Brandenburg: A Thriller

by Glenn Meade

  Molke said bleakly, “I want to hear your reasons.”

  Grinzing raised his eyebrows before he spoke. “You just heard them.”

  “And the nuclear material? Tell me why.”

  “I would have thought that was obvious. There is a warhead. It will give us the leverage to seize NATO nuclear missiles on German soil and foil any attempt by outside powers to interfere. If they attempt to stop our progress, they face the possibility of a holocaust. And Germany still has the largest army in Western Europe, don’t forget that.” Grinzing paused. “There’s nothing more to say, except that after the coup, there will be a reckoning. Those with us, those against us. Those against will be dealt with harshly, I assure you.”

  “No doubt, Grinzing, you’re going to start building concentration camps once more.”

  Grinzing smiled again. “I’m sure that will be on the agenda if these imported breeds refuse to leave our country. A necessary evil, I’m afraid, to rid us of unacceptable elements.” He paused. “You’re a sensible fellow, Ivan. I’ve always thought you so. You have an option now. There’s a door off to my right. It leads eventually to the garage. I can phone through to the guard and tell him we’re leaving. You come with me quietly and sensibly. If you make no fuss, I promise that by noon tomorrow, I shall make those who will be in power aware of your . . . shall we say, silent compliance. You’ll be a free man.”

  Molke glanced toward the door, then back. “I’m a free man now.”

  Grinzing smiled. “Of course you are. Except that I have a gun pointed at your chest and won’t hesitate to use it if you try to call the guards or attempt to escape.”

  For a long time Molke looked blankly toward the far wall; then he turned back to stare at Grinzing. “I want to tell you something, Grinzing. And to ask your advice.” Molke looked hard at the man seated opposite. “It concerns my father.” He saw the frown on Grinzing’s forehead and then went on: “I’m sure you understand father-son relationships, don’t you? The portrait on the wall outside. Is it of your father?”

  “Yes.”

  Molke nodded. “I thought as much. So you were close. He influenced you.”

  “Of course.”

  “If you told me he was a Nazi Party member, I doubt if it would surprise me.”

  “Both Nazi and Leibstandarte SS.” Molke saw the look of pride on Grinzing’s face. “Do you know anything about that SS organization, Molke?”

  “They were murderers.”

  “On the contrary. They were the most loyal soldiers this country ever had. The cream of Germany. The chosen few. And their officers were the elite. The most dedicated, unswerving men the Reich had. Let me tell you something, Molke. My father and many others like him took an oath to Adolf Hitler and the Reich. To perpetuate the ideals they fought for and made sacrifices for. To serve their Fatherland with every atom of their being. And the only people who have the given right to lead this country to greatness again are their children and their children’s children. I am one of them. We’ve waited a long time for the right moment, and now it’s come.

  “Look at what’s happening in this country, Molke. Not only on the streets. Even ordinary Germans are saying the Reich had its merits. Why? Because they know it’s time to clean this country up. Time to wake up and be Germans again. Time to shake off that stupid mantle of pious remorse for the past. To purify this country and clean up its mess. And yes, you were right, there are people, many in positions of power, people like me, men and women who have waited a long time for this moment. They are bound in blood to fulfill their fathers’ pledges. And when the time comes, and it will come within the next hours, they will do their duty.”

  Molke looked at Grinzing palely. “I can’t believe you think that every German thinks like that, Grinzing. If you do, you ought to be certified. Or that every son and daughter of every SS officer will support this madness.”

  Grinzing half smiled. “Those who don’t will be dealt with. Some already have been. They disgraced their fathers’ testimony by refusing to help us plan for the days ahead. But those with us will help mold the future and create an even greater Germany. I’m talking about a formidable force, Ivan, not some half-baked group of anarchists.”

  Molke said nothing. There was an almost maniacal look on Grinzing’s face. Finally Molke said, “Then I think you’re going to appreciate what I have to say.”

  “Go on.”

