Read Online Echo of the Reich by James Becker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Becker
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you do turn up, we’ll be watching you.”
He reached for his glass, drained the remainder of hisbeer, nodded to Eaton and then strode out of the pub, his bulky companion—who’d said not a single word the entire time—following behind him.
Bronson watched them leave, then glanced back at Eaton. What he’d learned from the man called Mike was both interesting and disturbing, but in reality he wasn’t really that much closer to finding out what was going on. Everything depended upon him being accepted by these people, and on him then being able to identify the ringleaders.
“You didn’t tell me your lot was part of a bigger group,” he said.
Eaton shrugged. “You didn’t ask,” he replied, “and I don’t think it really matters. We act pretty much by ourselves, but they just pay the bills. And us,” he added.
“You mean they pay you?” That was a wrinkle that Bronson hadn’t expected.
Eaton grinned at him. “You might be in this because you’re running some kind of one-man crusade against the Olympics, but most of us are involved because there’s money to be made.”
“How much money?” Bronson asked. He didn’t think displaying a little avarice was a bad thing.
Eaton’s smile grew broader. “You’ll find that out a bit later on, if Mike and the others decide you can join us.”
Bronson finished his drink. “You’ll call me, right?”
Eaton nodded. “Yeah. Just make sure you can get back to the right area within about an hour. That time of the evening, the traffic can be a bitch.”
6
20 July 2012
Getting back to his car took over half an hour, partly because it was parked some distance away, but mainly because Bronson wanted to ensure that nobody was dogging his footsteps. But he knew he couldn’t just run straight evasion tactics because that would immediately alert anybody who was following him to what hewas trying to do. And if he really was just an angry citizen who objected to the Olympic Games being held in London, there would be no obvious reason for him to worry about being followed.
So he spent some time browsing in a bookshop, staying near the door so that he could look out into the street, and another few minutes sitting at a round metal table outside a small café where he drank a cup of coffee that he frankly didn’t need, or even like very much. Then he did a bit of window shopping. And he saw absolutely nobody who took the slightest interest in him or what he was doing. So either they weren’t following him—which was very good news—or they
were
following him and they were really good at it, which was obviously extremely bad news.
When he reached the car he took a final look around him, then unlocked it, climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away, keeping one eye on his mirrors. He maneuvered the vehicle through the side streets until he reached a junction with the A127, the Southend Arterial Road. He turned left and followed that route until he reached the junction with the M25, where he turned right and headed south toward the river.
Again, Bronson watched his mirrors very carefully, and wound the speed up to a little more than eighty-five miles an hour, just to see if anyone would try to keep up with him. Then he slowed right down before the next junction and swung the Ford east into the Lakeside shopping center at Thurrock. There were car parks everywhere, all fairly full, but he had no difficulty in finding a space at the southern end of the trading estate outside the IKEA store. There his blue Ford was just one more anonymous car. Bronson sat for a few moments in the driving seat of the Ford, looking around him. As before, nobody seemed to be taking any interest in him. And then another car—a dark green Vauxhall with two passengers—pulled up a couple of spaces behind him. Two men got out and started walking directly toward his vehicle.
Bronson tensed and wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the butt of the little Llama pistol as they
He reached for his glass, drained the remainder of hisbeer, nodded to Eaton and then strode out of the pub, his bulky companion—who’d said not a single word the entire time—following behind him.
Bronson watched them leave, then glanced back at Eaton. What he’d learned from the man called Mike was both interesting and disturbing, but in reality he wasn’t really that much closer to finding out what was going on. Everything depended upon him being accepted by these people, and on him then being able to identify the ringleaders.
“You didn’t tell me your lot was part of a bigger group,” he said.
Eaton shrugged. “You didn’t ask,” he replied, “and I don’t think it really matters. We act pretty much by ourselves, but they just pay the bills. And us,” he added.
“You mean they pay you?” That was a wrinkle that Bronson hadn’t expected.
Eaton grinned at him. “You might be in this because you’re running some kind of one-man crusade against the Olympics, but most of us are involved because there’s money to be made.”
“How much money?” Bronson asked. He didn’t think displaying a little avarice was a bad thing.
Eaton’s smile grew broader. “You’ll find that out a bit later on, if Mike and the others decide you can join us.”
Bronson finished his drink. “You’ll call me, right?”
Eaton nodded. “Yeah. Just make sure you can get back to the right area within about an hour. That time of the evening, the traffic can be a bitch.”
6
20 July 2012
Getting back to his car took over half an hour, partly because it was parked some distance away, but mainly because Bronson wanted to ensure that nobody was dogging his footsteps. But he knew he couldn’t just run straight evasion tactics because that would immediately alert anybody who was following him to what hewas trying to do. And if he really was just an angry citizen who objected to the Olympic Games being held in London, there would be no obvious reason for him to worry about being followed.
So he spent some time browsing in a bookshop, staying near the door so that he could look out into the street, and another few minutes sitting at a round metal table outside a small café where he drank a cup of coffee that he frankly didn’t need, or even like very much. Then he did a bit of window shopping. And he saw absolutely nobody who took the slightest interest in him or what he was doing. So either they weren’t following him—which was very good news—or they
were
following him and they were really good at it, which was obviously extremely bad news.
When he reached the car he took a final look around him, then unlocked it, climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away, keeping one eye on his mirrors. He maneuvered the vehicle through the side streets until he reached a junction with the A127, the Southend Arterial Road. He turned left and followed that route until he reached the junction with the M25, where he turned right and headed south toward the river.
Again, Bronson watched his mirrors very carefully, and wound the speed up to a little more than eighty-five miles an hour, just to see if anyone would try to keep up with him. Then he slowed right down before the next junction and swung the Ford east into the Lakeside shopping center at Thurrock. There were car parks everywhere, all fairly full, but he had no difficulty in finding a space at the southern end of the trading estate outside the IKEA store. There his blue Ford was just one more anonymous car. Bronson sat for a few moments in the driving seat of the Ford, looking around him. As before, nobody seemed to be taking any interest in him. And then another car—a dark green Vauxhall with two passengers—pulled up a couple of spaces behind him. Two men got out and started walking directly toward his vehicle.
Bronson tensed and wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the butt of the little Llama pistol as they
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