was a quick exchange, and then Reichard once again turned to Lisa.

“Is this afternoon too soon?”

17

Joe Wilson was back in his crowded office, staring at the computer screen, trying to digest the information he had gathered and its implications. Dr Jackson had more or less confirmed the letter’s allegations concerning the Singh Family. Now the name blinking on his computer screen had opened a whole new can of worms. Wilson had found out that a sergeant in the Portland Island Police had been responsible for sending the bodies to the general infirmary. Now the same sergeant’s cousin, Deputy Chief Frank Hanson of the New York Police department, had been found dead at his home, surrounded by bank papers. He was apparently heavily in debt, and the .45-caliber hole in his head was his final solution. Joe pondered the question over a lukewarm cup of canteen coffee, which sat like a small muddy pond in the middle of the rolling hills of manila folders that covered his desk.

The question was, had he killed himself because of the debt, or because he had interfered in the investigation? If he had interfered in the investigation, why? What could possibly interest the deputy chief, in a small town tragedy?

There were lots of questions he needed to answer, and two witnesses he would very much like to speak to: Britt Petersen, whom he had now made Interpol’s problem, and Sergeant Sandy Dillon, whom he was expecting within the hour.

Leaning back in his chair, he took a drink of the coffee, letting it circulate around his mouth before swallowing it down. The burnt taste of coffee beans lingered on his tongue, exciting his saliva glands as he mulled over the facts.

Someone had wanted the Singh Family dead. That somebody had connections to the deputy chief. Britt Petersen’s letter had made the accusation that the someone was a company, Meyer-Hofmann AG. Through Google, he had learned their CEO was called Herman Reichard. Maybe Interpol should have a few words with that gentleman?

Officer Billie Mickelson put her head around the door, breaking Joe’s concentration.

“Joe, Sergeant Dillon is here. Shall I send him in?”

“Please.” Joe smiled back at her.

Dillon was not a happy trooper, and didn’t make any attempt to disguise the fact as he entered Joe’s office. His black hair was waxed, with a strong left-sided parting. His ruddy complexion supported the flush of anger in his round face. He was wearing jeans and a checked shirt that’s colour was bleeding out of the fabric, a sign of a hot wash cycle Joe could relate to. Dillon planted himself into the chair opposite Joe and did his best to start a staring competition.

“Sergeant Dillon, thank you very much for coming over.”

The greeting was met with a nonchalant raising of eyebrows, but nothing else.

“I need you to answer some questions about the circumstances leading up to the discovery of the Singh Family’s deaths.”

“Look, this is all in my report. What do you want from me? I haven’t got time for this shit.” Dillon crossed his legs and glared at Joe across the table.

“I will try to make it quick. Could you tell me how you were made aware of the Singh Family’s deaths?”

“Yeah, it came through dispatch. Someone had called 9-1-1.”

“Were you on duty at the time?”

“Yeah, I was filling in for a buddy.”

“The first you knew about the events on the island were through the dispatch call?”

“Sure, how else would I know?”

“You tell me.”

The staring contest continued, until Joe lost his patience.

“Look, Sergeant Dillon, you can start telling me the truth, or I am going to pick up the phone and call Internal Affairs.”

Dillon shrugged his shoulders. “You can call whoever you want.”

Joe stood up and walked over to the office door. Opening it, he stood holding the door handle like a hotel doorman waiting for a particularly slow guest to make up his mind, whether he was leaving or staying. Dillon was still sitting in the chair, his eyes darting from left to right, from the desktop to the door and back to the desk.

“Look, I don’t know what you want from me!”

“Try the truth. You weren’t on duty. What made you leave your warm home, get on a boat, and go to Chebeague?”

“I got a call from the deputy chief. All right? I was doing him a favour!”

Joe repressed a smile, and closing the door, he returned to his desk.

“When?”

Dillon pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket and briskly flicked through the pages.

“Sunday 03, November 2013, 10:25 am.”

“Didn’t that strike you as strange?”

Dillon looked at him, confused.

“The gardener called 9-1-1 at 10:15 am, to report finding the bodies. How did the Deputy Chief of the New York Police know about the deaths so quickly?”

“How should I know?”

“I repeat, didn’t it strike you as strange?”

“No—I mean, I never gave it much thought. Look, I know we didn’t do this by the book, but what’s your beef? They were accidental deaths.”

Joe didn’t answer him, instead just stared back and coughed into a closed fist.

“You mean, you think it was homicide?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be stupid, who would want to kill a family using a boiler?”

“We have found the signs of a struggle, and one of the victims had some DNA under their fingernails that doesn’t match any of the family members.”

“I don’t believe it. You can’t think Frank had something to do with this? You’re mad!”

“What did he ask you to do?”

“Nothing, Nothing special, I mean. He told me it was a sensitive case, for diplomatic reasons. The guy who died was important, his father is high up in the Indian government. Their religion meant that their bodies must be buried within a few days of death. Frank said he was getting pressure from above. He was worried that it would all get held up in forensics. You know how it is.”

“So whose idea was it to send them to the local hospital?”

“That was my idea. I mean, I know what that bitch in Augusta is like.” His eyes hit the floor when he saw that Joe obviously did not hold the same opinion of the county examiner.

“Frank just wanted to get it all sorted, without too much fuss. It was cut and dried—the poor bastards died in their sleep. That gas is a killer, you know. I checked my own boiler when I got back to the house.”

It was plain that Dillon was now fighting to get to grips with this new information. Joe wondered if he should have told him. But he was pretty sure that sending the bodies to the hospital was the sum of his involvement. Of course, he would have to report the case to Internal Affairs, whether he liked it or not. Dillon would be reprimanded, but the main investigation would centre on his cousin, Deputy Chief Frank Hanson. Dillon raised his head, a pained look in his eyes.

“You don’t think this had anything to do with his suicide, do you?”

“That will certainly be one of the lines of inquiry, Officer Dillon.”

18

The house looked like nothing from the outside. Painted white, with a flat roof, it was difficult to get an idea of its size. Petersen had greeted them at the front door, with a handshake and a Scandinavian accent that Lisa loved. He was about Michael’s age, tall with short blond hair and a muscular physique, but despite his good looks and his artful manipulation of the English language, there was something cold about him. He was aloof, avoiding any questions not directly concerning the house.

Maybe he was still suffering after the breakup from his wife, Lisa wondered.

As Petersen led them through the house, both men could see that Lisa was blown away.

“Do you like it?” Petersen asked.

“Like it? It’s beautiful. Who did the decoration?”

Lisa regretted the words before they left her mouth.

“My wife. She has a thing for interior design.”

“Oh, me too.”

The men looked at one another, swapping a knowing look.

The large entrance had a dark wooden floor, pale cream walls, and an antique table sat by the wall in front of a tall free-standing mirror in a silver frame. On the table was a large glass vase, with the most gorgeous imitation flowers. Tree branches formed the backbone of the decoration supporting the delicate stems. Sastre crisscrossed six pear boughs and weaved in hydrangea and lisianthus, as well as lady’s mantle. The colours complemented one another perfectly, while contrasting the subdued colours of the entrance. The flowers’ stems seemed to be bathed in water, but at closer inspection, Lisa could see that this was a trick. The vase had been painted on the inside to give the water effect. The lounge had a pale carpet and large bay windows leading out into the generous garden. Two large, dark brown leather sofas were positioned around an open fireplace, next to which an antique cabinet held the television behind closed doors. More flowers decorated the dining table, matching the colours of the wallpaper that covered just the main wall, which stretched from the door to the entrance hall, all the way to the windows. The other walls had been left white, showing off large original landscapes, framed in gold and hung under individual copper spotlights.

“It is beautiful. And the furnishings are just lovely.”

“I am glad you like it. I have been living in Munich since my separation. You are very welcome to stay here, if you wish?”

“I beg your pardon, move in now?”

Lisa’s eyes shot to Michael.

“This is all a bit quick,” Michael said. “I will need time to think about it before I make any commitments.”

“No, no, you misunderstand, you are welcome to stay here while you’re deciding. For a modest rent, of course. It would be infinitely more comfortable than the company flat. If you decide to take it, great, if not, that is also okay.”

“Well, that’s very generous of you, Mr Petersen. We will certainly consider it.”

“Oh, come on, Michael, what have we got to lose?”

Michael smiled at her, and Lisa knew he would relent.

“After all, I am making a lot of sacrifices for this move!”

The Munich motorway from Starnberg was almost free of traffic, demonstrating another virtue of the Petersen Property. They were back in the city apartment within thirty minutes of leaving the house. The viewing had taken longer than expected, and it didn’t leave them much time to make their next appointment. They had been invited to dinner with Lisa’s new boss, Steve Walker.

They were supposed to meet at an upmarket restaurant named Käfer in the south of the city. It was just a short distance from the underground station, so they decided to leave the car and take the train. Hurriedly, they washed and changed, scattering the temporary bedroom with clothes and towels. Excited by the day’s events, they chatted all the way to the restaurant. Lisa was keen to keep up the pressure on Michael, and by the time they arrived at the restaurant, it had been agreed that they would move into the Starnberg House. Their furniture would go into storage until their final decision, but Lisa was already thinking of making the Petersens an offer for some of their furniture. Although she had not shared this titbit of information with Michael yet.

Michael’s first impression of Lisa’s new boss was not a good one. For some reason, he openly flirted with Lisa all night, despite having a very attractive date of his own at the table. He spent his time showering her with compliments about her clothes, looks, and work record. Walker practically ignored both Michael and his own girlfriend, leaving them to make conversation by themselves, whilst he monopolised Lisa. Michael was not the jealous type, but he felt himself becoming angrier as the night went on. Fortunately, Lisa was aware of the problem and her husband’s discomfort, and she focused on keeping Steve at arm’s length whenever possible. Walker, on the other hand, was revelling in his task. She was a beautiful woman, and he knew that he was not bad-looking himself. His instructions had been to make it obvious to Jarvis that he was interested. He decided to see how much he could wind him up before the evening was over. By the time the bill arrived, the atmosphere, along with Michael’s patience, had worn paper-thin. Letting Walker pay, he retrieved their coats from the concierge and made it obvious there would be no nightcap. Walker didn’t let this bother him in the slightest, stopping to kiss Lisa’s hand, like some fairy-tale prince, before the couple could escape onto the Munich streets.

“Mr Walker, thank you for dinner.”

“Are you sure you would not like a nightcap?”

“Sure. I have to work tomorrow.”

It was a lie, but Michael had had enough, and just wanted to get out of there. Taking Lisa’s hand, he pulled her in the direction of the Underground.

“Michael, Michael, slow down.”

“What a pillock!”

Striding towards the Undergrounds steps, Lisa stumbling to keep up, Michael made no attempt to disguise his feelings.

“How the hell are you going to work with that twat?”

Lisa was also somewhat perturbed by the evening. It was always nice to know that the boss had a soft spot for you, but this seemed like something else, and could very well prove a bit more difficult to handle.

“It was nothing, darling. Steve had too much to drink, that’s all.”

“He was all over you like a rash!”

“He was just trying to be nice, to make me feel like I am needed at the company.”

“Well, whatever he was doing, be careful with that one; he’s bad news.”

The rest of the way to the train, they both tried to calm down. Michael put his arm around his wife’s shoulder, and she pressed into him, her arm around his waist.

“There is no need to worry, you know. I’m a big girl, and I am not going anywhere.”

“I know, darling; he is just such a smarmy git.”

Munich’s underground system is still relatively new. Built in 1972 for the Olympic games, it is kept in pristine condition. But like any major European city, Munich is not without its dangers. Groups of youths regularly collected on the stairs and platforms of the stations. Their favourite pastime was intimidating innocent passers-by, using the underground network. As the couple descended the escalator to their underground line, it was clear that there was trouble ahead. The raised voices of young men could be clearly heard above the background hum of the station. Lisa pulled at Michael’s arm, ushering him back to the exit.

“Come on, we can get a taxi,” she urged.

Usually, that is exactly what he would do, but tonight, he found himself angered by the inconvenience.

I have had to put up with one prick all night. I am not going to let some louts get in my way, or change my plans, he complained to himself.

The group of four large teenagers were taking turns pushing and shoving a young man, who was trying desperately to protect his even younger girlfriend. Michael shrugged Lisa off and made a beeline for the trouble, leaving her watching, open-mouthed, as he sped off in the direction of the group. The youths were using the obligatory taunts and profanities.

“Is she a good fuck?” One of the group gestured with his hips. “You probably can’t satisfy her. She looks like a dirty little bitch to me,” he continued. “You need to try a real man, baby.” He grabbed his crotch.

Then their prey tried to make a break for it. Pushing the smallest member of the group to his knees, the boyfriend slung his girlfriend through the new gap, as if throwing a hammer expertly, letting her weight pull him free of the hateful mob. The bemused tormentors immediately sprang to life, chasing the fleeing pair, teeth bared, eyes wild. The gang hurled themselves into the hunt with shouts of laughter and a plethora of aggressive taunts.

“Get the bastards!”

“Get the little whore!”

The crowd rushed toward Michael, giving him little time to decide on a strategy. Letting the fleeing pair past him, a well-placed foot took the first of the gang members out, launching him into the air, his skull cracking hard against one of the Underground’s supporting pillars. The second didn’t fare much better; a straight left arm caught him full in the neck, Michael’s wrist crushed into the youth’s laryngeal prominence, better known as his Adam’s apple. The thyroid cartilage surrounding the youth’s larynx hammered into his neck, sending him into the foetal position, gasping for air. The largest member of the gang was able to stop his forward momentum before reaching Michael. The flash of a blade in his hand caused Lisa to scream Michael’s name.

“MICHAEL, look out!”

From her standpoint, she thought the youth had landed a blow. Michael sank back onto his right leg, and, bringing both arms up to form a cross, he blocked the swing of his attacker’s arm expertly. Trapping the knife hand, he pushed himself back upright, pressing the youth back and bringing his right knee up forcefully into his attacker’s groin. The youth let out a guttural cry, as Michael grasped his wrist. Twisting and ducking under his arm, the youth performed a forty-five degree fouetté, before landing hard on his back. Michael had the knife and sent it spinning onto the nearby tracks, before landing a precise punch to his victim’s solar plexus. Finished, the yob rolled up into a ball, the air lost from his lungs together with any last bit of fight he may have had. The final gang member watched all of this, aghast, unable to believe the speed and brutality of his friends’ demise, searching quickly for an escape route before taking flight down the platform. Michael stood for a second, assessing the situation. The bloodlust rose in him like a fury, and he was about to take up the pursuit when a uniformed guard flew past him. Lisa was at his side, her mouth working frantically to get him to answer her questions. Watching her curiously, he was able to hear her words, but totally unable to understand them. It was as if she were speaking a foreign language. The girl and her boyfriend were also back, together with more uniforms. But all this escaped him as Michael struggled to get a grip. He found himself stranded, unable to communicate with the people around him, rooted to the spot.

Perhaps one of the gang did land a blow, and he is hurt? Lisa worried.

Guiding him to a bench, she made him sit. His eyes were still staring straight out of the centre of his head, looking down the platform at something invisible to the rest of them.

“He is probably in shock,” the boyfriend offered by way of explanation.

A policeman appeared and knelt down in front of him, looking deep into Michael’s eyes. Gripping both his arms, he gave him a small shake.

“Hello, sir, are you all right? Have you been hurt?”

He searched Michael for wounds, but the gang had been no match. Michael watched the people milling around him, detached, separate—it felt like an out-of-body experience. As the fight began, something had taken over. An instinct inside him had guided his actions, and that was still in control.

“We should take him to Hospital,” the policeman said in Lisa’s direction.

“No!” Michael was back.

Still unsure of himself, he was certain of just one thing. No hospitals.

19

The call came at 6:00 am. Reichard reached over for his mobile on the bedside cabinet. His hand groped the cabinet top, searching in vain for the device. The ringtone continued in ever-increasing volume and tempo, dragging him out of his semi-conscious state. Swearing under his breath, he opened his eyes and propped himself up on his right arm, spying the phone, hidden behind the base of the bedside light. He had been long convinced that small devils lurked in these devices, and delighted in these annoying games. Hiding keys, twisting cables, and helping delicate items crash to the floor.

“Reichard,” he announced.

Von Klitzing was on the other end.

“Turn on the news.”

“What has happened?”

Von Klitzing knew not to bother Reichard unless it was important. Opening the bedside cabinet drawer, he pulled the television controls out and stabbed them in the direction of the television opposite his bed.

“What channel?” he demanded.

He need not have asked. The morning news show was reporting live from the entrance to the Underground at Prince Regent Place. A half-frozen reporter, holding her scarf and coat tightly under her chin, was reporting on another disturbance in the Munich Underground.

“Police are, this morning, blaming right wing factions for another attack on passengers of the Munich underground service. Last night, shortly before 11:30 pm, a group of youths known to the police assaulted a young woman waiting to board the train at the Prince Regent Place Station. Despite her boyfriend’s attempts to protect her, it appears she received several lacerations to her arms and legs. Were it not for the heroism of a passer-by, an Englishman called Michael Jarvis, there could have been a very different ending to this story.”

Michael’s picture was being shown in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. Reichard ran his fingers through his hair, and let out a large sigh.

“Has he been hurt?”

“Our sources say he had an episode at the station, but refused hospital treatment.”

“Thank God for that! Where is he now?”

“He’s back at the apartment with his wife. They have not had breakfast yet, but he is moving around the apartment. Probably having problems sleeping. Should I go up?”

“Are you at the apartment building?”

“Of course I am!”

Reichard’s tone became concerned.

“We do not know how he will react to the recollection process. This action was totally out of character for him, but completely in character for Hofmann. Hofmann is starting to break into his consciousness. The first few weeks are always unstable, until the old memory starts to dominate. He should be given the next session as soon as possible.”

“Nobody has ever done this before.”

“I know, but he is a second-generation candidate; his own persona is far stronger than ours were. The host memories are buried deeper. Get him to the office as soon as possible. Maybe Ecker can treat him today?”

“I will keep you informed.”

With that, Von Klitzing rang off. Reichard stared at the television as pictures of the suspects were put on the screen. Then the reporter summarised:

“Our gratitude goes out to Mr Jarvis; his civil courage distinguishes him as a role model. Would more people stand up to these hooligans, our city would be a safer place. We are expecting a comment from the mayor’s office within the hour. Until then, this is Karen Weger, ARD News.”

Reichard picked up the phone and dialled Dr Ecker’s number.

20

Michael had not slept well. His head had been spinning by the time he got to bed. They had spent two hours at the police station, answering questions and signing depositions. That had been the easy part. Explaining himself to the police had been simple, in comparison to Lisa’s interrogation.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she demanded.

He had no answer for her.

“I don’t know, everything happened so fast. I just got lucky, I guess.”

“Bullshit! You took them out. It was like watching a Bruce Willis film.” She frowned at him. “Why are you lying to me? We said we would never lie to one another. Didn’t we?”

Her eyes were welling up, the first tear hurdling her left eyelid.

“I am not lying, Lisa; please believe me,” Michael implored.

“And what about the hospital? You were out of it, Michael. We couldn’t even talk to you.”

He couldn’t explain it, but something in his gut had warned him not to visit the hospital. He had felt as if he had been possessed, unable to control his own thoughts and movements, as if he had become a spectator. How could he explain that? He needed some time, time to get a grip, time to understand.

“I don’t know why. I was scared. I just reacted.”

“Scared? Scared of what?” she demanded.

“Scared of what they might find. Lisa, I don’t understand it either. I would never lie to you, you know that!”

He bowed his head and hoped her resistance had broken. Tears were in full flow, and she had knelt beside him, taking him in her arms.

“We have to see someone. It might be serious. If you are no better tomorrow, you must promise me you will go to the hospital.”

He had nodded his head, and she had accepted his promise. Thirty minutes later they were back at the flat.

Lying on the bed, Michael stared at the ceiling. The early morning sun was rising over the city, lighting the bedroom through the lace curtains. He debated whether a visit to the hospital may not be his best course of action. He would do that, but first, he had to get some sleep.

No sooner had he closed his eyes, he heard the sound of a girl crying. He tried to reconstruct the apartment building in his mind, but was too tired to open his eyes and get a better idea of which flat she might be in. He had had little or no contact with the neighbours, so it would not help. Instead, he pulled the pillow over his head and squeezed tight, to block out the sound. It seemed this was not going to help, as her sobs were getting louder, and for some unknown reason, closer. He tried to remember if the bedroom wall possibly connected them to the flat next door, but it was a waste of time—he couldn’t remember. The girl was now inconsolable, and he had to fight the compulsion to get up and see if she was all right.

It is none of my business, he decided. I will pop round there and make sure she is all right in the morning.

She was now talking to someone, and Michael was starting to get very concerned for her.

“Please, not again, please! I can’t do it any more. Leave me alone!”

That was too much for Michael to ignore, and he staggered from his bed. Lisa seemed to be sleeping through it, despite the noise and the sunlight creeping in around the closed curtains.

She must be exhausted, he thought.

Looking around the room for the door, he struggled to find his bearings. The sound of the girl’s voice was not helping either, as it seemed to be circling him. Stumbling over some unseen piece of clothing, he made for the nearest wall, only to be disappointed as the sound of her voice grew fainter, and the door did not materialise. The next wall was no better. He could hardly hear here at all for a moment, and he began thinking the fight was over, and they had made their peace.

“YOU BASTARD!” It was as if she had screamed it into his ear this time, and he whipped around, almost expecting her to be standing right next to him. But there was nothing, just the dark bedroom and a few grey outlines of the bedroom’s furniture. Moving to the next wall, he was determined to help the girl. Running his hands frantically over the rough wall’s surface, expecting the door to appear at any moment, he was met by just more paintwork. Moving from one wall to the next, he was unable to find the bedroom door. Frantically, he circled the room, unable to find the exit, before finally collapsing on the bed, defeated. Sweat poured from his forehead, and his pyjamas were soaked. The girl’s sobs filled the room.

Open the bloody curtains, you idiot! he shouted at himself.

But he lacked the energy; his limbs felt like lead, and he could hardly keep his eyes open.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t find you, I’m sorry!

When Lisa woke at 8:00 am, she immediately started fussing. Michael was crashed out next to her, and she thought it better to let him sleep. God knows he would need it after the night before. They had no solid plans for the day, so she had decided they should both take it easy. She left the room and headed for the kitchen. There were croissants in the freezer and jams in the cupboard.

She would start without him, she decided, but it wasn’t long before he joined her in the kitchen.

“How did you sleep through that?” His hair was dishevelled, and he was trying to move it back into a more acceptable state with the palm of his hand.

“What?”

“The girl, she was crying and screaming. I hope she’s all right!”

“What girl? I didn’t hear a girl,” she said, aghast.

“You are incredible. How could you not hear her?” He smiled and shook his head at her.

“Really, I didn’t hear a thing. Do you think we should ask the neighbours if everything is all right?”

“Yes, I do. I’ll get dressed and go round.”

“Do you have to do it right away? I thought we could have a bath?” She moved over to him and planted a big kiss on his lips.

“I really think I should, darling. You should have heard her.”

“Come on, Michael, you did enough of the hero stuff last night. I’m sure she is fine. Come and have a bath with me.” She grasped the lapel of his pyjama top and gently pulled him in the direction of the bathroom.

“Lisa, I have to go. She may be hurt!”

“It’s none of our business. Let it be!”

“I can’t. I’m worried about her!”

“Okay, if you think you have to. But make it quick—I will be in the bathroom.”

Michael headed back to the bedroom whilst Lisa made for the bathroom.

Ten minutes later he was back at the bathroom door, looking confused.

“And what did you find, Sherlock?”

“They don’t have a daughter. Both neighbours are young couples.”

“Maybe it was one of the women?”

“No, I asked. I don’t understand it?”

“Maybe it was just a dream?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Maybe it was?”

“Come on, get in here with me. I will take your mind off it.”

Michael slowly undressed and gingerly stepped into the hot water. Lisa made room for him to sit down next to her. Two minutes later, he was sound asleep again.

Lisa was debating whether to wake him, when the doorbell sent her scrambling for her dressing gown. Not expecting anyone, she wondered if it might be one of the neighbours with an explanation for Michael. When she opened the door, she was surprised to find Von Klitzing outside.

“Herr Von Klitzing, what a surprise!”

Lisa shifted uncomfortably, pulling the thick dressing gown together over her chest.

“Hello, Mrs Jarvis, I am sorry to bother you both on a Sunday, but I need to talk to your husband.”

Von Klitzing didn’t wait to be invited in, instead pushing past her into the centre of the entrance hall.

“I am afraid he is still sleeping,” she said indignantly.

“Then wake him; there is a situation that requires his attention.”

Lisa was not accustomed to demands and was just about to tell him where he could stick his situation, when Michael appeared at the living room door. He too was wearing a dressing gown, the sweat on his forehead giving the impression she had run the bath water far too hot.

“It’s okay, honey. How can I help you, Herr Von Klitzing?”

“Mr Jarvis, you made quite an impression last night. The mayor would like to thank you personally for your help.”

“That’s very nice of him, but there is no need.” Michael’s stomach turned at the thought, and he wished he had followed Lisa’s advice and taken a taxi home.

“I am afraid it is too late, Mr Jarvis. He has already arranged an audience at the town hall at midday. It would be very disrespectful to turn him down.”

Von Klitzing had given him little choice, and Michael could see no alternative, so he accepted as graciously as he could.

“Okay, but I have no idea what I should do, or say.”

“That is no problem, Mr Jarvis. Meyer-Hofmann has a very close working relationship with the mayor’s office. If you allow us, we would like to prep you for the meeting. I have a car waiting downstairs, at your convenience.”

“He has to have breakfast first!” Lisa insisted. “You can’t expect him to leave without something in his stomach.”

She heard her mother’s voice in her shrill tone, and her face flushed for a moment.

“I am fine, darling. Let me get some clothes on, Herr Von Klitzing. I will be right with you. Can we pick Lisa up on the way to the Town Hall?”

“Of course,” Von Klitzing answered and headed towards the door. “I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

Nodding in Lisa’s general direction, Von Klitzing disappeared out the front door.

“I hate that man. He gives me the creeps, always scratching at himself; it’s disgusting. Do you have to go, Michael? What on earth can they do to help you?”

“I have no idea, but I am not about to make any more waves before I even start the job.”

Shrugging his shoulders, he left for the bedroom. Ten minutes later, with a slice of toast clamped between his teeth, he was gone, leaving Lisa sat at the dining table alone, looking at the place settings and fighting back more tears.

This is getting to be a habit, now pull yourself together, she admonished, sniffing hard.

21

Michael returned at 11:30 am totally composed. He kissed her on the cheek as he entered.

“You look wonderful, darling. I’ll just put on a jacket, and then we can go.”

She was wearing a Dior trouser suit she had got for a fraction of the normal price at TK-Max. The black suit was designed to be worn without a blouse, the plunging neckline showing off the wearer’s cleavage. But Lisa had decided that might be a bit too much for the mayor and the waiting media. The last thing she wanted was to attract too much attention, so she had put a cream tailored blouse underneath it. Admiring herself in the hall mirror, she decided it that it didn’t hurt to look good. Picking up the small blue clutch bag she had chosen, to add some colour to the outfit, she turned and smiled as Michael came back from the bedroom.

“My God, what a lucky guy I am.”

Linking his arm through hers, he gave her a peck on the cheek, and they headed downstairs to the waiting limousine.

Despite outward appearances, Michael was only just holding it together. He had no idea what had just happened to him; he had no recollection of the last two hours. Von Klitzing had taken him directly to the club, and then everything was blank. He had come round in the car returning to the apartment. Heinz was driving and seemed unperturbed when Michael asked him how he got there.

“You fell asleep, sir,” he had said nonchalantly. “Don’t worry, you will be fine.”

Back in the car, now with Lisa by his side, he was fighting to stay calm. He had no idea what awaited them and was praying he could hold it together

The Town Hall is in the centre of Munich. A grand building, built in Gothic Revival style, the 100-metre-long façade looks over the Marienplatz decorated with statues of the Bavarian Kings and their history. Michael and Lisa found themselves on the large balcony in the middle of the façade usually reserved for the likes of the Bayern Munich football team celebrating a German Championship or Cup win. Michael swallowed deeply and looked down on a crowd of thousands. Unbeknownst to him, the last hero of the underground had died trying to help four innocent children. In 2009, Dominik Brunner, a fifty-year-old businessman, had tried to do the right thing, and been kicked to death for his troubles. His death had deeply affected the city and its residents. Michael’s civil courage being reported on the early morning news had made him an instant local hero. The mayor turned to Michael and, shaking his hand, started a long speech to thank him. A loudspeaker system relayed his words to the crowd below. Michael listened and nodded at the right moments, so that even Lisa was given the impression he actually might understand some of what the mayor was saying. Then, when he finished, the mayor handed the microphone to Michael.

“Mr Mayor, Ladies and Gentlemen, it is a great honour that you pay me today. An honour that I hardly deserve. Anyone put in my place would have done the same, and I am happy to have helped those young people. I have come here for work and been welcomed with open arms. For that, I am very grateful. Since my wife, Lisa, and I arrived in Munich, we have only met kind and charming people. There is always a small minority of people in every community whose selfish behaviour casts a bad light on the majority. Believe me when I say, I know that they do not represent your wonderful city. On the contrary, today, you are demonstrating the real face of Munich. Today, you have sent a message, to all who seek to disrupt and destroy… ”

Lisa watched as Michael spoke. He stood tall, his chin up, and she couldn’t have been prouder. She watched the crowd straining to see him, listening to his words. Turning back to him, she was startled when she realised something that made no sense to her at all.

Michael was speaking in fluent German.

22

Reichard was exhilarated.

“Did you hear him?”

They had all been there. Not on the balcony, but close.

“He was brilliant. He had them eating out of his hand—it was amazing!”

The board members were all at their places, around the oak table in the club. None of them could quite believe it. It was better than any of them could have hoped for. Heinz Hofmann had literally burst out of Jarvis, like a caged animal given its freedom. After Dr Ecker had pulled the needle from his arm, Jarvis had slept for over an hour. It was not unusual, but they were all worried there would be no time to prep him before his appearance. The plan was that he should be humble, accept the mayor’s thanks, and get out of there, keeping the Meyer-Hofmann connection quiet. But when he woke, there was no sign of Jarvis—it was Hofmann in all his glory. He remembered everything, he knew who he was, who Jarvis was, as well as the group’s shared past. After taking his place at the head of the table, he had calmly asked them to bring him up to date. More like a manager returning from a business trip than the reincarnation of a dead man. They had kept it brief, listing their successes and their recent problems. Nothing had fazed him. He saw the meeting with the mayor as an opportunity to introduce himself. After that, Hofmann had decided they should all meet up back in the club, to rework the company strategy and to better align it with the company’s original goals. Standing like a general addressing his troops, he had leant forward, hands flat on the table, and made a speech as if he had never been away.

“Gentlemen, remember the Führer’s words: solidarity, mutual benefit, the common good. We were chosen to help Germany—to help mankind—live up to those values. Together, we are strong. Together, we can defeat our foes. We must make everyone in the company aware that the fight is not over. That we can and will lead them to our joint destinies. If everyone is made to understand the benefits they will gain by joining our cause, they will be lining up to join us. Only we know the real truth; only we can spread that truth. We were born for this job, and now that I am back, I will see that the job is finished.”Hofmann looked around the table, waiting for a response, expecting solidarity. Dr Ecker was the first to his feet.

“Herr Hofmann, I would like to be the first to welcome you back. But maybe you should give the process you are going through a little more time?”