  Ivan Molke hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost without emotion. “Before the war my father was a young man with a wife and a baby. Once the Nazis came to power, they began to purge anyone who was anti-Nazi, but doubtless you know that . . .” Molke paused for a second, saw Grinzing stare at him quizzically. “My father was called on one night by the Gestapo. They took him to Spandau and beat him to within a breath of his life. Why? Because he had dared not to join the Nazi Party, and in fact spoke out against it. Because, in the words of the Nazi propaganda writers, he was ‘an antisocial element.’ For that privilege, he spent twelve years in concentration camps. At Flossenbürg he broke and carried rocks and was treated worse than a pack mule. He was beaten, humiliated, starved. He was treated as less than human. He was whipped on the whipping block until he couldn’t walk, and that for simply losing a button on his camp uniform. All these things, the endless beatings, the humiliations, the erosion of his privilege as a human being, they affected him deeply. He saw men being killed on the whim of a guard. Men being killed for no reason other than the sadistic pleasure of a camp commandant. He saw boys of no more than fourteen being hung from gibbets because the SS guards wanted some fun to liven up their dull afternoons—place a bet on who would squirm the longest before death.”

  “You’re trying my patience, Molke.”

  “I’m nearly finished. My father survived the camps. But he wasn’t my father anymore. He was dead.” Molke raised a finger, put it to his head. “Up here he was dead. A ghost walking in our house. A father we could never get close to because his pain was like a wall around him.” He looked intently at Grinzing. “There are no Jews worth talking of in Germany, Grinzing. Not anymore. But there are Turks and Serbs and Poles and others whom your neo-Nazi comrades would no doubt class as racially inferior. Scapegoats to blame. Impurities to cleanse. Will they be the new Jews? Will they go to the ovens, too?”

  There were tears in Molke’s eyes, and very slowly he leaned a little forward toward Grinzing. He saw Grinzing move back slightly in his chair and raise the Walther.

  “So I have a question for you, Grinzing. What would you do in my situation? Would you keep your mouth shut and believe in someone like you? Or even in this man Schmeltz? This man you believe to be Hitler’s son. Would you, Grinzing? Or would you take your chances?”

  There was a brief, quizzical smile on Grinzing’s lips, and then Molke shifted his hand quickly to his right pocket and moved left just as the Walther in Grinzing’s hand exploded.

  The first shot clipped Molke’s right shoulder blade, shattered bone, the force of the bullet jacking his body backward, the second bullet nicking the aorta above his heart.

  But the third shot was from Molke’s own Glock, which he carried in his right pocket. One shot before the weapon jammed on the reciprocating load.

  The bullet hit Johann Grinzing square in the face, striking him just above his right eye. As the impact drove the other man backward, Molke slumped on the floor.

  His head thudded against the carpet, there were screams and shouts from outside, and then the door burst in and he heard cries and the sound of rushing feet. Hands gripped Molke, shook him, wrenched his hand from his pocket.

  As consciousness went from him, he heard voices swearing, saw hands moving about Grinzing. The politician’s body had been flung back before collapsing on the floor behind the desk, his shattered face lying directly across from Molke’s.

  The last thing Ivan Molke saw before his sight faded was the look of utter surprise on Grinzing’s dead face.

  54

  It
was snowing as the car jerked to a halt, and Volkmann became conscious again.

  The headlights were extinguished, and the car doors opened. He saw the secluded house beyond the driveway, the front door already open.

  City lights sparkled beyond a flank of trees. He guessed they were somewhere in the mountains near Munich. When he looked back, he saw the figure of the terrorist Wolfgang Lubsch step out of a lighted doorway and into the falling snow. He wore a heavy parka, and his glasses glinted under the light.

  Volkmann was dragged from the car and into a comfortable living room. Glass doors led to a balcony, and the lights were on. On a table were a half-drunk bottle of schnapps and some glasses.

  Lubsch kicked forward a chair. “Sit down, Volkmann.”

  When Volkmann ignored the command, the terrorist said, “Under normal circumstances, I’d have no hesitation in putting a bullet in your head. You’re not a journalist, are you, Volkmann?”

