by Iles, Greg
“You have your money ready for the Vopos?” the policeman asked. “You know you must change twenty-five Deutschemarks as you cross over.”
“I’ve got it, thank you. Right here.” The old tailor patted his breast pocket. He let out the clutch pedal and moved slowly away from the van.
Crushing out his cigarette, Sergeant Steiger stepped away from the police van and waved to the West German checkpoint guards. They raised the barrier from inside their booth and let the Jaguar pass unmolested.
OCAS rolled to a stop on the East German side. In the boot, Hans held his breath and listened for the voices of the Vopos. He heard OCAS inquire about the exchange rate, complaining a little but not too much. The wait seemed interminable to Hans, but at last the red-and-white post lifted and the Jaguar glided slowly past the dragon’s teeth, barbed wire, minefields, and machine gun towers that fortified the eastern side of the Wall.
“Where are we now?” Hans whispered.
“Swinging south around the city, I hope,” Hauer replied. “Would you mind getting your knee out of my balls?”
Hans squirmed in the darkness. His heart was still racing. “Why didn’t that sergeant arrest us?”
“Steiger and I go back a long way. He was with me on the Baader-Meinhof case that got me my captain’s bars. Stormed a house with me.”
“But if there’s a warrant for our arrest—”
“He could be arrested too. He knows that. But he also knows Funk and his kind. Mealy-mouthed bureaucrats who’ve never seen the real Berlin, never had to face down a crazy kid with a gun. Steiger asked me if I killed Weiss, I said no. That was enough for him.”
“How long will it take us to cross the DDR?”
“If we get out of East Berlin, you mean? Depends on the old man. We’re taking the long way around, but it shouldn’t take over two hours to reach the Marienborn-Helmstedt crossing. If we make it, we’ll leave the Ochses at Helmstedt and you can drive us from there.”
Hans made an uncertain sound of acknowledgment.
“Don’t tell me,” Hauer said. “You’ve never been to this cabin.”
“Actually, I haven’t. But I’ll recognize it when we get there. I’ve seen dozens of pictures.”
Hauer didn’t bother berating Hans; it was difficult to speak for long in the boot. There didn’t seem to be much oxygen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
11:15 P.m. Polizei Abschnitt 53. West Berlin
Funk set the phone back in its cradle and reached for the bottle of soda water on his desk. His hand quivered as he poured.
“I gather Pretoria was not amused?” Luhr said softly.
Funk swallowed a huge gulp of soda. “Outraged,” he gargled. “Said we were a disgrace to the German people.”
“Was it Phoenix himself.?”
“Are you joking? His aide or security chief or whatever that diabolical Afrikaner calls himself”
“I believe Herr Smuts is half-German, Prefect.”
“And how would you know that?”
“That one time he came here in person, to our plenary meeting. One of his men told me that he was such an efficient security chief because he’d got the toughest qualities of both races from his parents.”
“The worst qualities, if you ask me,” Funk complained. “The man doesn’t have much tact.”
“I don’t think tact is a major asset in his business,” Luhr said dryly, hoping he didn’t sound too sarcastic. For the time being Funk was still his superior in both the police and Phoenix’s hierarchies. And until that changed …
A brisk knock at the door startled Luhr.
“Komm!” Funk barked.
An impeccably uniformed patrolman marched into the office and saluted. “There’s been a murder, Prefect,” he announced. “Near the Tiergarten.”
Funk looked unimpressed. “So?”
“The murdered man, sir. He was an East German trade liaison. He’d lived here just four years. And the way he was killed, sir. Shot in the head at close range by a Makarov pistol. The gun was in his own hand like a suicide, but—”
“A Makarov?” Luhr interrupted.
“Yes, but there were other shots fired at the scene. A burst of automatic-weapons fire.”
“What? What was the victim’s name?”
“Klaus Seeckt, Herr Oberleutnant.”
“Who do we have on the scene?” Funk interjected.
“A Kripo homicide team, sir. But they’re from the Tiergarten district. The photographer’s ours, but he didn’t get a chance to call until just now.”
