by Glenn Meade
He blinked, tried to focus. Erica moved toward him again, slowly this time. He swung the Beretta around sharply. She stared at him in astonishment.
“I told you. Don’t move. Don’t speak.”
Schmeltz said quietly, “If you came here to stop us, you can’t.” He shook his head, the knowing eyes watching Volkmann. “You really can’t stop us.”
“Why not?”
“It’s gone too far. If you kill me this moment, it would make no difference. Do you intend to kill me, Joseph?”
Volkmann ignored the question, tried to keep his eyes focused, to fight the darkness threatening to engulf him. “I’ve told Berlin. They’re already moving to stop you.”
Schmeltz looked toward the French windows. Snow dashing against glass. A look on his face as if nothing mattered. When he turned back, he shook his head. “It hardly matters. Dollman is already dead, believe me, Joseph.”
“And his cabinet? How do you intend on killing them?”
Schmeltz’s eyes opened wide as he reacted to the words. He glanced over at Erica, then back at Volkmann. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper.
“How did you know?”
“Just answer the question. What’s going to happen?”
“That doesn’t matter now. It’s too late to stop it, believe me.”
Volkmann’s finger tightened on the trigger. “It matters if you want to stay alive.”
Schmeltz paused, as if considering. “You didn’t come alone, did you?” He looked over at the telephone. “Your people cut the lines?”
Volkmann nodded.
Schmeltz looked back. “That was stupid, on your part. The telephone would have been your only chance of warning Berlin of what’s about to happen.”
Volkmann’s barrel touched Schmeltz’s forehead. The man’s head jerked back in alarm but Volkmann kept up the pressure, pushing the Beretta hard into his flesh.
“Tell me, and tell me quickly. Or so help me, I’ll squeeze the trigger.”
• • •
Konrad Weber looked at the stunned faces seated around the table in room 4-North. In the harsh neon lights, every one looked like death.
The doors were locked and Weber was on his feet, addressing the seventeen men.
“Gentlemen, I have several proposals to deal with this extraordinary emergency. Very firm action must be taken.” His voice was resolute. “I hope to have your full cooperation in each and every one of these proposals. The president has been informed of the situation and those senior officers in the army and police force whose loyalty we can depend on are already at their posts. All the forces at our disposal are ready to act. Those responsible for these outrages must be swiftly dealt with. I need hardly remind you that all our lives may be in danger.”
Weber cleared his throat, saw heads nod in solemn agreement.
“First, a state of emergency will be declared. Second, a decree for the protection of the people and the federal state will be enacted. All civic and constitutional rights will be suspended until those elements that threaten our democracy have been purged. Third, I want every known neo-Nazi and every extremist, regardless of political leanings, rounded up and interned at once.”
Weber paused, wiped the sweat from his brow with a pocket handkerchief. “The problem of the missile is an alarming one. As soon as we have identified the organizers behind this outrage, we shall act immediately.”
Weber saw the frightened nods. He knew that the pressure was telling on his face. In the silence that followed, he heard a faint ticking noise and looked down, alarmed. The sound grew louder. Weber looked up, realized the noise came from the electric clock on the wall, the second hand ticking away. He let out a sigh, recognized his paranoia, looked at the faces at the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said firmly, “I must inform the president before we enact these emergency measures. So are we all agreed?”
Weber looked at the sober faces around the room and quickly asked each minister by name in turn, as protocol demanded.
Every one of them agreed.
• • •
Snow dashed in flurries against the French windows, and the log fire crackled.
Volkmann kept the Beretta pointed at Schmeltz’s head. He felt the faintness begin to sweep in again, the butt of the weapon sticky with blood, dripping onto the floor. Eyes losing focus, images fading. He blinked, sucked air deep into his lungs, tried to clear his head. He heard panic in Erica’s voice, but she seemed to speak from far away.
“Joe . . . let me help you.”
If she came closer, she could distract him, allow Schmeltz to make a move. He forced himself to ignore the voice.
Suddenly a surge of pain flooded his entire body, and he faltered, slumped back in the chair. He snapped open his eyes, kept the pistol pointed at Schmeltz as she spoke again.
