Brandenburg: A Thriller

by Glenn Meade

  Now whitewashed adobes and filthy colonias were replaced by splendid villas with walled gardens. Armed, uniformed guards, some with leashed guard dogs, stood behind gates. Lieber was no stranger to Mexico City: Chapultepec was a place for the rich and elite.

  Suddenly the Volkswagen turned into a quiet avenue and halted outside a double wrought-iron gate. A man appeared beyond the gate and peered into the car. Moments later, he opened the gates manually and let them through.

  The Volkswagen strained up a winding gravel road to a white villa, set amid lush gardens full of jacaranda trees and thick-clumped flower beds of poinsettias and cempazúchitl. The flower of death, old Haider had once told him it was called.

  Sulfur-yellow light washed over the vast lawns dotted with palm trees, and lights blazed in windows. The big villa was lavish. Private. Secure.

  Lieber saw the swimming pool, a kidney-shaped shimmering of turquoise light. Next to it a patio and French windows at the side of the house. And then he saw the guards, Werner and Rotman. They wore shorts and sneakers and light rainproof jogger jackets as they patrolled the gardens, carrying Heckler & Koch MP 5K machine pistols.

  He glimpsed big Schmidt nearby, a pistol in a shoulder harness across his chest, no sign of the sheathed bowie knife, but Lieber knew the man went nowhere without it.

  Inside the lit windows he saw the figures waiting for him. Four men. The tall, silver-haired man and Kruger standing; old Haider seated in a comfortable armchair, lost in the leather, an inhaler clutched in one hand. Wrinkled, wheezy old Haider, face like a dried prune. They said he had killed men with his bare hands in the old days: strangled them, gouged out eyes, raped. But to look at him now, he could have been a grumpy, harmless old grandfather near the end of his days. But still part of the web.

  The fourth man, Lieber knew, was Ernesto Brandt. A mischling. German father, Brazilian mother. Thinning hair, brown eyes, metal-framed glasses with thick lenses, and a high forehead that made him look like an eccentric professor. Maybe fifty, but youthful-looking. The man was important, had been one of the vital keys to the plan.

  Lieber looked around as the Volkswagen came to a sudden halt in front of the porch.

  5:20 P.M.

  The piercing scream of the flashing blue siren tore into the growing darkness like a banshee. Traffic separated, horns honked.

  Gonzales, in the front passenger seat of the unmarked squad car, said, “Take the next left.”

  Juales swung the car down a one-way street of two-lane traffic. He let out an uncharacteristic whoop as he nudged onto the pavement, the car tilting, driving for thirty yards like this, children and passersby staring.

  “The only way to travel,” Gonzales remarked above the siren’s wail.

  The news had come over the radio minutes before, and Juales had repeated it aloud, a look of triumph on his face: “They caught sight of the Volkswagen, heading up to the Chapultepec Hills. We’re in luck.”

  Now Sanchez said, “What happens when we get there?”

  Gonzales swiveled around in his seat. “We look and watch.” He paused. “There’s a couple of pump-actions in the back in case we need them. You both know how to use those things? I don’t want my backside ending up like a colander.”

  Sanchez and Cavales smiled, said yes, they knew how to use the shotguns. The car began to climb, the streets less crowded, the houses less shabby. Gonzales switched off the siren.

  Juales’s phone buzzed on his lap, and he picked it up. He listened, then answered, “Good. We’ll be with you in ten minutes.”

  He turned to the others. “The Volkswagen just turned in through the front gates of the address in Chapultepec. There’s a guard at the gate. My men are parked and waiting a hundred yards down the street.”

  Gonzales smiled at Sanchez. “You think the people you want will be there, waiting for Lieber?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You understand, Vellares, I can’t go in without a warrant. And this place is full of rich people. The rich protect themselves. And someone like Haider’s got lots of friends in high places, you can count on it. So we better do it strictly by the book.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Well, we need a search warrant, to protect my butt.” Gonzales hesitated. “There’s a judge named Manza. He often helps me. Law-and-order type. I think he’s my best bet.”