“I am aware of the situation, but we have no time. You, Gentlemen, have wasted time. We should be much farther along than we are. Now that I have control of the company and of Jarvis, we can move forward. Jarvis is as aware of me as I am of him—we are of the same blood, and we share the same destiny.”

Hofmann showed them all the total conviction and belief that he felt. Within an hour of him awakening, they all believed him. Even Von Klitzing was moved by the passion of the man. Hofmann had left the meeting and delivered a great speech. But where was he now?

The phone rang, and Von Klitzing answered. After listening for a moment, he hung up and turned to Dr Ecker.

“Doctor, we have to go. Gentlemen, we will be back in thirty minutes.”

23

Back in the flat, Heinz Hofmann had stared into the bathroom mirror. The calm and bravado of the afternoon now a distant memory, the man in the mirror was a scared imitation. Fear and confusion racked him, his body felt as if every one of his muscles was contracting like some huge snake squeezing and pushing him back into the past, back to where he belonged. He tried pressing and prodding at his face, manipulating it into something that resembled his own, but to no avail. There were resemblances, the eyes and the hair colour were his, but it was not the face he remembered, and he feared that without it, he may never be able to complete the process, never be able to truly believe. His memories of his past life were helping, giving him confidence and security. His old life was all there, buried deep in this man’s brain, but intact. He felt it slowly shaping his host, helping them to fuse and blend, moulding them together. But he also realised it would take time, and he could not influence or accelerate the process. Patience had never been a virtue, and he was convinced that this would be one of his greatest battles. When they had started this endeavour, he had spoken to Professor Furtner at length. They had speculated about the results and tried to imagine this day.

What is a man, if not his memories? Didn’t we all stem from our personally accumulated knowledge? What makes us what we are, if not our personal experiences? When I am free of Jarvis’s past, I will be, to all intents and purposes, the same person I was before. It doesn’t matter what I look like, Hofmann told himself.

The power and intensity of the pain took him by surprise. It felt like a giant hand had reached into his skull and was crushing his brain. Forcing him to his knees, a primal howl escaped from his throat.

“Are you okay in there, Michael?”

The woman was outside. He had managed to fob her off when they left the town hall, complaining of a headache, and his body was now obliging, making the lie a reality.

She would be the next problem, he knew. Reichard and Von Klitzing’s plan, won’t work. She is an intelligent woman, and she should not be underestimated. She is also dedicated to this man. I have to be prepared for a fight.

“I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.”

The sound of a strange man’s voice startled him; it would take some getting used to. But it seemed to have the desired effect.

“Okay, but let me know if you need anything. I will be in the kitchen.”

Back on his feet, he let the taps run, bathing his face and forehead with cold water. His head was pulsing now. Each throb caused him to narrow his eyes, fighting back the pain and nausea. He forced himself to remember. Somehow, remembering helped him to keep calm, to get more of a grip on the rebellion he felt. Then the pain struck again, throwing him to the ground. On all fours, both hands on the slate grey tiled floor, moving back and forth like an animal, he fought the pain with all his might. The gasp he had made had, fortunately, been masked by the sound of running water. Thankfully, the concerned voice from outside the door never came. Then yet another blast of pain and his body retched and contorted. Michael Jarvis opened his eyes and stared down at the mess on the floor. He had ridden the pain back into consciousness, used it to bully his way back into control. He had no idea how he had known to do this, but it seemed that on some level, nature was still on his side. Pulling himself to his feet, he staggered to the bathroom door, unlocking and pulling it open. Still not in complete control of his extremities, he tilted himself forward to get some momentum, bouncing off the walls and doors as he made his charge towards the kitchen. The pain helped him to keep charge of his insubordinate body, and he welcomed it as a necessary evil. Ricocheting off the hall wall into the living room, he destroyed a silver-coloured table lamp, sending it crashing onto the hardwood floor. The lampshade buckled on impact, detonating the lamp’s base. Alerted by the noise, Lisa rushed to her husband’s aid, just in time to watch a spectacular backward somersault over the black leather sofa, narrowly missing the glass coffee table. Michael came to rest wedged between the two.

“Darling, darling, what’s the matter?”

He could see her screaming the words out, her face wild with fear, but the sounds were muffled to his ears, his brain struggling to decipher the information.

“Help me! Help me, Lisa!”

Pulling the mobile from her pocket, she dialled 999, before realising the number would be of little help to her in Germany. Forcing herself to be calm, she redialled 112 and prayed the number was correct.

“It’s going to be okay, Michael, hang on. It’s going to be okay.”

Hoping she was right, she calmed herself again for the conversation with the paramedics. The efficient German emergency services answered on the third ring, switching immediately into the English language, after Lisa’s first rushed attempt to communicate their situation failed.

“Please keep calm and tell me the nature of your emergency.”

“It’s my husband—he needs an ambulance. He is suffering extreme headaches and losing his balance.”

“Very good, madam. Where is your husband now?”

“He’s in the living room, on the floor. But he can’t stand up!”

“Can you tell me if he is conscious, and breathing normally?”

“Yes, yes, please hurry up.”

“If you would give me your address, I will despatch an emergency vehicle immediately.”

“God, we’ve just moved in. I don’t know the address exactly. It’s in the Olympic Park.”

“Could you give me your phone number?”

“Yes, it’s 0797 5532348, but it’s an English phone. Just a minute.” Lisa spun around, remembering the flat papers she had put in a kitchen drawer. She rushed into the kitchen, her phone pressed against her right ear the whole time. Fumbling through the kitchen drawers, she pulled the papers out, and was relieved to see the flat’s address, printed in large dark letters on the front of the document.

“The address is Nadi Street 6, Olympic Park.”

“Excellent, well done, please stay on the line until the ambulance arrives, and inform me of any changes in your husband’s condition.”

Lisa pushed the coffee table to the side and placed a cushion under Michael’s head, in an attempt to make him more comfortable. When she was finished, she took his hand and tried to force a smile.

“Lisa, I can’t remember me!”

“What? Just relax, darling, the ambulance is on its way.”

“No, you don’t understand. I haven’t got much time. They drugged me.”

“Who? Who drugged you?”

She could tell that he must be in some pain. Michael’s eyes always became smaller when he was in pain. His pupils were tiny, and his face was pale, the colour washed out of it. But what he was saying was even more disturbing.

He had been acting strangely since returning from the club. Could they have given him something? Drugged him? But why?

“Who drugged you, Michael?”

He was losing control again. He could feel his dominance diminishing, his world slipping away. He felt himself falling, sliding into oblivion, a bottomless well, unable to halt his descent, the world’s lights and sounds becoming a distant pinpoint somewhere above him. The body’s pain abating, its muscles relaxing, Michael accepted defeat. All he could do now was prepare himself for the next opportunity, the next battle.

Hofmann squeezed the woman’s hand and sat up.

“No, Michael, lie down; they will be here any minute.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t fuss!”

He pushed her to the side as he stood up, and Lisa lost her balance, sitting down hard on the sofa. Staring up at her husband, who was now standing over her, her expression was a picture of shock and surprise.

“Michael, what are you doing?”

“I’m all right! I’m fine now. I just need a little time. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you.”

They looked at one another, uncertain what to do or say. The doorbell saved them. Hofmann seized the opportunity, making his escape in the direction of the front door. Lisa remained on the sofa, unable to decide what had just happened.

What was the matter with her husband? She called after him, but he was already in conversation with the paramedics.

Was he ill? The drugs! Lisa was up and on her way to the door, the phone still clutched in her hand. The muffled voice of the operator was pleading to be heard. Michael was at the door, trying hard to persuade the paramedics that he was fine and didn’t need treatment.

“Wait, Michael, let them help you. They could do a blood test. Maybe they can tell if you have been drugged?”

The young paramedic had almost given up trying to persuade his belligerent patient to let him help, when he heard Lisa’s remarks.

“Drugs? What drugs, sir?”

“There are no drugs. I was having an episode. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“You said you had been drugged,” Lisa interjected, hoping her reminder would help him see sense.

“I’m perfectly fine!”

“Sir, I am afraid I will have to insist. Either you come with us to the hospital or we will wait for the police to arrive, and they can decide.”

Hofmann scowled at Lisa.

“Okay, okay, I will go with you, but you stay here.” He turned and pointed a finger at Lisa that left her no less clear about his feelings at that moment than if he he had pointed a gun at her.

He might as well have shot her. The shock of that image physically rocked her. I was only trying to help! The tears welled in her eyes again.

“Please let me go with you. I want to be with you!”

He pulled his coat from the stand and stepped out of the door, without looking back.

“Let’s get this over with!” He gestured towards the paramedics and headed for the staircase.

It was a fifteen-minute drive to the nearest general infirmary, Rechts der Isar, even with the blue light and siren. The paramedics insisted on securing him to the gurney for the duration of the trip, which agitated Hofmann even more.

Trussed up like a Christmas bird ready for the oven! Who do they think they are?

Wires and cables monitoring his body’s every function hung from his arms and chest, spiralling together on their way to the monitors suspended above his head.

His mind was spinning alternatives, deciding how he would deal with the hospital staff, but more importantly, how he would deal with his unruly host and its wife.

I need time. As long as I am fighting for control of his body, I have to get some distance from Jarvis’s wife. I will tell her I have to go away on business to get acquainted with the Company’s holdings, worldwide. She won’t like it, but that is not my problem. I will stay at the club. Six weeks should do it, give Ecker and his drugs a chance to finish the job, while protecting me from another scene like we had today. Then I need to get rid of her. I just have to decide how.

Danger had always been part and parcel of Hofmann’s life. There was never gain without risk, or change without pain. Hofmann was used to dealing out pain, but not quite so used to being on the receiving end.

I have to get back to work.

When the ambulance finally came to a halt, he had decided to find whoever was in charge and discharge himself immediately. Fortunately, it was not necessary, as waiting at the doors of Accident and Emergency were Herr Von Klitzing and Dr Ecker.

24

The International Crime Police Organisation, better known as Interpol, was set up in 1923 to help cross-border intelligence between police departments of member countries. With one hundred and ninety member countries, it is the second largest intergovernmental organisation after the United Nations. Functioning as an administrative liaison between forces, Interpol allows communication between law enforcement agencies across language boundaries. Collating an immense criminal database, it then places it at the disposal of all member countries. Untethered by national boundaries, this multilateral knowledge database and its seven hundred personnel, is in a far better position to construct a larger picture of international crime than national agencies.

Joe Wilson’s request for information on Britt Petersen was entered into the database and passed on to the Bundeskriminalamt, Germany’s version of the FBI. They, in turn, contacted Munich’s Criminal Police. For this reason, Detective Inspector Günther Müller and Detective Constable Monika Keller had left their office on Ett Street and were heading in the direction of Starnberg. They had been unable to reach Mrs Petersen by phone, her mobile phone jumping to voicemail after the first ring. On account of the allegations and his position in the Company, they had decided not to talk to her husband, at least not yet. Both officers had discussed the matter at length. Mrs Petersen’s husband was on the board of a very big company. It had connections to German Industry and politics at the highest level. Any allegations must be substantiated, before anything became public. It was an opportunity for them both. Günther was in his twenty-fifth year at the Kripo (criminal police) but, at forty-eight years of age, he was still ambitious.

This could be a dream job. Industrial espionage and murder—it is like something out of the movies.

Slowly stroking his short-cropped, light brown beard, he pondered the opportunity as he accelerated the unmarked police car down the motorway.

Monika was still in her first year at the Kripo. She had flown through the police college, and after a short spell as a Munich Police Officer, she had been moved to the criminal police. She originally joined the police as a way of supporting her sporting ambitions. She had been an Olympic speed skater at the age of eighteen, and the police were one of only a few employers who would tolerate the constant demands of sporting ambition. It was quite a surprise to her that, in the last four years, she had grown away from her sport and become more and more interested in the job. So much so that when the opportunity to become a detective came up, she had grabbed it with both hands, despite it costing her a second chance of success at the Olympics in Russia. Getting to work with Müller had been a major feather, as he was one of the best detectives in Munich and was tipped to become the chief inspector someday. Looking across at her boss in the car, Monika could feel the nerves flutter in her stomach, much as they had done during competition. The difference was that, here, she felt she was making a difference. She signalled that Günther should take the next exit and sat back deep in her seat, theorising what puzzle might be waiting for them. Despite the German tendency to use only surnames in the work place, Günther had offered her the more personal first name term (du) shortly after they started working together.

“We will be there in about ten minutes, Günther. Unless you drive any slower!”

“Don’t be cheeky, Monika. There is no rush,” Günther said, putting on a serious expression.

Tucking her long blonde ponytail through the back of her baseball cap, Monika prepared for their first meeting with Britt Petersen. She had read Petersen’s accusations a hundred times, but there was little way of knowing if they were true. Preliminary investigations had not turned up any evidence of wrongdoing by the company in the German Republic, but the charge of murdering its employees would mean a thorough investigation before the case was closed.

They arrived at the house, just as an attractive woman was carrying a large cardboard box through the white front door. Her blonde hair was longer than in the photos they had seen, but it could well have been Mrs Petersen. Both officers moved swiftly from the car to the house, keen to close the distance between themselves and their witness.

“Excuse me, please, Mrs Petersen?”

Lisa Jarvis had heard the car pull up as she was emptying her car boot of the last of ten heavy boxes. Since Michael’s enforced departure on Company business, she had tried to occupy herself with the move to the Petersens’ house, before starting her work at PricewaterhouseCoopers in the coming week. Michael’s decision had led to another argument and a lot of tears on her part, but he was not to be swayed. She hoped that once he had settled into the job, his strange behaviour and health issues would relent, and they could get back to the relationship they had known before the move to Germany. Taut Skype calls had done little to ease her fears for their future, as, despite his words of never-ending love, his tone had left her cold. On the plus side, the house was amazing. Britt Petersen had done such a lovely job of decorating. Lisa was sure just a few boxes of personal stuff scattered liberally throughout the house would suffice, until they made a decision on whether to buy it or not.

“Mrs Petersen is not here,” Lisa said, turning to greet the visitors. “My name is Jarvis; we are renting the house from the Petersens.”

“My name is Müller, Günther Müller, from the criminal police in Munich.” Günther showed her his ID, which she took from his hand and examined closely.

Müller was nothing like the photo on the card. In fact, the couple didn’t look a bit like the police she had seen in her short time in Germany. No green-and-brown uniforms, rather designer blue jeans and baseball caps. It was certainly the same man, but his hair had been shaven for the photo, and now it was long and unruly. The photograph’s stern stare had disguised a friendly and likeable face, the kind you could trust. Monika also handed Lisa her ID; she too looked better in real life. Lisa was not a nosy person, but she liked a scandal as much as the next woman.

I wonder what she has been up to? she thought to herself with a smile.

“Would you know where I could find Mrs Petersen?”

“I am afraid I don’t, but please, come in.”

They followed her into the house and dodged around the boxes in the hallway. She had gone straight into the kitchen, and they followed her, both getting a feel for the house as they went. The woman was classy, but a little needy. Günther made a note to make a break for it as soon as she had answered his questions.

“Tea? We brought it with us from England.”

“Yes, thank you. Mrs Jarvis, can I ask you a few questions?”

“Yes, of course, but I don’t think I will be of much help. I have never met Mrs Petersen. We got the house from her husband. They are separated, you know. Shame, really—it’s such a lovely place.”

Lisa busied herself with the tea, PG Tips, in a porcelain teapot.

Not exactly British aristocracy, but they were German, so they wouldn’t know the difference.

She smiled at them, and, taking the tray with cups, saucers, sugar, milk, and the teapot, she made her way into the lounge.

“Thank you,” they each said as she offered them a cup.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Milk, please.”

Monika declined with a wave of her hand and sat back to watch her boss work.

Lisa poured the milk from the teapot’s matching jug and gave him one of her best smiles. This was a welcome break, dealing with someone else’s problems, instead of her own.

“Mrs Jarvis, I hope I can count on your discretion. We are investigating the Company that Mr Petersen works for. Mrs Petersen has sent us some information we are eager to follow up on. For obvious reasons, it would be better if Mr Petersen, and anyone else from the Company, remain unaware of our interest at this time.”

Lisa got that bad feeling again.

“My husband works for the Company.” She blurted this out, rather than saying it. “But he has only just started; two weeks ago. That’s why we have just moved in.”

“Okay, your husband is in no way involved, but it would still be better if you didn’t tell him about my visit either, please.”

Then the cookie dropped; Müller looked up and gave her a quizzical look.

“Is your husband the gentleman from Prince Regent Street Underground?”

“Yes, yes. That’s him.”

“That’s a very brave thing he did, Mrs Jarvis. You must be very proud.”

“I thought it was bloody stupid!”

They all laughed, Lisa covering her mouth with embarrassment at what had just burst out.

“No, don’t get me wrong, I am proud. Of course I am proud. But it was completely out of character. Even he didn’t know what came over him.” Smiling again, she took another sip of tea and sat back in the leather sofa.

“And where is Mr Jarvis now?”

“He is away on business. I am not expecting him back for quite some time, as he has to visit the Company’s assets all over the world.”

Interpol had already sent Müller a list of all Meyer-Hofmann’s business interests, and it was a long list. They had also sent him a list of deaths and suicides of company employees in the last twelve months. That made disturbing reading, especially when you looked at the people’s heredity.

“Mrs Jarvis, I cannot tell you what we are investigating at this stage, but if you notice anything unusual, anything at all, please get in touch with us.”

He handed her a card and made to stand up. She reached over, immediately catching his thigh and motioning for him to sit down.

“My husband has being acting crazy ever since we arrived here.” Again, she blurted the sentence out.

Müller looked confused but sat back down.

“Please, whatever you have to tell me, continue.”

“The Underground. The speech at the Town Hall in German. He doesn’t speak German! He was ill, and he told me he had been drugged.” Müller pulled a notepad from his pocket.

“Slowly, now, who drugged your husband?”

“I don’t know, but it can only have happened at the club, the one on Gallery Street.”

“Your husband told you this?”

“Yes, but then he denied it. God, it’s all so mad. He is just not himself—he is aggressive and loud and obnoxious.”

“Maybe it’s just the pressure of the move?”

“No, no, he is used to pressure, but he has never acted this way before. I feel like I don’t know him anymore. Someone has done something to him, given him something.” Her tone was pleading, and her hand was back on his thigh.

If Müller could have a Euro for every time he had heard the line, “my husband doesn’t understand me” in his career. Another marriage gone sour. People going their separate ways. He doubted it had anything to do with the Petersen case. But the idea that he might have been drugged was intriguing.

“Mrs Jarvis, I don’t know what all this means, or whether it has any bearing on our investigation. But I will most certainly bear it in mind. If you think of anything else, you know where to get me. Now, unfortunately, we really have to get back to the station and try to determine the whereabouts of Mrs Petersen.” Standing in unison, the officers moved briskly towards the door. Looking over his shoulder, Günther could see Lisa Jarvis had not moved and was staring blankly at the carpet under the coffee table.

25

Heinz Hofmann prepared himself for another night in the basement of the Company’s club in the Odeonsplatz. He had insisted that they make no fuss, and was bunking in one of the guard’s rooms on a portable steel bed. He had thought about a hotel outside of the city, but that would mean a commute that he was keen to avoid. The club provided him with everything he needed, food, water, and a bed. All that, and access to all the Company’s records. He had taken to studying them long into the night, as the nights were the worst. Sitting in the interrogation room, leaning against the chair with a needle in his right arm, the doctor standing over him, he was feeling anything but confident about the final outcome of his metamorphosis.

“Why is this taking so long, Doctor? Shouldn’t Jarvis be losing touch by now?”

“This is not an exact science, Herr Hofmann. You must be patient.”

“I have no time for patience. There is too much to be done—I don’t have time for this shit. Can’t you just up the dosage or something?”

“It is not a question of the dosage, but finding the best strain of the virus to change the DNA and destroy his memory synapses. It would seem that Jarvis’s memory has wired itself unconventionally. It should be responding to treatment, but it appears to have multiple synapses to the same memory chain. As we destroy one, it opens another. I believe that your old memory is almost totally regenerated. The problem is, that Jarvis’s memory has not been destroyed. He must have suffered some very intense emotional trauma in early life; that is the only explanation for all this. Extreme emotional arousal can cause memories to become far more intense and deep-rooted.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

Ecker bent over to take the needle out of Hofmann’s left arm; as he did, Hofmann grabbed his arm, squeezing down with enormous force.

“Aghh, Herr Hofmann!” Ecker bleated.

“Listen to me, Furtner. Get this sorted, and get it sorted quickly—nobody is irreplaceable!”

“I will, I will. Tomorrow, I want to try four new strains. We will get this done. We will defeat him. Trust me, please.”

Hofmann released him, and Ecker stumbled backwards, rubbing his left arm as he went. Then, regaining his composure, he straightened himself.

“Herr Hofmann, the human brain is capable of housing anything up to a 1,000 terabytes of memory, and has over a trillion synaptic connections. It is not a simple rewiring job! The neurons in Jarvis’s brain are creating new synapses, connecting your memories and forgetting his. They have been responsible for your rebirth, but if you feel you have someone better qualified… ” Ecker didn’t wait for a reply. Leaving Hofmann with the needle still in his arm, he turned and left the room.

Hofmann ripped the offending tubes from his arm, hurling the intravenous drip to the floor before taking off after Ecker. As Hofmann came slamming through the door, the doctor had hardly a chance to turn before Hofmann was on him. He hooked his right leg around the doctor’s legs and shoved him hard in the back, and Ecker hit the ground like a Canadian redwood. Grabbing the back of his hair, Hofmann pulled his head back, before smashing it sharply into the floor, producing an audible snap as the doctor’s nose broke. Enraged, Hofmann growled into Ecker’s left ear.

“Don’t underestimate me, Ecker. Furtner will soon be reanimated, and then I can get rid of your sorry arse!”

Releasing the doctor’s hair, Hofmann stood and walked casually down the hall towards his room, ignoring Von Klitzing and two guards who were sprinting in his direction.

“What happened?” Von Klitzing asked.

“The doctor came face-to-face with his new reality.”

With that, Hofmann turned the corner and disappeared into his room, leaving Von Klitzing turning back and forth between the closed door and the dishevelled, bloodied figure of Dr Ecker.

Hofmann lay on the bed, exhausted, his arm still throbbing where he had ripped the needle from his vein. He watched the luminous alarm clock’s green display light bouncing back off the ceiling, its hypnotic effect pushing him towards a dark sleep’s cold embrace. The dream came instantaneously and was a mixture of both his past and Jarvis’s present firing simultaneously, a kaleidoscope of thoughts and images vying for ascendancy. Hofmann could feel the other man’s presence even as he dreamt, a spectre at his back. Together, they visited his childhood, intimate moments with his mother in the kitchen of the family’s first house. A small boy’s first school day, and a proud mother clasping her son’s face in both hands, fortifying him for the day ahead with a kiss on the forehead. Hofmann felt angry that Jarvis should become privy to such a vulnerable moment from his past. But it was not long before they were transported from his mother’s kitchen to the German Reichstag in Berlin, and Hofmann’s first meeting with the newly elected Führer. Huge red banners adorned with black swastika hung on the walls, framing the men’s embrace, both pumped with national pride and radiating the power they now held in their hands. This was a scene he was pleased for Jarvis to share. Then the picture blurred, and the walls seemed to elongate themselves, turning the Reichstag into a white hall, and, finally, a hospital ward. Complete with beds and curtains, it was totally devoid of patients. Only the soft crying resonating from the end of the ward, from behind a pea green door next to the main entrance, alerted them to the presence of a young girl. They were drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Both were aware that this was a part of Hofmann’s past he did not wish to share. The door was now in front of them and opening of its own accord. The room behind it was small, with a bed in the corner, and next to it was a hospital table holding a bank of old-fashioned electronics. The compulsory curtain was half-drawn around the bed so that you could make out a figure curled up at one end of the bed. She was wearing a hospital gown, which revealed a malnourished pubescent body. Her vertebrae and ribs were clearly visible through paper-thin, pale skin. A mop of greasy hair stuck to her shoulders and back. The gown, loosely tied with three thick cotton bands of material, could not protect her modesty. The girl was facing towards the wall so that they could not see her face, but Hofmann knew who it was. The rebirth policy had demanded that all of the chosen board members should parent a male child. With one exception, this was done by artificial insemination. He had been the exception. Choosing the prospective mother himself, he had deemed it his duty to impregnate her the natural way, devoting two weeks to the cause. He had visited the girl every evening after business hours. They had been given the nurse’s station room, and every evening, without fail, she had been there. All of the girls had been chosen from the local Hitler youth, the indoctrinated girls all keen to support the cause. These men were all heroes in their eyes, confidants of the Führer. It was an honour. She had been submissive, even happy the first few times, he remembered. But that had soon changed when he allowed his deviant nature to get the better of him. The last week of their partnership, she had dissolved into the whinging, whining mess that sat before them.

Michael listened to the man’s thoughts and watched his memories. He recognised the sound of the girl’s voice from the apartment.

That is why the neighbours knew nothing about her.

He had almost forgotten her pleading voice in the madness that had become his life.

She turned to face them, terror in her eyes, her legs working frantically to move away from him, pressing her up into the corner of the bed against the walls. Her hands pushed at the bed sheets, her eyes looking at the ceiling for some salvation. Michael felt his arm raise, poised to hit her. An all-consuming desire to teach her her place.

NO! His silent scream ejected them from the room.

Michael wrestled with his thoughts, trying desperately to make sense in them.

Who was this man?

It was Hofmann’s turn to look into the eyes of strangers. The couple in front of him stood in their eighties lounge; its patterned turquoise carpet and matching three-piece suite was alien to him. These were Michael’s first foster parents, and Hofmann felt himself taking a back seat as Jarvis’s life took its place in their combined consciousness. Michael had hated these people, but for no good reason. Seeing the welcome on their faces now filled him with guilt.

My God, the Greens. Why am I seeing this? Michael watched the scene, spellbound.

Mrs Green was on her knees, trying to console the child sandwiched between the strangers in front of him and the others holding his hands. Michael felt the child’s desperation and need to find an escape, unable to accept the warmth being offered to him. But he remembered her quilted skirts and purple cardigan. The smell of lavender, which filled the house and permeated her clothing. Mr Green was there too, wearing his thick eyeglasses, which made his eyes look disproportionate to his head. They were good people, and Michael had lived with them for the best part of a year.

Turning away from the scene, they found themselves on the steps of Leeds University, watching a young woman float past them. The huge sandstone building and clock tower were a blur, as that vision of loveliness blew through. It was love at first sight, a concept that had been alien to Michael until that moment. Love, a word he had read in books and seen in the faces of friends but never felt himself. The girl was disappearing into a crowd of commuters, and Michael felt that pang of loss, just before the men awoke.

Both staring at the same cold white ceiling, they remained perfectly aware of each other’s presence and were unable to decide what to do. Michael desperately tried to understand what was happening to him; Hofmann, all too aware of the process taking place. For a moment, neither man could separate himself from the other. Then Hofmann felt a bolt of fear course through him, as he watched his right hand grip his injured left arm, squeezing him into unconsciousness.

Lying very still, scared that a wrong movement or thought may rob him of control, Michael held the wound tightly. For some reason, he was sure that as long as he could feel the pain, he could hold supremacy. Although he did not really understand what had happened to him, he was at even more of a loss as to what he could do about it.

Michael remembered Hofmann’s life as vividly as if it were his own. Trying to relax as much as he could, he reran the different scenes through his mind again.

The man had been a confidant of Hitler, an industrialist during the last war. He believed he and his colleagues could be reborn through their children, and getting that poor girl pregnant was all part of their plan. Filled with panic, he delved deeper into the memories, searching for a lifeline. Watching the scenes play out, he was able to remember the man’s thoughts and feelings. His name was Hofmann. Heinz Hofmann.

Hofmann’s childhood hopes and dreams were not unlike those of any child during his school years. From dreams of becoming a professional footballer to marrying his first love. An apprenticeship in his father’s company had proved to be the turning point. The man had led a normal life until then. The company had been his passion—it manufactured parts for the car industry, and his father had built it up from scratch. In the mid-1920s, however, the company experienced its first loss. As the great depression took hold and demand dropped across the world, profit margins suffered. On top of that, the company faced new and intense competition from local competitors. Jewish-owned companies were undercutting them and became the focus of Hofmann’s outrage. By forming cooperatives, Jewish suppliers had made themselves more cost-efficient than his father’s company. Hofmann had watched his father tear himself apart trying to save the business. Resisting the urgings of his son to make redundancies to streamline the company and make it more competitive, he had waited until the company stood on the brink of bankruptcy before taking his own life instead. Hofmann, forced to take the reins from his father, went about it with a zeal that bordered on the maniacal. He halved the workforce, undercut the competition, and started to source his raw materials from less reputable suppliers. When the bank manager informed him that they were about to foreclose, he broke two of the man’s fingers, before threatening the life of the banker’s only child. By the end of the month, there had been a series of fires at his competitor’s premises, which filled his order books and returned the company to solvency. His success had set the tone for the rest of his business life—he took what he wanted. After he met and went into a joint venture with the equally scruples-free Franz Meyer, their future was written. Misdemeanours turned into serious crimes, fibs into lies, false bookkeeping into corruption, and threats into murders. When the men’s attention was drawn to a young Adolf Hitler, they introduced their business methods into politics. Actively supporting Hitler was in both their interest and his. He was a young man with a future, in a land that was crying out for change. They were businessmen in need of political influence. Helping him to gain power served them both. Hitler’s party had already recognised him as a great orator, able to galvanise the voters’ support. Now, with financial backing, he became the obvious choice for party leader. The way had not been without its setbacks, but even after Hitler’s arrest after the “beer hall putsch” the businessmen’s support helped to get him released within nine months of a five-year sentence. Strangely, this setback had brought Hitler to the attention of the German people, and it was just a matter of time before the Nazi Party got itself elected. Hofmann and Meyer didn’t waste any time convincing Hitler to support the automotive industry—creating new jobs in their industry was what the country needed. After coming to power in the 1930s, the Nazi Party passed its Motorisierung policy, which saw the motor industry as a key to returning the German people to work and prosperity.

The more Michael remembered about the man’s past, the more his feelings swung towards a deep loathing. Michael had his own strong beliefs about life; not all were positive, but he had a strong moral compass. Hofmann had been a monster, and he could feel his corrosive history burning into his brain like non-ethical acid. Flooding him with knowledge and indoctrination that had no place in his mind or soul. Sweat poured from his forehead, yet he felt freezing cold, shaking with anxiety. By the time he managed to push the memories from his mind, he had reached an inescapable conclusion.

Hofmann was a relative and most probably my grandfather. It explains my childhood to some extent. There is no other explanation.

The nefarious nature of the man was poisoning him, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop it. He felt the absolute necessity to get out of the building. The concrete walls of the basement were oppressive, but the building had taken on a more iniquitous air, oozing the immorality of its proprietors. Struggling from the bed, he took a brief look in the mirror before picking up his wallet and watch from the bedside table. Unsure of exactly what to do or where to go, he determined that confidence was the best policy and strode through the corridors in the direction of the lift to the club upstairs. A guard sat at a small table next to the lift door. He was a young man, but incredibly well built, and he watched Michael with suspicion. Hitting the elevator’s button, Michael did his best not to make eye contact.

“Will you be long, Mr Jarvis?”

“No, I am just popping out for some air.”

