Brandenburg (36 page)

Near the station he bought a bratwurst from a Turkish vendor, and as he stood eating and waiting for the train, he noticed the station walls daubed with racist slogans, and here and there, the hastily painted swastikas.

The people on the platform had the same dark, haunted brown eyes of his father, and for a moment Volkmann thought of the faces in the old black-and-white photographs of the ghettos at Warsaw and Cracow.

He pushed the thought from his mind as the train pulled into the station, the doors opened, and he stepped on board.

•   •   •

When he got back to the hotel there was a message from Jakob Fischer to call him. He did so and heard Fischer’s voice.

“I found Rauscher’s girlfriend, Joe.”

“Where is she?”

“Still in Berlin.”

“You’ve got a telephone number, Jakob?”

“Sure. I rang her. She didn’t want to talk about her boyfriend’s murder. But I told her I just wanted a friendly chat at her place, that otherwise I’d have to bring her to the station.”

“What did she say?”

“She’ll talk to us. She’ll be at home by eight. Can I pick you up about then?”

“Sure. I’ll be in the foyer.”

•   •   •

The apartment was south of the city and when they came out of the elevator on the third floor, Fischer rang the buzzer.

She was about forty, with long blond hair, and very good-looking. She wore tight black ski pants and flat shoes, her white T-shirt tucked tightly into her pants.

Jakob Fischer showed the woman his ID, but she didn’t pay much attention to it and she hardly looked at Volkmann before she led them into the living room.

“I told you on the telephone: I told your people everything I know. Don’t you get it?”

“I understand, Frau Worch, but my colleague would like to ask you a few questions. We won’t take up much of your time.”

Volkmann addressed the woman, who looked back at him indifferently. “How long did you know your boyfriend?”

“Two years.”

Volkmann looked at her eyes. “Did you ever hear of a man named Dieter Winter?”

“No.”

“Are you sure your boyfriend didn’t know of anyone with that name?”

She shrugged. “I really don’t know.”

Volkmann went through the other names, but the woman just shook her head. “I didn’t know any of Herbert’s acquaintances. Only a couple of the people he worked with.”

The woman looked back at him steadily and Volkmann guessed she was telling the truth.

“Was he involved with any political group?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he ever express any political opinions to you?”

The woman frowned, then shrugged. “Not to me he didn’t.”

“Was he ever racist in his remarks? Did he ever say how he felt about the immigrants in this country?”

She stared at Fischer. “What is this?”

“Please just answer the questions.”

She looked back at Volkmann. “No.”

“Did he have any friends or enemies who were extremists, neo-Nazis, or terrorists?”

The woman laughed. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Jakob Fischer said, “Just answer the question.”

“Herbert didn’t mix with anyone like that.”

“What about his background? Did he ever talk about his past? His parents? His family?”

“Once or twice, sure. But he didn’t say much.”

“Tell me what he did say.”

“His mother died when he was twenty. His father he never knew.”

“Why?”

The woman shrugged again. “He died in some camp.”

“A concentration camp?”

She grinned. “No. One of those places in Siberia the Russians sent our soldiers to after the war.”

“Why was Rauscher’s father sent there?”

“He was some kind of Nazi officer. Herbert only mentioned it when he was drunk.”

“What did he say?”

“That his father was wounded in Berlin at the end of the war and captured by the Russians. That they sent him to one of their camps in Siberia.”

“Do you remember anything else he said about his father?”

“No. He didn’t really talk much about his past.” The woman sighed impatiently at Volkmann. “Look, is this going to take much longer?”

“One more question. Do you have any idea why your boyfriend was murdered?”

“No, I don’t. And I told your people that a hundred times already.”

Volkmann looked at Jakob Fischer and nodded. Fischer stood up and said, “Thanks for your time.”

•   •   •

He had one drink in the hotel bar with Fischer, then he walked him to the foyer.

“I appreciate your help, Jakob.”

“I wish it was more constructive. What about Rauscher’s father, Joe? You going to check up on his background?”

“There’s not much point. There could have been hundreds of officers named Rauscher but I’d need a date of birth and a Christian name to take it further.”

“Anyhow, let me know how it works out.”

“Sure. I’ll call you. And thanks again, Jakob.”

“It’s been good seeing you again, Joe.”

He watched Fischer go, and then he went up to his room and poured himself a scotch. He opened the window and stood at the cold balcony.

None of it made any sense to him. If it was true about Rauscher’s father being a Nazi officer, then Rauscher would have been the least likely target for Winter’s people. Besides, Herbert Rauscher would have been a child when his father had been captured by the Russians and probably never knew the man.

He phoned Erica at the apartment before he undressed for bed and told her about his lack of progress. “What about the woman, Hedda Pohl, Joe?”

“We can drive down to Lake Konstanz tomorrow, see if we can turn up anything.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’m taking the first flight tomorrow.”

There was a pause, then Erica said, “Joe . . . ?”

“Yes?”

“I miss you.”

31

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16

Volkmann could see the snowcapped mountains of Switzerland across Lake Konstanz as they drove into the pretty lakeside town of Friedrichshafen. He parked the Ford, and they walked along the lakefront toward the police station. Christmas trees twinkled in the windows of the old Bavarian-style houses, a dusting of snow falling.

