Hunter's Rain

by Julian Jay Savarin

  The cyclist began to take his bike apart. It was an expensive, multi-geared sports model that had been designed for swift dismantling. It fitted easily into the boot.

  He then began to remove his outer clothing. First were the waterproofs that had covered his jeans. He threw those into the boot. Next was the hooded jacket, which revealed a black leather jacket beneath. The waterproof jacket was thrown in after the trousers. He then shut the boot.

  He got into the car, started it, and drove slowly away, face expressionless. The black leather jacket, worn over a white t-shirt, was a surprise.

  Upon its epaulettes, were the two green stars of a polizeimeister; a junior

  police sergeant.

  When the sergeant came to the intersection unlike Müller, he joined the A115; but like Müller, headed for central Berlin.

  The rain continued to pound.

  Berlin-Mitte. Friedrichstrasse. 0915.

  Pappenheim sat in his office blowing a luxurious plume of smoke at the ceiling, like a dragon that had inadvertently taken a drink of water.

  A knock sounded on his door.

  “In!”

  Berger entered cautiously.

  Pappenheim took the Gauloise Blonde out of his mouth. There was little left of it. He gave it a regretful look, then stubbed it out in the already full ashtray on his large, untidy desk.

  “Obermeisterin Berger,” he began with the air of one who had seen too much, done too much, and was never again going to be surprised in this life. “Stop looking at my ample self as if you expect me to fade before you. I was shot last May, not yesterday. I was not wounded, although the bruising took longer to go away than I would have liked…”

  “If you hadn’t worn body armour, you’d be dead.”

  “I’m an oberkommissar, you’re an obermeisterin. That means you just interrupted your superior; but I’ll ignore that for now.”

  She smiled at him. “Yes, Chief.”

  “Don’t push your luck.”

  “No, Chief.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, Berger?”

  Berger’s eyes, seemingly too lively, were telegraphing something Pappenheim failed to read.

  “See who I found dripping by the front desk.” She stepped back to allow someone enter.

  Carey Bloomfield, in jeans, white shirt, thin-soled slightly damp trainers, and a raincoat speckled with rapidly drying wet patches slung over an arm, entered the smoke-filled room. A bag was slung crosswise from a shoulder.

  Pappenheim got to his feet in astonishment, then smiled with a real pleasure. He stepped from behind the desk and went towards her, hand outstretched.

  “Miss Bloomfield!” he began. “A pleasure. A pleasure to see you!” He glanced at Berger. “Thank you, Berger.”

  Berger gave Carey Bloomfield a look that was neither hostile, nor particularly friendly.

  “I’ve got the message,” she said, and went out.

  “She really does not like me, that woman,” Carey Bloomfield said.

  “Don’t mind her,” Pappenheim said, shaking Carey Bloomfield’s hand with enthusiasm. “It’s the weather.”

  “The weather,” she repeated, not believing it. “The very first time I ever came here, I nicknamed her Miss Hawk Eyes. Glad to see some things don’t change. Hey, Pappi,” she continued, looking at him closely, “you seem really pleased to see me.”

  “I am. I am. Here. Let me take your coat. So you made it,” he went on, “as you promised in May.”

  “I made it. Always keep my promises…when I can.”

  She handed the coat over and he hung it on a wall hook.

  “I’ll remember that,” Pappenheim said. “As for Berger, she’ll soon have some news which should make her very happy.”

  “Will that be good for me? Or bad?”

  “Come, come, Miss Bloomfield. Be nice. She’s only worried that you may have a…bad influence on Jens. Remember when she first met you, you were pretending to be a journalist. Now that we know you’re CIA…”

  “Not CIA, Pappi, as I’ve been repeating since I first met you guys.”

  “Whatever.”

  “So what’s this happy news she’s going to get?”