Michael wondered what Hofmann would have done in the circumstances, but it was too late for that. The guard was already on top of him. He was incredibly strong, levering Michael’s right arm up behind his back and slamming him up against the elevator door. The panic lasted less than a second. He had inherited more than just a bad temper from his grandfather. As the lift door opened in front of him, he went into a forward roll, carrying the guard on his back and ploughing him face-first into the elevator’s mirrored interior. Springing to his feet, Michael stamped down on the young guard’s neck with all the force he could muster. The snap of the guard’s cerebral spine echoed around the cabin, as his body became a heap on the polished floor. Shocked by his actions, Michael still had the presence of mind to move the body. Carrying it fireman style back to his room, he laid it out on his bed. The young soldier’s neck was bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring blankly up at the bedroom wall. Michael only just made it to a small basin in the corner of the room before being sick. His head spinning with the realisation of what he had just done, he stumbled back against the wall, his hands clawing it for stability, his eyes unable to pull away from his victim’s blank stare.

I killed him. Oh my God! Michael’s right hand came up to his mouth as his stomach threatened a repeat performance.

I have to get out of here! His fear now overriding all other emotions, he set off for the elevator for a second time. Punching the ground floor button, he pressed himself against the broken mirrored wall, still unable to escape the dead, staring eyes of the guard. When the lift doors opened, he sprang through them, running towards the club’s exit whilst leaving a half-dozen bewildered waiters watching his desperate departure.

Once on the street, fighting back the panic, he started to walk towards the Underground, every step a struggle, his entire body screaming for him to run. The feeling of a myriad of eyes examining his every step persisted. Only the distant call of his name prompted a change of plan, fight or flight? He made the decision in a heartbeat. Accelerating to a sprint, Michael took off down Ludwig Street. Convinced he could hear the sound of men running behind him, he put his head down and ran as hard as he could towards a distant underground station. Despite his exertions, he could tell that they were closing and started looking for an alternative. Spotting the entrance to a courtyard on his right, he hurdled the red and white barrier and sped toward the communal gardens of the Bavarian Governments Libraries. The green space was lovingly kept, the few trees surrounded by golden shower roses, their yellow blossoms complementing the daffodils planted around the garden’s circumference. Ripping through the boundary flowers, he sprinted across the garden, making for the building’s entrance on the other side. Screaming to a halt, he found himself with the choice of two black polished doors. Neither door was signed, and his decision to take the right door had more to do with the golden door handle than any expectation of solace behind it. Twisting the handle, he put his shoulder into the door, only to be bounced back into the garden by the solid structure, landing hard on his left shoulder. A bolt of pain shot up his back and shoulder, and panic filled his heart. As he made to stand, the feeling was quickly replaced by the pain of a wasp like sting, as a tranquiliser dart impacted with his neck.

26

Von Klitzing pored over the open file on his desk. The letterhead read IOCP. A fuzzy black-and-white photograph of Britt Petersen stared back at him.

It was an old photograph, taken before she was married. It didn’t do her justice, in his opinion. It was probably taken at some law society function in Sweden. I wonder how many people are missing her? Her parents have been dead for some time, but there was an aunt and cousins living near Stockholm whom I remember reading about in one report or other.

Neither aunt nor cousins had set eyes on Britt for years. It is truly amazing that such an attractive and intelligent woman could have had so few real friends.

That is the price of ambition, I suppose. Poor dead girl.

Von Klitzing had arranged for their colleagues and members of the Petersen Family to be prepped by Fredrik, with tales of adultery and alcohol abuse. Von Klitzing was convinced he had things under control, and he congratulated himself on his handling of the situation. He was proud of his ability to manipulate the workings of the world to his advantage.

Now, the police need a witness, he said to himself as the door to his office opened, and Eva Von Klitzing stepped into the room. A morning at the hairdresser’s had changed Eva from having a loose resemblance to Britt Petersen into her twin. It was a remarkable transformation. His daughter was even imitating Britt’s typical pose, that slightly arrogant look and posture she would take when being courted by older men. He smiled.

Eva was a chip off the old block. She took the transformation and associated role-playing in her stride. For reasons she could not explain, she had hated Britt Petersen.

Perhaps because we were so alike, she mused.

More likely, it was her knowledge of the threat Britt posed to her father’s company. The plan was to go to the police and take back all of Britt Petersen’s accusations.

“You know what to do, my darling.”

“Yes, Father, of course! I will claim that I acted out of spite and revenge. My acts were retribution against the firm that had poisoned my husband against me.”

“That is splendid! Just stick to the story, and I promise everything will be fine.”

Eva was well aware that she could go to prison for what she was about to do, but she didn’t care about that. Her father was taking notice of her for once in her life, and she was going to milk it for all it was worth.

At 3:00 pm that afternoon, Eva Von Klitzing knocked on the door of the Petersens’ house in Starnberg. There was no answer, but she knew that Lisa Jarvis was home. Their sources had confirmed that the Munich Criminal Police had visited the house in search of Britt and talked to a Lisa Jarvis. Since then, her father had kept Jarvis under surveillance. Eva needed a reason to visit the police station. Going around the side of the house, she found a path leading to the back garden. Lisa was kneeling on a mat, weeding the garden’s central flowerbed.

“Mrs Jarvis?” she called.

Lisa turned, holding up a hand to block the sun from her eyes.

“Hello, can I help you?”

“My name is Britt Petersen.”

“Oh my God, it’s lovely to meet you!” Lisa jumped to her feet, pulling the thick rubber gardening gloves from her hands and slinging them down onto the velour car mat.

“I don’t mean to intrude, but my husband said you would be in today, so I just took a chance.”

“Yes, yes, what can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to pick up a few things. I am moving back to Sweden.”

“Yes, of course. Can I help you? Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. I will just pick up a few things, and then I’ll be off.”

“You will probably want to take all your photos and camera equipment with you. I put them in the cellar.”

Many of the rooms were decorated with very artistic black-and-white photographs. After Lisa had found more in boxes in the master bedroom, along with a large Nikon digital single lens reflex camera, she surmised that Britt was a serious photographer.

“I can help you bring them up, if you want?” The last thing I need is a car full of Petersen’s shit. What I need is an invitation to visit the Munich Police, you silly cow, Eva raged internally.

“No, thanks, Fredrik is getting all that shipped. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t leave any personal items behind.”

“Well, you are very welcome to check. I will be here if you need anything. I have only used the drawers and cupboards that were empty for our things.”

“Do you like the house?”

“Oh, I love it, especially what you have done with it. You have such great taste! The pictures, the furniture, it’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. Yes, we were happy here for a while, but our breakup had nothing to do with the house. You should take it. Fredrik doesn’t need it; he is better off in the city.”

“I will have to wait until my husband gets back from his business trip before we can make a decision. Is it okay with you if I make a few changes? Make it feel a bit more like our home?”

“Do whatever you like. I am done with it,” she said bitterly.

“Oh, that’s a shame. I am sorry!”

“Don’t be—water under the bridge.” A pained smile crossed Eva’s face, and she felt herself growing into the role.

“Look, it’s not my place but… ” Lisa hesitated.

“Please, whatever it is.”

“The other day. Well… the police were here asking for you. They said if I were to see you, I should tell them.”

“Did they say what it was about?”

“No, not really, something about the Company, I think? Sorry.”

“Never mind. I will get in touch with them. Did they leave a number?”

“Just a minute, they gave me a card.”

Lisa took off into the lounge, and Eva allowed herself a small smile. Returning with DI Müller’s card, she handed it to Eva, who thrust it into her Gucci handbag before moving to leave.

“Thank you. I will get in touch with them immediately. I am sure it is nothing serious, but I better get off. Goodbye.”

“But don’t you want to pick up your things?”

“Oh, yes, yes, maybe I can come back another time? This police business has made me a little nervous!”

“Yes, of course. I understand.”

With that, Eva was gone. Lisa sat down on the rattan patio chair, somewhat baffled by what had just taken place. Confused that Britt had not taken any of her things with her, she wondered at the fact that she had not even had a quick look around.

Maybe she was more concerned by the police’s visit than she wanted to admit? She thought.

* * *

Günther Müller got a call that Britt Petersen was waiting for him in the reception of the building the following morning. Motioning to Monika, who was sitting at a desk opposite him in the open plan offices, they both stood and moved towards the elevators.

“The Petersen woman is downstairs.”

“How did she know that we were looking for her?”

“Good question.”

Eva had decided to wait until the following morning before going to the police. It was almost 6:00pm before she had got back to Munich from Starnberg, and she didn’t fancy a grilling through the night. Now she was rested and ready for whatever the day may hold. She was sitting in an interrogation room, waiting for the investigating officer.

Nothing like you see in the movies, no two-sided mirrors on the wall, just a simple table and two chairs. Eva sniffed at the room and prepared herself with a deep breath.

She had been waiting for less than five minutes when the officers entered the room. The woman was carrying a chair that she put down opposite Eva’s.

“I am Detective Inspector Müller, and this is Detective Constable Keller. Mrs Petersen, thank you for coming in.”

“You are welcome. I was out at my house, and Mrs Jarvis said you had been looking for me, so I decided to come. How can I help you?”

The officers swapped a look of understanding before Günther addressed Eva again.

“Mrs Petersen, I must tell you that you are not obliged to talk to us, but if you do, anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence. Do you understand?”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, we just have a few questions for you about a letter you sent to the Portland Police.”

“Yes, I understand. I haven’t got anything to hide. It was all a silly mistake.”

“Can we get you anything to drink?” Monika interjected.

“No, thank you.”

“Mrs Petersen, we have been made aware of the letter you sent to the Portland Police. Would you mind explaining the content? On what basis were you making these allegations?”

“Oh, yes.” Eva went to work, rolling her eyes, pulling nervously at her hair and biting her bottom lip. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. I hope I have not caused any trouble.”

“Obviously, the fact that you are here today shows we are taking it very seriously.”

“I was angry; it wasn’t true, any of it.”

“Mrs Petersen, these are very serious allegations. You are a lawyer, you must know the consequences of such an action.”

“Yes, of course I do. Look, it was my husband. He has been working all the hours God sends for the last year and a half. He spends more time in the US than he does here, and I was sick of it! I told him to make a choice. The Company or me.”

“And he chose the company?”

“Yes.”

“And what was the point of the letter, if the allegations were unfounded?”

“Never heard of a woman scorned, Officer? Fredrik was always talking about Rahul—couldn’t stand him. When I heard about the family’s deaths, I thought immediately how convenient that would be for Fredrik.”

“You think Fredrik killed them?”

“No, of course not. He couldn’t kill a fly.”Günther pushed a copy of the letter across the table to Eva. Fortunately, it was not the first time she had seen it. Her father had somehow acquired a copy that she had been able to study in preparation for her role. She looked at it nonchalantly.

“I don’t need that. I know what it says—I wrote it.”

“I know you wrote it, Mrs Petersen, but I would like to go through it anyway. Now, first, you wrote that you had found information concerning Family Singh in your husband’s papers. Is that true?”

“Yes, that is true. But it was just an e-mail from the US telling him that the family had sadly passed away in an accident at home and that they would have to take steps to bridge the gap at the company. He was to go over immediately. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He had only been back a few days, and they were talking about needing him for months.”

“Your husband is also a lawyer, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“And what was his role at the company?”

“He specialises in international law, but more recently, he has become involved in the company’s daily business. Meyer-Hofmann wanted one of their men at the helm. Rahul Singh was made CEO by the company’s board, despite Meyer-Hofmann’s concerns.”

“What concerns did they have?”

“They just didn’t think he was suitable.”

“Because of the colour of his skin?”

“No. That was just me being mischievous.” She smiled, and made a silly chuckling sound.

“It is a little more than mischievous, Mrs Petersen. You accused the Company of plotting multiple murders.”

Eva stared at the table as if she could look straight through it at their feet, feigning discomfort.

It was all going to plan. They hadn’t even asked for identification.

She had shown the desk sergeant her fake passport, but he had only given it a passing glance, not even taking down the number.

It was slack policing—what was the world coming to! She allowed herself to relax a little and raised her head for the next round.

“Look, I know what I did is reprehensible, but I am here to put it right. You can take whatever action against me you think is appropriate. I won’t fight it.”Günther wasn’t buying it; this was all just a bit too rehearsed. He had dealt with many crimes of passion in the past, and none had taken this route. He was sure there was more to the deaths in America. DI Wilson had found evidence to support her accusations, even a plot to cover up the murders.

Someone must have got to her and forced her to change her story, he thought.

“Mrs Petersen, there is substantial evidence that supports your allegations. Is there a reason you have changed your story? You know, we can protect you if you need help.”

“No, nothing like that. Look, I have no idea what happened to that poor family, but I am sure Meyer-Hofmann had nothing to do with it.”

“And the others?”

“What others?”

“You inferred in your letter that this was not an isolated event. That other employees had been targeted.”

“Look, I was just trying to embellish my story. There is no foundation to it!”

“I am afraid that is not good enough, Mrs Petersen. I need to see all the information you have. About your husband’s role in the company, as well as his relationship with Mr Singh. I need to see the e-mails you refer to, as well as any other documentation you may have. Even if you do not believe it to be important! We would like to be the judge of that.”

“Look, I will help as much as I can. But you have to understand these are private e-mails from the company. I can’t just hand them over.”

“Then we will get a warrant.”

“Do you have to? Can’t you just drop the whole thing? There is nothing to it!”

“I am afraid I do not believe you, Mrs Petersen, and I intend to find out exactly what is going on here.”

“Well, without me!”

“Is there anything else you want to tell us, Mrs Petersen? Because if not, I am going to start questioning members of the company’s board, including your husband.”

Eva shrugged.

They could talk to whoever they wanted to, it wouldn’t change a thing. Once Meyer-Hofmann’s high-priced lawyers got a smell of it, they would stop this guy in his tracks. Anything that could endanger the company’s image would be fought with all its legal and political clout.

“Look, I have told you all that I know. If you are going to charge me, then do it. Otherwise, I take it I am free to go?”Günther did not like the tone, but knew that there was little he could do about it. He felt like throwing the book at her, but was not sure he would get much support from his superiors. Unless they came up with some hard evidence in the States, this could well be the end of it.

“Mrs Petersen, I am warning you, when I speak to your husband and representatives of his company, I will make it clear to them the allegations you have made against them. I may well also infer that you have evidence to prove this. You might well be in some considerable danger if these deaths were murders. Whether you take back the accusations or not.”

Eva sat back in her seat and crossed her arms, indicating that, for her, the interview was over.

“Mrs Petersen, I will need you to leave your passport with us. Do not make any attempt to leave the country. I will also require you to leave me an address and telephone number where I can reach you at any time. This is not the end of it. I will be in touch again soon. DC Keller will take care of the details.”Günther stood and left the room, leaving the two women behind him.

Outside, he blew out a frustrated breath.

That could have gone better, he thought. She is not telling us the truth. I am sure of that!

27

Hofmann awoke back in his bed in the basement of the Gallery Street club. Dr Ecker was flipping the sheets of a chart in his hands, pacing the small room and muttering to himself. There was a drip back in Hofmann’s left arm, and he was feeling decidedly unwell. He had a temperature, his head was throbbing, and his whole body felt as if it had been in a car crash.

“Doctor,” he croaked out.

“Herr Hofmann, how are you feeling?”

The Doctor seemed genuinely concerned, which worried Hofmann.

“What happened?”

“You had an episode. We have dealt with it. You are on an increased dose of the virus treatment, so you might not feel too good for a few days.”

“I don’t understand, Doctor. What is wrong with me?”

“It’s not an exact science, Herr Hofmann. The human mind is extremely complex, and it is very difficult to track all of Jarvis’s dormant memories. They seem to be stored in unusual places in his brain. I must be careful not to do more damage than good.”

“At this moment, I would take a chance. I need to get this thing under control; there is too much work to be done, Doctor.”

“I want to give you a computer tomography tomorrow. After that, I should be able to get a better picture how we are progressing. We will talk again tomorrow morning, Herr Hofmann. The best thing for you at the moment is sleep. Let the treatment do its work. You need your rest!”

As the doctor left the room, Hofmann let himself sink back into the bed. The smell of freshly washed linen filled his nostrils and, for some reason, gave him some small comfort. There was little he could do to change his predicament, so closing his eyes, he decided to try to wait it out.

Waking, Hofmann rolled over in the bed, reaching for his wrist watch. It was 2:00 am, and he had a raging thirst.

“Guard!”

There was no answer.

“Guard. Guard!”

Still nothing. Pulling himself upright, he had to steady himself as a wave of dizziness came and went. Pulling the sheets back and gingerly swinging his legs out of the bed, he made to stand up. For a second, he was upright, then, hit by the dizziness again, he felt himself falling. Trying not to rip the drip from his arm, he swung himself round anti-clockwise, but this just intensified the feeling, and he fell backwards, impacting the hard concrete floor with the back of his head. The clatter of the drip stand and bag landing next to him was lost in the howl that left his mouth as he collided with the cold floor.

Whether he had been unconscious for a second or an hour, he could not tell. The pain in his head blinded him, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, as if he might be able to shut the pain out. On the contrary, it became even worse, causing his body to convulse and retch sour bile onto the floor. Only the sound of a familiar voice brought him back to half-consciousness.

“No more than you deserve, you bastard.”

Whipping his head around, Hofmann was unable to tell from which direction the voice had come. He saw no one.

“I won’t let you do this. I will fight you!”

Now standing, Hofmann staggered to the light switch, convinced the man must be standing in the shadows. The fluorescent tubes on the ceiling blinked into life, illuminating every corner of the sparse eight-by-ten-metre grey room. The unmade bed stood on one side of the room, empty. Next to it, a small bedside table held a glass of water and Hofmann’s watch. Lying on the floor, the drip slowly deposited its contents onto the polished concrete floor, a puddle progressively pushing its boundaries in all directions. Opposite the bed was the door and another table, a heap of folders that Hofmann had been examining earlier piled awkwardly on its corner, next to assorted boxes of pills. Above the table was a large mirror, which stretched to a small basin in the corner of the room. It gave the room the impression that it was larger than it actually was and served as a shaving mirror for Hofmann, who was unable to get used to the modern electric razors, preferring a wet shave. Looking briefly at the confused and disorientated face of Jarvis, he turned back to face the bed.

“Where are you?” He screamed it out loud, his eyes wild with fear and confusion.

Callous laughter filled the room.

“You fucking moron. Where do you think I am?”

Swinging round, he was convinced his tormentor was behind him. He looked back into the laughing face of Michael Jarvis, staring back at him out of the mirror.

“This is not happening. I will not allow it.” He watched the words form and leave his mouth. But he heard Jarvis’s voice. The image in the mirror changed rapidly, from a laughing man to one filled with angst. There was no conviction in his voice, and he had to look on as the mirror image changed again, and Jarvis manifested himself.

“You fucking arsehole. Didn’t you have your fill of misery and pain the first time around?” Michael spoke as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “You and your friends are finished, I will see to that!”

Hofmann was reeling; he had no idea how to deal with this.

I can hardly strike out without hurting myself. The man is angry and aggressive. I must try to calm him down, before I send him back where he belongs, Hofmann thought, in an attempt to steady himself. I must alert Ecker of the situation.

“Michael, it’s not what you think. This is an incredible opportunity, for us both!” His voice was pleading, and he knew before the sentence was finished that it was wasted breath. Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “You are in a very privileged position. You can play a part in the salvation of humanity!”

“Salvation? You are a destroyer, Hofmann, not a saviour.”

“Wake up, Michael. Look at the world that you live in. You think you are in control of your life, that you can make choices. You are wrong. Every moment of your life is decided by others, for their convenience. You, and millions like you, prostitute yourselves every day, for the sake of a few baubles and possessions. We are here to save you from them, to give the power back to people like you.”

“You can’t possibly believe that propaganda nonsense will work with me, Hofmann. For God’s sake, I know what you are thinking, what you are planning. You want to murder and kill. Save the people—what people are you going to save?”

“People like you and I, Michael. People who deserve a chance in life, who were born for better things, but are downtrodden by the evil entities and sub-human creatures wandering this world. This is our destiny. That is why we were put on this Earth. To clean house!”

“Another Holocaust. More exterminations?”

“Michael, you must understand. The Aryan race gives us a perfect basis, on which we are duty-bound to build. The world cannot support all the parasites who live on it, sucking the life blood out of the planet and the good people on this Earth. Big business and politicians are carving up the world’s wealth, and you are letting them. It has been the same for generations. Mankind has got to stop being kind and start defending itself!”

“That is your justification for genocide?”

“What gives an ex-bedouin tribesman the right to call the world’s oil reserves his own, and hold the world to ransom? Look at the Russians’ gas supplies. Europe is at their beck and call. The Bolsheviks have been a thorn in Europe’s side for generations.”

“So you would annihilate them and put yourself in control?”

“I would put the people in control!” Hofmann was getting up a head of steam. He felt the old passion growing in him.

“Have you never heard of democracy?”

“It doesn’t work, Michael. Look at the British, the oldest democracy in the world, and a pale imitation of a once-great nation. Walk through their capital, and you will hardly see a white face. Where are the Englishmen?”

“On the contrary. They are the living example that a democracy works.”

“Have you seen their immigration policies? It is a country of bleeding hearts. Its doors are open to every antisocial individual on the planet. The country is so politically correct, it has become a joke! They might as well make a big sign ‘Miscreants Welcome’.” Hofmann waved his arms and hands around, animatedly framing the sign in the air.

“You are looking at the world from the same sick, bigoted place that led us into the last world war. Your strategies will always sway world opinion against you and your blinkered beliefs. Fortunately, the vast majority of the people live by a higher moral code.”

“Listen to yourself, bleating on about morality. People look after themselves, Michael, always have and always will. If you don’t show strength, you will be used by your neighbour, not helped by him.”

The debate was going nowhere, and both men knew it. Hofmann had hoped he might be able to convince Jarvis of their vision, but now he knew he had to get rid of him.

I have to wipe every last trace of this man from my mind. Expel this weakness from my consciousness. Now, I know the source of the weakness I found in my board. It was the cosseted upbringing and indoctrination of their hosts.

Michael saw himself in the mirror thinking those words, believing those words. He had to stop this man, at all costs.

Suddenly, sounds came from the hallway, and within seconds, the door was open, and a guard and Dr Ecker were in the room. Ecker had a syringe in his hand and was staring into Michaels’s eyes, unsure of what he or whom he was seeing. He sank the needle deep into Michael’s right arm, catching him as he fell, still looking, still searching. For Michael, the lights went out.

It was mid-afternoon, and the spring sunshine was blazing through the windows of the club. Heinz Hofmann had the board back at the table, and he was not a happy man. The fight with Jarvis was taking its toll and leaving his nerves raw. Dr Ecker had again tried to play the patience card, but Hofmann was having none of it. On top of that, he had now finished his appraisal of Meyer-Hofmann AG, and the litany of errors he had uncovered infuriated him.

“Gentlemen, I am not going to beat around the bush here. You are a pale imitation of your forefathers. I have spent the last two weeks studying what you have done with my company. Only to come to the conclusion that you have all lost sight of our original goal. Gentlemen, it is not our job to make money—we have always had money. It is our responsibility to create change, to change the world for the benefit of our countrymen. To rid it of weakness, corruption, and the insidious influences.”

Grunts and coughs filled the room, as the men at the table digested the accusations. All were stung by the criticism, but none were able or willing to contradict it. Only Von Klitzing seemed unaffected by the insults. He had been trying to take a more aggressive stance for years, only to be blocked by Reichard.

Maybe Hofmann’s return would change things, maybe this was exactly what the company needed.

Reichard, on the other hand, was not impressed. He had devoted his life to the company, achieving success as a global influence.

“Michael, you don’t understand.”

“Michael? Michael! My name is Heinz Hofmann, and you will address me as such!” Hofmann boomed at Reichard, enraged.

“You men have lost sight of who you really are. Despite all your work, Hitler’s vision is a million light years away. You have allowed yourselves to be corrupted by the very forces we are here to stamp out. It is abhorrent to me!” His eyes went back to Reichard. “And you. You are Hans Bremen, my friend, my confidant, my right hand. Have you forgotten who you are?”

Reichard stared up at Hofmann sheepishly. He was about to mouth an answer when Hofmann continued.

“I need strength and commitment around me. I need total commitment to the cause. We will use the rebirth technique as it was intended to be used, to start a Fourth Reich! It is time for the next generation. If you can’t deliver, then your sons will have to do it for you! Dr Ecker, start immediately?”

Ecker too was in shock, taking a while to respond. He was well aware that this was always the intent.

“But, Herr Hofmann, not all of us have male offspring.” He had hoped that they could find a plan B and spare their sons this step.

“What? You morons couldn’t even get that right!”

“Herr Reichard, Herr Von Klitzing, and myself have all fathered sons, Herr Hofmann. We can start the process at any time. But are you sure? Is it necessary?”

“Necessary? I will tell you what is necessary. I need my board. I need their strength and conviction. You lot are a disgrace!”

“We will start immediately. We can have the boys here by the end of the week.”

That seemed to pacify Hofmann.

“Good. We need to be proactive. I want to see this country on a different path within the year. We have the power and the influence; we only lack the courage and conviction. But not anymore!”

Ecker was still on his feet, but his mind was puzzling through his options.

Why stop the procedure? By helping each generation to remember its path, its history, they could extend their influence indefinitely. Hofmann was right, Germany had become soft and impotent, as much a slave to the corporations as any other nation. They were a corporation, a big corporation, one with the power to make a difference.

“I will have my son here tomorrow and start the work.”

Each of the board members now looked at one another and wondered what this could mean for their futures. Von Klitzing, Reichard, and Dr Ecker were all well aware what it would mean. Their sons would undergo a metamorphosis, before replacing their fathers. This was their initial design, their eternal protection, and most probably the reason for their personal extinction.

“I have also been looking at the command structures of our companies. Herr Von Klitzing has been doing a splendid job of eradicating the disruptive forces in our midst, but he has not gone far enough, or quickly enough. Herr Von Klitzing, I want you to double your efforts.”

“With the greatest respect, Herr Hofmann, we are moving as fast as we can without raising suspicion in the law enforcement community.”

“I have no interest in their suspicions—get it done!” That is foolish, Von Klitzing thought, shocked.

He watched Hofmann more intensely. Hofmann worried him.

We cannot ignore the world around us. This is not 1939. Things have to be handled differently now.

“Furthermore, I want more political involvement, in Germany and abroad. We can only influence the people by empowering them. What steps have been taken?”

At this, Fredrik took to his feet.

“Herr Hofmann, we have influence in all political parties in Germany, with the exception of the Green Party. Both the SPD and CSU could be influenced to move our candidates up the Party hierarchy.”

“Good, see to it! What influence do we have in other countries?”

“Wherever there is greed, we have candidates. America and Russia are well infiltrated, the United Kingdom and France are our primary targets outside Germany in Europe. We could have the entire Italian Parliament for a euro if we wanted it, but they hold no real influence in world politics.”

“Nonsense, the Italians understand us; they will be our allies again. I will make funds available immediately. Europe is screaming out for some leadership. If we offer people an alternative to the greed and nepotism of their governments, they will bite our hands off.”

“And how do you suggest we do this?”

“Simple, we make the funds available. There is more than enough money in the world’s companies to solve all of Europe’s problems. We just have to encourage them to give it away.”

Hofmann smiled at his own remark.

“Germany must be seen to be Europe’s saviour, not its financial auditor. Give the likes of Greece, Portugal, Spain our support and they will rise up with us. Their youth have been given no hope of a better life. We will change that. I want a plan in place within the month. Anyone who cannot see the vision, can be bought. Those who cannot be bought, will be terminated. Herr Von Klitzing, what is our strength at the moment?”

Von Klitzing rose slowly. This had been a lot to take in.

“We have a little over a 500 strong battalion, consisting of three companies. Approximately half are available for active service, and the rest could be made ready within a year.”

“Where are they? I want to see them.”

Hofmann had always loved the military. His service career had been limited to a brief tour of duty during World War I. He had missed the bloodshed, working in the supply units of the German Army. His business acumen had been recognised by the higher ranks and got him transferred from the front line, rising to the rank of captain. This had never been easy for him to accept; as a staunch nationalist, he wanted to fight for his country. He was one of many in the German Military who found defeat hard to stomach. He was sure that, had he been able to play a bigger part, he may have made a difference. That conviction had driven him to train extensively with paramilitary units between the world wars, convinced that the German Army could and would have won the first world war with better leadership. When Hitler persuaded him to take a back seat for World War II as well, it was with great reluctance that he did so. If he had anything to say about it, this time around, he would be on the front line.

“They are in Austria. We could go down there on Monday. I will make arrangements for the mobilisation of our assets. Have you made a decision about Jarvis’s wife?”

“I still haven’t decided. She is a problem. What would you recommend I do with her?”

“We need to get rid of her. Wives are a complication. The simplest way is to divorce her.”

“On what grounds?”

“Adultery is the quickest way. Either you have to sleep with somebody and let her find out, or we set her up as the adulteress.”

“I really don’t have time for this, but set up both.”

28

Lisa had started work at PricewaterhouseCoopers as planned. Steve had been a rock, filling her days with work and good humour. Fortunately, he must have got the message when they went for dinner, as there had been no more inappropriate behaviour. Truthfully, she could have used some flattery. Michael was ignoring her attempts to contact him by Skype or FaceTime, reducing their contact to brief text messages. She was becoming scared that the move to Germany could cost them their marriage. Michael had changed and was resisting all her efforts to help him. It was now the end of his second week away, and Michael had just sent her a text message saying that he could not tell her when he would be returning to Germany.

“Shit!” she said out loud. Throwing the mobile phone onto her desk in frustration, she heaved a deep sigh.

Unfortunately, she misjudged the force of her throw, and the phone bumped and skidded off the edge of the desk, landing with a crack on the grey office carpet. As she bent down to pick up the phone and assess the damage, she heard someone come up behind her.

“Got some bad news, Lis?” Steve Walker was right behind her by the time she stood up.

He had taken to calling her Lis (pronounced Leees). It was obviously an Australian thing. Only her mother had ever called her Lis, but that was the least of her problems. She gave him her best pursed-lip smile.

“It’s Michael, he’s still away on business and he hardly ever calls!” She spat out her frustration before waiting for her boss to hand her the morning’s work.

“A bunch of us are going to the Brenner Grill tonight, if you’re interested. Sophie is bringing her new boyfriend.” It was tempting. The alternative was another microwave meal, alone in a strange house.

“Maybe,” she answered.

“Okay. Can you check out HLH Partners yearly’s, for me? They have had some bad news recently and are keen to give their shareholders some good news for a change.”

He handed her a thick manila file.

“When do you need them?”

“End of next week would be good. Think you can manage that?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, but I will let you know for sure after I have looked over them.”

Steve turned and left her to get on with it, strutting away like the lord of the manor.

HLH, I have heard that company name before, I’m sure.

Leaning over the desk without taking her seat, she swiped the wireless mouse across the mouse pad. That brought her computer screen back to life, and she quickly tapped ‘HLH’ into Google. The second listing was a New York Times article on the tragic death of the HLH CEO and his family.

Oh my God!

Singh had been somewhat of a guru on the financial markets. Browsing the books Steve had given her, the bottom line didn’t look bad either. Year-end profits would be in the eight-figure range before tax. Most of which she intended to avoid.

He had had so much to live for. It was such a shame.

Lisa moved into her chair and took stock.

Really, I have a lot to be grateful for. That poor family is dead, and just last week, the CEO from Portland Investment took his own life. I need to count my blessings and lighten up! Maybe an evening out is just what I need. When Michael gets back, we will have a long talk and sort things out.

The rest of the day flew by, and it was not long before she was sat next to Sophie at the Brenner Grill. The Brenner is one of a host of funky restaurants in Munich. Just off the wealthy Maximilian Street, it served all types of grilled dishes directly from a large open grill, built into the middle of the restaurant.

