“You did that to yourself, Grüber,” Müller told him in a hard, unforgiving voice, “twenty-two years ago, when you helped kill my parents and destroy their name.” He turned his head slowly, taking in the garden and the house. “Enjoy this, which they paid for with their lives and their reputation, while you still can.” He looked at Carey Bloomfield. “Let us leave this place of the dead.”
“Müller,” she said in the car. “Remind me never to get on your bad side. If eyes were weapons, Grüber’s body would be lying drilled to that beautiful terrace. You were so cold, you made me cold.”
“Sorry,” Müller said as he started the Porsche. “I’ve waited years for this.”
“Hey, I’m not blaming you. In your place, I’d probably have shot the bastard right there on his big, beautiful terrace. And now? Where to?”
“Grenoble,” Müller said, sending the Turbo rushing down the tree-lined avenue.
In the house, the butler was on the phone in his room.
“They have been, and gone,” he said. “You are too late.”
There was the sound of swearing. “Did he talk?”
“He spoke. But I did not hear what was said. He was laughing at them, so perhaps he said nothing.”
“That’s not good enough. We must be certain.”
“Then I shall be out when you arrive.”
“Make it a long outing. You have been paid well for your services.”
“I have indeed. I think I shall take a long trip.” The butler looked out of his window. It was a dry day, so far. “Somewhere with less rain.”
“Where ever it happens to be, be certain to maintain your discretion. If not, you can be found.”
“Discretion, is a word pinned to my soul.”
“Then see that you don’t lose both. And give the rest of the staff the day off.”
“They will wonder…”
“You are the butler. You are in command. The house must be empty.”
“Then your wish is my command. And Frau Grüber?”
“Naturally, she remains. She will be leverage for Grüber’s cooperation.”
Conversation ended, the butler hung up, then began to pack.
At about the time that Müller and Carey Bloomfield were hurtling down the A5 autobahn heading for the border crossing just after Müllheim, Jackson arrived at one of his destinations.
He had not gone anywhere near Stuttgart except to bypass it and was, in fact, now within the Black Forest. He had left the Audi in a car park just off the road near a forest restaurant café. He had changed into walking clothes with weather proofs and solid walking boots; then taking the backpack with the weapons and other equipment, had locked the car, and had set off. He had deliberately left the car where it was, as a marker.
He was now five kilometres from where he had left the Audi, and stood within some woods through which he could see a small lake. The ambient light gave made it seem a dark green that was almost black. It reminded him of his daughter’s eyes. He decided this was as good a place as any, to wait. He knew the area well, and knew where he could make shelter for the coming night. He tried not to think of his wife, and prayed that what he planned to do would eventually save her.
He put down his pack and sat down, propping himself against a tall fir. He took out a photograph. It was a family photo of his wife, Josh, Elene, and himself. They were standing, grinning at the timer-set camera, arms about each other’s waists. The children were in the middle, the adults on either side. All were in walking gear. A tall fir behind them was the very fir against which he was now leaning
He sighed, put the photograph away, and let his head rest against the tree; then he closed his eyes.
But he did not fall not asleep. All he had to do now, was wait for his plan to set things in motion.
“Are you hungry?” Müller asked Carey Bloomfield.
“I could eat.”
“Can you last till Besançon? That about 120 kilometres after we cross the border. There’s a service station on the A36 autoroute. Good opportunity to fill up. But that’s not the only reason. There’s a cafeteria that has one of the best hams cooked-on-the-bone going. At least, in my opinion. It’s slightly reminiscent of the Swabia version. I stopped there once, late one night. They had almost closed, but the woman behind the counter took pity, and brought out this amazing ham. She gave me huge slices, more, I am certain, than the normal portion…”
Carey Bloomfield was nodding. “You and the women, Müller.”
“She was old enough to be my mother.”
“So?”
“Well? Would you like to try it? Or don’t you like the idea?”
“Why not? Your friend might still be there. See if she gives me a mean portion.”
“Sssss,” Müller said.
“Are you hungry? I’ve brought you something.”
Elisabeth Jackson recognised the speech patterns as belonging to the man with the kinder voice.
She nodded. “Yes,” she replied in German.
“I must remain here while you eat. There is a knife, and a fork. You understand.”
“I understand.”
“I will untie your hands. No funny business.”
“No funny business,” she promised.
He untied her, then put a small plate in her hands, with knife and fork.
“It’s schweinebraten,” he said.
“Mmm. I can smell it. It smells good. Hot too. Who made it?”
“Please. No questions. And watch the edge of the plate. You might spill some on yourself.”
She nodded then began to eat, carefully. After a while, she paused.
“You’re not Bavarian, are you?” she said. “I’m very good with accents. You are definitely not from around here. I don’t mean wherever this house is. I mean where you…kidnapped me. I was born in the area, so I’d know. You have a north Rhine accent. Kölsch, perhaps. Well not so much the city itself, but perhaps the general area. Frechen? Kerpen, perhaps? Wesseling? Amazing, isn’t it? When one sense is gone, as with this blindfold, the others increase. I can hear better today, than I did yesterday. It was yesterday, wasn’t it, that you took me…”
“I think you should stop talking, and finish your food. If the other person had be standing where I am, he would have taken the food away, and tied you up again. Don’t force me to do that.”
