Brandenburg: A Thriller

by Glenn Meade

  The man in the blue suit picked up the leather briefcase from the floor in front of him and clicked it open. He flicked carefully through the documents inside, checked that everything was in order.

  A pretty flight attendant moved down the aisle, a last-minute check on seat belts. The man glanced up, saw the slim hips sway rhythmically toward him. The attendant paused, said something rapidly in Spanish as she pointed to the briefcase on his lap before moving on. The man in the blue suit clicked shut the case, tucked it neatly under the seat in front, and sat back.

  Beyond the port window he glimpsed the sprawling, ragged suburbs of Asunción: the flat-roofed, white- and yellow-plaster adobes and the tin-roofed shacks of the barrios. As the bowels of the big plane shuddered, he heard the whirr of the flaps extending and the dull thud of the undercarriage lowering into place.

  Five minutes later, he saw the yellow lights of the runway rush up beneath him, and then came the rumble of wheels on concrete as the giant aircraft touched down.

  • • •

  The man—his name was Meyer—retrieved his suitcase from the carousel and passed unquestioned through customs twenty minutes later.

  In the arrivals area, a tall, blond young man who stood out from the waiting crowd held a placard stiffly in front of him: Pieter De Beers. Meyer stepped forward and the young man took his suitcase and beckoned for him to follow.

  A Mercedes stood parked nearby, its black bodywork muddied, and he saw the three men waiting inside. Schmidt sat impassively like a rock in front, and the two men reclined in the back.

  Both wore immaculate business suits, and both smiled when they saw Meyer.

  One was young, in his middle thirties, and wore a light-gray suit. He was stockily built, and his dark hair glistened. Not handsome, but ruggedly attractive, and his broad face was deeply tanned from years in the sun.

  The second man was old, his wrinkled face handsome. His silver-gray hair was more silver than gray and was combed back. He was tall, and had the look of a self-assured diplomat. He wore a charcoal-gray business suit, a white shirt, and a red silk tie, and his gentle blue eyes radiated confidence and charisma. He raised a hand and smiled again as Meyer approached.

  The blond young man put Meyer’s suitcase in the trunk, and Schmidt got out to open the rear door for him.

  When Meyer slid into the backseat, the two passengers shook his hand in turn.

  “You had a good flight, Johannes?” the silver-haired man asked.

  “Ja, danke.” As he turned to the younger, dark-haired man, he said, “Any problems?”

  Kruger glanced at him and shook his head. “No, but some bad news.”

  “Oh?” said Meyer, feeling uneasy now, wondering if it had anything to do with the project. It couldn’t, he told himself. Everything was in order, he was absolutely certain.

  “We’ll talk about it on the way, Johannes,” said Kruger as he leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

  “The hotel, Kurt.”

  As the car started and pulled out from the curb, Meyer sat back, dabbing his forehead and silently cursing the heat, wondering what the bad news could be.

  • • •

  Rudi Hernandez was tired; he had been up until two that morning. Ricardo Torres had not arrived with the equipment until twelve-thirty, and it had taken him another hour to explain how to set it up.

  “It’s only a loan, okay? Make sure it all comes back in one piece,” Torres had said. “Otherwise, my boss kicks me out on my butt, and I’m selling nuts outside the city zoo, comprende?”

  Comprende.

  The equipment was expensive. Torres had gone over the operation of the components with him, asking when he had finished, as he had when Hernandez had first telephoned him, “What you going to do with all this, amigo?”

  Hernandez had smiled enigmatically and said, “Undercover work.”

  Torres had looked at him, one eyebrow arched. “Okay. But any damage, you pay, sí? Just remember that, Rudi.”

  Hernandez said there was no problem. He just needed to borrow the stuff for one night. He would return it intact.

  He had gone to work early at La Tarde, finished at three, and driven straight to the apartment. He already had everything organized but went over it one more time so there would be no mistakes, no hitches.

