Burning Angels

Kammler killed the link and leaned back in his chair. On one level it was a pity to have put an end to the torture of William Jaeger, but sometimes even he tired of the game. And it was fitting, somehow, that Jaeger had died in Katavi — Hank Kammler’s favourite place in all the world.

And for what was coming — his sanctuary.

* * *

Steve Jones stared at his mobile, a frown scrunching up his massive, brute features. The twin Otter light aircraft droned onwards across the African savannah, buffeted by pockets of hot, riotous air.

Jones cursed. ‘Jaeger dead… What’s the point of bloody being here? Sent to scrape up some roasted body parts…’

He became aware that someone was watching him. He glanced towards the cockpit. The pilot — some hippy-dippy-looking Kraut called Falk Konig — was staring at him intently. He had clearly been listening in on the phone call.

The veins in Jones’s neck began to throb, and under his shirt his muscles bunched aggressively.

‘What?’ he growled. ‘What are you staring at? Just do your job and fly the bloody aircraft.’

61

Jaeger shook his head in amazement. He still couldn’t get over it. ‘Did you ever see that coming?’

Narov settled back into her seat and closed her eyes. ‘See what? There have been any number of surprises over the past few days. And I am tired. We have a long flight ahead of us and I would like to sleep.’

‘Falk. Being Kammler’s son?’

Narov sighed. ‘We should have seen it coming. We clearly did not listen properly to the Falkenhagen briefing. When SS General Hans Kammler was recruited by the Americans, he was forced to change his name to, amongst other things, Horace Konig. His son changed his name back to Kammler to reclaim the family’s glorious heritage. General Kammler’s grandson clearly didn’t feel it was quite so glorious, and decided to revert to Konig; Falk Konig.’

She cast a withering glance at Jaeger. ‘As soon as he introduced himself we should have known. So, sleep. It might sharpen you up a little.’

Jaeger grimaced. Back to the old Irina Narov. In a sense he regretted it. He’d rather liked the Katavi version.

They’d chartered a flight in a light aircraft, routed direct from Makongolosi’s tiny provincial airport direct to Nairobi. On touchdown, they planned to track down Simon Chucks Bello, which would mean heading into the chaotic and lawless world of the Nairobi slums.

Narov tossed and turned under her airline blanket. The small plane was being buffeted by the turbulence, and sleep just wouldn’t come. She flicked on her reading light and pressed the call button. The hostess appeared. They were the only passengers, this being a private charter.

‘Do you have coffee?’

The hostess smiled. ‘Of course. How do you take it?’

‘Hot. Black. Strong. No sugar.’ Narov glanced at Jaeger, who was trying to sleep. ‘Bring two cups.’

‘Of course, madam. Right away.’

Narov nudged Jaeger. ‘You, I think, are not asleep.’

Jaeger grumbled. ‘Not now I’m not. I thought you said you wanted to rest.’

Narov frowned. ‘I have too much going on in my head. I have ordered some—’

‘Coffee.’ Jaeger completed the sentence for her. ‘I heard.’

She jabbed him harder. ‘So wake up.’

Jaeger gave up trying to rest. ‘Okay. Okay.’

‘Tell me: Kammler, what is he up to? Let’s put the pieces of the puzzle together and see what we have got.’

Jaeger tried to shake the sleep from his head. ‘Well, first up we go find the kid and verify his story. Two, we head back to Falkenhagen and get access to their resources and expertise. Everything and everyone we need to take this further is there.’

The coffee arrived. They sat quietly, savouring the brew.

It was Narov who broke the silence. ‘So how exactly do we go about finding the boy?’

‘You saw Dale’s message. He knows people in the slums. He’ll meet us there and together we’ll find the kid.’ Jaeger paused. ‘That’s if he’s still alive, if he’s willing to talk, and if he is for real. A lot of ifs.’

‘So what is Dale’s connection to the slums?’

‘A few years back he volunteered to teach slum children camera operating. He teamed up with a guy called Julius Mburu, who grew up in the slums. He was a small-time gangster, but then he saw the light. These days, he runs the Mburu Foundation, teaching orphans video and photography skills. Dale’s got him searching for the kid, using his ghetto network.’

‘He is confident we will get to him?’

‘Hopeful. Not confident.’

‘It’s a start.’ Narov paused. ‘What did you make of Falk’s videos?’

‘His home movies?’ Jaeger shook his head. ‘That his daddy is a sick bastard. Imagine holding your son’s tenth birthday party in a BV222 buried beneath a mountain. Bunch of old men teaching Falk and his friends Hitler salutes. Kids done up in shorts and lederhosen. All those Nazi flags around the walls. No wonder Falk turned against him.’

‘The BV222 — it is Kammler’s shrine,’ Narov remarked quietly. ‘His shrine to the Thousand-Year Reich. Both the one that never was and the one he hopes to usher into existence.’

‘Sure looks that way.’