  The icy blasts of air that hit Volkmann as he was dragged from the car had brought him quickly awake, but he was still fighting to regain his senses.

  Lubsch lit a cigarette. “It wasn’t difficult to discover who you are. People like you and me scent each other like cat and dog. After our talk at the lake, you worried me. Why were you so interested in Winter’s death? So interested that you’d risk coming after me.”

  Volkmann looked into the terrorist’s face. “Those were your people at Zurich airport?”

  Lubsch blew smoke out into the air. “And at the monastery. We’ve been watching every move you and Erica Kranz made since that day at the lake.”

  “How?”

  Lubsch sat down. “How did we follow you? Erica was easy. But you . . .” He reached into his pocket, removed a small electronic device with an aerial, held it between two fingers. “A simple transmitter attached to your car so we couldn’t lose you. The same with your friend Molke and his men. You see, you confounded us, Volkmann. Everything about this business confounded us. Until now.”

  “You’re not with Kesser and his people?”

  “Give me some credit, Volkmann.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Someplace where we won’t be disturbed.”

  Two men stood in front of the door that led out. One held a Glock in his hand. Volkmann recognized them both. One was Hartig; the other was the scar-faced man with the truncheon. Both looked over at him, their faces expressionless. Volkmann turned back to face Lubsch. “Why have you brought me here? To settle old scores?”

  “Hardly. We have matters to discuss.”

  “Such as?”

  “Something important to both of us.” Lubsch paused. “You must forgive the behavior of my men, Volkmann. But you see, we thought Kesser’s people would turn up looking for him. Instead, you showed. It was quite a surprise.”

  “Where’s Kesser? Do you have him?”

  Lubsch ignored the question and stood. He crossed to the window, snow flurrying against the other side of the glass, and turned back to face Volkmann. “We Germans sometimes have a dramatic nature. We can be loud, aggressive, unfeeling. But we’re not all beasts, Volkmann. And we don’t all want another Reich.”

  “You know what Kesser’s people intend?”

  “Yes, Volkmann, I know.”

  “Did Kesser tell you?”

  “Hardly. He’s dead.”

  Volkmann began to speak, but Lubsch interrupted. “Two of my men were waiting for him outside his apartment. My instructions were to take Kesser alive. I was hoping he’d tell us what we needed to know. Kesser came out and drove to the mountain. Halfway there, my men overtook his car and blocked the road. When Kesser realized what was happening, he pulled a gun and shot one of my men. They fired back and hit Kesser in the head. He was still alive when they took him to one of our safe houses. But by the time I got there, he was dead.”

  Volkmann shook his head in anger. “Do you know what you’ve done, Lubsch?”

  “The world’s a better place without him, believe me.”

  “Did you kill Winter, too?”

  “Hardly. I told you at the lake, Volkmann. Winter was a braggart. Especially when he was drunk. He liked to talk about the new world order he and his friends were going to create. Except he talked too much. So Kesser had him hit.”

  “Why try to take Kesser?”

  “The same reason as you, Volkmann. To find out what his people intend. Two of my men were watching your apartment in Strasbourg. They saw Erica Kranz being taken by two men in a black Mercedes. They heard an explosion and decided to keep tailing the Mercedes, but they lost it in bad weather near Augsburg. We figured Kesser’s people were behind it.”

  Volkmann stared at Lubsch. “Do you know where Erica is?”

  “At the Kaalberg.”

  “She’s alive?”

  “I’ve no idea, Volkmann.”

  “How do you know she’s at the mountain?”

  “Kesser’s girlfriend told us. Once we showed her Kesser’s body, the rest was easy. She’s involved, but her loyalty didn’t extend to losing her own life. Taking Erica was part of their plan. To find out how much she and your people knew.”

  “What else did the girlfriend tell you?”

  Lubsch looked steadily at Volkmann. “Everything she knew. Who’s behind it. What they intend.”

  “Tell me.”

  Lubsch reached for the bottle of schnapps. He splashed liquid into one of the glasses and handed it to Volkmann.