  There was a chance that the meeting at the Excelsior was simply a business conference. In which case he was going to a lot of trouble for nothing. On the other hand, he knew he could be putting himself in serious danger. Rodriguez was dead. And before he died, he had been very worried.

  So, he thought, if it’s only a business meeting, then I have nothing to worry about. If it’s something more interesting, then my plan had better work.

  If it didn’t, he figured he was in big trouble, unless he could get out of the hotel fast. He remembered the fire exit on the first floor that led down to the rear of the hotel. A bolt-hole. He might need it.

  He stood and went into the kitchen, poured himself a tepid Coke as he sat, then lit a cigarette, thinking about the plan, trying to see flaws. No real flaws, only risks, he decided.

  He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and stood, aware of his restless anxiety. From the bedroom he took the suitcase, already packed with the rest of the things he needed, then came back into the living room once again.

  He laid the suitcase on the couch and flicked open the catches, checked that he hadn’t overlooked anything, then turned his attention to the equipment Torres had loaned him, lying on the coffee table.

  He took it piece by piece and placed it carefully in the suitcase among the clothes he had already packed there, making sure the equipment didn’t rattle around, remembering that Torres had said it was sensitive. When he had finished, he checked through everything again, carefully shut the suitcase, and thumbed the combination lock to another set of numbers.

  He felt a shiver of fear go through him. He sucked in a deep breath, let it out slowly.

  Relax, amigo. Stay calm. Otherwise you’re dead even before you start.

  He glanced at his watch. Five-thirty.

  He just had time to change, and then it would be time to go.

  • • •

  The black Mercedes moved slowly through the evening traffic toward the city. The glass partition between the driver and his passengers was closed, allowing the passengers their privacy.

  Meyer looked out beyond the tinted windows at the lights coming on as dusk fell, at the smaller cars moving past on either side in the three-lane traffic, drawing him closer to the city, to his final meeting in this dreadful country.

  A battered yellow pickup went slowly past the window, a cowboy-hatted Indian and his fat wife sitting in front, a crying child on her lap, windows rolled down, a radio blaring out Paraguayan harp music. In the back of the pickup, half a dozen restless, brown-faced scruffy children danced about like monkeys.

  Dirty, idiotic kids. Meyer turned his head away in disgust. How had his people endured it here? He glanced at Kruger.

  “The news you spoke of . . . ?”

  “It’s Tsarkin. He shot himself two days ago.”

  Meyer’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “He’s dead?”

  Kruger nodded. “It was only a question of hours, anyway. Cancer. So he decided to take the quick way. He sent a letter to Franz Lieber before he did it. Said the pain was too much to bear. He wished us well, said he was sorry he couldn’t make it.”

  Meyer nodded, understanding, remembering Tsarkin’s poor health.

  “A great loss,” commented Meyer. And then a thought struck him, a terrible thought. “His papers?” His face showed concern as he looked at the silver-haired man seated opposite.

  The silver-haired man smiled. “There is no need for alarm, Johannes. Tsarkin burned all his papers. Everything. Nothing can lead back to us. Nothing.”

  “Our people checked it out?”

  This time it was Kruger who spoke. “Franz called at the house after the cops left. T
here’s absolutely nothing to worry about. He checked it out with the servants. The cops saw it as a straightforward case of suicide.”

  “He checked Tsarkin’s study and belongings?”

  “There were only some old photograph albums. He removed them.”

  “And Tsarkin’s safe-deposit box?”

  “He emptied it himself. Burned everything before he pulled the trigger.” He looked across at Meyer. “I’m certain Franz has been thorough.”

  Meyer nodded and said, “And the arrangements for the meeting?”

  “Tsarkin said the hotel was organized as usual, but Franz checked just to be certain. Everything is in order.” Kruger paused. Then he smiled and said, “He was a cautious man, old Nicolas. As cautious in death as in life.”

  Kruger turned his face back toward the window. The silver-haired man reclined farther in his seat.

  Meyer did the same, relieved.

  • • •

  Hernandez reached the Excelsior at five-fifty and parked the Buick twenty yards from the fire-escape doors that opened onto the parking lot.

