by Glenn Meade
And then the big, blond bodyguard he had seen in the hotel stepped forward out of nowhere.
Hernandez saw the flash of another blade as the man drew a jagged knife from under his coat. Hernandez tried vainly to scream, but the hand trapped the cry in his throat, other hands pinning him hard against the wall.
He watched in mute horror as the jagged metal arced and dug savagely into his chest like a hammer blow. An agonizing pain blossomed, and then he slid back against the wall, slid down into the dark, growing pool of his own blood.
PART TWO
10
STRASBOURG, FRANCE. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 1
A log fire blazed in one corner of the restaurant.
From where they sat by the window, Volkmann could see the ancient cathedral spire rise into the gray afternoon sky, the red-and-brown-slated rooftops of the medieval center of old Strasbourg stretching in jagged rows. A cold wind blew across the Place Gutenberg, needles of rain clawing at the window.
You could usually set your watch by Ferguson’s appointments, but almost half an hour had gone by, they had ordered, and there was still no sign of him.
The head of British DSE hated German food, which was why when they had their weekly informal meeting, Ferguson always chose a French restaurant.
Volkmann stared toward the bronzed statue of Johannes Gutenberg. The cold Place named in his honor was almost void of pedestrians despite the nearness of Christmas. Across the street, a stout, red-faced little salesman was standing on a chair, struggling to hang coils of silvered decorations among a store’s seasonal window display.
Tom Peters sat opposite, sipping a glass of Bordeaux. The section’s number two, Peters was a stocky Welshman of medium height, with graying sandy hair and a ruddy face.
He smiled at Volkmann. “There was an article in Le Monde only last week. Some hack reckoned that soon it’ll be like the bad old days of the Great Depression.” Peters nodded toward the struggling salesman. “For that poor guy’s sake, I hope all the work is worth it.”
Volkmann swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Did Ferguson say what he wanted to talk about, Tom?”
“Yeah. Something to do with the bloody Krauts.”
The worries Volkmann had discussed with Sally Thornton seemed to be looming. DSE wasn’t really working. On the face of it, the organization seemed to be dying of boredom, but he knew the problems went much deeper than that.
The German Section seemed to be on a go slow. Even the people in the French and Italian sections were spending more time than usual lingering over coffee. The only lively presence was in his own department, the British, and that of the Dutch. Both sections were busily working at their desks as if nothing were amiss, incurable bureaucrats that they were.
Ferguson arrived. A tall, gaunt man, pasty-faced, pushing sixty, he dressed like an English squire in Donegal tweeds, checkered shirt, and woolen tie knotted thickly. He took a seat at the table, apologizing.
“I see you’ve started without me.” Ferguson smiled when he saw the wine bottle, and accepted a glass from Peters. “Have you ordered? I better do the same.”
Ferguson ordered the fillet of sole with lemon sauce. He sipped his wine and sat back.
“I thought I’d let you know I had a meeting with Hollrich; it’s what delayed me. He’s been in Germany for the past week, consulting with his masters.”
“Anything that concerns us?” Peters asked.
“It’s the people in Berlin and Bonn,” Ferguson replied. “They’re talking about money problems, fiscal cutbacks. Considering the economic circumstances prevailing just now, it’s as good an excuse as any. The Germans want to scale down their involvement in security cooperation. Concentrate on the problems closer to home.”
“Well, they would, wouldn’t they?” Peters raised an eyebrow.
Ferguson swirled his wine. “They say it’s mainly money problems. That the mandarins in Bonn are whining about the need for spending cutbacks. We can all understand that.”
“But the whole operation is run on a shoestring. You made that point, sir?” Peters said.
There was a silence at the table for several moments as the waiter brought their orders. Ferguson waited until the man had left before replying.
“It’s not that simple, Tom,” he said. He cut his fish with measured care. “Hollrich’s main concern right now is with the internal situation in Germany. The world’s troubles, or the rest of Europe’s, hardly matter. We all know the problems in Germany are pretty serious these days. You watch TV; you’ve seen the protest marches and the riots. The chancellor’s in trouble with a minority government. He’s too weak to take any kind of action.
“I know it increases the workload for everyone else, and we’ll just have to carry on, but that’s the situation we’re stuck with for now. I’m seeing Hollrich again on Monday. Naturally, I pressed the importance of the Germans staying within DSE. He said he’d pass on that message to his superiors.”
Volkmann asked, “Anything else?”
Ferguson hesitated. “There is, actually. Something I want you to look into. A favor for Pauli Graf of the German Section.” Ferguson paused. “It’s a difficult time, and I don’t want to rock any boats. However, something’s come up I think we need to check out.”
Volkmann said, “Which area?”
“It looks to be some sort of smuggling thing. Perhaps narcotics. According to Graf, Hollrich wasn’t remotely interested. He said they hadn’t the time or the manpower.”
Volkmann asked, “So what’s the problem?”
“A woman in Frankfurt, an old acquaintance of Graf’s, was in South America recently. She discussed something with Graf that may interest us.”
“Us?” said Peters.
“DSE, obviously,” replied Ferguson.
“Why can’t Graf handle it himself?” Volkmann asked.
