“You, want to drive this car?”
“It’s the only one we’re sitting in. I’m familiar with stick shifts. Not all Americans drive automatics, you know. I’ve got me a Bimmer, with a stick shift. A small 3-series, but it goes. Used to be my Dad’s. He treated it like a baby. It’s in great condition…”
“This, is not a 3-series. This, is 450 horses of ceramic-braked, Porsche Turbo. This, never gets driven by anyone else.”
“That tells me. But I seem to remember one time when you left me in it and said I could drive it away if…”
“That, was an emergency situation. This, isn’t.”
“Like I said, that tells me.”
“Müller.”
“What?”
“Open your goddammed eyes. We’re not moving yet.”
Müller had stopped to fill up at a service station on the A9 autobahn, heading south towards Halle and Saalfeld.
He had then driven to a parking bay, called Aunt Isolde to warn of their arrival, and in an unaccustomed fit of generosity regarding the car, had made the decision to switch seats. As in if sympathy, the rain had decided to hold off.
“I’ve taken leave of my senses,” he now said to himself.
“Are your eyes open?”
“They’re open. I might as well see where my temporary insanity is leading me.” He made a show of checking that his seatbelt was secure. “Reverse is…”
“I can see it on the shift, Müller.” She started the engine. “Oh. My. Oh…I can feel it.” She selected reverse.
“Go gently,” Müller advised. “The clutch is…”
The car jerked rearwards, and stalled.
“…fierce,” Müller finished, then added, “This is not the blonde bimbo’s neck.”
“You going to be like this?”
“Like what?”
“A mother hen.” Carey Bloomfield put the gear into neutral, and started again. “Well?” she challenged. “Are you?”
“I’ve created a monster,” Müller said to himself.
This time, she did it correctly, and driving at a slow but smooth pace, headed for the slip road to re-join the autobahn. She remained in the slow lane, getting used to the car. Every so often, she had to pull out to overtake one of the many huge lorries that populated the autobahn network; but that too, she handled well.
Müller began to relax, but not by much. Sooner or later, he thought, she would be unable to resist exploiting the car’s power.
“Müller?”
“Ye-es…”
“Know what a pointer is?”
“A hunting dog.”
“You remind me of one. You’re waiting to point.”
“Nonsense. I’m relaxed.”
“Hah! That why you’re holding on to the door handle?”
“It’s comfortable.”
“Hah!” Carey Bloomfield repeated with rich scepticism.
Then a long stretch of relatively traffic-free autobahn came into view.
“Oooh yes,” she said, pulled out, and floored the accelerator.
The Porsche leapt forward as if hit by a whip.
“Ooooh Gaaawwd!” she cried. “I can feel the hairs on my arms rising!” She broke into a cackling laugh.
“Definitely a monster,” Müller said.
He watched as the needle swept past the 200 kilometre mark in a heartbeat and continued its fast sweep. He also watched the road ahead keenly. It was still relatively clear.
“If you need to brake,” he said to her, “don’t hit the pedal, unless you want the belt to give you bruises that will last a week, at the very least. Just touch it gently, and gradually. You’ll be surprised at how fast it will slow down.”
“Yes, teacher.”
“You’re a power freak,” he said.
“Look who’s talking.”
A sweeping bend was approaching. She began to slow right down.
“This bend is not a problem,” he said. “Keep the power on.”
“We’ll go off!”
“No we won’t. Don’t hesitate. Worse thing you can do. Stay in control. Keep the power on, but under control. And don’t break off in mid-bend.”
She did as he had advised. The car leeched itself into and out of the bend. Another long straight opened. She kept the power on.
“Yeeeesss!” she chortled.
“A monster,” Müller said.
The rain continued to hold off.
For once, Pappenheim was not smoking when the phone rang.
“Something to tickle your fancy,” the voice said as soon as he had picked it up. It was the same person who had phoned earlier.
“Try me.”
“I’ll give you a direct quote.” The voice switched to American-accented English. “’I’m telling you the guy was unzipped, and there’s semen all over his pants. He was doing it at the goddammed time’. End of quote,” the voice finished in German.
Pappenheim sat in dumbfounded silence.
“Hello! You there?”
Pappenheim roused himself. “I’m here.”
“It seems your colonel lady is a bit of hot stuff.”
“If you’re right about her being framed, that wasn’t her, either.”
“Look, I’m only giving you the bare facts…”
“A lot of people are lying.”
“There’s lying, and then there are untruths.”
“There’s a difference?”
“You’re a policeman. You ought to know that. Untruths are variable. Lies are total fabrications…then there’s all that grey area in between.”
“Is that what they teach at the fancy colleges these days? How to mangle language?”
“Language has been mangled well before the days of Plato; from the days your ancestors first uttered ‘ugh!’.”
“My ancestors? What about yours?”
