by Glenn Meade
“The economics reports, Chancellor. Do you wish me to start?”
Dollman glanced at his watch. “What else is remaining?”
“The report on federal security. But we’re still waiting for Vice Chancellor Weber. If he’s further delayed, we’ll have to reconvene after lunch.”
Dollman sighed. “Very well, Eckart, you may begin.” Dollman knew what was coming as Eckart’s dry, monotonous voice called the ministers to attention.
Dollman’s mind was elsewhere. On the house in Wannsee. There would be time to call on the way to Charlottenburg, then come back after the civic function. Lisl was a politician’s dream. Discreet, beautiful, lustful in bed. He always found her company invigorating.
Dollman suppressed the smile of contentment that threatened to cross his lips as Eckart’s depressing monologue droned on. He saw the assembled ministers stare ahead or look toward the windows.
He was past trying to make sense of the chaos. At that moment, all he hoped was that he could make it to Berlin by evening. He looked up as Eckart’s speech finally came to an end.
“And that concludes the economics reports. Thank you, ministers, for your attention.”
What attention? thought Dollman. Half of them were sleeping, or trying to, or bored to death. There was a sudden eruption of coughing, and then a hushed silence.
Dollman deflected any questions by looking pointedly at his watch. “Gentlemen, I suggest we reconvene after lunch to hear the vice chancellor’s report. As interior minister, I believe, he has some important points to discuss.”
As Dollman finished speaking, the door to the cabinet room opened and Konrad Weber stepped into the room. He carried a thick folder in one hand, his briefcase in the other. A tall, grim-looking man; his face looked serious, as always. But a good vice chancellor. One who took his responsibilities seriously. Dollman was glad to have him on his side, but from the strained look on Weber’s face, it looked as if he were about to impart doom.
“Chancellor, gentlemen, my apologies for being late . . .”
“Take a seat, Weber. You’re ready to read your special security report?”
Dollman felt glad of the interruption, but dreaded Weber’s report. At least it saved him from any questions. Now Weber could take some of the flak.
The vice chancellor nodded to Dollman as he moved to his place at the table but remained standing. He placed his briefcase on the floor beside him. As he opened the folder in front of him, Dollman saw that several of the papers inside bore official red security stamps. Highly confidential.
Dollman sighed quietly. Weber had already informed him privately on the phone that the news would be grave. From the look on the cabinet’s faces, Weber’s security reports would send them all rushing toward the windows.
Dollman tried hard to relax, wondered where it would all end. He thought of voluptuous Lisl, lying on the bed in the house at Wannsee, waiting for him.
If it weren’t for that woman, he felt certain he would have rushed toward the windows himself long ago.
48
STRASBOURG. DECEMBER 23, 3:02 P.M.
It started to snow as Peters drove up outside the apartment on the Quai Ernest.
He parked in the courtyard, and he and Erica went up. She was subdued during their lunch in Petite France, and Peters guessed that something was troubling her, but he hadn’t pressed her to talk.
When they stepped into Volkmann’s apartment, he could see that she had made herself at home and had tidied the rooms; here and there small items rearranged since he had last visited. Very interesting, he thought. So she and Volkmann have something going here.
A little later he excused himself as she made coffee, and he went to the bathroom. On the way back, he paused in the hallway and stepped into Volkmann’s bedroom. He could smell the lingering scent of her perfume. Her clothes and her makeup bag lay by Volkmann’s bed.
As he stepped back into the living room, she came out of the kitchen. “I never asked if you take sugar and cream?”
Peters smiled. “Both. Two spoonfuls.”
She moved back into the kitchen, and Peters lit a cigarette and went to stand at the window. Flakes of snow drifted against the glass, and he stood there reflecting on the relationship between Volkmann and Erica. On the one hand, it wasn’t surprising. She was quite beautiful and intelligent. On the other hand, she was a German, and her father had been in the SS . . . which ordinarily would have been disqualifying marks where Volkmann was concerned. But he figured she must be something special to have broken through Volkmann’s walls.
As he moved away from the window and went to flick on the remote control for the television, Erica came back in holding two mugs of steaming coffee. As Peters leaned forward to take one he saw her stare at his waist. He looked down. The holstered Beretta was visible, clipped to his belt. He smiled up at her. “Do guns bother you?”
“I guess.”
“No problem.” Without another word, he stood and unclipped the weapon, tucked it under his overcoat he’d left folded on the chair, then sat back down again.
• • •
The Mercedes drove up and down the quay four times and then halted outside the apartment building. Snow brushed against the car’s windows, and the wipers were on.
The passenger checked the address again and then nodded to the driver before he pulled up the collar of his raincoat and stepped out into the snow.
As the man disappeared into the courtyard, the driver sat tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, the motor still running.
Three minutes later, the passenger returned and climbed back into the car, his hair and raincoat flecked with snow. He wiped his face with a big hand and said in German, “It’s the right apartment. Volkmann’s name’s on the doorbell. There’s a window at the back. Two people inside. A man and a woman.”
The driver checked his watch. “Okay. Once more around the block, then we come back.”
As the Mercedes pulled away, the passenger reached under his seat and took out the two silenced pistols.