The evening had been very pleasant. Sophie was clearly smitten. Lisa had spent most of the night on the receiving end of a minute-by-minute description of her life with the new boyfriend. How they met, fell head over heels in love, and moved in together, all in the course of a week. Apparently, this was not the first time Sophie had had a whirlwind romance. Lisa had been offered the chance to take part in an office pool on how long it would last. The secretaries on their floor were running a book, and as of this afternoon, the longest guess was a month.

Sophie usually got bored, is what they had said, but Lisa had declined to take part in the bet. Preferring to cross her fingers for her friend, she decided she had better things to do than take part in the cheap joke.

When it came time to go, Steve passed around glasses of champagne before paying the complete bill.

“I can’t, I’m driving,” Lisa said, putting up her hand.

“One glass is okay, Lis,” he insisted, handing her the glass anyway.

“Now let’s drink to Sophie and Frank.” He raised his glass, and they all toasted the couple, making Sophie blush.

“To Sophie and Frank,” everyone said together.

“We must do this more often, team. I will pay,” Steve announced.

“I will drink to that,” Sophie said with a chuckle.

Leaving the restaurant, a photographer appeared from behind the bar, and the group posed for a photo. Steve made a point of standing next to Lisa. Then, slowly, everybody went their separate ways. Lisa had followed Steve from work, both parking in the underground garage at the end of Maximilian Street, opposite the Theatre of the State Opera. They had hardly swapped a word over dinner, and Steve was all business on the short walk. Only when Lisa stopped to look in the window of Louis Vuitton did he change.

“You deserve beautiful things.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Steve. But these beautiful things are out of my league.”

“They are not in your league, Lisa. You are a beautiful woman, and you should have beautiful things.”

Lisa knew she should be running in the direction of the car, but the champagne and a genuine need for a little affection made her stay.

“Steve, don’t be naughty; you know I’m married.”

“Of course, I do, and he is a very lucky man. Where is he, by the way? If you were mine, I would never leave you alone.”

He moved closer, invading her space. It felt dangerous, and at the same time, a little exciting. He was an extremely handsome man. His Bulgari aftershave filled her nose, and she had to admit that his Australian charm was difficult to resist.

“Come back to my place, just a nightcap,” he implored.

“No, that is not a good idea.” She made to break contact, but he caught her arm and went for the kiss.

It shouldn’t have surprised her, in retrospect, but surprise her it did. More surprising was that she found herself briefly kissing him back. Maybe it was his attitude towards her over the past two weeks. She loved a man’s attention, and although she had no desire to do anything about it, she had to admit to herself that Steve’s attention was very flattering.

Kissing him is wrong; what do you think you are doing? she chastised herself. If Michael ever found out, he would be devastated! On the other hand, she insisted to herself: It was only a kiss. Plus, Michael is partly to blame; he has treated me like shit for the past month. Her emotions swinging back and forth erratically, she instantly reprimanded herself again: It is no excuse.

Somehow, getting angry at Michael and his treatment of her helped her to stop feeling so bad for a minute, but she knew she had broken Michael’s trust.

“Whoa, look, Steve that was not a good idea, I’m sorry. Our relationship can never be anything more than work.”

“I know, I know, Lisa, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.” His boyish grin lightened the situation a little.

“I hope that this will not go any further?”

Now Steve looked hurt.

“Give me some credit, I am not about to tell anyone about this, Lisa. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m sorry, Steve. Goodnight.”

Lisa looked down at her feet in the hope the pavement would open up and swallow her. It didn’t; she would have to live with it. A deep breath and a forced smile, and she took off in the direction of the car, chastising herself as she went. She left Steve standing alone on the pavement. He watched her go, and then casually bent as if to tie a shoelace, looking over his shoulder. On the opposite side of the road, the photographer nodded before looking back at the camera to admire his work. The picture could not have been better. Her eyes were closed, and her arms were around Walker’s neck. They looked like a couple in love, kissing openly on a busy Munich street.

29

Heinz Hofmann was rarely scared of anything, but the thought of returning home to Jarvis’s wife filled him with a feeling he could not describe any other way. Jarvis had been making his life hell over the last two weeks. After the first incident, he had been forced to give orders that he should be restrained, were he to try to leave the club for any reason. That had happened on eight different occasions and put two guards in the hospital. Hofmann knew that Jarvis was now aware of his situation. He was also sure that Jarvis was in possession of his entire life history, at least as good as he could remember it himself. It infuriated Hofmann that his own flesh and blood could not understand and would not appreciate the opportunity he had been given. The Führer’s vision had been Hofmann’s life. It was a vision that had mobilised a nation—surely an IT manager from Yorkshire could be persuaded of its merits. Jarvis had become a constant presence, a shadow in the back of his mind, a misty figure in the room where he slept, watching him one moment and fighting him the next. Not since the speech in Marienplatz had he felt in control of this body. He had tried to make direct contact, submitting to Dr Ecker’s best effort at hypnotism in an attempt to reason with the man. He had hoped he may be able to communicate with him and persuade him of the cause. But Jarvis was having none of it. Since realising he could not escape Hofmann, he had taken to destroying Hofmann’s work. The job descriptions Hofmann had worked on all day for his new board members were gone in an instant. He was confined to the shadows to watch them go up in smoke. Hofmann was the one who must now adapt, learn the modern ways, use Jarvis’s knowledge to preserve his work in the future.

Fight fire with fire. If you want a fight, Jarvis, you will get one. I have been fighting all my life, on one level or another. You will capitulate or learn to regret it. Your wife should be perfect leverage.

Arriving at the Starnberg house, Hofmann was greeted by an enthusiastic Lisa.

“Darling, darling, I am so glad you are home!” Launching herself at him, she threw her arms around his neck, before kissing him passionately.

Hofmann caught her and, getting into the spirit, spun her around like a child.

“I am so sorry, my sweetie, it could not be helped. But I am back now.”

“That’s fine, let’s forget about it. Come in, I want to show you what I have done with the house.”

She rushed off, with Hofmann just a few short steps behind her. He could feel Jarvis prickle within him. An involuntary voyeur, bound to watch whatever show Hofmann decided to present him with. Hofmann smiled widely, allowing Lisa to believe the gesture was aimed at her. Jarvis knows differently, he thought.

Leading him into the house, she made a beeline for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Come on, darling. I want to christen every room in the house,” she called provocatively.

Hofmann stared at her up the stairs. He had not taken time to appreciate his new bride’s good looks. Watching her slim waist disappear onto the first-floor landing, he had to stop himself from rubbing his hands together.

I will fuck her, unless you submit to me! he shouted into the deepest recesses of his mind. Hofmann was not sure if he would get an answer, but it didn’t take long. His feet gave way, and he crashed to his knees on the hard marble steps. Gritting his teeth against the sharp pain in his shins, he continued on up the stairs.

You can’t stop me, you know that, but you can make it easier for her.

This time it felt as if his heart had briefly stopped as his ribcage contracted, robbing him of air as a sharp pain shot down his left arm.

Pulling himself back upright, he followed the sounds from the bedroom. When he entered the room, he found Lisa naked, sitting on the end of the bed with nothing but a gold-coloured velvet cushion in her lap to cover her vanity.

“Hey, big boy. Remember what you have been missing?” She was holding the cushion so that one corner was between her legs whilst the opposite corner rested between her breasts, holding them up like a support bra.

Hofmann stumbled, catching his fall before colliding with her on the bed whilst doing his best to make it look intentional.

“Whoa, easy, Tiger, there’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere!” This is your last chance, Jarvis.

This time his lower back seized, and a spasm of pain shot down his left leg.

Shaking it off, he pulled the cushion out of Lisa’s hands and pushed her firmly backwards onto the bed. The roughness of his action made her bounce on the soft mattress, and she let out a small scream.

“Michael, be careful!”

Hofmann ripped at his clothes, pulling down his shorts and trousers in one go, as if every second counted, which he honestly believed it did. Jarvis would rather kill them both than allow Hofmann to have his way with his wife. Jumping onto her, he ignored her protests, and gripping both legs under the knees, he pressed them up and apart, tilting her up towards his angry penis before ramming the member into her vagina.

The shock did not stop the pain of the sudden insertion, and Lisa stared up at her husband in complete disbelief.

“Stop, stop, you’re hurting me. Michael, stop!”

Hofmann ignored her, battering her as hard he could, each thrust rewarded with a howl of pain, each thrust a warning to Jarvis. He could see the look of fear and confusion on Lisa’s face.

“No, no, Michael, please. You’re hurting me!”

Hofmann just smiled at her, and letting his grip slide down to her ankles, he expertly flipped her onto her stomach before taking her from behind.

“Michael, Michael, what are you doing?”

Reaching up to the bed head, Lisa grabbed the metal decoration and pulled herself up and free of him, twisting herself back onto her bottom to face him. When the impact came, Hofmann’s head jolted to the side, and pain flooded his right cheek. But this time, it wasn’t Jarvis. Lisa was obviously left-handed. She had slapped him across the face with all the force she could muster. The pain shot up the side of his head, and he felt himself losing control. Michael jumped from the bed, landing intentionally on his damaged shins, the pain firmly closing the door on a Hofmann return. Lisa, surprised at the effect her slap had, saw her opportunity to escape him and bolted for the on-suite bathroom.

Michael watched her go, grief and anguish filling his chest.

“Lisa!” he cried after her.

Slamming and locking the bathroom door behind herself, Lisa slumped down on the floor behind the door. Pulling her knees up under her chin, she hugged her legs in search of comfort. The cold bathroom floor added to the chills that were pulsing through her bones, her skin was crawling, and she was unable to comprehend what had just happened.

Michael has never treated me like that before, not in all the time we have known each other. What has happened to him? What kind of a monster has he become? She could hear him on the other side of the door, and she realised she was scared, scared of her own husband.

Michael was at a loss as to what he should do. Lisa had no idea what was going on.

How can I convince her that it was not me who assaulted her? That bastard Hofmann has just torn my world apart, hurting the thing I hold most dear.

He knelt on the floor in front of the bathroom door. He could not hear her, but he could almost feel her torment, despair, and desperation.

“Lisa, that wasn’t me!” he said desperately.

He waited, not expecting a response. The door creaked without him moving, and he knew she was close. She was listening.

“I am going to try to explain. It’s crazy, and you probably won’t believe me.”

Lisa was still sat against the door, shaking from a combination of shock and cold. Michael’s voice was in her ears, but she was unable to interpret what he was saying. She wanted to be anywhere but where she was. In that house, in that country, in that life.

“I love you, Lisa. I would never hurt you—that wasn’t me.”

“You bastard!” she screamed out.

He has just raped me, body and soul. I can never forgive him for that.

“It wasn’t me! I swear, it wasn’t me!”

Silence.

“Lisa, I am going to try to explain what has happened to me. What has just happened to you? Please, just give me the chance, just listen.”

Lisa was numb.

Whatever his excuse, it’s over. He has destroyed everything I cared about.

She didn’t answer him.

“You know how I said I had been drugged? It wasn’t a drug, it was a virus. The people at Meyer-Hofmann infected me with a virus. ”What is he talking about? What kind of a game is this? He doesn’t honestly think he can win me back with some fairy tale, does he?

“Darling, they changed me. They made me into somebody else.” Michael had no idea how to explain what had happened to him. Taking his head in his hands, he pulled at his hair, hoping for inspiration. “The Underground, the speech, that wasn’t me. You know it wasn’t!”

Lifting her head from her knees, she listened. He felt the door move on his back as her head leant back against it.

“They are Nazis, all of them, Reichard, Von Klitzing, everyone. My grandfather was one of them. That’s why I am here—why they lured us here with the job offer—they think they can bring him back through me.”

What kind of bollocks was this? “Fuck off, Michael!” The words exploded from her mouth, shocking both of them.

“I know, I know, Lisa. It sounds ridiculous, but it is true. They think they can bring him back by giving me his memories. By blocking my own. You have no idea what it is like when you can’t remember who you are. When you look in the mirror and see a stranger.”

She could hear the fear in his voice. She had heard it before, when they first met, but she had not heard it for a long time.

“He was some kind of industrialist, and he knew Hitler personally. His name was Heinz Hofmann. He was the Hofmann in Meyer-Hofmann.”

She shook her head and sniffed the tears and mucus out of her nose. Moving to the sink, she stood up and spat the substance into the basin. Turning on the tap, she bathed her face in the cold water, rinsing her mouth out, spitting the bad taste into the white porcelain bowl. The pain between her legs was a constant reminder of what had just happened. Looking in the mirror, she made her decision.

I am leaving him. She didn’t verbalise it, but she had made her mind up.

Michael was motivated by the sounds from behind the door and waited for them to die down, before continuing.

“He is a monster, Lisa. He took control of me at the station. It was him talking German at the Town Hall. It wasn’t me, how could it have been? You know I don’t speak German!” It made no sense, what was he saying?

“Lisa, they are all related to people who were in Hitler’s inner circle. The Company was set up to continue their work after the war. They want it to start all over again.”

He sounds so convincing; it doesn’t sound like he’s lying. But what he is saying is rubbish! She shook her head and stared at her reflection in the mirror, hoping for some guidance.

Michael stood and stretched. It was going better than he had hoped. He was now sure that she was listening. Moving back to the door, he put his hands flat on the door panels. In the bathroom, Lisa wrapped a towel around herself and sat on the side of the bath. Staring in the mirror at the streaks of mascara slashed across her face, she could not believe this was happening.

What was he telling her? It could not be true.

“They found a way to make people remember what their fathers or grandfathers had done in their lives. It is like having a past life experience, except it’s as if you were there. It’s mad. I can remember his mother, his first school, his girlfriends, his wife, his affairs. I can remember the way he felt, his beliefs, his anger. Lisa, I can remember my grandmother—he raped her. She was just a girl, and he took her as if she were a vessel for his amusement.”

Again, she shook her head.

“Sometimes there is no me. I become lost in him, in his memories, in his thoughts. And when that happens, I lose control. He takes over. I can watch, but I can’t stop him. Then a while ago, in the apartment, something changed. He got a headache, and suddenly, I remembered who I was. Can you remember, maybe? When I fell in the kitchen? When I told you they had drugged me? I got control back for a few minutes. When you hit him, hit me in the bedroom, it helped me to take control back from him—it has something to do with the pain! Lisa, you have to believe me. I would never hurt you. I love you. Please, Lisa, you know that it’s true!”

Lisa had once read a book about schizophrenia, and this sounded a lot like it.

Michael is a schizophrenic, she realised in horror.

“Michael, I think you are ill. You need help. You need to get help, Michael.”

“No, Lisa, you’re wrong. There is nothing wrong with me; it’s them. They have done this to me.”

Michael held his head in his hands. He had no right to hope that she would believe him.

Would I have believed her, if our roles were reversed? He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, only to feel the spectre of Hofmann creeping up on him again.

Moving quickly across the room, he picked up the glass from the bedside table and hurled it against the wall. The glass shattered on impact, the shards creating a firework of reflected light, falling to the floor, spent and broken. Swiftly picking up the largest splinter from the floor, Michael pressed the point into the palm of his hand, gripping it tightly.

“Michael! What was that? Are you all right?”

Michael fought the pain, but knew it to be a necessary evil.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. It was him, he’s fighting me. I had to stop him. The only way I have found is pain. When I am in pain, I become more lucid, and I can keep the upper hand. Lisa, you do believe me, don’t you? Please!”

She thought about it for a minute. What if he has gone mad? What if he is just waiting for me to open the door so that he can stab me with that glass? But what if he is telling the truth? I should give him a chance? I owe him that much, don’t I? It’s a leap of faith, but I have to trust him one last time. She turned the key, the lock clicked, and she prepared herself for the worst.

The door opened slowly around a creaky hinge, to reveal the figure of a man standing in the middle of the bedroom. Lisa stood in the rose glow of the bathroom light, tears running down her cheeks, the top of the white towel she had wrapped around herself stained by makeup. He had never been so happy to see her in his life. Taking a step back to give her some space, he hoped to convince her she had nothing to fear. She looked down at his hand and gasped at the blood trickling through his fingers and dropping onto the cream bedroom carpet, a small puddle of red. He followed her gaze, looking to the floor, but seemingly unconcerned.

I know this man; this man is safe. She had no idea how she knew this, but her body was already relaxing. An involuntary reaction to the man she loved.

“It’s nothing to worry about, darling. It’s how I keep control, the pain helps me.” He said it as if it made total sense.

Staring from him to the shattered glass on the floor, to the messed up bed, and back to Michael, she realised she had to make her choice.

This could be the most dangerous decision of her life. If she was wrong, it could very well cost her, her life.

But without him, I have no life!

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

As she entered the room, Michael moved carefully past her and into the bathroom. Taking a hand towel, he wrapped it tightly around his hand. The tip of the glass shard moved deeper into his fleshy palm, and he welcomed the new burst of pain with a grimace and a grin into the bathroom mirror. When he turned back towards the bedroom, Lisa was sat on the end of the bed. The tears had stopped, and she was waiting for him.

“Lisa, we have to stop them. These are evil men, and they are going to become more proactive if I allow Hofmann to join them. He is the catalyst. I have to find a way of destroying him.”

“And what if you can’t?”

Michael looked her straight in the eyes, his resolution plain to see.

“I can—”

“No, Michael! There has to be another way.”

“There probably is, darling, but I won’t let him use me. Lisa, we have to stop them all, not just Hofmann. Ecker, Reichard and von Klitzing are treating their sons with the virus right now. In a week’s time we will have another three lunatics to deal with.”

“Maybe it won’t work; it didn’t work with you.” Her voice lacked conviction.

“They have so many plans, Lisa. They are moving into politics. It sounds like they already have hundreds of politicians in their pockets. They are going to manipulate the stock markets, bankrupt banks. It will create unrest throughout Europe.”

“Can they do that?”

“They have so much money, so much influence, who knows what they are capable of? They have been getting away with murder for months, probably years.”

“What murder? Who have they murdered? Michael, you’re scaring me!”

“They have been murdering people in their companies, managers.”

“What? Why?”

“They don’t fit, they are not of Arian descent. Lisa, they are killing women and children. Von Klitzing is in charge of it, and I am sure that’s only the tip of the iceberg. There are things going on that they have not told Hofmann about yet, I am sure of it.”

“What will you do? We must go to the police!”

“But what would I tell them? No, we need some proof first. I am going to go back. If I pretend I am Hofmann, I can try to find out exactly what they are planning, get some of their papers, some evidence out of that building.”

“Michael, there was a policeman, here at the house!”

“What, what did he want?”

“He wanted to talk to Britt Petersen, but it was about Meyer-Hofmann. He didn’t want me to tell you because you worked for them. Maybe the police are onto them?”

“Maybe, maybe. But I still want to get some proof before we go to them. Have you got his number?”

“Oh… no. I gave it to Mrs Petersen. She was here the other day, but I remember his name. Müller, Müller was his name, and he was CID, a detective. It shouldn’t be hard to find him.”

“Good. That’s great, Lisa! You are the best. Thank you, darling, thank you for believing me!”

He moved towards her, cautiously at first, but as he saw her move towards him, he almost jumped on her.

For a second, Lisa thought she had been tricked. He was on her so quickly, but now, in his arms, she could feel his warmth, his love, and she melted into him.

“I could try to find out if there has been any wrongdoing in the books. If they are willing to kill people, you can bet that their accounts are full of illegal dealings.”

Letting her go a little so that he could see her face, Michael looked down at her.

“Wouldn’t PricewaterhouseCoopers notice?”

“Not if they had a man working for them. A man like Steve Walker.”

Michael looked at his wife and smiled. It was the first time he’d had a reason to smile for long time. He knew he had an ally, a strong and intelligent ally.

30

Joe Wilson pondered over the Interpol report. Britt Petersen has taken back her statement. I can only assume that somebody has got to her, because all of the evidence points towards murder. We have DNA from the Singh child and a blood toxicity report that screams to be heard. The investigation had also widened to incorporate the death of Deputy Chief Hanson. Telephone records showed that Hanson had accepted a call from Germany on the day of the Singh Family’s deaths and again the day before his own death. Bank receipts revealed large sums of cash had been paid into his account. These alone were reason enough for suspicion, but it was the phone number that was decisive. It had been traced to Germany, to a building on Gallery Street, a building owned by Meyer-Hofmann AG, the company Britt Petersen had accused of murder. The New York City Police Department was now taking the case very seriously and were investigating any deaths that could be associated with Meyer-Hofmann. The search had not taken long to verify their suspicions, and a three-speared task force between the NYPD, Interpol, and the Munich KRIPO had been set up to coordinate their efforts. Joe had been given authorisation to contact the investigating officers in Germany directly, and he wasn’t going to pull any punches.

“Detective Müller, my name is Detective Joe Wilson of the Portland Police Department.”

“Detective Wilson, it is nice to hear from you.”

Joe found the German’s command of the English language remarkable.

“Detective, we are now convinced that the Singh Family were indeed murdered, and we also think it is imperative that you take Mrs Petersen into protective custody. She could be in real danger!”

“Mrs Petersen was very determined to convince us that this was all a bad joke, Detective. What evidence do you have?”

“We have blood work, DNA, and a direct connection between Meyer-Hofmann AG and the Deputy Chief of the New York Police. Detective Müller, this is a conspiracy that doesn’t stop at the Singh Family. There are more than four other deaths under investigation.”

“Yes, this sounds very serious. I will contact Mrs Petersen immediately and see that she is brought into safety.”

“We have sent you all the documentation through Interpol. It includes telephone calls from Munich to our deputy chief, as well as the new coroner’s report. I would appreciate you keeping me in the loop on this.”

“Yes, of course, Detective. I will.”

As they talked, the computer screen on Günther’s desk lit up, and the picture of a red Mustang vanished, to be replaced by the Windows screensaver. His departmental inbox was blinking intermittently as new e-mails arrived, a small number in the bottom corner of the thumbnail counting the documents.

“What exactly are you sending me, Detective?”

“There is a summary of our investigation and, as I said, the new coroner’s report. But I would like you to find out who is on the end of the telephone number in Munich.”

“Which telephone number is that?”

“Chief Hanson received a number of calls from a phone registered to Meyer-Hofmann. I think whoever is on the end of that phone is likely to be our man.”

“Yes, that is certainly likely. I will get straight on it, Detective. Thank you very much for your help!”

Günther put down the phone and stared at his notepad.

If what he says is true, I am going to need more manpower.

Wilson’s story seemed unbelievable to Müller.

Picking up the phone again, he pressed the short cut key for Monika’s desk.

I will let her take care of Frau Petersen. I have to find out who made that telephone call from Meyer-Hofmann.

The modern digital world had many downsides, not least the loss of a person’s anonymity the moment they make a phone call. The number Wilson had given Günther was an extension of the Meyer-Hofmann Social and Business Clubs network on Gallery Street. Meyer-Hofmann was a company Günther had never had dealings with, but after a short internet search, it seemed to have connections with some very influential German people and companies. The telephone number was one of over fifty extension numbers.

That building can’t have more than twenty rooms? Either every guest receives a personal number when they enter the club, or something is not right, Müller mused.

After thinking it over for a moment, Günther decided that his first visit to the club should not be of an official nature. Pulling in some IOUs, he managed to wrangle a table for two that very afternoon. He just hoped that Monika had more clothes with her than just her customary jeans and a T-Shirt.

When the car pulled up in front of Ett Street Police Station, Monika was driving. She was wearing a tailored blue trouser suit and cream blouse, which made her look like she had just stepped out of a business meeting. Only the mane of blonde hair that bent and bumped around her neck softened her appearance.

“Very nice, Frau Keller,” said Günther after climbing into the passenger seat and looking her up and down.

“Thank you, Herr Müller!” Monika gave him a smile before charging off towards the Odeonsplatz.

Entering the club, Müller was immediately put on his guard. The reservation had been made in a pseudonym, but the maître d’ was insisting that they both fill out the guest book before taking their table. That was very unusual in Munich, where most business clubs were more relaxed. After entering fictitious names and addresses, the pair waited for their personal waiter, whom they followed into the Club’s interior. Müller wasn’t sure what to expect, but the talented butterflies in his stomach were buzzing with conviction. After ordering an apéritif, Günther excused himself and went off in search of the toilets. A few carefully chosen wrong turns later, he found himself on the third floor of the club, outside a large oak door. The engraved gold plaque announced that he was standing at the entrance to the Drawing Room. Moving with discretion, he slowly opened the heavy door, but its weight deceived him. Opening inwards, it pulled him into the room, causing his unceremonious entrance to be witnessed by all of the room’s occupants. Eva Von Klitzing was standing next to the bar at the back of the room. Recognising the intruder, she turned her back to the door, feigning conversation with the bemused bartender.

Better safe than sorry, Eva thought, downing the glass of wine in her hand in one, before gesturing to the bartender for a refill.

A second visit to the hairdresser had returned her hair colour back to brunette. Hair extensions completed the transformation. Dark red lipstick made her lips fuller and contrasted against her brilliant white bleached smile. Müller scanned the room, noticing the woman’s evasive reaction. Intrigued, he made a beeline for her, only to be headed off by an officious-looking man.

“How can I help you?” Von Klitzing put himself between the intruder and his daughter.

“Oh, excuse me, I was just looking around. I thought I recognised the young lady behind you.”

“I am afraid these rooms are off-limits to non-members.”

“I will be gone in just a moment. Young Lady!” Müller called in Eva’s direction.

She was unsure what to do, but it would have looked suspicious had she not turned around.

“Excuse me, do I know you?”Günther was good at faces. Her hair colour and makeup had changed, but her name was Britt Peterson, last time they had met.

“I am sorry, I was mistaken. I thought you were Britt Peterson, maybe you know her?”

“Yes, of course, she is the wife of one of Meyer-Hofmann’s board members. My name is Eva Von Klitzing. I didn’t catch yours.” Eva’s stomach was tight with fear, but she managed to give the policeman a confident greeting.

“Günther Müller, nice to meet you.” Günther shook her hand before offering his to Von Klitzing.

“And you are?”

“Von Klitzing. I am afraid you will have to leave. As I said, these rooms are private.”

“Yes, of course, I am sorry. It is a remarkable resemblance.”

“People say so. Now, you must leave!”Müller turned and headed for the door, his stomach basking in the glory of another successful assumption. He could feel the eyes of the room on his back as he considered the consequences of his find.

Leaving the room, he made his way quickly back to the restaurant. Monika could tell the moment she saw him that she would not get to enjoy a quiet lunch. Standing, she anticipated his gesture and pulled her purse from her handbag. Waving to their ever-present waiter, she thrust a twenty-euro note into his hand, and they left the club at a canter.

Once back on the Munich streets, Monika did not have to wait long for an explanation.

“Britt Peterson was an imposter. I just met the woman who impersonated her upstairs, and she is the daughter of one of the board members’.”

“You are kidding! How do you know?”

“It was her. It is too much of a coincidence. She recognised me straightaway when I entered the room.”

“Then where is the real Mrs Peterson?”

“That is what we have to find out, and quickly. I have a bad feeling.”

“Do you think she is dead?”

“There is no other reason for them impersonating her.”

“So what is our next move?”

“We invite them all back to our place. I want to know what they are up to. Monika, I need all the videotapes of the Petersen interview.”

“No problem, Boss!”

31

Lisa had arrived at work before 6:00 am, surprised by how many of her colleagues were already at their places at that time of day. Flexible work patterns allowed the staff to come and go as they pleased, a simple system on each desktop computer tracking their weekly hours. Lisa’s plan was to get Steve Walker’s password to the PricewaterhouseCoopers intranet and find out as much as she could before he got to the building. He was rarely in the office before midday, preferring to do the late shift than be the first through the door. Whether she would find the password would be the plan’s main stumbling block. His office was locked, but she knew the cleaners had keys to all the offices, and their store room on the ground floor was never locked. She went directly to the cleaners’ office, arriving just as a Turkish woman was leaving.

“You couldn’t help me, could you? I have forgotten my key.” She had given the woman one of her most painful looks, a cross between Bambi and an injured kitten.

“Which room you need?” The woman’s heavy accent made her German more difficult to understand, but Lisa guessed what she said.

“Three hundred and twelve.”

“Is manager.”

“Yes, yes, I am new here.”

“Yes, you wait.”

The woman had disappeared back into the room before returning with a small bundle of keys.

“Is one of these, I not know which.”

“Oh, thank you. I will bring them straight back.”

Lisa smiled and headed off to the lift before the cleaner could change her mind. Waiting until she was out of sight, she doubled back to the car park and made a quick trip to “Mr Mint”. Copying the whole key ring took over forty-five minutes, and she was starting to get anxious, but with both sets carefully zipped into her handbag, she returned to the building. Lisa found her friendly cleaning lady after a door-to-door search of the offices, returning the originals, along with a ten-euro tip.

Theoretically, she could have accessed all the information she needed from her office workstation, using her own password. But she was worried that the company may have some tracking software that would lead them back to her, should anyone become suspicious. It was also likely that Steve would have a higher security clearance level, and therefore, access to data she did not. Standing in front of Steve’s office door, she said a quick prayer before thrusting one key after another into the locking mechanism, hoping she would get in before anyone noticed. The third of the copied keys rewarded her with an audible click, and a quick twist of the polished handle allowed her access to Steve’s inner sanctum. Stepping quickly inside and pressing the door quietly shut with the palm of her hand, she turned and looked around the room. It was large but spartan; a steel and glass table stood in the centre, supporting an iMac and keyboard. With exception of a few files and a mouse pad, the table top was empty. Lisa had hoped for an obvious hiding place for the password, desk drawers or filing cabinets. A small cabinet on wheels under the desk offered little hope, holding just a collection of pens and office regalia in one drawer and useless files in the others. As she rifled through the bottom drawer of the cabinet, the sound of voices at the door caused her heart to make a brief attempt to escape her chest. There was nothing she could do, nothing but freeze and stare guiltily in the direction of the door.

No, please. Don’t open! she prayed.

One of the voices was Sophie’s, the others were male colleagues she didn’t recognise.

“Look, I’m sure he will understand when we explain what happened,” Sophie was saying in a half-whispered voice.

“I’m not so sure, now shush!” Lisa could imagine the man holding a finger up to his lips, asking Sophie to be quiet.

The knock reverberated from the door to Lisa’s teeth and down to her toes.

God, please don’t let them try the door, she prayed again.

She had forgotten to lock the door after she had entered.

They could just walk in. I will be caught red-handed.

A second knock had less conviction. More of a we-are-still-here knock than an are-you-there kind of knock. Go away. Lisa had to stop herself saying the words out loud.

“Come on, we’ll have to come back later.” Sophie’s voice confirmed the group’s departure, and Lisa sat down on Steve’s office chair with a sigh of relief.

Swivelling around to face the large panorama windows, she had a clear view of the building’s entrance. There was still little activity in the street below, and the multiple railway lines of the Munich City Station saw only the shunting of locomotives into position before their journeys up to the north of the country. Looking back into the room, she saw that one of the office walls housed the obligatory book shelves. Steve had not got round to filling it, and more than half of the shelf space was empty. The opposite wall incorporated a small bar with a Jura coffee machine and fridge. Finding his password had always been an outside chance, and Lisa satisfied herself with a rummage through the books and the bar. Only as she was about to give up and leave did she think to start up the computer. Like all the computers in the firm, it was left on all night in idle. A touch of the space bar woke the Mac, and she dialled straight into the company intranet. The customary password box appeared, and she considered a pot luck entry.

What would he use?

