Brandenburg (28 page)

“Is everything all right, Karen? Can I be of any assistance?”

Karen Gries turned to him quickly and said, “Bruno, this is Herr Volkmann. A colleague of a friend of mine. I’d like to talk in private. Can you be a sweet and look after things here?”

The man shook Volkmann’s hand. “Glad to meet you.” He looked at his wife, and his hand touched her waist. “You’re sure everything’s okay?”

“Of course, Bruno.” Karen Gries smiled. “You better look after the store.” She turned back to Volkmann and said in a businesslike manner, “We’ll use the office, Herr Volkmann.”

Volkmann followed her into a small, cluttered office. When she closed the door, Karen Gries sat stiffly behind the desk. “What do you mean by coming here?”

“Do you know where Lubsch is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“But you can get in touch with him?”

She placed her manicured hands on the desk. “Listen to me. Lubsch isn’t the kind you mess around with. By coming here and threatening me you could get hurt. Badly hurt.” She looked at his face. “And I’m not just talking about a bruised jaw. That goes for Erica as well as you. You call the police, and Lubsch won’t take it lightly. Understand me?”

“I want you to contact Lubsch. Tell him to meet me again.”

“Are you crazy? Go, Volkmann, get out of here.”

As Karen Gries stood up, Volkmann looked at his watch. “It’s eleven-fifteen. I want Lubsch to meet me at seven this evening. That ought to give you enough time to get in touch. Otherwise, I make my call.”

“Volkmann, you’re crazy. I want you to leave. Now, this minute.”

“You want to know how crazy I am?” Volkmann picked up the
phone on the desk and punched in a number as Karen Gries stared at him.

They both heard the line click, and Volkmann said, “Police?”

Karen Gries’s eyes opened wide as her hand slammed down hard on the cradle.

“I never should have listened to Erica.”

Volkmann put down the receiver. “Seven o’clock. If Lubsch is a minute late, I make my call.”

Her face was still flushed. “Where?”

“In the bar across the street. Tell him to meet me inside at seven exactly. Tell him I want to talk with him alone. Just talk. There’s no need for any rough stuff, understand? And don’t try to contact Erica; she’s no longer in the country.”

“I just hope you realize what kind of fire you’re playing with, Volkmann.”

•   •   •

Volkmann walked back to the underground garage and drove over the Rhine Bridge and past Wiesbaden.

He still had almost eight hours to kill, and after half an hour he reached the Taunus Nature Park.

In summer the big park would have been busy with tourists and campers, but in winter it was a vast, desolate place, wind whipping through the banks of pine and fir trees. It was bitter cold. He saw a sign that pointed toward the lake.

He climbed out of the car, locked the door, and walked along the path through the trees until he reached the water.

The lakeside was choppy and deserted. A wooden pier jutted out into the gray shore. The water was deep at the end of the walkway, and Volkmann stood looking at the scene, going over possible scenarios in his mind. If his plan worked out, the lake was remote enough for him not to be disturbed.

If the plan worked.

He drove back into Wiesbaden and found a hardware store on the outskirts. He purchased a twenty-yard length of orange-colored
nylon rope, a rubber-wrapped flashlight, and four spare batteries. Volkmann put his purchases in the glove compartment, then drove back to the apartment in Frankfurt.

When he went up, the windows in the front room were closed, but the air smelled of fresh lavender. He poured himself a scotch from the bottle in the kitchen.

He stared at his reflection in the wall mirror and raised an eyebrow as he said to himself, “You must have a death wish to attempt what you’re about to do, Volkmann.”

He checked his watch. Two-fifteen. He’d have time to rest for a couple of hours before he risked meeting Lubsch for the second time.

•   •   •

He drove back into Mainz, arriving just after five.

He didn’t know whether he would need the Ford or not; it depended on how many men Lubsch would have with him and what kind of transportation they had. He had no doubt Lubsch would make an appearance, but he guessed that the terrorist wouldn’t come alone and would certainly be armed.

