by Greg Iles
logged Funk's call into a small notebook he had kept religiously for the
past four months. Steuben had no university degree, but Hauer
considered him an electronics genius. It had taken him less than a
minute to piggyback the signal cable coming from the thirdfloor office
Funk had commandeered. -There were no voltage-measuring devices
monitoring Abschnitt 53, so he felt reasonably safe.
Besides, he thought, if this thing ever gets to court, wild charges by a
computer technician and an accused murderer will be worthless. We've
got to have physical evidence.
"Dieter will love this," he said aloud. "Catch the buggers in the act@'
A voice like cracking ice froze Steuben in his chair. "Are you the only
man on duty in here?" it asked.
Steuben whirled. Lieutenant Jijrgen Luhr stood in the doorway of the
communications room, his right hand resting on the butt of his Walther.
"Stand back from the console," he ordered.
11:06 Pm. Prinzenstrasse: West Berlin Blindness, Hans thought.
This must be what blindness is like.
He felt as if he were staring backward into his own skull. He couldn't
see his father's face, although he knew it was only centimeters from his
own. Cramped and disoriented, he reached out.
"Be still!" Hauer grunted.
"Sorry."
Somehow, he and Hauer had stuffed themselves into the boot of Benjamin
Ochs's Jaguar. Ochs had thrown an old blanket on top of them, and
luckily they had gone in head first, so that what little heat passed
through the rear seat by convection kept their heads reasonably warm.
Now they sped across the city, the nattily dressed old couple staring
sternly ahead whenever they passed a green police vehicle.
In the lightless boot, Hans struggled to keep his limbs awake.
One leg was completely numb already, and his left shoulder felt as
though it might actually be dislocated.
"Captain?" he said. "I've been thinking about what you said.
About Stasi officers working for reunification. It just doesn't make
sense to me. If the Wall came down, wouldn't the Stasi be dismantled?
Even prosecuted for criminal actions?"
"Yes. And that should tell you something. Someone in the West must be
guaranteeing them some kind of immunity in exchange for their
assistance. Don't ask me who, because I don't know."
Hans digested this in the rumbling blackness. "Do you really think it
could happen?" he asked at length. "Reunification, I mean."
"It's inevitable," Hauer said. "It's just a question of when and how.
Mayor Diepgen himself said as much this year: 'this year with the 750th
anniversary we begin with the idea of Berlin as the capital of all
Germany.' No one outside Germany took any notice, of course. But they
will, Hans. You're young. People on the other side of the Wall seem
different to you. And they are in some ways. Big things separate us.
The Wall, our educational system, ideologies. But little things join
us. What we eat ... our old songs. The mothers in the East tell their
children the same fairy tales your mother told you at night. The
fathers tell the same stories of heroism from the same wars. Little
things, maybe. But in my experience, the little things outlast the big
things." Hauer shifted position. "We Germans are a tribe, Hans. That's
the best and the worst thing about us."
Hans nodded slowly in the darkness. "Where are we crossing?" he asked.
"Staaken?"
"No. That's what everyone will expect. They'll assume that if we run,
we'll run west. That's where the heaviest security should be."
"So where are we crossing?"
"Heinrich-Heine Strasse. We're going right into the heart of East
Berlin, then swinging south around the city. That old Jew has balls,
I'll tell you."
"How are we getting out, exactly?" Hans asked above the drone of the
Jaguar's engine. "You don't think they're going to let this car through
without checking the boot?"
Hauer chuckled softly in the dark. "I'd hoped you wouldn't ask.
The truth is, I'm glad the old man demanded to come. Now we've got
three things going for us: glasnost, the weather, and the reluctance of
the border guards to bother two old Jews traveling to a funeral."
"Funeral? What are you talking about? Whose funeral?"
Before Hauer could answer, Benjamin Ochs leaned back and struck the rear
seat with his balled fist. Two muted thuds sounded in the boot. "That's
it," Hauer whispered. "We're there."
Two more thuds reverberated through the closed space.
"Damn, " Hauer muttered. "Extra security. Don't say a word, Hans. And
pray the Vopos are lazy tonight."
Benjamin Ochs stared through his spotless windshield at the gauntlet
ahead. Thirty meters away, red-and-white steel barriers blocked the
road at both checkpoints. On the East German side, a steel-helmeted
Vopo stood at the window of a white Volkswagen, checking the driver's
papers. The West Berlin border guards had gone into their booth to
escape the biting wind.