Thinking through possible combinations of name and birthdate, mother’s maiden name or place of birth. She accepted she didn’t know him well enough to wager a guess. Then a post-it on the bottom of the screen caught her attention. WLKER78 was written in blurred pencil. Steve’s family name without the A and his birth year. The sticker looked older than the screen.

That couldn’t possibly be it, could it?

Entering the seven digits, she winced as she pressed the return button, but was instantly rewarded as the PricewaterhouseCoopers logo went spinning around the screen before offering the usual buttons of the company intranet system. Her heart skipped a beat, as it furiously pumped more adrenalin-filled blood through her veins. A feeling of euphoria filled her brain, making her slightly dizzy. Logging out, she checked that everything was in place and went back to the office door. Cautiously pulling it open, she looked through the small crack at the open plan office beyond. Only one place had been taken since she had entered the room, and she could only see the top of a young man’s prematurely balding head. Slipping through as inconspicuously as possible, she locked the door and took off in the direction of the company library.

There were more desktops in the library, which allowed staff to browse the many shelves whilst working through the history they held. Lisa picked a terminal at the end of a row, filled with files that charted the Company’s financial history during the sixties. She sat with her back to the wall, giving her a clear view into the library’s centre. Logging back into the intranet as Steve Walker, she started the search.

If Meyer-Hofmann has anything to hide, I am going to find it, she assured herself.

The records stretched back over years, the bookshelves’ files duplicated for eternity on the company servers. She was not looking for tax avoidance schemes or bookkeeping irregularities. PricewaterhouseCoopers would not condone that. She was looking for money that was being syphoned off for unwarranted or strange, unrelated purposes. If Meyer-Hofmann were running any clandestine operations, it would need to fund them.

Time had flown, and a brief look at her watch told her it was almost midday.

I will have to stop soon, she said to herself, whilst rubbing her face and eyes.

Then she got her break.

A company called Phoenix IT had been invoicing over fifteen Meyer-Hofmann companies on a monthly basis at over 5,000 euros a month for the last five years. Before that, the company had been called Phoenix Office and had received similar sums. It was a service company owned by Meyer-Hofmann, delivering office supplies to almost every one of the company’s German-based holdings. After closer scrutiny, she found that the customers were regularly overcharged for the supplies, at anything up to five hundred percent. Since the company’s name change, their services had also changed, Computer Hardware and Software replaced the staplers and hole punches. The new products were far more difficult to price, allowing their billing to move off into the world of fantasy. Software installation and update orders did not describe what the software did, nor did it justify the benefits of the upgrades. Lisa was sure she had found the leak she was looking for, but she needed more time to find out what Phoenix was doing with the money. Her iPhone was vibrating, and she knew that Steve was in the building. She had made a friend of the doorman, who alerted her to his arrival. Unfortunately, not the fact that he was heading towards the library. She was just getting up from the terminal as a nonchalant Steve Walker came into view. He headed in her direction with a small wave and a smile.

“Hello, Beautiful, what are you doing down here?”

“Oh, I prefer it down here. It’s quiet, and I am not as likely to be disturbed.”

“Got something to hide?” he asked mischievously.

“A girl always has something to hide, Steve, you know that.” Giving him her best smile, she pressed past him and headed back towards her office. She was sure that Steve knew what the company was up to, and it made her feelings for the man turn cold.

“Fancy some lunch?” he called after her.

Turning, she gave him another smile and a shake of the head.

“No, thanks. I am watching my figure.”

“No need for that, darling, it looks just great from here.”

Another smile and she was around the bookshelves and on her way out of the library.

32

Michael needed to know what Von Klitzing was up to, and a trip to visit his troops in their Austrian barracks would give him the perfect opportunity.

Von Klitzing was going to collect him at the club. From there, they would drive the hour and a half to Ellmau. That would be his biggest test. Should Von Klitzing guess that Hofmann was no longer in control, Michael was sure that it would not end happily. He was still able to speak fluent German, but had no idea how. The main problem was Hofmann’s thought processes. They were so different from his own, that Michael doubted his ability to impersonate the man. It would all depend on how well Von Klitzing knew and remembered Hofmann. Michael decided that bravado was the best policy, and he greeted Von Klitzing with a ticking off.

“We said we would meet at 8:00 am.”

Von Klitzing was taken off-guard, as he had never seen himself as being a subordinate to anyone. Hofmann was one of the few men he had ever accepted as his superior.

“I apologise, Herr Hofmann. We were delayed by traffic.”

Michael got into the car without saying any more. Heinz was driving, and, as usual, there was no greeting, but the saw haircut made it obvious who it was.

“Tell me, Von Klitzing, how ready are we?”

The question was as ambiguous as Michael could make it, and his intention was to chase it around for next two hours, leaving as much of the talking to Von Klitzing as possible.

“I am not sure what you mean, sir?”

“What has the company done to prepare itself for its mission?”

“I have done my best, sir, but it has not been easy. I have been searching for you and the other board members for years, but I have had little support on other fronts. Only Dr Ecker has been of any real help to our primary goal. He has taken his father’s work so much further, it is incredible. With the things that he has achieved combined with your leadership, I am sure we can be more confident of our ultimate success.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael was able to feed on Hofmann’s broken memories, but they gave him only a fragmented picture of what they were planning. “Look, Von Klitzing, you are going to have to help me. My memory is still not completely restored. I need to know everything that you have been doing.”

This pleased Von Klitzing. It was an opportunity to give his new boss his version of events. But he was keen not to give away any of his surprises in the car.

“Professor Furtner just started the ball rolling with his research; Dr Ecker has turned much of it into reality. I think you are going to like what you see, Herr Hofmann. I have never lost sight of our real goal—the Führer’s words still echo in my mind. ‘Don’t give the people what they think they need, give them what they need!’ I have been busy myself, making arrangements for the birth of a new Political Party. As well as grouping our forces to make a decisive strike against our enemies.”

“What have you done, exactly?”

“Herr Hofmann, if you don’t mind, would it be all right if I explained this once we have reached our destination? It will be far easier for you to understand, when you have seen our preparations with your own eyes.”

In truth, Michael needed a break. Desperate not to give away his real identity, he saw a few minutes of silence as a salvation.

“Very well.” He turned his head to the car window and watched the Austrian scenery go by. Michael hoped for some time to think.

The car left the motorway and started to make its way up into the Austrian Alps. Watching a signpost for Kitzbuehl zip past them, Michael remembered a ski trip he had made there with Lisa and their friends only two years earlier. Austria was just as beautiful without the snow, and as they drove past the lift station in Ellmau, he wondered where the Meyer-Hofmann facility had been built.

After leaving the main road, it wasn’t long before they reached their destination. Entering an exterior fence through a military-style checkpoint, they drove for a good ten minutes through more rolling countryside before they pulled up in front of a small pillbox-style building. Michael was more than a little disappointed.

“Is this it?”

“Don’t let outward appearances deceive you, Herr Hofmann.” Von Klitzing gave Michael one of his superior faces. Michael was tempted to reprimand him, but thought better of it.

Give him his moment, he thought.

They entered the flat whitewashed building through a large heavy steel door, to be greeted by a single table and chair. A young man in a dark grey military uniform welcomed them with a nod. His hand had hovered over his sidearm until recognising Von Klitzing. Now, he stood at ease with a swift kick of his heels. Von Klitzing nodded back and led Michael around the youth towards a door at the back of the room. Michael looked back at the young guard, who seemed remarkably similar to the one he had dispatched at the club in Munich.

At first glance, the door looked like it led to a back room in the building. Only when an audible ping alerted them to the arrival of a lift, did Michael’s heart start to beat faster. The wooden door slid back into a wall recess, and an enamelled steel door took its place before also sliding silently to the side, letting the men enter the elevator. The machine was state of the art, a mirrored interior and four black backlit floor buttons hinted at the size of the Meyer-Hofmann research centre. Von Klitzing punched in the fourth underground floor and leant back against the elevator wall. He tried to hide it, but Michael could tell that Von Klitzing was inspecting him. The man’s eyes bored into Michael’s face, searching for the truth or a sign of Hofmann’s acceptance. Michael decided to give him the praise that he craved.

“This is impressive, Von Klitzing; is it all your work?”

Von Klitzing nodded, a sly smile creasing his face.

“Tell me, what have you got down here?”

“I would rather show you, sir. If that is all right?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

Michael wanted anything other than a surprise, but his sense was that he needed Von Klitzing’s trust, and stroking his ego could not hurt.

The fourth-floor button lit up simultaneously with the customary ping, and the elevator door swished open. Other than that, any change in their location had been imperceptible, until the open door revealed a brightly lit white corridor. Michael was all too aware that escaping this place would be almost impossible. Pressing his right heel firmly down in his leather boot, he sent a message to Hofmann. The drawing pin Lisa had attached to his heel pressing deeper into his foot’s hard skin sent a painful message to his opponent. Von Klitzing moved deliberately down the hall to another waiting guard, whilst Michael did his best not to limp after him. It was the identical guard from the facility entrance. He stood in front of two pea green swing doors, and the faint smell of vinegar permeated from behind them. When one burst open, Dr Ecker rushed towards Michael with a boisterous greeting.

“Great to see you, Herr Hofmann!” Ecker clicked his heels and nodded his greeting.

“The pleasure is all mine, Dr Ecker. I hear you have lots to show me?” Michael also nodded, but felt unsure about the heel clicking. He could feel Von Klitzing’s eyes on him and wondered if that was a mistake.

“You have already met the guards, I take it?”

Michael was puzzled by the answer, turning to take another look at the young man standing at attention against the wall. The doctor followed his gaze.

“This is Klaus. He is one of our 240 second-generation clone soldiers.”

“The boy upstairs as well?”

The doctor nodded, a satisfied look on his face. The information took Michael by surprise, but he tried not to show it.

“I started a full-blown cloning process over thirty years ago. I wanted to create a super soldier, stronger, quicker, more obedient. This young man is part of the second generation. He is only eighteen years old, but can already take on and beat the first-generation soldiers, like Heinz, your chauffeur. There is also now a third generation, who will top the second, and a fourth in the pipeline.”

“How many do you have in total?”

“Over 600, 50 first generation, 240 second, and more than 300 third generation.”

“That’s amazing, Dr Ecker, and you are able to do this while our enemies struggle to clone sheep!”

“It wasn’t easy, Herr Hofmann. The 600 are the result of more than 3,000 attempts. When we started, only one in one hundred was successful. Now we have a success rate of one in twenty. “Come, let me show you where it all happens. In here, we have our prospective mothers.”

Ecker turned and held one of the swing doors open for the men to pass through. Following Von Klitzing into what appeared to be a vast hospital ward, Michael found himself staring down rows of beds, all occupied by young women. The men made their way down the middle aisle, the doctor gesturing right and left as he walked, explaining the process. The women seemed to be strapped in their beds, the bed sheets tucked so tightly around them, only their heads were showing. An occasional nurse would move from one to another, administering tablets or tucking an unruly mother deeper into her soft jail.

“All of the mothers are artificially inseminated before being moved to a ward. They remain on the ward for the entire gestation period. It’s the best way to control the pregnancy.”

Michael looked at the pale faces in the beds before him, hardly one over the age of twenty. They all watched him go past with undisguised contempt.

“Where do the women come from?” He struggled to keep the emotion from his voice.

“Care homes, orphanages, the streets. You would not believe how difficult it is to find ethnically acceptable candidates.” Dr Ecker sighed. “Eastern Europe has opened us more opportunity, but we have had to compromise some of our beliefs in the interests of the project’s success.”

There were over twenty beds in the ward, which ended with another double swing door. The men pressed on through into another long hall. Electric sliding doors on both sides allowed entry into small laboratories, visible from the hall through large windows. Technical staff in lab coats busied themselves around test tubes and microscopes. In one room, an operating theatre lay dormant, the stirrups attached to the bed painting a clear picture of its purpose. Leaving the hall and entering another hospital ward, Michael could see that the patients here were more heavily sedated than in the first room.

“We are farming stem cells here, Herr Hofmann. The women have also been artificially inseminated, but we take out stem cells before the eggs become fully formed embryos.”

“Stem cells? I thought your expertise was DNA, Dr Ecker?”

“You have been away for a long time, Herr Hofmann. Stem Cell research is a natural extension of my work on DNA.”

The majority of the women slept in their beds. It couldn’t be much after midday outside, but it was unlikely that any of them knew that. All were being fed a mix of drugs intravenously, and none of them noticed the men’s presence.

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

“The embryos do not survive, but most of these women would be able to reproduce without trouble, were they given the opportunity.”

“We keep them here for six months to a year before disposing of them,” Von Klitzing informed him.

The brutality of Von Klitzing’s comment shocked Michael and again tested his metal. He fought the need to scream out loud and run around the ward, releasing the poor souls. The need to protect them struggled with the knowledge that he could do nothing.

“What are you doing with the stem cells?”

“All manner of things. These cells can be modified to create any type of human tissue, from the skin to brain matter. I have used them to heal and enhance injured soldiers, as well as to treat one of our committee member’s damaged liver. Soon, I hope to be able to repair torn cartilage with the help of a nano scaffold, which we inject into the damaged area. Stem cell research will be mankind’s salvation.” He said this as a matter of fact.

Leaving the ward, the men reached a second elevator, and Von Klitzing pressed the call button.

“This is amazing, Gentlemen. I am very impressed! How are we using this research to our advantage?”

Both men looked at each other before looking back at Michael.

“That would be your job, Herr Hofmann,” Dr Ecker said and laughed.

“I do, however, have some recommendations, should you be interested,” Von Klitzing interjected.

The lift door opened, and the men took it to the floor above. Another hospital ward was behind the third-floor lift doors. This one was inhabited by three men in their thirties.

“These are our sons, Herr Hofmann. They have all been given two injections of the viral solution and are responding well to the treatment.”

Each man sat on the side of his bed, as a male nurse read to them from a large file.

“The nurses are recounting dates and experiences from their grandfathers’ lives.” It reminded Michael of his process and the feeling it had left him with—of being drowned. All he held dear was washed from his memory like dirt from a windscreen.

This is more brutal than any physical torture.

He could see the fear in the men’s faces as they slowly succumbed, and strangers were introduced to their bodies.

“When will they be ready?”

“Only a matter of days now. Maybe the beginning of next week.” Ecker shrugged his shoulders. “Better not to rush these things.”

Michael knew Hofmann’s plan was to replace certain board members with these men. He knew that they would be more focused than their predecessors and full of the enthusiasm of youth.

“I need them in place as soon as possible, Dr Ecker. It is high time the world felt the force of the real Meyer-Hofmann!”

The remark had stung, but neither of the men let it show. Michael allowed himself an inner smile nevertheless. Back in a lift, they were deposited in the large second-floor barracks. A similar room could be found at a military facility anywhere in the world. Rows of neatly made dark green bunk beds, separated by tall steel lockers, lined the whitewashed walls. The vinyl floor was polished to an unnatural gloss, so that you could see your face in it. Only every other fluorescent strip light was on, and there was no sign of life.

Von Klitzing had taken a back seat to Ecker up until this point, but he suddenly became very animated, coughing loudly to get the other men’s attention, keen to get back into Hofmann’s favour.

“This is one of our main barracks, Herr Hofmann. The other one is on the first floor.”

“Very impressive, Herr Von Klitzing, and where are the men?”

“The majority are on the first floor. The second floor housed the older troops who have now been stationed abroad.”

“Abroad, where abroad?”

The men came to a stop in the middle of the barracks, Dr Ecker taking the opportunity to take a seat on one of the bottom bunks.

“Herr Hofmann, I have put two strategies in place that I think will make a large contribution to the cause. I have arranged for some large banks to experience some liquidity problems at our convenience. It should not take more than one bank failing to trigger the next financial crash and destabilise the world’s financial institutes further. I believe that if we can create another market crash, it will remind the general public that they cannot trust their current governments and banks with their futures. The ground will be ripe for the creation of a new National Socialist Party. You, Herr Hofmann, should be its leader; your speech on the balcony of the Rathaus proved that to me. Hitler himself would have been proud!”

“That is very kind of you to say, Herr Von Klitzing, but we would probably be better to start with someone who is already known in the political community.”

“Do not underestimate yourself, Herr Hofmann, and do not overestimate the voting public. They are all greedy, selfish lemmings; dangle a big enough carrot in front of them, and they will follow you!”

Michael took a moment to digest the information.

Did he really think he could cause a stock market crash?

“I also believe it is time we deal with the Jewish problem. But we can only do that when they have lost the Americans’ support. I plan to create an atrocity in the Middle East on a scale that has not been seen before. It will be apparent to the world who was responsible, a war crime committed by the Jews.”

Michael had been so absorbed with Von Klitzing’s plans, he had unconsciously taken the weight off the drawing pin stuck into his heel. Without warning, he found himself fighting Hofmann for control, desperately pressing his heel down hard into the floor, whilst, at the same time, trying to understand what it was that Von Klitzing was saying.

“What do you have planned?” He managed to get the words out and buy himself time.

“With your permission, we will provoke an attack on Iran by the Jews. They are so trigger-happy, it won’t be difficult. We have a contact within the Mossad and evidence that the Iranians are virtually ready to become a nuclear power. The Israelis cannot allow that to happen; they will attack Iran. When they do, I have men on the ground in Iran, who will expand the attack, making it catastrophic for the entire region.”

“How do you plan to do that?” Michael was winning the fight but needed more time. He too sat, pressing his heel hard into the floor whilst letting out a sigh. “Sorry, Herr Von Klitzing. I must take the weight off.”

“The Israelis will hit nuclear research targets. We will hit their nuclear power plant in Bushehr. We plan to cause a nuclear disaster that will make Chernobyl look like spilt milk in comparison. Even the Americans will have to distance themselves from the Jews.”

Michael nodded as if agreeing with Von Klitzing’s reasoning. He winced as the pain drove Hofmann back into his unconsciousness. He began to rub his back as if it were giving him pain, hoping to hide the internal battle he was in.

“Are you all right?” Von Klitzing asked.

“I’m fine. Please, continue.”

“My men have smuggled several mobile AT-2 units over the Iraqi border into Iran.”

“AT-2?”

“It’s a surface-to-surface guided anti-tank missile we got from some Russian connections.”

“What is its purpose?”

“Two or three direct hits should be enough to penetrate the core of the nuclear plant. We have twenty missiles, and the men’s orders are to use them all.”

“If it works, what will happen?”

“Difficult to say. At least, a massive radiation leak. Maybe even a thermal runaway.” Von Klitzing smiled, proud of himself.

Michael knew what a thermal runaway was, but he let Von Klitzing explain.

“A thermal runaway is an exothermic reaction. The reaction produces heat that, in turn, creates more heat. The whole plant’s radioactive materials would be consumed. The entire area would be contaminated. With luck, the whole region would be made uninhabitable.”

“The radiation will contaminate a massive area, kill hundreds of thousands.” Michael could feel himself shaking with fear.

This could not be real. He struggled to stand and was helped up by Von Klitzing.

Were these men so demented that they would do this? Michael felt the need to flee the building, but there was no escape. Instead, he stamped down on the drawing pin and roared his approval.

“Brilliant! Brilliant, Von Klitzing, and your men are in position?”

“Yes.” Von Klitzing’s answer was matter-of-fact and came with hardly a blink before he continued. “Then we support another Arab uprising; that is the real goal. If we are lucky, the Jewish nation will be destroyed before the Americans can prove that Israel was not responsible. We have a weapons arsenal in Jordan, which will get the job done. It includes tactical nuclear devices the Russians developed for use on the battlefield. Three or four and Israel is history. We have already found the fanatics who will use them at the start of the conflict.”

“You have all this in place?”

“I do. Our men are made up of first and second-generation clones, as well as 200 well-trained and well-paid mercenaries.”

I need to get out of here, warn somebody, stop this! Michael started to panic.

Von Klitzing had expected to be smothered with plaudits. He was the only one at Meyer-Hofmann who had his eye on the ball. Hofmann must see that, congratulate him, give his okay, let him set the wheels in motion.

“This is extraordinary, Herr Von Klitzing. After studying the files, I was convinced the Company had become corrupted by these times, lost its vision. It seems I was wrong. You are to be commended. You have single-handedly saved us. We must leave immediately. I must make plans.”

Von Klitzing was visibly elated, his chest puffing out like some demented cockerel. Now it was Dr Ecker’s turn to become animated.

“But, Herr Hofmann, I still have much to show you.”

“It will have to wait. We can come again, soon! Von Klitzing, let’s go.”

Back in the car, Michael searched his mind, for a way of delaying Von Klitzing’s plans.

“What is the time scale, Von Klitzing?”

“That depends on you, sir. We are almost ready to go in the Middle East. It would take maybe a few weeks to get our support staff out there, and the weapons distributed to our allies?”

He could see that Von Klitzing would have pressed the button tomorrow if he had the authority. Michael was only grateful that he was such a stickler for the command structure.

“I want to get the political process in place first. Your actions will leave a massive void in world politics. It will be apparent to the public that their governments’ foreign policy has failed. We should have a working alternative ready to step into the breach as soon as the first shots are fired. We will start with your political plan, collect suitable candidates, and prepare the markets for a crash, and then we poke the Israeli Government.”

“But, sir, that could take anything up to a year, and our troops are already in theatre. Our allies are impatient to move!”

“They will have to wait. The quicker we achieve our political and economic goals, the sooner we can change tack and go after the Jews.”

That disappointed Von Klitzing. He had been banking on Hofmann’s dream of military involvement to push the Jewish plan forward.

That is a mistake. Who knows if the opportunity will ever come again? Hofmann is wrong; we should carry out both plans simultaneously. If Hofmann doesn’t like it, then Hofmann is not the right man for the job.

Von Klitzing started to plot an alternative strategy.

33

Günther Müller had decided to invite Johann Von Klitzing for an interview at Ett Street. Von Klitzing seemed as good a place to start as any in his investigation of Meyer-Hofmann. It was his daughter who had impersonated Britt Petersen, and it was unlikely that doing such a thing had been her idea. Günther sat in one of the interrogation rooms at the station, waiting for Von Klitzing to arrive. Slowly turning the pages of the dossier Monika had prepared, he was surprised how little was known about the man’s role in the company. Apart from being a board member, his only other title was that of Director of Internal Security. Günther was intrigued to find out just what exactly his job entailed.

Von Klitzing was irritated by the invitation rather than worried. He had not expected to be able to work in total confidentiality, now that they were becoming active. He had, however, hoped it would take a little longer before the police took an interest. Killing Britt Petersen had been necessary. Had the police got hold of her, things would have got out of control. His plans would simply have to be accelerated now that the company’s indiscretions were coming to light.

I will just have to delay this policeman’s investigation as far as I can, he decided.

Dr Ernst Weiden was the company’s legal Rottweiler. A lawyer of some note within the German legal system, he was as close to a celebrity lawyer as it got in Germany. On a permanent retainer to Meyer-Hofmann, his main job was blocking investigations into their holding’s operations. But he was far more in his element in a court room, defending his VIP client against some or other iniquitous allegations.

Günther recognised the lawyer immediately as the two men were led into the room by Monika.

“Please, take a seat, Gentlemen.” Günther stood, gesturing towards the steel chairs opposite him. Neither man was able to make himself comfortable on the thin blue upholstered cushions. They were left shuffling around like two naughty schoolboys in front of the headmaster.

“We will not be staying long, Detective Müller,” the lawyer said.

Günther ignored the lawyer.

“Herr Von Klitzing, my name is Günther Müller. I would just like to thank you for coming, but I must first read you your rights. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“What are the manner of the charges against my client?”

“Charges? At the moment, there are no charges against your client. However, we are investigating the disappearance of Britt Petersen, the wife of one of Herr Von Klitzing’s fellow board members.”

“I was not aware that she was missing,” Von Klitzing commented.

“Yes, and please explain on what grounds you are questioning Herr Von Klitzing and not Herr Petersen?”

“I believe that Herr Von Klitzing’s daughter impersonated Britt Petersen in an interview she gave us recently, and I would like to know why.”

“That is a very serious allegation, Detective! Whatever led you to believe such nonsense? I know Eva Von Klitzing personally, and there is no reason for her to do such a thing. She doesn’t look anything like Britt Petersen.”

“We were hoping Herr Von Klitzing could explain.”

“Is Eva Von Klitzing under arrest?” the lawyer pressed.

“My colleagues are picking her up now.”

That was not good news for Von Klitzing, although he had half-expected it would happen after their chance meeting at the club.

Eva will deny everything. It’s not a problem. Günther watched Von Klitzing’s face. It was ice. Not a glimmer of a reaction, not even when he heard they would be arresting his daughter.

“Herr Von Klitzing, would you answer the question, please. Were you aware of your daughter’s actions?”

“No.” The answer was final. Von Klitzing made it clear he would not be answering questions about Britt Petersen.

“Herr Von Klitzing knows nothing about this and will not be answering any further questions about his daughter until we are made aware of the charges against her.”

“Do you know the whereabouts of Britt Petersen?” Günther asked the question of Von Klitzing without expecting an answer, and none came.

“Maybe you could tell me what your job is at Meyer-Hofmann, Herr Von Klitzing?”

“I am the director of security.”

“And that means…?”

“Anything from internal issues involving staff and confidential information, to helping our holding companies with any security issues.”

“I work very closely with Herr Von Klitzing on these matters,” the lawyer interjected.

“I am sure you do, Herr Weiden! I would like to know why Herr Von Klitzing needed to contact Deputy Chief Hanson of the New York Police Department last year?”

“Deputy Chief Hanson? We don’t have any contact to the American Police.”

“I was asking Herr Von Klitzing.”Günther had again watched Von Klitzing’s face very carefully. He was hoping the question would get a reaction, and he wasn’t disappointed. He had visibly twitched at the question. Günther allowed himself an inner smile.

The ice man cracks.

“I have no recollection of such a contact.” Von Klitzing had regained his composure.

“Let me help you. You telephoned Deputy Chief Hanson on the fifth of October at 6:01 pm, then again on the third of November at 6:14 pm. He returned the call at 7:02 pm on the same day. Finally, you called him on the fifth of November at 8:13 pm. Deputy Chief Hanson was found dead in his home office the very next day.”

Weiden was now on his feet.

“We will be answering no further questions, Detective. Unless you are going to arrest my client, this interview is over.” Günther was not disturbed by the reaction. He had the answer he needed. He saw it in Von Klitzing’s eyes. He had spoken to Hanson. Now all he had to do was prove it.

“Unless your client has something to hide, he should be able to answer the question.”

“I have never heard of Deputy Chief Hanson.”

“The calls were made from your extension, in Gallery Street.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t have an extension at the club. My offices are at our Company Headquarters.”

“Extension forty-two. Are you saying that is not your extension number?”

“That is not my extension number. It is a very big building, and there are very many extensions.” Von Klitzing’s answer was so coolly delivered, Günther almost believed him.

“Then can you explain why you answered that extension number only yesterday?”

“Enough! Herr Von Klitzing, do not answer that. We are leaving now!”

Von Klitzing rose from the table, his face visibly flushed. Following Weiden out of the office, his mind had already started to digest the implications.

Günther sat back in his chair and smiled at Monika.

“Well done, Moni!”

Leaning back so that the chair’s front legs left the floor, he could see around Monika. He directed his next comment in the direction of the mirrored glass window on the interrogation room wall.

“I want to know his every move from now on.”

Two officers left the room next door, leaving Commander Wilhelm Götz leaning on the intercom button.

“Well done, Günther.”

34

After returning home from the office, Lisa was desperate to know more about Phoenix IT. Throwing her bag on the lobby table, she turned on a few lights and went into the hobby room, which she had converted into a temporary office. Her company laptop sat on a small desk in front of the bay windows. Drawing the curtains, she made a mental note to get them changed. This was the only room in the house where Britt Petersen had obviously had no say on the interior decoration. Its walls were whitewashed, and the floor was covered in a cheap pine-coloured laminate. There were strange pieces of art on the walls, including an African mask. Framed, dried flowers and a massive collage of coloured glass chips interspersed with diamante crystals that portrayed a rough approximation of the garden beyond the bay doors added to the room. It was obviously an amateur piece, making Lisa wonder which member of the couple was responsible for the monstrosity. Firing up the laptop, she logged into the company server, knowing it was not the safest strategy, but time was not on their side. Michael could lose control at any time, so the sooner they could go to the authorities, the better.

Certain that Steve Walker was responsible for Phoenix IT, she started the search for proof. PricewaterhouseCoopers filing was very efficient, and it was not long before she found copies of the company’s registration. The company was Austrian and would have paid its taxes to the Austrian government had it not been writing off its main investment, a large office building in Ellmau. A few taps on the keyboard had shown development to have cost far in excess of fifty million euros. The company’s staffing bills were also astronomical, with over 200 employees, all of whom seemed to be on six-figure salaries.

This could be it. These were large sums of money, maybe to support a criminal network? Lisa was unsure if this was enough evidence to spark an investigation.

So intense was her concentration, she became oblivious to everything apart from the intricate web of companies built around Phoenix IT. All the companies were co-dependent, and all serviced the giants in the portfolio. It seemed that whenever Meyer-Hofmann were not able to find a suitable company for purchase, Steve would simply start a new one and make one of the Meyer-Hofmann board members its CEO. The variety was mind-blowing. It was accounting genius. Obscure companies all over Europe and North America completed a web of financial possibilities. One particular company stood out from the others: Mills Medical. They were a customer of Phoenix IT, paying enormous fees for a ‘complete business solution’. Including a small server farm, at a cost of six hundred thousand dollars. Mills Medical’s business was stem cell research, with laboratories in England and the United States. Its largest customer was another Meyer-Hofmann company called Brunwick Security Limited, who provided security for governments and large companies operating in the world’s hot spots. Like many of their American competitors, they were hiring ex-military personnel from all over the world and using them as security guards for plant, equipment, and personnel. The security firm was paying Mills Medical for stem cell enhancement, repair, and regeneration treatments. The circle was completed by an invoice addressed to Phoenix IT from Brunswick Security. The paper trail did loops, hoops, and pirouettes, all of which led back to Meyer-Hofmann and a massive money-laundering operation.

Lisa sat back in her chair and blew out a deep breath.

“This is amazing!” she said out loud. “And if any of these invoices are for actual services, these guys have put together a considerable mercenary force, which Steve is setting off against tax.”

Back in Munich, Steve Walker was just leaving the office when his mobile phone rang. The orchestral ringtone of the Star Wars theme escaped his pocket.

“Yes?” he said, without checking the caller ID.

“Can’t you sort that out by yourself? No, no, okay, I will get back to you.”

Turning around, he headed back into the building, tired and frustrated that his American colleague was not able to take care of the problem himself. Entering his dark office, he flicked on the lights and moved around his desk, pressing the spacebar on the keyboard to wake up the computer. Throwing his leather jacket over the back of his chair, he sat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Logging on to the intranet, he hammered at the keys, becoming more and more infuriated by his colleague’s incompetence the more he thought about it. It was only as he was about to log out that he noticed the small computer icon in the corner of the screen. The intranet allowed a user to log in on multiple devices so that they could easily transfer information. By clicking the icon, you could immediately continue work remotely on another device anywhere in the world. Puzzled, he clicked on the little square, thinking maybe he had left his laptop on that morning. Staring at the screen, it was not long before he understood what was happening.

“You clever little bitch,” he said under his breath, whilst picking up the phone.

