The Hansa Protocol by Norman Russell Page A

a great, gaunt gas chandelier , twisted and crushed, lay straddled across the hillock like a deadgiant spider. Knollys stooped, and pulled a fragment of leather from the ruin.
    ‘Looks like the spine of a book,’ he said, half to himself. He threw the fragment down again, and pulled up his collar against the rapidly thickening snow.
    Box touched one of the walls. He fancied that the brickwork was still warm.
    ‘Look at these walls, Sergeant! Eighteen inches of stone, then lined with brick. A sledgehammer to crack a nut! You can smell foul gas trapped in the foundations. And something else …. What was it Mr Lewis said? “The smell of evil”. Maybe he was right. There’s nothing useful that we can do here at the moment. Let’s go and find Mr Mack. He and his searchers will have been through this place with a fine-toothed comb. He’ll tell us for certain what happened here.’
     
    They found Mr Mack sitting in a small brick shed that seemed to be growing out of the old garden wall beyond a clump of stunted trees. They had to stoop through the low door of what Box assumed to have been at one time the hub of a gardener’s empire. From the state of the grounds it was evident that horticulture had not been among the late Dr Seligmann’s interests.
    Mr Mack was sitting hunched over a small cast-iron stove, which was burning rather smokily. His watery eyes were half closed, and his prominent nose was very red. It was impossible to read his expression fully, as most of his face was concealed by a straggling yellow moustache . He was puffing away at an old briar pipe, and not for the first time Box thought that he looked for all the world like a cocky-watchman . PC Kenwright was standing impassively beside him.
    The iron stove spluttered away. A sound of hammering came to their ears, and Box saw that the paved yard behind the house had been commandeered by a number of glaziers and joiners. He closed the shed door, and sat down. Mr Mack opened his eyes, and began to speak.
    ‘This explosion, Mr Box, was caused by a device concealed in a stout leather valise of some kind – a device that you, I suppose, would call a detonator. I’ll not teach you your job, but find out who brought a leather valise into that Belvedere and left it there. The device in the valise was controlled by a timing mechanism, set to operate at eight-thirty , which it did.’
    Mr Mack stopped speaking, and emitted a sound that could have been a sigh, or a suppressed chuckle.
    ‘Now here’s the interesting bit, Mr Box. There was already a massive cache of high explosive in the building. I rather fancy it was concealed in a crate of some sort – a box of books, to judge from what we’ve found in the ruins. Whatever it was, it must have been brought into the Belvedere on an earlier occasion. When the valise exploded, what we call a “brisant” effect occurred – a kind of explosive sympathy, if you see what I mean, which sent the whole thing up sky high. Beautiful. A beautiful job.’
    Mr Mack gazed morosely at the stove for a while, drawing at his old pipe. Box remained quiet. It was best not to interrupt the expert when his thoughts were running on the task in hand.
    ‘It wasn’t the Fenians, Mr Box. And it wasn’t Murder Malthus and his gang. I can’t tell you much yet until I’ve done some tests, but from the smell in there I know that we’re dealing with dynamite. Nothing fancy, you know: just the ordinary stuff you’ll find in mines or quarries. I can’t be very specific, but I reckon it’s come from the Feissen Werke armaments concern in Bohemia.’
    ‘“Can’t be specific”? You fill me with awe, Mr Mack. It’s like magic. You’re a shining ornament, if I may say so.’
    A strangled noise from Mr Mack suggested that he was laughing. He was never unpleased if someone chose to praise his efforts.
    ‘It’s like wines, Mr Box. Some folk can tell a claret from the smell of the cork, or identify a brandy blindfold. Well, I can