Hunter's Rain

by Julian Jay Savarin

  “You’re the boss. I’ll let you know.”

  “Alright, Pappi.”

  “And let her drive,” Pappenheim said.

  “Don’t you start.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Are you two telepathic?”

  “I know there’s a clever comment in there somewhere,” Pappenheim said, “but I’ll let it pass.”

  The call ended. Müller put the phone into the small, lidded compartment on the central console. “Did you get most of that?” he said to Carey Bloomfield.

  “I got most of that.”

  “Do you need the lavatory?”

  “That’s a non-sequitor, if ever…”

  “Not really. I won’t be stopping again until we get to Baden-Baden. That means another 300 kilometres, at the very least. I want to make the best time possible, before we go on to France. It is now…” He glanced at the clock on the main console. “…09.30 precisely. I intend to be in Baden-Baden before midday.”

  “I need to go to the toilet.” She got out, and headed for the autobahn service restaurant.

  He watched her go, enjoying the slight toe-in of her walk. “You’ve got a great walk, Carey Bloomfield,” he said softly.

  He selected Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight on the CD changer, and continued watching as the wailing guitar opened up, until she had gone out of sight. Then he relaxed in his seat, and let the music take him.

  Now dressed in lightweight suits, the two men who had rigged the explosion were in their hotel, which was not far from the one in which Carey Bloomfield had stayed. Close scrutiny of one of them, would show he bore a remarkable resemblance to the “policeman” who had tried to kill her the day before.

  They were in one of the two rooms they had booked under assumed identities, and sat drinking vodka from the minibar. They were not Russian, neither were they German.

  The one who had laughed silently after seeing the Wannsee boathouse explode and whose room it was, put down his glass, and went over to look for something in one of the draws of the bedside cabinet. His taller companion had been the “policeman”.

  “What are you looking for?” the companion asked.

  “Can’t understand what’s happened to the damned thing. My dagger.”

  “You’ve lost it? Are you mad?”

  “I didn’t ‘lose’ it. It must be somewhere.”

  “Just don’t leave it here for the hotel staff to find. You wouldn’t be very popular with certain people.”

  “I’ll make quite sure it isn’t here. Perhaps it’s fallen between the seats in the car.”

  “I hope for your sake, it has.”

  On the outskirts of Berlin, two other men were sitting in the opulent splendour of a large mansion, looking out on an immaculately-tended garden. They were having coffee.

  “Odd,” one of them said “no public mention at all of the explosion, or the death of Vogel.” The two men in the hotel had acted on his orders, as had the men who had kidnapped Elisabeth Jackson.

  “What of the colonel’s wife?”

  “There too, nothing is in the public domain as yet.”

  “Müller’s work?”

  “I am certain he has put the embargo on the events in Wannsee. But not with the matter of the colonel’s wife. By now, there should have been an alarm raised…at the very least. Perhaps the good colonel is playing his own game. His career records show that he is not unlike Müller in some ways. Likes to follow the unorthodox path.”

  “The lone wolf?”

  “In some ways, yes. This can sometimes make him the bane of his superiors. Again, as with Müller. It is not natural that a man who knows his wife has been kidnapped, would remain silent for so long. It is even more unnatural, when that man is Colonel Jackson. The colonel may be planning something; but we’ll be ready.”

  “I sincerely hope you are right.”

  “It still continues to puzzle me how Müller got to Vogel.”

  “No links to anyone?”

  “None at all, so far. Damn that man, and his father! All these years after von Röhnen’s death, the damage he did continues to hurt us. Now his son forces us to take the kind of action I would rather employ more…judiciously.”

  “Are you saying he is manipulating our responses?”

  “In part, yes. But he is also blundering into areas he should not. He has already received sharp warnings.”

  “Which he ignores.”

  “Just like his wretched traitor of a father!” There was an abiding anger in the voice.