  “What about the periphery of the property?”

  “The area’s all hills and winding streets. Difficult sometimes to know where one property begins and another ends. But I’ll have one of the cars take a quick run around. Have a look for rear exits and find a good vantage point where we can observe the place. But let’s talk to the judge first.”

  Gonzales picked up the mobile. “Control. This is Chief Inspector Gonzales. I want you to patch me through to Judge Ricardo Manza . . .”

  • • •

  The avenue was well lit, and Juales parked the car in the shadows between two streetlights. They were on a hill overlooking the villa, under a clump of sweet-smelling eucalyptus. A perfect vantage point in the moonlight: the property lay two hundred yards below, the walled perimeter, the gates, the path leading up to the villa itself clearly visible.

  The windows of the car were rolled down. The smell of eucalyptus and poinsettias. Big houses all around.

  Sanchez listened while Gonzales spoke with the judge, arguing his case. The conversation was heated, but the judge finally agreed to sign the search warrant.

  “Don’t compromise me, Gonzi. Don’t mess me up,” Sanchez heard the judge say over the mobile.

  “You have my word on it,” Gonzales replied, then said his polite good-bye, turned to the others. “One of my men is picking up the warrant. He should be here in ten minutes.”

  “What happens then, Eduardo?”

  Gonzales looked back at Sanchez. “It’s best if one of my men climbs over the wall just before Juales hits the guy on the gate with the warrant. With one of our men inside, he’ll make sure the guard doesn’t alert the villa. It’s risky, I know. They could have armed guards patrolling the grounds, and they might start shooting in any confusion. But it’s the only way to surprise them. Just pray they don’t have guard dogs loose on the lawns, or an electrified perimeter. Or else whoever goes over the wall could get chewed or crisped.”

  “What then?”

  “Our man lets us through the gate, and we speed up to the house with another car behind us. Put the sirens and lights on at the last moment. That way, there can be no mistake. They’ll know it’s police, but they won’t have time to think. And if they run, they run like scared rabbits.” Gonzales paused. “But leave any talking to me once we’re inside, okay? After that, you can have Lieber and whoever else you want for questioning.”

  Cavales said, “The people inside, they may be heavily armed.”

  Gonzales shrugged. “Up here in Chapultepec, everyone’s heavily armed, amigo. They’re probably legally held weapons. But once they know we’re police, they’d be crazy to open fire. Unless they want to escape this place pretty bad.”

  A tap came on the car roof and everyone started. A man stood outside, and Sanchez realized it was one of the plainclothes policemen.

  “What’s the problem?” Juales said.

  “There’s some movement around by the side of the villa. A group of men just came out onto the patio. They’re sitting at a table by the pool. Looks like they’re having a meeting.” The man paused and held up a night scope. “You want to take a look, sir? You can see them pretty well if you move up the rise.”

  Juales took the scope and handed it across to Gonzales, who said to the man, “You’ve found the rear entrance?”

  “I believe so, sir. I’ve got a car there, with three men.”

  “Good. You’ve got another scope?”

  “Yes, sir, Barca has one.”

  “Then we’ll hold on to this one. Thanks, Madera.”

  The man turned and walked away into the shadows.

  Jual
es drove up the rise for twenty yards and halted. They could see the side of the villa now, and the turquoise shape of the swimming pool. Gonzales looked through the scope across the narrow valley, then handed it to Sanchez.

  “You can’t see too good, Vellares. Just a bunch of people. No faces, just blurry green blobs.”

  Sanchez peered through the scope. The swimming pool looked bright green, and when he swung the scope a little to the left, he saw a group of static figures seated at a white table beside it. But too far away to get a clear view, the images hazy. Very little movement: a figure shaking its head, another leaning forward.

  A sound came from behind and the same detective who had given them the scope handed Gonzales a folded sheet of paper, explaining it was the authorized warrant. Gonzales flicked on the interior light, scrutinized the sheet.