  He strolled over to the exit doors, placed his palms against the metal, and pushed. The doors were locked by sprung bars that could be opened only from the inside. He had checked already to make sure they worked. They did. He probably wouldn’t have to use them, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Nothing must obstruct the doors from opening onto the parking lot.

  A row of metal garbage bins stood nearby, twenty yards from the kitchen’s rear entrance, but did not obstruct the exit. Satisfied, he crossed back to his car, removed his overnight suitcase, and left the driver’s door unlocked. He walked around to the hotel entrance. He wore tinted glasses and a gray business suit.

  As he walked over to the brightly lit lobby and headed straight for the reception desk, he saw a dark-suited man standing behind the counter, busy sorting through some papers.

  The man looked up as Hernandez approached. “Señor?”

  “I have a reservation for tonight. My name is Ferres.”

  “One moment, señor.” The man tapped the computer terminal beside him. Without looking up, he said, “Señor Ferres. Room one hundred and four. The first floor.” The man looked up, smiled a plastic smile. “Our last free room. You were lucky.”

  I hope so, Hernandez thought. He had telephoned the hotel the evening before last to make his reservation, explaining to the reservations clerk that he had stayed on the first floor before and had enjoyed the view, had a preference for it. The clerk had said yes, but only a double. Hernandez had said he would pay for the double.

  “Will señor be settling his account in cash or by credit card?”

  “Cash,” said Hernandez. “And I would like to pay now. I intend to leave early tomorrow morning.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Also, I am having some friends come by shortly. I want a bottle of champagne and some canapés sent up to my room immediately.”

  “But of course, señor. At once. I will see to it.”

  The bellhop carrying his suitcase led him to his room at the end of the corridor, five doors from Tsarkin’s suite and on the opposite side of the corridor. Having the room on the first floor was imperative. And it had been the last one free—a good omen, surely. The evening after telephoning the Excelsior, he had gone to the hotel once again to examine the corridor layout. The room he’d booked was perfect, not too close, not too far away.

  As Hernandez followed the bellhop into the room, the boy switched on the lights, placed the suitcase on the rack provided, waited for his tip. Hernandez obliged; the boy smiled, bade him good evening, and withdrew.

  Hernandez crossed to the window and stared out: lights coming on everywhere, darkness descending rapidly over the city. And there was real fear in him now. He checked his watch. Six o’clock. Whoever was going to use the room down the hall would be arriving soon. A sharp knock rattled the door.

  He admitted the white-coated, smiling waiter, the food trolley he pushed laden with the champagne and canapés. Hernandez watched him, the way he worked, listening to the chatter. The man made a fuss of arranging the trolley in the center of the room. Hernandez requested him to leave the champagne unopened.

  “Of course, señor.” The waiter bowed and went to leave, but not leaving, a practiced art.

  Hernandez peeled off some bills from the wad in his pocket. “That was excellent service. What is your name?”

  “Mario, señor. Mario Ricardes.”

  “Thank you, Mario.” Hernandez handed the man the money; the waiter bowed and left.

  Hernandez looked at the champagne and food. The story was costing him a small fortune already. He hoped it was worth it. The champagne was French and expensive, the six sparkling glasses neatly arranged beside the bucket of crushed ice. The canapés looked exquisite: neat, crisped triangles of fresh bread with smoked salmon, anchovies, various cheeses, meat pastes, arranged splendidly on a silver tray.

  He went to sit on the bed, opened the suitcase, and removed everything he needed, laid them neatly on the spread.

  He went to work quickly, setting everything out in its place. When he was finished ten minutes later, he lit a cigarette, then punched in the number to call suite 120. There was no reply.

  Whoever intended on using the suite had, thankfully, not arrived early. Had someone answered, he would have pretended a wrong number and put down the phone.

  Hernandez checked his watch again. Six-ten. He stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray and stood up nervously.

  It was time to go to the lobby.

