Brandenburg: A Thriller

by Glenn Meade

Something hard in his fingers, an L clamp, then another, then the outline of a weapon, fingers touching the hilt of an Uzi, grasping the comfort of cold, hard metal.

  Volkmann heard the chatter of the Heckler & Koch suddenly stop, saw the man tear out the magazine, slam in a new one.

  Volkmann swung around and up, saw the Uzi held in the L clamps with two rubber stays, tore them off, wrenched out the weapon, praying it was loaded.

  The volley of gunfire that came just as he grasped the Uzi sent him reeling back behind the car, and he hit the ground, hearing the jackhammer crack of bullets as they ripped into metal. As he fell back and rolled along the side of the car, the fingers of one hand fumbled wildly for the safety catch, found it, then the cocking handle.

  He flicked the Uzi onto automatic fire with his thumb, bullets cracking into the ground around him.

  The man with the Heckler & Koch moved forward, firing wildly; Volkmann rolled to the right on the asphalt, and on the third roll he aimed and squeezed the trigger.

  The Uzi exploded in his hands.

  Bullets ripped into the man’s chest, his body lurching, hammered back onto the ground as Volkmann kept the pressure on the trigger.

  Click.

  The magazine emptied.

  Silence.

  Volkmann dropped the Uzi, stood, and looked back toward the warehouse window. No movement beyond the shattered glass, but he heard the moans of pain and the cries for help.

  At that moment, he heard the roar of a motor and saw the headlights of a car flash onto his left.

  • • •

  Beck saw everything happen from where he sat in the parked car.

  He swore. He saw Kleins fall under the hail of fire, saw the man drop his weapon, stand, and move out from behind the shattered police car.

  Beck gunned the Fiat’s engine and flicked on the headlights.

  As he reached for the Heckler & Koch on the seat beside him, he hit the accelerator hard and the Fiat lurched forward.

  • • •

  Volkmann heard the screech of tires and saw the blinding beams of light race toward him.

  Eighty yards.

  Seventy.

  He crouched as a burst of fire suddenly raked the ground to his left, chips of stone flying as lead cracked into asphalt.

  Fifty yards.

  Forty.

  The Fiat growled toward him, headlights like the glaring eyes of some crazed wild animal, blinding him.

  The empty Uzi lay five yards away.

  He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the piercing lights, glimpsed the Heckler & Koch beside the man’s pulped body, flung himself down, and rolled the last five yards, his hands scrabbling wildly for the weapon as another burst of fire raked the ground to his left.

  Thirty yards.

  Twenty.

  Volkmann grasped the Heckler & Koch, rolled to the right, aimed, squeezed the trigger just as the Fiat appeared under the wash of the apron’s lights.

  The burst from the Heckler & Koch shattered the left side of the windshield, turned it white, but the car kept coming, weaving crazily. Volkmann glimpsed the face of the driver beyond the half-shattered glass, the barrel of his weapon spitting flame.

  At the last moment, Volkmann released the pressure on the trigger, rolled to the right again, squeezed the trigger hard, felt the weapon chatter madly in his hands as the bullets ripped across the shattered windshield.

  The second burst almost decapitated the driver, sent his head flying back hard against the headrest as the Fiat veered wildly out of control, screaming past Volkmann with a rush of air. There was a grinding screech of metal hitting metal as it smashed into the unmarked police car, and then came a sharp crack as the gas tank exploded and a geyser of orange flame erupted.

  A wave of intense heat rolled toward Volkmann as he pushed himself up and raced back toward the warehouse. The light was still on in the tiny shattered office, but no sign of life.

  And then he saw a figure stand up shakily. Orsati—blood streaming down his face, his hand covering a head wound as he tried to steady himself against a wall.

  Suddenly the harbor came alive. A siren screamed, and seconds later a ghostly blue light swirled as a police car raced out of nowhere and screeched to a halt.

  Two uniformed police stepped warily from the car, pistols at the ready as they cast disbelieving looks at the shattered warehouse office, then at the tangle of blazing metal.

