Mark was tired and had sat in the interrogation room for hours without a cigarette. The injuries he sustained firstly from getting out barely alive from the third-floor window of the warehouse and secondly from the rough treatment of the Bundespolizei using cable-tie cuffs on him and then roughing him up before finally sitting him down in this interrogation room. He didn’t feel fear, not with his legal experience, he was angry and his head hurt. The lights from above Mark made his eyes hurt, and he was sick of waiting to be seen. He was interrogated for hours by idiot Bundespolizei officers who knew little English and really didn’t appreciate his sense of humour and continuous references to the Second World War. However, they did at least partially listen to his protests about a terrorist plot in Berlin.
Behind the two-way mirror stood Kastner, listening intently to the entire interview before taking a file and entering the interrogation room to sit in front of Mark. Kastner threw the file down on the steel table; Mark averted his eyes, sighed and looked directly at Kastner. Again those cold piercing blue eyes seemed to stare right through him.
‘I find it difficult to believe your story vizout any evidence!’ Kastner taunted.
The only evidence he had was that he caught Mark with a gun outside a warehouse which had been emptied by the time his men searched it and there were no weapons found.
‘Ve checked out zis “ship”. Ve found zere vas NO vecord of any shipment of any container ship due into Kiel-Holtenau zis veek at all.’
Mark couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had SEEN it, the paperwork in London, the shipment itself in the container, there was no way they could have diverted the ship at that late notice, was there? Mark’s mind was going a million miles an hour, scarcely able to take in what he was hearing. He was furious now. Not only that he had been careless enough to get caught, but it seemed he had come all this way for nothing. Now under the authority of the German Intelligence Service and looking at a prison sentence in a German prison, he thought about the only real outcome.
‘Game over,’ he thought.
That was it. He would serve his time and come out with no way of getting home and nothing really achieved. Kastner was still starting at him and didn’t flinch at Mark’s angry outburst.
‘It’s true! Let me take you there!’
Kastner smiled, knowing the more this man got angry, the more it would prove his point, that he was dangerous. Kastner explained.
‘It vas strange zat ve found none of your fingerprints or any information at all on you, Mr Gveen.’
Mark’s throat was dry and hoarse and he was REALLY hoping for a cigarette. Kastner got up and left the room, leaving Mark alone. It was a good hour before he came back.
‘It zeems, Mr Gveen,’ Kastner announced as he closed the interrogation room door and sat down in front of Mark, crossed legged and flicked through the police report.
‘…Zat due to ze lack of evidence of anything suspicious going on in Germany, (and I vould know in my position), zat I can only serve a caution on you for firearms offences.’
Mark felt a rush of relief, and it showed.
‘BUT, if you vould be prepared to be escorted to ze airport and put on ze next flight back to London, ve vill drop all ze charges against you.’
Mark thought although this decision was a little odd, he had no choice but to accept. He nodded reluctantly and Kastner stared at him intently. He knew something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t prove it and had to let his suspect go, at least to put him under surveillance until he left the country.
It was another hour before Mark was released. He exited the headquarters between two security service guards. Kastner pointed at the guards.
‘Zey vill escort you to your hotel vhere you are to vash up and collect your belongings before being escorted to ze nearest airport and flown directly back to London.’
Before Kastner turned to return inside, an adjutant hurried up to him and passed him a file.
‘Sir, you are letting him go? You know who he is?’
Kastner didn’t want to release a prisoner, but Simms frustrated him by challenging his authority.
‘Yes zank you Simms, I am very avare of Mr Mark King.’
Outside it was mid-afternoon and Mark had been there for the best part of twenty-four hours. He looked at his watch and realised that the container ship was due in to Kiel-Holtenau port later today. Mark cursed aloud in English, prompting one guard to usher him forwards with a sharp dig to the shoulder. He remembered what Kastner had said about being no record of that ship, or any other vessel, arriving this week into Holtenau. Mark spotted the security service four-by-four parked opposite with two suited German security officials seated in the front. He made it obvious he had seen them but they didn’t respond.
‘What a joke!’ he remarked and whistled the ‘Great Escape’ theme as he got into the waiting police car.
Throughout the journey back to his hotel, his mind was sharp and going a hundred miles an hour. Could he use an escape route at the hotel? Was it possible he could roll out of the car and get up and run? He slyly tried the handle on the car, but it had been locked. One guard noticed and smiled, shaking his head in wry disgust that their prisoner really thought they were THAT stupid. He had purposefully chosen a room with a window in the bathroom and the first night he was there, he had tied thirty feet of black military grade rope to the outside drainpipe and down to the ground below. If required, he would have to use that.
