The Vault Read online

  “This way,” Som­mer said, turn­ing right. Jimmy pre­ten­ded not to have no­ticed the vault and fol­lowed the gen­eral and Ok­sana.

  Som­mer stopped out­side the last door on the right.

  Müller took a bunch of keys from a hook on the wall, se­lec­ted one and slid it into the lock. He opened the door and stood aside to let Ok­sana and Jimmy go in first.

  “I think this is what you asked for,” Som­mer said.

  The room was reas­on­ably large, with enough space for two long trestle tables to fit along the wall end-to-end. One table held a launcher and the other sev­eral gren­ades. Jimmy picked up the launcher and hef­ted it, his hand around the pis­tol grip.

  “This is the RPG-7. Rus­sian-made, very ef­fect­ive. Brand new.”

  “Very good,” he said. “You can source the num­bers I need?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about trans­port?”

  “You didn’t men­tion that,” Müller said.

  “There are op­tions,” Som­mer cut in. “We can take it to the bor­der for you, of course. You could col­lect it there. We might be able to ar­range a trans­fer at sea—yes, Müller?”

  “Per­haps. But it would be more ex­pens­ive.”

  “We can talk about that.” Jimmy re­placed the launcher on the table. “What about the ex­plos­ives?”

  Müller went over to a crate that had been slid un­der­neath the second table. He dragged it out, flicked the clasps that se­cured the lid and popped it open. “Here,” he said.

  Jimmy moved closer so that he could look in­side the crate. He saw two neatly ar­ranged courses of brick-like ob­jects, each wrapped in wax pa­per that was marked with SEM­TEX-10 and warn­ing signs. Jimmy took one of the bricks and opened the end of the wax sleeve and peeled it back. The ma­ter­ial in­side was brown­ish and left a dimple when he pushed his thumb into it.

  “Mil­it­ary grade from Ex­plo­sia in Czechoslov­akia. The same as the Lufts­tur­mre­gi­ment uses.”

  “Blast­ing caps?”

  Müller nod­ded. He took a can­vas bag from the floor and un­zipped it. Jimmy saw the blast­ing caps and took one out: it was a metal cyl­in­der, closed at one end. They were simple to use: a fuse was slipped into the cap, the pyro­tech­nic ig­ni­tion mix was ad­ded and it was at­tached to the Sem­tex. There was a count­down as the fuse burned and then the charge det­on­ated and ig­nited the primary ex­plo­sion: boom.

  “Sat­is­fact­ory?” Som­mer asked.

  Jimmy put the Sem­tex and blast­ing cap on the table. “Ab­so­lutely. It all looks per­fect.”

  “Very good.”

  Som­mer ushered them to­ward the door.

  “Thank you,” Ok­sana said as Müller locked up.

  “Really—it is noth­ing. Our two causes are aligned. My en­emy’s en­emy is my friend. I be­lieve you told Müller that, Herr Walker. I agree.”

  “I ap­pre­ci­ate it,” Jimmy said. “So does my or­gan­isa­tion.”

  “I am glad to help.” He smiled in­dul­gently. “And I owed Ok­sana a fa­vour.”

  Ok­sana re­turned the smile. “I heard that it went well.”

  “Bet­ter than that,” he said. “It was simple.”

  Jimmy looked from Ok­sana to Som­mer. “What’s this?”

  “I’m sorry, Herr Walker. I ima­gine this would be of in­terest to you, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What is your opin­ion of Brit­ish in­tel­li­gence? MI5? MI6?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You are from Bel­fast?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then I ima­gine you are not well dis­posed to­ward them.”

  “You would be right. We hate them.”

  “And with reason, I’m sure. You have ex­per­i­ence of oc­cu­pa­tion.”

  “I do.”

  Som­mer smoothed out his uni­form. “Then I have some­thing I’d like to show you,” he said. “This way.”

  54

  Mack­in­tosh heard the key turn in the lock and straightened up in the chair. His gut was li­quid; Som­mer had said that he would re­turn and, when he did, he knew that it was go­ing to be un­pleas­ant for him.

  The door opened and light from the cor­ridor was cast in­side. Som­mer came into the cell, but he was not alone. Müller came in­side first. Be­hind him, he saw Jimmy Walker and Ok­sana Baran­ova.

  “This is Harry Mack­in­tosh,” Som­mer said to Walker. “He is re­spons­ible for Brit­ish in­tel­li­gence in Ber­lin.” Som­mer smiled down at him. “Was re­spons­ible. He’s had an un­for­tu­nate change of cir­cum­stances.”

