Hunter's Rain

by Julian Jay Savarin

  “Ergo,” Pappenheim remarked softly, “if something happens to the team out there, it will be seen as Jens’ fault, and the GW would be only too happy to nail him with that. Thin ice, Jens.”

  Pappenheim blew another smoke ring upwards. It was a perfect example, and floated majestically.

  “I still don’t like it,” he said a third time.

  Wannsee.

  Max Gatto secured his headset, and spoke to Paul Zimmer. “Alright, Paul. How do you hear?”

  “Loud and clear,” Zimmer replied. Fully suited up in protective clothing from head to toe, he looked at Gatto through the visor of his secured helmet. “And stop looking so worried. This is not my first job, you know.”

  “All jobs are the first, Paul. You know that.”

  Zimmer reached forward to touch Gatto’s shoulder briefly. “Yes, Papa. Can I go now?”

  Gatto nodded.

  Zimmer began walking towards the boathouse. The rain had stopped, save for a thin, ephemeral drizzle. The damp ground marked out his footsteps, the grass lying in series ranks within each footprint.

  The remaining four members of the team, Gatto included, fanned out a safe distance from the boathouse. They our all mention those footprints in their individual reports.

  Zimmer reached the boathouse, and stopped. He lowered himself carefully, squatting on his heels. A cautious hand probed the ground. He move sideways, doing the same thing until he had covered several metres. He looked to his right, and left. The whole thing took several agonising minutes, for those watching.

  “No tripwires. Moving forward.”

  He sounded perfectly at ease. Not even his breathing, clearly heard on the headphones, had changed its rhythm.

  He repeated his performance three times, before he actually reached the boathouse. Each time, his report was negative. His entire progress had taken half an hour.

  “That’s it, Paul,” Gatton whispered. “Take all the time you need. Don’t rush.”

  “What?” came Zimmer’s voice. “You said something?”

  “I said no need to hurry.”

  “Who’s hurrying?” was Zimmer’s cheerful response. “Checking the door,” he continued.”

  Zimmer took a long time about it.

  “I’m not going to use a sensor,” he went on, “in case they’ve got something in there that would respond as a trigger.”

  More minutes passed.

  “Clean,” he said at last. “Trying the handle…now.”

  All held their breaths. Nothing happened.

  “Opening the door.”

  This took a few more minutes as Zimmer check all possibilities. Again, nothing happened. The door was now wide open, and Zimmer could see in. he remained where he was.

  “No boobies at the door, but everything we’re looking for is in here. All the TVs and stuff…and the body. A speedboat’s in there, and he’s sitting in it. Some sense of humour they’ve got.”

  “Paul!”

  “Yes?”

  “Wait.”

  “Waiting.”

  Zimmer stood still, but did not turn round.

  Gatto, passed a hand across his forehead. The others watched him tensely.

  “Apart from the things you’ve mentioned,” he went on to Zimmer, “what else do you see?”

  “Usual boating stuff, as expected. The TV gear is chucked all over the place. The body’s hands are tied to the wheel of the boat. There’s a red baseball cap on his. There’s an emblem on it, but can’t see properly in the light in here, without going closer. Usual light switch…”

  “Don’t touch it!”

  “Of course I won’t, Max. What do you think I am? A first day probationary?”

  “Just be careful. It’s a trap.”

  “Of course it’s a trap. Doorway clear, though. No wires…” Zimmer paused, turning his head slowly as he scanned the interior of the boathouse. “…no infrared, or laser trip. I’ve got to go in, Max. I can’t do much more just standing here.”

  “Alright,” Gatto said reluctantly. “But slowly.”

  “The word fast is not in my vocabulary.”

  Zimmer began to make his cautious way inside. “So far so good.”

  “What was that?” Gatto asked.

  A garbled response came back.

  “Paul! What the hell’s going on? You’re breaking up!”

  In the boathouse, Paul Zimmer had raised his voice above the sudden static in his ears.

  “I can’t hear you, Max! You’ve got interference!”

  He was standing in a relatively clear part of the boathouse. There was nothing particularly close to him, and no trip devices of any kind that he could see.

  “Paul!” Gatto was yelling. “Get out! Get out now!”

  The explosion, when it came, was massive.

  The entire boathouse lifted into the air. The speedboat rose through the fireball and exploded in a violent sunburst that spread blazing fuel in all directions. Something dark and heavy detached itself from the cauldron, rose to apogee, then slammed to earthwards to land on the jetty, breaking its back. Whatever it was, disappeared into the water. Both ends of the jetty rose in a broken V, their supports looking for all the world like the dental stumps of a prehistoric animal.

  Then the entire, raging fireball collapsed upon itself. Shards of hot metal and burning wood hissed in sharp bursts into the water, loud enough for the four men to hear quite clearly. A huge pall of dense, black smoke boiled upwards.

  Gatto was running towards the flames, shouting. “Paul! Paul! Paul!”

  He did not get far. Two burly members of his team flung themselves upon him and brought him down. Despite the fierceness of his struggles, they held him fast.