Mark received confused looks from the concierge as he was led into the hotel lobby, flanked by two armed Bundespolizei, who just stared at him. He walked over to the desk and advised he would check out immediately. He paid, and they handed him his passport and he advised them he would return the key to them on the way out. The concierge looked nervously at him while bobbing his head in agreement.
‘Mr Green, is everything OK?’
‘Oh yes!’ Mark joked, ‘just my private security detail. I’m actually a celebrity in the UK!’
Joke though it was, Mark left there firmly under the impression that the poor concierge believed his story. Mark thought to himself, smiling, ‘This will be useful!’
Up at the room, Mark slid his passkey into his room door lock and turned the handle the second he heard the click. He glanced at his watch again and wondered where the container ship could be headed if not here. He gathered his things and took his bag into the bathroom after changing into a fresh pair of black combat-style trousers. Luckily he had spares of most things so had slipped his harness belt on unnoticed by the guards. He advised them, in German, he was taking his bag into the bathroom to load up his toiletries. One guard nodded and Mark made the excuse he needed the toilet due to bad food the night before. Not wanting to follow him and be subjected to this, the guards sat down outside the bathroom door. Mark locked the door and opened the window. He felt for the end of the rope and clipped the buckle to his harness belt. He slung his bag over both shoulders and stepped out of the window onto the ledge. Sliding the window shut quietly, he looked down to see if anyone was below. It was clear, so he began his quick but careful descent down to the ground below. Once his feet were on the ground, he knew he would have roughly five minutes before the guards noticed he was not responding to the shouts he could already hear and from above. He unclipped the rope, tightened the handles on his bag and jogged away through the café/restaurant section and through the lobby. On his way past, he slid the room card onto the finely polished reception desk, and winked at the young female receptionist sat next to the concierge he had spoken to on the way in. Mark noticed the concierge, who he had immediately thought was gay and fancied him, winked back thinking it was he who had been winked at as Mark was already out of the door and along the street to a taxi rank he spotted on the way in. His taxi took him past the main reception doors just in time to see the police questioning reception. His cover had been blown, and he turned his head away so he wouldn’t be noticed.
Mark was relieved to find his hire car still parked up where he had left it. Although covered in police tape and notices in German which read ‘Police aware, awaiting collection’, he was glad it was still there. As he ripped it off, he felt along the underside of the chrome running board for the spare key he had duct taped. He breathed a sigh of relief as his hand rested against the key. He jumped in and started the engine. He noticed that something was rolling around the passenger foot-well and, upon inspection, noticed it was a receipt and Frans’ mobile phone. He opened the phone, and it clicked into life; he also picked up the receipt and read it. It was for a hotel between here and Bremerhaven, 269 km west of Kiel-Holtenau. He grabbed the bag from behind the driver’s seat and got out his map.
‘Why Bremerhaven?’ he said to himself. ‘What significance does that have for Frans?’
He didn’t know but when he looked at the map and information he collected on all major ports in Germany, he read:
‘Bremerhaven is located at the mouth of the River Weser on its eastern bank, opposite the town of Nordenham. Though a relatively new city, it has a long history as a trade port and today is one of the most important German ports, playing a crucial role in Germany’s trade.’
‘Bingo!’ Mark said aloud.
If the ship wasn’t due in Holtenau, it MUST be en route to Bremerhaven. He did a quick calculation; it would take just under four hours by sea but just under three by road. He would still have time to stop at the hotel listed on the receipt. That MUST be where Frans was holed up. The problem was, whoever was now after Mark was intelligent enough to figure it out sooner or later; if Frans was clumsy enough to leave his receipt in the car, what other mistakes had he made? Mark prayed he had been more discreet and put his foot to the floor as he sped off towards the autobahn, determined to smack Frans in the face for leaving him and keeping something from him. Mark checked the driver door panel for his cigarettes and ignored the no smoking signs in the car as he felt that satisfying feeling of nicotine at the back of his throat. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it when he was living with Marie who, despite being as much of a cigarette lover as he was at university, got all health conscious after Hope had been born. Hope: he felt bad he had thought little about his children these last few days.
Mark stared at the road ahead, heavy thoughts running through his mind. He stuck to the back roads as news of his escape from the hotel would, by now, have reached Kastner, whose revenge would be swift and ruthless. He was now a fugitive on the run and they would try to stop him at all costs. He wasn’t worried about Kastner right now; his mind was on getting the truth out of Frans before it was too late and finding out what else he knew. He stopped for food and fuel, being careful not to use a card or visit any location where his presence would be on CCTV. He thought a skirt around Hamburg would cause him to be recognised or stopped, so he stuck to the smaller, single-manned fuel stations and garages as he found them. Mark also stocked up on cigarettes and plenty of food so he would require fewer provisions later on and would be less traceable. His mind wandered back through the past few weeks. It amazed him how quickly life as he knew it had changed. He worried about the children and their safety. As far as anyone knew, he didn’t have ties to New York so they would not think to look for them there to use them as leverage or harm them as punishment against him.