“Would you? I know you did not like the idea of taking me…”
A stony silence greeted this. The silence went on.
After a while, she continued eating.
The two men arrived at Grüber’s house over two and a half hours after Müller and Carey Bloomfield had left. They had driven fast, frequently breaking any speed limits posted along the way.
They rushed in, guns drawn and began searching every room. They did so painstakingly; but all that greeted them was emptiness, and silence.
“Grüber’s gone,” one who had lost his dagger said, getting annoyed.
“Where to? He knows we’ll find him.”
“Hiding then?”
“We’ll him too…even if we have to take this whole fucking palace apart. Let’s keep going. We haven’t got to the master bedroom as yet.”
When they did, the man who had lost his dagger said, “Shit! Bastard!”
They had found Grüber and his wife. Both were lying on their huge double bed. Both were quite dead.
The taller one went over to a bedside table, and picked up a small brown bottle. There was no label on it. It was also empty.
“Whatever was in there,” he said, “is now in their bodies. Now we don’t know what he said to Müller, if anything.”
“I think the bastard talked. Otherwise why do this?”
The other smiled wolfishly. “He knew what we would have done to him to find out…whether he really talked to Müller, or not.” He tossed the bottle onto Grüber’s body. “Pity. I was looking forward to that.”
“So what now?”
“We report, then stay here for a while
. We’ve got the whole fucking building and all that garden, to ourselves. I always wanted to stay in a palace.”
“These things will start to smell.”
“We won’t be here long enough. Anyway, I don’t fancy driving anymore for today. You call and tell them what we found. I’m going for a walk in the garden.”
Autoroute A36, near Besançon.
Müller finished paying for the petrol, then drove over to the restaurant car park.
“Let’s see if that ham is on the menu today,” he said as he cut the engine.
“It had better be,” Carey Bloomfield said. “I’m salivating.”
“Then let’s find out. How’s your French?”
“Terrible to non-existent.”
“Oh sure.”
“I think your French is better than you say,” Müller said.
“So’s yours.”
They entered the cafeteria, and Müller was gratified to see a large ham-on-the-bone, behind the counter. Two women were busy serving customers. One of them looked up as Müller and Carey Bloomfield joined the small queue. She brightened.
“It is Monsieur!” she greeted. “You see? Your ham is here!”
“That should make you happy,” Carey Bloomfield hissed. “She recognises you. Oh wow!”
The woman came to them. “So, Monsieur. The usual?”
“Yes, please. Kind of you to remember.”
“Not at all, Monsieur. Not at all.” She glanced at Carey Bloomfield. “And Madame?”
“The same, thanks,” Müller replied.
“A pleasure, Monsieur.”
She beamed, and gave Müller a huge portion, on a bed of a generous helping of a fresh salad mixture. Carey Bloomfield got rather less of the same dish.
“I knew it!” Carey Bloomfield said in a sharp whisper, as they found a table some distance from the counter. “She gave me a meanie! And by any biological stretch, Müller, she’s not old enough to be your mother.”
“You can have some of mine.”
“Are you calling me greedy?”
“No. Just that I have rather a lot which you’re welcome to share, if you like it.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
They were halfway into the meal, when Müller’s phone rang.
“I’d better take this outside,” he said. “Do you mind?”
“Nope. I’m enjoying the ham. When I’m done with mine, I might start on yours.”
“Be my guest,” he said with a tiny smile that could have meant anything. “Yes, Pappi,” he went on when he was outside.
He walked to where he had left the car.
“Where are you?”
“Aire de Besançon-Marchaux, enjoying some great ham.”
“Hate to spoil your fun, but the news is not good.”
The distinct lack of levity in Pappenheim’s voice made Müller brace himself for the worst.
“I’m listening.”
“Hans Schörma is down.”
“What? How bad?”
“He’ll be staying down.”
Müller looked heavenwards, shut his eyes briefly then passed a hand across them. “My God,” he said softly. “How?”
“I’m coming to that.”
“What about Hammersfeldt? And are Aunt Isolde and Greville okay?”
There was a silence.
“Pappi? Are you there?”
A heavy sigh sounded in Müller’s ear. “Hammersfeldt did it.”
“What?” Müller repeated, this time in horror. “Can’t the idiot handle his own gun? What the devil was he doing? Playing with it with the safety off?”
“Oh he can handle his gun perfectly. He put two shots into Hans, at close range. They were deliberate shots. Then he gave Greville a ludicrous story about Hans wanting to abduct him.”
Müller realised he had his mouth open as he listened to this. He shut it quickly.