Lisa missed the same icon appearing in the top corner of her screen. She stood and stretched for a second, letting out a loud yawn, and set off into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. The Meyer-Hofmann surveillance team got a call from Von Klitzing just before a shift change, where two teams had been watching the Starnberg house around the clock. Back in the kitchen, the squeal of the kettle covered the sound of a car door closing outside the house. Pleased with herself, she took the fresh brew and went back into the office. She hit the print button, and a Brother Printer in the corner of the room purred to life. Drawing the first of sixty pieces of paper into its guts, ready to reveal her inky revelations. She had just reached down to pick up the first A4 side out of the print tray when a hand was placed on her shoulder. Spikes of static electricity shot down her arm and up the back of her neck, making her almost lose her balance. A scream of shock left her mouth at the same time as the day’s tensions found an earth and sought an escape.

“Darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you!” Whipping round, she saw her husband, his hands up in a gesture of fake surrender.

“Michael, you silly sod, you could have given me a heart attack!” She slapped his chest hard, it made such a hollow sound that she instantly regretted it. “It is you, isn’t it?” Fear suddenly raced back up her spine, as she considered the possibilities, if the man in front of her was not her husband after all.

“Yes, I’m sorry! Can you take a look at my heel, it’s killing me!”

Sitting down on the one chair in the room, Michael didn’t wait for her sympathy. Instead, he lifted his right leg and looked up at Lisa like a child after a fall, bracing himself for the pain to come. Kneeling, she gently removed his shoe and started on the sock, to much wincing and squirming from her patient. His sock was sodden with blood and stuck to the foot at the heel.

“I am just going to have to yank it off, darling.” She looked up into his face to see him bite down on his bottom lip and nod. With one pull, it was off.

It is amazing how much damage the drawing pin has done, she thought to herself, trying not to let Michael see how much it bothered her. The pin was buried deep into Michael’s heel, and a large black-and-blue circle had formed around its circumference, along with a crust of blood covering the drawing pin’s head. Getting her fingernails under its lip made it come out without much fuss.

“God, you can’t be doing this every day!”

“No, I know. I’ve been thinking about it on the way home. I had to make up some shit about why I was limping. I thought maybe teeth. I’ve got a doggy filling.”

“Oh no, Michael, teeth are the worst kind of pain.”

“You haven’t been wandering round with a drawing pin in your foot for twenty-four hours. Anyway, toothache is easier to explain than a shoe full of blood.”

“Do you really have to be in pain all the time?”

“Not all the time, but I don’t want to take any chances. If Hofmann gets back in control, I may never get back out!”

“No, this is crazy, Michael. We have to go to the police. I have got some evidence that points to financial irregularities. It will have to do. Did you find anything?”

“Christ, Lisa, you won’t believe it. I don’t know if the police can even handle it! What they are planning is military, it’s political—it’s enormous!”

“I know, Michael, look at this!”

The pair spent the next hour linking what Lisa had found with what Michael had seen and heard, their findings making them more and more nervous by the minute. By the time Michael sank into the soft leather of the lounge sofa, it was with a sense of doom and foreboding. Lisa had decided that tea was too weak for the job and was in the dining room preparing them both a large whisky, leaving Michael head in hands, searching his mind for inspiration.

Outside, a dark blue Ford van pulled into a parking space next to its identical twin in front of the house. The side doors of the van slid open, and two men exited, their black bodysuits making them almost invisible against the dense foliage surrounding the garden. Both jumped the garden fence with a scissor kick before crouching down in the cover of a garden shrubbery. One pulled a hand-held dish antennae from his rucksack and held it out in the direction of the house. The other pulled on a pair of earphones, giving his partner the thumbs-up. Back in the first van’s interior, a third man worked over a bank of electronic instruments that sent their signal via a small satellite mounted on the van’s roof, directly back to Gallery Street. Von Klitzing sat in the communication centre on his saddle chair, pushing himself slowly backwards and forwards between the table and the wall, wondering how this day could get any worse. A fury was building in his stomach as the voices of Lisa and Michael Jarvis filled the room.

Most certainly not Heinz Hofmann, he thought

Scratching at the ugly sore below his right ear, he mulled his options. Depressing a button on the control panel, he spoke to the team in Starnberg.

“I want it all on tape, whatever they are planning.”

“Shouldn’t we go in, sir?” one of his subordinates questioned from his control panel.

“No, not yet. How much do we have?”

“She has been logged into the PricewaterhouseCoopers intranet, and we believe she has a detailed record of most of the Austrian-based business. He has been able to tell her everything he learnt from you in Ellmau, sir.”

“Scheiße. Bring them in.”

The operator turned back to his control panel and depressed one of the multifarious buttons opposite him.

“Take them.”

The reaction to the order was instantaneous. The two men in the garden left their cover, dropped their tools, and made for the house.

Inside, Michael had come to the conclusion he could not do this alone. They had no choice other than to go to the police. Shaking his head, he rose and made for the bathroom, his bladder triggered into action by his decision. He passed Lisa as she returned with the drinks, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before heading for the stairs.

“Back in a minute, darling.”

The bright lights of the lounge turned the windows into mirrors, and Lisa watched herself enter the room, her face made even paler by the reflection in the glass.

God, I could do with some sun! she thought.

Staring into the darkness of the garden, she watched as her silhouette slowly changed. Confused by her reflection’s metamorphosis, she moved closer to the window. Her face became boxy, her skin darkened, and her reflection moved, although she was standing still. As she realised she was staring into a stranger’s eyes, a scream raced to raise the alarm. In that instant, the window lost its reflectivity. A milky white wall erupted, followed by a wave of reflected light, bouncing and kicking off the polished hardwood floor. The man had her before she could move, a hand closing around her neck, stifling her cry for help. A second rushed past her into the house’s interior, in search of Michael. Her assailant had a cold, brutish face, and she wondered how she had ever confused it with her own. The oxygen deficiency in her brain turned the lights out, and she slumped to the floor at his feet.

Michael had heard the window shatter and Lisa’s muffled scream. For some reason, he knew what was happening.

They know and they are here! His only concern was for his wife.

Bursting from the upstairs bathroom, he collided with the second man, who had just reached the top of the stairs. It was one of the young Austrian guards, a member of Ecker’s second-generation clones. He was at a clear disadvantage, as his right foot had not yet reached the safety of the landing, and Michael was moving at speed. Ducking instinctively, the soldier tried to avoid the collision, but Michael’s knee came up to greet his rapidly descending chin, catapulting him backwards down the stairs. Michael kept pace with the man’s descent, taking two, then three steps at a time, the whole scene playing out for him in slow motion. He watched as the man’s head impacted with the staircase wall, the plasterboard shattering in a cloud of dust and debris. The man’s momentum pressed his head back into an impossible angle, so that his face was pressed hard into the cavity in the wall. His limp body crashed onto the L-shaped landing in the middle of the staircase like a puppet. Hurdling the body, Michael made for the lounge, only to see his way blocked by a second intruder. The first young soldiers double, his arms stretched out towards him, holding a pistol. Michael sensed the gunshot before he felt the impact.

He awoke lying flat out in the back of a van surrounded by electronic equipment. Two banks of control panels covered both sides of the vehicle. Michael lay in the aisle they formed in the middle of the van, his hands tied tightly behind his back and his feet bound together with plastic cable ties. A searing pain filled his chest cavity, making it difficult to breathe and clamping his ribs together as if they were held in a vice. The fierce pain in his lungs felt as if it may squeeze the last breath from his body, and his only consolation was that Hofmann had no chance of escape. Quickly getting his bearings, Michael looked around, some forgotten training forcing him to act, helping him to assess his situation. A man sat over him, talking into a headset.

“ETA twenty-five minutes. We have the documents the Jarvis woman printed out, as well as the computer. We left the place a mess; they will think it was a robbery. She is traveling in the lead car and should be with you in ten.”

The squawking in his headset was too quiet for Michael to hear, but it was quite obvious what was happening. They were on their way to the club, where they would be interrogated, and most likely killed. The clone who had shot him sat on a typical office chair in front of the console, the chair’s casters allowing it to move backwards and forwards with the van’s motion. Michael waited till the van took a left corner, then kicked hard at the stool’s central leg. The man hurtled towards the driver’s compartment, both man and stool parting company with the floor. Even Michael was surprised by the force he had been able to muster. The man’s headset had been securely attached to the instrument panel in front of him, and as it started to retard his head’s movement, he parted company with the chair, falling back in Michael’s direction. A second kick of the legs directed at the man’s head had a similar effect to the one the staircase wall had inflicted on his unfortunate twin, snapping his neck. The van’s brakes were now being applied, and Michael felt himself being pressed towards the front of the vehicle. Pulling his legs up under his chin, he leant back into the van’s floor, planting his feet firmly against the van’s dividing wall. He allowed the moving floor to help him press his arms and hands down and under his bottom. Pulling them up between the wall and the tips of his toes, he ignored the pain in his shoulders as they tried to escape their sockets. He was on his feet by the time he heard the van’s back doors open behind him. Gripping a handle built into the van’s ceiling, he swung his feet in the direction of the opening door, kicking hard at the last moment. The door’s impact with the driver was perfect, throwing him off balance and sitting him down hard on the road. The pistol he had been holding skipped down the road’s dividing white lines, followed by Michael, who was jumping as fast as he could after it. By the time the driver was back on his feet, it was too late. Michael had the gun pointed at his chest. He did not wait for a surrender. There would be no prisoners—there was no time. Michael fired the weapon without a thought, releasing the bullet at the man’s heart. The impact sent a cloud of crimson blood up into the young man’s shocked face before sitting him down in the road for a final time that night. Michael had expected a rubber bullet; there was no other reason that he was still alive. But this had certainly been the real thing and didn’t allow the shooter the privilege of a change of mind. Hopping to the side of the country road, Michael bit through the plastic handcuffs and quickly untied his feet, before returning to the body and pulling the driver onto the pavement. Only then did he realise the whole event had taken place in the blaze of a car’s headlights. The van had stopped at a point in the road where there were no houses, but a car sat in the middle of the road some fifty metres away. Holding his hands up so as not to alarm the driver, he stared into the lights. There was no movement, no sound. Pulling his empty hand down to shield his eyes, he called out to the driver.

“It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.”

Nothing changed. A minute passed. I can’t stay here for fuck’s sake.

“Come out, I won’t hurt you. Please!”

He had no choice. Running in the direction of the headlights, he expected the car to rev into life and either drive over him or try to reverse away, but neither happened. Within a few metres, the reason became apparent. The front windscreen was shattered, and the body of a young woman lay in the driver’s seat. Her mouth hung open, her eyes unseeing, staring into a dark eternity. Michael’s guilt evaporating he turned and went back to the van, slamming the back doors shut, and jumping into the driver’s cabin. Jamming his foot onto the accelerator, the vehicle took off, lurching into its lane and speeding off in the direction of Gallery Street.

Listening to the events in the control room from the van’s microphones, Von Klitzing didn’t need an explanation of what had happened. Hofmann and Jarvis had become a liability.

“Send a team—kill him!” he ordered.

“Yes, sir. What should we do with the woman?”

“I will deal with her. Have her taken to the interrogation room.” Von Klitzing’s face was ashen, his brow creased.

You will regret this, Jarvis. Your wife will regret this!

35

The oak table was filled by the board’s swollen ranks. Heinz Hofmann was the only omission. Each of the original board members sat in their usual positions, the three reawakened sons present for the first time and regaled in military uniform, all standing to attention behind their chairs at the head of the table.

Von Klitzing addressed the table.

“Gentlemen, I have some bad news. I am afraid that Herr Hofmann will not be joining us. He will never be joining us. The recall therapy has failed. This evening, he killed three of our men and is, at this moment, on the run. He has been working with Jarvis’s wife to undermine the company and intended to go to the police with evidence they have collected. I had no choice but to give the order to terminate him. His wife is in our custody, and I will be interrogating her later. At this time, we do not believe that they were able to pass on any information to the authorities that could be detrimental to our mission.” Taking his chair as if he had just read the table the lunch menu, Von Klitzing laid his hands in his lap and looked to his right.

Reichard’s son moved forward without being invited.

“My name is Hans Bremen. Heil Hitler.” His heels slammed together as his right arm straightened into the Nazi salute, tearing through the blue grey cigar smoke that filled the room and hovered in a cloud above the men’s heads. The two men next to him followed his lead with a joint volley of salutes.

“Heil Hitler.”

Von Klitzing’s son introduced himself to the table.

“Anton Brandt. Heil Hitler!” Finally came Ecker’s son, with a more restrained delivery.

“Professor Dr Ralf Furtner. Heil Hitler!”

Dr Ecker looked up at the three men, with pride in his achievements.

Bremen then started to stamp out a beat with his right foot. One by one, the men in the room joined him, as chairs were pushed to the side and all took to their feet. The room shook to the sound of the men’s leather shoes on the dark hardwood floor. Bremen began to sing.

“Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein

und das heißt Erika.

Heiß von hunderttausend kleinen Bienelein

wird umschwärmt Erika

denn ihr Herz ist voller Süßigkeit,

zarter Duft entströmt dem Blütenkleid.

Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein

und das heißt: Erika.”

The group kept pace with their feet stamping through the first verse, Bremen’s voice so strong and clear it rang out in perfect pitch and tone. As the second verse beckoned, others licked their lips in preparation, and it began in chorus.

“In der Heimat wohnt ein kleines Mägdelein

und das heißt: Erika.

Dieses Mädel ist mein treues Schätzelein

und mein Glück, Erika.

Wenn das Heidekraut rot-lila blüht,

singe ich zum Gruß ihr dieses Lied.

Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein

und das heißt: Erika.

“In mein’m Kämmerlein blüht auch ein Blümelein

und das heißt: Erika.

Schon beim Morgengrau’n sowie beim Dämmerschein

schaut’s mich an, Erika.

Und dann ist es mir, als spräch’ es laut:

“Denkst du auch an deine kleine Braut?”

In der Heimat weint um dich ein Mägdelein

und das heißt: Erika.”

The men fell silent. The German marching song had had the effect Bremen wanted, unifying the men in song. He remained standing as the others slowly took their places, amongst much back slapping and laughter. He waited, his eyes blazing and his chest heaving, looking across the table at men he had known for years. Slowly, all returned the stare, respect and determination written all over their faces.

“It is great to be back together with so many friends. Heinz is a great loss for us all, and I will personally miss him immensely, but there is no more time for memories. We may not procrastinate a minute longer. Heinz gave me a second chance to prove my worth, and I do not intend to let him down a second time!”

Reichard looked up nervously at his son, knowing the words were aimed at him. Debating whether to make his own apology, he looked at the table. All eyes were on him.

“Reichard!” Bremen called.

Pulling the antique Lugar pistol from his belt, he turned to his father. Reichard’s face fell as he stared down the barrel of his own weapon and up into Bremen’s unforgiving eyes.

“N—!”

The bullet hit him before he could start the sentence. Bremen was standing no more than three metres from his target. It punctured a hole in Reichard’s forehead, a fountain of blood and brains exiting the back of his head. The force of the impact and his failed attempt to rise from the chair tipped him backwards, his body hitting the carpeted floor with a dull thud, accompanied by the gasps of the assembled audience.

Looking back at the room, Bremen growled at the shocked men.

“Failure will no longer be tolerated!” He wafted the gun around the stunned faces.

Seconds later, the large door to the room slammed open, and three stewards rushed in, each carrying an MP 40 submachine gun.

“Clear up that mess!” Bremen demanded.

The men glanced in unison at Von Klitzing, who gave a small nod of acknowledgement, before setting about their task.

Von Klitzing looked down at Reichard. His blank gaze was a warning for all in the room. He had expected this—he knew Bremen all too well. He was Hofmann’s right hand, young, brash, and arrogant. The older men’s days would now all be numbered, Bremen would see to that. Von Klitzing’s psoriasis started to play up again, his scalp itching and his infernal right ear screaming for attention. Looking to his right, at his son, he saw no sanctuary for himself, only a grim smile greeting him. Von Klitzing knew exactly who his son had become and that he would be the greatest danger to his personal longevity. But awakening the children had been a necessary evil. Hofmann had been right about that.

My generation has failed, but the next will succeed! he reassured himself.

“You men know why you are here. The events surrounding Herr Hofmann, whilst unexpected and disappointing, have no effect on our course,” Bremen continued. “I will take control of the offensive, with immediate effect. There should be no further delay. The events of the past few weeks have forced our hand—we must move our plans forward. You will all find your orders in the folders in front of you.”

There was a rustling around the table as the men opened the sealed manila envelopes, which had, until then, lain untouched on the table in front of them. Their orders, printed on paper bearing the Meyer-Hofmann letterhead, included a general summary of the operation, with the title Campaign Summary, their individual orders, and, where necessary, extra documents.

Von Klitzing pulled out his personal itinerary, which included an economy ticket to Tel Aviv, leaving in two days’ time.

This is going to happen. He felt the excitement build in his stomach, a feeling he had not had for some considerable time.

“We attack on all fronts simultaneously. Banks, stock markets, political opponents, and, of course, the Middle East. Fredrik will return to New York and control financial operations from there. The markets should be feeling the squeeze within the week. We have already recalled lines of credit we were offering to two medium-sized American Banks that have over-extended themselves. They will not find any other source of finance. We will force them into liquidation. The press will be informed, and we will start to sell off Meyer-Hofmann’s assets across the board tomorrow. This will further destabilise the markets. We will be able to buy them back for a fraction of the price at a later date.” He gave the room a moment’s time, looking around the table to make sure that all had understood.

“I want the older members of the board to return to their jobs and work on damage limitation for our holdings. We don’t want to hurt our friends any more than necessary, although none of our holdings will escape the financial repercussions. Herr Von Klitzing is to go to Tel Aviv and bait the Israeli hook.” He threw this information into the room without looking at Von Klitzing.

“Anton, you will lead our forces on the ground in Iran.” He spoke directly and warmly to Von Klitzing’s son. That surprised and upset Von Klitzing in equal measures.

“Herr Ducker, you will support the Arab uprising. We need you to position and fire the tactical nukes into Israel. I know this will most probably be a one-way ticket for you. On behalf of the board, I thank you for your sacrifice!” Bremen clicked his heels together and nodded in Ducker’s direction.

The others at the table knocked the surface with their knuckles as a chorus of “Hear, hear. Hear, hear,” rang out. Ducker smiled, but it was forced. He had just been chosen for a suicide mission.

“I have sent a group of clones to carry out sniper attacks. We will start hitting political leaders and key members of state when the social unrest begins.”

“Professor Furtner and Dr Ecker will accompany me to Austria. There, they will continue their research. I hope that, together, they will find a way to make the recollection procedure more powerful.” That sounded more like a rebuke than an order. Dr Ecker looked sheepishly at the floor beneath his feet.

“Our search for Franz Meyer’s descendants continues. I expect no such failure again!” He was now glaring at Ecker.

“The control centre will be operational in the morning. From there, we will have an overview of the entire theatre of war.” Another pause for effect.

“This will not be a simple operation, and I expect setbacks. But if you remember who you are and why you are here, we will prevail. Good luck, Gentlemen. Heil Hitler!” He saluted.

“Jawohl!, Jawohl!” the table called out in agreement. “Heil Hitler!” The men saluted in chorus.

36

The report of gunshots had brought half the Munich Police Department to Starnberg. As in most of Europe, gun crime in Germany was a rarity, and the Munich police were taking no chances. Günther Müller had to start showing his badge some five kilometres from the crime scenes, with all roads in and out of the area closed off. When he and Monika finally got through to the site of the double shooting, there was a plastic tape perimeter, and a dozen police officers making sure no one got too close. Within the barriers, men in white suits made themselves busy searching the area. Every square metre was being examined, with markings on the road and pavement, helping the officers to catalogue the search for evidence. Looking at the man’s body, it was obvious that it had been moved. Bloody footprints led from a pool of blood in the centre of the road, the body crumpled in a half-foetal position.

Whoever did this was an amateur, Günther thought.

The Doc Marten boots and black sweater the dead man was wearing were standard issue for paramilitary organisations, from security firms to right-wing radicals.

When he arrived at the car, he quickly made the decision that he was dealing with two killers. Peering down into the car’s interior, using his left hand to shield his eyes from the bright arc lighting that had been set up around the scene, he vocalised his thoughts.

“Anyone capable of making the shot that killed this woman would not have moved the other body so carelessly.”

“I’m sorry, sir, were you talking to me?” Monika asked from behind him.

Turning, he smiled.

“No, I’m sorry, I was talking to myself, but you might as well have heard it.”

“I agree, sir.”

“If this had anything to do with the Petersens break-in—and my guts are telling me it did—Family Jarvis may well have had some serious trouble this evening. Come on, we better get over there.”

The house looked as if a bomb had hit it. But on closer examination, Günther decided there was too little blood for this to be the scene of another gun crime. Someone had obviously had a serious fall on the stairs, where there were bloodstains and a sizeable hole in the staircase wall, but apart from that, the rest of the damage was superficial. Only the small office on the ground floor showed any signs of a robbery. Bare cables testified to the absence of a desktop computer and printer. The room had also been nuked, with pictures ripped from the walls, chairs and tables smashed, and diamante crystals of all shapes and sizes littering the floor. It was impossible to move without the crunch of the small stones grinding themselves into the laminate flooring.

“What a mess!” Monika said.

“Yes, but I would guess we are dealing with an abduction rather than a murder here, Monika. There is too little blood and no bodies. Whoever hit the wall out there is going to have a hell of a headache, let’s just hope it was not Mrs Jarvis!”

“What happened in here?”

“No idea. They obviously took the computer, but why they trashed the place is anyone’s guess. Trying to make it look like a break-in, maybe.”

“You don’t think it was?”

“Do you?”

“No. Where do you think they have taken her?”

“Who knows, but I am not sure she was alone. I think maybe her husband was here as well.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The scene on the road, the hole in the wall. Remember what her husband did to those kids in the Underground? I can’t believe Mrs Jarvis is capable of shooting someone in cold blood. But maybe her husband is.”

The pair left the room and moved into the lounge. The bay windows were shattered, and glass covered the floor. There were countless scratches in the parquet where feet had slipped and trampled the glass into the wood.

“Another scuffle here!” Günther said in Monika’s direction.

“Inspector Müller, sir, can you take a look at this, please.”

A young officer in a white suit approached the pair.

Günther turned to see something glittering in his gloved right hand.

“Sir, it’s a USB stick.”Günther pulled a rubber glove from his right jacket pocket and snapped it onto his hand, taking the stick from the forensic officer. He turned it over and took a closer look. One end of the device was covered in small crystals shaped as diamonds, the other was a classic USB plug with the word ‘Swarovski’ embossed in the metal. Günther remembered buying an old girlfriend a piece of ‘Swarovski’ jewellery, which he remembered she had hated.

Why would anyone buy a piece of bling like this?

Monika watched her boss’s face take on a puzzled look.

“Günther?”

He stepped cautiously over the broken glass and went back to the office. Taking another rubber glove from his pocket, he pulled it on and knelt down next to a large dark brown wooden frame in the middle of the room. Turning it over, it revealed the garden collage. The right side of the garden scene had taken the brunt of the impact with the floor. The right rim hung loose from the frame’s main body, and the top right corner was missing. Most of the crystals had broken free of their glued mounting, revealing a penciled drawing of the house’s back garden. The left side of the picture was more or less intact. It depicted the garden hedge and border, as well as the small pond and bridge. Blue and green crystals had been used to make the water and the lily pads floating on the pond. Clear crystals gave the effect of reflected sunlight on the water. A number of these crystals were missing in the middle of the water, where a small recess had been chiselled into the frame’s wooden back. Günther took the USB stick and slotted it into the recess. It was a perfect fit. He turned to look at Monika, who was staring down at him, fascinated .

“I need to see what has been saved on this, now!”

He handed the USB stick back to the white-suited officer.

“First thing in the morning, Moni, I want a search warrant for all of Meyer-Hofmann’s premises in Munich. If that is what I think it is, we will have more than enough evidence to get a warrant.

37

Lisa was cold, wet, and felt very vulnerable. She had awoken briefly in the car as one of her assailants had pushed a needle into her arm, and then again as a blast of ice-cold water battered her back into consciousness. She was strapped, naked, into a hard wooden chair and could feel her bottom hanging through the chair’s seat rim. The wood was biting into her bum cheeks and thighs, and she was shaking from the cold. Her throat felt sore and bruised, and there were large blue marks on her right thigh and arm. She struggled against straps restraining her, only to feel herself sink deeper into the chair’s missing seat.

“That won’t work, Mrs Jarvis.”

She recognised the voice immediately. Von Klitzing emerged from the room’s shadows, pushing a small trolley in front of him. He had been in the room for some time, watching her, mulling over his options.

Theoretically, he had the whole day at his disposal.

He had been relieved of his responsibilities by Anton Brandt, once known as Peter Von Klitzing. A wry smile crossed his face as he wondered how close his son’s incarnation of Anton would resemble his own.

“Let me go; what are you doing? You can’t do this!”

“Oh, can’t I? It would seem I can.” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“I haven’t done anything. You have to let me go! Michael will kill you!”

“Well, we will see if that happens, Mrs Jarvis, but it is not something that you will witness.”

He smiled widely at her.

“What are you going to do?”

He held a cup of hot tea under her nose.

“I’m not drinking that! Are you mad!” Unable to move her head because of the restraints, Lisa pushed back and spat a volley of phlegm into Von Klitzing’s face.

“As you will.” Von Klitzing tilted the cup slightly towards her and threw the scalding liquid into her face.

Lisa screamed as the skin on her face and chest blistered and reddened on contact with the hot tea. Some of the tea had entered her mouth, and she coughed and spat to get it out.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Mrs Jarvis. It is your decision.”

As the pain subsided, Lisa struggled to calm herself. She didn’t think she was badly burnt, but she couldn’t really tell. It was, however, clear to her who had the upper hand, and that her only hope would be to somehow get out of the chair.

“Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t understand; there is no need for this. I will tell you what you want to know.”

“Of course you will.”

Lisa decided she only had one option. I have to charm the bastard!

* * *

Michael had considered going to the police but decided against it. He felt more and more of Hofmann creeping into his subconscious, and despite having prised a loose filling from a top molar, he was concerned that the pain he was able to inflict on himself was inadequate. He was feeling no remorse at all for his victims, and that worried him. An anger was also boiling in his belly like nothing he had known before. Hofmann is close!

Trying to act logically, he had weighed up all of his possible courses of action.

The chance that I can persuade the police to raid the club are next to none. Getting them to do anything before the morning is unlikely. Lisa will probably be dead by the morning. She needs me now!

He checked the clip of the gun in his hand. He had no idea what type of gun it was, but he knew exactly how to operate it. Releasing the safety, he opened the clip.

Five rounds of ammunition. Use them wisely, Michael.

He had parked the van on an adjacent street and was entering Gallery Street from the Odeonsplatz on foot. Outside the club, he could see one of the first-generation clones guarding the door. It could well be one of the Heinzes. Turning the gun around in his left hand so he was gripping the barrel, he flicked the safety back on and made as if to walk past the clubs’ entrance. The door was on his right, and he nonchalantly walked past, before swinging around and bringing the gun’s handle down on the guard’s head with all the force he could muster. The gun’s grip made contact just behind the guard’s right ear. For a moment, it didn’t seem as if the blow had had any effect. The guard turned towards Michael, looking more startled than hurt. But then he went down to his knees, letting Michael land another identical blow. This time, he felt the man’s skull give way and watched him slump to the floor. Michael thought about moving the body but decided against it.

Should anyone alert the police, that could only be a good thing!

* * *

Lisa gave Von Klitzing one of her best smiles.

“Herr Von Klitzing, we were scared. Michael has been so unwell recently, and he thought you had drugged him. We were just trying to get some leverage, to make you stop what you were doing to him and just let us go home.”

“Yes, I am sure. And what leverage have you found?”

She smiled again.

“Not very much, really. Just a little money laundering and a few companies that do not fit in the Meyer-Hofmann portfolio.”

“And what do you know about Heinz Hofmann?”

“Who?” she tried her best, but she knew he didn’t believe her the moment the word left her mouth.

Pain shot up her left leg, and another scream exploded from her chest. Looking down, she could see a scalpel’s blade buried deep into her left thigh. Blood was oozing from its base and running down the side of her calf.

“No, please! He was Michael’s grandfather, and you are trying to bring him back from the dead or something. Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me!”

“Now that’s better. How is Michael keeping control? How is he stopping Hofmann from returning?”

“I don’t know, I promise I don’t know.” The tone of her voice gave it away, but she could not give up that secret. She could not betray her husband, whatever the price.

“Your choice, young lady.”

Von Klitzing reached down under the trolley and lifted the heavy yellow battery charger, letting it drop with a demonstrative clatter, on top of the cart. Unwrapping a long black rubber cable from behind the body of the charger, he walked over to the door and plugged the cable into the wall socket. A small dial on the device instantly sprang into life, making Lisa’s eyes bulge with fear, as she stared from the machine to Von Klitzing and back to the machine. He could see her trying to process what might be about to happen to her, then wishing she hadn’t. Perched back on the rolling stool, Von Klitzing enjoyed her torment for a while, then slid himself back across the room. Reaching under the trolley, he retrieved two thick black rubber gloves. He pulled them on slowly, only inches away from her face, before turning away from her for the last time. Picking up the two large bulldog clips from the side of the machine, he freed their attached cables expertly from the trolley’s bottom shelf with his right foot. Another twist and he was facing her again, the bulldog clips held up for her to see, and a mad grin covering his face. Without any delay, he attached the first of the bulldog clips to her left breast, clamping her soft white skin between the clip’s vicious teeth. Red blood seeping through the crocodile’s cruel smile.

* * *

Michael was in the club, the gun hidden in his hand by the dead guard’s jacket. He moved as unobtrusively as he could to the lift. Although it was almost 3:00 am in the morning, there were still ten or twelve people in the bar, with two overworked waiters moving to and fro from their tables. Fortunately, nobody noticed his entrance, and he was in the lift before the lift doors had completely opened. Guessing where they would be holding Lisa, he pressed the button for the second underground level. When the doors reopened, he was standing with the gun raised in front of his chest in a two-handed grip. As he had expected, a lone guard stood at the entrance to the second floor, a guard he dispatched with a single shot to the head. The sound of the gunshot echoed around the lift’s small cabin, yanking him briefly back to grim reality. Another dead man at his feet.

“No time for this, move on, move on!” he told himself.

Leaving the elevator, his ears still ringing with a high-pitched song of complaint, he set off for the interrogation room. He guessed he had a good five hundred metres to his destination and would encounter three corners and countless doors. The rooms off the main corridors were not just storerooms; some provided accommodation for the guards. He knew that before he got to Lisa, things would very likely get very lively. His main problem would be guards exiting rooms from behind him, as he moved down the corridors. If he wasn’t careful, he could easily get flanked and surrounded. Quickly patting down the dead guard, he removed a pistol from his inside jacket pocket, clicked on the safety, and stuck it down the back of his trousers. He had often seen similar scenes in action movies and shook his head to make sure he stayed focused.

The alarm bell started after he took out his third victim. The guard emerged from behind a closed door. He too was dropped with a head shot from point-blank range, but the door slammed shut behind him, and moments after that came the sound of a siren. It bellowed down the narrow hallways, calling the guards out of their sleep and galvanising them into action. There was nothing Michael could do about it, so, pulling the second gun from behind his back, he flipped off the safety and fired three rounds with each gun into the closed door, before kicking it in. The second inhabitant of the room was hit by three of the six bullets, and the wall behind him had been transformed into a mural of red and white. Dispensing with the empty weapon, Michael found two more on his latest victims, and, tucking them both into his belt, he ventured slowly back into the hallway.

* * *

“You know, Mrs Jarvis, electricity is one of man’s greatest inventions. But it can be very painful.”