  “Sir!,” one of them bawled at him. “You can’t do anything! He’s gone! No one could have lived though that!”

  “Let me go, you bastards! Let me go!”

  They were immovable.

  “No, sir,” the second one said.

  The other two stood by, faces grim, ready to add their own weight upon their still resisting commander, if need be.

  After long moments, Gatto stopped fighting.

  “Alright,” he said with unnatural calm. “You can get off me.”

  They released him, and got to their feet warily.

  Gatto stood up. A large swathe of his clothes was a huge damp mark, with bits of grass upon it. It looked funny, but no one was laughing.

  He turned to stare at the billowing of flame and smoke that had become Paul Zimmer’s pyre.

  “Sound,” he said tightly, face stretched in a mask of sorrow and anger. “Something in there caused enough interference, forcing us to shout at each other to be heard. It was voice activated. Paul triggered the bomb himself. They could have put it anywhere. No wonder everything looked nice and clear. No wonder there were no tripwires. They didn’t need them. Bastards. Bastards!”

  Wannsee Station, Brücke C, the white lettering on the blue background declared.

  The bastards in question, were two men across the water. They had been standing near one of the boarding piers for the lake transport shipping lines. On spotting the rising cloud of the explosion in the distance, they hurried along the stretch of waterfront to the right of the pier, until they came to what seemed like a deserted rescue station, behind a wire fence. They could go no further without vaulting the fence.

  Just beyond it was a large, square box with a red cross within a blue

  circle upon it, fixed to a post. Atop the box, was a big clock with black figures on a white dial. It had stopped at 10.35, and seemed to have been like that for a very long time. The whole structure looked very much the worse for wear.

  One of the men leaned against the fence and raised a pair of binoculars that was hung about his neck. He paused to stare across the grey of the water, then brought them to his eyes. He focused on the location of the explosion.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” he said.

  He passed the binoculars to his companion
, who put them to his own eyes.

  “Boom,” the second man said, and gave a silent laugh.

  Both men, in deck shoes and yachting gear, attracted no curious glances from the few people about who had decided to brave the weather. Those few were now staring puzzled at the distant pall of smoke.

  The voice of one of the onlookers came drifting upon the light breeze. “Some accident somewhere.”

  Those who had even bothered to look at the two men, had worn expressions that had clearly betrayed their thoughts. The two they assumed, were fanatical sailors who had been crazy enough to take to the water on such a day.

  Neither of the men had been on the water, nor had they any intention of doing so.

  The second man returned the binoculars. “Let’s see how Müller likes this.”

  The other grinned, and said nothing.

  They turned and retraced their steps for a short distance, before crossing a patch of green to take a surfaced path that zigzagged up to where they had parked their car.

  Seven

  Pappenheim sat at his desk, head in his hands. Ten minutes before, he had received a distraught call from Max Gatto, and had not touched a cigarette since.

  Wearily, he passed his hands through his hair. “Paul Zimmer. Wife, two kids under five.”

  Finally, he took out a cigarette from the pack on his desk, lit it, then drew loudly upon it. He did not look as if he found it enjoyable. He gave a sigh of foreboding.

  “The shit,” he said, “is about to hit the fan.”

  He picked up a phone, and called Müller.

  Müller was just about to leave his room to go downstairs. He got out his phone at the first ring.

  “Yes, Pappi.”

  “Paul Zimmer is dead,” Pappenheim said without preamble.

  Müller shut his eyes briefly, said nothing, went across to the large four-poster, and sat down at its edge.

  “How?” he asked at last.

  Pappenheim gave Müller the full details, as had been related to him by Gatto. “It was a sucker job,” he added in a hard voice. “I want those bastards.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “We’re in a queue. You should have heard Max. He sounded as if he was chewing his phone.”

  “I can well understand.”

  “They did everything right,” Pappenheim said. “Not their fault.”

  “From what you’ve just told me, he certainly can’t be faulted. He could not have known they would have had a set-up like that. Not even Paul could have expected it. What about the local colleagues?”

  “They’re okay. Sleeping drug. That was all. Two men in sailing gear came up to them asking some stupid questions. Deliberately so, if course. The colleagues reacted as would be expected. Idiot tourists out on the water on such a day. They did not take them seriously. Then wham…two needles in the neck.”

  “Smart. Can they identify any of them?”

  “Nothing we can use. Only one really spoke. The other positioned himself is such a way that the attack, when it came, was so quick and co-ordinated, the colleagues had no chance. Both ‘sailors’ had their rain hoods up, and screwed their faces as if against the light drizzle that was falling at the time.”

  “They considered everything.”

  “Hopefully not everything. Max and the others are scouring the place for clues. But we’ve got a big problem.”

  “The Great White.”

  “The man himself. I’ll have to report to him before he gets to know from other sources. You know he’ll do everything to nail you for this.”

  “The surprise would be if he didn’t try,” Müller said in a voice born of experience.

  “So what do you plan to do?”