  As the men rushed forward, unsure of their enemy, Volkmann slowly raised his hands over his head.

  And then another police car wailed into view, and then another. More cops jumping from cars, until finally all the sirens died and were replaced by screaming voices, the twilight streaked by the corona of revolving blue lights and the shadows of cops everywhere.

  STRASBOURG. 4:03 P.M.

  The two men stepped out of the elevator into the empty corridor.

  The one carrying the briefcase led the way. It took them less than twenty seconds to find the office, the name on the plaque on the door.

  Ferguson was on the telephone and clutching a sheet of paper when the door burst in. He saw the men and the silenced pistols in their hands and started to open his mouth to speak.

  Four times he was hit in the chest, twice in the head, the force of the bullets sending him flying backward, dragging the telephone and papers with him, his body hurled against the wall.

  The receiver was still clutched in his hands when the man with the briefcase stepped forward and coldly fired another two shots into his head.

  The two men remained in the office no more than twenty seconds, one of them searching through the unlocked cabinets and desk drawers, the other opening the briefcase he carried, setting the bomb’s timer, then closing the briefcase again and placing it under Ferguson’s desk.

  Neither man noticed the classified report from Asunción lying on the floor, the page streaked with blood.

  They checked the hallway, saw that it was clear, and stepped outside, closing the door after them.

  • • •

  Erica sat alone in the bedroom.

  When Peters had started probing her with a few gentle questions, she had excused herself, saying she was tired.

  A gust of wind rattled the glass, and a flurry of snow brushed against it. As she went to draw the curtains, she heard the noise from the hallway: a sudden rush of heavy footsteps.

  She moved quickly across the room. As she opened the bedroom door, she heard the television, saw Peters rising quickly from his chair, staring at some point toward the hallway, saw the color drain from his face.

  Peters said, “Who the devil are you—”

  And as he reached for the pistol lying on his coat, Erica saw the two men with guns in their hands rush toward him, saw the backs of their pale raincoats.

  As Peters grabbed his pistol, there was a strange whistling sound, and then another and another as both men fired rapidly into Peters’s body, blossoms of red erupting on his chest and face as he was flung back against the chair.

  Erica screamed.

  • • •

  The Mercedes halted on the Quai Arpège, and the man in the passenger seat checked his watch.

  Fifteen seconds later, both men heard the huge blast in the distance as the air ruptured with the sound of the explosion. The man nodded, and the driver pulled out from the curb.

  Minutes later came the wail of sirens behind them in the distance, but neither man looked back.

  And neither saw the dark-colored sedan that pulled out quietly fifty yards behind them.

  50

  GENOA. 5:30 P.M.

  Volkmann waited his turn to speak as he sat in the police commissioner’s office on the Plaza di Fortunesca.

  The tension in the room was as thick as the cigarette smoke that rose like a gray cloud to the ceiling. Orsati sat in the center of the brightly lit office; broad strips of flesh-colored plaster ran from just below his left eye to the middle of his cheek where a bullet had rutted flesh.
<
br />   “It could be worse,” he had said to Volkmann after the doctor and nurse tended to him on the dock apron, white teeth flashing behind his mustache, but the detective looked badly shaken.

  Apart from Volkmann and Orsati, there were two other men in the room. One was the Genoese police commissioner. A bespectacled, handsome man wearing a smart gray business suit with a pale blue tie and white handkerchief. A touch of flamboyance, but the man totally in control.

  The fourth man present was the chief of detectives, tall, with metal-rimmed glasses.

  Orsati explained that Scali had talked before he was shot. One small box, the last consignment. A heavy box, concealed in the false side of the container. Several other consignments over the past year—weapons, Scali had guessed, or maybe even gold. But Scali claimed he wasn’t sure, the contents a mystery.

  Orsati told them that the forensic people were still conducting tests. The commissioner sat behind the desk, chewing an unlit cigar. The chief of detectives was talking now to his commissioner. Volkmann waited for the man to finish, waited for him to translate.