“Joe, please.”
Volkmann said, without looking at Erica, “Stay where you are.”
He saw Schmeltz lean forward in his chair, heard him speak softly. “You’ll bleed to death, Joseph. Listen to what she says.”
“Just tell me what’s going to happen.”
“You’re a remarkable man, do you know that?”
“Tell me.”
“To have unraveled what is happening. To have found me. I admire your ability, your tenacity. Your courage.” Schmeltz paused. “Your name is German, but you are not German, are you, Joseph?”
“Tell me, Schmeltz. Whoever you are.”
“You know who I am, Joseph. Just as I know who you are. Just as I know about your father.”
Anger flashed in Volkmann’s face. Erica said, “Joe, he made me tell him everything.”
He saw what looked like pain in her face.
Schmeltz leaned closer. “Forgive me. But I wanted to explain. The mistakes of the past won’t be repeated. What happened to your father won’t happen again, Joseph. Not ever.”
“I don’t believe that, Schmeltz. And neither do you. It may not happen to Jews, but it will happen to others. Time’s up. No more talk. Tell me what’s going to happen in Berlin, or I kill you right now.”
Schmeltz looked toward the telephone, sat back in the chair, the soft blue eyes more confident. “It’s pointless. You have no way of stopping what is about to happen.”
“Tell me, quickly.” Volkmann’s finger tightened, went to squeeze. “Tell me!” Volkmann’s scream rang around the room. Schmeltz’s eyes dilated as he swallowed. “The cabinet is meeting in the Reichstag. Weber has assumed Dollman’s position. He is proposing emergency measures to stop what is happening. But the meeting is a charade.”
“Why?”
“Because once Weber has made his proposals, he will excuse himself. Leave the room. Go to his office on the pretense of making a phone call to the president.”
Schmeltz hesitated. Volkmann tightened his finger on the trigger again.
“Keep talking.”
“Weber will leave his briefcase behind. When he reaches his office, he will detonate a device in the briefcase. A bomb will explode, killing only those inside the cabinet room. The structure of the room makes it impossible for anyone to survive. They will all be killed. Weber will have assumed complete control.”
Schmeltz paused. There was a long silence, and Volkmann looked away, toward Erica.
A pleading look on her face, tears at the corners of her eyes.
His mind began to fog again, pain rolling in. He looked back at Schmeltz.
“And where do you figure in this?”
“Weber’s position will be temporary.” Schmeltz looked directly at the Beretta. “But my part is not important. Not now.” His eyes shifted back to Volkmann. “Even if you kill me, it would make no difference. The seeds have been sown. There is no going back once the bomb goes off. Only Weber can hold Germany together. Weber and others like him. Men and women who will uphold their fathers’ testimony.” Schmeltz leaned forward. “And they will do it, Joseph. Believe me, they will.”
There was
a hint of excitement in Schmeltz’s voice. Volkmann stood up, Schmeltz’s face clouding in front of him. He looked away, tried to focus, couldn’t. When he looked back, Schmeltz’s features were a blur.
Volkmann flicked a look at Erica, her features hazy, too, like seeing her through frosted glass. He filled his lungs with air, short, deep bursts, blinked hard, cleared the fog. He tried to concentrate on Schmeltz’s face.
“Not all Germans are Nazi supporters. Not all of them will support you.”
“Enough will. You think we haven’t planned this to the last detail?”
“How?”
“Weber will denounce the murders as a treasonable act by immigrant extremists to destabilize the nation. There will be a surge of nationalist fervor that hasn’t been seen in this country in decades.” Schmeltz paused, looked at him. “Listen to me, Joseph. Do as I say, and you won’t be harmed. You can walk away from here—”
“Stand up.”
Schmeltz stood up, his tall frame towering above Volkmann, his eyes cautious. “What are you going to do?”
“It’s what you’re going to do. You’re both going to walk to the car outside. If any of your people are left and try to stop us, I’ll put one in your head.”
