Brandenburg (12 page)

Hernandez looked at him through bruised and bloodied eyes. “White powder. You’re shipping cocaine.” Saying it and not caring, knowing now that he was dead no matter what he said, knowing that Graciella was dead, only hoping for her sake it would be quick . . .

The man released his grip. Hernandez begged, “Please . . . the girl . . . knows nothing. She’s only a child.”

The dark-haired man was smiling now, laughing as if something had amused him. He turned toward the older man with the silver hair. The man nodded.

The dark-haired man turned back. He stared into Hernandez’s eyes.

“You’re one stupid Latino!”

Then he turned and clicked his fingers. It happened quickly. The man holding the knife in front of Graciella raised his hand. The blade flashed. Hernandez was about to scream, but a hand came over his mouth again. He watched in horror as the knife came down, sliced through her chest from the valley between her breasts to the navel of her stomach. Hernandez saw blood spurt in a fountain, the whites of her dying eyes looking to heaven, her body suddenly limp, engulfed in blood. He felt the vomit rise in his stomach.

And then the big, blond bodyguard he had seen in the hotel stepped forward out of nowhere.

Hernandez saw the flash of another blade as the man drew a jagged knife from under his coat. Hernandez tried vainly to scream, but the hand trapped the cry in his throat, other hands pinning him hard against the wall.

He watched in mute horror as the jagged metal arced and dug savagely into his chest like a hammer blow. An agonizing pain blossomed, and then he slid back against the wall, slid down into the dark, growing pool of his own blood.

PART TWO

10

STRASBOURG, FRANCE. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 1

A log fire blazed in one corner of the restaurant.

From where they sat by the window, Volkmann could see the ancient cathedral spire rise into the gray afternoon sky, the red-and-brown-slated rooftops of the medieval center of old Strasbourg stretching in jagged rows. A cold wind blew across the Place Gutenberg, needles of rain clawing at the window.

You could usually set your watch by Ferguson’s appointments, but almost half an hour had gone by, they had ordered, and there was still no sign of him.

The head of British DSE hated German food, which was why when they had their weekly informal meeting, Ferguson always chose a French restaurant.

Volkmann stared toward the bronzed statue of Johannes Gutenberg. The cold Place named in his honor was almost void of pedestrians despite the nearness of Christmas. Across the street, a stout, red-faced little salesman was standing on a chair, struggling to hang coils of silvered decorations among a store’s seasonal window display.

Tom Peters sat opposite, sipping a glass of Bordeaux. The section’s number two, Peters was a stocky Welshman of medium height, with graying sandy hair and a ruddy face.

He smiled at Volkmann. “There was an article in
Le Monde
only last week. Some hack reckoned that soon it’ll be like the bad old days of the Great Depression.” Peters nodded toward the struggling salesman. “For that poor guy’s sake, I hope all the work is worth it.”

Volkmann swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Did Ferguson say what he wanted to talk about, Tom?”

“Yeah. Something to do with the bloody Krauts.”

The worries Volkmann had discussed with Sally Thornton seemed to be looming. DSE wasn’t really working. On the face of it, the organization seemed to be dying of boredom, but he knew the problems went much deeper than that.

The German Section seemed to be on a go slow. Even the people in the French and Italian sections were spending more time than usual lingering over coffee. The only lively presence was in his own department, the British, and that of the Dutch. Both sections were busily working at their desks as if nothing were amiss, incurable bureaucrats that they were.

Ferguson arrived. A tall, gaunt man, pasty-faced, pushing sixty, he dressed like an English squire in Donegal tweeds, checkered shirt, and woolen tie knotted thickly. He took a seat at the table, apologizing.

“I see you’ve started without me.” Ferguson smiled when he saw the wine bottle, and accepted a glass from Peters. “Have you ordered? I better do the same.”

Ferguson ordered the fillet of sole with lemon sauce. He sipped his wine and sat back.

“I thought I’d let you know I had a meeting with Hollrich; it’s what delayed me. He’s been in Germany for the past week, consulting with his masters.”

“Anything that concerns us?” Peters asked.

“It’s the people in Berlin and Bonn,” Ferguson replied. “They’re talking about money problems, fiscal cutbacks. Considering the economic circumstances prevailing just now, it’s as good an excuse as any. The Germans want to scale down their involvement in security cooperation. Concentrate on the problems closer to home.”

“Well, they would, wouldn’t they?” Peters raised an eyebrow.

Ferguson swirled his wine. “They say it’s mainly money problems. That the mandarins in Bonn are whining about the need for spending cutbacks. We can all understand that.”

“But the whole operation is run on a shoestring. You made that point, sir?” Peters said.

There was a silence at the table for several moments as the waiter brought their orders. Ferguson waited until the man had left before replying.

“It’s not that simple, Tom,” he said. He cut his fish with measured care. “Hollrich’s main concern right now is with the internal situation in Germany. The world’s troubles, or the rest of Europe’s, hardly matter. We all know the problems in Germany are pretty serious these days. You watch TV; you’ve seen the protest marches and the riots. The chancellor’s in trouble with a minority government. He’s too weak to take any kind of action.

“I know it increases the workload for everyone else, and we’ll just have to carry on, but that’s the situation we’re stuck with for now. I’m seeing Hollrich again on Monday. Naturally, I pressed the importance of the Germans staying within DSE. He said he’d pass on that message to his superiors.”

Volkmann asked, “Anything else?”

Ferguson hesitated. “There is, actually. Something I want you to look into. A favor for Pauli Graf of the German Section.” Ferguson paused. “It’s a difficult time, and I don’t want to rock any boats. However, something’s come up I think we need to check out.”

Volkmann said, “Which area?”

