‘You bloody told me to go this way!’
‘I haven’t lived in Berlin for forty years! It’s changed a lot!’
Eddie shot her an angry glare, then returned his full attention to negotiating the waterfront. The Porsche’s left flank clipped a couple of construction barriers as he jinked to avoid a dumbfounded young couple, then its right side took a greater pounding as the Englishman was forced to grind against the metal railings along the river to dodge an oblivious headphone-wearing man. Rothschild shrieked as sparks flew past her window.
The construction zone ended just before the street passed under a large bridge, a train rumbling over the Spree above the boats. Eddie crashed through more barriers back on to the road and shot across an intersection – only to realise he was now going the wrong way down a one-way street. ‘Jesus!’ he gasped, flinging the car on to the kerb as a truck rushed at him. His passenger closed her eyes in terror.
He dropped back on to the street with a bang. Even with all the obstacles, they were still gaining on the boats. Eddie had no idea what he was going to do when he caught up with them, but as long as he could keep them in sight, he had a chance of recovering the angel, and bargaining for Nina’s release—
He dodged an oncoming car – and saw a new problem ahead.
A road bridge crossed the Spree on the right. Ahead, the street continued along the river – but it was barricaded, steel pillars allowing pedestrians and cyclists through while blocking cars. ‘Which way?’ he shouted. Rothschild’s eyes remained firmly squeezed shut. ‘Oi! Prof! Which fucking way do we go? Do I cross the bridge?’
She risked a look. ‘No, it’ll take you away from the river.’ With no other options, Eddie flung the Porsche into a slithering left turn. ‘And don’t you dare swear at me again!’
‘Then bloody help me!’ he snarled back. The new street was also leading him away from the Spree. ‘How do we catch up with the boats?’
‘If you can get on to 17th June Street, you’ll be able to get back to the river.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘The long road through the park that we came down when we arrived.’ She looked at the modern apartment buildings around them. ‘I don’t recognise where we are. If you can find the Reichstag, I can direct you from there. Go right!’
The next road in that direction was another one-way street, two cars at traffic lights blocking it, with more bollards preventing Eddie from taking to the pavement. ‘Have to try this next one,’ he said, peering ahead. The Porsche rapidly closed the distance to an intersection with a broad boulevard. More traffic waited at the lights; he pulled into the wrong lane to overtake. ‘Okay, hold on!’
Rothschild flinched as her memory finally caught up with the speeding car. ‘No, wait!’ she cried, but Eddie had already hurled the 911 into another wildly fishtailing turn – on to the broad pedestrian plaza leading to the Brandenburg Gate.
Even on a rainy night, there were still plenty of tourists milling around the Pariser Platz, forcing him to resume his symphony on the horn as he swerved to avoid knots of people and dawdling bicycle rickshaws. Making matters worse were the numerous uniformed men and women around the square’s periphery; it was home to both the French and American embassies, ensuring the constant presence of the Berlin police. ‘Like we weren’t in enough bloody trouble already!’ he complained as the cops ran to try to block him.
‘They have guns!’ Rothschild said in alarm. ‘Perhaps we should—’
‘We’re not stopping,’ Eddie growled. He fixed his gaze on the illuminated arch of the Brandenburg Gate at the plaza’s far end and dropped down the gears, foot to the floor.
The Porsche’s acceleration punched them back into the seats. Eddie’s continuous shrilling of the horn finally had an effect, the tourists clearing the 911’s path as it raced towards the central archway. He saw a cop beside the monument draw his gun, but was now committed. ‘Duck!’ he warned Rothschild.
The car blasted through the gate at over seventy miles per hour, emerging on a wide semicircular plaza. A single gunshot cracked after it, but the bullet glanced off the Porsche’s sloping rear. Rothschild squealed at the impact. ‘They’re shooting at us!’
‘Welcome to my bloody life!’ Eddie responded as he rounded another stand of bicycle rickshaws and brought the 911 thumping back down on to asphalt. He now knew where he was, seeing the long tree-lined avenue receding ahead. ‘How do we get back to the river?’