  “Coming back to Berlin won’t bring Paul back, nor help the case. Far better that I continue with my investigations, whatever the GW thinks. This is not just a personal case. It was never wholly that. These people are inimical to the country. They have killed a colleague today. They had a good try at killing you, and they nearly got Miss Bloomfield this morning. They once kidnapped the GW’s own daughter. Even he can’t be stupid enough to miss all these connections. If he hadn’t set up his ludicrous PR exercise of a talk for his pet VIPs, Max and his team would have got down in time, and Paul Zimmer would not have left a widow and two little kids behind.”

  “Now you’ve got that off your chest, I can see the line of attack if Kaltendorf starts to flame from every orifice. Just so you know, I concur.”

  “Okay, Pappi. Will you be calling Paul’s wife? Or are you leaving that to Max?”

  “I think is appropriate for Max to do the initials. I’ll call her afterwards.”

  “When you do, give her my condolences and sincerest regrets. And let her know we’ll get the bastards.”

  “You can be sure of that. Now I’d better run off like good boy to Kaltendorf.”

  “Thanks, Pappi. Terrible news.”

  “Not good. I’ll keep you posted.”

  But Pappenheim had already been eclipsed.

  In his own office, Kaltendorf picked up one of his phones at the second ring. “Kaltendorf.”

  “Ah, Heinz,” a familiar voice said. “What’s this I hear about one of your men going down?”

  “What? None of my people are down. Where did you hear that?”

  The smooth voice ignored the question. “It appears this happened at Wannsee…”

  “I have no special teams out at the moment. Anywhere. What would they being doing in Wannsee.”

  “Don’t you know where your own people are, Heinz?” The question had been deliberately framed to cause embarrassment. “Now I wonder who would authorise Kommissar Gatto’s team…”

  “Gatto? Gatto was giving a talk – on my authority – to some dignitaries. His people were in attendance. What the devil are they doing in Wannsee?”

  Again, a direct reply was avoided. “All I can tell you is that there was an explosion. Hauptmeister Zimmer is down.“

  Kaltendorf’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, as he took in the news of the death of the senior sergeant.

  “Down?” he said after a while, shocked voice so low it was almost inaudible.

  “If you did not authorise this,” the voice went on, totally devoid of mercy, “who did?”

  Kaltendorf, gripped his phone. “Müller!” he snarled.

  But the other person had already hung up.

  Kaltendorf slammed down the phone, then picked up another. He dialled Müller’s extension. When he got no reply he slammed it down, then picked it up again.

  Pappenheim was just about to leave for Kaltendorf’s office when one of the phones rang. He picked it up almost before the first ring had stopped.

  “Pappenheim!” came the roar in his ear. “My office!”

  “I was already on my way…sir…”

  The sharp click told him that Kaltendorf had already hung up on him.

  Pappenheim sighed. “And the condemned man had a last smoke.”

  With great deliberation, he took a cigarette from the pack, and lit it. He leaned back in his chair and smoked the weed slowly, taking it out every so often to look at it, before putting it back into his mouth. He continued like this until it had burned right down, then he took it out for a last look, before stubbing it out with the same deliberation that he had used when smoking.

  He stood up, and brushed the specks of ash off his clothes. They showered onto his chair, the desk, and the floor. The phone began to ring as he moved from behind the desk. There was something about its insistence that led him to believe it was Kaltendorf.

  He let it ring, and went out.

  Kaltendorf was on his feet and glowering when Pappenheim entered.

  “You’re late!” Kaltendorf barked.

  “I came as quickly as I could, sir,” Pappenheim said calmly.

  “I want an explanation, Pappenheim!” Kaltendorf raged. “One of my officers is down! I want to know what Kommissar Gatto’s team are doing in Wan
nsee! I want to know why they were called out without my authority…don’t… interrupt me! I am in command here! Not Müller! How many times do I have to say it?”

  Pappenheim held on to his calm. “May I speak now, sir?”

  “Make it good! I want to hear you justify the death of Hauptmeister Zimmer!”

  “Hauptkommissar Müller, sir, is investigating a group of people whose activities are inimical to the state…”

  “Who gave him permission?”

  “Sir,” Pappenheim began, grimly maintaining his careful calm as he went for the jugular, “these are the same people who kidnapped your daughter last summer; and the same people who tried to kill me last May.”

  Mention of his daughter caused an involuntary twitch to flit across Kaltendorf’s right cheek.

  You poor bastard, Pappenheim thought with short-lived sympathy. You’re still on the hook. They’re still yanking your chain.

  He pressed home his advantage. “Hauptkommissar Müller was following a lead which took him to Wannsee, where he discovered a body…”

  Kaltendorf stared at him. “A body? Whose?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir,” Pappenheim lied. “He called me and asked that I send down Gatto’s team. He wanted the place immediately made secure, and a thorough check made…”

  “Why not a normal forensic team…”

  “With respect, sir, if I may finish.”

  Still shaken by the reference to his daughter’s kidnapping, Kaltendorf nodded.

  “A normal forensic team might have inadvertently destroyed clues that Müller would recognise, given his experience with the case. The explosion proves he was right. Gatto’s team are highly expert. Had it been an average forensic team, we might have been looking at the deaths of several colleagues, instead of one.”