Echo of the Reich by James Becker Page A

and was linked to the alarm system, so it would have started recording the moment the gate swung open and broke the contact. The second camera provided a wide-area view of the yard, and would show exactly where any intruders went and what they did. It was, the security company had claimed, state-of-the-art equipment, and would provide the best possible chance of identifying and apprehending anyone who entered the premises illegally.
    In his office, Jeremy Heaton sat down at his desk, switched on the LCD screen that hung on the wall opposite his chair and somewhat uncertainly negotiated his way through the various menus that controlled the security system. He finally found what he was looking for and settled back to watch the video sequences.
    The pictures were incredibly clear, the faces of the two men in sharp focus. The system actually seemed to be working far better than Heaton had expected, even better than the installer had promised, in fact.
    One of the menu options offered Heaton the ability to make copies of the video recordings. He clicked the appropriate key, then followed the on-screen instructions that told him where to insert a blank DVD disk. He’d deliver that to the local police station, as he’d said he would, not that it would help much. Heaton had no illusions about the likelihood of the two criminals being apprehended, unless they already had records and could be identified from the images.
    Once the copying process had finished, he extracted the disk and slipped it into a case. Then he opened his drawer again, took out a second blank disk and inserted it in the machine. He’d make another copy, he decided, and this one he wouldn’t hand over to the police.
    He had a much better idea what he could do with that recording.

10
    21 July 2012
    The moment Chris Bronson followed Eaton into the office at the back of the old warehouse situated at the edge of a trading estate in Essex early the following afternoon, he knew something was badly wrong. He’d been expecting to see one or two other members of the group there, probably Mike and maybe the man Eaton had referred to as “Georg.” In fact, Bronson found himself staring at Mike and half a dozen tough-looking men with unfriendly expressions on their faces.
    But that wasn’t what worried him the most. Bronson’s attention was caught and held by a plasma TV set in the corner of the room, the picture frozen, but perfectly clear. It was a remarkably sharp image of his face, and below that the caption: “Police officer implicated in act of vandalism.”
    And even as he registered that, Bronson was grabbed from behind by two other men who’d been hidden behindthe door of the room. He twisted and turned, struggling to free himself from their grasp, but they were too strong. They hustled him across to a stout wooden chair positioned near the center of the room and forced him to sit down. Then, assisted by two of the other men there, they tied his wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the chair, completely immobilizing him.
    “I knew there was something that didn’t smell right about you,” Mike began. “We caught this on the news this morning. I recorded it, because I thought you might want to see it. Your fifteen minutes of fame, so to speak.”
    He turned round, picked up a black remote control from the desk behind him and aimed it at the digital receiver mounted just below the television set.
    The screen sprang into life as the announcer’s words filled the room: “…caught on a security camera at a construction equipment yard not far from the site of the Olympic stadium.”
    The picture changed—two men entering through the gate, heading straight toward the camera. Then it altered again, to a view of the yard from above this time. The two figures could be seen approaching a bulldozer, and then one of them, the bigger of the two men, began hammering at something on the side of the engine.
    The newscaster continued explaining the sequence of