  “In his infinite wisdom,” Pappenheim began, “ the Great White Shark…”

  “Your beloved boss Direktor Kaltendorf…”

  “Not beloved by anyone here,” Pappenheim corrected, “and still a probationary Direktor…”

  “His bosses still don’t trust him to do the job? They gave him a special police unit to play with…”

  “It isn’t quite like that. Well… perhaps it is. Whatever their reasons, it’s a way of keeping him on his toes, which has a ricochet effect on us. He gets in our hair, as you know.”

  “Do I!” Carey Bloomfield said with the air of a veteran.

  “So in his infinite wisdom,” Pappenheim continued, “he decided we needed an extra kommissar in our little part of the unit. We decided to head him off at the pass, before he could dump one on us.”

  “Berger,” Carey Bloomfield said.

  Pappenheim nodded. “She’s fully qualified for the job. She’s already done the three years’ study and passed the first and second examinations, with excellent results.”

  “So she’s really just waiting for an appointment.”

  “Yes. And she’ll be highly recommended. As yet, she knows nothing about it.”

  “Will Kaltendorf let you?”

  “There are ways,” Pappenheim said dangerously.

  She gave him a searching look. “Why do I think there’s more to this than you’re telling me?

  “So how’s the brand new lieutenant-colonel?” Pappenheim asked.

  Carey Bloomfield’s expression said it all. “Nice change of tack, Pappi. The brand new lieutenant-colonel is fine, and hopes to keep the rank. So I hope you’re not getting me into any trouble. They can take the silver oak leaves back as quickly as they gave them.”

  “Nothing you can’t handle.”

  “Is that a compliment? Or should I worry?”

  “You should not worry.”

  “That worries me already.” She gave him another searching look. “And did I just hear you say you got shot?”

  He nodded. “Sadly…yes. One night, someone jogged up behind me and put a single, silenced shot into my back. It was a powerful gun. Threw me to the ground…”

  “Jesus!”

  “My thoughts at the time, were less pious. Luckily, for a reason I will never know, I’d decided to wear a new body armour that I had kept in a cupboard for months. Hate wearing the things; as does Jens. But this one is very light and very strong, for wearing under your clothes. It was a fine evening. I decided to walk home and thought if I didn’t get fed up with wearing the thing by the time I got there, perhaps I wouldn’t send it back.”

  Carey Bloomfield was staring at him. “You’re kidding. And it saved your life.”

  “I would not be here talking with you. The shooter was a pro. It was a clean, fast shot. He fired on the run, and never paused. He ran past as I fell, and kept going. He was so sure of the kill, he never looked back. Lucky for me he was so sure of himself. He might have considered a second shot – to the head – just to make certain. In which case, goodbye Pappi.”

  “Jesus,” she said again. “My God, Pappi. How could you have been taken like this? Like a rookie. You, of all people.”

  “I’ve been annoyed with myself ever since. We’d been having some…exciting times. Plenty going on, and still is. I let my guard down. That’s not an excuse. I would not accept it from one of my people, so I can hardly accept it from myself. It was stupid.”

  “We all have off-days.” She shook her head slowly, amazed he had survived. “As you’ve said, lucky for you your guardian angel didn’t.“

  “Yes.” Pappenheim gave a rueful smile. “Definitely working overtime that evening.”

  “Who would send a hitman after you, Pappi?”

  “There are a lot of people upon whose t
oes I have tread over the years.”

  “But?”

  “This one was a message.”

  “Since you’d have been dead if they had succeeded, who was the message for?”

  “You have one guess.”

  “Müller?”

  “I did tell you exciting things have been happening. I’ll bring you up to date while we wait for Jens.”

  “He’s late? That’s not like him.”

  “Not late. He’s been out on an early trip. He should be back soon. Let’s get you some coffee.”

  “Police coffee?”

  “That bad?”

  “No…”

  “I’ll take that to mean drinkable. But I meant outside. A treat from home. Not far from here - on our very street - we’ve even got a Starbucks; two, in fact, and eight in all in Berlin, at the last count. Plenty to choose from.”

  “I’m not from Seattle…”

  “And I’ll take that to mean a yes.”

  “Then I’d better have my coat back. It’s raining more than cats and dogs out there.”

  “No need. We’ll drive.”

