Brandenburg (52 page)

Volkmann said, “Do me a favor. While I’m gone, stay with Erica.”

Peters frowned. “Any particular reason?”

“This thing I’m working on—it’s beginning to make sense, Tom, but it’s looking more bizarre and dangerous by the second. She could be at risk. I want someone I can trust to watch over her. I’ll explain when I get back.”

He spoke with Erica, told her not to talk with anyone about the case until he returned.

Peters came into the office and he introduced them.

Peters said charmingly, “How about I take the young lady to lunch, Joe? Then I can drive her back to your place.” He smiled. “Pretty much everyone’s finishing early for the holidays. I’ll leave a note for Ferguson about our meeting, tell him it’s imperative we talk.”

Five minutes later, as Volkmann drove to the airport, there was a knot of tension in his stomach like a ball of steel.

47

BONN. FRIDAY, DECEMBER 23, 9:30 A.M.

Chancellor Franz Dollman grimaced as he sat in the back of the black Mercedes. Beyond the bulletproof windows of the stretch limousine, a police escort guided the car through the streets of Bonn.

As the car passed the Münsterplatz, Dollman looked up from his paperwork. The lights of a Christmas tree winked on the platz. The thought of Christmas approaching normally depressed him, but this time he looked forward to a few relaxing days away from his grueling state duties. Already his cabinet was a week behind the scheduled holiday recess; so many problems remained to be dealt with.

Dollman massaged his temples as he sat back. He had been up since six assembling his paperwork, then breakfast, followed by a quick glass of schnapps to help brace himself for the emergency cabinet meeting.

The Wednesday morning meetings in Bonn’s Schaumburg Palace were always the same of late, had been for the last year—an utter
shambles. Dollman expected the same of this one, wondered how the country had managed to survive, put it down to the resolute, hardworking nature of the German people. They had seen adversity before and were certainly seeing it now.

As the car sped past the Marktplatz, Dollman glimpsed the broken shop windows, the littered glass, the paint daubed on walls. All the hallmarks of another riot. He turned to Ritter, his personal bodyguard, sitting beside him. The man was disrespectfully chewing gum.

Dollman nodded gravely toward the scene beyond the glass. “What happened?”

Ritter’s jaws moved slowly as he chewed. “It started off as a protest march about unemployment. Then the right-wing groups joined in. Before long, it was a riot.”

Dollman sighed. “Anyone killed?”

Ritter shook his head. “Not this time. The riot squad cracked a few skulls, that’s all. If you ask me, these demonstrators ought to be locked up.”

It was getting out of control, Dollman reflected as the Mercedes headed south toward the Schaumburg Palace. More shattered windows along the route. Pavement slabs had been torn up, shopfronts vandalized.

Dollman didn’t bother replying to Ritter’s remark. The man was an excellent bodyguard, tough and discreet, but he had a limited intelligence, and so Dollman always kept their conversations to a minimum. If Ritter had his way, half the world would be behind bars.

And it was the same everywhere these days: Riots. Marches. Protests. The immigrant problem.

“Lock the lot up and throw away the keys. That’s the answer,” Ritter added.

If only it were possible,
Dollman reflected. He’d start with half of his bickering cabinet.

The Mercedes turned slowly into the courtyard of the Schaumburg Palace and slid to a halt outside the imposing entrance. His wife would be in their residence on the grounds. There would just
be time to see her after the cabinet meeting before he left for Berlin. Another boring function to attend, before Weber’s special security meeting the next morning. Still, Weber’s meeting suited him perfectly. He would spend the night in Wannsee with his mistress, and that at least Dollman looked forward to. The thought briefly lifted his spirits as the chauffeur stepped out smartly and opened the rear door. Dollman gathered up his papers, closed his briefcase, and handed it to Ritter.

As he climbed out, he saw a sober-looking Eckart, the finance minister, waiting in the doorway to greet him. No doubt there was more bad news even before the meeting began.

Dollman sighed and strode grimly toward the palace entrance.

•   •   •

The meeting was no different this morning as Dollman observed the drawn faces of the men seated at the large oval table.

Riots the previous night in Berlin, Munich, Bonn, and Frankfurt. And the latest financial news was depressing. Eckart wrung his hands in despair as he imparted the details.

Dollman removed a fresh white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow; the cabinet room was hot, the heating turned up to counter the chill outside. Beyond the bulletproof windows, he glimpsed a harsh wind whipping the trees.

A tall, distinguished-looking man in his early sixties, Dollman had been chancellor for eighteen months. He would gladly have resigned but knew that he was the only one in the room capable of leadership in these difficult times.

He looked up now from the reports lying in front of him on the polished oval table and replaced the handkerchief in his breast pocket. All of the ministers were present—except for Weber, the vice chancellor, who was expected later. A fresh outbreak of rioting in Leipzig had demanded his presence. He didn’t envy Weber his task of overseeing federal security. He suited it because he took no nonsense, but a security job was just asking for trouble. Still, that was Weber’s problem.

Eighteen men at the big table, including himself.

Dollman heard a cough and turned his head to see Eckart trying to catch his attention.

“The economics reports, Chancellor. Do you wish me to start?”

Dollman glanced at his watch. “What else is remaining?”