“As I say, his people don’t seem to want to touch the woman’s information.” He spread his arms helplessly. “Who can figure the Germans right now? Graf is being posted back to Berlin as of tomorrow. He says his department wasn’t really interested because the crime—if there was a crime—took place in South America, outside his jurisdiction.” Ferguson looked up. “On top of that, the woman failed to go through proper channels—a definite no-no where Hollrich is concerned, he’s such a darned bureaucrat. She didn’t take her information to the German police, so he won’t touch her.”
“Any particular reason why she didn’t?”
Ferguson shrugged. “None that I know of. After Graf told her he couldn’t help, she asked to talk to DSE. Said she had information concerning a smuggling operation into Europe.”
“Who do you want to handle it?” Peters asked.
“I had thought Joe.” The head of British DSE looked to Volkmann. “You’ve got the language and the experience in the field. You know your way around. It may not amount to anything, but no harm checking it out.”
“That’s all we’ve got? There doesn’t seem a heck of a lot to go on.”
Ferguson looked mildly irritated. “I’ve told you everything I know, Joe. Graf has helped us often in the past. I’d like to return the favor.”
Volkmann noticed the stout salesman across the street. Finished with his display, now he peered hopelessly out the window. “What about the woman?”
“Her name’s Erica Kranz. Freelance journalist by profession.” Ferguson removed a slip of paper from his pocket, handed it across to Volkmann. “I’ve written out her address and phone number. Pay her a visit, see what it’s about. You could drive up to Frankfurt tomorrow. But give her a call first.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
“If I’m not around, you can report to Peters. I’ve already requested information on Erica Kranz from the German Section. The file should be delivered to you by tonight.” Ferguson smiled. “Sometimes I despise the Germans for their bureaucracy, but sometimes I’m grateful for it. They’ve got files on everyone.”
Volkmann noticed the salesman across the
square was standing at the entrance to the shop, hands clasped behind his back, examining his work. The pavement was still bare of shoppers.
Volkmann saw Ferguson observing him, then his boss’s eyes flicked to the salesman.
“I think I read somewhere recently that during the Depression it was just the same—everyone who was still in business chasing after what few pennies were in circulation. Every economy’s a basket case right now. But thank heavens we can leave such problems in the incapable hands of our politicians.” Ferguson grinned, pouring himself another glass of wine.
Peters glanced over at Volkmann and raised his eyebrows. Volkmann smiled and sipped his wine, and said nothing.
• • •
The Orangerie Park, with its exotic birds, miniature lake, and cascading waterfalls, its landscaped gardens and its pavilion built by Napoleon for Empress Josephine, lies within a short walking distance of the offices of the DSE.
Unlike the imposing headquarters of Interpol in Lyon, the offices of the Direction de Sécurité Européenne in Strasbourg are little known. Situated near the Parliament building on the Avenue de l’Europe, the six-story building houses an amalgam of all the main European intelligence agencies and specialized police forces, whose representatives pool and act on matters of mutual security within the European Community.
Whereas the target of Interpol is the international criminal, its actual powers are limited. Its officers are drawn from the police forces, are confined to providing mostly an information service, processing and disseminating information within three main criminal categories: criminals who operate in more than one country; criminals who do not travel at all, but whose criminal activities affect other countries; and criminals who commit a crime in one country and flee to another.
But since the nations of the world have differing criminal and legal procedures, Interpol’s officers do not have power of arrest, despite popular portrayal to the contrary in books and films. The organization is limited to providing a clearinghouse of information on criminal activity.
The DSE has a function similar to Interpol, except its officers have powers of arrest within all the member states. Drawn from both the police forces and intelligence services of Europe, DSE concerns itself with four main categories of criminal and terrorist activity.
Category One covers terrorist activity, both indigenous terrorism and terrorists from outside Europe or who may use Europe as a base or as a target. Category Two is concerned with smuggling in all its forms. Category Three covers espionage, both national and industrial; Category Four, fraud and counterfeiting.
Each member state has its own representative section in the DSE Strasbourg headquarters and liaises with other national sections in areas of mutual concern and interest, and with a single function: to combat all four categories of criminal and terrorist activity and to maintain their shared database.
Volkmann’s office in the British Section was on the third floor, which also housed the Dutch Section. Below the window was a small square, called simply the Platz, empty on this cold December afternoon. He arrived back from lunch at two and went straight to work, sifting through the reports. There were the usual subjects: narcotics, smuggling, terrorism; intelligence gathering, ready to be acted on or filed away.
When he finished more than three hours later, he found Ferguson’s slip of paper and dialed the woman’s number in Frankfurt. When Erica Kranz answered, he explained that he was a liaison officer with DSE, and that Pauli Graf had asked someone to have a talk with her.
“Can you tell me what this is about, Frau Kranz?”
The woman’s voice sounded uneasy. Volkmann thought he detected a trace of fear. “I’d prefer not to discuss the matter over the telephone, Herr Volkmann. But it’s pretty important. Could we meet?”
“Maybe I could drive up to Frankfurt tomorrow morning. Pauli Graf gave us your address. Unless you want to meet somewhere else?”
