The Purple Contract (10 page)

In a quiet corner of the harbour in the small Portuguese town of Vigo, 150 km north of Oporto, another man with a tattoo on his arm leaned against the rough stone wall to let his shirt billow open in the cool breeze from the sea. He wiped away the sweat that ran down both sides of his face. The stone itself was warm enough to be uncomfortable under his hands. Quite a change, yes, from Stuttgart. There had been a sprinkling of late snow on the ground and sleet rattling on the windows of the van while they drove through the silent streets at 4 am yesterday. Gaining the autobahn without seeing another soul foolish enough to be out in this weather, far less starting a journey of many hundreds of kilometres across Germany, France and Portugal. A journey which had ended here in this sunlit harbour.

Was it really only yesterday? Sometimes Klaus Ditmar worried about the pace at which his life was passing. The days and weeks seemed to speed away from him in a blur.

'All right, it's ready!' The brusque German sounded oddly harsh in contrast to the fluid and unintelligible Portuguese babble that had surrounded them all day. Klaus looked down into the stubby, broad-beamed workboat and waved at Helga Wrasse in acknowledgement. The curly head disappeared from the wheelhouse window as if a hangman's trap had opened under her feet. Klaus smiled grimly at the thought, not funny at all, really. Scratching the red and black swastika tattoo on his upper left arm he started down the unpainted iron ladder to where the boat swayed slowly against her mooring cables, nearly aground on the low tide. He pulled three cans of lager from the box in a corner of the wheelhouse before swinging down the steep steps into the cabin underneath.

'God, that smells good. I'm starving!' Uwe Wrasse was already wedged into the corner of the tiny saloon with the fold-out table taking up much of the remaining space. Klaus dumped the three cans down and eased in alongside him, wishing someone would open the damned
porthole
and let some air in. Then seeing that the tiny thing was already wide open and not likely to make any significant difference at all to the heat and humidity in here.

Helga pushed two plates onto the rough wooden surface and went back for her own. Chinese again, but that was all right. Especially with her younger brother Uwe, who could live on the stuff. Klaus Ditmar had no interest in food, would eat just about anything. He regarded food as merely fuel––like putting petrol in a car, it kept you going for another few hours, that was all there was to it. He couldn't understand people who made a ridiculous performance out of eating, fussing over obscure trivialities and poncing about in expensive restaurants. 'Thanks, Helga.' He caught the knife and fork as they came slithering across the Formica towards him. 'Is there no other means of ventilation on this fucking thing?' he asked of no-one in particular.

Helga glanced over at him, her mouth already full. 'Well, you rented it!' she pronounced indistinctly.

That was true, he had phoned from Stuttgart, but––

'Next time, get a window count.' Uwe suggested.

'What?'

'Ask them to look out the fucking office door and count the windows!' Uwe chortled at the thought, and then admitted, 'It
is
warm in here––'

'Oh, go back to sleep!' His sister waved a hand in disgust.

Klaus grinned. 'Would you rather be in jail? Be nice and cool there I think.'

Uwe chuckled, remembering the tension and the jangling nerves. 'They didn't even come close.' he grunted. 'Too busy clearing up the mess!'

Not quite true. The authorities in Kiel had cleared the station surprisingly quickly after someone found the plastic carrier bag tucked away behind the condom machine in the
Herren
toilets. The exhaustive exercises finally paying off in a slick and well-planned operation. Two trains had been hurriedly backed up into sidings out of harms way so although the bomb had exploded on schedule, destroying part of the toilets and a small office cum storage room next door, no-one had been injured. The trio had been well on their way home before the fuss started. But as only his second experience of such things, Uwe had been a very nervous young man.

Just another terrorist tantrum by the 21 Brigade, named for the Neo-Nazi vision of New Fascism rising in the 21st Century. The latest in a series of attacks following the assassination of their Party leader on the streets of Berlin––an act which had enraged the faithful to the point of incoherence. All the more so since rumours were rife that the German Government had financed the killing in a desperate attempt to remove a long-standing thorn in their flesh. Not to mention a major political embarrassment.

They were waiting on the coffeepot before anyone spoke again. It had been a long journey and rumbling bellies took precedence over idle conversation.

