It’s a brand new Porsche, and it’s going to cost you a fortune …”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but since the accident was not reported, we cannot take any responsibility for it.”
“Look,” Robert said in a more reasonable tone of voice, “I want to be fair. I don’t want to hold your company responsible. AH I want to do is have that man pay for the damage he did to my car. It was a hit and run. I may even have to bring the police into this. If you give me the man’s name and address, I can talk directly to him, and we can settle it between us and leave your company out of it. Is that fair enough?”
The clerk stood there, making up her mind. “Yes. We would much prefer that.” She looked down at the file in her hand. “The name of the person who rented the car is Leslie Mothershed.”
“And his address?”
“213A Grove Road, Whitechapel, London, East 3.” She looked up. “You are certain our company will not be involved in any litigation?”
“You have my word on it,” Robert assured her. “This is a private matter between Leslie Mothershed and me.”
Commander Robert Bellamy was on the next Swissair flight to London.
He sat in the dark alone, concentrating, meticulously going over every phase of the plan, making certain that there were no loopholes, that nothing could go wrong. His thoughts were interrupted by the soft buzz of the telephone.
“Janus here.”
“Janus. General Hilliard.”
“Proceed.”
“Commander Bellamy has located the first two witnesses.”
“Very good. Have it attended to immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is the Commander now?”
“On his way to London. He should have number three confirmed shortly.”
“I will alert the committee as to his progress. Continue to keep me informed. The condition of this operation must remain Nova Red.”
“Understood, sir. I would suggest …”
The line was dead.
FLASH MESSAGE
TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR BUNDESAN
-WALTSCHAFT
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
1. HANS BECKERMAN – KAPPEL
2. FRITZ MANDEL – BERN
END OF MESSAGE
At midnight in a small farmhouse fifteen miles from Uetendorf, the Lagenfeld family was disturbed by a series of strange events. The older child was awakened by a shimmering yellow light shining through his bedroom window. When he got up to investigate, the light had disappeared.
In the yard, Tozzi, their German shepherd, began barking furiously, awakening old man Lagenfeld. Reluctantly, the farmer got out of bed to quiet the animal, and when he stepped outside he heard the sound of frightened sheep crashing against their pen, trying to escape. As Lagenfeld passed the trough, which had been filled to the brim by the recent rainfall, he noticed that it was bone dry.
Tozzi came running to his side, whimpering. Lagenfeld absently patted the animal on the head. “It’s all right, boy. It’s all right.”
And at that moment, every light in the house went out. When the farmer returned to the house and picked up the telephone to call the power company, the phone was dead.
If the lights had remained on a moment longer, the farmer might have seen a strangely beautiful woman walk out of his barnyard and into the field beyond.
The Bundesanwaltschaft – Geneva, 1300 Hours
The government minister seated in the inner sanctum of the headquarters of the Swiss Intelligence Agency watched the Deputy Director finish reading the message. He put the message in a folder marked Top Secret, placed the folder in the desk drawer and locked the drawer.
“Hans Beckerman und Fritz Mandel.”
“Ja.”
“No problem, Herr Minister. It shall be taken care of.”
“Gut.”
“Wann?”
“Sofort. Immediately.”
The following morning on his way to work, Hans Beckerman’s ulcers were bothering him. I should have pushed that reporter fellow to pay me for that thing I found on the ground. These magazines are all rich. I probably could have got a few hundred marks. Then I could have gone to a decent doctor and had my ulcers treated.
He was driving past Turler Lake, when ahead of him, at the side of the highway, he saw a woman waving, trying to get a lift. Beckerman slowed down to get a better look at her. She was young and attractive. Hans pulled over to the side of the road. The woman approached the car.
“Guten Tag,” Beckerman said. “Can I help you?” She was even prettier close up.
“Danke.” She had a Swiss accent. “I had a fight with my boyfriend and he dropped me here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Tsk, tsk. That’s terrible.”
“Would you mind giving me a lift into Zurich?”
“Not at all. Get in, get in.”
The hitchhiker opened the door and climbed in beside him. “This is very kind of you,” she said. “My name is Karen.”
“Hans.” He started driving.
“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along, Hans.”
“Oh, I’m sure someone else would have picked up a pretty woman like you.”
She moved closer to him. “But I’ll bet he wouldn’t have been as good-looking as you.”
He glanced over at her. “Ja?”
“I think you are very handsome.”
He smiled. “You should tell that to my wife.”
“Oh, you’re married.” She sounded disappointed. “Why is it all the wonderful men are married? You look very intelligent, too.”
He sat up straighter.
“To tell you the truth, I’m sorry I ever got involved with my boyfriend.” She shifted around in her seat and her skirt climbed up her thigh. He tried not to look. “I like older, mature men, Hans. I think they’re much more sexy than young men.” She snuggled up against him. “Do you like sex, Hans?”
He cleared his throat. “Do I …? Well, you know … I’m a man …”
“I can see that,” she said. She stroked his thigh. “Can I tell you something? That fight with my boyfriend made me very horny. Would you like me to make love to you?”
He could not believe his luck. She was a beauty and from what he could see, she had a great body. He swallowed. “I would, but I’m on my way to work and …”
“It will only take a few minutes,” she smiled. “There is a side road up ahead that leads into the woods. Why don’t we stop there?”
He could feel himself getting excited. Sicher. Wait until I tell the boys at the office about this! They’ll never believe it.
“Sure. Why not?” Hans turned the car off the highway and took the little dirt road that led into a grove where they could not be seen by passing motorists.
She slowly ran her hand up his thigh. “Mein Gott, you have strong legs.”
“I was a runner when I was younger,” Beckerman boasted.
“Let’s get your trousers off.