Von Klitzing brushed the second clamp over Lisa’s right nipple, and her whole body convulsed. Straining against the chair’s straps and fighting uselessly against the thick brown leather, her teeth ground themselves to powder as the relentless electricity forced its way through her flesh, contorting her face into a grotesque death mask. Von Klitzing finally pulled the clamp away, only a moment before she was convinced she would die. A mouthful of chipped teeth and excruciating pain racked her head. Perspiration soaked her entire body, and salty sweat ran from her forehead and into her eyes, blurring her vision and combining with tears of pain to create a waterfall of despair over her face.

“You know, a women’s genitals are a very sensitive place.” Von Klitzing said this after detaching the bulldog clip from her breast. Holding both clips in front of her face once again, he made their jaws open and close in a demonstration of the pain they would cause her. Then, very slowly, he moved one of the clamps down between her legs, stroking her thigh with the cold metal as he went.

“Please, don’t!” she pleaded. But looking into Von Klitzing’s eyes was like staring Death in the face, and she knew there would be no sympathy.

Holding the second clamp just inches from her left eyeball, he watched her strain to move her head away, a small whine of helplessness escaping her lips. That seemed to please him, and, for a second, she hoped for a reprieve, but none came, only a sharp pain from between her legs as the first clamp was applied.

“A last chance, Mrs Jarvis?”

Lisa swallowed down the pain and sent another volley of spittle in Von Klitzing’s direction by way of a reply. When the alarm sounded, she mistook it for more pain, her senses’ confusion tricking her mind. Seconds later, the door was flung open, and two guards rushed into the room.

“Sir, we are under attack! You must leave immediately.”

“I am not finished; just do your jobs and leave us!”

“Sir, you know the rules. You must leave now.”

“Can’t you see I am busy? This woman has valuable information!”

“She is not going anywhere, sir. You can return to her later, as soon as we have the situation under control.”

The men took an arm each and forcibly lifted Von Klitzing from his chair, dragging him out of the room.

“You imbeciles!”

Lisa watched the men drag Von Klitzing away, wriggling and squirming like a spoiled child. They hit the lights before the steel door slammed behind them, and she was plunged into darkness. Alone in the room, just the screaming siren assaulting her ears.

* * *

Michael was only fifty metres from the interrogation room, and every nerve in his body wanted to make a run for the door, with only common sense holding him back. They would be coming from both directions along the hall now, the larger force coming from the communications centre, which was next to the interrogation room.

This will be the decisive fight, he told himself.

When the clink of steel on stone came, he knew it could only be one of two things, a grenade or a flash bomb. Diving instinctively to his left through an open door, he did a forward roll, smacking his skull hard against the far wall of the room. Covering his head with his arms, he hoped the blast would go in the other direction. Not one but three blasts shook the building around him, and the room instantly filled with a thick fog of dust and mortar. Taking a chance, he pulled his sweater up over his nose and made another forward roll back into the corridor. Ending up in a crouch, facing towards the interrogation room, he was just in time to see three figures moving down the inside of the wall towards him. Six muzzle flashes later, they were all down. Remaining in the crouch, his senses trying to reach out and feel for the next aggressor, he was relieved when nothing more came than an eerie silence. Back on his feet, he was off at a run. Hitting the guard room door with the sole of his right foot, he was greeted by nothing more than dust, and he admonished himself for being impatient.

You idiot, you could have gotten yourself killed!

A few deep breaths and Michael went on the search for new ammunition. The room was full of a mix of electronics and gun racks. Taking an assault rifle down from one of the racks, he searched the cupboards. The very first one revealed grenades. The second bore an ammo belt and ammunition, which he put on, clipping four of the grenades onto the belt before moving carefully back out into the hallway. He crept to the door of the interrogation room, looking both ways along the hall and listening for the sound of more guards. When none came, he gently opened the door to the interrogation room.

“Lisa, are you in there?”

The muffled sound of his voice was like music to her ears, and the relief she felt was palpable.

“Michael!”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, yes!”

She was about to continue, but he was already in the room, flicking on the light and closing the door behind him.

“Oh my God, what have they done to you? Are you all right?”

Tears welled up in his eyes. Seeing his wife strapped to that chair was more than he could bear, and the rage inside him grew.

It was my job to protect her. What if I can’t do that? He was racked with guilt.

Her left thigh was caked in blood, and a cable was hanging from between her legs. He rushed to release her, ripping at the leather straps and gently removing the clamp.

“Lisa, I am going to have to remove this.” Michael gestured at the scalpel.

She nodded and bit down on her lip. He wasted no time, pulling the scalpel from her leg with one swift tug, before applying pressure to the wound like a trained medic.

“Can you hold this a second?”

She nodded and pressed down on the wound with both hands. He found her clothes in the corner of the room neatly folded and placed on the concrete floor.

Von Klitzing is not your regular psychopath, he thought.

Passing her clothes to her, he knelt down in front of her.

“I will be right back, darling, hold tight.”

“Michael, don’t leave me!”

It was too late. He was already out of the door. But less than a minute later, he was back, clutching a complete first aid kit. Taking a swab from the small white box, he pressed it onto her leg. Expertly wrapping a gauze bandage around her injured thigh, he secured it with a safety pin. Looking her straight in the eyes, he took her face in both hands and kissed her hard on the lips.

“We have to move!”

Lisa nodded and slowly dressed herself, doing her best not to bend the injured leg. Fortunately, there was little bleeding, with only a small red dot appearing in the white linen of the bandage.

“Come on, let’s see if you can walk.”

He lifted her up onto her feet, and she put her arm around his shoulders before gingerly trying to put some weight on her left foot, but a bolt of pain shot up her leg, stopping her.

“I don’t think I can.”

“What if I carry you?”

“You can’t carry me and fight off their guards.”

“I can and I will. Stay here, and I will clear a path and then come back and get you.”

Without waiting for an answer, he moved to the door, slowly easing it open. There was no sign of any resistance, but he decided not to take a chance, launching grenades in both directions up the halls.

“Grenade!”

The call went up with a blast and was followed by coughing and a series of groans from at least two different men. Michael charged off in their direction, the rifle poised should he meet any resistance. Stopping at the corner, he peered tentatively in the direction of the moans. Two men lay against opposite corridor walls, both seriously wounded. It amazed Michael that they were not screaming their lungs out; one had lost a good portion of his left back, so much that his intestines were escaping onto the linoleum flooring. The other clutched his eyes, blood running freely between his fingers.

If they were animals, you would put them out of their misery, Michael thought.

Two shots later, the hallway was silent. Michael stood and stared at the bodies, shocked by what he had just done.

“What the fuck!”

Throwing the rifle to the floor as if it had suddenly become infected, Michael stared in disbelief at the slaughter. Turning away from the bodies, his stomach convulsed, spewing its contents down the corridor’s whitewashed wall.

You sad piece of shit! The taunt rang out down the corridor.

Spinning around instinctively to confront his next aggressor, Michael found himself alone in the hallway.

You are weak. The voice came from behind him.

Michael whipped his head from left to right, desperate to catch sight of whoever it was.

You can’t escape me, Michael.

“Where are you?”

I am you, you stupid bastard!

“What?”

Get a grip, if you don’t want to get us killed!

Then, reality dawned on him. Hofmann was back. Michael bit down hard on his damaged tooth, pain shooting up through his right eyeball and down his jaw to his neck.

“NO!”

It won’t work.

Again he bit down, and again he suffered, but he knew it was necessary. Waiting for a moment, there was silence. The inner dialogue had stopped. He considered taking the rifle with him, but the thought repulsed him. Still biting hard on the damaged tooth, he set off back to Lisa.

You are going to need that.

The pain was now unbearable, but despite that, he bit down with all his might. Tears welled and broke through his tightly shut eyelids, and waves of dizziness washed through his head, followed by nauseous coughs. Close to losing his balance, he grasped at the wall for support, but still, he had to go down on one knee, his face contorted by the agony in his mouth and head.

You are wasting your time.

Unclenching his jaw, he stopped. Slumping back against the wall in relief, he panted, gasping in air.

Get up, you fool, you have no time!

Michael tried to ignore the voice, but he knew it was right. He couldn’t just sit there.

There will be reinforcements here any second, MOVE!

Clambering to his feet, Michael started back towards the interrogation room.

The rifle, don’t forget the rifle.

He staggered the few steps and picked up the gun. Holding it in his hands again, he felt a sudden confusion. He had no idea how to operate it; it felt totally alien to him.

You need me! You must let me do it, or we will both die!

Biting down to stop the voice, he ran to Lisa. Bursting through the door, he found his wife clutching a hammer in one hand and the scalpel in the other.

Relief swept through her face when she saw him.

“Michael, I thought they had killed you! There were so many shots, and you were gone so long. What happened?”

“It’s a long story; come on, we have to go.”

Putting his right arm under both of hers and around her back, he was able to take the weight off her damaged leg. But it meant him holding the rifle in his left hand. He wasn’t sure he would be able to do anything with it, with his weaker hand holding the gun, but he had no choice.

Give her the rifle; you use the handgun.

Michael passed Lisa the rifle and pulled the pistol out of his belt. He had to look for the safety; it was already off.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Lisa asked.

“Just point and press.”

Now, go!

They set off at a fast limp, and, exiting the interrogation room, they made their way towards the stairs. The lift was a death trap. Michael didn’t need Hofmann to tell him that.

Leave her and check the staircase.

As they approached the door to the stairs, Michael gently lowered Lisa to the floor and moved to the side of the door.

“Wait here, darling, and cover me.”

“Michael, I don’t know how!”

“If anyone comes, just pull the trigger and hold tight.”

He tried a smile but was not sure what came out. At any rate, she didn’t return it.

The steel door was painted with a grey enamel paint. Michael reached over to open the door, trying to keep as much of his body behind the wall as he could as he slowly depressed the handle. The door creaked open, but there was no gunfire. He was again aware of the sound of the droning siren around him. Switching the pistol to his right hand, he moved quietly through the door, his ears straining against the background noise to hear anything unusual.

Check the stairwell first, then up the centre of the staircase.

Michael followed the orders; there was no sign of anyone. Returning, he helped Lisa to her feet and carried her into the stairwell.

Leave her here and clear a path.

Lisa seemed to know what he was going to do, letting go of him and hobbling into the corner of the stairwell of her own volition, hiding behind the big gun in her hands.

Checking up the stairs again, Michael set off.

Four stairs at a time, stop, look, and listen.

The sound of the siren was quelled by the walls of the staircase, and with the steel door closed, it became just a distant droning.

MOVE!

They had to go up two flights, which was probably about twenty-four stairs. Michael did the maths.

That was six stations.

The first two stations brought him to within sight of the first underground level, and an identical steel door. He wondered if he should bring Lisa up to this level.

She has more cover where she is.

Michael agreed and moved onto the landing. Putting an ear to the door, the siren filled his left eardrum, but there was no other sound. Then, suddenly, the siren was all around him, filling the staircase and causing Michael to scurry back up to the wall next to the door and raise his gun in the direction of the upper staircase.

Grenade.

Michael still had two grenades clipped to the ammo belt. Unclipping one, he pulled the pin and lobbed it up the staircase’s centre. It exploded in mid-air, taking the three-man team on the stairs above him completely by surprise.

GO!

Michael was up and racing up the stairs. In the background, he could hear Lisa’s voice. Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the landing in a second, where a similar scene of carnage awaited him.

Do it!

Crack, crack, crack. The pistol discharged itself three times, and all movement ceased. One of the men lay wedged in the open steel door to the heart of the club, his torso out of sight. Gripping his legs, Michael pulled the man back onto the landing, then rolled him over to disguise the worst of his injuries for Lisa’s eyes. Hurrying back down the staircase to Lisa, he met her on the first-floor landing, making her way up alone.

She is okay, check the floor space outside the door.

“I’m fine,” she confirmed.

Waiting for a smile of acknowledgement, he turned and went back to the door. Duplicating the procedure, he found the small lounge on the other side of the door empty. Lisa was now behind him at the door, and he gestured for her to move into the corner of the lounge. You could enter the lounge from both sides, by way of hallways. At its centre were four high-backed brown leather chairs and a round Hazelwood table. Lisa positioned herself behind one of them, resting the rifle on the chair’s back to cover both entrances to the room.

Clever girl.

Michael was still looking at her, when she suddenly opened fire. The bullets flying within inches of his head, he watched as the power of the gun pushed her off balance, the bullets arcing up, ripping into the walls and ceiling of the lounge. When she was finally able to release the trigger of the gun, she landed with a hard bump on the carpeted floor. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that another guard lay flat on his back with two impact wounds. One was in his stomach, and the second had taken the top left corner of his head off.

Take the left passage.

Grabbing Lisa’s left arm, he pulled her onto her feet, and they set off. Michael’s gun was pointing down the dark hallway, Lisa’s rifle covering their backs. At the end of the passageway, the main hall came into view, along with the club’s exit. They had been moving too fast and were suddenly in the open.

Get down!

Dragging her down with him, Michael scanned for a threat. Fortunately, there was none, and they found themselves lying in the middle of the entrance hall without any cover.

Get to your feet!

There was no time. A blast went off somewhere behind them, and the club’s main entrance flew open, the shiny black door smashing against the outside wall, letting in a rush of fresh air.

“Police! Drop your weapons!”

Both of them froze, letting their guns fall to the ground and holding their hands over their heads as best they could. Five police officers dressed in blue fatigues and bulletproof jackets surrounded them, pressing them back to the ground and handcuffing their hands behind their backs, neither resisting.

You must get out of the building!

Michael looked around for a threat. Why would Hofmann want to get them out of the building? They will blow it up; they can’t let the authorities find the basement!

“We have to get out, there is a bomb!” Michael screamed it at the officer who seemed to be in charge.

He reacted without delay.

“Where is the bomb?” the policeman asked as he pulled Michael to his feet.

“I don’t know, but they told me they were going to blow up the building.”

The whole group was now moving towards the exit at speed. One of the officers was barking orders into a walk-talky on his chest.

“Clear, clear, clear—we have a bomb!”

As they spoke, the basement was filling with gas, each room connected to a network of pipes that stretched the length and breadth of the building. Charges had been built into the walls at strategic points, the demolition plan dating back to the time when the club was built. The basement would be torched to destroy any documents, then the building would be brought down in such a way that it concertinas, the upper floors filling the basement with rubble, so that it would obliterate any evidence left inside.

The group felt the rumble as they ran, like an earthquake, their surroundings vibrating around them. The burn had begun.

“MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!” the lead policemen shouted as they went.

The charges had been set to cause an implosion, detonating in the bottom middle of the building first, then spreading out towards its sides. This way, the centre falls together and the sides fall inwards. Fortunately for them, the Gallery Street entrance was at the end of the building. The sound of the first charges being set off encouraged the group into an extreme increase in pace, the officers physically carrying their handcuffed prisoners out of the doors. As they hit the night air, the doors and walls of the club were literally moving in the opposite direction. It was a remarkable picture. People moving in one direction, and the building moving in the other. Standing in a first-floor window of the government buildings across the street, Von Klitzing was not able to enjoy the spectacle. He cursed himself.

You should have done it earlier, you fool!

38

The control centre was built into the second-floor basement at the Meyer-Hofmann facility in Ellmau. Housed in a large auditorium, the double door entrance led to a gallery that held chairs for twenty spectators. In front of them, the auditorium dropped to three banks of desks, each holding eight monitors and keyboards. Built on three levels falling from the gallery at the back of the room to a small stage at the front the room, it was thirty metres from back to front and twenty metres wide. The front and side walls held huge LED screens, which covered their entire surface area and were angled up towards the gallery. The remaining walls and ceiling were coated in a matte black emulsion that sucked any superfluous light from the theatre. Hans Bremen entered the room and looked on in awe. Since taking control of his grandson’s body, he had felt like a time traveller. The last war room he had visited, had received its information via telephone and courier. Model tanks and plastic figures had depicted the battlefield on a simple wooden table. Here, real-time video showed him pictures from Wall Street, London, Frankfurt, Tokyo, and Hong Kong stock markets simultaneously on the left-hand screen. Live tickers running along the bottom of each picture showed him fluctuations in the markets. Helmet and webcams sent pictures via satellite from the Iran training camp on one-half of the right screen, and a distant nuclear power station could be seen on the left side of the same display. The centre LCD brought live pictures of their forces mustering in Lebanon, Syria, and Egypt.

As it should be. The destruction of Israel will take centre stage, Bremen thought.

He knew that in a matter of hours his commanders would start the offensive, and the pictures would change to show their personal battles being fought. The banks of computers were operated by a twenty-four-man team. Each man would be in direct communication with their counterpart in the field. They, in turn, were being monitored by two officers who wandered along the aisles between the men, comparing clipboards with screens and occasionally interacting with the operators.

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.

Von Klitzing had first met Cerf in 2003 as a member of a German trade delegation that had been invited to Tel Aviv to discuss closer economic ties between the two countries. Cerf was a large man, and although not overweight, he was prone to sweating, constantly dabbing his brow with a white handkerchief. When he had been introduced, Von Klitzing was surprised by the dry, warm nature of the handshake and the strong and authoritative grip. Cerf was introduced as the representative of Israel Railways. Von Klitzing as a manager of Siemens. A description that, at the time, was not totally untrue. Siemens was a company in which Meyer-Hofmann held considerable stock and influence. Cerf, however, had no connection whatsoever to Israel Railways, and his fictitious position was a simple cover story. Von Klitzing was well aware of this, even before they met, and he had singled out Cerf as a potential target. He had needed a contact in Israel for a considerable time, believing you should keep your friends close but your enemies closer. He decided he needed to keep tabs on what the Israelis knew or didn’t know about Meyer-Hofmann. Grooming Cerf had taken time, but over the years, had almost become as enjoyable as it was beneficial. Cerf liked the good things in life, and their meetings were always in the best restaurants and hotels. It was not uncommon for the men to talk for hours over a fine cognac and a good cigar without once mentioning business, and the relationship had prospered as a result. It was just such a night in a Munich hotel bar when the men had outed themselves.

“My friend, I must make a confession,” Cerf had started.

“I have been approached by the Israeli secret service to provide names of associates who may be sympathetic to our cause. I wondered if you would mind my mentioning your name? We have so much in common, Johann, and I believe you understand the issues we are facing.” Von Klitzing had smiled at Cerf, patting him on the shoulder.

“Dear Benjamin, it would be an honour, but I too must make a confession. I have connections to the BND.” That had shocked Cerf, or at least, he had appeared shocked.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t told them anything about you, not that there was ever much to tell.” He laughed.

“No, I just meet so many people on my business travels that they often liaise with me. Ask for advice.”

Cerf had mulled the implications over for a while.

“This could be good for us, for both our countries. I will have to talk to my superiors, but this could be a perfect synergy.”

Von Klitzing had not slept well for a week after that meeting, but making the Israelis believe he had connections to the German security agency had been a masterstroke. As an industrialist, Von Klitzing’s use to the Israelis was limited, but as a German spy, it was immeasurable. Cerf had seized the opportunity with both hands, doing his best to convince Von Klitzing of the Jewish cause, and Von Klitzing had not disappointed. He fed Cerf regular and top-rate intelligence. Meyer-Hofmann’s intimate relationship with the Arab states and their different paramilitary groups meant Von Klitzing could give Cerf the names and whereabouts of key figures whenever it suited his purposes. The Israeli, in turn, would give Von Klitzing access to intelligence about almost any country or company that interested him. Cerf craved every scrap of information he could get from Von Klitzing, who was possibly his best informant, and his rise through the ranks of the Mossad was due, in part, to the intelligence he received from the German. Only last month, Von Klitzing had used Cerf to kill a Hezbollah commander who had become suspicious about Meyer-Hofmann’s motives in setting up training camps in Iran. Von Klitzing had passed the commander’s name and whereabouts to Cerf, knowing that the Israelis would take the appropriate action. The very next day, a drone attack in Lebanon had killed the commander and his two brothers whilst driving the family car back to their home in Gaza. But the culmination of Von Klitzing’s work would be his appointment today. Cerf had seemed pleased to hear from him, and even more interested when he heard that Von Klitzing was planning a personal visit.

“What could be so important that you can’t tell me over the phone? You know our lines are secure, my friend.”

“It is a personal matter, Benjamin, a personal decision not sanctioned by my Government.”

“How intriguing. I shall look forward to finding out what controversial information it is that you have for me, Johann.”

Von Klitzing’s plan had been taking shape for a considerable amount of time. He had manipulated German government connections to get invited to Iran. The Iranian Government believed him to have contacts to KWU, Siemens’s old Nuclear power division. Siemens had worked extensively with successive Iranian governments until sanctions and the sale of their nuclear business interests in 2011 had ended the cooperation. KWU was now in French hands, and the French were somewhat resistant to any plans concerning nuclear power and Iran. So the Iranians were hoping Meyer-Hofmann’s connections and the recent thawing of diplomatic relations between the new Iranian government and the western world would help them bridge that gap. As a result, Von Klitzing had two Iranian stamps in his passport to show Cerf, and he hoped that those, combined with some doctored photographs of the Iranian nuclear plant in Bushehr, would light the touch paper.

He had had a less pleasant journey than his alter ego. It was not the economy seat on El Al that had bothered him as much as the worry. Von Klitzing was not used to the emotion and was finding it hard to control. Since the events of the night before, he had begun to worry about a lot of things. The reports from the club were not good, Jarvis or Hofmann had wreaked havoc in the place and, together with Jarvis’s wife, they had escaped. Both were presently guests of the German Police. The loss of the club would have repercussions, but for the time being, there was no way that the police could retrieve any classified information from the building. He had personally overseen the servicing of the demolition systems. If everything had functioned in the way it had been designed to, there would be nothing left but ashes, buried under half a million cubic metres of reinforced concrete. It was Jarvis who worried him most. Or more to the point, the hybrid Jarvis had become. Hofmann had always been a would-be soldier and a very accomplished businessman, but nothing like the man who had just single-handedly destroyed the second-best-defended facility Meyer-Hofmann owned. Von Klitzing remembered Franz Meyer as the brutal part of the partnership. It seemed he had been wrong.

Standing in the Bianco suite of the Carlton Hotel, looking out at the sea gently lapping at the shoreline, he should have been feeling elated. Instead, he was seriously worried.

“What is taking so long? He should be dead by now!” Von Klitzing cut off the cellular call, shaking his head. Waiting in a Tel Aviv hotel room made him feel impotent and angry.

40

It was 6:00 a.m., and Ett Street Police Station was a hive of activity. Dawn had broken over the Bavarian capital with a typical mix of tranquil white clouds and blue skies, in stark contrast to the destruction the city had witnessed during the night. Günther had returned to the headquarters just minutes after the Jarvises were taken into custody and had bumped into a member of the SWAT team on his way back out of the building.

“Sorry, Günther, I wasn’t looking.”

Peter Katz had gone through training with Günther, and they still met for a beer when the opportunity presented itself.

“Hi, Peter, were you at the Odeonsplatz last night? I heard it over the radio; it must have been a close call!”

“You’re not kidding. We were lucky to get out of there with our lives.”

“Have you any idea what happened in there?”

“We were called out after a 112 call reported a body lying in the street. By the time we got there, Jarvis was on his way out, together with his wife and a small arsenal of weapons. She was carrying an automatic rifle, and he was carrying two pistols and a hand grenade. I saw at least one body before pulling them out of there. God knows how many more there were.”

“And the explosion. Was it gas?”

“Might have been, some people reported smelling gas, but the explosion was almost too big and too accurate for that. My guess is a demolition. Honestly, Günther, you should have seen that place come down. There was hardly a brick in the road after the dust settled.”

“That doesn’t make any sense—why would anyone destroy a property like that?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, my friend. Fortunately, that is your job.” He smiled. “Look, I have to get back over there. If you want I will call you later?”

“Yes, please. Take care Peter!”

Peter waved and set off at a jog in the direction of a black SWAT van in the street.

Günther turned slowly, digesting what he had just heard, and went over to the reception desk to enquire about the Jarvis’s whereabouts.

“Where have we put the Jarvis Family, Martha?” The young police officer looked up from behind a filing cabinet, a wad of reports in her hand.

“Neither have been officially charged, but the list of charges is growing by the minute. Mrs Jarvis is to be taken to hospital within the hour. She has a very nasty leg wound and some other abrasions to her body. Mr Jarvis is presently in a holding cell.”

* * *

Michael stood in the small cell, trapped with his nemesis. Neither man was able to gain the upper hand. Hofmann continued bombarding him with incessant recommendations.

We have to get out of here. They will come for us. We are not safe here!

Look, there is no we! No us! Just leave me alone.

The next guard that comes in, take him out. In fact, call him, call him now, whilst you still have the nerve!

I am not going to ‘take out’ anyone. These people are trying to help us.

They can’t help us, don’t you understand? Meyer-Hofmann has people working in this building, and they will come for us. We have information that could ruin their plans. They will not take the chance that we will not talk.

Michael stopped pacing the room and slumped down on the hard steel bed, head in his hands.

Shut up. Shut up. Just shut up!

You have to listen to me!

No, just let me think!

* * *

Lisa was in an ambulance, on her way to the hospital. A paramedic had redressed her leg wound and rubbed some cream into the other bumps and abrasions on her body. But she was most worried about her teeth. Running her tongue over their chipped and broken surfaces, the sharp points and rough edges cut and scratched. She tried sucking air through them, but it made her wince with pain. Despite that, she was unable to stop herself from constantly pushing and prodding her tongue back and forth over their shattered remnants.

Oh my God, what must I look like?

She tried a broken smile at the lady police officer who sat in the ambulance opposite her, before covering her mouth in shame.

“Do they hurt? Your teeth? There is also a dentist in the hospital; you should see him.”

“Yes, I think I will. Thank you.”

The officer smiled at her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start! I have to talk to my husband first.”

“I am afraid they won’t let you do that. Your statements will be taken separately. I was talking about your wounds. Do you want to tell me how they happened?”

“I was tortured. I was tortured by a man called Von Klitzing. And he enjoyed it.”

The woman took a small pad and pen from her jacket pocket.

“He stripped me and strapped me into a chair. That’s where these marks came from.” Lisa held her wrists out in front of the officer before lifting her trouser legs to reveal her bruised ankles.

“Then he hosed me down with freezing cold water. I thought I would drown. The force of the water was so strong, and he blasted it full into my face. I couldn’t breathe, my mouth and nose were full.”

The tears were welling up in her eyes as she spoke, and she cuddled herself for warmth, remembering the cold water.

“Then, when I wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he stabbed me in the leg.”

“And the teeth?”

“Electric shocks. I thought I was on fire! My whole body was racked with pain. Everything, I can’t explain it—it was awful!”

A lonely tear dropped between her legs onto the blue plastic material of the gurney she was perched on. She watched it fall in slow motion, impacting with the bed then ricocheting off in all directions, and with it, her feeling of self. She felt lost.

“He might as well have killed me.”

She spoke the words quietly, as if whispering to a child, as the ambulance came to a stop.

* * *

Sergeant Richard Weger met Heinz at a side door to the station.

“I can’t get involved! That is not what I signed up for!”

Weger was a small man, and not a typical policeman. He wore his green police issue trousers at half mast, his waist so small that his trousers rarely had the correct leg measurement. The shirt was also too large for him, the uniform sweater making it crease up into the V-neck, giving the impression he was wearing a blouse. A pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose were threatening to jump at any moment.

“What are you going to do?” Weger said, pushing the disobedient glasses up his nose with his forefinger.

Heinz looked him up and down once, with no sign of emotion, lifted the silenced Walter PPK in his right hand, and shot Richard between the eyes before setting off towards the cells.

* * *

Michael stood when he heard someone at the door, the old lock mechanism dragging the large bolt out of the thick cell walls, the cell door opening outwards into the hall beyond. When the door finally opened, he was only a metre away from the two men who stood before him, a guard he knew and another man in plain clothes, who immediately offered his hand.

“Mr Jarvis, my name is Günther Müller.”

Kill him!

Michael reached out towards the hand as a picture flashed through his mind. A martial arts throw, where the victim is taken in a handshake before being put on his back and killed with a blow to the neck.

Michael took the hand and shook it.

No! You idiot!

“Mr Müller, I have to get out of here. I believe Meyer-Hofmann will send someone to kill me.”

“You are quite safe here, Mr Jarvis, believe me.” Günther’s words were followed by a dull thud, and the guard behind him fell into the cell, a dark red patch growing on the side of his head. Both Günther and Michael threw themselves at opposite sides of the confined space. Günther struggled to release his own Walter PPK service revolver from its hip holster, whilst Michael tried to make the target as small as possible.

The bullet hit him in the left side of his chest, accelerating him into the wall. Günther, now on his back, raised his gun and emptied the clip into the man mountain that was standing in the doorway. No single shot had a deadly effect, but the sum of the parts battered the soldier into his grave. Going down on his knees, Heinz’s facial expression never changed, even as the life left him, and he fell face-first onto the cell floor.

* * *

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.”

The Iranians’ chests visibly rose with his words.

It is so easy to manipulate these people, he thought.

“We wish to thank you, the Iranian people, for giving us this opportunity. As a sign of our good will and intentions toward your people, my men have something for you.”

The twenty clone soldiers broke ranks, lining up directly opposite their Iranian colleagues. Raising their weapons as if to salute them, they opened fire directly into their ranks.

Bremen watched the carnage with a smile on his face. Hardly a shot was returned as the poor souls twisted and jumped at the bullets biting at their torsos, arms, and heads. When the clones stopped shooting, they were just a bloodied heap of cotton, flesh, and bones, surrounded by clouds of billowing dust.

Turning to Captain Bald, who was looking away from the screen towards the stock market tickers, he boomed, “Can this day get any better!”

“It is going very well.” The Captain returned.

43

Michael felt the full force of the shot’s impact with the left side of his chest. He was already moving when the bullet hit him, but the impact had both twisted and lifted him, slamming the back of his head into the cell wall. The lights had gone out at that moment, and he was back in the twilight world of unconsciousness he had been inhabiting for the last month. As usual, he was not alone.

You useless son of a bitch! You have killed us, you know that? You have killed us as surely as if you pulled the trigger yourself!

Michael didn’t know what he had done, but he knew for sure that the death of Hofmann would not be such a bad thing.

If only I could have said goodbye, Michael said, thinking of Lisa.

It seemed Hofmann was privy to even his most intimate thoughts.

You miserable excuse for a German. How could you be a relative of mine? There is far more at stake than your whore! Don’t you understand how long I have been waiting for this? How long I worked for this! This was our dream. Our chance to finish the work of the Führer! And you! You have ruined everything. Everything! And you will pay! Before I go, I will make sure there is nothing left of you!

Michael listened to the tirade without emotion, finding solace in Hofmann’s demise.

You can’t hurt me any more Hofmann, it’s over.

Don’t be so sure!

Michael felt a rush of blood to his head and a moment’s dizziness, followed by the feeling of drunkenness and a loss of memory. Unable to get his bearings, he called out to Hofmann.

What are you doing? The sound of his voice echoed around the inside of his head.

Hofmann’s thoughts were filling his mind. Michael could feel his hatred and bitterness. His memories flashed before Michael’s eyes, as clear as day. Hofmann’s childhood, his first girlfriend, his first job. Michael didn’t understand how Hofmann was making him watch these things, but he could do nothing to stop them.

What is this?

This, my dear Michael, is my past. Can you remember yours?

Of course… But he couldn’t. Michael became panicked, trying to force his mind to wake up and remember. I remember my life. You can’t take that away from me!

Do you? Tell me, what hair colour did your first foster mother have?

Michael knew the answer, he was sure.

She was a young woman. He fought to remember, searching desperately for other memories from the same period of his life. Nothing came. Again he concentrated, determined to prove Hofmann wrong, but nothing came.