“Oh, they came with perfect linguistic skills. I’ll be in touch. And try and get me a description of the mystery woman. It might help.” There was the distinct suspicion of a laugh when the caller hung up.
Pappenheim put the phone down. “It’s got a sense of humour. I don’t know which is worse.”
He spent a full five minutes trying to decide whether to tell Müller. During that time, he did not light a single cigarette.
Then he sighed, and picked up the phone.
Müller got the mobile out as soon as it rang.
“Yes, Pappi.”
“You’re using the mobile and driving? I can hear the car.”
“You can certainly hear the car, but I’m not driving.”
“I think I need a cigarette. You’re letting her drive?”
“Right now she’s at 220 kilometres, and I’m praying she won’t go higher.”
“Hi, Pappi!” Carey Bloomfield shouted. This was followed by a cackle.
“An adrenalin junkie,” Müller said to Pappenheim. “I’ve created a monster.”
“Serves you right.”
“Thank you, Pappi. I really needed that. So what’s the news?”
“You won’t like it.”
“There are many things I don’t like. I get over them.”
“Adams was found with his flies open. There was semen.” Müller had fallen so silent, Pappenheim was forced to continue. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Jens. You know it could not have been her. What does that woman look like? Do you have a description?”
“Yes.”
“Well? What are you waiting for? Let’s have it.”
Müller had again fallen silent.
Carey Bloomfield was darting him glances and slowing right down. “Something wrong?”
“Pappi wants Mary-Ann’s description.”
“You know as much as I do. Give it to him.”
Müller nodded. “Miss Bloomfield describes her as a diet-freak, Pappi. Dyed blonde, very thin, possibly an airhead. She calls her a bimbo.”
“There you go,” Pappenheim said with obvious relief. “It’s a certainty if Adams was romping anyone, it was
the bimbo. My contact is calling back. I’ll let you know.”
“Alright, Pappi. Thanks.”
Carey Bloomfield was still in the slow lane, and giving Müller quick glances as he put the phone away.
“You look strange. Pappi had bad news?”
“Not really,” Müller replied.
He successfully killed the initial sense of betrayal he had felt, when Pappenheim had given him the news about the way Adams had been found.
I have no right, he thought.
“It would seem,” he went on, “that Adams was enjoying himself when it happened. With Mary-Ann.”
I don’t know that for certain, he told himself.
“No kidding! Toby was playing around with Mary-Ann?” She laughed out loud. “That stick insect? How bizarre.”
“He does not like stick insects?”
“I’ve no idea what he likes; but she’s a surprise. Intellectually she’s…” Carey Bloomfield let her words die.
“Some men prefer that.”
“With Toby, that would be a real surprise. But then, as I’ve found out, you never really know someone.”
“That, is true enough.”
She gave him another glance, as if wondering whether there was more hiding within that remark.
An hour had passed before Pappenheim got the call he’d been waiting for. This time, he was idly blowing smoke rings at the nicotine-painted ceiling of his office. After speaking with Müller he had immediately called his contact with the information, not wanting to wait until the other had got back to him.
He grabbed the phone at the first ring.
“Pay dirt, as the Amis would say,” the contact began. “Your description was helpful.”
“She is known?”
“Oh yes. The name alone would have helped, of course, but not as conclusively. The description fits neatly, even though the hair does not.”
“Well she is a dyed blonde.”
“But no bimbo. In certain circles, she is known as the Killer B.”
“A killer bee?”
“Not as in honey maker, but as in bitch.”
“Oh very nice.”
“Not if you happen to be the object of her attentions, or desires. She’s a hired gun, and psycho with it.”
Pappenheim puffed furiously at the ceiling. “Tell me more.”
“Known by many names – Marie Valbon, Marianne Hirsch, Mary-Ann Norton, Mavis Böhm, Maria Chavez, and many more. She’s half-German, half-Ami. The father is German. It is possible she belongs to the group you’re hunting. Er…I’ve got to go.” The line went dead.
Pappenheim slowly replaced the receiver. “Somebody must have walked in.” He squinted at the ceiling. “Well, well, well. I wonder if our friend Grogan can shed more light;” he added.
He picked up the internal phone and punched in the Goth’s number. “Another session at the computer, I’m afraid,” he said when she had answered, “if you can spare the time, and it isn’t any trouble.”
“No trouble at all, sir,” she said.
“Thanks, Hedi. See you as soon as you can make it. Put Hermann on will you, please?”
“He’s right here.”
“Hermann,” Pappenheim began with bright cheeriness when Spyros came on the line.
“No need to grovel, Pappi,” came the long-suffering response. “I have long accepted that I have lost this battle. What it is to have both the good fortune, and the misfortune, to have a genius on my staff.”
“Hard world, Hermann.”
“Tell me about it. She already on her way, by the way.”
“Thanks, Hermann.”