” She undid his belt and helped him slide his pants down. He was already tumescent.
“Ach! Ein grosser!” She began to stroke him.
He moaned, “Leek mich doch am Schwanz.”
“You like to be kissed down there?”
“Ja.” His wife never did that for him.
“Gut. Now just relax.”
Beckerman sighed, and closed his eyes. Her soft hands were caressing his balls. He felt the sharp sting of a needle in his thigh and his eyes flew open. “Wie …?”
His body stiffened and his eyes bulged out. He was choking, unable to breathe. The woman watched as Beckerman slumped over the steering wheel. She got out of the car and slid his body into the passenger seat, then got behind the wheel of the car and drove back down the dirt road onto the highway. At the edge of the steep mountain road, she waited until the road was clear, then opened the door, stepped on the gas pedal and as the car started to move, she jumped. She stood there, watching the car tumble down the steep cliff. Five minutes later, a black limousine pulled up beside her.
“Irgend welche Probleme?”
“Keins.”
Fritz Mandel was in his office ready to close the garage when two men approached.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m closing. I can’t …”
One of the men interrupted. “Our car is stuck down the highway. Kaputt! We need a tow.”
“My wife is waiting for me. We are having company tonight. I can give you the name of another …”
“It’s worth two hundred dollars to us. We’re in a hurry.”
“Two hundred dollars?”
“Yes. And our car is in pretty bad shape. We’d like you to do some work on it. That would probably come to another two, three hundred.”
Mandel was becoming interested. “Ja?”
“It’s a Rolls,” one of the men said. “Let’s see the kind of equipment you have here.” They walked into the service area and stood at the edge of the pit. “That’s pretty good equipment.”
“Yes, sir,” Mandel said, proudly. “The very best.”
The stranger took out a wallet. “Here. I can give you some money in advance.” He removed some bills and handed them to Mandel. As he did so, the wallet slipped out of his hands and fell down into the pit. “Verftucht!”
“Don’t worry,” Mandel said. “I’ll get it.”
He climbed down into the pit. As he did so, one of the men walked over to the control button that operated the raised hydraulic lift and pressed it. The lift started to descend.
Mandel looked up. “Be careful! What are you doing?”
He started to scramble up the side. As his fingers touched the ledge, the second man slammed his foot down on Mandel’s hand, smashing it, and Mandel dropped back down into the pit, shrieking. The heavy hydraulic lift was inexorably descending on him.
“Let me out of here!” he cried. “Hilfe!”
The lift caught him on his shoulder and began pressing him down into the cement floor. A few minutes later, when the terrible screams had stopped, one of the men pressed the button that raised the lift. His companion went down into the pit and retrieved his wallet, careful not to get blood on his clothes. The two men returned to their car and drove off into the quiet night.
FLASH MESSAGE
TOP SECRET ULTRA
ESPIONAGE ABTEILUNG TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR NSA
EYES ONLY
COPY ONE OF (ONE) COPIES
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
1. HANS BECKERMAN – TERMINATED
2. FRITZ MANDEL – TERMINATED
END OF MESSAGE
Ottawa, Canada, 2400 Hours
Janus was addressing the group of twelve.
“Satisfactory progress is being made. Two of the witnesses have already been silenced. Commander Bellamy is on the trail of a third.”
“Has there been a breakthrough yet on SDI?” The Italian. Impetuous. Volatile.
“Not yet, but we’re confident that the Star Wars technology will be up and functioning very soon.”
“We must do everything possible to hurry it. If it is a question of money …” The Saudi. Enigmatic. Withdrawn.
“No. There’s just a bit more testing to do.”
“When is the next test taking place?” The Australian. Hearty. Clever.
“In one week. We will meet here again in forty-eight hours.”
DAY FOUR
London, Thursday, October 18th
Leslie Mothershed’s role model was Robin Leach. An avid viewer of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, Mothershed carefully studied the way Robin Leach’s guests walked and talked and dressed, because he knew that one day he would appear on that programme. From the time he was a small boy, he had felt that he was destined to be somebody, to be rich and famous.
“You’re very special,” his mother would tell him. “My baby is going to be known all over the world.”
The young boy would go to sleep with that sentence ringing in his ears, until he truly believed it. As Mothershed grew older, he became aware that he had a problem: he had no idea exactly how he was going to become rich and famous. For a period of time he toyed with the notion of being a movie star, but he was inordinately shy. He briefly contemplated becoming a soccer star, but he was not athletic. He thought about being a famous scientist, or a great lawyer, commanding tremendous fees. His school grades, unfortunately, were mediocre, and he dropped out of school without being any closer to fame. Life was simply not fair. He was physically unprepossessing, thin, with a pale, sickly complexion, and he was short, exactly five foot five and a half inches. Mothershed always stressed the extra half inch. He consoled himself with the fact that many famous men were short: Dudley Moore, Dustin Hoffman, Peter Falk …
The only profession that really interested Leslie Mothershed was photography. Taking photographs was so ridiculously simple. Anyone could do it. One simply pressed a button. His mother had bought him a camera for his sixth birthday and had been wildly extravagant in her praise of the pictures he had taken. By the time he was in his teens, Mothershed had become convinced that he was a brilliant photographer. He told himself that he was every bit as good as Ansel Adams, Richard Avedon or Margaret Bourke-White. With a loan from his mother, Leslie Mothershed set up his own photography business in Whitechapel, in his flat.
“Start small,” his mother told him, “but think big,” and that is exactly what Leslie Mothershed did. He started very small and thought very big, but unfortunately, he had no talent for photography. He photographed parades and animals and flowers, and confidently sent his pictures off to newspapers and magazines, and they were always returned. Mothershed consoled himself with the thought of all the geniuses who had been rejected before their ability was recognized.