Free Echo of the Reich by James Becker Page A

told me at lunchtime today is correct, then this group working in London is just a small part of a much bigger organization. But before you ask, I’ve got no idea what it is, where it’s based, or what its agenda is. I got the feeling that we’re not just talking about another bunch of low-lifes doing malicious damage in Edinburgh or Cardiff or somewhere. I think this other organization is directing the London group, telling it what targets to hit and when to hit them, which suggests a high degree of control. That’s interesting, maybe even surprising, though I don’t know much about this kind of criminal activity.
    “The second point’s related to that one. According to Eaton, the superior group, for want of a better expression, actually pays this London mob to carry out their attacks. They’re acting as mercenaries, or maybe even paid employees, of this other lot.”
    “That’s a new one, no mistake,” Curtis said. “I don’t think we’ve ever met that before. I’ll pass it on. A coupleof years ago we found a group of vandals—nothing very violent, mainly daubing slogans on buildings, that kind of thing—who had all paid into a fund so that if any of them were caught and fined, the fund would pay it. That was unusual enough, but I’ve never encountered what you might call vandals for hire before. And the third thing?”
    “This is what worries me most of all. They were quizzing me about what I’d done in the past, and I told them I spent a few years in the army. The first question they asked me was if I knew anything about explosives, and they hinted that they had access to plastic explosives, through this other group.”
    “Shit,” Curtis muttered. “That’s all we need.”
    “‘Shit” is an understatement. Most terrorist groups—and I think we have to consider them as terrorists rather than vandals—have to manufacture their own explosives. They use something like potassium chlorate or ammonium nitrate, which is a major constituent of most fertilizers, and mix it with a fuel like diesel oil. It can produce a hell of a bang—”
    “You don’t have to remind me,” Curtis interrupted. “I was in Docklands when the IRA Canary Wharf bomb exploded back in ’ninety-six. That was a fertilizer bomb, and when it went off you could hear the bang over most of East London.”
    “I remember it, too. Most of the estimates suggested it was about a half-ton device, about eleven hundred pounds, and I think it did about ninety million pounds’ worth of damage and killed a couple of people. But military-grade plastic explosive is about five times more powerful than a fertilizer bomb.”
    “So do you think these comedians could get their hands on plastic explosive?”
    “I’ve no idea. The trouble is that C4 and Semtex—that’s the civilian equivalent, if you like, used in quarries and so forth—are readily available if you know where to look, and especially in Europe. There are supposed to be literally tons of Semtex unaccounted for, so if these people can locate a source, I suppose they could get some into Britain.”
    Curtis grunted. “This is sounding a bloody sight worse every time you open your mouth,” he said. “And you know how urgent this is. We’ve got a matter of days to get it sorted. But you’re right. You have to meet these people tonight and try to find out as much as you can about them. But the moment you get any definitive information about their identities or where we can find them, and especially if you get a firm lead on this plastic explosive, you blow the whistle and get out. Understood?”
    “You’ve got it,” Bronson agreed, and ended the call.
    He sat in thought for a couple of minutes, then took a different mobile phone from the glovebox, inserted the battery and dialed another number, one he knew from memory.
    “Hello?”
    “Hi, Angela; it’s me.”
    “I’ve been trying to call you, but your mobile is permanently switched off. Where are you?”
    “Sorry,