by Glenn Meade
More forensic people moved in and out of the rigged lights on the third floor. It had taken most of the damage. Ferguson’s office windows were shattered, and blast flames had stained the external walls.
As Volkmann stood in the shadows, he saw several faces he recognized in the crowd, but he saw no sign of Erica or Peters. His heart raced and his mind was in turmoil. One of the German officers, tieless and wearing casual clothes, stood chatting with one of the policemen, smoking a cigarette. Volkmann thought of approaching him, but instinct made him hesitate.
He decided to try calling the duty officer once more. He walked to a public phone at the end of the street and this time he got through on a crackling line.
He heard the voice of the young French officer, Delon, answer, and gave his name.
Delon asked urgently, “Where are you, Joe?”
Volkmann ignored the question and said quickly, “Tell me what happened.”
Delon gave a deep sigh. “Ferguson’s dead. A bomb went off in his office two hours ago. I was on duty in the basement. What’s left of him is in the police morgue, and Jan de Vries is in the Civil Hospital with a severe concussion. He was on the second floor when the bomb went off. I’ve taken over as duty officer.”
“How did it happen?”
“The guy on the front desk admitted two men fifteen minutes before the blast. They had Belgian Section IDs that looked bona fide. They took the elevator up to the third floor but never came down. We found a fire-escape door on the first floor open. They must have left that way.” Panic sounded in Delon’s voice. “It’s crazy here, Joe. No one knows what’s going on.”
“Are you the only one on duty?”
“No, one of the guys from the Belgian Section’s in the next room talking to Brussels about the IDs. But no names so far.”
“Who was on the front desk when it happened?”
“A young guy from the French desk. He’s been with us only three months. The idiot never even got them to sign in.”
“Did he give descriptions of the men?”
“It was snowing outside, and the men wore overcoats with their collars up. Both tall, fair-haired, mid-thirties, that’s about it. They didn’t speak, just showed their IDs.”
Delon paused. “I’ve been trying to contact Peters, but there’s no reply from his number. There was a security signal for Ferguson. It came in just before the blast.”
“From where?”
“South America. Ferguson saw it just before the place went up.” Delon paused again. “I think that either Peters or you should see it, Joe. It’s important. Not something I want to discuss over the phone. I’ve got a copy in the basement safe.”
“You don’t show the signal to anyone, André. Not until I’ve seen it. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
“My place is on the Quai Ernest. Meet me there. Come alone, and tell no one where you’re going. And bring the signal copy.”
“What the heck’s up, Joe?”
“Just do as I ask.” He gave Delon the address. “When did you last see Peters?”
“This afternoon. He left early with some woman. Why?” Volkmann heard the pause and then the young Frenchman said, “Is everything okay?”
“For now, just do as I say. I’ll talk to you later.”
• • •
It took Volkmann two minutes to drive to the Quai Ernest. Peters’s Volvo was parked in the courtyard, caked in snow, and as he went up the steps, he saw the smudged footprints in the slush leading down to the courtyard.
The front door to the apartment was closed, and faint noises came from inside. The light in the small bedroom was on beyond the curtained window, and he rang the bell. When no one came to the door, he retraced his steps down to the Ford.
He found the Beretta under the driver’s seat, and cocked the weapon. He walked around to the small garden at the rear of the building and looked up at the windows. He saw no movement, just the blue flicker beyond the curtained glass that told him the TV was on. His heart was pounding as he walked back around and climbed the courtyard steps once more.
He unlocked the front door warily and stepped inside, the Beretta ready, aware of the stench of lingering cordite as he went through the rooms, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.
He saw Peters’s body lying across the settee and the room in disarray. He felt a jolt of fear, then caution, as his eyes flicked from the bloodied corpse to take in the room. Blood drenched the carpet, and it was clotted and caked on Peters’s face and clothes. There was a bullet wound above Peters’s right eye and two more in his chest cavity. He touched Peters’s left wrist. The flesh was ice-cold.
It took him ten seconds more to check the apartment. He saw the splintered wood of the bedroom door, the telephone off its cradle, and one of Erica’s shoes by the door. When he didn’t find her body, he felt relief, and then a terrible anger took hold.
He thought of what might have happened to her and felt his hands tremble with rage, and he was aware of an overwhelming need to act, knowing Kesser’s people had taken her.
And then for a moment, he felt his insides wrench and fall, as a surge of doubt swamped him. What if Erica is one of them? She fits the pedigree. What if she brought Peters’s killer here?
For a time, that thought burned within him. But betraying me doesn’t make sense. Unless there’s something to this I don’t see?
It took several minutes before his self-control returned.
He flicked on the safety catch of the Beretta, found a towel in the bathroom, placed it over Peters’s face, and went to sit in the chair by the door.
He waited for Delon to arrive.
• • •
Volkmann removed the bloodied towel and then replaced it. “He’s been dead for maybe a couple of hours.”
The Frenchman was pale, his fists clenched tight by his sides as he stared at Peters’s body. “Who did this, Joe?”
“The same people who killed Ferguson.”