  “But I thought you said…”

  “We’ll drive,” Pappenheim repeated firmly.

  “You haven’t had a cigarette since I got here,” she said as they walked towards a lift, along a corridor festooned with no-smoking signs.

  “All in your honour,” Pappenheim said. “But don’t remind me.” He glared balefully at one of the signs. “The Great White’s work, as you know. Every corridor in this building has them. And, naturally, in the parking garage too.” He sighed, the longing raging through him. “I’m cursed by that man.”

  Her smile was one of sympathy. “Smoke in the car, Pappi. I can hack it.”

  “I’ll smoke in the car,” he said with relief. “Now let’s hurry, in case the Great White is on a prowl.”

  They got to a lift without incident, and entered quickly as it hissed open.

  “I swear I heard footsteps,” Pappenheim said as the doors shut. “Did you hear footsteps?”

  She responded with an amused smile as she shook her head. “You’re hearing things, Pappi.”

  Pappenheim glanced upwards, as if expecting to see Kaltendorf clamped by all fours, to the ceiling.

  “I hope so,” he said. Then the lift stopped two floors down. “Oh no,” he added with a sigh of resignation.

  But it was not Kaltendorf. A dark-haired man in his mid-twenties in black jeans, black tee-shirt, and service pistol at his belt, entered.

  He nodded at Pappenheim. “Morning, sir.”

  “Morning, Hammersfeldt. Wet day.”

  Hammersfeldt was staring at Carey Bloomfield. “It isn’t dry, sir.”

  “Hammersfeldt has wit,” Pappenheim said to Carey Bloomfield. “Hammersfeldt,” he added as the doors shut.

  “Sir?”

  “I know she’s very pretty, but it’s rude to stare.”

  Hammersfeldt seemed to pull himself together. “Oh! Er…yes, sir.” He appeared confused.

  Pappenheim made no introductions as Hammersfeldt tried to look anywhere else, but at Carey Bloomfield.

  The lift stopped a floor later, and after a self-conscious nod at them both, Hammersfeldt got out quickly.

  “Poor guy,” she said as the doors hissed shut once more. “You embarrassed him, Pappi. Shame on you!” The incident had amused her. “I think he got out before his floor.”

  “He was staring,” Pappenheim insisted, as if in explanation.

  “So you think I’m pretty?”

  “Miss Bloomfield,” he said, “I’m too old. Save the sparring for Jens. He’s better at it than I am.”

  “Oh…I don’t know, Pappi. You don’t do so badly.”

  Pappenheim favoured her with a brief smile. “But I must be kind to him from time to time.”

  “Why?”

  “He probably saved my life.”

  “’Probably’?”

  “He was down by the front desk when I went out, talking to the officer on duty. He saw someone in a hooded jacket, run past outside. Look like a jogger. Hammersfeldt wondered what a jogger was doing at that time of the night…”

  “A night runner?” Carey Bloomfield suggested.

  “I’ll take that as a dry comment, Miss Bloomfield. Hammersfeldt drew his weapon and rushed out, just in case. It is just possible, that Hammersfeldt’s appearance made my would-be killer run on. Who knows? He might well have decided to pause for a second shot, just to make sure.”

  “Your guardian angel was putting in some overtime.”

  “Looks like it. Hammersfeldt came up to me yelling ‘Sir, Sir! Are you alright?’ At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I was in shock, and can’t swear to it. But Hammersfeldt insists I told him to shut up. I don’t remember that, either.” Pappenheim grinned. “Even when I’m out, I’m in.” The lift stopped. “Ground zero.”

  The got out and as they entered the pristine, secure garage, light flooded the place. It was almost full. Marked and unmarked police cars and vans were separated from private vehicles.

  Pappenheim led her to where Müller usually parked. Next to the empty space was a gleaming, BMW 645csi in gunmetal grey.

  “Wow, Pappi!” she said. “Got yourself a hot Bimmer?”

  “Hot is right,” he said, “but not the way you mean it. This isn’t mine.” He squeezed the remote to open it.

