Within a hundred metres he came across the first tank paths, ghost-like trails that appeared to be already overgrown now, ever since the Russians had pulled out and taken their exhaust belching tanks home on the low loader trains. He'd seen similar paths near Farnborough, But when he knelt down and tested the earth with his hands, some of the tracks seemed fresh. There were fourtrack and wide wheel indentations. He wondered what sort of vehicles had made them.
He followed the widest of the paths northwards and eventually came to a deserted airfield. There were three hangars on the far side, buildings with curved roofs that extended down to the ground so as to camouflage against cameras in the sky. The runway, running east to west, had individual taxiways leading off it from all sides, taxiways to the circular parking bays where Russian helicopters had once parked. He recognised the pattern. He reckoned the guards were in the small building at the easterly end of the runway. There were bright lights inside, and smoke bellowed from the chimney.
He found the two armoured personnel carriers that had made the fourtrack trails, four Jeeps, five cross country motorbikes and two army trucks in the first hangar.
The second, lit by a single row of fluorescent lights, was stacked with large wooden crates from end to end. He crossed over to the side wall where he could watch the entrance while he opened one of the crates. He prized the sealed top open and found Army uniforms, with no insignia marks on them.
A job lot, Marcus. A fucking job lot.
He checked three other boxes before he left. They were the same, full of khaki shirts, khaki socks and khaki singlets.
Someone was buying army surplus, enough surplus to dress an army.
He went into the third hangar. Two Jet Ranger helicopters, two twin engined Piper light planes, one single engine Cessna fourseater and a six seater CitationJet. They all had civilian markings and were German registered. He mentally clocked in all the registration letters; it would make tracing the owners easy when he got back to his own people.
He left the hangars and worked his way towards the centre of the Heidi. He kept to the edge of the tree line and saw nothing until he reached the blocks of apartments that stood in an incongruous group in the forest area. They had obviously been the Russian barracks, with officers and men quartered there. In the centre of the buildings was a square parade ground with a forlorn flagpole. He surveyed it all from the safety of the trees.
Some of the flats housed families, but most seemed occupied by single men. They were identical, skinhead clones with square faces and frightening brutish expressions. Millwall and England football supporters, Marcus. Hard men. Looking for violence. Many of them wore uniforms, even at this time of night. Mustard brown shirts, dark brown breeches, black leather boots. The insignia, a cross with the ends linked up and an eagle's head at the centre, wasn't far from the old Nazi swastika.
Keeping under cover, Adam followed a group who were setting off from their barracks.
Two hundred metres down the road they came to a big old house standing in its own grounds. Though it was brightly lit, it had a forbidding aspect. Next to it was a modern block that the men headed for. Adam approached as closely as he could. It was a large, tiled canteen and was obviously the main social gathering place for the troops. For that's how Adam saw them now. Troops. Men of war.
Storm troopers, Marcus. Brown shirts. Fucking Nazis.
Then he thought of Billie and hoped she was safe. Neither of them had expected this. Nothing on this scale. This was an organisation of trained killers. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. And he knew the effectiveness of small forces. The SAS was one. He knew how every SAS trooper counted as twenty or more ordinary squaddies.
Be safe, Billie. Stay with the traffic. Don't disappear into the darkness where they might come after you. Stay with the traffic. He felt the blackness return, felt its clamminess across his brow as he started to sweat. Only this time it wasn't for him, but for Billie.
Stay with it, Adam. He suddenly felt Marcus very close, felt him taking over. Stay with it, Adam. For both of you.
For all three of us, Marcus. For all three.
He checked his watch. He still had forty minutes to run before he met Billie. He was less than five minutes from the road, and he needed another five to get over the wall. He'd seen enough trees close to the boundary to know he could use them to scale over, and his coat would protect him against the barbed wire. Traversing walls like that was part of his standard training. It gave him ample time to check the house.
He watched the canteen building for a while. The men inside, whom Adam had already christened storm troopers, had a close camaraderie. He watched them joking with each other, sharing in the songs. They'd be a tough bunch to deal with, these skinheads.
Then he circled the building and crossed over to the big house. It was lit up like a Christmas tree. Like the other built up areas, the sections immediately surrounding it were floodlit. Even here, this far from the road and behind the protection of the barbed wire wall, security was of the utmost. The entrance to the house was guarded by three storm troopers, all with pistols strapped to their waistbelts. One of them was cradling a sub machine gun in the crook of his arm.
Heavy duty skinheads, Marcus. This is where it's at.
He skirted the house to the rear, but there were guards there also. Two of them this time, both carrying holstered pistols.
Not now, Marcus. Not the time to show our hand. Get out and report back. Tell them this is where Trimmler's road ends. In a boy's camp for Nazis.
There's got to be arms here, Marcus. Dig deeper. You've still got twenty minutes.
Three men came out of the rear of the house. Two seemed ordinary storm troopers, the third was different. He wore a black uniform, black breeches and a flared jacket. The new National Socialist emblem was emblazoned on his armlets and on the badge on the peaked hat he carried. His blond hair wasn't short cropped like the others', but was curly and fell over his collar. At that distance Adam couldn't see the scar that ran down Kaas' cheek.
They moved away from the house complex down one of the narrower paths. Adam followed them from the security of the trees, watched the senior officer talking as the others listened and followed him. There was about them a closeness borne of familiarity.
This is a team, Marcus. These bozos are different.
There were warning signs now to deter people from going farther. The path led to a log cabin with a chalet-style sloping roof in the middle of a clearing. There was no floodlighting here, only a small fluorescent light over the entrance. It was a most secret place.
The three men entered the chalet, the others standing back to let Curly Top in first. Adam circled. There were no windows he could look in; whatever horrors went on within those wooden walls were kept well secluded from prying eyes.
He decided to investigate further, to see if he could gain entry and crossed the clearing towards the front door. There was sand on the ground, about four inches deep, completely surrounding the building.
No-one challenged him.
Carefully he peeked through the glass window in the door. A long corridor ran down the length of the building with doors leading off on both sides.
Go or stay? Follow my logic or my nose. Shit, why can't I keep out of trouble, Marcus?