“As you would say, great minds.
“You know, of course,” Pappenheim went with the kind of smoothness he tended to reserve for moments when he wanted to skirt around an awkward point in the conversation, “that the GW will be screaming for your blood. He hasn’t started yet. Probably still in shock. But when he wakes up, he’ll want to drink it…”
“And he’ll come bellowing at you.”
“That he will. Where will you be?”
“Out.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have asked. Two other things – Ilona has personally taken over the watch on your place, with one of her team. She seems to feel responsible somehow. And you don’t have to tell me to tell her not to be so ridiculous. She’s not having any of it. You know Ilona when she gets that bee.”
“I know only too well. Thank her for me.”
“Will do.”
“And the second?”
“Got a contact for you where you’re going. Alphonse LaCroix. Retired gendarme. Quite senior. He knows people who should be known, and quite probably about the incident that’s taking you there. I’ll send his address and phone number to the car. **, along with Jackson’s mobile numbers.”
“Good,” Müller said. “I’ll retrieve it all as soon as we’re done. While I remember it, Berger and Reimer. This duty they’re on tonight…tell them to be very careful. After what happened to Hans Schörma, we don’t need more surprises like that. Tell them to watch their backs.”
“If they don’t, they’ll get a good roasting from me.”
“Alright, Pappi. Thanks.”
“Some days we’re having.”
“Not good ones.”
“Do you think we’ve got more like Hammersfeldt?”
“I hope not. But just in case…”
“We watch, but stay quiet.”
“Precisely.”
When they had ended, Müller opened the car and switched on the communication system. He called up the information Pappenheim had sent. He read LaCroix’s telephone number and address; **, and the mobile numbers for Jackson ;** then he switched the unit off.
The information had been automatically saved, and would be there for retrieval when he needed it.
He shut the car, and went back into the cafeteria. As he returned to his table, Carey Bloomfield looked up.
“You girlfriend’s gone,” she began, “and I’ve been raiding your plate. This ham’s good…” Her cheerful words faded when she saw his expression. “What’s wrong, Müller? News that bad?”
“It isn’t good,” he replied as he sat down. He gave her the news from Pappenheim.
Face paling, she listened in complete silence.
“My God,” she said when he had finished. “He fingered Pappi, shot and killed his partner, spied on you, and nearly got me killed. What a nice piece of shit. I want to shoot him myself.” She shook her head slowly as she thought about it. “What a royal piece of shit,” she repeated. “And I’m really sorry to hear about Schörma, Müller. Two of your guys down in less than twenty-four hours is not fun.”
“That it isn’t. If you’re finished, I think we should leave.”
“I’m done here. Nice as that ham is…suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.” She began to get to her feet.
“So have I,” Müller said, following suit. As they got to the car, he added, “you drive.”
She stared at him. “You mean that?”
He squeezed the remote to unlock the Porsche, then handed her the key. “See? I mean it.”
She looked at him warily as she got in behind the wheel. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he replied, getting into the passenger seat.
Still giving him a wary look, she started the engine. As it barked into life, she continued to look as if she thought he was planning to change his mind.
“Ah,” he said, “remember there is a blanket speed limit of 130 kph on the autoroutes, so you’ll have to resist the urge to do more.”
“I damned well knew there was a catch;” she said in frustration. “Thanks for nothing, Müller.”
“That should not be a problem, should it?” he said. “After all, you’ve got lower speed limits in the States.”
“Aah shaddup,” she said. “I just wanted to burn Hammersfeldt out of my head.”
“I am certain you’ll still enjoy the drive.”
For reply, she sent the car charging towards the exit road. It did so with a powerful roar as it lunged forward, fat wheels gripping.
He shut his eyes briefly.
Eleven
Berlin outskirts, 1800 hours.
The gleaming BMW drew to a stop in the parking area provided for invited guests. It did not look out of place among the other examples of equally gleaming, expensive machinery already filling the allotted spaces. Parking attendants moved like marionettes, dancing between the cars as they directed the traffic. The house to which the grounds belonged, was the same one in which the retired general and the visiting churchman had been enjoying their coffee, earlier in the day.
Berger looked at the gloved attendant who had directed them to their space. He was already engaged with the next visitors, who had arrived in a bright red, burping Ferrari.
“There’s a lot of money around here tonight,” she said to Reimer.
He glanced around. “Enough to run many small countries for years.”
“All this stuff makes me heady,” she said. “I suppose we’d better get out and enjoy the stratosphere. Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Both were in evening gear. Berger wore a long dress, classically simple in style, with a long split on one side. Reimer wore a white dinner jacket over black trousers. His gun was in a shoulder holster, Berger’s in her bag.
They got out, and Berger brushed herself down with quick, nervous hands. “How do I look, Reimer?”
He looked at her, openly admiring her curves.
“Careful what you say,” she warned, “or I’ll fry both your eggs and serve them to you sliced.”
“As I said before,” he told her, “you look…great.”
She began to look pleased; then Reimer could not resist going on.
“Too great,” he continued, “to waste on Pappenheim.”