  “Thanks, Madera. The bad news is, I want you to go over the wall just before Juales serves the warrant. Try not to look so unhappy about it. You got a pair of thick gloves in the car?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, get a pair from one of the others. And quick. Someone’s got to have a pair. Try one of the uniforms. Put them on before you go over the wall, because if you don’t and it’s electrified, you end up with stumps. And tell the others to prepare to move, but wait for my call.”

  Madera moved off into the darkness at a jogging pace.

  Gonzales said, “Okay, we’ve got five cars. Three men to each car, except this one. Sixteen men in total. Six uniformed.” He paused, lit a cigarette. “The three other cars stay outside, two covering the front and one the rear. So that leaves us and one more car to go through the gates. We head straight for the pool area. Any questions before we go?”

  Nobody spoke. Gonzales nodded to Juales. “Hand out the pump-actions.”

  Juales went to the back and unlocked the trunk, then came back with two pump-action Remington shotguns and two boxes of cartridges. He handed a weapon each to Sanchez and Cavales and a box each of cartridges as well.

  They stepped out and loaded the weapons, then climbed into the backseat again. Gonzales took the night scope once more, made one last check on the figures by the pool, then turned around in his seat. He looked at Sanchez. “There are a couple of guys wandering around the lawns. But it’s difficult to see them clearly.”

  “They look like they’re armed?”

  Gonzales shrugged. “I can’t tell, Vellares. But we’ll have to risk it. Everyone ready?”

  They nodded.

  Gonzales slid his own Smith & Wesson from its holster and placed it on his lap, then picked up the mobile and pressed the TRANSMIT button.

  “One to Nightwatch units . . .”

  6:02 P.M.

  On Gonzales’s command, Juales stepped quickly from the car, unholstered his gun, and began to move down the hill at a jogging pace. Sanchez saw him raise his Smith & Wesson to chest height as he moved toward the villa’s gates.

  At the same time the detective, Madera, came out of the shadows where the other police car was parked twenty yards away. The man wore a pair of white gloves.

  As Gonzales slipped across into the driver’s seat, Sanchez saw Juales slow his pace, the white warrant visible in his hand. Ten yards from the gates, Juales pushed himself back against the wall, and waited.

  Madera joined him. Juales laid down the gun and warrant, cupped his hands, and then Madera slid his foot into them. Juales lifted him up. It took three attempts before Madera gripped the top of the wall. He pulled himself up, and seconds later he disappeared over the top.

  Juales retrieved his gun and warrant and began to move toward the gate. Sanchez noticed a police car a hundred yards down the street move slowly out of shadows, ready to follow Gonzales’s car through the gates. He looked back to Juales where he waited next to the wall.

  There was a sudden loud explosion, a gun discharging, followed by another shot, and Gonzales said, “What the devil—”

  Everyone in the car tensed, and they saw Juales race to the gate, his weapon raised and clutched in both hands. Then the gate swung open, and Madera appeared.

  Gonzales let out a sigh as they saw Juales slip inside, his gun raised in his right hand and waving the warrant at them frantically.

  At that moment, Gonzales said, “Okay, amigos. Let’s go.”

  He hit the accelerator, and the unmarked police car raced toward the entrance gates.

  • • •

  The five men sat around the poolside table.

  Turquoise water shimmered under lights. Two butlers served them drinks by the pool at Haider’s request, his wheezy old chest unable to stand the cloying air inside the villa.

  Lieber told his story while the others remained silent. Told his story and waited for the reaction.

  Old Haider wheezed and sucked on his inhaler, took a deep breath. Everyone around the table looked at him. Very slowly he rose from his sunken position in the chair. He was a small man, smaller still with the weight of years on his buckled old shoulders.

  Spittle frothed on his lips as he spoke to Lieber. “How, Franz? How could there have been another tape?” Haider’s voice sounded like a whispered, throaty death rattle.

  Lieber sighed deeply. “Either we destroyed the wrong tape or there were two tapes. There’s no other explanation.”

  Silence descended on the table. Haider’s wrinkled claw of a hand went to his brow, massaged the flesh there, thinking hard.

