Schörma was dead before he hit the ground, shocked surprise in his staring eyes.
Greville turned slowly to look at Hammersfeldt, who had a frightened look upon his face.
In the car, Aunt Isolde had put a hand to her mouth in horror.
Hammersfeldt lowered his weapon, but did not put it away. “Quick!” he urged in English. “We must go! Schörma was trying to kidnap you! I was afraid to do anything before. I did not get a chance until now.”
Greville stared at him. “What do you mean ‘kidnap’?”
“I heard him on his phone to someone,” Hammersfeldt said. “He did not know I heard. They were talking about you! He was supposed to take you, and kill me!”
Greville moved closer. He did so with unhurried steps. “Calm yourself, my boy. Let’s have this coherently...”
Greville considered he was close enough and acted with a speed that astonished Hammersfeldt, who had clearly thought he was dealing with an old and slow pensioner.
A chopping palm slammed into the upper arm of the hand that held the gun. Hammersfeldt gasped with the fierceness of the sudden pain, The hand opened involuntarily, and the weapon dropped to the ground. Greville swiftly picked it up, and pointed it at Hammersfeldt.
“Now,” Greville said, “do let’s talk about this little piece of theatre. Don’t move a muscle, old boy. I am quite good with these toys.”
Hammersfeldt looked into eyes that sent shivers through him, and remained perfectly still, not even trying to hold with his other hand, the upper arm that now hurt excruciatingly.
“Stay where you are, my dear,” Greville called to Aunt Isolde; then with his left hand, he fished his mobile out of a jacket pocket, and keeping a cold eye upon Hammersfeldt, dialled Pappenheim’s number.
“Pappenheim.”
“Ah. Oberkommissar. Greville, here. We’re at Müller’s place.”
“Welcome to Berlin, Mr Greville…”
“I’m afraid the welcome has been rather thin. One of your officer’s is down. Schörma…”
“What? And the other one? Hammersfeldt?”
“Ah. That’s the problem, Hammersfeldt shot him.”
A shocked silence greeted this.
“Go on, Mr Greville,” Pappenheim continued in a heavy voice.
“I’ve disarmed him…”
“You?”
“Me. I’ve now got him at the point of his own gun, pending further enquiries. He gave a cock-and-bull story about Schörma planning to kidnap us. Rubbish, of course. But it does make one wonder about his own motives.”
“It certainly does, Mr Greville. I’ve already got people on the way even as we speak, and...”
It was at that moment that Hammersfeldt decided to make his move. He turned, and ran, removing the leather jacket and dropping it as he went. He did not run towards the unmarked patrol car.
“Stop!” Greville shouted. “Stop I say!” But he did not shoot, and Hammersfeldt escaped.
“What was that?” came Pappenheim’s voice sharply.
“I’m afraid our man has legged it.”
“He ran?”
“Afraid so. Clean getaway. You have lost a second policeman, old man. Something tells me you won’t be seeing him again in this particular uniform. He threw off the jacket he was wearing.”
“Exactly what happened?”
Greville gave precise details.
“My God,” Pappenheim said when Greville had finished.
“As well you might. Look. I feel rather exposed out here with a police weapon in my hand, and a dead officer at my feet. People are beginning to look.”
“Put the gun away, and pretend you’re caring for him. Some of my people will be with you soon. Kommissarin Fohlmeister is in charge. She’ll take care of everything. As soon as she arrives, leave her to it, and get inside. Your part will be over. Just look after Jens’ aunt, and yourself.”
“Will do, old boy. They can’t get here soon enough.”
A few minutes later, one of the Ready Group’s vans screeched to a halt, and Ilona Fohlmeister jumped out, followed by three male colleagues, who immediately began to attend to the dead Schörma.
She went up to Greville, hand outstretched. “Mr Greville? Ilona Fohlmeister.”
“Glad you’re here,” he said, shaking hands. He gave her the gun. “This was Hammersfeldt’s.”
Her lips tightened as she took the weapon, then turned to look as Schörma’s body was placed on a stretcher, covered, then picked up to be put into the van.
“The little bastard,” she said, thinking of Hammersfeldt.
“Nothing quite as bad as the betrayal of one’s own team,” Greville said with feeling.
Her eyes darted towards him. “You say that with the voice of experience.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’ve been there.”
“I can hear things that I know I should not ask about,” she said. “So I’ll leave you to it, Mr Greville. “
He nodded. “Yes. Sorry about your colleague. Bad business, his going like that. Any wife? Children?”
“None.”
“Still not much of a comfort, but worse if there had been. Sorry,” he repeated, and got back into the Mercedes.
The garage door, having reached maximum elevation, had remained open. A shocked Aunt Isolde drove in.
Baden-Baden outskirts, 1145, West European Summer Time.
Müller had made even better time than he had hoped. He had driven at extremely high speed, reducing Carey Bloomfield at times to long periods of silence as she had watched the road stream before her, marvelling that the car had remained on the road at all.