  The Ir­ish­man looked down at Mack­in­tosh with grim, steely hos­til­ity. Mack­in­tosh knew, then, that the plan he had gone to such pain to con­struct hung by the slenderest of threads. All of Mack­in­tosh’s pre­par­a­tion, the hours of plan­ning, the pa­tient de­vel­op­ment of Walker, the care­ful cre­ation of his le­gend and the sleight of hand re­quired to put him in­side Som­mer’s sanc­tum; it all came down to this. He had ag­on­ised over how much to tell Walker, and had con­cluded that he didn’t need to know any­thing at all. Walker was the stooge; the cred­ible patsy who could get a meet­ing with Som­mer, someone who could make the gen­eral an of­fer that would tempt his greed, a use­ful idiot to lower his de­fences. And he had already served part of his pur­pose: help­ing to un­cover Mor­gan had al­lowed Mack­in­tosh the chance to send Cameron and Fisher against the men in the safe house. That had been the slap in Som­mer’s face that Mack­in­tosh knew he would not be able to ig­nore. He would have to be pro­voked and then offered the chance of ven­geance. Mack­in­tosh had offered him­self as bait and Som­mer had taken it.

  Som­mer looked at Walker. “The Brit­ish and the Amer­ic­ans, they come to places like this and think that they can tell us what to do. It al­ways amuses me how sur­prised they are when they real­ise that the situ­ation is not what they ex­pect. This one is no dif­fer­ent. He tried to smuggle an East Ger­man cit­izen across the bor­der. They had a tun­nel—it was most in­vent­ive. But we have rules about things like that. They pay no heed to them. They think they do not ap­ply. The Eng­lish—they have a unique ar­rog­ance, don’t you think? A rem­nant of an em­pire that they lost many years ago, per­haps.”

  Both of the East Ger­mans were armed, with pis­tols nestled in hol­sters that were clipped to their belts. Jimmy was still star­ing down at him. Mack­in­tosh looked away; he knew that Som­mer would ex­pect him to be frightened, and it wasn’t dif­fi­cult to give him that im­pres­sion. He was frightened.

  Jimmy took a step up to Mack­in­tosh, drew his hand to the side and back­han­ded him across the face.

  “Yes,” Som­mer said with a chuckle. “Very good, Herr Walker.”

  Mack­in­tosh winced, his face sting­ing from the slap. He looked back up at Jimmy. Som­mer was be­hind the Ir­ish­man and wouldn’t have been able to see his ex­pres­sion and, yet, there was no ac­know­ledge­ment there, no sign that Walker was play­ing the role that he had been as­signed. In­stead, all he saw was dull, angry hos­til­ity.

  “What hap­pens to him?” Walker asked.

  “I haven’t de­cided. What do you think I should do?”

  “Put a bul­let in his head.”

  Som­mer chuckled again, turned to Müller and smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about the Ir­ish,” he said. “Re­mind me not to an­noy you, Herr Walker.”

  “This isn’t a joke to me, Gen­eral.”

  “Of course not.”

  Walker reached down and clasped Mack­in­tosh by the chin, push­ing back so that he could look down into his face. “The uni­on­ists in Bel­fast had a shooter, a man called McK­eown, lived on the lower Old­park Road, north of the city. They had an award for ‘Vo­lun­teer of the Year,’ gave it to the top hit­man each year. McK­eown won it four years in a row be­fore we got to him. One night, McK­eown knocke
d on the door to our house. My old man answered it and McK­eown put a bul­let in his head. I was sit­ting at the top of the stairs. I saw it all. Six years old.”

  “Bar­baric,” Som­mer said.

  Mack­in­tosh had no choice but to stare up at Walker; he had no idea whether this was fact or fic­tion, but he knew that their fu­ture—his, Walker’s, Ok­sana’s—de­pended upon what Walker said next.

  “We only found out later that Brit­ish in­tel­li­gence—men like this piece of shit—had been provid­ing McK­eown with names of IRA sol­diers and en­cour­aging him to knock them off. So, yes, you asked me what I think of the Brit­ish? I fuck­ing hate them.”

  Som­mer didn’t speak. In­stead, he reached down to his hol­ster, un­clipped the re­strain­ing strap and took out his pis­tol. He stepped for­ward and held it out.

  “Here,” he said. “You de­cide.”