Delon looked badly shaken. Suddenly the sharp blue eyes regarded him with detachment, and his professionalism took over. “Joe, I think you had better tell me what’s happening here.”
Volkmann ignored the question. “You brought the signal copy with you?”
Delon took an envelope from inside his overcoat pocket, opened it, and handed it across.
“You think this information has something to do with tonight?” he asked. “Because if you do, you better tell me. I’m the acting duty officer. This happened on my watch.”
Volkmann took the signal copy and read it slowly.
TO:
Head, British DSE.
FROM:
Chief, Seguridad Paraguayan, Asunción.
The following information is classified and urgent:
(1) Regret to inform the deaths of Captain Vellares Sanchez and officer Eduardo Cavales in Mexico City, approx 20:00 hours local time, Dec. 20. Deaths occurred in the course of police raid on residential property in suburb of Chapultepec, during attempted arrest of one Franz Lieber, traveling on alias passport of Julius Monck, from Asunción. Lieber also confirmed dead. Lieber known acquaintance of Nicolas Tsarkin. In course of raid, two occupants thought to have escaped. Both male Caucasian. One believed named Karl Schmeltz. Second escapee believed named Hans Kruger. Chief Inspector Gonzales in charge of case in Mexico City. Gonzales mounted immediate search but suggests that the two may have already fled Mexico. The Chapultepec property owned by one Josef Haider, naturalized Mexican citizen, but formerly wanted for war crimes. Haider also died in course of raid. Investigation proceeding. Will contact if further information from Gonzales, Mexico City.
(2) Priority and highly classified: Confirmed to us by Gonzales, Mexico City, that one of the men arrested at above residence identified as Ernesto Brandt, Brazilian passport holder. Subject refuses to cooperate, but Brazilian Embassy confirms that Brandt is employed by Brazilian government civil nuclear research establishment and suspected of involvement in disappea
rance of 12 kilos—REPEAT: 12 KILOS—weapons-grade PLUTONIUM. Investigation proceeding. ENDS.
Volkmann looked up, and as Delon saw the look on his face, he said, “This has something to do with what happened?”
“Yes,” Volkmann answered. For a moment, sickeningly, he felt very alone, and very exposed. “I want you to listen to me. The people who did this to Peters—the people who killed Ferguson—they’ve taken someone else.”
“Who?”
“The woman you saw Peters leave the building with. Her name’s Erica Kranz. She was staying here, and Peters was playing guardian.”
Delon frowned. “Who is she?”
“A journalist. She put us onto this.” Volkmann held up the signal. “I’m guessing that’s why she was taken. Whoever’s behind it, they want to find out what she knows, who she told her story to. And it’s probably why Ferguson and Peters were killed. The two men who were killed in Mexico City, Sanchez and Cavales, they were working the case.”
The Frenchman saw the look of anger on Volkmann’s face, then shook his head. “Joe, you’re telling me very little.” He glanced uncomfortably at Peters’s body. “Who did this?”
“They’re neo-Nazis.” Volkmann saw the look of confusion on Delon’s face. “The German names I had you check. The same people who took the woman were responsible for their deaths. Why they were killed, I don’t know, but it’s tied in with what’s happening.”
Delon said hoarsely, “What are you saying? The people who killed Peters have this plutonium?”
“They’ve been taking it into Germany in small consignments from South America over the past year.” Volkmann told Delon what had happened in Genoa, saw the man turn paler still.
When Volkmann explained about the tape, Delon said angrily, “Why weren’t we informed?”
“Because until today, I didn’t know there was radioactive material involved. And until you showed me that signal, I didn’t know the material was plutonium. Until now, the pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit together.”
The Frenchman shook his head. “Joe, this doesn’t just concern the British desk. It’s too serious a matter. I’ll have to inform my superiors.”
“André, I need time before the alarm bells start ringing. If these people learn that we know about the material, then who knows what they might do?”
“What do you mean? How could they know?”
“Because they’re planning a coup. A putsch.”
The Frenchman’s head shook slowly, as if not daring to believe what he had heard. He stared into Volkmann’s face, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“How do you know this?”
“Trust me, André. It’s going to happen. The signal confirms it. The people behind this have sympathizers in the German police and army. They must, if they intend to succeed.”
Delon looked at him doubtfully. “I don’t understand. Why the plutonium?”
“To stop others from interfering. It’s the only reason that makes sense.”
Delon’s hand massaged his brow in an act of indecision.
Telling him about Schmeltz would totally bewilder him, and Volkmann decided not to. For a long time Delon just sat there. When he seemed to finally realize he was being told the truth, he sat forward.
“What you ask, I can’t do it, Joe. I can’t take the chance. It’s too much to ask.” The Frenchman regarded Volkmann keenly. “You’re close to the woman?”
“Yes.”
“Then emotion is clouding your judgment. You must realize that?”
“You’re wrong, André. Believe me.”
“Then I have a question. How much support do these people have?”
“I don’t know, but they don’t need it. With plutonium they can hold everyone to ransom.”
Delon thought for a moment. “You say you need time, but what do you propose to do?”