“The report on federal security. But we’re still waiting for Vice Chancellor Weber. If he’s further delayed, we’ll have to reconvene after lunch.”

Dollman sighed. “Very well, Eckart, you may begin.” Dollman knew what was coming as Eckart’s dry, monotonous voice called the ministers to attention.

Dollman’s mind was elsewhere. On the house in Wannsee. There would be time to call on the way to Charlottenburg, then come back after the civic function. Lisl was a politician’s dream. Discreet, beautiful, lustful in bed. He always found her company invigorating.

Dollman suppressed the smile of contentment that threatened to cross his lips as Eckart’s depressing monologue droned on. He saw the assembled ministers stare ahead or look toward the windows.

He was past trying to make sense of the chaos. At that moment, all he hoped was that he could make it to Berlin by evening. He looked up as Eckart’s speech finally came to an end.

“And that concludes the economics reports. Thank you, ministers, for your attention.”

What attention?
thought Dollman. Half of them were sleeping, or trying to, or bored to death. There was a sudden eruption of coughing, and then a hushed silence.

Dollman deflected any questions by looking pointedly at his watch. “Gentlemen, I suggest we reconvene after lunch to hear the vice chancellor’s report. As interior minister, I believe, he has some important points to discuss.”

As Dollman finished speaking, the door to the cabinet room opened and Konrad Weber stepped into the room. He carried a thick folder in one hand, his briefcase in the other. A tall, grim-looking man; his face looked serious, as always. But a good vice chancellor. One who took his responsibilities seriously. Dollman was glad to
have him on his side, but from the strained look on Weber’s face, it looked as if he were about to impart doom.

“Chancellor, gentlemen, my apologies for being late . . .”

“Take a seat, Weber. You’re ready to read your special security report?”

Dollman felt glad of the interruption, but dreaded Weber’s report. At least it saved him from any questions. Now Weber could take some of the flak.

The vice chancellor nodded to Dollman as he moved to his place at the table but remained standing. He placed his briefcase on the floor beside him. As he opened the folder in front of him, Dollman saw that several of the papers inside bore official red security stamps. Highly confidential.

Dollman sighed quietly. Weber had already informed him privately on the phone that the news would be grave. From the look on the cabinet’s faces, Weber’s security reports would send them all rushing toward the windows.

Dollman tried hard to relax, wondered where it would all end. He thought of voluptuous Lisl, lying on the bed in the house at Wannsee, waiting for him.

If it weren’t for that woman, he felt certain he would have rushed toward the windows himself long ago.

48

STRASBOURG. DECEMBER 23, 3:02 P.M.

It started to snow as Peters drove up outside the apartment on the Quai Ernest.

He parked in the courtyard, and he and Erica went up. She was
subdued during their lunch in Petite France, and Peters guessed that something was troubling her, but he hadn’t pressed her to talk.

When they stepped into Volkmann’s apartment, he could see that she had made herself at home and had tidied the rooms; here and there small items rearranged since he had last visited.
Very interesting,
he thought.
So she and Volkmann have something going here
.

A little later he excused himself as she made coffee, and he went to the bathroom. On the way back, he paused in the hallway and stepped into Volkmann’s bedroom. He could smell the lingering scent of her perfume. Her clothes and her makeup bag lay by Volkmann’s bed.

As he stepped back into the living room, she came out of the kitchen. “I never asked if you take sugar and cream?”

Peters smiled. “Both. Two spoonfuls.”

She moved back into the kitchen, and Peters lit a cigarette and went to stand at the window. Flakes of snow drifted against the glass, and he stood there reflecting on the relationship between Volkmann and Erica. On the one hand, it wasn’t surprising. She was quite beautiful and intelligent. On the other hand, she was a German, and her father had been in the SS . . . which ordinarily would have been disqualifying marks where Volkmann was concerned. But he figured she must be something special to have broken through Volkmann’s walls.

As he moved away from the window and went to flick on the remote control for the television, Erica came back in holding two mugs of steaming coffee. As Peters leaned forward to take one he saw her stare at his waist. He looked down. The holstered Beretta was visible, clipped to his belt. He smiled up at her. “Do guns bother you?”

“I guess.”

“No problem.” Without another word, he stood and unclipped the weapon, tucked it under his overcoat he’d left folded on the chair, then sat back down again.

•   •   •

The Mercedes drove up and down the quay four times and then halted outside the apartment building. Snow brushed against the car’s windows, and the wipers were on.

The passenger checked the address again and then nodded to the driver before he pulled up the collar of his raincoat and stepped out into the snow.

As the man disappeared into the courtyard, the driver sat tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, the motor still running.

Three minutes later, the passenger returned and climbed back into the car, his hair and raincoat flecked with snow. He wiped his face with a big hand and said in German, “It’s the right apartment. Volkmann’s name’s on the doorbell. There’s a window at the back. Two people inside. A man and a woman.”

The driver checked his watch. “Okay. Once more around the block, then we come back.”

As the Mercedes pulled away, the passenger reached under his seat and took out the two silenced pistols.

GENOA. 3:15 P.M.

A tall Italian detective with a bushy mustache introduced himself to Volkmann at a warehouse by the docks. His name was Orsati, and he seemed confident that he had broken the case: the container on the
Maria Escobar
had a hidden compartment.