“Leave us,” Funk ordered.
The officer clicked his boot heels together and marched out.
“What do you make of this?” Funk asked anxiously.
Luhr looked thoughtful. “I don’t know, but I’d better get over there. We can’t let anything slip until we run Hauer down. I don’t like any of this. First the Russians barge in here like an invasion force, then Hauer betrays us, then I find Steuben taping our calls at the switchboard. And now some East German is murdered with a Russian-made pistol? What did Apfel find at Spandau?”
Funk frowned worriedly. “If the Russian forensic people are right, some type of paper. A journal, perhaps? Whatever it is, Jürgen, Phoenix isn’t amused. Do you think Steuben could be part of an official investigation? One I don’t know about? Something Hauer initiated, perhaps?”
Luhr shook his head. “Steuben was working with Hauer, but I don’t think it went any farther up than that. We’d have been warned if it did. As soon as I get back, I’ll make the bastard own up to the whole thing. Don’t worry, we’re going to bag Hauer, send Phoenix his papers, and end up better off than we were before.”
“You’re probably right,” Funk said wearily. He stood. “I’ll be at home if you find anything I should know about.”
Luhr pulled on his coat and strode into the hall, smiling confidently until he closed the door. You bumbling fool, he thought. All you care about is collecting your filthy drug percentages and keeping your mistress happy. Luhr felt a thrill of secret satisfaction. As soon as he had learned of Hauer’s treason and escape, he had dispatched some of Phoenix’s deadliest assets to every possible place Hauer or Apfel might go to ground—from the apartment of a woman that Hauer spent his weekends with, to a remote cabin on the Mittelland Canal near the East German border. And as soon as one of Phoenix’s killers recovered the Spandau papers, Luhr would step forward and take the credit. By tomorrow morning, he thought, I’ll have enough to break that fool with Phoenix, and then Berlin-One will pass to me. To a true German!
He shoved open the main station door and hulled through the crowd of reporters. Ignoring all questions, he climbed into an unmarked Audi and slammed the door in a journalist’s face. “Those South Africans had better be good,” he muttered, as he revved the cold engine. “Because Dieter Hauer isn’t going to die easily.”
Ten minutes after Luhr pulled away from the curb, Ilse Apfel trudged through the huge doors of Abschnitt 53 and presented herself to the desk sergeant. Like the reporters outside, he mistook her for a prostitute and so ignored her for as long as he could. While she waited for him to finish a telephone conversation, Ilse tried to wipe off the remainder of Eva’s garish makeup with a tissue.
She did not feel comfortable coming into the station, but her choices were limited: she could talk either to Hans’s superiors or to the men in the black BMWS. Twice during her journey here she had spotted the big sedans combing the streets for her, but she’d managed to evade them. At an allnight U-Bahn cafe she had changed some of Eva’s paper Deutschemarks for coins, which she used to phone the Wolfsburg cabin. She had tried every ten minutes for an hour, but her grandfather never answered. The proprietor had started to frown after her third cup of coffee, and Ilse decided to get out before he called someone to remove her.
“What can I do for you, Fraulein?”
The sergeant’s booming voice startled Ilse, but she stepped up to his high desk and spoke in her clearest voice. “I�
�m looking for my husband, Sergeant Hans Apfel. Earlier tonight someone told me that he had come here and gone, but I think he may have returned. Could you check for me, please?”
The sergeant’s demeanor changed instantly. He jumped from his chair and escorted Ilse to an unoccupied desk. “Frau Apfel, I’m terribly sorry I kept you waiting! Please sit down. I know your husband personally, Let me call upstairs. I’m sure someone will know where he is.”
For the first time since seeing the Spandau papers over six hours ago, Ilse began to relax. She watched the desk sergeant at the telephone, drumming his fingers as he waited to speak to someone. He smiled back. Hans has probably straightened everything out already, she told herself.
“But he can’t be gone,” the sergeant insisted quietly. “He—” The sergeant fell silent as Wilhelm Funk emerged from a first floor office. He dropped the phone so loudly that Funk looked his way.