Sections of the A5 autobahn had felt so rough, with a regular and sometimes thumping that was accentuated by the Porsche’s stiffened suspension, despite the comfort within the car itself.
She now gave a quite sigh of relief as Müller began to slow down, in preparation for the approach to the exit.
He glanced at her. “We’re you frightened?”
“Of course not!”
“Good run, wasn’t it? We are here before midday. I enjoy these high-speed dashes from time to time. The car feels free; like a charger being given free rein.”
“It’s a car, Müller.”
“It’s 450 horses,” he corrected, smiling, knowing she was trying to goad him.
“I’m happy for all of them. So where does this person we’ve charged down to see, live?”
“Just outside Baden-Baden. We won’t have to go through town. In fact, not far from the autobahn. Very handy.”
They found the place less than ten minutes later. It was indeed close to the autobahn; but the large house within its huge grounds was such a haven of peace, the traffic could scarcely be heard.
Carey Bloomfield stared at the house, as it came into view at the end of a long avenue of tall trees.
“Oh wow!” she said. “Müller, nothing beats the Derrenberg for me for grand style, but this ain’t no log cabin. I didn’t realise editors made this kind of money.”
“If you’re paid enough to defame someone,” he remarked with some bitterness, “you might be able to afford this. It will be worth many times more, perhaps, than when he was first able to buy it. So he’s made a profit tool, if he ever decides to sell.”
“On the backs of your parents.”
“Could be.”
“Suddenly, this place doesn’t look so beautiful anymore.”
“The place is still beautiful. It is a large herrenhaus. But it was designed to look like a mix between the traditional herrenhaus, and a villa. Architecturally, it should have been a disaster. But this, looks good. It’s not its fault that the man who lives here bought it.”
As the avenue ended, the white building with its red roof, seemed to rise before them in imposing majesty. A uniformed butler came out of the house to stand upon the raised, crescent-shaped terrace, as the car came to a stop.
“My, my,” Carey Bloomfield said. “Will you look at that. He’s not sneering at the car,
Müller. So he must approve.”
“Behave,” he said, as the butler began to descend a short flight of steps, with all the poise of an emperor.
“If he’s like that,” Carey Bloomfield whispered, “what’s his boss going to be like?”
“Behave,” Müller repeated, getting out of the car.
He drew himself to his full height, just as the butler reached him. Having lost the raised advantage of the terrace, the butler had to look up.
“May I be of service, sir?” the butler enquired.
“You may. My name is Müller, Hauptkommissar…”
The butler did not bat an eye. “Herr Grüber knows all the senior policemen in the area. I have never heard him speak of a Müller.”
Müller was rapidly becoming impatient with the man, and went for the big gun he tended to use on snobs like this.
“Then perhaps he knows von Röhnen. Graf von Röhnen.” Müller handed him a gold-bordered card with an embossed coat of arms.
The butler, a round man with a perfectly round head that was reminiscent of a football, blinked when he saw the card.
“Herr Graf! Of course! I will inform Herr Grüber at once. If the Herr Graf and the Frau Gräfin von Röhnen will please follow me.”
The butler waited until Carey Bloomfield, keeping a perfectly straight face, had joined Müller.
He bowed slightly. “Frau Gräfin.” Then he turned as if on wheels, and began to go back up the steps. Carrying the card before him as if it were a laden silver platter.
“What did he call me?” she whispered to Müller. “Did I just hear that correctly?
“You’ve been ennobled. I think he assumes you’re my wife, the countess.”
“I should be so lucky. Müller, you carry a titled card?”
“Behave,” Müller said for a third time, whispering. “Let’s hurry. I want to see Grüber’s face when we’re announced. I don’t want him to have an excuse to avoid seeing me. If we’re there, he can’t pretend he’s too busy.”
“I’m curious too,” she said.
They were led along a seemingly endless hall with a Kelim runner as long as the hall itself, on a gleaming surface of highly polished wood.
Carey Bloomfield looked up at the extremely high ceiling. “Can you get vertigo looking up?” she whispered.
Briefly, Müller put a finger to his lips.
The butler finally stopped at the very end of the hall, and opened a door. He stood back, and again gave a little nod of the head..
“Frau Gräfin, Herr Graf.”
They walked though into a kind of ante chamber that was again laid with expensive Persian carpets. Another terrace, as large as the one at the front, was accessed through a door in the floor-to-ceiling glass panels. The terrace looked out upon one of the most beautiful, landscaped gardens Müller had set eyes upon.
Grüber, in an opened-necked white shirt at a large, white-covered table was having either a late breakfast, or an early lunch. He was alone. He was a thinnish man with lank, dark hair that he grew to neck length. Rimless glasses were perched upon his nose. He looked his age. He was sat in such a way that both the ante chamber and a wide expanse of garden, were within view. Even as he ate, his face bore an expression of extreme superciliousness. Müller disliked him on sight.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Müller said as the butler went out to announce them.
Carey Bloomfield noted his expression. “You don’t like him.”
