Brandenburg (55 page)

“In Bonn?”

Dollman smiled and shook his head. “The Reichstag.”

Lisl frowned. “Is it serious?”

“Weber seems to think so.”

Dollman didn’t elaborate. Federal security was not a subject to be discussed with a mistress. He didn’t tell her that Weber was putting the finishing touches to an emergency decree that very night; his plans to intern all extremists would put the final nail in their coffin.

The meeting in the Reichstag was to be held in room 4-North, the secret room. The place always intrigued Dollman; so few Germans knew about it. Specially designed to counter any possibility of bugging or electronic eavesdropping, suspended in midair on eight steel wires from each corner so that no part of it touched walls or floors.

Lisl purred, “That means you’ve no excuse not to stay tonight.”

Dollman smiled. The function at the palace would be finished by midnight, no later. Then he could spend the night with Lisl before the Christmas holiday and family beckoned.

She turned her magnificent figure toward him.

“I’ll cook supper. Just the two of us, alone.”

Dollman glanced toward the curtained window. Even as they spoke, he knew there were three armed men stationed in the two cars outside in the driveway, another three positioned along the cold street in an unmarked car. Ritter, as always, in the study below. In the brains department, the man might be lacking, but his loyalty and discretion were beyond question.

The tiny transmitter Dollman carried everywhere with him was on the bedside table. The 9 mm pistol he was supposed to carry he had left in the Mercedes. The thing troubled him, made him think of violent death. A necessary precaution, but one he often disregarded.

She smiled. “What time will you be back?”

“A little after midnight. No later.”

“You promise?”

Dollman let his eyes wander over Lisl’s voluptuous curves. At that moment, he would have promised her the vice chancellorship.

“I promise.” He leaned across, turned up the volume higher, and took Lisl’s hand. “Meanwhile, we still have a little time together, so let’s enjoy it.”

In the darkened study below, Ritter relaxed on the couch with his feet up. The phone was in his pocket, and he had turned down the volume on the walkie-talkie that lay on the coffee table in front of him; his holstered SIG Sauer pistol draped over the end of the couch.

He heard the rising sounds of Mozart upstairs, and he smiled to himself.

51

STRASBOURG

It was after seven when the Learjet touched down.

Volkmann called his apartment and let the number ring out. No answer. When he tried the office numbers, the same happened. He guessed that the lines had been damaged, and he wondered if Peters had heard the news and taken Erica with him to the building.

He picked up the Ford from the airport lot, and thirty minutes later he was standing at the corner of the headquarters. A half-dozen police cars were parked outside, their blue lights flashing. Lights blazed in the lobby, where temporary lighting had been rigged up, and he heard the whine of a mobile electric generator, but most of the building was in darkness.

The snow had stopped and the streets were covered in gray slush. Two fire trucks parked nearby, the firemen reeling in hoses. A couple of forensic cops in white overalls were still sifting through the debris that littered the platz.

More forensic people moved in and out of the rigged lights on the third floor. It had taken most of the damage. Ferguson’s office windows were shattered, and blast flames had stained the external walls.

As Volkmann stood in the shadows, he saw several faces he recognized in the crowd, but he saw no sign of Erica or Peters. His heart raced and his mind was in turmoil. One of the German officers, tieless and wearing casual clothes, stood chatting with one of the policemen, smoking a cigarette. Volkmann thought of approaching him, but instinct made him hesitate.

He decided to try calling the duty officer once more. He walked to a public phone at the end of the street and this time he got through on a crackling line.

He heard the voice of the young French officer, Delon, answer, and gave his name.

Delon asked urgently, “Where are you, Joe?”

Volkmann ignored the question and said quickly, “Tell me what happened.”

Delon gave a deep sigh. “Ferguson’s dead. A bomb went off in his office two hours ago. I was on duty in the basement. What’s left of him is in the police morgue, and Jan de Vries is in the Civil Hospital with a severe concussion. He was on the second floor when the bomb went off. I’ve taken over as duty officer.”

“How did it happen?”

“The guy on the front desk admitted two men fifteen minutes before the blast. They had Belgian Section IDs that looked bona fide. They took the elevator up to the third floor but never came down. We found a fire-escape door on the first floor open. They must have left that way.” Panic sounded in Delon’s voice. “It’s crazy here, Joe. No one knows what’s going on.”

“Are you the only one on duty?”

“No, one of the guys from the Belgian Section’s in the next room talking to Brussels about the IDs. But no names so far.”

“Who was on the front desk when it happened?”

“A young guy from the French desk. He’s been with us only three months. The idiot never even got them to sign in.”

“Did he give descriptions of the men?”

“It was snowing outside, and the men wore overcoats with their collars up. Both tall, fair-haired, mid-thirties, that’s about it. They didn’t speak, just showed their IDs.”

Delon paused. “I’ve been trying to contact Peters, but there’s no reply from his number. There was a security signal for Ferguson. It came in just before the blast.”

“From where?”

“South America. Ferguson saw it just before the place went up.” Delon paused again. “I think that either Peters or you should see it, Joe. It’s important. Not something I want to discuss over the phone. I’ve got a copy in the basement safe.”

“You don’t show the signal to anyone, André. Not until I’ve seen it. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“My place is on the Quai Ernest. Meet me there. Come alone, and tell no one where you’re going. And bring the signal copy.”

“What the heck’s up, Joe?”

“Just do as I ask.” He gave Delon the address. “When did you last see Peters?”

“This afternoon. He left early with some woman. Why?” Volkmann heard the pause and then the young Frenchman said, “Is everything okay?”

“For now, just do as I say. I’ll talk to you later.”