She reluctantly peered over the dashboard as the Porsche began its sprint down 17th June Street. ‘Go to the Victory Column,’ she said, pointing at the distant floodlit statue. ‘Then back over the bridge we took this afternoon. Will we be ahead of them?’
The speedometer needle surged upwards, Eddie weaving across all three westbound lanes through the traffic. ‘Damn well better be.’
Rothschild pushed herself back upright. ‘Why are you so angry with me? If I wasn’t helping you, you wouldn’t be able to follow those boats at all. You wouldn’t even have known to come to Berlin!’
‘I’m mad because you dropped the bloody statue,’ he said. ‘I had to save you rather than get the angel – and if I don’t have the angel, I’ve got no way of finding Nina!’
‘You don’t even like me! And I know Nina certainly doesn’t. I’m surprised you didn’t go after the angel instead.’
‘Don’t think I wasn’t bloody tempted.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’
‘Because . . . because I couldn’t let another innocent person die for getting mixed up in our lives,’ he admitted. ‘Speaking of which, shut up and let me try to drive without killing anyone!’ Rothschild fell silent, but her surprise at his revelation was clear.
The speeding Porsche ate up the distance to the Victory Column in well under a minute. Eddie made a last jink around a bus before flinging the car into a power slide through the roundabout. Other vehicles skidded in panic around him, but he was already clear and racing up the next avenue.
A few more lunges around slower-moving cars and he saw the bridge ahead. He braked hard, bringing the Porsche down to an almost legal speed as he reached the crossing. Railings ran along its sides, giving him a view of the river below—
Movement on the water to his right. Both boats came into sight, still holding course along the centre of the channel. He had beaten them here, but now what? ‘How far to this sluice canal?’ he asked.
‘Still two or three miles,’ Rothschild replied.
Eddie swore under his breath. He remembered the roads ahead from his journey into the city, and knew he wouldn’t be able to go nearly as quickly as through the park. He needed a new plan, fast.
The boats would pass under the bridge in about twenty seconds. He stopped the car, staring at them, judging their courses . . . ‘Get out! Now!’
The elderly woman opened her mouth to protest, but Eddie’s expression warned her that it was in her best interests to obey. She clambered out. He waited until she was clear, then slotted the 911 into reverse and pulled hard on the wheel as he depressed the accelerator.
The Porsche swung backwards through ninety degrees to block the oncoming lane, a couple of cars skidding to a standstill. Eddie ignored the blare of horns, his eyes fixed on the approaching boats. The second, carrying two men and the angel, was still lagging behind the leader, off to one side to stay clear of its wake.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, bracing himself – then put the car into gear and stamped on the accelerator.
The 911 leapt forward, all four wheels clawing for grip on the wet road. Rothschild clapped her hands to her face in shock as it sprang over the kerb, hit the railing—
And smashed through, arcing down towards the water as the first boat raced by.
Eddie was hurled forward in his seat as the car’s nose hit the water – only to be brought to an equally abrupt halt as the airbag fired. The 911 floated almost vertically for the briefest moment, then the weight of the engine slammed its tail down into
the river.
The airbag had already deflated. Eddie dizzily opened his eyes as water gushed into the cabin – to see the second boat racing straight at him, its shocked driver unable to change course in time—
The speedboat’s keel hit the Porsche’s bonnet, flinging it upwards over the windscreen and roof as if jumping a ramp. It left the water, lancing at the bridge . . .
And slammed into the arched girders beneath the crossing.
The men aboard were thrown headlong against the unyielding steel, blood raining down over the churning waters below. The boat’s mangled remains dropped back into the Spree, its prow crushed like an eggshell.
The Porsche had fared little better. Its windscreen had shattered as the craft ran over it, an explosive wave rushing in. Eddie choked and gasped, pinned in his seat by the weight of water.