He dismissed this thought as it caused him too much pain, instead, focussing on what that shipment of arms meant for Germany. He knew Azidi seemed to run a sleeper cell out of Germany and would inevitably need this shipment to carry out his plan. Mark’s choice as he saw it was simple; take out the shipment, or wait until he was has present and eliminate both Azidi and the weapons together. He didn’t know which one was the best idea, only that the first one risked the shipment being used by a substitute cell if he didn’t take the cell out himself. He couldn’t allow anyone to leave alive or they would start up again somewhere else. Also Mark didn’t want to risk starting a war with a terrorist group that would bring death to him and his family. No, this had to be done quietly. Kastner now knew of the plot; whether he believed what Mark had said or not, Mark would not take any chances so opted for taking out Azidi AND the shipment in one.
This plan, however, involved the biggest risk and was logistically problematic. He still had weapons and Azidi didn’t know who he was. There must also be a bigger plan here, it cannot just be a small independent terror cell at work, and they always work from a higher authority. So who was it, al-Qaeda, ISIS, an independent terror cell or something even more sinister, an organisation? It had to be. These people were equipped with heavy fire and intelligence, resources small terror cells wouldn’t have or be able to fund. So, a new mission faced Mark; uncover who is at the top and do everything to stop them. It was becoming clear to Mark now that the pieces could fit together: the Azidi case, Marie’s death, Hix and Roman Vose, the weapon’s shipment and the attempts on his life. But where did Frans fit into all this? Was he an informant sent to keep Mark from getting to the truth by distracting him from the REAL issue?
Mark’s car rolled into the parking space outside the entrance to the seedy looking ‘Happy Hotel’ half an hour’s drive from Bremerhaven. He looked again at the receipt he had found in his car prior to leaving Holtenau and his eyes felt heavy. He hadn’t slept in nearly two days and was feeling it now. He locked up the car and walked towards what appeared to be a reception. He could hear loud music and screams from the various open windows adjacent to the carpark. It was a two-storey motel, and it looked every inch like something out of a Criminal Minds episode. Exactly the spot Frans would hide out in. He wasn’t very bright but on this occasion, Mark would have chosen similar. Somewhere that accepted cash didn’t ask questions and definitely didn’t report its guests to local law enforcement. He glared at the spotty looking teenager reading his 2000AD comic and watched as he shouted at guests down the hallway from reception. Mark took his notes out of his pocket, ready, and asked which room Frans Luca was staying in.
‘I’m looking for my friend; I think he may be staying here. A short, fat guy, looking nervous?’
The kid behind reception shook his head.
‘No, not heard of him,’ he said, glancing around the room nervously.
Mark had realised he wouldn’t use his real name to check in so described him, making sure the kid saw the wad of notes Mark had hold of. Suddenly the boy seemed to regain his memory.
‘Room two-zero-one, down the hall,’ the kid said, pointing down the hallway. Mark smacked the notes into the boy’s hand and flashed him his gun from inside his jacket.
‘Hey kid,’ he said as the kid went back to his comic. He looked up again quickly at Mark. ‘RUN if you want to live!’
The boy’s face went white, and he looked in horror at Mark before he obliged and took off back down the hall, back to his comic. Mark smiled wryly and gently turned the door handle of room 201. It was locked, just has he had expected. He pulled a pick lock device from his left knee-level pocket and easily and quietly picked the lock. He moved inside, weapon drawn, and stealthily moved around the darkened room. The bed was unmade and there was a cup of coffee on the bedside table. Mark waved his hand over it; it was still hot so Frans seemed to have been expecting company. He moved back towards the door and noticed a shoe behind the floor length curtain of the window in the small reflection of the mirror hung on the wall. Mark turned and inched over towards the window. He gauged where the head of this person hiding behind the curtain would be, held the muzzle of the gun against what he presumed to be the head, cocked it loudly and shouted for Frans Luca. The curtain moved and Frans reluctantly stepped out from behind his rather obvious hiding place. Relieved to see it was Mark, he put his hand on his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief. Mark grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and threw him onto the bed. He walked round the bed and turned on the bedside lamp. Frans lay there, a look of sheer terror on his face. Mark aimed the gun down at Frans’ crotch.
‘Start from the beginning and tell me everything you know about Mohammed Al Azidi and the weapons cache.’