The border guards weren't the problem. Ten meters in front of Ochs's
Jaguar, a black minivan marked PoLizEi had been parked diagonally across
the road, partially blocking it.
Beside the van, two great-coated police officers were questioning four
men in a black Mercedes that sat idling just ahead of Ochs's Jaguar. As
casually as he could, Benjamin Ochs rolled down his window.
"Step out of the car, Herr Gritzbach," said a large, surly police
sergeant to the driver of the black Mercedes. "And shut off the
engine."
"Certainly, Officer."
KGB Captain Dmitri Rykov smiled and turned the ignition key. The
Mercedes' engine sputtered into silence.
Rykov climbed slowly out of the car, moving as if he had all night to
stand in the cold and chat with his West German comrades. His three
passengers soon joined him.
"Why do you travel at this late hour?" the policeman asked sharply.
Rykov smiled. "Our employer wants us back at a construction site in the
East. Apparently there's some sort of emergency"What was your business
in West Berlin?"
Rykov pointed to his papers. "It's all there on the second page.
We're architects for the firm of Huber and R6hi. We're building a civic
hall near the Muggelsee. We came to West Berlin to consult with some
architects here, and also to study the Philharmonie building.
Magnificent."
"Yes, quite," added Corporal Andrei Ivanov, whose East German assport
identified him as one Gunther Burkhalter.
The policeman grunted. He knew about these men. He had seen the black
Mercedes with their drivers who spoke notquite-perfect German too many
times before. He also knew that their cover stories would check out.
When operating in West Berlin, the KGB carried authentic East German ID
documents supplied by the Stasi. Still, the sergeant was in no mood for
a silky-voiced Russian who,acted as if he expected the West Berlin
police to kowtow to him.
"Open the boot, Herr Gritzbach," he said.
Rykov smiled again and reached int
o the car for the keys.
Andrei and the others tensed, but their worries were for nothing.
Hidden in the cramped compartment beneath the rear seat of the Mercedes,
Harry Richardson remained unconscious. His hands and feet were boand so
tightly with duct tape that they received almost no blood at all. Even
if he had regained consciousness, he couldn't have moved.
Crammed into every inch of space unoccupied by his body were the oiled
weapons of the KGB team.
"You see?" said Rykov, gesturing into the Mercedes' trunk.
"Nothing but suit bags. Disappointed, Sergeant?"
The burly policeman slammed down the lid and moved back to the side of
the car. He had no legal reason to detain these men, however badly he
might want to. Brusquely he handed the passport and other papers back
to Rykov. "Pass," he said.
Grinning, Rykov slid halfway into the Mercedes and started the engine.
While he waited for his comrades to climb in, he stared at the policeman
through the open door and laughed. I love this, he thought.
The idiot knows, yet he can do noth"Aaarrrgh!" he shrieked.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Herr Gritzbach! I didn't realize!"
The police sergeant had slammed the heavy Mercedes door on Rykov's
exposed leg. "Are you all right, Herr Gritzbach? Should I call a
doktor?"
Rykov's ashen face quivered with rage. "No!" he snarled, rubbing his
leg furiously.
"But your leg might be broken."
Rykov lifted his throbbing leg into the car and slammed the door.
"Very well, then," the policeman said gleefully. "I hope your stay in
West Berlin has been a memorable one."
"I'll remember you," Rykov vowed, his face twisted in pain.
"Depend on that."
The Mercedes screeched away. It stopped perfunctorily at the western
checkpoint, then shot beneath the raised barrier on the East German
side, accelerating all the way. "Just as I thought," the sergeant
muttered. "Precleared." He turned and signaled the next car forward.
Benjamin Ochs swallowed his fear, placed a reassuring hand on his wife's
arm and eased the Jaguar toward the roadblock. The sergeant turned his
back to the bowling wind and lit a cigarette; then he walked back to the
police van. A younger officer stepped up to Ochs's window.
"Guten Abend, Officer," Ochs said, handing over his passport. "Is there
some emergency?"
"I'm afraid so, Herr ... Ochs. We're looking for two fugitives.
I must ask you a few questions. What is the purpose of your visit to
East Berlin?"