  “We got the father. We’ll get the son. In the meantime, perhaps you should send some visitors to Grüber…in case Müller knows about him too. Send those two from Wannsee. They can use one of the helicopters…”

  The other shook his head. “Helicopters mean flight plans. Flight plans mean traceable. We cannot afford to be too visible. Time is needed to make flight plans ‘invisible’.”

  “Are you prepared to risk that Müller might know of Grüber?”

  “No. But they’ll have to go by car. ” The man in command of the killers took a sip of coffee. “Looking forward to tonight?”

  “Most certainly. It will be good to see so many of us among the crowd.”

  The man laughed. “And the crowd won’t even know we’re there.”

  They smiled at each other.

  One of the men having coffee was a retired general and the other, a man of the church.

  In the hotel, the man who had lost his dagger answered his mobile phone.

  “You will go to Grüber, and remind him of the virtues of continuing silence, as opposed to a permanent one,” the hard voice said in his ear.

  “Do we fly?”

  “You drive.” The connection ended. He turned to his companion. “We’re going for a walk in the Black Forest. Grüber needs a visit.”

  “When?” There was eager anticipation in the question.

  “Now. We’re driving.”

  “Then we’d better check out. It’s a long drive, even the way I drive.”

  “Fast? Or faster?”

  They laughed; the shorter one, silently.

  Pappenheim picked up a phone and dialled a number. The person he hoped to speak to was someone he hadn’t seen for years. He blew three interlocked smoke rings, and waited.

  “Dietrich.”

  “Ah! Detlef!” Pappenheim said, full of bonhomie.

  “Yes? Who…wait a minute. I know that voice. My God. Pappenheim? How long has it been?”

  “How many kids do you have?” Pappenheim countered.

  “Four. The first is nearly ten.”

  “There’s your answer. You weren’t even married then…not that marriage is necessary…”

  “I was married…”

  “I’m sorry to hear. How…?”

  “Oh it’s not what you think. She’s very much alive. Got another man.”

  “I’m still sorry to hear.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve got another woman.”

  Pappenheim paused to take this in. “I see. One of those rare amicable divorces we keep hearing about that never are in reality? You seem to have made it.”

  “Not a chance,” Dietrich said. “It was a war zone. But life is peaceful. She never gets in touch with me; I never get in touch with her. I pay for the kids electronically. Nice and clean. The fourth one is with my new wife.”

  “What a boon, this electronic world.”

  “And you?”

  “Alas. Not so lucky. She’s gone. The worst of ways, for me. Cancer.”

  “I’m the who’s sorry to hear.”

  “Thank you, Detlef. But it was some time ago,” Pappenheim said, hiding the pain he still felt, even after all the years that had passed.

  “Life goes on.”

  “That it does.”

  “So…who says it first?”

  “I will. You have a report about a Volvo on the B19…”

  “My God! How do you… What is it that you do up there in Berlin?”

  �
��Can’t tell you. If I did…”

  “You’d have to kill me.”

  “No. Boil you in oil.”

  “You sound like a strange lot to me.”

  “You have no idea how strange,” Pappenheim said, thinking of Kaltendorf. “About the Volvo. No traffic about it.”

  “Don’t investigate?”

  “For now.”

  “I’m a lowly kommissar. My bosses might want to know why…”

  “Refer them to me. I’m certain they will be able to make contact, one way, or the other.”

  “So what are you these days? When we last saw each other, I had just got my three green, hauptmeister stars, and you, your first silver. Kommissar Pappenheim! Mark you, we never thought you’d make it, seeing you gave the bosses so much grief. What have you got now? Three silver? Your first gold?”

  “Alas, just two silvers.”

  “Still aggravating the bosses, eh?”

  “Someone has to. But I’ve got a boss who seems to like me. So life’s bearable.”

  “You haven’t changed, Pappi. I know when you’re pulling my leg.”

  “It’s true. We work well together.”

  “So who’s this paragon?”