“What is it, Ross?” Funk barked. “I’m in a hurry.”
The desk sergeant cut his eyes toward Ilse, then crossed the room and interposed Funk’s corpulent body between Ilse and himself. “Prefect,” he whispered, “the woman sitting behind you is Sergeant Apfel’s wife. She’s come here to find him.”
Funk’s mouth fell open. It took all his willpower not to whirl and snatch the woman up by her hair. “Go back to your desk,” he whispered. The sergeant obeyed without a word.
Funk glanced at his watch, gauging Luhr’s probable time of return. Then he summoned his warmest smile, turned, and extended his plump hand.
“Frau Apfel? I am Wilhelm Funk, prefect of police. I believe your husband was on the Spandau Prison security detail?”
Thrown off-balance by Funk’s lofty rank and his apparent knowledge of her plight, Ilse stood and put her small hand into his pink paw. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Hans was at Spandau. Have you seen him tonight?”
Funk’s smile broadened. “I have indeed. I questioned him earlier this evening. In fact, I’ve been trying to locate him ever since. Just after Hans left the station, I remembered something I neglected to ask him. Simply a formality, of course, but I try to keep everything proper. You understand. Every thing in its place, every paper signed and all that.”
“You’re looking for Hans now?”
“Yes, my dear. When Sergeant Ross told me who you were, I hoped you might be able to help us find him. But I see that you’re as perplexed as we are. Please, let me escort you upstairs. I have a temporary office there. I’ll have coffee sent up and perhaps together we can deduce where your husband has gone.”
This is too much to ask! Funk thought gleefully as he whisked Ilse up the stairs. The instrument of my deliverance walks straight through my front door! With a lecherous look at Ilse’s backside, he closed his office door and seated her before his desk. “Frau Apfel, I wanted to get you in private before I spoke frankly about this. May I speak frankly to you?”
In spite of her fatigue, Ilse’s adrenaline began to course again. Facing the supreme police officer of West Berlin was a little unnerving. “About Hans?” she asked warily.
Funk paused, appraising the woman before him. What did she know? And more importantly, what did she suspect? Remembering his unpleasant call to Pretoria, Funk decided to gamble. “My dear, I’m afraid our Hans may be in some trouble.”
“What do you mean?” she asked quickly. “What kind of trouble?”
“When we questioned the officers from the Spandau patrol this evening, we conducted the proceedings with the aid of a polygraph. You know, a lie detector?”
“I know what they are. You have to pass a polygraph test to work at my company.”
“Ah. You’re a career woman, then?”
“Yes—please, just tell me what’s going on. Why did you use a polygraph?”
Funk smiled condescendingly. “This is a complex matter, my dear. There are … other parties involved.” Funk lowered his voice. “The Russians, for instance. They were present at this polygraph session. I’m afraid all of our men passed this examination except your husband and a young officer named Erhard Weiss.”
“I know Erhard.”
Funk thrust out his lower lip. “I see.” He glanced at his watch; Luhr might return any minute. “Naturally,” he said in a confiding tone, “I instructed our polygraph operator to make no sign if any of our men failed. We even took the precaution of preparing clean reports from several men before the interrogation began. Glasnost may be the flavour of the month, but we can’t have a pack of Russians barging in here and demanding access to German officers. I’m sure you understand.”
Ilse nodded uncertainly.
Funk took a deep breath. Now for the gamble. “As soon as we’d cleared the Russians out, I questioned Weiss ai your husband alone. Weiss had nothing to tell. I believe simple nervousness caused him to fail the test. But Hans”—Funk paused—“Hans told me that he had discovered something at Spandau, just as the Russians claimed. He said that he had removed it to a safe place.”
Ilse buried her face in her hands. The insane events of this night had become too much to bear. If she had been less tired, perhaps, she might have been more suspicious. But the prefect seemed to know everything already, and he wanted to help her find Hans. Raising her head, she looked Funk in the eye and posed a single test question.
“What did Hans tell you he found?” she asked, her red-rimmed eyes locked on his bluff face.