Schmeltz licked his lips nervously. “If you’re trying to reach a telephone, you’re wasting your time. Others will come here, because they cannot reach me. You won’t get far.”
“Move.”
As Volkmann flicked the Beretta, blood dripped onto the carpet from his wounds. He started to feel himself go under, gripped the back of the chair.
“Joe, please . . . you’ll bleed to death.”
Volkmann didn’t see Schmeltz’s hand move until the last moment. It came up smartly and gripped the Beretta, twisted, pointed the weapon toward Volkmann.
Erica screamed.
As Schmeltz grasped the Beretta, Volkmann gripped the man’s arm blindly with his good hand, clung to it, oblivious to pain. Schmeltz tried to wrench himself free. Volkmann pulled down hard, heard the sharp crack as the bone broke, heard Schmeltz scream in agony as he squeezed the trigger.
The weapon exploded.
The bullet tore into Erica’s side, and Volkmann watched with horror as she was slammed back against the wall.
As Schmeltz struggled to release himself, Volkmann pushed with all his weight into the man’s body, both men tumbling back, shattering glass and wood as they crashed out through the French windows, the weapon flung from Schmeltz’s grasp as they rolled across the breadth of the balcony, snow and shattered glass crunching under their entangled bodies.
Volkmann struck the concrete rail, the force knocking him breathless, Schmeltz’s weight crushing into him a fraction of a second later.
Icy blasts of wind, flurrying snow.
Pain. Piercing cold.
As he struggled to move, Volkmann felt Schmeltz’s weight come off him. He closed his eyes, opened them again; the image of Schmeltz swam before him, crawling back across the balcony, scrabbling wildly in the snow, breath rising in hot, panting bursts like an animal’s.
Volkmann forced himself to stand, saw Schmeltz’s hand reach out for something.
Volkmann lunged. He landed on Schmeltz’s back, and the man exhaled air like a bellows.
Volkmann clambered over him, fingers groping in the snow, eyes searching frantically for the weapon.
And then Schmeltz’s arm came out of nowhere, and his weight landed on Volkmann’s back, knocking him breathless, arms locking around Volkmann’s throat, strangling him, knuckles digging into his windpipe, crushing throat muscles.
Volkmann felt himself go under as he fought for breath, tried to grasp Schmeltz’s arm, the effort painful, impossible.
Someone else was there. Volkmann turned his head and saw Erica, her side drenched with blood, her hands on Schmeltz, dragging him. Volkmann twisted his body, and with Erica’s help, wrenched the other man up and off.
Schmeltz’s body tumbled into snow.
Volkmann glimpsed the dark metal against white, a yard away, turned toward where the pistol lay, fingers scrabbling in the snow, cold, so cold, difficult to discern metal, difficult to move.
Please, Lord.
Something hard, still warm.
He found the butt of the weapon, gripped it in his left hand.
He turned, saw Schmeltz crawling back toward the balcony.
Volkmann held the pistol at arm’s length, aimed at the back of Schmeltz’s head, trying to judge distance, two yards, less.
“Stop.” The words painful.
Schmeltz ignored the command, stood up, chest heaving as he fought for breath, blood streaming down his face from the shattered bridge of his nose, eyes wide and staring.
“I said stop.”
Snow swirling. Silence except for the labored breathing of the three people on the balcony and the gusting flurries of snow.
“Listen to me, Joseph—”
Volkmann stood panting, looking into Schmeltz’s face, fought the nausea sweeping over him.
Erica was huddled against the rail, her face clenched with pain. The left side of her sweater and skirt were covered with blood. A wave of anger gripped him.
And then there was a sudden throbbing of helicopter blades from somewhere in the swirl of snow above. Volkmann heard it and glanced up. The sound coming closer, coming in fast. More than one craft. Swishing of blades as they cut the icy air.
Bargel’s people.
Or Schmeltz’s.
Volkmann aimed the pistol at the center of Schmeltz’s forehead.
Schmeltz’s eyes opened wide.
Volkmann thought of the pictures hanging on white walls. A woman clutching the lifeless body of her child. The grinning SS man standing over her.
