Billie, having now accepted Jenny as someone who could be trusted, settled herself down in the rear, albeit cramped, and spent most of the flight asleep. The dream about Adam had distressed her, and she had spent most of the night awake thinking about him, about her own life and where she was going. Wherever she turned, there were few answers to her frustration. Her life had simply come to a full stop.
Narssarssuaq, a small settlement of scientists and Eskimos, is a seven thousand foot runway cut out of the glacier. It is approached along a forty mile long fjord and the approach instructions are that the pilot should turn left at the entrance by the sunken freighter that sticks up in the fjord, or else run out of airspace and crash into the sheer mountains that rise to seven thousand feet at the end.
Jenny let Adam descend from altitude into the fjord, down to two hundred feet above the frozen water. He enjoyed that most of all; the plane seemed like a toy, suspended between the high rising mountains on each side in the vast frozen landscape.
They found the sunken ship with its bow pointing upwards and he turned left towards the runway four miles down the fjord.
'Can I land it?' he asked.
'All yours,' she replied, but she kept her hands near the controls. He was good, but not that good.
The landing was bumpy and they skipped over a small iceberg at the end of the runway where it sloped down to meet the fjord. That annoyed Adam for he was a perfectionist and Jenny smiled. It was time he came down to earth with a bump, she thought. Literally.
'Any landing you walk away from is a good one,' she exclaimed as they taxied in to the small terminal. His grunt of annoyance made her chuckle even more.
Billie stretched her legs while Jenny refueled and Adam bought some food for the next leg in the cafeteria at the rear of the terminal.
Nobody asked to see their passports and they were airborne half an hour later, on their way to Keflavik on the eastern side of Iceland, where they landed seven hours later.
It was a quick turnaround; the last leg to Manchester, nearly five hours flying time, would be exhausting.
They took off in the dark. Adam climbed out of Icelandic airspace and steered westwards towards Scotland, intending to cross the coast at Stornoway. Jenny dozed off and he switched on the auto pilot. He had promised her that if anything happened out of the ordinary, any unnecessary flicker on a dial, he would wake her. Billie was fast asleep; it had been a long and boring trip for someone crammed in the back. He had offered her the front seat for the last leg, but she turned it down. He sensed it was because she could see he enjoyed the flying and there was little she could do. She was a fine person and he knew they related to each other, shared the same sense of humour. But she might still be a hindrance when it came to the rough stuff.
He was pleased nobody had asked for his passport.
He started to work out the next stage. It was time to clear his mind.
Nordhausen and Albert Goodenache were coming into view over the horizon.
Ch. 58
The Jardin des Tuileries is Paris' garden; sixty four acres housing a glorious Orangerie, exotic blooms and a mini Arc de Triomphe which was built to celebrate Napoleon's many triumphs. There is also a fairground that houses what must be some of the worst rides in Europe. Modern, brash and cheap. It is an annual event, running from December into January. For all its shoddiness, people flock there, day and night, to spend their francs being whisked around on ghost trains and dodgem cars.
Helmut Kragan left Dresden immediately after the Council meeting and flew to Paris. He booked in to the InterContinental Hotel, only a few minutes' walk from the fairground. The desk clerk saw nothing unusual about Kragan; he was just another businessman in a dark suit with a Liberty's all wool overcoat draped over his shoulders.
The same desk clerk was on duty when Kragan left the hotel two hours later, at nine in the evening. He recognised him and acknowledged Kragan's wave. The German wore his coat buttoned up against the cold of the night.
Kragan turned right outside the hotel entrance and walked towards the Rue de Rivoli. Once he had turned the corner, he took the coat off and slipped it over his arm.
This was no businessman. He wore motorcyclist's leathers underneath, black and shiny, with calf length boots to match. He crossed the Rue de Rivoli and entered the fairground.
It was lively as usual, the mish mash of pop music blaring through loudspeakers as he walked among the crowd, mostly young people on the lookout for instant fun and excitement. Kragan fitted in, a motorbike boy out for the night. Here and there a fight broke out, girls screeched as someone goosed them, lovers clung together and ignored all that went on around them, pickpockets worked their art furiously and everyone set out to enjoy themselves.
He stayed in the shadows as he passed the House of Mirrors, slid past the Dodgem Cars and approached the Dancing Fly. It was in motion, a carousel of two seater chairs that spun unbelievably fast whilst it bobbed up and down on its rollers. The girls screamed; some gritted their teeth, others stayed cool as if nothing worried them. Kragan grinned. He never understood the fools who paid to frighten themselves to death.
He saw the curly haired man with the red scar on his left cheek talking to two short skirted, high-heeled girls no more than fifteen years old. The over-mascara'd make up and glossy lips couldn't camouflage their age. Young and slim, dressed in blue jeans and denim jacket, the man worked the Dancing Fly. His position in life, although not a great revenue earner, was obviously supplemented by an endless supply of young girls who found his lifestyle exciting.
Kragan retraced his steps and left the crowds to walk behind the House of Mirrors. When he was sue he hadn't been spotted, he moved in the darkness back towards the Dancing Fly. The sounds from the rides and the carnival continued, nothing seemed out of place. He felt the gun in his shoulder holster.
The girls were still there, standing where he had seen them earlier. There was no sign of the curly haired man. The alarm bells started ringing in his mind. Kragan moved his hand over the butt of his revolver and loosened it in its holster.
'This is a Colt hand-gun, with real lead bullets,' he heard the voice say from behind him. 'It's not a fairground toy. It will kill you when I pull the trigger.'
Kragan felt the hardness of the muzzle in his back, just behind the heart.
'Piss off. I hope that's not your prick you're sticking in my back,' he said, his annoyance obvious. He spun round.
'Not in this weather, Major,' said the curly haired man. He held a large metal spanner against Kragan's body. 'Fall off in the cold.'
'How the hell…?'
'Did I see you? Eyes in the back of my head, sir.'
Kragan nodded in admiration. 'I thought your desire to fuck those two tarts would have kept your attention off me.' He knew Kaas' reputation and sexual capacity well. He knew everything about all his men. 'Anyone else been around?'
'No, sir. Nobody suspicious.'
Kragan believed him. 'We need to talk. Can you get away?'
'Yes, sir.'
'There's a cafeteria restaurant on the Rue de Rivoli. The Atlantic. Be there in five minutes.'
Walther Kaas had been his best man in the Stasi, had fulfilled everything Kragan had ever asked of him. He had found him as a young officer in the Prenzlauer Berg division no more than seventeen, but he already had a considerable appetite for the harsh and cruel police work that the Stasi required. Prenzlauer Berg was one of the most deprived and crime ridden areas of East Berlin and an ideal proving ground for the young officer. It was a haven for the criminals who lived off the poor. Kaas' reputation grew as he relentlessly tracked them down. His brand of police work soon became feared, especially his ruthless ability to torture confessions out of even the most innocent.