  “You’ll not have heard of him. Name of Müller. Now he’s the one heading for his first gold star.”

  “Müller? I have heard of him. Rumour at the time said that he barged into an American base, not far from here.”

  “He never barges. Charges, though…sometimes.”

  “Is this Volvo thing…”

  “You’re too quick for me, Detlef.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?”

  “Oh I’m always telling something to someone, somewhere, sometime,” Pappenheim said.

  “And now that you’ve laid your smoke grenade…okay, Pappi. I’ll make sure the Volvo stays quiet. But if my bosses…”

  “Blame me.”

  “I will.”

  “There you go,” Pappenheim said. “Thanks, Detlef.”

  Pappenheim put his phone down.

  “Who’d have thought it?” he said. “Detlef Dietrich, playboy of the länder, has become a serial monogamist, and doting father. People can change.”

  The phone rang. He picked it up.

  “Pappenheim!” Kaltendorf’s voice roared.

  “Sir?”

  “Have you heard from Müller?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Pappenheim lied.

  The line clicked.

  Pappenheim again replaced the phone.

  “But not this one,” he remarked with a sigh.

  In the house where she was being held, Elisabeth Jackson was again bound hand and foot, and lying on the bed.

  She lay on her left side, trying to be as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances. Ever since the time when the man with the kinder voice had come to take the cup away, no one else had entered. She could only guess at how long that had been.

  Then she heard the key in the lock. Her body tensed, despite her efforts to remain relaxed.

  It was the man with the knife.

  “Did you miss me?” he asked in a sly voice. “It seems you are not missed,” he went on. “Nothing at all from your husband.”

  “I thought you said you’d be getting in contact. You wanted him to sweat.”

  “That’s certainly true. But we expected at least an alarm. You know, police rushing around pointlessly.”

  “You claim to know about my husband. You don’t. You shouldn’t be fooled by his silence. It would be a smart thing, to let me go before this gets worse…”

  The man gave a chilling laugh. “For us? Is that what you were about to say? On any balance, Mrs Jackson,” he went on coldly, “your situation is the more precarious. We can leave here at any time we choose. You can only leave here at the time we choose.”

  “My husband is doing something.”

  “You husband does not frighten me.”

  “You clearly don’t know about him at all. “

  “I could say I hate to disillusion you, Mrs Jackson, but I won’t; because I do enjoy disillusioning you. You, clearly, have no idea what this is all about. Despite the fact that I have contempt for you for coupling with that…that…”

  “Go on. Say it. Why don’t you…if it will satisfy that small ego of yours?”

  “Don’t, push me! I can give you so much pain, you will do anything I ask, just to make it stop.”

  She said nothing.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Much, much better. Just keep remembering who is master here, and you and I will get along perfectly.”

  He stroked her thigh once, slowly, and she forced herself not to flinch, it case that set him off again.

  Then she heard him leave. A little later, the key turned in the lock.

  Ten

  Berlin-Wilmersdorf. 11.30, West European Summertime.

  Hans Schörma - accompanied by Hammersfeldt - parked the car in such a way that the main entrance to Müller’s apartment, and the garage entrance to the building itself, were well within view. The day had so far remained dry, and was warming up nicely, but not as much as expected for July.

  Both were in the usual civilian “uniform” of jeans, trainers and t-shirt with the black, regulation leather jacket that bore the shoulder-mounted green stars of their ranks. Each carried a sidearm, but Schörma had augmented this with a big, Browning automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. He had carried that pistol since his Legionnaire days, a gift from an American fellow-Legionnaire.

  Hammersfeldt was peering at the building. “Nice place. Nice to be rich. If I had his money, I’d be off to Majorca, build me a huge villa, and wait for all those summer chickies to come flocking.”

  “And here I was thinking you joined us because you liked kicking some heads in.” Schörma gave a feral grin. His haircut bore more than a passing resemblance to the brutal crop of the Legion.