“Greville did not believe it, of course,” Pappenheim was saying. “He went up to Hammersfeldt and disarmed him. No slouch, your Greville. Hammersfeldt then ran away. Greville could have shot him – he’d taken Hammersfeldt’s weapon – but was reluctant to do so.”
“I can well understand, It would have seemed to anyone watching that he was shooting an unarmed officer.”
“Which of course, mattered little to Hammersfeldt when he shot his own partner. Schörma was not unarmed, but he was certainly unaware.”
Pappenheim went on to give Müller a detailed account of what had occurred.
“Hammersfeldt was planted on us,” Pappenheim continued, voice tight with emotion. “I think he planned to take Greville to whoever is really paying him, the bastard. There is no doubt it was he who set me up for that shot in May. I remember how he hung around me that night, on my way down. Someone was waiting, and he pointed me out. And all this time, I’ve been thinking the little shit had save my life. You do remember it was Kaltendorf who brought him in.”
“I certainly do. But much as I have little time for him, he’s not clever enough to be allowed deep into these people’s organisation. He’s useful. That’s it for them. I doubt if he even realises what he’s playing with. He has turned from a good policeman into a desperate networker. He’s also now well aware that he’s vulnerable. The people who will go to the lengths of killing my parents, attempting a hit on you, planting people on us, eavesdropping on our communications as they did last May, hunting Greville, kidnapping the wife of a senior American officer, will have little compunction about taking Kaltendorf’s daughter again, whenever they feel like it. And he’s well aware of that.”
“So he gets a recommendation to add someone to our personnel, and he follows through.”
“Exactly.”
“Well he’s now got two colleagues down, and one absconder to think about.”
“I doubt we’ll see Hammersfeldt again in this life,” Müller said with grim certainty.
“Meaning?”
“The people who hired, employed, or recruited him to their cause, don’t like failure. He shot a police officer. He tried to take Greville, and failed. Sloppy work, by their lights.”
“So you believe he’ll be punished.”
“I believe our colleagues somewhere in this country, or perhaps our European colleagues, will be investigating another mysterious killing; this time, with Hammersfeldt as the victim.”
“Funny thing. I had the same thought. Good thing too, or you might have been investigating me for having my hands around his throat, and squeezing. Something else about Hammersfeldt. Remember that car he seemed to spend most of his time polishing? The Mercedes combi.”
“I know the one.”
“It’s here in the garage. As he’s never going come back for it, it stays put. The forensic people found traces of mud, possibly no more than a day old. So I sent a team to his apartment - certain he’ll never return there, either – and they found that his bicycle had been used very recently, on muddy ground. “
“The cyclist at Wannsee?” Müller remarked softly.
“Certainly looks like it. Nice, eh? But nothing that leads to the people in question could be found,” Pappenheim went on. “No fool he. But he overplayed his hand with Greville. He certainly did not expect Greville’s response.”
“Greville did have long years perfecting them.”
“Which he certainly put to good use today. I’ve also thought of the way Hammersfeldt stared at Miss Bloomfield. He may well have been admiring her…but I think he had a more unpleasant reason…”
“He was marking her out,” Müller put in, “for the fake policeman.”
“I’d bet on that.”
Müller was angrily silent.
“I can tell,” Pappenheim said, “that you’re mentally measuring his throat with your hands too. While you’re enjoying that thought, I have some more news, neither good nor bad; just info. It’s about the colonel’s wife.”
“Yes?”
“He full name is Elisabeth Elene Neusser-Jackson. The car is registered in
the name of Elisabeth Neusser, and the address of the supposed owner is a Klaus Neusser, her cousin. Nothing wrong in that. I’m assuming that being an original local girl, she simply wanted to have her personal car registered in the same area. When she has to return to the States with her husband, or wherever they post him to, she probably intended to leave the car with Neusser. I’m guessing, of course, but I think this most likely.”
“I agree. What does this Klaus Neusser do?”
“Not what he does, but what he owns. Poor, he isn’t. Neusser is CEO of a television company. A very successful one at that. Specialises in thought-provoking drama, thank God; both home-grown, and international. No mindless froth. And it makes him a lot of money. There’s a moral in there somewhere. Do you want me to talk with Neusser? I’ve got a number for him.”
“Not yet. But he’s definitely on our list, if this kidnapping starts getting close to us. I’m assuming you did not get any of this information from the local colleagues.”
Pappenheim’s own silence was eloquent.
“I’ve got the picture,” Müller said. ** “Anything else from Neusser?”
“Jackson’s also got two mobile phones…”
“Two?”
“Two. One’s his own, the other’s one he borrowed from Neusser. It really belongs to Neusser’s son Markus, currently at his Uni. It’s an old card phone that the son no longer uses, and still has plenty of units. Now ask me why he would need two phones...”
“For which you’ve got the numbers…”
“For which I’ve got the numbers.”
“Alright, Pappi. Why two?”
“As if you haven’t already worked it out, but I’ll tell you anyway. He wants to be tracked with one. Lure his prey.” **
Hunter's Rain Page 22
