Swan shook his head. ‘Not at the moment, HB. We think they could still be in London, lying low somewhere.’
Barnett stared out at the Thames, training his eyes on the familiar landmark of Battersea Power Station. ‘I wonder why, they killed the men, though I suppose, that’s why you two were brought in, wasn’t it?’
Swan nodded. ‘As a matter of fact HB, it was. The test pilot Kappelman, was a former client of ours. Actually, it was just after the Silver Angel case. He had kept some documents of his test flying, and they had mysteriously been stolen from his flat, in Battersea. We never found them. So, our guess was that the other victim, Karl Ruger, knew Kappelman, and as it turned out, they did work together, first at Peenemunde, and when the Komet project moved to Bad Zweischenahn. Ruger went to Kappelman, before he was murdered.’
‘And this Ruger was a rocket engineer at Highdown, wasn’t he?’ added Barnett.
Swan realised he could trust his old friend, and decided to relent with the rest of the story. ‘That’s right HB, he was. I went to Highdown last week, and spent some time there.’
‘Were you there, when the accident with that poor chap, happened?’
‘No, I arrived afterwards. So, you can imagine that things were a little edgy.’
‘Aye, I guess they must have been. I saw the report on the telly.’
Everyone’s attention was suddenly drawn to the sound of the Maître De of the restaurant, banging a spoon on a table. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I hope that you have enjoyed your breakfast, and the spectacular views at The Top of The Tower. As you may already be aware, Squadron Leader Lecky-Thompson, is due to take off from St Pancras Station, at ten o’clock for the East to West leg of the Daily Mail Transatlantic Air Race. Therefore, can I please ask all those present, who are to be at this event, to make their way down to Fitzroy Street, where transportation has been arranged to the site, by our patron Mr Billy Butlin. Squadron Leader Lecky-Thompson, will be in the foyer, so if you want to take the time to wish him well on his journey, then please do so. Thank you, and I wish you all a good day.’
There was a round of applause, followed by the shuffling of chairs, as parties rose to make their way to the lifts.
One floor above, Ernst Hoffenberg, stood in the cocktail lounge, and placed down the receiver of the public telephone. Earlier, after being introduced to Alex Swan by the Head of RAF Home Operations, he had urgently contacted his leader in Hamburg, to say that the man, he had been so concerned about, was present at this event.
On hearing this news, while sitting at his desk in his factory office, Fleischer instructed Hoffenberg, to contact Trost and Baumann. With time at the essence, this had to be done quickly. Fleischer’s hitmen now had exactly an hour to get themselves from their safe house in Southwark, to the coal yard near St Pancras Station. Their instructions were simple, intercept and eliminate Alex Swan, while he watched, what would be an extremely loud take-off, of the Harrier jump-jet. Hoffenberg had suggested, this would be the best time, as all eyes would be on the plane; the combination of the ear-splitting noise, and the swirling coal dust, had suddenly offered the perfect opportunity.
Chapter 28
On the ground floor of the Post Office Tower, everybody filed slowly past the pilot, who was dressed in his green flying suit. Attached to his back, was an orange vest inscribed with Daily Mail Transatlantic Air Race in black lettering.
Each of the eager spectators in turn, exchanged a few words, wishing him luck and a safe journey.
Higgins stopped in front of him. ‘Good luck, Lecky, my boy,’ he said, using the pilot’s nickname. The pilot recognising Higgins, gave a quick salute, and thanked him, by regimentally shaking the Air Commodore’s hand. Swan and Gable passed, also shaking the hand of the curly dark-haired pilot, then Howard Barnett suggested to him, he should show the crowd what the Pegasus engine was capable of, by making plenty of noise.
Lecky-Thompson laughed. ‘I’ll certainly make sure, I do that, sir,’ he promised.
As he shook Heidi’s hand, he made a gesture to her hat. ‘I suggest, that you hold on tight to that hat, when I take off, mam,’ he quipped, smiling at her.
They all then filed out and boarded the mini-bus.
The normally derelict coal yard, beside the gothic St Pancras Station, had temporarily become a hive of activity. A white sign with the arched inscription, RAF ST PANCRAS, flanked either side by two RAF pennants, stood in front of a raised steel platform, erected in the centre of the yard. On the platform, stood an RAF Hawker Harrier strike aircraft, registration number, XV741 of the recently re-formed Number 1 Squadron. For this enduring flight, the machine, had been fitted with a fixed probe for in-flight refuelling, under wing fuel tanks, and the wings themselves, had been extended with special bolt on wingtips, for the long-range ferry flight. Parked in front of the plane, was a fuel tanker, and a green RAF police hard top Land Rover. At the port engine intake, just beside the boarding ladder, three men in long white work coats, stood talking to each other, while on the four corners of the platform, members of the RAF Regiment, distinctive in their camouflaged fatigues, stood vigil with their FN 7.62mm SLR rifles. A round-the-clock detail of these hardened airfield protectors, had been in place around this almost brand-new machine, since Lecky-Thompson, had landed it in the yard on Saturday.
A small green portable power unit was plugged into the side of the cockpit, and a soft humming sound could be heard, as it constantly kept the aircraft’s engine at idle.
On the road alongside the coal yard, the mini buses arrived, disgorging their excited passengers. Then in their respective parties, they walked into the yard, to join an already existing mixed crowd of men in suits, who had negotiated time off to witness this monumental spectacle. Women were also present, some of which were huddled in a group, holding the handles of push chairs, deliberately orientated to allow toddlers to view the aircraft. Schoolboys in uniform were also there, some of them legitimately in planned groups from local private schools, chaperoned by their teachers, while others had decided this was the best-ever reason in the world, to play truant.
Outside the yard, a black Ford Consul came to a halt beside the wire boundary fence. On receiving the phone call from Hoffenberg, Fleischer’s killers had managed to negotiate the mid-morning London Bank Holiday traffic, to arrive in time for the event. They sat in their seats waiting, scrutinising the scene, through the perimeter fence of the coal yard.
A few minutes later, Hoffenberg opened the left rear door and climbed into the car. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said in German. ‘Your target, Mr Swan, is in the VIP area. He is in a group, where a woman is wearing a ridiculous looking hat.’ He looked at Trost. ‘I will take you into the enclosure as my guest, and signal you. You then get behind Swan, wait for the aircraft to begin it’s take off, then shoot him in the back.’
The two men climbed out of the car, leaving Baumann in the driving seat, walking side by side, into the compound.
Higgins led his group along the crowd, under a red rope marking the border of the VIP area, then lifted it to allow his guests to pass under. They filed behind the line of people and stood in full view of the Harrier jump jet, directly in front of them.