Dead Tomorrow

with Simona in it would be stuck in this too.
    Damn you, you lazy bastard, Subcomisar Radu Constantinescu , Tilling thought, yet again wiping condensation off the inside of the windscreen, staring at the red blur of tail lights from a stretch Hummer limousine in front of him. For forty minutes he had been repeatedly trying the mobile and direct office lines of the one powerful Bucharest police officer that he knew. Both phones rang on interminably, neither answered nor going to voicemail. Had the man already left the office for the day? Was he in a meeting? Taking the world’s longest shit?
    Almost certainly, he reckoned, the German woman would be taking Simona to one of Bucharest’s two international airports. The more likely, which he had tried first, was the larger one, Otopeni. But they were not there. Now he was battling towards the second airport. He desperately needed to get hold of the Subcomisar, and have them picked up, or at least prevented from leaving the country–if the officer would even agree.
    The trafficinched forward and halted again, and he braked sharply, almost rear-ending the Hummer. He was running low on petrol and the temperature gauge was rising to a dangerously high level. He dialled Constantinescu’s number again and, to his surprise and relief, this time it answered on the first ring. He heard the police officer’s gravelly voice.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘It’s Ian Tilling. How are you?’
    ‘Mr Ian Tilling, my friend, Member of the British Empire for services to the homeless of Romania! How can I be of help?’
    ‘I need a very urgent favour.’
    Tilling heard a sharp sucking sound and realized the man was probably lighting a new cigarette from the stub of the previous one. He explained the situation as quickly and succinctly as he could.
    ‘You have the German woman’s name?’
    ‘The English police told me Marlene Hartmann.’
    ‘I don’t know this name.’ He suddenly broke into a racking cough. When he had finished, he asked, ‘And the name of the girl?’
    ‘Simona Irimia. I believe she may be part of the same group as three kids you were going to run checks on for me, do you remember? I was hoping you might be able to identify her for me.’
    ‘Ah.’
    To his dismay, Tilling heard a drawer sliding open. The drawer he had seen the police officer open and shut on his last visit to his office. The drawer into which the Subcomisar had shoved the three e-fits and sets of fingerprints Tilling had asked him to circulate. He had clearly forgotten about them, like most other stuff that was low priority for him.
    ‘Marlene Hartmann, youspell this for me, Mr Important Man?’
    Tilling patiently spelled it. Then, assisted by Raluca, gave him a detailed description of Simona.
    ‘I phone the airport right away,’ Constantinescu assured him. ‘These two, together, should not be hard to find, either at the ticket desk or passport control. I will ask the airport police to arrest the woman on suspicion of human trafficking, yes? You are on your way there?’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘I phone you back with the name of the police officer to contact when you get there, OK?’
    ‘Thank you, Radu. I really appreciate this.’
    ‘We have drink soon, to celebrate your gong– yes?’
    ‘We’ll have several!’ Tilling replied.
    As the Mercedes headed further away from the city, the traffic thinned out. Marlene Hartmann turned once again to look out of the rear window. To her relief, the headlights of a vehicle that had been behind them for the past forty minutes were fading into the snowy distance.
    Simona rested her face against the cold glass of the window, hugging Gogu to her cheek, watching through the snow as the buildings slowly gave way to a vast, dark, empty, translucent landscape.
    Marlene Hartmann settled back in her seat, opened her laptop and began to check through her emails. They had a long drive through the night ahead of them.

95
    Roy Grace made it backfrom Munich just in time for the 6.30 p.m. briefing.
    He entered the room hurriedly, reading the agenda as he walked, and trying not to spill his mug of coffee.
    ‘Successful trip, Roy?’ Norman Potting said. ‘Sorted the Krauts out? Got them to understand who won the war?’
    ‘Thank you, Norman,’ he said, taking his seat. ‘I think they know that these days.’
    Potting raised a finger in the air. ‘They’re devious buggers. Like the Nips. Look at our car industry! Every other car is German!’
    ‘NORMAN, thank you!’