“I love that great mansion she calls a schlosshotel. And I get to see the long-lost husband?”
“You get to see the long-lost husband.”
“How can I refuse?”
They drove slowly out of the courtyard, the exhausts rumbling in the rain, the powerful sound bouncing off the buildings like muted thunder.
Roberts, in his thirties, was at a console with a bank of monitors, topped by a bank of state-of-the-art speakers. Next to him was an older man with glasses, like him, in shirtsleeves. Conversations in several languages were coming through on the speakers. Discs within the console were recording everything.
“What do you think?” the older man asked. “Where could he have gone? And without telling us?”
Roberts shrugged. “Maybe he went out with that colonel Mary-Ann talked about. Although she did say she never saw him leave.”
The older man made a dismissive noise. “Mary-Ann. Brains in her fingernails. A good decorative plant.”
“Be nice, Joe,” Roberts said with a smile. “She can’t help it, and she’s useful where she is.”
The man called Joe gave a world-weary sigh. “The people who send us kids like that need their heads examined. She belongs on some beach where testosterone-rich boys can drool over her all day; not in an office like this.”
“Then talk to Adams. He chose her.”
“Maybe she’s got a relative on Capitol Hill. Maybe she’s just close to Adams, if you get me.”
Each gave a knowing smile.
“I’ve heard of Bloomfield,” the older one continued. “Adams definitely knows her. They worked together in the Mideast. She’s meant to be good.”
“Why didn’t he warn us she was coming?”
Joe shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe they’re running something special.”
Roberts looked puzzled. “It still feels strange. I’m going to check again.”
“If it’ll make you feel better,” Joe Mahony said.
Roberts stood up, and left the room once more. He went to Adams’ door, tried it, and discovered it was still locked.
“Damn!” he swore. He went back into the room. “Still locked,” he said to
Mahony.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t like it. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“I repeat…what do you want to do?”
“We’ve got a master key. I’m going to open the office.”
“What do you expect to find? He’s not in there having a little cosy with Mary-Ann, unless she can manage to be in two places at once. As she’s hardly in one place at a time…”
“Have your fun, Joe.”
“Check the other rooms first. Maybe he’s in there talking with the guys.”
Roberts nodded. “Right.”
He went out again.
Mahony shook his head slowly.
The Porsche was racing along the A115 to Wannsee, trailing a high plume of spray.
Carey Bloomfield glanced at the speedometer, then thought the better of it.
“What?” Müller said.
“Nothing.”
“Are you afraid?”
She looked at the ribbon of road ahead of them, made dark by the wet of the day. She glanced in the wing mirror on the passenger side, and could see the rising spray. She listened to the fierce roar of the engine behind her.
“A speedboat on land. What’s to be afraid of?”
“Part of this stretch of road,” he said, smiling at her comment, “used to be a section of the Avus…the original racetrack.”
“No wonder,” she said.
“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re thoughtful. Your remark lacked its usual bite.”
“You’re a mind reader now?”
“Only when I need to be.”
When she had made no comment to this, Müller glanced at her thoughtfully.
They drove on in silence.
Roberts came back into the room. “That’s it. I’m going to open the office. No one has seen him.”
He reached into a drawer and took out a small bunch of keys. He also took out an automatic pistol.
Mahony stared at him. “A gun? Are you nuts?”
“Just being careful,” Roberts said, going out again.
Mahony stared at the closing door. “Nuts,” he repeated.
Roberts went up to the door to Adams’ office and unlocked it. Gun at the ready, he slowly pushed the door open. He entered, and stopped in shock.
“Oh Jesus,” he said.
Adams was in his chair, mouth open, head back at a strange angle.
Roberts went forward, made a quick check. “Oh Jesus,” he repeated.
He left the office quickly, shut and locked it.
Mahony swung round as Roberts re-entered the room. He stared at Roberts’ expression. “What?”
“He’s dead,” Roberts said flatly. “Neck broken.”
Mahony’s eyes seemed to grow behind his glasses. “He what?”
“Dead,” Roberts repeated. “Someone’s snapped his goddamed neck.”
“But how…”
“Do I look like a wizard? How the hell should I know?” Roberts tightened his lips. “I knew something was wrong…”
“Sounds like wizardry to me.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Alright. What do you want to do?”
“What do I want to do? You’re next in line, Joe. It’s your ball game now.”
Mahony sighed. “I guess it is.” He got to his feet. “I’ve got a call to make. Looks like your Colonel Bloomfield might have some questions to answer.”
“My Colonel Bloomfield?”
“Manner of speaking. Relax. I’ll make the call from Adams’…my office.”
Mahony went out.
Pappenheim was leaning back in his chair blissfully polluting his lungs, when one of his phones rang. He blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling, and picked up the phone at its third ring.