•   •   •

It took Volkmann two minutes to drive to the Quai Ernest. Peters’s Volvo was parked in the courtyard, caked in snow, and as he went up the steps, he saw the smudged footprints in the slush leading down to the courtyard.

The front door to the apartment was closed, and faint noises came from inside. The light in the small bedroom was on beyond the curtained window, and he rang the bell. When no one came to the door, he retraced his steps down to the Ford.

He found the Beretta under the driver’s seat, and cocked the weapon. He walked around to the small garden at the rear of the building and looked up at the windows. He saw no movement, just the blue flicker beyond the curtained glass that told him the TV was on. His heart was pounding as he walked back around and climbed the courtyard steps once more.

He unlocked the front door warily and stepped inside, the Beretta ready, aware of the stench of lingering cordite as he went through the rooms, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

He saw Peters’s body lying across the settee and the room in disarray. He felt a jolt of fear, then caution, as his eyes flicked from the bloodied corpse to take in the room. Blood drenched the carpet, and it was clotted and caked on Peters’s face and clothes. There was a bullet wound above Peters’s right eye and two more in his chest cavity. He touched Peters’s left wrist. The flesh was ice-cold.

It took him ten seconds more to check the apartment. He saw the splintered wood of the bedroom door, the telephone off its cradle, and one of Erica’s shoes by the door. When he didn’t find her body, he felt relief, and then a terrible anger took hold.

He thought of what might have happened to her and felt his hands tremble with rage, and he was aware of an overwhelming need to act, knowing Kesser’s people had taken her.

And then for a moment, he felt his insides wrench and fall, as a surge of doubt swamped him.
What if Erica is one of them? She fits the pedigree. What if she brought Peters’s killer here?

For a time, that thought burned within him.
But betraying me doesn’t make sense. Unless there’s something to this I don’t see?

It took several minutes before his self-control returned.

He flicked on the safety catch of the Beretta, found a towel in the
bathroom, placed it over Peters’s face, and went to sit in the chair by the door.

He waited for Delon to arrive.

•   •   •

Volkmann removed the bloodied towel and then replaced it. “He’s been dead for maybe a couple of hours.”

The Frenchman was pale, his fists clenched tight by his sides as he stared at Peters’s body. “Who did this, Joe?”

“The same people who killed Ferguson.”

Delon looked badly shaken. Suddenly the sharp blue eyes regarded him with detachment, and his professionalism took over. “Joe, I think you had better tell me what’s happening here.”

Volkmann ignored the question. “You brought the signal copy with you?”

Delon took an envelope from inside his overcoat pocket, opened it, and handed it across.

“You think this information has something to do with tonight?” he asked. “Because if you do, you better tell me. I’m the acting duty officer. This happened on my watch.”

Volkmann took the signal copy and read it slowly.

The following information is classified and urgent:

(1) Regret to inform the deaths of Captain Vellares Sanchez and officer Eduardo Cavales in Mexico City, approx 20:00 hours local time, Dec. 20. Deaths occurred in the course of police raid on residential property in suburb of Chapultepec, during attempted arrest of one Franz Lieber, traveling on alias passport of Julius Monck, from Asunción. Lieber also confirmed dead. Lieber known acquaintance of Nicolas Tsarkin. In course of raid, two occupants thought to have escaped. Both male Caucasian. One believed named Karl Schmeltz. Second escapee believed named Hans Kruger. Chief Inspector Gonzales in charge of case in Mexico City. Gonzales mounted immediate search but suggests that the two may have already fled Mexico. The Chapultepec property owned by one Josef Haider, naturalized Mexican citizen, but formerly wanted for war crimes. Haider also died in course of raid. Investigation proceeding. Will contact if further information from Gonzales, Mexico City.

(2) Priority and highly classified: Confirmed to us by Gonzales, Mexico City, that one of the men arrested at above residence identified as Ernesto Brandt, Brazilian passport holder. Subject refuses to cooperate, but Brazilian Embassy confirms that Brandt is employed by Brazilian government civil nuclear research establishment and suspected of involvement in disappearance of 12 kilos—REPEAT: 12 KILOS—weapons-grade PLUTONIUM. Investigation proceeding. ENDS.

Volkmann looked up, and as Delon saw the look on his face, he said, “This has something to do with what happened?”

“Yes,” Volkmann answered. For a moment, sickeningly, he felt very alone, and very exposed. “I want you to listen to me. The people who did this to Peters—the people who killed Ferguson—they’ve taken someone else.”

“Who?”

“The woman you saw Peters leave the building with. Her name’s Erica Kranz. She was staying here, and Peters was playing guardian.”

Delon frowned. “Who is she?”

“A journalist. She put us onto this.” Volkmann held up the signal. “I’m guessing that’s why she was taken. Whoever’s behind it, they want to find out what she knows, who she told her story to. And it’s probably why Ferguson and Peters
were killed. The two men who were killed in Mexico City, Sanchez and Cavales, they were working the case.”

The Frenchman saw the look of anger on Volkmann’s face, then shook his head. “Joe, you’re telling me very little.” He glanced uncomfortably at Peters’s body. “Who did this?”

“They’re neo-Nazis.” Volkmann saw the look of confusion on Delon’s face. “The German names I had you check. The same people who took the woman were responsible for their deaths. Why they were killed, I don’t know, but it’s tied in with what’s happening.”

Delon said hoarsely, “What are you saying? The people who killed Peters have this plutonium?”

“They’ve been taking it into Germany in small consignments from South America over the past year.” Volkmann told Delon what had happened in Genoa, saw the man turn paler still.