Berger’s face grew dangerous. “Reimer!” she hissed. “I don’t know whether you’re a part time idiot, or a full time one. I’ve told you before what goes on, or does not go on, with Pappenheim is another country to you. You don’t cross that border! Don’t look to me as a surrogate for your diet-freak girlfriend. Now put your brain back in gear and let’s go do our job!”
“Look. I’m sorry. I was wrong. It just…slipped out. I…”
“Don’t dig yourself further in, Reimer. Stick at ‘sorry’.”
“Yes. Okay.”
Berger’s expression relaxed. “And you look good. Who knows? Perhaps one of those rich little girls will take a fancy to you. Got the invites?”
“In my jacket pocket.”
“Right. Come on, then. Let’s look as if we’re rich and that car is really ours.”
They walked towards a wide flight of steps to where two further attendants were checking the invitations. A short distance from them, yet more attendants were standing around with silver trays laden with glasses of champagne.
They reached the invitation checkers, one of whom smiled a welcome while his companion beamed at another couple.
“Frau Berger, and Herr Reimer,” he intoned. “Thank you. Enjoy the evening.”
Berger gave a regal, sideways tilt of her head. “Thank you.”
She walked on, with Reimer following in her wake.
The attendants had a brief respite, and the one who had attended to Berger and Reimer whispered to his colleague, “Guess who really wears the trousers.”
The other grinned. “Yeah. But with a body like that, I wouldn’t care. She can wear my trousers anytime!”
Then they once more pasted on their welcoming smiles as more guests
approached.
Berger and Reimer had reached the champagne barrier.
“Not for him,” Berger commanded as an attendant swooped. “He’s driving.” She neatly lifted a glass of champagne.
“Why can’t I just have one?” Reimer complained in a low voice.
“Both of us can’t be drunk.”
“You never get drunk,” Reimer insisted.
“You sound disappointed, Reimer,” Berger said, eyes subtly raking the milling crowd. “It sometimes amazes me how people with real money throw it away on these things they call dresses. Let’s mingle.”
“What are we supposed to be doing, anyway?”
“See that man over there? Talking to…you’ll like this, Reimer. The man talking to that anorexic blonde…”
“We’re watching her?”
“You wish. No the man talking to her. We watch his back…unobtrusively.”
“Who is he?”
“A retired general. Pappenheim showed me a picture.”
“Why doesn’t he…”
“Shh, Reimer. He’s coming this way! And the blonde with him. Your lucky day, after all, Reimer. And whatever you do, don’t answer questions about what we are, or whom we have met. You have undercover experience, so you should be smart enough to know it.”
“Hey. I’m not a rookie.”
The general stopped before them with a benign smile, greeting them as genuine guests.
“Frau Berger, Herr Reimer. So good of you to come.” He lowered his voice. “Please do make yourselves completely at home. You don’t look like police at all. Excellent. Enjoy everything. May I present my niece, Mary-Ann? She is part American.” He gave a deprecating smile. “The bigger part.”
He shook their hands warmly, and moved on to his other guests. Mary-Ann stayed.
“Hi,” she said, looking at Reimer.
Reimer cleared his throat, while Berger gave a tiny, knowing smile.
“I know I’m part German,” Mary-Ann continued in English, in the kind of voice expected of her, “but my German’s terrible. Tell me you speak English. Please?”
“I do,” Berger said in English. “And Reimer here…well…he’s okay. Perhaps you can help each other out.”
Mary-Ann gave one of her sunburst, multi-teeth smiles. “Sounds like fun!”
Berger rolled her eyes upwards. Mary-Ann was so engrossed in Reimer, she did not see it.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Berger said, and began to move away.
“Er…wait,” Reimer began in German. “Shouldn’t we…”
“I’ll be around. Just be careful with the general’s niece. Generals don’t like it if you mess around with their nieces.”
She hoped Reimer was sharp enough to pick up the double message. She did not believe for one moment that Mary-Ann knew little German.
As Berger moved away, Mary-Ann said to Reimer, “You two are…” She paused deliberately.
“No,” he began. “We…are…professional partners. Yes. Partners. Only. “
“Oh! That’s good!” Mary-Ann put an arm in his. “Let me show you around.” She grabbed a snackette off a passing tray, and put it into Reimer’s mouth with a giggle.
From a safe distance, Berger watched the pantomime. “Watch your step, Reimer,” she said quietly. “She’s setting you up for something.”
Half an hour later, Reimer found himself being cajoled into a vast bedroom. Mary-Ann, apparently drunk from too much champagne, was hanging on to him for dear life. She was giggling and snuggling up to him.
“Just, just a little rest, my strong Reimer,” she slurred. “Then…then I’ll be fine.”
Reimer closed the door. “Okay,” he said. “But I must find my partner. You have a sleep. Yes?”
“Ookayyy,” she said, staggering.
They made it to the bed. Still giggling, she pushed him so that he fell onto it backwards, and she on top of him.
