Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

Never once had anyone ever thought of them as anything other than mother and stepson. Her biological son had, after completing school in Dresden, been ushered to England, to Oxford to study medicine, and he decided to stay in Cambridge, visiting his mother less and less over the years.

Von-Baer knew the damaging impact of the loss of the counterfeit operation after the arrest of Werner, not just this part of the business, but to the organization overall. The immediate impact was the capture and confinement of Jan Eichmann, the gang’s master forger. It would take a considerable amount of time and effort, not to mention the financial costs, to get another master forger. Von-Baer and the delegate also lamented the loss and subsequent seizure and destruction of their operational equipment, the best that money could buy.

Jan was known as The Professor, although he did not have one solitary qualification. He would spend the next decade in prison. The thought that Jan would turn state’s evidence against them was unviable, as the only high-level contact he knew was Werner. He had never heard or seen either the delegate or Von-Baer. His wife would wait for him, and his children would be teenagers by the time he came out. Jan was as sure of this as he was that they would all be killed if he ever said a word in or out of court against Werner.

All the power and all the connections would not help Werner. Von-Baer had explained in detail to the delegate as he raised his head from under the white cotton covers once he had satisfied the delegate’s daily requirement of cunnilingus. Werner had been caught in the act; by this fact alone he was implicated. Somehow, Von-Baer had to ensure that Werner had the shortest time in prison. He was good, but even he could not get him out of prison on bail. His best chance was to have the proceedings dismissed, and he doubted he could achieve this with the publicity surrounding the case. If Von-Baer could not get a dismissal, then a not guilty verdict would suffice, but he doubted he could achieve this, even with the delegate’s assistance.

Probing the delegate carefully, Von-Baer raised the possibility with her of having Werner killed in the prison hospital; basically, solving a major problem, and the only link back to them both. The delegate had dismissed the idea immediately. Werner was the only connection other than Von-Baer. He made the money on the ground, and he was her general. To attempt to elevate one of his lieutenants into a more senior position as a replacement for Werner was to put the delegate at risk.

She was powerful because only a handful of confidants knew of her past, and even less about the present. And the overriding factor for not having Werner killed was that he had many contacts. He would be sure to find out if there were a contract out on him, and he would surely turn this around so it would be them that would most likely be terminated.

Von-Baer visited the prison and was used to the searches and security measures that were in place. He was escorted to the hospital wing, which was decorated in sparkling white and green tiles from floor to ceiling. Werner should have been on a ward with other prisoners, but such was his reputation that he was housed in a separate room, a private room normally reserved for terminally ill prisoners.

Von-Baer was visibly shocked at seeing the once strong, enigmatic, and overbearing presence of Werner now diminished. Werner had shed a significant amount of weight; it had wasted away from his enormous chest and shoulders. Werner was aware that his size intimidated people, and he had worked on it every day in the gym with weights, reps, bench presses, etc. All this was a thing of the past these few months, as he had to regulate his breathing through his damaged airways. Werner’s skin was pallid and wet with sweat as he fought off the never-ending small infections that blighted his recovery. He had a white lint elastic bandage around his neck with what looked like a white plastic valve where the voice box should have been. Von-Baer stood there, shocked, for several moments.

Werner was determined not to talk in his metallic voice with Von-Baer. Werner would only speak through the ghastly, machine-generated voice when he had mastered it, or technology had caught up with his requirements; a real voice.

Werner insisted on having paper, a pen, and a shredding machine in his room. The shredder had cost him several thousand Euros to the prison guards’ so-called benevolent fund.

“She wants to know where the twenty-four million is, Werner,” Von-Baer began.

Werner wrote rapidly and once finished, he pushed it under Von-Baer’s nose.

“Where do you think it is, you little pip-squeak? Fucking Richter has disappeared with it.” Von-Baer put the note into the shredder, and the machine chewed it up.

Von-Baer ignored the insult and continued. “What have you done to retrieve the money?”

Werner wrote the next message down angrily. “Forget the money for now. What are you doing to get me out?”

“For now, nothing. You were caught red-handed. We have the German government watching the outcome of this prosecution, we also have the American government. The best we can hope for is to get to a juror, and then again if we do, I think the government will want an inquiry. In short, you may have to stay in prison, as even our friends may find it impossible to help you. Naturally, the twenty-four million would help,” Von-Baer said, in a calm, quiet voice.

Werner began to scribble hurriedly. “You organize to get me out of here one way or another, and quickly. As soon as you do, I will start the task of finding Richter and the money. No freedom, no money.”