  Walker looked down at the Makarov. Mack­in­tosh’s throat was arid and his fin­gers felt like claws, his hands clenched into tight fists, the nails dig­ging into his palms. The Ir­ish­man took the pis­tol, hef­ted it, and then took a step for­ward so that he could hold it against Mack­in­tosh’s fore­head.

  Walker looked back at Som­mer. “Are you sure?”

  “My gift to you, Herr Walker. Please.”

  Walker had taken a step for­ward not just so that he could press the gun against Mack­in­tosh’s head, but be­cause he wanted ad­di­tional space between him­self and the two Stasi of­ficers be­hind him. He turned, tak­ing a half step back and to the side, swiv­el­ling his hips and aim­ing the Makarov. He fired, a single pull of the trig­ger, and a bul­let mashed into Müller’s head, spray­ing brain and scalp against the damp brick wall.

  Mack­in­tosh saw it all: Müller toppled over; Ok­sana stumbled back, a splash of blow­back across her face; Som­mer gaped, swore and, as Walker’s arm turned to point at him, he rushed for­ward. The gen­eral closed in be­fore Walker could take aim, grabbed his wrist with both of his hands and shoved his arm straight up. The gun fired again, the bul­let punch­ing into the ceil­ing, frag­ments of con­crete fall­ing down to the floor. Walker was younger and stronger than Som­mer, but the Ger­man was fuelled by des­per­a­tion. Walker tried to bring his arm down but Som­mer held on, twist­ing Walker’s hand back and then reach­ing for the weapon. They fell, both of them locked to­gether, crash­ing against the wall. Som­mer but­ted Walker in the face, drew his head back and then but­ted him again. There was blood on Walker’s fore­head, red run­ning into his eyes. Som­mer but­ted him for a third time, the gun came free, and Som­mer had it.

  “Stop!”

  Mack­in­tosh had looked away from Ok­sana. He looked back. She had a gun and was aim­ing it at the two men.

  “Put the gun down and step away from it.”

  “What?” Som­mer said. “What are you do­ing?”

  Mack­in­tosh looked down: Müller’s hol­ster was empty.

  Som­mer stood, stepped away from Walker, and took a step to­ward her.

  Ok­sana’s face was spattered with Müller’s blood. “Don’t,” she said.

  Som­mer ges­tured down to Mack­in­tosh. “You and him? You must be jok­ing.”

  She ig­nored him. “Jimmy—take the gun, please.”

  Walker’s face was covered with blood, too. He swiped it away with the back of his hand and took the Makarov out of Som­mer’s hand.

  “Where are the keys for the cuffs?” Ok­sana asked him.

  The gen­eral’s face went beet­root red and his eyes bulged. “You’re dead,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? All of you. I’ll kill you my­self.”

  Walker looked at Mack­in­tosh, at Ok­sana, and then at Som­mer. The doubt in Walker’s face changed and was re­placed with some­thing else: an­ger? Frus­tra­tion? Walker took a half step to­ward Som­mer, rab­bit-punched him in the ribs, and, as the gen­eral bent double, grabbed both lapels and lif­ted him un­til his back was against the wall.

  “She asked you where we can find the keys.”

  “There’s a space where the guard sits out­side,” Som­mer grunted through the pain. “There’s a board on the wall. The keys are there.”

  “Any­one else here?” Ok­sana asked. “Any guards?”

  “No,” Som­mer said. He glanced at Müller. “Just him.”

  “Jimmy,” Ok­sana said. “Get the keys.”

  Walker went to the door and dis­ap­peared out­side.

  Mack­in­tosh’s arms ached. He had been trussed up like this for hours and his muscles were cramp­ing badly.

  “You set me up,” Som­mer said. “This whole thing.”

  “You’re greedy and in­sec­ure,” Mack­in­tosh said. “Money and status—that’s all you care about. We offered you money and threatened your repu­ta­tion. I knew you wouldn’t be able to res­ist, and you couldn’t. You’re pre­dict­able, Som­mer. And it’s go­ing to be the death of you.”

  The gen­eral shone a look of the purest hatred at Mack­in­tosh, but he didn’t re­spond.

  Walker came back in­side. He held out his hand to re­veal a bunch of keys, went to Mack­in­tosh, knelt down on the floor in front of him and tried the keys in the re­straints that se­cured his ankles un­til he found the right one. He un­locked and re­moved them and went around be­hind the chair to re­lease the cuffs that were se­cur­ing Mack­in­tosh’s wrists.