“It looks to be some sort of smuggling thing. Perhaps narcotics. According to Graf, Hollrich wasn’t remotely interested. He said they hadn’t the time or the manpower.”

Volkmann asked, “So what’s the problem?”

“A woman in Frankfurt, an old acquaintance of Graf’s, was in South America recently. She discussed something with Graf that may interest us.”

“Us?” said Peters.

“DSE, obviously,” replied Ferguson.

“Why can’t Graf handle it himself?” Volkmann asked.

“As I say, his people don’t seem to want to touch the woman’s information.” He spread his arms helplessly. “Who can figure the Germans right now? Graf is being posted back to Berlin as of tomorrow.
He says his department wasn’t really interested because the crime—if there was a crime—took place in South America, outside his jurisdiction.” Ferguson looked up. “On top of that, the woman failed to go through proper channels—a definite no-no where Hollrich is concerned, he’s such a darned bureaucrat. She didn’t take her information to the German police, so he won’t touch her.”

“Any particular reason why she didn’t?”

Ferguson shrugged. “None that I know of. After Graf told her he couldn’t help, she asked to talk to DSE. Said she had information concerning a smuggling operation into Europe.”

“Who do you want to handle it?” Peters asked.

“I had thought Joe.” The head of British DSE looked to Volkmann. “You’ve got the language and the experience in the field. You know your way around. It may not amount to anything, but no harm checking it out.”

“That’s all we’ve got? There doesn’t seem a heck of a lot to go on.”

Ferguson looked mildly irritated. “I’ve told you everything I know, Joe. Graf has helped us often in the past. I’d like to return the favor.”

Volkmann noticed the stout salesman across the street. Finished with his display, now he peered hopelessly out the window. “What about the woman?”

“Her name’s Erica Kranz. Freelance journalist by profession.” Ferguson removed a slip of paper from his pocket, handed it across to Volkmann. “I’ve written out her address and phone number. Pay her a visit, see what it’s about. You could drive up to Frankfurt tomorrow. But give her a call first.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

“If I’m not around, you can report to Peters. I’ve already requested information on Erica Kranz from the German Section. The file should be delivered to you by tonight.” Ferguson smiled. “Sometimes I despise the Germans for their bureaucracy, but sometimes I’m grateful for it. They’ve got files on everyone.”

Volkmann noticed the salesman across the square was standing
at the entrance to the shop, hands clasped behind his back, examining his work. The pavement was still bare of shoppers.

Volkmann saw Ferguson observing him, then his boss’s eyes flicked to the salesman.

“I think I read somewhere recently that during the Depression it was just the same—everyone who was still in business chasing after what few pennies were in circulation. Every economy’s a basket case right now. But thank heavens we can leave such problems in the incapable hands of our politicians.” Ferguson grinned, pouring himself another glass of wine.

Peters glanced over at Volkmann and raised his eyebrows. Volkmann smiled and sipped his wine, and said nothing.

•   •   •

The Orangerie Park, with its exotic birds, miniature lake, and cascading waterfalls, its landscaped gardens and its pavilion built by Napoleon for Empress Josephine, lies within a short walking distance of the offices of the DSE.

Unlike the imposing headquarters of Interpol in Lyon, the offices of the Direction de Sécurité Européenne in Strasbourg are little known. Situated near the Parliament building on the Avenue de l’Europe, the six-story building houses an amalgam of all the main European intelligence agencies and specialized police forces, whose representatives pool and act on matters of mutual security within the European Community.

Whereas the target of Interpol is the international criminal, its actual powers are limited. Its officers are drawn from the police forces, are confined to providing mostly an information service, processing and disseminating information within three main criminal categories: criminals who operate in more than one country; criminals who do not travel at all, but whose criminal activities affect other countries; and criminals who commit a crime in one country and flee to another.

But since the nations of the world have differing criminal and legal procedures, Interpol’s officers do not have power of arrest,
despite popular portrayal to the contrary in books and films. The organization is limited to providing a clearinghouse of information on criminal activity.

The DSE has a function similar to Interpol, except its officers have powers of arrest within all the member states. Drawn from both the police forces and intelligence services of Europe, DSE concerns itself with four main categories of criminal and terrorist activity.

Category One covers terrorist activity, both indigenous terrorism and terrorists from outside Europe or who may use Europe as a base or as a target. Category Two is concerned with smuggling in all its forms. Category Three covers espionage, both national and industrial; Category Four, fraud and counterfeiting.

Each member state has its own representative section in the DSE Strasbourg headquarters and liaises with other national sections in areas of mutual concern and interest, and with a single function: to combat all four categories of criminal and terrorist activity and to maintain their shared database.

Volkmann’s office in the British Section was on the third floor, which also housed the Dutch Section. Below the window was a small square, called simply the Platz, empty on this cold December afternoon. He arrived back from lunch at two and went straight to work, sifting through the reports. There were the usual subjects: narcotics, smuggling, terrorism; intelligence gathering, ready to be acted on or filed away.

When he finished more than three hours later, he found Ferguson’s slip of paper and dialed the woman’s number in Frankfurt. When Erica Kranz answered, he explained that he was a liaison officer with DSE, and that Pauli Graf had asked someone to have a talk with her.

“Can you tell me what this is about, Frau Kranz?”

The woman’s voice sounded uneasy. Volkmann thought he detected a trace of fear. “I’d prefer not to discuss the matter over the telephone, Herr Volkmann. But it’s pretty important. Could we meet?”

“Maybe I could drive up to Frankfurt tomorrow morning. Pauli Graf gave us your address. Unless you want to meet somewhere else?”

“No, my place is good. My apartment’s on the top floor. Is midday okay?”

“Midday’s fine. Talk to you then. Good afternoon, Frau Kranz.”