6

It wasn’t a marked police car but a bog-standard Wartburg with a blue light on its roof. The front was tilted off the ground like they’d driven up an inspection ramp. The two lads flagging us down were dressed for winter. Both had big furry Russian hats. One was in a three-quarter-length sheepskin, the other in a long leather trench coat. Their street shoes were up to the ankles in mud, which was probably why they looked so pissed off.

‘Stasi.’ The contact confirmed what I’d suspected.

I stayed sunk in my seat as the Gaz came to a halt. Tenny mumbled from behind: ‘What’s going on, mate?’

Red Ken didn’t have time to answer. Spag was flapping. ‘Don’t stop! They’ll kill us! I’m ordering you.’

Red Ken smiled through the windscreen. ‘Nick, Tenny – stand by. We’ll sort this once we’re out of the vehicle. I see two so far, no weapons.’

I gripped the Maglite in my right hand, with the shaft up my forearm. You’re better off out on your feet than sitting in a wagon. Once we were in the open air, I’d be ready the moment Red Ken kicked it off.

The closer the voices got, the tighter I gripped. My eyes strained at the tops of their sockets. The two Stasi seemed to be waving us out of the wagon, with the confidence that comes from no one ever fucking you about.

Red Ken’s fingers closed round the door handle.

The contact wound down the window. Cold air rushed into the wagon. His breath billowed as he spoke.

I heard the word ‘Zigarette’.

Then: ‘Ach so – Englische Zigarette?’

I pretended to come awake, and looked around dozily. Red Ken was sitting there, beaming friendship and goodwill.

Spag was close to hyperventilating. The knuckles gripping the bag gleamed white.

The contact opened his door and got out. The Stasi in the sheepskin arched an eyebrow as he studied the cigarette in his hand, but he accepted a light. Then he spotted the cheap disposable, and his hand grabbed the contact’s wrist.

He muttered something and the contact laughed. ‘Ja, ja, natürlich.’ He handed over the entire pack, and then the lighter, before gesturing to Red Ken for the carton on the front seat. They got it – as well as the one still in his day-sack.

Sheepskin stuck his head into the cab. ‘Brixmis? Brixmis, ja?’

Red Ken shrugged and gave him some waffle. He sounded very authoritative, which got Sheepskin sort of nodding. The other one walked all the way round the van, peering in through the windows.

A local. Brixmis. The pieces were coming together in Sheepskin’s head. He shouted down at the contact.

Red Ken shook his head and answered for him in English: ‘We have no money – no money.’

Sheepskin drew down his pistol. His mate Leatherman was a split second behind. He pointed the barrel at the contact and screamed into his face.

Spag shat himself as Red Ken screamed right back: ‘No fucking money, we got no money.’

Leatherman came round and joined Sheepskin. They were getting angrier and more agitated. A very bad combination. They both pointed their weapons into the van.

Red Ken was calm. ‘Just stay in the wagon. If we get out now, they’ll shoot.’

Spag sparked up. ‘I’ve got money. I’ve got money.’ He held the bag up high.

Sheepskin pushed the contact aside and lunged into the cab. He leant over the driver’s seat and grabbed the holdall. Leatherman kept one eye on us and the other on the bag. Both were very happy with what they saw inside it.

They turned and shouted at the contact. Fingers were pointed at their vehicle and then at us.

Red Ken opened his door. ‘Nick, Tenny – out. Leave everything in the wagon. Don’t piss them off. I’ll tell you when.’