  Volkmann pushed it away. “I don’t want a drink, Lubsch. I want the truth.”

  “Take it, Volkmann. You’re going to need it when I tell you. And then, my friend, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”

  Volkmann emptied the glass and replaced it on the table. Lubsch poured himself a drink and went to stand by the fire.

  “They’ve got a missile sited at the Kaalberg. The nuke variety, not a conventional warhead. They’ve got neo-Nazi cells in the army and police, and politicians who are supporting them. The man you asked me about at the lake, Schmeltz. He’s there, at the mountain; he’s the one who’s pulling the strings. They’re trying to repeat history with a putsch, just like the Nazis. Only this time there’s a missile as a lever. If any outside power tries to march over German borders and interfere, it risks a calamity.”

  Lubsch swallowed the liquid in one gulp. “Kesser’s girlfriend wasn’t privileged enough to know everything. But she knew enough. To start with, they’re going to kill Dollman and his cabinet.” Lubsch saw the look on Volkmann’s face.

  “How?”

  “There’s a house in Berlin’s Wannsee where Dollman keeps his mistress. Her name’s Lisl Henning. She’s one of their people. Dollman’s due there sometime after midnight. There’s a Turk named Kefir Ozalid waiting to put a bullet in his head.”

  “And the cabinet . . . ?”

  “She didn’t know. Only that it happens after Dollman gets hit. They’ll all be killed.”

  Sweat beaded Volkmann’s face, the voices on the tape suddenly clear. “Why Ozalid? Why not one of their own people?”

  “Because they’ve been very clever. As soon as Ozalid pulls the trigger and the cabinet gets hit, the streets are going to be full of righteous Germans baying for immigrant blood. Kesser’s friends have set it up perfectly. They’ll blame the deaths on immigrant extremists. They pit German against immigrant and in the chaos, make their coup a walkover.” Lubsch put down his glass. “They’ve everything worked out down to the last detail. The monastery you saw. You know what it’s for? It’s to be a detention center . . . for undesirables. Immigrants and others. Another Dachau, no doubt. Kesser had a long list of such places to fill once they take over.”

  Volkmann stared back at Lubsch. “Tell me what you intend doing.”

  “The only thing we can do. The Kaalberg is half an hour from here. My men and I are going to try to take out the missile. Neutralize it. And find this Schmeltz.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Lubsch. You’ll never succeed on your own. Let
me call Berlin . . .”

  Lubsch shook his head. “How long’s it going to take you to convince them, Volkmann? And by then, it may be too late.”

  “What makes you think your men can do the job?”

  “Volkmann, in this weather, we’ll be lucky even to make it up the mountain. But if we do, we stand some chance. By simply informing Berlin, we have none. If Dollman’s killed, this country can still stop what’s happening. But without a government, there isn’t a chance. Kesser’s girlfriend didn’t know how the cabinet will be hit, but someone up there will know. According to her, there’s never more than a half-dozen armed guards on the property. There are four of us, including me. You make five. All we need is the element of surprise.”

  “You’ll need more than that. What about weapons?”

  “We have them. Machine pistols, grenades. Well, what do you say, Volkmann?”

  Volkmann looked past the window, at the city lights beyond the mist of slanting white. He turned back, searched the terrorist’s face. “You know, I had you down as a nutcase, Lubsch. Which only goes to prove that I’d have made a lousy psychiatrist.”

  Lubsch laughed. “I’ve been called worse. That’s probably a compliment.”

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?”

  “For the reason I told you. I don’t want another Nazi Reich or anything like it. I don’t want the mistakes of the past repeated. Because if that happens, there would never be another Germany. Not ever.” Lubsch smiled grimly. “Absurd, I know, you and I joining forces, but there you have it. So, are you with us?”

  Volkmann hesitated. “There are two things I want to make clear.”

  “What?”

  “I make my call to Berlin.”

  Lubsch considered. “And the second?”

  “If we make it up the mountain, Schmeltz is mine.”

  Lubsch said, “It’s not only because of Erica Kranz, is it, Volkmann?”