“One…one little kiss, my strong Reimer. One…” She pressed her lips upon his. “Umm. Nice, Reimer. I…like…”
“Your uncle. The general…”
“Forget…him…mmm…” She sat upright and began to squirm, eyes closed. Her hands moved upon his jacket, then beneath. “Mmm! That feels like a big gun!”
Before Reimer knew what was happening, she had whipped the gun out with a speed and control that was not that of a drunk. She remained sitting upon him, but the gun was pointing unerringly at a spot between his eyes.
“And now, my strong Reimer,” she said in perfect German, “some questions for you. You will answer them, and correctly.”
Reimer was staring at her, then alternated between her and the gun. “What…what the…”
“Question one. Where is Colonel Bloomfield?”
“What? I don’t…”
“That’s not the kind of answer I want. I’ll ask again. Where is Colonel Bloomfield!”
“Stop repeating yourself,” a voice said behind her.
Mary-Ann froze. “Berger. Make the wrong move, and your partner is dead.”
“And less than a second later, your spine will stop working. Take your pick.”
Tense moments passed. Reimer stared into the barrel of his own gun. He could feel the heat of Mary-Ann’s crotch upon him. He could feel his own breathing, and hers.
She gave him a sunburst smile. “Enjoying it?” Then she slowly put the gun down. “Another time, lover. I need my spine.” She gave a final wriggle. “To remember me by.” Then she climbed off him, and off the bed.
She turned to face Berger, who was looking at her just over the pointing gun.
“You’ve got the eyes of a hawk,” Mary-Ann said. “Do you know that?”
“I know. I’ve been told.”
“Would you really have blown my spine away?”
“Oh yes.” The gun did not move.
Mary-Ann nodded. “Yes. You would. So what now? You shoot me?”
Berger did not reply. Instead, she spoke to Reimer. “Pick up your gun, Reimer, and get off that bed.”
Looking sheepish, Reimer did so.
“I thought we were supposed to be protecting the general…” he began.
“By fucking his niece?” Mary-Ann said mildly.
“Hey! You pretended you were drunk. You dragged me in here…”
“God. Cops. You really are thick. You know nothing…”
Suddenly, with a strength none would have suspected, she whirled, grabbed Reimer, and shoved him towards Berger.
That spoiled Berger’s aim.
Within those fleeting moments of confusion, Mary-Ann was moving swiftly. She ran towards a corner of the room, and pushed. A door, well camouflaged by the ornate decoration of the room, sprang open. They heard her laugh as she went through. Then the door shut firmly.
Reimer ran to the spot.
“Don’t even bother,” Berger said. “She knows this place. She’ll be long gone. We could spend the night looking. Reimer,” she went on, “how stupid can you get? Stop thinking with those eggs of yours. Use your second brain once in a while.”
“What do you mean? She was drunk! I brought her here so she could sleep it off. How could I know…”
Berger shook her head slowly. “Men.” She got out her phone, and called Pappenheim. “Chief? An interesting little story.”
She told Pappenheim what had occurred. The resulting bark was loud enough for Reimer to hear.
Reimer seemed to cringe with embarrassment. “Did you have to tell him that part?” he whispered at her.
She looked at him blankly, and did not respond. She nodded in response to whatever Pappenheim was saying.
“Okay, Chief.”
She cut transmission, and looked at Reimer. “You’re not his favourite person right now, Reimer. He wants us to remain here, and give no indication about what just happened. Not even to the general. This time Reimer, you stay away from the blondes. Can’t leave you alone for one moment.”
“But…” Reimer began.
Berg
er was already out of the room.
Pappenheim got another call.
“You should watch some TV,” the voice said.
“What do you mean?”
“TV news. Now.”
The line went dead.
“Okay,” Pappenheim said, putting down the phone and picking up another. “TV it is.” He called the Goth, whom he knew was still in the Rogues Gallery, flying her simulator online. “Enjoying the combat?” he said when she had answered.
“I’m winning a campaign.”
“Well hold your forces for a while. I want you to check the news channels. Something interesting is supposed to be happening right now.”
“Will do, sir.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute or so.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he hung up, Pappenheim killed the cigarette he had been smoking, then got to his feet. By the time he had made it to the Rogues Gallery, Hedi Meyer had found the material he wanted.
“Very strange one, sir,” she began. “If it is what you’re looking for. I’ve got a video of it.”
“Run it.”
The Goth did, and Pappenheim stared at the image of Colonel Jackson, as he listened to the message.
“Oh my God,” he said.
In a lot of places, all hell was breaking loose. Bad news had travelled fast. The colonel’s taped message had been repeated with the speed of a virus replicating itself. The radio stations also had it.
On CAFA base, Dales, himself in a state of shock, was fielding calls; the most dangerous, was from the commanding general.
“What the hell’s this, Colonel?” the outraged general barked. “Have you any idea of the heat I’m getting? How could you have let him do this?”
“Sir, it was difficult…”
“What do you mean ‘difficult’? Why do you think you’ve got those silver oak leaves? You’re supposed to be able to make difficult decisions!”
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