Funk didn’t hesitate. He assumed the Soviet forensic people knew their business. “Why, papers, my dear,” he said nonchalantly. “When Hans left the station, he assured me he was going to retrieve them, but as you can see”—Funk flicked his palms toward the ceiling—“he has yet to return.”
Ilse stifled a sob. It was no use, she had to trust someone. Try as she might to control herself, the tears came. “Are the Russians looking for Hans too?” she asked. “For the papers?”
Gott im Himmel! Funk felt his heart thud in triumph. It was papers! “I’m not sure,” he replied, trying to hold his voice steady. “It’s possible. Why do you ask?”
“Because they came to my apartment!” she blurted. “They were looking for Hans, I know it! I almost didn’t get away!”
My God, I’ve done it! Funk thought wildly. I have her! Rising to his feet, he hurried around the desk and sat beside Ilse. Like a concerned father he clasped both her hands in his and patted them reassuringly. “Now, now, child,” he consoled her. “We’ll find Hans, don’t worry. We have thousands of men at our disposal. Just calm down and tell me everything. Everything from the very beginning.”
Ilse did.
12.01 AM British Sector West Berlin
By the time Jürgen Luhr arrived at the murder scene, the forensic team had repacked its equipment and stacked it beside the front door. A uniformed patrolman guarded the door against any prowling pressmen who might arrive. Chain smoking technicians rubbed the sleep from their eyes and cursed the man who had the nerve to be killed in the middle of the night. The man of the hour lay wrapped in the polyurethane bag that would be his sole vestment until someone came forward to claim him. For it was murder—anyone could see that. The attempt to disguise the shooting as a suicide had been clumsy at best, everyone agreed. Or almost everyone. Detective Schneider hadn’t said anything yet. Naturally.
Luhr approached a thin man who sat on a sofa, fiddling with a camera. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked in a clipped tone.
“Detective Schneider,” said the man without looking up from his camera. “He’s in the back.”
“I’m Lieutenant Luhr. The prefect sent me to inquire into this matter.”
Funk’s title brought the photographer to his feet. “It’s about time you got here,” he whispered.
“Who is the dead man?” Luhr asked.
“His passport says Klaus Seeckt.”
“Occupation?”
“He worked in some kind of liaison capacity for the West Berlin government—something to do with trade. From the looks of this place, he didn’t do much but
cash his checks and stay around the house. There’s a three-quarter-inch video camera in the back bedroom. I’ll bet this guy made some interesting movies back there—”
“Who discovered the body?” Luhr broke in, annoyed by the photographer’s prurient speculation.
“A patrolman. He’s gone already, though. An old couple next door heard the shooting and called it in. They didn’t see anything.”
“They never do, do they?” said Lühr, trying to foster some comradely spirit. “Have you found anything significant?”
Flattered to be asked his opinion, the photographer drew himself to his full height. “Well, it’s pretty clear this was no suicide. At least to me. We dug eight slugs out of the front wall. They came from some kind of automatic weapon. Fresh prints everywhere, too. At least three people besides the victim were here tonight. We can’t know exactly what happened, of course, but I don’t see this fellow deciding to commit suicide just because someone broke into his house. I think he surprised a gang of thieves—pros—and they killed him with his own gun. Then they panicked, put the gun in his hand, and ran.”
“Any sign of forced entry?”
“No. Like I said, pros.”
Luhr cracked a knuckle joint. “Yes, that’s what you said. What type of bullets were fired from the automatic weapon?”
“7.65 millimetre, brand unknown. Didn’t find any shell casings.”
Luhr smiled skeptically. “Let’s summarize your theory, shall we? Your ‘burglars’ break in without leaving a trace. When the owner surprises them, they panic and kill him, leaving fingerprints everywhere—yet in their panic they stop to hunt down eight shell casings ejected from an automatic weapon fired in the heat of the moment. Rather contradictory actions, wouldn’t you say?”
The photographer frowned and rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. They make those attachments now that fit right onto your weapon. They catch every shell you can pump out.”
“A bit exotic for housebreakers, don’t you think?” Luhr glanced around the room. “Anything else?”