  Hammersfeldt gave a distant smile. “I’m fascinated by him, though. I mean, he’s got all that money, that car, those clothes…”

  “And don’t forget the ponytail, and the earring,” Schörma added, baring huge teeth. “But don’t let that fool you. He can be as hard as nails, when he wants to be. An old Legion friend came here for a visit, and saw him walking by. “Bet there are some people who think he’s a weak tit’, he said to me. ‘Let me tell you about guys like this. They are dangerous. Knew a cop like that once. The cruds on the street hated, and feared him.’ ’Why?’ I asked. ‘Because’, he said, ‘they could never tell where he was coming from. He wrong-footed those suckers all the time.’ That fits your Hauptkommissar, perfectly.”

  “So you have a lot of respect for him.”

  “Oh yes. He and Pappenheim are the best pair of cops I’ve come across. Pappenheim is supposed to have taught him all he knows. I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but the Oberkommissar is a character all by himself too. Tough bastard, if you ask me. Instinctive. I mean, look at what happened last May. Who would have ever imagined he would have decided to wear body armour that night? He did it because his gut instincts told him.

  “That’s the kind of thing that makes all the difference between cops like Müller and Pappenheim, and you or I; and I’ve been real in wars. Out there on the battlefield, trusting your instincts and your buddy to do the right thing at the right time, can mean the difference between getting your head blown off, and taking it back with you in one piece. Müller and Pappenheim are like that; they trust their instincts, and each other. And it works for them. I’ve seen some cops I wouldn’t trust if they were the last people on earth.”

  “Anyone like that in our Ready Group?”

  “Everyone’s got the right stuff.” Schörma grinned. “Even you Hammy, our newest.”

  Hammersfeldt looked pleased. “Thanks, Hansi.”

  “Now don’t let it go to your head.”

  Hammersfeldt smiled, but said nothing to that.

  After a while, he said, “So what do th
ese people we’re supposed to be watching, look like?”

  “We’re not ‘watching’ them. We supposed to look after them. What do they look like? Well, they’re an oldish - not really old – couple. The Hauptkommissar’s aunt, and her husband. They’ll be driving a Mercedes coupe. She knows the apartment. I think we’ll be able to recognise them,” Schörma added drily.

  “Well, I think they’re coming.”

  Schörma looked in the direction Hammersfeldt was pointing. The Mercedes coupe was just nosing round the corner into the street that lead to Müller’s building.

  They watched in silence as the car approached.

  “Shouldn’t we at least introduce ourselves?” Hammersfeldt suggested.

  “Good idea. Let them know we’re on the ball. Come on.”

  They got out of their car, and began walking at a rapid pace to where the Mercedes was pulling to a halt, just in front of the entrance to the garage.

  The reached it just as the garage door began to roll upwards.

  Aunt Isolde looked startled as the two policemen stopped by the car. Greville immediately climbed out.

  “Trouble, officers?” he began in German.

  Knowing instantly this was not Greville’s mother tongue, Schörma said, “Good morning. I speak English. No. No trouble. I am Schörma, and this is Hammersfeldt. We are from Oberkommissar Pappenheim.”

  “Ah,” Greville said, then reverting to English, “All now clear. The cavalry. Glad you speak the lingo, old man. Don’t have to offend your ears with my quite execrable German. I’m Greville, and I’m certain you know this is Hauptkommissar Müller’s aunt.”

  Schörma nodded. “Yes, sir. I do. Now we will leave you to your business. We just wanted to introduce ourselves. We will be out here, on watch. Not to worry.”

  “No worries at all, old boy. Glad to have you.”

  That was when everything changed.

  Schörma had begun to turn, in preparation for heading back to the unmarked police car. His eyes popped when he saw the gun in Hammersfeldt’s hand. Then they screwed up in pain as a single shot tore into his chest. He staggered backwards and even though dying, had begun to pull at his own sidearm. He never made it. A second shot ripped next to the first.