  Mack­in­tosh got up and rubbed the skin that had been ab­raded by the shackles. His shoulders ached as the blood flowed around his body once again. Walker took the cuffs and went to Som­mer.

  “Well done, Jimmy,” Ok­sana said.

  “Sit down,” Mack­in­tosh told Som­mer.

  Ok­sana still had the gun aimed at Som­mer and he wasn’t reck­less enough to call her bluff. He sat down in the chair that Mack­in­tosh had just va­cated and didn’t struggle as Walker se­cured his arms and legs with the re­straints.

  Mack­in­tosh took the gun from Walker and knelt down in front of Som­mer. “Where’s Schmidt?”

  The Ger­man’s eyes bulged with fresh hatred.

  “It’s up to you. You can tell us and live a little longer or you can keep it to your­self and I’ll put you out of your misery. It doesn’t mat­ter—this isn’t a big build­ing. We’ll find him either way.”

  Som­mer grit­ted his teeth so hard that his jaw bulged.

  Mack­in­tosh closed his left fist and struck him, hard, on the bony part of his cheek. Som­mer’s head jerked to the left. His face was flushed red, and there was an in­dent­a­tion on his cheek where Mack­in­tosh’s ring had cut into the flesh.

  “Next door,” Som­mer said.

  “Keys?”

  “You already have them.”

  “Stay with the gen­eral,” Mack­in­tosh said to Walker and Ok­sana. “I’ll go and get him.”

  55

  Mack­in­tosh went to the cell next to the one where he had been held. He took the keys, se­lec­ted the one that looked most likely and tried it. It didn’t work. He picked a second key and tried that. This time, the lock turned and he was able to open the door.

  The cell was dark, an inky gloom that ab­sorbed al­most all of the light that leaked in from the cor­ridor. Mack­in­tosh stood there and waited for his eyes to ad­just. He saw a bed on the side of the room with no other fur­niture. There was a fig­ure on the bed. It was a man. He was sit­ting up, his knees drawn up to his chin.

  “Hello,” Mack­in­tosh said.

  The man didn’t re­spond. He was cloaked in shadow, and Mack­in­tosh couldn’t make out his face. He stepped in­side the room, and, his gun held down as un­ob­trus­ively as pos­sible, took four steps un­til he was at the foot of the bed. Still the man didn’t speak. Mack­in­tosh’s eyes had ad­jus­ted enough now so that he could make him out a little bet­ter. He looked to be of av­er­age height, much shorter than he was, and was slender. He had a thick head of light-col­oured hair, un­ruly locks that spilled
over his col­lar. His face was thin, with dark eyes framed by thick brows, a pre­cise nose and five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin.

  “Günter—it’s Harry Mack­in­tosh.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “I’m here to get you out.”

  “Som­mer?” Schmidt’s voice was tight with fear and ten­sion. “Where is Som­mer?”

  “You don’t need to worry about him any­more. We need to leave. Are you ready?”

  Schmidt was shak­ing with fear. “But Som­mer will—”

  “You don’t need to worry about him,” Mack­in­tosh said again, in­ter­rupt­ing him.

  Schmidt still looked re­luct­ant to move, even with Mack­in­tosh’s re­as­sur­ance. Som­mer ex­er­ted a hold on him even now; Mack­in­tosh wondered what the gen­eral had done to him.

  “We need to go, Günter. We don’t have long—we need to be on our way.”

  Schmidt swal­lowed and nod­ded. “Yes,” he said. “I will come.”

  56

  Jimmy heard the sound of foot­steps com­ing to­ward them from the cor­ridor and, with the gun still trained on Som­mer, he turned to see Mack­in­tosh and a second man com­ing in through the door.

  “This is Günter,” Mack­in­tosh said.

  Jimmy nod­ded. The man was young and quite clearly ter­ri­fied out of his wits. He looked from Jimmy to Ok­sana and then to Som­mer, his eyes bul­ging.

  “We need to be get­ting out of here,” Ok­sana said. She ges­tured to Som­mer. “I know he said there was nobody else here, but we saw guards out­side. They prob­ably can’t hear any­thing down here, but you can’t say for sure.”

  “I agree,” Mack­in­tosh said. He put his hand on Schmidt’s shoulder. “Go with Ok­sana,” he said. “She’s a friend. I’ll see you at the lift.”

  “What are you go­ing to do?” he asked.