  Volkmann had told his story in English, corroborated by Orsati.

  As far as the commissioner was concerned, it came down to four bodies and two wounded detectives. One of the dead was an official of the Italian customs service, Paulo Bonefacio; the others were Scali and the two armed men on the apron.

  The assassin’s clothing was of German manufacture. But he carried no identification papers of any sort.

  “Like a suicide squad,” Orsati remarked of the men’s action. “Crazy.”

  Now the chief of detectives stopped talking, turned to Volkmann, and said, “I have explained everything to the commissioner as you and Detective Orsati told it to me. But something’s unclear. Do you have any idea why the two men wanted to kill Franco Scali? What their motive was?”

  Volkmann glanced toward the window, darkness outside. “I can only tell you what you know already. We learned about a cargo from South America, with Genoa as the possible destination. We requested that a thorough check be made on all cargoes from Montevideo and São Paulo.” Volkmann stared at the man. “I gave you the name and telephone number in Strasbourg. Have the commissioner contact Ferguson at once and tell him what’s happened.”

  The man sighed. “Signore Volkmann, we are trying to make contact. But in the meantime, your help would be greatly appreciated. Isn’t there anything else you can tell us?”

  “Nothing.”

  The man said impatiently, “We have been more than cooperative. But four men are dead, and I want to know why.”

  Volkmann recognized the frustration in the man’s tone. But he needed Ferguson to decide how much he could tell the Italians.

  Volkmann said, “I need clearance.”

  The man’s face showed his frustration. “Then what has happened goes much deeper?”

  Volkmann nodded.

  The chief of detectives looked at him. “We’ve tried to contact your headquarters, but with no luck. The operator thought there was a faulty line, but the exchange knew nothing.”

  A knock came on the door, and a detective entered. He asked to speak with the chief of detectives. Both men stepped out into the hallway, their heads bowed in whispered conversation. Moments later, the chief came back into the room, his face pale. He looked at Volkmann.

  “We contacted one of our DSE liaison officers in Strasbourg at his home number.” The man paused. “He said there has been an explosion at your headquarters. Our officer knows nothing concerning casualties, only that all his own people are accounted for.”

  The man hesitated again, flicked a glance at the others before he saw Volkmann’s face drain to white.

  “There is something else, Signore Volkmann. Something important, I believe. Our forensic people at the harbor, one of the tests they carried out on the container . . . they used a Geiger counter. It registered a high reading.” The man paused. “It suggests that the cargo Scali removed contained radioactive material.”

  WANNSEE, BERLIN. DECEMBER 23

  The stretch black Mercedes turned into the large private grounds of the house in Wannsee just after six.

  Set back off the lakeshore road, the property was not overlooked by any of the big old prewar houses that ringed the lake.

  Ritter stepped from the car and led Dollman to the front door, the two other bodyguards in front of the Mercedes remaining in their seats.

  The beautiful young woman who opened the door greeted Dollman with a smile but ignored Ritter. Once the two men were inside, Ritter was consigned as usual to the comfortable front study on the ground floor, while Dollman and the young woman waited a respectful five minutes in the sitting room at the back of the house before they went upstairs.

  Ten minutes later, Chancellor Franz Dollman lay on white satin sheets in the master bedroom, a glass of champagne in one hand. Lisl slid the disc into the music system, the sounds of Mozart filling the room. His favorite music to relax by.

  An expression of pure pleasure lit his face as he admired Lisl’s sensual figure, and she came to lie beside him, her blond hair flailing his chest, her pink nails stroking his arms. She was a rare specimen indeed, his Lisl, and helped him dissipate all those tensions of high office.

  Until he had met her almost a year before, there had been a physical void in his life: he and his wife hardly ever made love. There were public expressions of endearment, for the television cameras, for the newspapers, but his Karin was not a sexual woman, a trifle dowdy, yet an ideal chancellor’s wife: loyal, moral, conservative.