"Family emergency. My nephew has been killed. We're on our way to
Braunschweig."
Frau Ochs gave a little sob, then turned away as if she were crying. The
young policeman leaned over and peered in at her, then scrutinized her
husband's papers.
Ochs patted his wife's shoulder. "Now, now, Bernice.
We'll be there soon."
Inside the dark boot, Hans could hear every word distinctly.
"Captain," he whispered. "What do we do if-"
"Shut up," Hauer breathed. "It's all up to the old man now."
"But if they open the boot ... do we fight? Do you still have your
gun?"
"If they open the boot we do nothing. If I pulled out a gun this close
to the Wall, they'd be hosing us off the street in the morning.
The old couple, too. Just be quiet and don't move."
Though every muscle twitched in pain, Hans struggled to remain still. He
tried to ignore the voices outside, but it was impossible.
"He died in an auto accident early this evening," Ochs was saying.
"My brother called me. A horrible thing. Fourcar pileup."
"Why do you exit here?" asked the young officer sharply.
"Braunschweig lies due west."
Ochs tried to think of what Hauer had told him to say, but he hesitated
a second too long.
"Open the trunk, please," the policeman ordered. "You may remain in the
car if you have an automatic release."
With his heart in his throat, Ochs slowly reached for the button.
"Why is this taking so long?" Frau Ochs cried suddenly.
"He's only doing his job, Bernice," Ochs said, his heart pounding.
"The men we're after murdered two policemen,'@ the young man answered
stiffly. "They must be brought to justice." He looked over at the van
and motioned toward the Jaguar's boot.
The surly sergeant who had smashed Rykov's leg walked to the rear of the
Jaguar. He drummed his fingers on the boot lid, waiting for Ochs to
release the catch.
Inside, Hans tensed like a coiled spring. Hauer shoved his Walther deep
into the spare tire receptacle, praying it wouldn't be spotted until
they were safely away from the vehicle. Just as he got the pistol
covered, the catch popped open. The lid rose a little, then the
sergeant flipped it all the way up. Seeing the old blanket, he took
hold of a corner and jerked it aside.
Blinding glare from the checkpoint spotlights struck Hans and Hauer full
in the face, illuminating their twisted bodies.
The big policeman froze. This tiny compartment was the last place he
had expected to find the fugitives. He groped clumsily for his gun.
Squinting into the light, Hauer discerned the outlines of the
policeman's face. "Steiger!" he hissed through gritted teeth.
The policeman gaped in surprise, then leaned low over the trunk.
"Dieter!" he whispered. "What the hell are you doing?"
Hauer shook his head violently.
Sergeant Steiger glanced around the boot lid at his companion, who was
still questioning Ochs. Then he leaned lower and looked into Hauer's
eyes. "Dieter, was it you?" he whispered. "Did you kill Weiss?"
Hauer shook his head still more violently. "Funk, " he spat.
"That bastard ordered it."
Steiger straightened up and glanced over the trunk lid, past his
partner, to the American checkpoint, and then farther on to where the
East German Vopos waited. He made a hard decision very fast. Leaning
back over the boot, he shoved down hard on the car frame with his thighs
and hands, giving the impression of checking for a false bottom.
Then he stood up, glanced once at Hauer, and slammed the lid.
"Nothing here," he called to his partner. "Suitcases."
Steiger sauntered to the police van and picked up his cigarette.
His partner was still questioning Ochs.
"This is highly irregular," the young man said officiously.
What's happening? Ochs thought wildly. Why didn't that policeman jerk
them out of the boot? "My wife is very upset, Officer," he stammered.
"There's an old synagogue in East Berlin-in the Kollwitzstrasse, not far
from here. She was practically raised in that synagogue. Before the
war, of course' "
"You are Jewish?" the policeman asked sharply.
Ochs heard blood roaring in his ears. Memories of his youth flooded
into his mind. Midnight knocks at his door ...
screams for help ignored-"Yes," he answered quietly. "We are Jewish."
The young man smiled and handed back Ochs's papers.
"There is also a very beautiful synagogue in Braunschweig," he said.
"You must see it. I spent my summers there as
a boy.
That's why I asked."
Ochs swallowed the lump in his throat. "Thank you. Yes, we've seen it
many times." With a shaking hand he shifted into first gear.
"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.
Ochs 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 Ochs
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