“No, my place is good. My apartment’s on the top floor. Is midday okay?”
“Midday’s fine. Talk to you then. Good afternoon, Frau Kranz.”
Volkmann cleared away his desk, went down to the parking lot, and drove to his apartment. It was a modest place by Strasbourg’s standards, a compact two-bedroom apartment in one of the old houses along the Quai Ernest, overlooking a small, paved courtyard.
It was after ten when Koller from the German Section appeared with the file, looking irritated. “Do you mind telling me why you want the woman’s file?”
“Nothing special. Just routine.”
Koller inquired no further. “Just make sure that the copy I’ve given you is returned.”
When Koller left, Volkmann ran a hot bath and poured himself a large scotch. Afterward, he lay on the bed and read Erica Kranz’s file.
It made interesting reading.
Born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, of German-born parents, Erica Kranz had one older sister, married to a Frenchman and living in Rennes. Her father died in South America when she was three, and the girls had returned to Germany with their mother in the same year.
A graduate of Heidelberg University, majoring in journalism, she had dabbled at the university with the Greens and other ecological-political organizations, but she had no known political affiliations or activities at present. Single. No known vices, no convictions. She worked as a freelance journalist and had frequent assignments from the popular German women’s magazines.
All very straightforward, Volkmann thought. But then came a paragraph about her father that sent chills through his soul.
Manfred Kranz had been a young major in the Leibstandarte SS division during the last war. He had once been wanted in connection with war crimes committed in France and Russia. Twenty male inhabitants of a small village in southeastern France called Ronchamp had been publicly executed during the German retreat. Manfred Kranz was the unit commander responsible. And in Russia, he had been implicated in the execution of two hundred prisoners of war during the German assault on Kiev. He was never brought to trial, the Argentine authorities refusing to cooperate in his extradition.
Letting it all sink in, Volkmann crossed to the bedroom window.
It had stopped raining, and the clouds had long disappeared and darkness fallen. He could see the lights of Germany burning into the winter’s night beyond the Rhine. He never took the trip across the border unless he had to. Ferguson knew he disliked dealing with the Germans. With few exceptions, he had avoided social contact with them even when he had worked in Berlin, that least German of cities.
He set the travel clock for seven, undressed, turned off the light, and lay in the bed. The paragraph about Manfred Kranz disturbed him, and he tossed restlessly for some time before he finally fell asleep. He dreamed about his father.
11
FRANKFURT, GERMANY. FRIDAY, DECEMBER 2
Volkmann found the apartment block with no difficulty, tucked away behind the Eiserner Steg on the south side of the river. The woman was waiting for him in the open doorway when he came out of the elevator.
She was tall and full-figured, with dusky skin and pale blue eyes. Her long legs were clad in tight blue jeans tucked into high leather boots, and she wore a loose black sweater. Her blond hair was tied up, emphasizing her high cheekbones. She wore little makeup and her face looked tense. Volkmann introduced himself and showed her his identification before they went inside.
In the background, he heard a Schubert string quartet playing softly on a mini sound system by the window.
“I was just going to make some coffee. Would you like some, Herr Volkmann?”
“A coffee would be fine.”
“Take a seat, make yourself comfortable.”
Volkmann watched her as she went into the kitchen. Her file said she was in her thirties. She would have passed for a female executive with one of the Frankfurt commercial banks.
The apartment was spotless and furnished in a modern style, large and airy, filled with potted plants and packed bookshelves and pale
leather furniture.
When she returned with two cups of coffee, she sat opposite Volkmann on a white leather couch, her legs crossed. Her face appeared pale and drawn, and now that Volkmann looked closely, he saw that the blue eyes were red-ringed from crying.
“Perhaps you had better tell me what you told Pauli Graf.”
“Are you German, Herr Volkmann?”
“British. Your people in the German Section of DSE weren’t particularly interested in your case. Pauli Graf has been posted back to Berlin, and he passed you on to us unofficially.” He smiled. “If it matters, I can ask your people again.”
She shook her head. “No. I was just making an observation. Your accent, it’s a little different, that’s all.” She brushed a strand of blond hair from her face and briefly looked toward the window. “Until last week, I was in Asunción in Paraguay on a week’s holiday. I stayed with my cousin, Rudi Hernandez.” She bit her lip. “I sensed that he was troubled by something during my stay. When I asked Rudi what it was, he told me he was working on a story. Something the newspaper he works for as a journalist knew nothing about.”
When she hesitated, Volkmann asked, “What kind of story?”
“A pilot he knew in Asunción, a man named Rodriguez, told Rudi that certain people were smuggling cargoes out of South America into Europe. Just before I arrived in Paraguay, this pilot, Rodriguez, telephoned Rudi and asked him to meet. He told Rudi he had a favor to ask. He wanted Rudi to write a story, a newspaper article, but not to publish it, to hold it somewhere safe, with a lawyer perhaps. If Rodriguez was killed, Rudi was to print the story.”
The woman hesitated again. “You see, Rodriguez once worked for these people who did the smuggling. They hired him and his aircraft to transport a number of cargoes. His business was smuggling. But now he was certain the men who had hired him wanted to kill him.”