He had dealt with people like Lubsch before; they wouldn’t think twice about shooting in a crowded street, and Volkmann knew that for his plan to work, he’d have to act quickly.

He decided to use the same underground parking garage again, near Karen Gries’s place. He checked the Beretta before he got out of the car, making sure the weapon was cocked and the safety was on, then he slipped it into his pocket. He placed the flashlight and spare batteries in his other pocket and put the nylon rope in the pouch inside his overcoat.

Darkness had fallen, and Christmas lights were strung across the buildings. He walked along the illuminated one-way street, mingling with the shoppers. If he guessed right, Lubsch and his people would arrive early. He thought maybe in an hour, but just to be certain, ninety minutes. He guessed Lubsch would send a runner to watch the bar long before Volkmann was due. Lubsch or his people
wouldn’t expect him to be armed, and they wouldn’t expect him to go on the offensive.

He walked back to the café where he had sat that morning. He ordered coffee and unfolded his newspaper, keeping his eyes on the road outside, looking down only to check his watch.

It was 5:31.

•   •   •

It wasn’t the Mercedes van this time, but a dark blue Opel sedan.

It trundled down the one-way street, then disappeared around the corner. It did the same thing three times before it pulled up fifty yards away on the same side of the street as Karen Gries’s premises. Two men sat in front and one in the back.

Volkmann recognized Lubsch in the driver’s seat, his face illuminated by a string of colored Christmas lights above the street. The little red-haired man wore the same padded dark Windbreaker. Volkmann couldn’t see the faces of the other two men from where he sat.

Five minutes later, the man in the rear of the Opel stepped out and closed his door, then walked toward Gries’s shop. Next to the art gallery was a pharmacy, its neon sign lit up overhead, and the man went to stand in the alcove. He pulled out a newspaper and began to browse through it. Volkmann recognized him as one of the men from the Mercedes. He was going to watch the bar from across the street, and Volkmann guessed the guy had a walkie-talkie.

Volkmann felt his heart pounding in his chest and his palms sweated. The street below was still crowded with shoppers, which would give him cover, but it was also dangerous. If Lubsch or his men started firing, there was a real danger a passerby could get shot.

Volkmann rechecked his watch. There was still more than an hour to go before the meeting. He knew he had to make his move before Lubsch left the car or drove around the block again.

The man in the passenger seat beside Lubsch would be a problem. And his luck would depend on whether the terrorist who was
watching the bar across the street had left the rear door of the car unlocked.

He saw Lubsch’s face peer out through the glass and then look away impatiently. The third terrorist, standing in the alcove, stared over at the bar from behind his newspaper every few moments. A Christmas tree illuminated the pharmacy window, its lights winking; the lurid colors tinted the man’s face and fogging breath as he watched the Zum Dortmunder bar.

Volkmann’s body tensed. He folded his newspaper and paid for his coffee.

It was time to go.

•   •   •

He stepped out onto the street and crossed over. He was ten yards behind the Opel, and as he walked toward it, he strained his eyes to see if the door lock in the rear was up. Five yards from the car, he saw that it was.

The guy sitting in the passenger seat was wiping the side window with the sleeve of his coat, and Volkmann got a glimpse of his profile. It was the same man who had wielded the truncheon, and he was grinning as he spoke with Lubsch.

Volkmann turned and went back down the street. The alleyway behind the bakery was empty, and as he entered it, he unfolded his newspaper, slipped the Beretta under the fold in the pages, and flicked off the safety.

He went back out onto the crowded street, toward the blue Opel. The man in the passenger seat was still wiping the side window; Volkmann saw his companion standing in the alcove glance toward the Opel, then step back out of view.

Volkmann came up alongside the car from behind, wrenched open the door, and clambered into the backseat, the Beretta already out. The two men in the front turned, and Volkmann saw the surprise on their faces as Lubsch said, “What the—?”

Lubsch was reaching frantically in his jacket, and the passenger was doing the same.

Volkmann’s fist smacked twice into the passenger’s face hard, and the man’s head cracked against the window.