“Would you?”
“Knowing the background to this little visit, and looking at him…no.”
The butler had reached Grüber’s table. Grüber made him wait, concentrating on drinking some coffee, and taking his time about it. He did not even look up at the butler.
“Jesus,” Carey Bloomfield said, “What an asshole.”
“Manners of a pig,” Müller commented. “Despite the size of this house, that’s not the reason he has a butler. His type would have a butler even if he lived in a place as small as mine.”
She looked at him. “Your place is small? You could get half of Washington in it. I exaggerate – a little - but there’s small, and then there’s small. You should see mine. Your place does not fit into either category.” She returned her attention to Grüber. “Oh look. The lord and master is finally looking up at his servant. Can he see us from there?”
“Depends on the reflections on the glass. Even if he can…it’s too late for him to run. He’s got to face me now.”
The butler was handing over the card. Grüber took it, read it, then looked as if he were about to faint.
“Well,” Carey Bloomfield said. “You’ve got your effect. Time for the entrance?”
“Time for the entrance,” Müller agreed. “Let us not give the butler any extra work. I am actually feeling sorry for that snob. They suit each other, those two. After you, Frau Gräfin.”
“Go boil an egg, Müller,” she said, as she stepped out onto the terrace.
He smiled. “That’s an expression.”
Grüber was looking at them as he would a pair of venomous snakes about to strike. The butler had wheeled himself away.
Grüber’s mouth was open, and stayed open when Müller and Carey Bloomfield reached his table. They did not sit down, nor did he ask them to.
Finally, weak eyes darting from one to the other, Grüber decided to speak. His eyes looked as if they were staring at ghosts. The card lay face up, next to the fine china coffee cup and saucer.
“You’re…you’re like them!”
Carey Bloomfield glanced at Müller. “What in…”
“I think,” Müller began, “he means my parents.”
“You’re kidding. Is he out of it?”
“In a way, yes. Herr Grüber,” Müller began, “I think you know why we’re here.”
“How…how did you find me?” The eyes again went into their darting dance.
Müller just looked at him.
“I knew…I knew this would happen someday,” Grüber said, almost to himself. “I knew…”
“How odd,” Müller cut in. “That, is almost what Vogel said.”
Grüber’s eyes tried to leave their sockets. “You have seen Vogel?”
“I have. He was very forthcoming. Alas, he is now dead.”
Grüber jumped. “Dead? You…you…killed him?”
“In my place, Grüber,” Müller said in a voice that must have chilled the man before him, “wouldn’t you? But no…I did not. He did it himself. Must have been all those years of guilt.” Müller’s eyes bored mercilessly into the cringing Grüber. “All I need from you are straight answers to my questions. Then I’ll leave you to all…”
He waved an arm briefly, glancing up as he did so. A face at a window darted out of sight. A woman. Grüber’s wife?
“…this,” Müller finished.
“They made me! They made write all that…”
“And paid well enough, looking at this place. You have lived high upon the backs of my parents. Who are ‘they’, Grüber?”
Grüber suddenly looked even more fearful, and said nothing.
“I am a police Hauptkommissar, Grüber…”
“I know that!” Grüber said, clearly old news to him.
“I can have you taken in.”
Grüber actually laughed, but it was a short one of bitterness, as well as of resignation.
“Yes. You can. Then what? Do you think they would let me live? Why do you think Vogel killed himself?”
“Guilt?”
“Fear,” Grüber corrected. “Terror. Just by coming here, you have already killed me.” Gruber got to his feet.
“I can have you protected…”
Grüber again gave his bitter laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous! You will have me protected? Protect me from what? From whom? You want your revenge…”
“Yes. But on those who paid you. Not you as an individual…”
“Because you consider I am not worth it? Your look tells me all. You look at me as if I we
re a bug just about to crawl under your shoe.” Grüber’s mouth turned down. “You ‘nobility’. If you lived in a shack, you would still look down on people like me! Protect me indeed.”
“You’ve got a problem with status, Grüber. I look down on one, except criminals.”
Grüber glanced upwards at the window where Müller had briefly seen the face.
“Tell you what, Graf von Röhnen.” Grüber emphasised each word. “You think you know it all…” Grüber was suddenly becoming talkative.
“On the contrary. I know very little.”
“How little, you have no idea.” As if his loquaciousness had given him a new shot of courage, Grüber had his supercilious look back on. “Did you know that the flight recorders were faked? The real ones are buried somewhere at the crash site. Who would look for them, when the ones believed real had already been ‘found’, all nicely scarred and scorched?”
Müller was staring at him. “What?”
“There. Do you see? Graf. Von. Röhnen. Now all you’ve got to do, is find those recorders.”
Grüber began to walk away, laughing as he did so. He headed for the garden.
“Give my regards to The Semper,” Müller said.
Grüber froze. He stood like that for several moments. Then he turned, slowly, a real fear now in his eyes.
“You have killed me,” he said in a low whisper. This time, he appeared to really believe it.
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