  • • •

  It was a different hotel this trip, Meyer noted as the Mercedes drew up outside the Excelsior. But they had used the hotel before, many times, he and Winter. But never together. The meetings to deliver the reports had alternated between both men.

  The hotels had been Tsarkin’s idea; a different room each time meant there would be less chance of electronic bugging or eavesdropping. Better than using a house, where prying neighbors might pose a threat to security.

  The house in the Chaco, of course, would have been ideal, but it was too remote and when the rains came, the roads were often impassable.

  Schmidt and the driver stepped out of the Mercedes and opened the doors, Kruger and Schmidt leading the way into the lobby, Meyer walking beside the silver-haired man.

  They waited while Kruger went to the reception desk, carrying his briefcase. Meyer glanced around at the luxurious surroundings. The lobby was quiet. A couple of nice-looking girls sat in leather easy chairs nearby. A young man wearing a gray suit sat close by, reading a newspaper.

  Meyer saw Kruger return from the desk. “Which room?” Meyer asked in German.

  “One-twenty,” Kruger replied.

  They all followed Kruger to the elevator.

  • • •

  Six-fifteen.

  Hernandez had bought a newspaper and found a vacant chair in the lobby, facing the reception desk.

  Background music played softly in the lobby, but he had a perfect vantage point and if he concentrated hard, he could understand what was being said at the desk. He opened his newspaper, pretended to read, but kept his eyes on the entrance lobby.

  Ten minutes later Hernandez saw the men. His eyes flicked to the entrance instinctively as he heard them come into the lobby. Four men, all wearing business suits, all European-looking. Hernandez was suspicious immediately: the four men carried no luggage, and only two carried briefcases. They could have been simply returning from a business meeting in the city, but a gut feeling told him otherwise.

  One of the men was obviously a bodyguard, a giant of a man, looking uncomfortable in his pale linen suit. He walked ahead of the group, big-chested, close-cropped blond hair. He had a swaggering, slow, awkward gait and looked as if he were made of solid granite. Not the kind of man you tackled, unless you had an army behind you.

  The second man was rugged, in his mid-thirties, with dark, shining hair. He carried a briefcase
and looked like a company executive. The third was middle-aged, overweight, and wore a blue crumpled business suit. He held his briefcase under his arm and he looked tired, as if he had endured a long journey.

  But the fourth man was the one who stood out from the group. An old man, but tall, leanly built, his silver hair swept back off his handsome face.

  One of the men approached the reception desk while the others waited nearby. Hernandez listened, trying to separate the faint, piped hotel music from the voices, but the man spoke very quietly.

  “Sí, señor . . . ,” came the reply from the desk clerk, and then a muttering of words in Spanish. The background music suddenly rose in pitch, almost drowning out the voices. Hernandez swore. Speak louder, amigo. Louder.

  “All ready for you, señor . . .” More babble. Darn! He hadn’t heard the room number.

  Hernandez went to stand, to move closer, but saw one of the men, the tired-looking one in the crumpled blue suit, glance over at the girls nearby, then at Hernandez. He shifted in his seat, looked down, pretending to look at his watch. He did not want the man to get a good look at his face. He was unfolding his newspaper when he heard the voice speak faintly, in German, in his mother’s tongue, the language of his childhood, the man in the steel-blue suit asking it softly of the dark-haired man, as he passed by Hernandez, moving toward the elevator.

  “Welche Nummer?”

  “Ein hundert zwanzig.”

  Which number? A hundred and twenty. Hernandez felt a shiver of excitement.

  These are the men.

  He watched as they crossed to the elevator. The older man, the one with the silver hair, stood in the center of the group. He made a remark and the others smiled and laughed, but Hernandez couldn’t hear what was said. The men were too far away.

  The door opened, and they stepped in. Hernandez stood and watched the numbers over the elevator halt at floor one.

  He waited for a minute before moving toward the second elevator, reached it seconds later as the doors opened. He felt a knot of fear in his stomach as he stepped inside and punched the button for the first floor.