GENOA. 3:15 P.M.
A tall Italian detective with a bushy mustache introduced himself to Volkmann at a warehouse by the docks. His name was Orsati, and he seemed confident that he had broken the case: the container on the Maria Escobar had a hidden compartment.
“There’s a customs official—his name’s Paulo Bonefacio—who found it.” He pointed out the man, who was standing off to the side. “We can show you the container; it’s nearby.”
Volkmann nodded.
“So Bonefacio did some checking, and it turned out that the container has been back and forth to Montevideo several times over the past year. He figured that an inside man must have taken the contents of the hidden compartment. He did some further checking and found that the container has been handled exclusively by Franco Scali. He’s a senior clearance clerk here.”
“He’s the inside man?” Volkmann asked.
“It seems so. Though we haven’t finished interviewing him yet, I’m sure he’ll have a great deal more to tell us.”
“Let’s hope so,” Volkmann said.
“So anyhow, let me introduce you to Scali.” Orsati made an over-here motion with his hand to another detective. A moment later, the detective led a very frightened-looking clearance clerk to Orsati and Volkmann.
“Signore Volkmann, meet Franco Scali.”
Scali nodded a greeting. “Ciao,” he said.
“Scali,” Volkmann said quietly.
Orsati said, “Let’s start with the container.”
Scali forced a smile. “Sure.”
The detective led the way.
• • •
The Fiat carrying Beck and Kleins drove into the dockyard and came to a halt a hundred yards from the warehouse. There had been so many police cars on the apron that no one had bothered to stop them.
As Beck switched off the engine, Kleins studied the cars parked outside the warehouse. A hundred yards away, a knot of men stood gathered
around the big blue container.
Kleins reached behind him for the powerful Zeiss binoculars and focused on the men.
• • •
Volkmann stood on the docking apron, a soft breeze blowing in from the harbor. Powerful security lights flooded a part of the apron sealed off with rolls of yellow crime-scene tape.
Then the customs official, Paulo Bonefacio, led them across the apron to a blue container with three gray-striped markings.
Volkmann saw that a plate had been removed from the side, and it lay on the ground, perfectly matching the gaping, quarter-yard-wide hole it had covered. The customs official beamed over at them.
Volkmann asked the detective, “How did he find it?”
“He has a metal knuckle-duster. He uses it to tap containers. Hollow spaces sound hollow. On this one, there was a slight difference in the metal sound toward the right-end wall. Last time this container was on the docks, he suspected it, but didn’t have time to do a thorough check.”
Orsati knelt beside the container, stared in at the small chamber within the gaping hole. Then he looked up at Volkmann and said, “You want to take a look?”
Orsati handed across a slim pencil light. Volkmann knelt down and flicked it on, probed inside the empty chamber. He saw the twin brackets welded onto the inner metal frame, left and right sides, maybe one quarter of a yard apart. The chamber smelled of paint and rust. He stood and turned to glance at Scali. The clerk looked at him uncertainly.
Volkmann asked Orsati, “Does Scali speak English?”
The detective questioned the clerk. Scali shrugged, said something in reply.
Orsati said, “He says he doesn’t.”
“Then I won’t be very useful when you interview him.” Volkmann looked at Scali for a time. “How do you plan to get him to talk?” he asked Orsati.
“The evidence against him is circumstantial, but solid. Like I said, no one else had access to the container. That’s leverage enough, I think.”
Volkmann saw that Franco Scali looked anxious, no question about it.
“There’s an office in the warehouse,” the detective said. “I’ll talk to him there. When I’m finished, believe me, I’ll know everything Franco Scali knows.” He smiled. “Why don’t you wait outside? Get some fresh air. After Scali’s made his speech, I’ll call you in.”
• • •
Kleins saw the knot of people around the container move away toward the warehouse. He picked out Scali with the Zeiss. He nodded to Beck, who reached behind on the seat for the two briefcases.
It didn’t take long to ready the two Heckler & Koch MP 5K machine pistols and slam home the magazines. When they looked up, they saw the group reach the warehouse.
Kleins slapped the cocking handle of his weapon and flicked his safety catch to off; Beck did likewise.
STRASBOURG. 3:55 P.M.
Ferguson sat in the office, snow falling outside. He arrived back late from lunch and saw the note from Peters about the meeting with Volkmann, stressing it was urgent. A postscript said that Peters was at Volkmann’s apartment with Erica Kranz. He guessed it had something to do with Volkmann’s investigation, and was about to telephone Volkmann’s apartment when the telephone rang and he picked up the receiver.
Jan de Vries came on the line. “A classified communication arrived from Asunción for your attention, sir, and it’s marked ‘Urgent.’ I thought I’d bring it up personally.”
“Do that, Jan.”
Three minutes later, De Vries arrived. He appeared subdued, and Ferguson waited until the man left the office before breaking the waxed seal and opening the envelope.
Inside he found the signal and he read it slowly, ashen-faced. He stood there for a full minute in silence, in disbelief, oblivious to the snow brushing against the window; then he read the signal again.
When he finished this time, he picked up the telephone and rapidly punched in the numbers. When he got no reply, he thought for a moment, then he hit the receiver cradle smartly again and began to punch in numbers once more.