  “Don’t tell me Müller’s switched to Bimmers and lent this to you.”

  “To separate him from his Porsche, you’d need to slice off an umbilical cord.” “Smile when you say that.”

  “I’m smiling.”

  “So? What’s the story?” Carey Bloomfield asked as they got into the car.

  “This,” Pappenheim began, “was once used by the man who was contracted to

  kill Jens…”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No kid. As he has no further use for it – being dead – and the real owners won’t claim it on the grounds that it might incriminate them…” Pappenheim started the powerful engine. “…I’m using it.”

  “Kaltendorf go for this?”

  “I’ve been authorised by my immediate superior...”

  “Müller.”

  “The one. The only.”

  She gave a little giggle. “You guys are a pair. I knew guys like you at officer candidate school.”

  “Guys like us,” he intoned, “we’re everywhere.”

  “You’re beginning to pop, Pappi. You need your smoke.”

  “I do. I do.”

  He drove slowly out of the parking bay, and towards the exit ramp with the wide, armoured roll-up door.

  The rain was still chucking it down as the car nosed into Friedrichstrasse and turned left, heading towards Unter-den-Linden. A short while later, Pappenheim pulled over, and parked next to Starbucks.

  “I shouldn’t park here,” he said, “but I’m a policeman if one of the traffic wardens, or a police officer turns up.”

  “Do I speak English? Or German?”

  “Your German’s better than mine, Miss Bloomfield,” he responded with the tiniest of smiles. “Won’t be long.”

  He got out into the rain and hurried to the building to take shelter. He remained outside, and quickly fished a packet of his Gauloises out of a pocket. He lit up gratefully, took a deep, satisfying drag, shutting his eyes for long moments in the sheer pleasure of it.

  Watching as he urgently smoked the cigarette to the very end, hunched slightly against the sprays of rain that encroached upon his shelter, Carey Bloomfield thought he looked like a teddy bear that had found a big jar of honey.

  Pappenheim killed the glowing end with a pinch, put that into the pack then went in, stuffing the pack into a pocket.

  Carey Bloomfield relaxed as she waited for him to return. Every so often, she would idly peer into the wing and rear view mirrors. That was how she spotted the green and white patrol car drawing to a stop behind.

  “If you’re coming to say I can
’t park here,” she murmured, “you’re in for a surprise.” As far as she could tell, the driver was the sole occupant.

  She watched curiously as the uniformed officer got out, and walked purposefully towards the BMW. As if suddenly realising there was no one behind the wheel, he veered off the road and onto the pavement, to approach from the passenger side.

  He stopped, knocked sharply on the roof with his left hand and left it there as he leaned forward to peer in. The right hand was on his sidearm.

  “Sie dürfen hier nicht stehen bleiben,” he said to her in a firm voice as she lowered the window. The rain did not seem to bother him.

  Carey Bloomfield decided to use English. “I’m sorry. Did you just say I can’t park here?”

  “Yes,” he said briefly in the same language. Then his eyes widened slightly; but it was not in surprise. “American. Miss Carey Bloomfield?”

  Though alerted by this unexpected development, she could not prevent herself from responding in some astonishment.

  “Yes?” she replied, the question in her voice meaning many things.

  Then she noticed that he had unsnapped the retaining flap of his gun.

  “What the…” she began.

  In Starbucks, Pappenheim had been staring with devotion at a tempting chunk of chocolate cake when from a corner of his eye, he spotted the police car arriving. He had turned to look with interest, amusing himself with the thought of how Carey Bloomfield would react.

  Then he’d frowned. No partner in the car, and the number plate seemed wrong.

  He had already decided to go and check, and had watched keenly as the policeman had rested a hand on the BMW.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the young woman who’d been serving him. “I won’t be long.”

  He was already moving as he saw the officer unsnap the restraining flap. He began to draw his own weapon from beneath his jacket. He moved with a speed that astonished those who had wrongly assumed his “comfortable” size - as he sometimes liked to describe it – would give him all the alacrity of a snail on valium.