  But Lisl.

  Twenty-three and a body made in heaven.

  Her pink-nailed fingers raked his chest, intensifying his pleasure. She was playing with him, something she liked to do now and then, the feline in her.

  “Good?”

  “Exquisite.”

  “What if you’re late for the palace?”

  “Do I look as if I’m worried?”

  The thought of spending Christmas in a boring house, with a boring family, when he could have this woman.

  Another mistress would have complained about the important times when a family came first. Lisl, as ever, hadn’t complained. “I understand, liebchen. That’s where you should be at Christmas.”

  Dollman managed to keep her out of the limelight with no great effort. Besides, it was an understanding among cabinet members: one’s private life was just that, private. Unless the press got hold of it. In which case, you swam with denials or sank like a stone. Much depended on the woman in question. In Lisl’s case, her desire for secrecy was on a par with his own. It was the answer to a prayer.

  “Tell me about your meeting.”

  “As usual, Weber sees extremists under every bed. He’s scheduled an emergency security meeting for tomorrow morning.”

  “In Bonn?”

  Dollman smiled and shook his head. “The Reichstag.”

  Lisl frowned. “Is it serious?”

  “Weber seems to think so.”

  Dollman didn’t elaborate. Federal security was not a subject to be discussed with a mistress. He didn’t tell her that Weber was putting the finishing touches to an emergency decree that very night; his plans to intern all extremists would put the final nail in their coffin.

  The meeting in the Reichstag was to be held in room 4-North, the secret room. The place always intrigued Dollman; so few Germans knew about it. Specially designed to counter any possibility of bugging or electronic eavesdropping, suspended in midair on eight steel wires from each corner so that no part of it touched walls or floors.

  Lisl purred, “That means you’ve no excuse not to stay tonight.”

  Dollman smiled. The function at the palace would be finished by midnight, no later. Then he could spend the night with Lisl before the Christmas holiday and family beckoned.

  She turned her magnificent figure toward him.

  “I’ll cook supper. Just the two of us, alone.”

  Dollman glanced toward the curta
ined window. Even as they spoke, he knew there were three armed men stationed in the two cars outside in the driveway, another three positioned along the cold street in an unmarked car. Ritter, as always, in the study below. In the brains department, the man might be lacking, but his loyalty and discretion were beyond question.

  The tiny transmitter Dollman carried everywhere with him was on the bedside table. The 9 mm pistol he was supposed to carry he had left in the Mercedes. The thing troubled him, made him think of violent death. A necessary precaution, but one he often disregarded.

  She smiled. “What time will you be back?”

  “A little after midnight. No later.”

  “You promise?”

  Dollman let his eyes wander over Lisl’s voluptuous curves. At that moment, he would have promised her the vice chancellorship.

  “I promise.” He leaned across, turned up the volume higher, and took Lisl’s hand. “Meanwhile, we still have a little time together, so let’s enjoy it.”

  In the darkened study below, Ritter relaxed on the couch with his feet up. The phone was in his pocket, and he had turned down the volume on the walkie-talkie that lay on the coffee table in front of him; his holstered SIG Sauer pistol draped over the end of the couch.

  He heard the rising sounds of Mozart upstairs, and he smiled to himself.

  51

  STRASBOURG

  It was after seven when the Learjet touched down.

  Volkmann called his apartment and let the number ring out. No answer. When he tried the office numbers, the same happened. He guessed that the lines had been damaged, and he wondered if Peters had heard the news and taken Erica with him to the building.

  He picked up the Ford from the airport lot, and thirty minutes later he was standing at the corner of the headquarters. A half-dozen police cars were parked outside, their blue lights flashing. Lights blazed in the lobby, where temporary lighting had been rigged up, and he heard the whine of a mobile electric generator, but most of the building was in darkness.

  The snow had stopped and the streets were covered in gray slush. Two fire trucks parked nearby, the firemen reeling in hoses. A couple of forensic cops in white overalls were still sifting through the debris that littered the platz.