His father’s pain.
Schmeltz’s voice, coming to him faintly now.
“Joseph, listen.”
Schmeltz moving closer.
Volkmann felt himself start to go under again, his eyes beginning to cloud. His body winding down, a terrible, excruciating wave of pain almost suffocating him. He gritted his teeth, fought the pain. A chill went through him, making him shiver. He took a deep breath.
Let it out.
Slowly.
Schmeltz moved closer.
“Don’t move.”
Schmeltz stopped.
Volkmann aimed between Schmeltz’s eyes.
The dull, chopping noise of blades coming closer. Schmeltz’s eyes flicked up to the swirling heavens, then came back to Volkmann.
Volkmann wanting to scream the words aloud, but instead, said them softly. “They say every sin has its own avenging angel. Do you believe that?”
Volkmann looked at Schmeltz’s face.
He didn’t wait for the reply.
The Beretta exploded.
• • •
When he came to, he was lying on a stretcher.
He was aware of the ghostly swirl of flashing red and blue lights in the thinly falling snow; he heard the wailing sirens, and a harsh, metallic clatter of blades somewhere overhead. A babble of loud and desperate voices faded in and out, orders being shouted and carried on the icy wind.
When he tried to look around, he saw ghostly figures in white arctic fatigues appear out of nowhere, weapons at the ready, but then they began to blur and he lay back again.
A rugged-faced man in white fatigues and with a Heckler & Koch machine pistol draped around his neck loomed over him suddenly, looked down into his face. He smiled briefly, and his hand touched Volkmann’s shoulder as if to reassure him. Volkmann tried to speak, tried to tell him about Weber, tried to tell him about Erica, but the words would not come.
The man looked away. There was a voice, telling him something, then a burst of gunfire from somewhere out in the whiteness and the man grimly barked an order, and he was gone.
And then all life seemed to go from Volkmann again. A feeling of lightness in his head, as moments later he felt the stretcher lifted, or so it seemed, and he was suspende
d in midair.
And then a wave of intense pain washed in and smothered him.
• • •
It took Konrad Weber three minutes to walk to his private office on the third floor of the Reichstag.
Werner Bargel accompanied him and his two bodyguards.
When they reached the office, Weber unlocked the door and stepped inside, then locked it again, leaving the three men outside in the hallway. In the oak-paneled room, he crossed to his desk and sat down. His hands were shaking as he opened the drawer and removed the remote-control transmitter, placed it in the palm of his left hand.
As he clenched the fingers of his free hand, he took a deep breath.
• • •
The phone buzzed in Werner Bargel’s hand.
Bauer’s voice, frantic. “Where are you, Bargel?”
“Outside the vice chancellor’s office.”
“Bargel, listen to me, for heaven’s sake . . .”
Konrad Weber heard the frantic voices in the hallway, heard the crash of splintering wood as the door burst in, saw the SIG pistol in Bargel’s hand.
As Bargel raised the pistol to aim, Weber grinned and touched the button.
The distant explosion, when it came a split second later, cracked through the Reichstag like a clap of thunder.
58
Volkmann came awake in the private ward in Munich General Hospital a little after 10:00 a.m. two days later.
He heard a radio on somewhere, music beyond the closed door. “Tannenbaum.” The carol that had always made his father cry, and he wanted to cry, too, not because of the music, but because he was breathing, alive.
He was connected to tubes, probes wired to his arms and chest and linked to a machine, his heart beating in tandem with white blips on a green screen. He touched the cotton dressing on his numbed right hand, the hard bond of white plaster around his right arm.
Werner Bargel was seated at the end of the bed. A nurse appeared out of nowhere, a sudden rush of activity. He heard Bargel’s voice.
“How do you feel?”
His lips stuck together; it was an effort to part them. “Lousy.”
It was another twenty minutes before Bargel spoke again, after the doctors had been called and examined him, after the nurse had offered sips of cold water to wet his cracked, parched lips. A couple of yellow pills to swallow. A damp cotton cloth dabbed on his face and neck. Refreshing. Cool.