“How do you want to handle this?” Erica asked.

He smiled and flashed the press ID. “The same way we did with Lubsch. We’re a couple of journalists on a case. Just be yourself, working a story.”

Two officers were on duty at the desk. Volkmann showed his ID and asked to speak with one of the senior detectives on duty. It was ten minutes before a middle-aged man appeared from one of the offices. He was big and ruddy-faced, his beer belly protruding over his belted trousers. He introduced himself as Detective Heinz Steiner. When they showed him their press IDs and asked to speak in private, Steiner led them back to a small office down the hall.

“What can I do for you two?”

Erica said, “We’re working on a series of articles on unsolved homicides for a popular German magazine and wanted to talk with you about the murder of a local woman named Hedda Pohl five months ago. We thought it would interest the readers.”

Steiner’s eyes flickered with curiosity, but he didn’t move in his chair.

“What do you want to know exactly?”

Volkmann smiled. “About the woman’s background. The newspapers didn’t go into much detail at the time. And if you have any idea of why she was killed or by whom, I’d be grateful. Sometimes
an article can help a case. Jog someone’s memory and get you a lead.”

Steiner considered, and seemed to relax, his tone less formal. “We’ve no idea why she was killed or by whom, but the case is still wide open, I assure you.”

Erica took a notebook and pen from her handbag. “Can you tell me how the woman was murdered?”

Steiner lit a slim cigar and blew smoke up to the ceiling. “Three shots, one in the chest, two to the back of the head at close range. Nine-millimeter slugs. She went out one night in her car, told her son she was going for a walk on the promenade. But she didn’t go to the promenade so far as we know. And she didn’t come back. Her body was found by a hiker two days later in a forest two miles inland. Her purse had been rifled through and some money stolen.” Steiner frowned and his ruddy face creased with lines. “But the murder was very strange.”

“In what way?”

“You’re the journalists. You ought to know that kind of crime isn’t prevalent in this area. And Hedda Pohl wasn’t your typical victim for that kind of death.”

“Tell us,” Volkmann said, opening his own notebook and scribbling.

“Lots of reasons. The style of murder was more like a gangland killing. Hedda Pohl was an elderly widow. Well-off, but not rich. No vices. Absolutely no criminal past or convictions. She hadn’t ever got a parking ticket, in fact. A very upstanding lady, involved in her church.” Steiner drew on his slim cigar. “Something else. We found her car nearby in the woods. It was like she went to meet someone she knew. But her family knew of no prearranged meeting.”

Volkmann jotted a few notes. “Was she active politically?”

Steiner’s eyebrows rose. “No, definitely not. Why do you ask that?”

“No reason, just trying to get a fix on the lady. How well did you know her, Detective Steiner?”

Steiner leaned back in his chair. “Quite well.”

Volkmann looked up with interest. “That helps. Is there anything else about her background you can think of?”

“Her husband used to be a respected businessman. He passed away years ago.”

“What about him—did he have any criminal background?”

Steiner laughed. “He was as clean-living as a Lutheran minister. Very decent.”

“What about her family?”

“All upstanding. And as I said, she was a good woman and well liked locally.” Steiner shrugged. “As to the murder, the only scenario we can think of that makes sense is that she picked up a hitchhiker. Some crazy who decided to rob and kill her.”

“What about clues?”

Steiner shook his head. “No fingerprints. No clues. Whoever did it was very careful. A professional criminal, perhaps. Or someone who had killed before. We checked all the usual angles: family, friends, acquaintances. But nothing gave off a whiff of suspicion.”

Volkmann looked at his watch, then said, “Thanks for your help, Detective. I’m sure you’re a very busy man, so I won’t take up any more of your valuable time.”

“You’re welcome, Volkmann. You’ll send me a copy of your article?”

“You bet.”

•   •   •

The snow had stopped as they walked along the promenade.

Erica slipped her arm through his, and when they sat on one of the benches that faced out toward Lake Konstanz, she said, “There’s no obvious reason why Winter’s people would want to kill her. She had no terrorist connections. No criminal past.”

“There has to be a connection somewhere, Erica. We just can’t see it.”

“So what happens now?”

He looked out at the gray choppy waters. A small boat with a blue sail was being tossed in the swell, and as it tried to hug the
lakeshore, the image seemed fitting. He felt hopelessly lost. “There’s only one other thing I could do.”

“What?”

“Talk to the Landesamt in Berlin.”

The Landesamt was the German equivalent of MI5 or CIA and was responsible for keeping track of terrorist and extremist organizations. “It’s the only hope we have of turning up more information on Kesser and Winter. If there’s anything of significance in either man’s past, they ought to have it in their files.”

“You know someone who could help?”

“A guy called Werner Bargel. He’s the assistant director. If he can’t help us, then nobody can.”

32

BERLIN. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 17

Werner Bargel sat in his office in the leafy suburb of Dahlem and waved to the chair opposite.

“Sit down, Joe.”

At forty-two, Bargel was one of the youngest men ever to hold the position of assistant director of the Landesamt für Verfassungsschutz in Berlin, the state office for the Protection of the Constitution, otherwise known as Lf V.

Tall, thin, and boyishly fresh-faced, Werner Bargel looked more like a young, bespectacled accountant than a senior intelligence officer.