The torrent finally eased as the cabin was completely filled, but now the Yorkshireman faced a new threat as cold hit him like a train. The temperature of the Spree on this miserable night was barely above freezing. He fought through the initial shock and clawed for the broken windscreen’s frame. The Porsche was dropping backwards into the dark depths; he kicked free of the jellyfish mass of the expended airbag and squirmed upwards through the opening. A dull boom from below told him that the car had hit bottom, bubbles surging past him. He followed them to the surface.
He breached the waves, gasping as cold air hit his wet skin, and looked around. The wrecked boat was floating beneath the bridge. Pieces of bodies bobbed around it. Someone on the bridge shouted in German. He tipped his head back painfully to see people staring down over the railings.
Eddie started swimming – not for the shore, but the boat. An echoing engine note warned that the first speedboat was slowing and coming around. A crushed and bloodied face sprang at him from the lapping waves; he shoved the corpse aside, searching in the low light for the destroyed vessel’s cargo.
A case floated nearby – the one containing the angel. He grabbed it, then swam for the river’s north bank, seeing a flight of concrete steps leading up from the water.
The engine noise grew louder, angrier. The first boat was racing back towards him. Onlookers above urged him on, but he ignored them, expecting gunfire at any moment.
He reached the steps and scrambled up them, cold water streaming from his clothes. Running footsteps; he turned to see a Berliner hurrying along the footpath – and on the river, the boat arriving, Trant standing up—
‘Down, get down!’ he yelled, diving flat. The man on the footpath hesitated, needing a moment to translate the warning.
The tiny delay cost him his life. A sub-machine gun roared from beneath the bridge, Trant having removed the suppressor before spraying the bank with bullets. The running man took several to his chest and tumbled to the ground.
Screams came from the bridge, the onlookers fleeing. Still clutching the case, Eddie rolled clear of the river’s edge, then jumped up and ran. Another burst of fire slashed through the air behind him.
He hared up a second set of steps to street level, finding himself at an intersection on the bridge’s northern side. Concrete apartment blocks lined the waterfront, no shelter in sight amongst the tightly packed buildings. Instead he cut diagonally across the main road from the bridge, spotting an alley between more drab, graffiti-spattered towers.
The gunfire had cleared the streets with shocking speed, cars peeling away. A loud thump came from the river as the second speedboat bashed against the bank. More shouts, these in English. ‘Get after him!’
Muscles aching from exertion and exposure, Eddie reached the alley, glancing back to see Trant and his two companions pounding up the second flight of steps. The leader saw him and whipped up his MP7, but the Englishman ran between the buildings before he could fire.
At the alley’s end was a square within a complex of apartment blocks, trees standing over a little park. Bushes and hedges dotted the lawns, a brick and concrete spiral at the centre some sort of children’s play area.
The nearest way out was diagonally opposite where he had entered – too far for him to reach before his pursuers entered the square. They would have a clear shot at his back. The only visible entrance to any of the buildings was just as distant.
‘Shit,’ he gasped, searching desperately for a hiding place – and finding none.
16
Trant led his two remaining men, Overton and Whelan, at a sprint down the alley. They reached the end of the passage, guns raised – but there was no sign of their target, just rain drenching a dimly lit garden area. The only apparent exits were a door into one of the apartment buildings and a gap between two blocks to the north. Trant knew his quarry couldn’t have reached either in the short time he had been out of sight. That meant . . .
‘He’s still here,’ he warned his companions. ‘Find him.’
‘Careful,’ said Simeon through his headset. ‘This guy’s a pro.’
Sirens wailed in the distance. ‘Cops coming,’ said Overton.
‘We’ve got a minute or two,’ Trant replied. ‘Move fast.’ He directed Overton to the left and Whelan into the centre of the small park, then angled right towards the gap.
A line of hedges, reaching to his thighs, ran along a lawn’s edge. Trant readied his gun, then hurdled it.
Nobody there. He checked behind a nearby tree with the same lack of result. ‘Clear here,’ he announced, continuing across the grass.
