The two hoodlums looked out at the river at a small tugboat moving towards them.
A few minutes earlier, as the Sunshine II, approached Battersea Bridge, the tug had moved beneath the centre arch, and boatman Eddie Stevenson, had looked up at the mass of pigeons roosting within the rafters. Steering the boat, he had checked his position, so to navigate around the hazard of the two old derelict barges. Suddenly, he had heard from what he knew from his days as a young virgin soldier serving in the Malayan conflict, what could only be a gunshot, followed shortly by a second one. Someone, somewhere, was shooting a small arms weapon. Stevenson had looked towards the direction of the shots, seeing two men standing near the old servicing jetties. He saw the shorter man looking straight at him, raising his arm in his direction, and to his horror, now realised the gun that he had heard, was being aimed at him.
He braced himself, ducking down behind the doorway of his cabin and listening for that inevitable crack. It never came.
Cautiously, he raised his head just enough to view the bank. The gunman was still aiming at his boat. Then, to his relief, he watched as the big man, put down the other man’s arm, shaking his head at him, then the short man placed the gun back in his jacket. The boatman studied the two men carefully, as they started to kick out a few times at something lying on the ground before them. After a few moments, they stopped, looked over to him again, then side by side, strode quickly back up the walkway, disappearing through the gap in the wall. A few minutes later, Stevenson thought that he had heard a car start up, then caught a glimpse of a dark blur, as it sped past the gap. He paused, taking stock of what he had just experienced, wondering who these men could be, when a movement caught his eye. It was from the heap that they had been kicking. Quickly, he moved his boat closer to the jetties. Now only thirty feet away from the shore, he could clearly see the shape. It moved again, and he realised he was looking at a doubled-up figure of a man. Stevenson sprang into action. At the jetty, he took a rope in his hand, and switched off the engine. With one energetic leap, he jumped off the tug, lassoed the mooring rope around the bollard, and sprinted over to the man lying on the ground. He stared down at the closed eyes and then saw his bloody mouth. He knew this man had been shot, a pool of blood was forming rapidly under him. He did not have long.
Sensing a sudden presence, Ruger’s eyes flickered open and stared blankly at the brightening sky. He moved them slowly to the left, noticing the stranger leaning over him.
Stevenson gave him a concerned half smile. ‘Don’t worry mate, I’ll get you some help. For god’s sake, try not to move.’
Karl Ruger opened his mouth; a mixture of blood and saliva ran down the side of it. ‘Everything is so cold,’ he murmured. There was another splutter of blood, then he slowly reached into his jacket pocket. Stretching out his clasped trembling hands, the German beckoned for Stevenson to take the piece of paper from him. He tried to lift his head, but realising this was too much effort, sighed in defeat. Ruger looked Stevenson in the eyes and in short gasps of breath, spoke softly. ‘Please Sir, please, you must go to this man.’ He shivered as he felt a creeping chill move over him. There was something he had to tell this good Samaritan, something of the highest importance. Spluttering again, he opened his mouth to form the words. ‘Tell Mr Swan, that the eagle will fall.’
Stevenson stared down at the man. ‘What’s the eagle? Who’s, Mr Swan?’
Ruger sighed. Struggling to breathe, he coughed. ‘They must be stopped, I do not know what the eagle is, but there is great danger.’
Stevenson crouched lower, speaking directly into his face. ‘Who? Who must be stopped? Who were those two blokes? Why’ve they shot you?’
Ruger was exhausted. He desperately wanted to answer this man’s salvo of questions, but could no longer find the energy. His lips quivered, as he attempted to speak again, but nothing more came from his dry mouth. His head flopped to the side, and lifeless eyes stared out at the river.
From his former combat experience, Stevenson was aware of what a corpse looked like, and knew full well he was looking at one. He placed his hand behind Ruger’s neck, lifting his head out of the wet mud, and with a sudden feeling of defeat, gently placed the dead man down again, bringing his hand up to close his eyelids. He then took off his jacket and placed it over the now peaceful looking face and shook his head. Looking down curiously at the covered figure, whales of confusion swam around his head. Who was this man? He sounded foreign. And why did he have to die? He studied the body, and protruding between the blood-stained fingers, saw the piece of paper that the man had tried to give him. Hesitantly, he pulled it free, unfolded it, and read the contents. ‘Jesus Christ, Mr Alex Swan, I hope to God, you know what this bloody eagle is.’
Chapter 2
Later that morning, Arthur Gable walked into the lobby and up the stairs of 7 Wellesley Mews.
Although he had been an associate to Alex Swan’s Services Investigation Department for seven years, he could still not stop himself from admiring the paintings of Napoleonic battle scenes as they climbed the walls of the SID headquarters. He was always finding something new in them that he had failed to spot before. On this occasion, he had noticed a china cup and saucer resting on the officers’ campaign table as they contemplated the next strategic battle move. He thought of how very civilised this all was, especially in the heat of combat too.
Inside the office, a man in his late-forties, with salt and pepper grey hair, sat at a desk reading a document; a lit cigarette was in his hand.
Alex Swan looked up and smiled at Gable. ‘Good morning, Arthur.’
‘Good morning Alex, I just heard on the radio that a body has been found by the river near Albert Bridge.’
Swan nodded. ‘Yes, a German chap, shot in the back.’
Gable was astonished and sat down on a chair opposite his colleague.
‘Christ, Alex, that was fast work. Any theories yet?’
‘Too early to tell, old chap. It says here in this report rushed over to me by Scotland Yard, that the tug boat owner is still helping the police with their enquiries.’
Swan looked at his associate. ‘One thing though, the dead man was clutching a piece of paper with my name and this address on it.’
Gable gasped. ‘Good Grief! Why on earth?’
Swan clasped his hands together.
‘Beats me, old chap. Before you arrived, I received a call from DCI Hugh Lovett, he sent over this report and later he’s coming over to talk to us about it. I was thinking that this incident may have something to do with our old client Otto Kappelman., the German wartime test pilot. Do you remember him?’
Gable nodded. ‘Yes, of course. What makes you think that there could be a connection?’
‘Ruger was found just around the corner from Kappelman’s flat.’
Gable sighed. ‘I see. So they knew each other then?’
‘Yes, perhaps they did indeed. Especially as Karl Ruger was a wartime rocket engineer who up to his death yesterday, was working at Highdown on our Black Arrow project.’
‘So he was one of those V2 missile chaps; Werner Von Braun and all that crowd?’
‘What? Yes Arthur, I suppose that he most probably was.’
Gable suddenly sensed something.