Had he stayed at the window, he would have seen the black Mercedes draw up in front of the building and the two raincoated men climb out, one of them carrying a briefcase.
They entered the building ten seconds later, showed their identity cards at the security desk, then crossed the lobby to take the elevator to Ferguson’s office.
• • •
A mile away on the Quai Ernest, another two men stepped out of their parked Mercedes into falling snow.
They walked across the white courtyard and climbed the steps. When they halted outside Volkmann’s apartment, the driver of the car nodded to his partner. Each man opened his raincoat and withdrew a silenced pistol.
While the driver scanned the courtyard below, the second man took a heavy bunch of keys from his pocket.
He selected one and tried it in the lock.
49
GENOA. 3:55 P.M.
A cold breeze swept in from the sea, and it washed Volkmann’s face. As he stepped out onto the apron from the warehouse, he realized he had left his overcoat in the unmarked police car.
He reached the parked car ten yards away, and saw the figure of a man move toward the warehouse from the harbor side, caught for a moment in the sweep of silver light from the lighthouse out in the bay. The man was fifty yards away, maybe less, a dark Fiat obscured behind him.
Volkmann saw the machine pistol in his hands, and for a brief moment he thought the man was one of the Italian cops, but the man moved at a trot and he wore no uniform.
Volkmann froze. Something was wrong. The man’s stride was too purposeful, too determined, the weapon in his hands held across his chest at the ready.
Volkmann turned and glanced back at the warehouse. Lights blazed in the tiny office where the Italian detectives and the customs man had taken Scali—looking like characters in some drama beyond the lit glass, Scali’s lips moving, the others listening. Easy targets.
Volkmann looked back again toward the man. Forty yards from the warehouse now, moving fast.
Volkmann started to reach for his Beretta, realized he hadn’t taken the weapon with him.
He swore, moved rapidly back toward the police car, yanked open the driver’s door, and searched frantically in the glove compartment for a weapon. He realized that the man with the machine pistol had a clear line of fire toward the warehouse, realized that Scali was the target, the voices on the tape echoing like an alarm bell in his head as he tried to find a weapon.
“And the Italian?”
“He will be eliminated.”
Apart from papers, the glove compartment was empty. He tried to think. Detectives always carried weapons in an unmarked car; Italian cops were no different. But where? Sometimes in the trunk; sometimes overhead in a zipped compartment. Volkmann felt along the coarse vinyl. No zip. No weapons compartment. He felt under the seats.
Nothing.
He checked for the keys in the ignition.
None.
Volkmann swore again as his right hand shot down to the side of the driver’s seat, felt for a trunk release, found one, pulled it hard. Then he looked back out through the rear window, seeing the man twenty yards away now as the trunk yawned open.
• • •
As Kleins moved at a trot across the apron, he saw the knot of men standing in the lighted office window, saw the faces plainly beyond glass, two men standing, two sitting, one of them looking like he was talking while the others listened.
Scali.
Fifteen yards to go now, and still the men in the office hadn’t seen him.
He had left Beck sitting in the parked Fiat, watching his back, ready for the getaway; the second car parked in a side street four blocks from the harbor entrance, ready for their escape.
But a difficult hit. Not impossible, but too many people, too many things to go wrong, but the kill imperative, according to Meyer.
Twelve yards from the warehouse window and still the men beyond th
e glass hadn’t noticed him. His finger slid around the trigger as he ducked under the line of yellow tape.
Kleins hesitated, animal instinct telling him something was wrong. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. As he looked to the right, the trunk of the unmarked police car opened. Kleins glimpsed the figure of a man, crouching as he moved toward the trunk, his hand reaching inside, searching frantically. Kleins couldn’t see the man’s face, but in those split seconds, he knew the man was marked for death.
He swung the Heckler & Koch around and fired in one swift motion. The apron erupted with a thunderous volley as the man darted back for cover, lead ripping into the police car, shattering glass, puncturing metal.
Kleins swung the weapon back toward the warehouse window, saw the people behind the glass react to the sound of gunfire, mouths open as they froze in disbelief and stared out at him.
He squeezed the trigger.
The office window shattered, glass fragmenting, lead hitting concrete and wood and flesh as the Heckler & Koch’s deadly chatter sprayed the tiny room, the figures beyond the window dancing like crazed puppets as Kleins fired one long, sustained burst.
Click.
The magazine emptied. Kleins tore it out, slammed home a fresh one from his pocket, cocked the Heckler again.
Suddenly he glimpsed the figure move out again from behind the car, his hand coming around to pull something from the trunk.
Kleins swung round the machine pistol and squeezed the trigger again.
• • •
Volkmann crouched helplessly behind the car, eyes flicking from the man to the open car trunk, to the shattering office window and the figures dancing in the deadly burst of gunfire.
As the man concentrated on the targets beyond the window, Volkmann saw the opportunity, crouching low again as he moved toward the trunk, hand reaching inside, fingers probing for metal, for the hard form of a shotgun, a machine pistol.
Nothing.
Then the cold metal of a wheel jack.
Then . . .