“Nada.”
“That’s not Greek.”
“It’s not Latin, either. Well…it has Latin roots…”
“’bye, Hermann.”
The Goth was waiting by the door when Pappenheim got to the Rogues Gallery.
“I won’t keep you longer than is absolutely necessary,” he said to her as they entered.
“No problem. No rush. Kommissar Spyros is fine with it.”
“Alright then. Power up.”
“What are we after this time?” she asked she took her seat at the computer and turned it on.
The machine booted and raced to the desktop.
“We’re going to send an encrypted message to the beacon.”
“And then?”
“We wait.”
“That could be a long time, sir. We may not hear for a week. He may not see it for a week.”
“True. But I have a feeling this may get a far quicker response. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Pappenheim decided to choose one of the aliases he’d been given for Mary-Ann.
“Here’s the message: Who is Maria Chavez?”
The Goth encrypted it, placed it in the beacon, and went online.
“You might as well surf while we wait,” Pappenheim suggested.
“I could do some online flying with my friend, if she wants to. She’s a researcher, and works from home most days.”
“I know you’re dying to take your jet up,” Pappenheim said with a smile. “Go ahead.”
The Goth needed no second bidding. She put on her spider – a headphone and mike set she had designed, and launched the incredibly detailed F-16 simulation. She made contact with the person who usually alternated as her online wingman, and in within seconds, a very life-like jet appeared on her left wing.
They talked to each other and flew air-to-air combat missions against artificial intelligence adversaries who were remarkably dangerous.
Pappenheim, always astonished by the fidelity of the game, watched with amused interest as the Goth and her friend became totally immersed within it. At times, when engaged in dogfights, their language rivalled anything that could be heard in a crowded pub, or beer hall.
This went on for nearly an hour, then the Goth called, “Knock it off! Knock it off!”
“Knocking off,” came the response.
The second F-16 vanished, as did all the other aircraft. Only the Goth’s cockpit and the simulated world, a coastal landscape beneath a cirrus sky, remained.
“You’ve got something?” Pappenheim asked with eager anticipation.
She pointed to the F-16’s left hand, multi-function display. “The left MFD.”
Pappenheim looked. Instead of the normal air-to-air radar display, a bright message had appeared.
“’Very dangerous’,” Pappenheim read aloud.
That was all. Bare seconds later, the message blinked once, and vanished. The radar display went back to normal.
“Now we know,” Pappenheim remarked softly. “That was all I needed; Hedi. Stay longer if you wish. Just make certain you shut the door properly when you leave. The security system will arm itself, as usual.”
“I think I might have another flight.”
“Help yourself.”
Pappenheim was turning to leave, when Hedi Meyer stopped him with a soft exclamation.
“Look! Something else is on the display.”
Another message had appeared. “IF HUNTING, EXTREME CAUTION ADVISED.”
As before, the message blinked once, and was gone.
“And we’ll take that advice,” Pappenheim said. “Anything else comes in, let me know immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks, Hedi.”
“No problem.”
Pappenheim returned to his office and called Müller, who picked up instantly.
“That was quick,” Pappenheim said. “She must still be driving.”
“She is.”
“Where are you now?”
“Almost there.”
Pappenheim was amazed. “You let her drive all the way? Great love hath no man…”
“Don’t push it.”
Pappenheim chuckled. “Well here’s a little something to ease the pain. The bimbo, is no bimbo.”
“What’s that without the code?”
“She is, my young Graf, a killer. A
pro. Hired gun. Confirmed by my contact, and by our man with the beacon. Many aliases. There is also strong evidence that she may be a group member…but most certainly, an employee. Father German, mother American. The beacon advises extreme caution. He should know, if anyone does.”
There was a silence interrupted by the background growl of the car as Müller pondered upon this.
Then he was back. “Great work, Pappi. Thanks.”
“Feel better about Miss Bloomfield now?”
“It puts things into perspective.”
“It does,” Pappenheim said, unashamedly relieved. “Some would say Adams died a happy man,” he went on with ghoulish humour. “But you’ve got your peace of mind at a price. You’ve got to worry about a psycho killer now…”
“With a grudge,” Müller added.
“Against whom?”
“The lady in question. When they first met, she threatened to squeeze the bimbo’s scrawny neck until the bimbo felt she wanted to spit out her larynx. I paraphrase her very words.”
“Uh-oh. Not good.”
“As if we needed more.”
Pappenheim gave another chuckle. “Enjoy the flames.”
“You can go right off some people.”
“I heard that,” Pappenheim said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do that. Any news on Max?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. At the end of the talk, he did the usual any questions…”
“Don’t tell me. I can guess the rest. Couldn’t they just have got up and left? That’s usually what happens at things like this. People tend to remain firmly silent and head for the buffet, if any, with relief.”
Hunter's Rain Page 11