As Lubsch struggled to remove his gun, Volkmann pressed the Beretta firmly into the terrorist’s neck. “Don’t.”

Lubsch turned chalk-white.

“Slip the gun out of your pocket. Hand it to me, slowly, grip-first, or I take your head off.”

“Volkmann, you’re dead . . .”

“Do it, or you’ll be keeping the devil company.”

Lubsch slowly removed a Glock from his jacket and handed it over.

Volkmann said, “Face front. Keep your mouth shut, and start the car. Drive to the end of the street, then turn right. And don’t try anything as we go past your friend.”

“Volkmann, when this is over—”

Volkmann yanked Lubsch’s collar tight, and pulled him back, pressing the Beretta harder into the terrorist’s neck. “Are you deaf? Behave yourself, and you and your friend here walk away from this alive. You don’t, and I drop you both. Get it? Now start the car. Drive.”

He let go of Lubsch, who leaned forward and started the Opel. Volkmann’s free hand was already moving over the passenger. The man was out cold, and Volkmann found a Walther PPK in his right pocket and a walkie-talkie in the other. He put them on the floor beside Lubsch’s weapon.

As the Opel pulled out from the curb and picked up speed, Volkmann kept the Beretta steady.

He saw Lubsch’s man in the alcove stare at the Opel in disbelief as it went past the pharmacy, and then suddenly the man dropped his newspaper and was running after them.

Volkmann said to Lubsch, “Keep driving. Move it!”

As the car picked up more speed, the third man caught up beside them, running fast. Volkmann put down the safety locks just as he reached the car and began wrenching at the door handle. The man’s
face was up against the window, and when he couldn’t open the door, his fists hammered madly on the glass, his face convulsed in confusion and anger.

Volkmann pressed the Beretta into Lubsch’s neck and said, “What’s your friend’s name?”

Lubsch answered through clenched teeth. “Hartig.”

Volkmann smiled out at the running man. “Happy Christmas, Hartig.”

And then the car picked up even more speed and rounded the corner, and the face was gone from the window.

24

Thirty minutes later, Volkmann told Lubsch to take the turnoff for the Taunus Nature Park.

The passenger started to come around. Volkmann slid his thumb into the concavity behind the man’s left ear, his other four fingers sliding around the man’s neck and locking in a vise. He applied the pressure quickly and heard a small cry as the man’s body sagged.

Lubsch’s eyes flicked angrily at Volkmann, who kept the Beretta aimed at the terrorist and said, “Keep your eyes on the road.”

As the passenger slumped back in the seat, Volkmann heard the man’s breathing, heavy at first, then slow and regular. He felt for a pulse. It was slow. The amount of pressure he used would keep the passenger out for a couple of hours. From the crack of bone when he had hit the man, Volkmann guessed he had broken the man’s nose.

Lubsch asked, “Who the devil are you?”

“Keep driving and shut up.”

The half-moon night sky was patchy with black clouds. Twenty yards from the lakeshore, Volkmann ordered Lubsch to halt and get out of the car.

Trees at the edge of the forest tossed furiously in the wind, and as Volkmann stepped out, he flicked on the flashlight and told Lubsch to move down to the jetty. Moonlight silvered the choppy lake and Volkmann shone the flashlight ahead.

As they approached the boardwalk Lubsch suddenly made a frantic run for it. Volkmann sprinted after him, dropped the flashlight, and gripped the terrorist’s shoulder. As Lubsch spun around, his small, wiry frame crashed into Volkmann in the darkness.

The terrorist grappled for the weapon in Volkmann’s hand and tried to wrench it free but he locked the little man’s neck in a vise. Volkmann heard his gurgle as he fought for breath, and moments later, Lubsch’s body sagged and slid to the ground.

He retrieved the flashlight and shone it in Lubsch’s face. The man wasn’t unconscious but his eyes were dilated from lack of oxygen, and as his hands massaged his neck, he started to cough violently on the grass.