'We'll be leaving shortly before dawn,' Klaus pointed out, 'I want to get clear of the harbour while there is still some darkness left.'

Uwe groaned. Early rising had never been his strong point. 'I hope these friends of yours are going to turn up.'

Klaus raised his beer can in mock salute. 'They're no friends of mine, or of yours either. While Ghadaffi was alive he filled their heads with so much anti-American shit they can't think straight. I told them this stuff was for a hit on a US embassy. Promised them a big bang and lots of headlines.' He grinned and bent the now empty can in half, tossing it into the refuse bag.

Helga looked at him impassively through narrowed eyes. She was a naturally cautious woman, with a good understanding of human nature. ‘We should not underestimate them out of contempt. They cheated Hans Brumaker out of seven thousand dollars and left two of his men dead. They might be thinking of doing the same to us.’ She looked up into Ditmar’s direct gaze.

Klaus nodded, that was always a possibility. 'It's going to be a long day tomorrow,' he said to Uwe, 'so no running around the town till dawn. I want you alert and on top line.'

The younger man pulled a face. 'Shit!'

'You can have as many shits as you like, just as long as you're awake when we meet those crazy Libyans...'

Alij Hassan had never been so thankful to see the sunrise. His imagination had been on overtime during the night passage through the straits of Gibraltar and northwards up the coast of Portugal. He knew Mammar was no sailor. As a result he felt very vulnerable in the inky blackness. He fretted continually about collisions with supertankers, and submarines, and whales, and––  But Mammar had insisted. If the truth be told Hassan was mare than a little scared of his countryman, even after all these years. There was a wildness in him that knew no peace.

He watched the dim outline of Wing Chang Hui moving along the length of the deck, checking that everything was secure. When he reached the bow he stood upright with the wind tugging at his clothes, staring ahead into the clearing horizon. Hassan wondered what he was doing down there. Had he nothing better to do than admire the scenery? Come to think of it, he had hardly said a word for the last two days. He had been moody and terse, clearly wanting to keep to himself. Not like him at all. Hassan shrugged to himself. Whatever was occupying Wing Chang's mind, it was nothing to do with him.

In that, he was wrong.

The deck was warm under Uwe's feet, rising and falling with the boat's motion on the sea swell. They were just keeping steerage way, patrolling back and forth about three kilometres off the headland with the double hill. He had no idea what it was called. Klaus had pointed it out to him and told him to keep station on it until the Libyans showed up from the south. His sister had relieved him at the wheel half an hour ago and sent him forward to watch for other seaborne traffic, although they hadn’t sighted a single other vessel since leaving Vigo. He suspected that she had spotted his jangling nerves and was giving him something to occupy his mind. Leaning against the wheelhouse and out of the breeze, it was pleasantly warm and he was actually starting to doze when the sun flashed on something far away on the horizon.

Wing Chang tossed the Kalashnakov up through the open hatch into the sunlight. Mammar picked it out of the air and handed it across to Hassan. 'Here, just in case.'

'I thought you knew this man,' Hassan muttered, more or less to himself.

'I wouldn't trust him if he was my brother. Don't worry, their money is as good as anyone else's.'

Hassan grunted to himself, reflecting that he wouldn't trust Mammar's brother as far as he could throw him either. He squinted in the scattered glare from the blue sea and watched the stubby craft approaching, bow wave falling as the power came off, the scarred hull slowing and wallowing a little in the troughs. He saw a woman standing on the foredeck and sneered to himself at the sight of her baggy sweater. Only infidels could feel the cold under this cloudless sky.

Mammar carefully scrutinised the young man leaning on the rail outside the wheelhouse. Checking for sight of weapons, or indeed anything suspicious. In this line of work it paid to be cautious. After the first glance, he ignored Helga Wrasse completely. This was man's business.

Uwe tossed the line across with a flick of the wrist. One of the two swarthy Libyans picked it up from the deck and secured the two small boats together. 'Hello, Herr Ditmar,’ he said in accented English, well aware that his German contact spoke no Arabic. ‘It is good to see you again.'