You don’t know, do you? What about your first school? You must be able to remember that.

Michael tried again.

This can’t be happening. Please, God, no.

Michael became scared, realising how far he was from himself.

Am I losing it? What will happen when I can’t remember anything of my life?

Then, you will be me! Hofmann’s tone was matter of fact.

That is not possible; you can’t just wipe me out as if I never existed. Michael tried to sound convinced, but he wasn’t, and a cold feeling of fear was growing in the pit of his stomach. Its tentacles pushed through his veins, wrapping themselves around his heart and squeezing the very life out of him.

* * *

Lisa watched through the windows of Intensive Care, as more doctors burst through swing doors into the room. Some silent alarm summoned them to save the patient. Desperation filled her as an arm placed gently on her shoulder beckoned her away from the scene.

“They know what they are doing. The doctors here are very good.” Monika did her best to sound convincing. Shrugging her off, Lisa moved back to the window, calling her husband’s name.

“Michael, please! Michael!”

His bed was now moving, a group of doctors and nurses manipulating it between them. Like a swarm of busy green ants, they disappeared beyond the sight of a weeping wife and into the surgery.

* * *

It had felt like a fall from a height, the air had left his lungs for a second, and his stomach strained to keep its contents down. But Michael was not falling through air; he was collapsing into himself. Desperate to find something he could identify with, he found only a swamp of putrid memories and the stink of Hofmann’s life all around him.

Where are you, Michael? Are you still here? Hofmann laughed. You are lost, it’s over; you have to submit. My destiny and the destiny of all mankind is at stake. You are just a pawn. Give up and let it go. You have lost!

The sound of Hofmann’s voice was getting weaker, moving farther away. Michael could hardly remember his name, and looking around, he saw nothing but inky blackness. The black hole in his memory was sucking the images, thoughts, and sounds from his mind. All he held dear, replaced by a void of dark space. Bereft of dialogue, sound, and touch, he felt his surroundings narrow around him. Trapped in an invisible funnel that pulled him into nonexistence. He was free falling, unable to influence his speed or direction. Only a pinprick of light below him gave him any sense of his final destination, before he once again heard Hofmann’s faint voice.

Goodbye, Jarvis.

Michael had never been a religious man, but he found himself praying, sure he was lost to the world. His last prayer was for Lisa.

Please, God, keep her safe; protect her from him.

* * *

The bullet had penetrated Michael’s left chest cavity, between the third and fourth ribs. A light ricochet from the third rib had sent fragments of bone out like darts into his body’s soft tissues, piercing his lungs and heart. The bullet had then continued clear through the left lung, before again ricocheting back off the sixth rib and coming to rest against the seventh and eighth vertebrae of his thoracic spine. Chest injuries end in death in less than ten percent of cases, and the doctors were not overly concerned when he first arrived in A&E. They went through the motions, ventilating him before checking the extent of the damage to his internal organs with a simple radiograph. Three to four hundred millilitres of blood had collected in his left lung, but it was the bullet that caused the most concern. None of the doctors’ present trusted themselves to remove it, and all had agreed to wait for the consultant. They had conducted a tube thoracotomy to suck away any blood and fluid from the chest cavity. Staples had been applied to close the two larger lacerations of the lung caused by the bullet, and Michael had been stitched up and returned to Intensive Care, to wait for his next operation.

Lisa had been at his bedside ever since he arrived back. Sat on a small steel chair next to his bed, she was holding his hand, as if she could somehow keep him with her, if she just held him tight enough.

“Please, darling, you can do it! Come on, fight it, fight him. Don’t let him win.”

Professor Klaus Remboldt had arrived without fanfare. He was wearing a turquoise hospital gown and trousers, along with a long white lab coat and shoes, the standard stethoscope draped around his neck. More doctors in light blue versions of hospital couture milled about behind him. He had a kind smile and a wise, wrinkled face. Lisa struggled to her feet to greet him and offered him her hand.

“Hello, my name is Professor Remboldt. I will be operating on your husband today.” His voice was calm and strong, putting Lisa a little at ease.

“Hello, nice to meet you. He will be okay, won’t he?” she implored.

“Yes, I am sure he will. There is just a small complication with the position of the bullet. It is very close to his spinal column, but I have carried out similar surgery in the past. If you would like to fill out a few forms, I will get to work.”

“Yes, yes, but what are the dangers?”

“In cases like this, the patient has a very good chance of making a complete recovery. But the bullet may have damaged some important nerves, which run through and out of the spinal column. We won’t know the full extent of the injury until we have operated.” He smiled at her, and Lisa tried to put on a brave face. Taking the clipboard from his hand, she looked down at the paperwork and started to read. Interrupted by the high-pitched alarm from the equipment behind her, she watched as Michael’s heart monitor flat-lined.

“Oh my God, oh my God. What’s happening?” Lisa sprang back away from the bed, dropping the clipboard with a clatter. As she moved away from the bed, the others in the room moved towards it.

“AED.” The professor’s voice was calm, as another of the doctors pulled a small trolley from the wall, which held the ‘automated external defibrillator’.

“Clear!” Within less than a minute of his heart stopping, the first blast of electricity surged through it, forcing it back to life.

* * *

Michael was now somewhere new. The lights had come on, and he could see an opaque membrane surrounding him. He was suspended within it and still moving gently down the smooth tunnel. Looking around, it was just one of many in a forest of membranes, suspended vertically and horizontally in a milky vapour that hung in the sky like a cloud. The tunnels intersected with their neighbours at different heights along their lengths, forming branches that either stopped or moved directly through their counterparts. Looking up and down his tunnel, he could make out hundreds of connections along its length, above and below him. The membranes fluoresced and pulsed as light moved along their bodies. Michael took a moment to watch as some invisible conductor orchestrated the light show for him. The nearest junction to his column was only a short distance below him, and he became inquisitive to know where it might lead. As he did, he found himself slowing down to a stop at the tube’s the entrance. He could smell her, not her perfume, but that subtle smell she left behind on her clothes. The scent of his wife surrounded and enveloped him, and he was flooded by images, sounds, feelings, and memories of her. It was like a connection to her soul, and he let her wash over him.

“Where am I?” He had not expected a response, and he wasn’t disappointed.

Turning around and around in his silky prison, he imagined this must be how an unborn infant felt in the womb. Safe, warm, happy, and content.

But where is Hofmann? Hofmann! Silence.

Where are you, Hofmann? Nothing.

Somehow, Michael knew that Hofmann could not answer him here. That he had crossed a boundary that Hofmann could not cross. Only then did he realise that he was most certainly still himself. Michael, intact and safe. This epiphany came with a massive sense of relief, as he realised that Hofmann could never gain complete control over him. He had feared that Hofmann would consume him, rape his soul and toss it away like so many others. Now he knew that was impossible, and a new strength filled him.

HOFMANN!

Light rushed away from him in all directions, leaving his column and moving out into its branches, searching for its quarry. Moments later, he was moving up the shaft towards a distant junction and his prey. As he now expected, Hofmann’s junction went straight through his column. It stank of the man and his past. Hofmann’s memories were back, but Michael knew now he had a choice, and as the voice returned, it was on Michael’s terms.

You are dead, Michael, you know that.

I know, but so are you!

That doesn’t matter. There will be another chance, another Michael.

You disgust me, Hofmann.

Do I? You will have a chance to get to know me now, Michael. Laughter filled Michael’s ears and squeezed his newfound confidence.

We are finished, Hofmann, you are finished. I will be your last victim, the last of your dynasty.

There was silence for a moment as both collected their thoughts.

Goodbye, Hofmann.

That is not your choice, you fool.

You are wrong, Hofmann. Our paths will not cross again. Michael’s voice was calm.

You don’t know what you’re talking about! bellowed Hofmann.

The decision had been made, and Hofmann could sense it.

You can’t. It’s not your choice!

This place is all about choice, and I choose my freedom from you.

With that, Michael urged their detachment with all his strength. Mentally stepping away from the relationship and its toxic dowry, he pushed all that he knew of Hofmann into a distant and final grave. Hofmann’s column started to warp and vibrate, its fabric stretching and straining against Michael’s will power. As the shaking became more violent and the membrane began to break free from its anchor, the sounds grew metallic. The yawning of massive forces created deep notes of complaint. Like a submarine fighting to keep its shape against the overwhelming forces of nature, the tube buckled and bowed, unable to withstand the assault. As the final strands holding the two tubes together broke, Hofmann’s connection was sent twisting into eternity, untethered and tumbling through the forest of membranes.

Michael watched impassively as the tubes distanced themselves from one another. The knowledge that their two destinies were no longer entwined helped him to accept his own fate.

It has been worth it. He sent a last thought into the Universe and closed his eyes.

* * *

The group around Michael’s bed became more restless with each attempt to restart his heart. All eyes were on the professor, only Lisa’s remained on her husband. As the professor sent a final charge through Michael’s body, there was a group intake of breath, wishing for it to work. But the monitor above Michael’s bed let out a single tone and resisted the group prayer. The professor looked visibly shocked and confused, staring at the machine in disbelief.

“Okay, let’s call it. Time of death is…”

His words hung in the air, as time stood still for a moment. Lisa staring at her new reality, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Her lips desperately repeating the word “No”, without a sound leaving them. Only when the monotonous burr of the heart monitor was interrupted and time gave the desperate scene a chance to conclude, did she take her eyes off her husband’s body. She was furious that anyone could be so callous as to turn off the machine so soon after his death. The first ping of Michael’s reanimated heart brought not only him, but the whole group back to life. A communal sigh of relief broke the barriers that had held the station in silence. Again and again, the monitor confirmed his heartbeat, becoming stronger and more consistent with every minute.

“Oh, thank God.” Lisa stood, her hands clutched together in prayer. “Thank you, thank you!”

44

The domed glass ceiling in the middle of Tel Aviv, Ben Gurion Airport’s departure hall rained water into the central feature’s pool. Von Klitzing approached it, pulling a small black Samsonite suitcase behind him. Looking up, he marvelled at the imagination of the architect, followed quickly by a mist of anger descending upon him as he recognised the typical assortment of crass neon shop signs around the concourse.

Such a tasteless contradiction. People need to be protected from themselves sometimes, he thought.

Sitting down at one of the small tables positioned around the pretty waterfall, he looked around for a waiter. His flight was not leaving for over three hours, and he had a little time to kill. You have to leave more time than usual when traveling in or out of Israel, but Von Klitzing had more than enough, and he waved an impatient hand at a flustered young woman with a tray of drinks.

“Bring me a white coffee!”

She made a sarcastic curtsy before hurrying off to collect his order.

Looking around the concourse, he smiled.

These are the lucky ones. They will probably be out of the country when the war begins. But they will not be able to hide for long. I will track them down, and there will be an end to it!

The waitress returned with the coffee and the bill.

“I have to cash up now. I am going off shift.”

Von Klitzing looked up and handed her fifteen shekel and waited for the change. She made a point of slamming the coins onto the steel tray before stomping off, muttering something under her breath.

Not long, my dear, not long now.

He watched her go, the short black skirt she was wearing riding up as she walked.

Feisty. Smiling again, he sat back and sipped his coffee.

The firm hand placed on his shoulder made him jump.

I must have been dozing. Hopefully, I haven’t missed my flight!

“Sir, are you Herr Von Klitzing?” A uniformed customs officer was standing over him.

“Er, yes. What is the problem?”

“No problem, sir. We have been asked to make you comfortable.”

“I see, very well.”

“If you would come with us, please.”

Another black uniform was on his left shoulder, and as he got up, both men grasped him under the armpits.

“What is the meaning of this? I can manage perfectly well alone!”

The men were unmoved by his comments and continued to manhandle him in the direction of the shopping mall.

“I have very important friends in this country. I will be reporting the pair of you. Mark my words!”

“Of course, sir. This way, please.”

The two customs officers picked him up, one taking his case, and carried him down a small gap between a newsagent and the souvenir shop. Automatic doors opened on the left, and the threesome disappeared into the depths of the airport. Only the waitress had witnessed the abduction.

“Who’s the big man now? You old fart.”

Sitting at a small desk, Von Klitzing could see that he was at the back of the red lane of customs. Outside the small room he had been placed in, there were steel tables and scales where passengers would be asked to empty their luggage.

The guards had left the room, but he was still screaming abuse at them.

“You don’t know who I am. Get me Benjamin Cerf! Do you hear me? Cerf will vouch for me!”

He was fumbling through his case, looking for his mobile phone, when the door opened again, and a feeling of relief swept through him. Even he was not immune to Israeli security, and if they had got the wrong end of the stick, he knew things could get very bad, very quickly.

I will be glad when I have left this sandy hell, he thought.

Benjamin Cerf smiled a wide toothy grin at him.

“Johann. My friend, I am so sorry!”

“Yes, Benjamin. Thank goodness you are here. There has been some mistake!”

“No mistake, my friend, no mistake at all.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“What do I mean? Maybe you want to tell me?” Cerf changed his tone, becoming serious.

“I haven’t done anything!”

“Your sort always believes that, don’t they?” Again, Cerf smiled at Von Klitzing, an action that made him very nervous.

“Look, Cerf, if there has been a mistake, I am sure we can iron it out.”

“The mistake is mine. I have believed your bullshit all these years, Von Klitzing!” Cerf was now nodding and smiling.

Von Klitzing looked up at him in disbelief, unable to understand what Cerf was saying and why he was behaving this way.

“We have received a call from Munich. From the German Police. They say that you are under investigation, and we should take you into custody.”

Von Klitzing’s brain was working overtime, trying to understand what was happening to him. The only thing he could think of was Eva’s imminent arrest for impersonating Britt Petersen.

“That has nothing to do with me. My daughter has been in a little bit of trouble, but it’s nothing serious, I assure you!”

“No, that’s not it.”

Von Klitzing frowned.

“You have been lying to me, Johann. You have been lying to me for a long time, and I intend to find out exactly how many lies you have told me.”

“No! Benjamin, you know that is not true.”

“Yes! There is no evidence of an Iranian Nuclear Program, is there?”

Von Klitzing fought to remain in control of himself.

“Yes, there is. They are only days away. I can prove it!”

“Prove it! How will you prove it? We have received documents that describe exactly this course of events. They were written months ago, we have e-mails written from your personal computer, which describe an attack against Israel as retaliation for our bombing the power station in Bushehr. We have already detected forces on three of our borders. Can you explain that, Von Klitzing?”

“No, that’s not possible, there has been a mistake!”

“That is what I thought. In the next few hours, we will know if it is true, Von Klitzing. If we have made a mistake, I will let you go, but if, by any small chance, we have not… If we have not, you will be sorry. You will be very, very sorry!”

“Look, I don’t know where you got this information from, but it is a lie—it is all lies! We have known one another for years, Benjamin. You don’t think that I would do anything to hurt you?”

“They say you are a Nazi, Johann. Are you a Nazi?”

“No, of course not! How could you even think such a thing?”

“Do you know a woman called Britt Petersen?”

“No, who? I have never heard of her!”

“It seems she has heard of you. According to the BND, you were probably responsible for her death.”

“No, I could never hurt anyone, you know that. You know me, Benjamin. I couldn’t hurt a fly!”

“They think you tortured her. They think you tortured lots of people, Johann. People very close to me. Very close to my country.”

“Who do you think I am? You are making a mistake!”

“You have said. You have said that a lot. But I don’t believe you. I have been watching you, Johann. I have been watching you answer my questions, and I think you are lying.”

“NO.”

“Yes. And I think you are a bad person, a very bad person!”

“You don’t know who I am. How dare you!”

“Oh, I dare. I dare to do some bad things as well. When it is in my country’s national interest, I have learnt to do some bad things. I have to protect my country, Johann. There are still people like you who just can’t let us be. Just can’t let us get on with our lives.”

“You are parasites! You always were, and you always will be. You suck the blood from everything you come into contact with, the Europeans, the Arabs, it is all the same to you and your kind. You are a plague upon this world!” Von Klitzing spat the last words out, his face contorted and full of hate.

“Ah, he shows his colours.” A broad smile covered Cerf’s face. “I didn’t want to believe it, but it is true. You are one of them, aren’t you, Johann? I am honoured.”

Von Klitzing looked up at Cerf, puzzled.

“I am honoured to have the opportunity to repay a debt. A debt you owe my country and its people. You are going to spend a lot of time getting to know us, Johann. Israelis have learnt a lot about interrogation over the years. Some of it, our people had to learn first-hand. In your camps. We are going to find out exactly who you are. We are going to find out exactly what you know, and we are going to make you regret it all. When I am finished with you, Johann, you will know yourself better.” Cerf’s face was now cold and determined. Von Klitzing looked up into his eyes and knew he was finished.

45

Bremen’s excitement was growing by the minute. The world’s stock markets were in free fall, and James Mountfield, a leading conservative politician in England, was one of many politicians who had quit their parties, claiming their close ties to the banks was immoral. The right screen showed their troops in Iran, and Brandt on his way to the rendezvous point on the coast at Bushehr. It was obviously a hot, dusty drive along poor roads. The cameras mounted on the roof of the trucks and the helmet cameras carried by each commander showed clouds of dust billowing from the back of the vehicles as they ploughed their way along the broken roads. Brandt’s camera was showing the scene looking out of a truck window, and he was shaking around like a pea in a can. The camera intermittently bounced off the truck’s roof, sending blue horizontal lines across the screen.

“Can’t he buckle himself in, the idiot!” Bremen blustered at no one in particular.

Brandt’s arms stretched out to brace himself against the dashboard and seat. Then he dipped down to look out of the driver’s side window, giving them a view of more barren landscape before a bright flash of light filled the picture and the screen in the control room went black.

“Get that fixed!” Bremen barked into the auditorium.

His order led to a feverish hammering of keys from the men sat at the control panels. This was accompanied by intense conversations between the operators, before the picture reappeared of its own accord. The scene it revealed shocked the room, and there were gasps of disbelief. The men at the consoles turned from the screen to Bremen, to see his reaction. Brandt’s camera was steady, but at a forty-five-degree angle to the sky and no longer trapped in the confines of the truck’s shaking walls. Instead, it watched with its monocular eye, as waves of Mil Mi-24 attack helicopters chased one another across the blue-grey Iranian sky.

“What the hell’s happened?”

A moment later, Heinz was staring down past the camera, into his dead commander’s eyes. His head filled the screen. As if knowing what his superiors would want him to do, he disconnected the camera from Brandt’s helmet and started to film their surroundings. The truck in which they had both been sitting just a short time before had totally disintegrated, hit by the first volley of rockets from the Russian-built helicopters. Thrown from the wreckage by the force of the explosion, Brandt’s legs had parted company with the rest of his body, before hitting the ground and leaving a red stripe across the brown desert road.

In the control room, Heinz’s emotionless face now filled the screen. For a moment, he stared into the camera lens, then, placing the camera back on the ground, he turned towards his enemy. His wide khaki-clad back filled the screen. Facing the helicopters, he raised a machine gun and depressed the trigger, the gun fighting his strong arms, kicking and jolting as each round left the smoking barrel. The fight was useless, but this didn’t seem to deter the clone soldier, who continued to fill the air with lead, spraying the bullets in huge arcs across the pale sky. Only when the helicopters detected the threat did the firing stop, as a machine cannon ripped him apart. A red mist of blood and flesh was sent into the afternoon sky, landing like rain, blotting out the camera’s lens and filling the auditorium with a dark red glow.

The left side of the screen didn’t hold any more encouraging news for those watching. The advance team in Iran had dug a small bunker on the top of a hill, two miles from the reactor at Bushehr. They too were being massacred, but this time, by a barrage of mortar shells. Men could be seen scrambling for non-existent cover as shells landed all around them. Their webcams shook as the munitions detonated in the stony desert ground, sending huge plumes of dust, rocks, and soldiers into the hot desert air. Switching to a mounted camera, the room watched the distant horizon as the shapes of men and heavy machinery made their way towards the site. Tanks and armoured vehicles flanked by open-topped trucks filled with troops appeared. As, one by one, the cameras went black, the control room was left stunned.

“What has happened?” Bremen broke the silence.

“We have been betrayed! It is not possible. How, who? Where is Von Klitzing?”

“There is no answer on his mobile, sir, and the airline cannot confirm that he is on the flight from Tel Aviv,” one of the operators shouted up from his control panel, whilst pulling the big headphones from his head.

The room was now loud with conjecture. Opinions and prognoses were being swapped between the puzzled men at their stations. On top of the confusion came the shrill scream of the base alarm.

Looking back at the screens, only the stock markets were calm. Normally so keen to pass on bad news, they remained unchanged, the shares’ downward spiral showing no sign of abating. The right-hand screen was now only a static storm of broken connections, whilst the centre screen showed pictures of blood and destruction. By this time, the camps in Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt had erupted into battles between the clones and their hosts. The Arab soldiers turned on their guests with Kalashnikovs and Simonov self-loading carbines. Vastly outnumbered, the clone soldiers and their mercenary support was no match for the Arabs, and they too met their deaths.

“Sir, there are reports of an attack at the south boundary,” another operator shouted up to the gallery.

“What? An attack by whom?” The man looked down, listening intensely into his headset that he pressed hard against his right ear.

“Military, sir, Austrian Military. They have breached the boundary and are attacking the main building.”

On the fields of Ellmau, soldiers raced across the open land towards the small white concrete building that housed the entrance to the Meyer-Hofmann control centre. The small red-and-white circular insignia of the Austrian armed forces on the arm of their uniforms.

Back in the control room, Bremen made up his mind and, drawing his weapon, he left the control room just as the dull thud of an explosion could be heard above them. Moving quickly down the small corridors of the complex, He was joined by a small team of four second-generation clones, who took up position in front and behind him. Leaving the main corridor via white steel doors halfway down the bare hallway, they entered service tunnels that ran for over a mile down to the main road to Kitzbühel. There was always a contingency plan, and escape tunnels built into all Meyer-Hofmann buildings. As the doors clanged shut behind them, two of the guards pounded the door’s handles with the butts of their rifles, sealing them tight. Machine gun fire could now be heard in the complex, and it was clear that there was not much time.

“Come on, get a move on!” Bremen barked.

The march down the dark, damp halls took a little under seven minutes. Bremen reached the steps to his escape out of breath and fighting for air. They could hear the distant echo of the steel doors behind them being pummelled by the chasing troops. A flight of stairs was now the only thing between them and freedom. It led to more steel doors, but this time, they were directly above their heads. The clone guards nodded to one another and put their backs into the doors, pushing them up and to the side, leaving a clear exit to the fields above them.

The sun was blinding, and as the men emerged in the light of day, the clones took cover, pulling Bremen to the ground with them. Three cars had taken up position on the road just a hundred metres to the right. Waiting for the group, their drivers were standing beside the vehicles, each accompanied by a clone soldier. Both the drivers and the clones held their hands above their heads. Two Apache helicopters hovered above them and behind the cars as a loudspeaker boomed out orders.

“Put your weapons on the ground and your hands above your heads!”

There was no use in fighting. Bremen immediately complied, returning to his feet, hands above his head. The clones adopted another policy, opening fire on the helicopters, their colleagues and drivers immediately following suit. As the last two clones escaped the confines of the base, they put their submissive commander to the ground with a rugby tackle. The Apaches backed up, dodging the hail of bullets from the clones’ semi-automatic weapons before opening fire themselves. The M230 chain gun mounted under the helicopter’s nose sprayed the field with 625 rounds of thirty-millimetre ammunition per minute. Bursting through the waiting cars and then churning the soft turf and grass of the field, the steady stream of death worked its unerring path in the direction of the small group of men.

“You idiots!” Bremen screamed, spinning around and trying to get back to the exit of the base.

Five bullets hit him almost simultaneously, lifting him off his feet like a puppet, before dumping him down the waiting stairwell. He landed at the foot of the stairs, nearly colliding with the Austrian troops who had arrived at the base’s exit. Dead eyes stared up at them, a body twisted and broken at their feet. In the field, the clones had fared no better, having been hit by a hail of fire with no chance of escape. The certainty of their demise left them without choices, and they found themselves waiting for the impact of the bullets. They watched as the ground in front of them heaved and spat dirt into the air. That spectacle and the drumming in their ears as the bullets battered the soil could hardly prepare them for the force that would hit, and they were not to be disappointed by the violence of their deaths. Knocked onto their backs in the grass, they watched each other’s bodies dance to the music of the machine guns. Small fountains of blood and flesh sprayed into the air blocking their view. The white puffy Austrian clouds slowly rolled across the light blue sky, as they submitted to their fate. The rumble and crack of weapons fire ceased, and quiet fell on the meadow. A single Admiral butterfly fluttered past one clone’s face, hovering as if to assess his injuries before disappearing from view as his heavy chest rose and fell for the last time.

46

Günther Müller had found the same files on an SD card in one of Britt Peterson’s Nikon cameras as had been found on the Swarovski USB stick.

Britt was a very clever lady, he thought as he scrolled through the card’s contents on his computer screen. Without her, the world would have been in a real mess right now.

It read like something from a science fiction movie. Britt had put together a comprehensive piece of work. Starting with a detailed history of Meyer-Hofmann’s creation at the end of the second world war. The file had been put together chronologically, starting with Professor Furtner’s original notes and a description of the ‘resurrection process’. Then came a list of the young women from the insemination program, accompanied by medical records and Furtner’s scribbled notes next to each mother’s name. That had all taken place at an Army Hospital close to Nuremberg in Southern Germany, and it was there that the children came into the world. The first two years of their lives had been catalogued in detail. Blood types, hair colour, physical markings, and even a rudimentary DNA test had been run on the children. Furtner had even attempted to describe how the children may look in five, ten, and fifteen years. The foster families were spread around the world and rarely in allied countries. From South America to Asia, it must have been a massive logistical problem at a time of war. Even more amazing was the network of safe houses, sleepers, and spies they had used to move the children.

If the allies had got their hands on this at the time…

The report ended with their reworked agenda and plans for a Fourth Reich. She had pieced together their influence in leading companies, as well as their broad recruitment of public figures.

Each member of the board had a personal family tree, linking them to their father or grandfather in the Third Reich. It tracked the Meyer-Hofmann children’s journey across the world as well as their indubitable return to the Fatherland.

You have to marvel at human ingenuity, he thought, shaking his head.

Meyer-Hofmann had seen itself as above the law, and its list of offences covered all serious crimes. Rape, murder, bribery, embezzlement, kidnapping, tax evasion, fraud, burglary, obstruction of justice, and, of course, treason at the top of the list.

What greater crime could you commit against your country than these men had committed? Twice!

Britt Petersen had documented them all. It had not taken long after the contents of the USB stick were passed to Interpol for the world to react. Meyer-Hofmann’s assets had been frozen, and their management taken into custody. Many, including Fredrik Petersen, were now being held in prison cells around the globe. He was, however, one of the few board members who would spend any time behind bars. The clean up job had caused the death of many of the others. It had been an amazing feat, to convince and coordinate a response from Governments as diverse as Israel and Iran. The assaults had been simultaneous and global. As the offices of HRH were being searched in New York, the Austrian Army was assaulting Meyer-Hofmann’s headquarters in Ellmau. Iranian forces had taken out all Meyer-Hofmann units on their territory and local militia carried out the clean up in Syria, Egypt, and the Lebanon. Snipers and their spotters were arrested in London, Berlin, Rome, and Paris. Over two hundred politicians had been taken into custody. More than five hundred people in public service would be questioned in the coming weeks and months. The majority lived and worked in Europe, and it was a sad indictment of a proud Europe’s true morality.

The only loose note was the disappearance of Dr Ecker and his son, both of whom had evaded the forces in Austria. Günther was sure that it was only a matter of time before they were captured, but they were an unwanted loose end after an otherwise successful operation.

Their trial will be a doozy, he thought.

Monika Keller entered her boss’s office without knocking. She had two paper cups full of steaming hot coffee.

“Well, Boss, is it over?”

“I am afraid, my dear Monika, our work has just begun. We are still looking for the doctor and his son. They escaped with about ten second-generation clones and the entire third generation.”

“Where do you think they are?”

“Probably still in Austria. I think there is another facility somewhere near Vienna.”

“And then?”

“Wait until we can see what is hidden under the Odeonsplatz buildings. That alone should keep us busy for the rest of our careers.”

“They arrested Steve Walker this morning. It took them five hours to empty his offices of all the paperwork and computers,” Monika added.

“Yes, I know, and don’t forget the mayor’s connections to Meyer-Hofmann. He doesn’t seem to have paid for a meal on his credit card since he came to power!”

They both laughed.

“We shouldn’t laugh, Monika. We both helped to elect him!”

“Not me, I voted for the other guy!”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they will all say.”

Günther leant back in his chair and took a long slurp of the hot coffee, wincing as it scalded the roof of his mouth.

“You know, it’s sad, Monika,” he said, spluttering. “This country was doing so well, and now we are going to have to spend another fifty years apologising for the same madmen.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am afraid I do.”

47

Michael and Lisa were back in a Munich hotel room. It was nothing like the Bayerische Hof; but the Mercure Hotel offered them a clean, homely alternative, as well as a certain amount of anonymity. The brown speckled carpet in the bedroom had seen better days, and there were visible tracks where countless suitcases had been pushed and pulled to their respective beds. Opening the thick burgundy curtains, Michael had to smile at the empty streets that greeted him. It had been a spontaneous decision to switch hotels, moving from the respectable Four Seasons on Maximilian Street to the Mercure Hotel next to Munich’s main train station, but it was not one they had regretted. Despite the worn surfaces, the pair felt safer here than anywhere they had been since arriving in Germany. Hounded by the press and the establishment in equal measure since Michael had left the hospital, there was little they could do but play innocent. Günther Müller had been able to assure them they would not be arrested in the next few days. They were both suspected of being involved in the deaths of the men in Starnberg and Gallery street. He couldn’t give them any guarantees for the future.

Lisa sat on the side of the bed, finishing the crossword in a Times newspaper she had picked up from the station newsstand.

“Darling, don’t you want to sit down?” she asked.

“I have spent enough time sitting down or lying on my back recently.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“What is there to talk about? It feels like a dream to me, Lisa.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just can’t comprehend what happened to me, and I am shit scared that it may start all over again.”

“I thought you said it was over? That you had beaten him? That he couldn’t come back? Michael!”

“I did. I mean, it is. That doesn’t change the fact that I can still remember him. Who he was, what he believed, what he felt. Lisa, I am afraid that I could become more like him.”

“No, darling. Don’t worry, I know you. That is why he failed. You are a good man.”

“Thanks.” Michael’s voice was wistful.

Lisa walked over to the window and stood behind him. There was no great view, just a damp Munich side street and city traffic. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she squeezed him tightly, pressing the side of her face against his back.

“It is going to be all right, Michael. I promise!”

####

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer?

Thanks!

Jonathan A. Taylor

About the Author

Jonathan Allen Taylor is a Golf Professional living and working in Munich, Germany. After moving to Germany in 1988, he set up a successful Golf Academy working closely with Professor Klaus Schneider from the Institute of Sports Science in Munich. He has published three instructional books “The Move” published by the Albrecht Verlag in 2005 and “Swing Simply” and “Swing Simply 2” published by the Golf Time Verlag in 2009 and 2012. He also writes a regular column in the Golf Magazine “Golf Time". He produced two DVD’s to accompany his books and runs a successful YouTube channel with over 1.8 million views and 3000 subscribers worldwide.

Although no stranger to writing, Meyer-Hofmann AG is Jonathan’s first foray into the world of fiction.

Copyright

Copyright 2015 Jonathan A. Taylor

Published by Jonathan A. Taylor at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.”

Content

Jonathan A. Taylor
MEYER-HOFMANN AG

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