“One of their people in Munich, a guy named Kesser—he may know where they have the material. Give me eight hours. If I can find out, I’ll call you. In the meantime, you contact every section head personally. Tell them what I told you. But stay clear of the German desk, just in case. There are people in Berlin I’d trust, but I’d want to talk with them personally. The first thing we need to do is to locate the material. You have the signal from Asunción. Explain what I intend.”
“And when is this coup going to happen?”
“My guess is soon. It’s Christmas; every army in Europe will have most of its personnel on leave. No one would be expecting something like this.”
Delon said anxiously, “And what if I don’t hear from you within eight hours?”
“Then it’s up to our governments. If it means crossing German borders to stop these people, I hope they’re capable of making that decision.”
Delon sighed and wiped his brow, and Volkmann knew the Frenchman had given in.
Volkmann said, “Can I keep the signal copy?”
“Yes. The original’s still in the basement safe.”
“Give me a number where I can contact you, André.”
The Frenchman wrote a number on a piece of paper. “I’ll stay at headquarters. That’s my own private line, in case you can’t get through. The lines were damaged by the blast, but we patched up the emergency ones. I’ll call the section heads on a secure line as soon as I get back. Here’s hoping they believe me. You’re sure you don’t want any backup?”
“There isn’t time, André.” He saw the beads of sweat on the Frenchman’s face.
“You think this is the right thing, doing it this way, Joe?”
“It’s the only way, believe me.”
“Then good luck, my friend.”
• • •
Volkmann took the autobahn to Munich.
It started to snow, and two hours later it was coming down heavily, the fields ghostly white.
The traffic was thin, and as he passed Augsburg, a column of twelve German army personnel carriers and six supply trucks lumbered in single file in the slow lane, heading toward Munich.
Volkmann’s heart pounded as he overtook the army trucks slowly, trying to glimpse the stenciled divisional markings, but the vehicles were caked with snow and mud. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a filling station and made the call. It lasted less than a minute.
As he climbed back into the car, he checked his watch before he turned back onto the Munich road. It read ten-fifteen.
52
BERLIN. 8:15 P.M.
The Turk stepped out of the crowded train station at Wannsee.
Kefir Ozalid carried the briefcase and wore his overcoat, scarf, and woolen gloves. He crossed the street toward the lake, the tourist boats tied up for the winter. The wind coming in off the choppy water was biting cold, but he scarcely noticed, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
At the station exit he hesitated, to make sure he wasn’t being followed, pausing to light a cigarette as he looked back over his shoulder.
He saw only workers and Christmas shoppers coming out of the station, returning late from the city, but no one remotely interested in him. He reached the house ten minutes later.
The lights were on downstairs, and a Christmas tree flickered in the window. As he walked past, he saw that the porch light was off, as it should be. A footpath led around the back and he found the rear gate.
Flipping up the wooden latch, he let himself in, eyes alert and watchful. The houses nearby were bordered with high evergreens, and their privacy ensured that no one could see him.
He had spent an hour that morning walking through the Wannsee streets and footpaths that bordered the lake, getting his bearings, and studying the house.
No lights were on at the rear, but he could see the open basement window and he walked smartly across the lawn and knelt down. There was enough room for him to squeeze through, and moments later, he was standing in the basement.
He closed the window and made sure the latch was firmly locked before he removed the slim flashlight from his pocket and shone the beam aroun
d the room.
Lime-green walls, a couple of wooden boxes stacked against the wall farthest from the window. He saw the bare wooden stairs that led up. He placed the briefcase on the floor and climbed the stairs carefully, keeping to the side so the boards didn’t creak.
When he reached the top, he gripped the door handle. As he opened the door a crack, faint music came from somewhere in the house. He felt a pleasant wave of heat against his face, and he saw the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. He couldn’t hear the woman, but he knew she was somewhere in the house, a faint scent of perfume lingering in the hallway.
He closed the door, descended the basement stairs, then flicked open the briefcase locks. He removed the Beretta pistol, the silencer, and the two loaded magazines, then closed the briefcase again and placed it beside him.
It took him less than ten seconds to screw on the silencer and slide a magazine into the pistol butt. When he felt it gently click home, he slipped the second magazine into his pocket. He had not taken the prayer mat with him, but there was a small red foot carpet at the end of the basement stairs and he carefully turned it to face the wall before he knelt down. He said one final prayer for Layla before he touched the rug gently with his lips and stood up.
Now, as he waited in the cold basement, adrenaline raced through his veins. He checked his watch: eight-forty-five.
He flicked off the flashlight and waited patiently in the darkness.
Four more hours.
Four more hours and Dollman would be dead and Layla would be avenged.
MUNICH
It was 10:45 p.m. exactly when Volkmann pulled up outside the house in the Starnberg district.
Ivan Molke came out to stand under the porch light in the lightly falling snow. He quickly led Volkmann into a paneled study, where a fire blazed in the grate.
When they were seated, Molke said seriously, “Your phone call was very brief, Joe. Has this got something to do with what happened in Strasbourg? I heard it on the news.”