  “Is your police source certain about the information?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Haider looked across at Ernesto Brandt, then at the silver-haired man. He was about to speak further when they all heard the crack of a gunshot somewhere in the distance, then another.

  Kruger sat bolt upright, then jumped to his feet, his eyes fixed on something over Haider’s shoulder. Haider turned, saw one of the guards come running across the lawns, machine pistol in hand, the big man’s body pounding hard across the grass.

  Kruger was already moving toward the man, meeting him on the lawn ten yards away. The man spoke rapidly, and Kruger turned and raced back just as everyone around the table heard the whine of car motors straining in the distance.

  Kruger reached them, his face deathly pale, urgency in his voice. “We’ve got company. Two cars just coming in through the gates.” He turned back smartly, called out to the guards. “Rotman . . . Werner . . . cover us!”

  Just as Kruger wrenched the Walther from its shoulder holster, there was a sudden shriek of sirens, a ghostly flashing of blue light visible through the shrubbery and trees, and then the growling nose of a car screamed around the gravel driveway and bumped onto the lawn. Sixty yards away, heading straight toward the poolside, lights blazing.

  “Everyone! Inside!” Kruger screamed at the top of his voice. As they moved toward the patio, he saw the first car, then the second, racing toward them, sirens wailing.

  The guards were already reacting. Werner raised his machine pistol, and the weapon stuttered in his hands.

  Kruger saw the windshield of the first car shatter, heard the thumping report of lead ripping through metal. The car careened across the lawn and scudded into a tree, its blue light suddenly dying, its siren fading like a dying wheeze.

  The second car was thirty yards away now, weapons prickling from its windows. A blaze of fire erupted from the vehicle, guns exploding in the darkness. Werner was blasted in the chest, his big body flung backward.

  Kruger swore, reached the patio doors just as a blast of lead pellet peppered the wall to his right. He saw the looks of alarm on the faces of the others as they moved into the villa through the French windows, saw the sudden paleness on the face of the silver-haired man as he called out to Kruger, “The back way, Hans. Quickly now!”

  Schmidt, clutching his Magnum, aimed at the oncoming car, then squeezed the trigger twice.

  The explosions rang around the lawns, echoed about the patio.

  Kruger roared, “Inside!” He pushed them in through the patio doors, looked
back to see Rotman fire a long burst at the second car, puncturing the vehicle, screams erupting from the vehicle, the windshield shattering, figures inside trying to shield their faces as the car wove aimlessly across the lawn, shot halfway across the turquoise pool, and nosed into the water.

  As the guard fumbled for a fresh magazine, Kruger roared: “Keep us covered, Rotman!”

  The guard didn’t even look behind, simply raised his hand as he went to slam another magazine into the Heckler & Koch and moved for cover.

  Suddenly Kruger glimpsed a movement to the left of the first car, saw a figure crawl out of the wreckage where it had hit the tree.

  Kruger aimed the Walther, fired three quick shots, then turned and disappeared into the villa.

  38

  CHAPULTEPEC. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 20, 6:07 P.M.

  Sanchez lay on the grass and watched the man disappear into the house.

  The car had come to a halt in a thicket of shrubbery, the left side of the vehicle embedded in the trunk of a eucalyptus tree. When Sanchez tried to move, he felt a jolt of pain shoot down his right leg.

  He had flung himself from the car at the last moment, landed hard on the grass. Now his right hip was on fire, excruciating when he moved. The car was five yards away. He couldn’t see inside, the windshield shattered by bullet holes.

  Sanchez still had the shotgun, gripped in both hands, and he ignored the pain in his hip, grimacing as he called out, “Gonzales! Cavales!”

  After a few seconds of silence, he heard a groan before an answer came back—Gonzales’s voice—pain in the reply.

  “Over here . . . !”

  Before Sanchez could answer, he heard a movement off to the right and turned. A man crouched near the pool, a machine pistol in his hands. A blaze of light erupted from his weapon, and a rake of fire razed the grass beside the big detective.