“Pappenheim.”
“You’ve got trouble.”
“So what’s new?” Pappenheim retorted, recognising the voice at the other end. “I’ve always got trouble.”
“Not like this, you haven’t.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Then sit back. An American called Adams has just been killed…”
“What?” Pappenheim sat bolt upright, and stubbed out the cigarette he’d been enjoying.
“Is that the sound of a Gauloise dying?”
“If this is a joke…”
“I never make jokes.”
“Tell me about it,” Pappenheim remarked pointedly. “So? What’s the full story?”
“Early days yet. Only just got the essentials, and it looks like a certain Colonel Bloomfield – whom I’m certain you’ve never heard of – is in the frame.”
“You have got to be joking.”
“I’ve just said…”
“Yes, yes, I know. You never joke. How certain are you about this?”
“Don’t insult me,” the person said. “I’ll call you later.” The line went dead.
“Touchy as ever,” Pappenheim said as he slowly replaced the receiver. “With news like this, one needs corroboration.” He picked up the other phone, and dialled an extension. “Ah. Miss Meyer. I need your expertise again, I’m afraid. I’ll square it with Herman.”
“I’ll be right there, sir.”
“Thank you.”
They left the A114 at the Zehlendorf junction and fed onto the B1, for Wannsee. The rain had stopped for a while and the road, though damp, was no longer wet enough for the fat wheels of the Porsche to generate much spray. Müller barely needed to use the wipers.
“Hey,” Carey Bloomfield began, peering upwards. “Think the sun will make it?”
“It might,” Müller replied. “On the other hand, it might not.”
“What kind of an answer is that?”
“The weather’s.”
“You’re something, Müller. You know that?”
“I know it.”
“Müller?”
“Yes?”
“The Wannsee Conference villa is near here, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Once we cross the water, we’ll be getting off at next junction. That’s Am Grosser Wannsee. The villa is along that road.”
“Can we have a look first, before we go check on Herr Vogel?”
“It’s on the way. Why not? But are you certain you would like to? The pictures in there are not pretty.”
“I know what you’re getting at. My dad’s Jewish; but my Mom isn’t. And I’m as secular as it’s possible to be. I can hack it.”
“You don’t need to be Jewish to be moved.”
“I realise that. Have you been there?”
“No.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”
“I don’t need to. But I’ll come with you.”
They came to the turning and Müller left the B1 to take the road, which skirted the shore. He drove along it until they came to an area on a wide bend where they could stop.
“There’s a car park further along,” he said, “but as we’re not going to be long, might as well stop here. That’s the place, over to the right. The Villa Marlier.”
The sun had actually begun to shine, and a strangely clear light had come upon the day. They walked along a tree and hedge-lined driveway, towards a circular flower bed at the entrance. They went round it, then paused just before entering.
“What a beautiful building, “ Carey Bloomfield said.
The sun, as if given an extra luminescence by the recent rain, appeared to light up the building.
She looked about her. “And beautiful grounds too. Great place to have a villa.”
They entered the villa with its dark, polished wooden floor, and pale walls covered with captioned photographs depicting events of humankind’s notorious inhumanity to itself.
They went through to the concentration camp display. Carey Bloomfield’s face was still, but she showed no emotion. They then went through to the actual room where the conference had been held. This room held a neat array of the photographs of the actual participants, with information on each individual.
She stared at them for some moments.
“I need some air,” she remarked suddenly.
“Of course.”
They went back outside and walked round the building until they came to a spot close to the water, with two benches facing each other. They stopped, and looked out across the lake, at a long stretch of beach. The remained silent for long moments, enjoying the sudden warmth of the sun.
“Gives a special meaning to let’s do lunch, “ she said, hugging herself. “Christ. They had a buffet lunch while they did this. Such a beautiful place. I mean, who wouldn’t have wanted to live here? All those ghosts. It’s obscene.”
Müller said nothing, merely looking at her.
After a while, he said, “Are you alright?”
She nodded. “I’m fine. Let’s get out of this beautiful, horrible place. Sorry I asked you to bring me.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
Pappenheim was already in the Rogues Gallery, and opened up to Hedi Meyer’s knock.
She went straight to the computer, and powered it up. “What are we looking for, sir?”
“The beacon our mysterious informant left as a calling card, months ago,” Pappenheim told her. “I want to see if he has sent us any recent updates.”
“Soon find out,” she said.
The computer settled down and an icon pulsed on the taskbar.
“There!” she went on in some surprise. “Something’s waiting.” Her fingers fled across the keys. “How did you know?”
“I’m clairvoyant.”
“Hmm,” she said, scepticism itself. A window of scrambled letters and figures came onscreen. “We’ve got mail. I’ll have that readable in a few moments.”
Again, her fingers did their magic. Section by section, the encrypted message began to reveal itself.