Klaus waved across the narrowing gap. 'You are early, that is good.' He tapped Uwe on the arm. 'Get the stern line fixed, Uwe.

'Money always receives my undivided attention, my friend. I am a businessman. This is business, important business.' He grinned widely; flawless white teeth contrasting with the sun-darkened face. The two craft bumped against each other. Lurching as one in the uneven swell.

'You are helping the peoples of the western world free themselves from oppression, and history will remember you.' Klaus thought he was spreading it a bit thick, but the Libyan was seemingly as pleased as punch. Clapping his hands and waving his fist in the air and chortling in delight. Crazy bastard. ‘I hope you brought me some good merchandise, Mammar,' he called across.

'Oh yes, yes. All is here, all ready. You will not be disappointed, I think. The filthy Americans will sell anything to anyone for a––what is the term: a fast dollar?'

Klaus laughed. ‘A fast buck! Yes, my friend, you are right as always.’

Mammar looked round to make sure Hassan was still in his proper place. Enough of these stupid word games. ‘And I think you have many fast bucks for me, Herr Ditmar.’

As instructed, Uwe had remained at the stern after making fast the second rope. The three Germans were now spread out as far as space on the small deck allowed. Klaus reached inside the wheelhouse door without turning his back on the other boat and brought out a medium sized holdall. He held it up for inspection. 'Always a pleasure to do business with you, Mammar.' He took the two paces to the rail and hefted the bag in his hands. 'You can count it while we bring the stuff over.' He heaved the bag into the air with both hands.

Below decks, Wing Chang Hui muttered curses as he fetched the handgun from behind a storage locker. The boat had lurched just as he was lifting the pistol from the table top, and he had staggered against the locker and dropped the damned thing. He emerged on deck blinking in the strong sunlight just in time for the end of the world.

The moving dark mass of the holdall caught his attention first. The movement attracting his eye in the ancient hunting reflex of the predator. Then another flicker brought his eyes round a few degrees just in time to see Helga Wrasse reach under her floppy sweater and drag out an Israeli-made Uzi. On full automatic, she let rip half the magazine directly at Mammar, who was reaching up now to catch the bag. Then she swept the gun backwards along the deck, spraying the rest of the ammunition in a withering hail of death.

Mammar took the full force of the blast in the chest between his outstretched arms and died instantly. The force of the multiple impacts lifted him clean off his feet and tossed him like a bloodied rag doll against the corroded rail, one arm dangling limply over the bow. Blood dripped then ran down the arm and formed rivulets across the shabby hull until they were washed out of existence in the salt water.

Hassan had seen the German throw the bag into the air and for no reason he could discover in the few seconds left to him, he looked directly at Helga. Time seemed to slow as every sense in his body went to maximum panic alert in nanoseconds. Adrenaline flooded into his bloodstream with a jolt like a mule kick. When the Uzi started firing the noise added aural shock as well, bringing his nervous system close to overload. His finger tightened on the trigger quite involuntarily while the Kalashnakov was still held loosely in his hands pointing at the scarred wooden deck beside his feet. As it came up in the general direction of where Helga stood braced against a winch, the recoil twisted it viciously out of his grip and the 9mm bullets stitched an orderly line along the deck, up across the superstructure and drilled Wing Chang neatly through the heart.

Wing Chang Hui felt nothing at all. With some amazement, and almost like a remote observer, he saw the world revolve about him until blue sky filled his vision. A sky that darkened steadily as he watched; as if a storm were racing in from the hidden recesses of the ocean. The last thing he saw was the image of a red dragon in the gathering darkness, leathery wings beating soundlessly as long talons reached for him...

Helga absorbed the recoil from the Uzi with the ease of long practice. She swept the blast of bullets to her left and saw the Libyan with the machine gun stagger and fall face down. It had been a calculated risk going for Mammar first, but the other one had been an idle bastard, not paying attention at all. Christ knew how he had managed to live this long.

She saw the Chinese for the first time with a shock of fear followed rapidly by relief when he went down with his handgun still aimed directly at her. Killed by that dozy sod in the nick of time. That had been much too close for comfort. Another second and the muscles in his trigger finger would have contracted and she would probably be dead: he could hardly have missed at three metres range.