Overton followed a path into the garden, checking behind the hedges and bushes. No sign of the Englishman, or the case containing the angel. He moved under a large tree, glad of the brief respite from the downpour. The speedboat’s driver was cold and thoroughly damp despite his rain cape. ‘Anything?’ he whispered, peering into the shadows. As he had not gone into the museum, his headset had not needed a camera; something he was now regretting, as those observing at the Mission could have warned him if the Brit was skulking in the darkness.
‘Not yet,’ Whelan reported.
‘Me neither. Pick up the pace,’ ordered Trant.
Overton continued under the trees. He glanced to his right to see Whelan investigating another patch of bushes, while beyond him Trant checked behind a low brick wall. Their quarry was still nowhere to be seen. He kept going, scanning ahead.
Something caught his eye, a low, blocky shape amongst some plants.
The case. He started towards it, about to alert the others – when water streamed over him from above.
Overton hesitated. He was still under a tree, so the foliage must have thinned out. Or—
The other explanation hit him at the same time as Eddie did.
The sodden Yorkshireman had climbed up on to one of the lower branches, hoping simply to stay out of sight, but when the black-clad man passed almost directly beneath him, he knew he couldn’t miss the opportunity. He dropped on top of him, smashing his elbow down hard against the back of his skull and slamming him face-first to the ground.
The American went limp beneath him. Taking no chances, Eddie grabbed his hair and yanked his head up before driving a vicious knuckle-punch into his exposed throat. Cartilage crunched. The man spasmed, faint choking noises from his gaping mouth barely audible over the hiss of the rain.
Eddie rose to a crouch, searching for his pursuer’s MP7 – only to realise that the man had landed on top of it. He was about to roll him away when some instinct made him check on the positions of the other raiders—
The nearest turned towards him.
Nina realised she was breathing heavily as she watched events in Germany play out on the video wall, Trant investigating the park’s far end while Whelan searched its centre. The latter had just reached an open paved area containing benches, night vision turning the rainy gloom as bright as day. He turned his head, the view panning back in Overton’s direction— ‘Whelan, stop!’ Cross shouted. The image stabilised. ‘There, under the tree – there’s something on the grass.’
Simeon stepped closer to the monitors, try
ing to make out the crumpled shape. ‘Is that a man?’
‘It’s Overton,’ said Cross grimly. ‘Trant! Man down, south end of the park.’ The other screens blurred as the team leader whipped around.
‘What’s going on?’ said Dalton, agitated. ‘Is he dead?’
‘Don’t screw with my husband,’ Nina said quietly.
Whelan moved cautiously towards the slumped figure. ‘It’s definitely Overton,’ he said, his camera darting from side to side as he scanned the park. Nothing moved except the falling rain.
‘Whelan, look to your right,’ ordered Cross. ‘There’s something in that flower bed – there!’
The screens revealed a blocky shape in the undergrowth. ‘It’s the case,’ said Anna.
‘It’s open,’ Cross growled. ‘Check it out, but be careful. He’s around there somewhere.’
‘Cops are getting closer,’ said Trant as he headed in a crouch back along the edge of the park. Sirens became audible over the background noise.
Whelan reached Overton. He nudged the motionless figure with a foot, then crossed the grass to the case and reached down to raise the half-open lid . . .
A dull thump came over the speakers.
‘What was that?’ said Cross, but Whelan was already turning to find the source. The camera fixed upon something on the wet grass – an object that had not been there seconds earlier.
‘It’s the angel!’ exclaimed Dalton.
The stone figure lay on its side, raindrops bursting against the metal and clay. ‘It’s intact,’ Whelan said, relieved.
Sudden realisation made Cross sit bolt upright as Whelan went to retrieve the statue. ‘No, wait, it’s a decoy – check behind you!’ he cried—
The image whipped around through a hundred and eighty degrees with a sickening snap of bone. Then the monitors filled with an extreme close-up . . . of Eddie Chase.
He released his neck-breaking hold. The camera flopped, looking down Whelan’s back. Then Eddie stepped away and the dead man crumpled to the ground.