“Done,” she said.
It was in English, and not very long.
“’Bloomfield will be set-up for Adams’ death’,” Pappenheim read aloud. “What does that say to you, Miss Meyer?”
“It’s a prediction.”
“Quite so. Sometimes, predictions come true rather quicker than expected.”
She looked up at him. “It’s happened? Is that why you asked me to check?”
“It’s happened and yes, that’s why I asked. I had to be sure. Our friend either knew well before the event, or he found out just before it happened. Not much warning, but it’s a help. Thank you, Hedi. No need to tell you to keep this strictly to yourself. No exceptions.”
“No need, sir.”
Five
Like the Conference villa Erwin Vogel’s own, much smaller villa, had a perfect location near the water.
On two storeys, with the high attic converted into a huge study with large, arched French windows that opened out onto a wide balcony, the villa was neatly spacious. French windows on the first floor also opened out onto a second balcony, from the master bedroom.
There was a boathouse, within which a fast speedboat was moored. A small jetty close to the boathouse, protruded into the lake, from the gently sloping garden.
“Nice piece of real estate,” Carey Bloomfield observed as they walked across slightly unkempt grounds from the short driveway. “He’s not done badly for himself. But he needs a gardener.”
“Perhaps he’s his own gardener.”
“I guess. Müller?”
“Mhmm.”
“I think you should know Toby asked me to keep an eye on you.”
Müller stopped, forcing her to come to a halt. He looked at her steadily. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I…I thought you should know.”
“I appreciate it. Won’t that get you into trouble?”
“After seeing that photo of him? What trouble could I get into? He’s dirty.”
They walked on. The jetty came into view.
“Look,” she said. “Someone by the water.”
“I see him.”
Vogel, in rough weather clothing, was on the jetty, peering into the water at something. He looked round, and straightened when he saw his visitors. He was a small man, with a weather-beaten face. The hood of his jacket was thrown back, to reveal wispy grey hair. He looked more like a fisherman, than a retired newspaper editor.
“Dead fish,” he said as they approached. “God knows what’s going into the water these days.” Despite his age, he looked far younger than expected.
They stopped at the water’s edge, waiting for him to come off the jetty.
“Herr Vogel,” Müller began as Vogel reached them. “I’m…”
“Von Röhnen,” Vogel finished, astonishing Müller. “Yes. I know. I’ve been expecting you for some time.” This was said with an air of resignation.
“You have?”
“Yes, young man. I have been following your career both with respect, and with apprehension. It was only a matter of time before you got to me.” Vogel gave the sign of someone who was glad to have come at last, to the end of a hard race. “Please come up to the house.” He looked at Carey Bloomfield. “You are his wife?”
Taken aback, she said, “Er…”
“This,” Müller interrupted, “is Colonel…”
Vogel’s reaction was totally unexpected. “Colonel? A woman? My God!”
Müller and Carey Bloomfield glanced at each other, puzzled.
“You’ve got something against women colonels?” she asked him.
“No, no. You don’t understand. Your German is very good, but that’s an American accent. My God. My God.” Vogel seemed very agitated.
“Herr Vogel,” Müller said firmly. “Calm yourself. What are you talking about?”
But Vogel was not forthcoming. He also
appeared to have forgotten his invitation to them to come into the house.
Müller decided to get directly to the point. “I am here, Herr Vogel, to ask why you defamed my parents in your editorial, all those years ago.”
“They made me!” The agitation was suddenly back. “They made me do it!”
“They? Who’s ‘they’, Herr Vogel?”
“You have no idea what you’re dealing with…”
“I’ve heard that many times before.”
“You should have listened! Left the dogs alone!”
“The dogs?” Carey Bloomfield asked Müller.
“I think he means let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Bit late for the advice. They’ve been awake for some time.”
“So they have,” Müller agreed. “Why do you have photographs of my parents, and their plane, and the crash site on your wall?” he now asked Vogel.
Vogel stared at him. “You’ve been to my house in Kreuzberg? Of course you have,” Vogel went on to himself. “You are here. So you must have known the Kreuzberg address too. All these years. All these years. And here you are. My nemesis.
“I told them,” Vogel went on, staring blankly into nowhere. It was as if Müller and Carey Bloomfield could no longer be seen. “I told them you would start digging. They…”
“Who’s ‘they’, Herr Vogel? A bunch of aging men with murderous dreams?”
Vogel gave Müller a look that was not all there. “’Aging men’? How little you do know. They recruit all the time. Suitable candidates. They even thought you could be groomed, once. You fit the profile perfectly. Then when you became a policeman, they were disappointed. But then, then had a rethink. As a policeman, and an intelligent one at that, suited their plans perfectly. You had all the right connections. Noble family…” Vogel paused, seeming ponder upon something only he could know.
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