Brandenburg (25 page)

•   •   •

They reached it five minutes later, an ancient
bierkeller
near the waterfront, all dark wooden beams and smelling of smoked sausage and candle wax.

They were the only customers, and Volkmann chose a table at the back next to a fire exit and ordered two glasses of schnapps.

The waitress who served them had hardly left their drinks when a clean-shaven, dark-haired
young man came in wearing a gray plastic Windbreaker. He ordered a beer and sat at the bar as he unfolded a newspaper.

Five minutes passed, and Volkmann was conscious of the young man observing them. He didn’t resemble Erica’s description of Lubsch, but as soon as the waitress moved into the kitchen, the young man stood and crossed to their table. One hand remained inside his pocket.

He looked at Erica and said sharply, “Your name’s Erica Kranz?”

“Yes.”

“You’re Volkmann?”

When Volkmann nodded, the young man said to Erica, “Wolfgang wants me to check you both out.” He half smiled. “You understand, it’s simply a precaution.”

The man’s eyes flicked momentarily toward the kitchen, where the waitress had gone.

“There’s an alleyway behind here, directly to the right. Finish your drinks and meet me there in two minutes. When you approach me, keep your hands out of your pockets and by your sides, and don’t attempt to do anything foolish. All I want to see in your hands are your identity papers. Got that?”

Erica began to speak, but the man barely raised his hand. “Just do as I say. Otherwise, the meeting’s off.”

The man turned back toward the bar. He finished his drink and folded his newspaper. He went out the front, veered to the right, and disappeared.

Volkmann said, “Okay, finish your drink, and let’s do as the man says. You’ve got ID?”

Erica fumbled for her press ID.

“Keep it in your hand, like he said.” They finished their drinks, and Volkmann led the way.

The alleyway behind the bierkeller was narrow, and poorly lit. Another laneway led off to a cobbled street. The young man was waiting, hands in the pockets of his Windbreaker.

“To the right, quickly. Hands up against the wall. And don’t speak.” He said to Erica, “I’m going to have to search you, too, for weapons.”

The man’s hands moved expertly over them. When he finished, he told them to turn around.

“Your identity papers.”

They handed them over, and he scrutinized them, turning the photographs toward the light, looking from photographs to faces. He handed them back and looked at Volkmann.

“You came by car?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anyone following you?”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“I guess so.”

“I asked if you were certain, Volkmann.”

“So far as we could tell, no one followed us.”

“Okay. Follow me. And no questions.” The man turned abruptly and led the way down the laneway behind him.

As they stepped through into a narrow, deserted street, the young man raised his hand, and the dull growl of an engine filled the growing darkness.

A big gray Mercedes delivery van suddenly pulled across their path. A man with pockmarked skin and wearing green overalls sat behind the wheel, gunning the motor.

The side doors of the van opened with a roll of metallic thunder, and two young men jumped out. One of them held a Glock pistol in his hand and gestured with it for Volkmann and Erica to get inside.

The men pushed them into the Mercedes, and they were forced down roughly onto the floor and then the door banged shut.

“Put these on.”

One of the men thrust two black balaclavas at Volkmann and Erica. Each was eyeless, a small slit at the mouth to breathe through.

When Volkmann hesitated, the man kicked out viciously, his boot slamming painfully into Volkmann’s thigh.

“Do it! Now!”

As Volkmann pulled on the balaclava, he saw Erica do the same, and then the blackness took over as the young man spoke again.

“Try to move or talk, either of you, and you’re both dead.”

The big diesel engine gave a deep, noisy roar, and the van lurched and moved forward.

21

The Mercedes van turned off the mountain road and into a heavily wooded valley in darkness.

The driver halted outside a mountain cabin. As he switched off the engine, the side door slid open, and the two men in the back jumped out.

Volkmann felt a hand grip his arm, and he was yanked out. He could smell the woods, heavy and pine-scented, and hear the sounds of feet crunching on gravel. Seconds later he was being pushed through a doorway.

Now the smells were different: dry must, rotting wood, rancid food. Wooden floorboards shook under his feet. A hand yanked the eyeless balaclava from his head, and in the sudden flood of light that followed, he was momentarily blinded.

Erica stood beside him. She glanced at him briefly before she looked over at a man wearing wire-rimmed glasses who stood by a shattered window.

He wore a dark, padded Windbreaker, blue jeans, and scuffed white sneakers. He was small and wiry, with red hair, and his face had several days’ growth of red stubble. His features didn’t look German except for the eyes, which were very blue and sharp, like the small eyes of a nervous animal, but with a hint of arrogance. His jacket was unzipped, and a Glock pistol was tucked into his trouser belt.

Volkmann figured from the look on Erica’s face that the red-haired man was Wolfgang Lubsch. He guessed that the room was part of a mountain cabin. A traditional
Berghütte,
one of the thousands that dotted the German hills and valleys, used by hunters and woodsmen and holidaying families. A kerosene lamp hung from a meat hook embedded in a ceiling beam.

The two young men from the Mercedes stood nearby. One was tall and blond and carried an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. The second was smaller and ruggedly built. He seemed like a man who relished physical contact, and he held a leather truncheon in his right hand as if to prove it.

Volkmann’s wallet lay on the table, the contents scattered. The photograph from the Chaco of the blond young woman lay beside a clutter of paper money, his French driver’s license and press ID, and the contents of Erica’s handbag were spilled out next to them.

The man with the truncheon pointed silently to the chairs.

When Volkmann and Erica sat, the red-haired man wearing glasses stepped forward. His fingers probed among the items scattered on the table before he examined Volkmann’s license, then tossed it back down.

He took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket and lit one with a Zippo lighter. As he inhaled, his nervous blue eyes settled on Erica.

“It’s been a long time. You look as pretty as ever, Erica.”

“Wolfgang . . .”

“Forgive the dramatics in bringing you here like this, but I’m sure you realize that someone in my situation has to tread carefully.” Lubsch grinned. “But then, I’m presuming you know why I’ve been cautious?”

Erica glanced for a moment at the man brandishing the AK-47, then back at Lubsch. “Because you’re a terrorist.”

“That’s a question of perspective, surely. If the British had captured George Washington, he would have been hanged or shot, no? An eighteenth-century terrorist. And the terrorist founders of the
state of Israel are now honored statesmen and Nobel Peace Prize winners.” Lubsch removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “So, tell me. What do you want from me? I’m very interested in this article you want to write.”

Erica slipped a quick glance at Volkmann, who nodded almost imperceptibly; then she looked back at Lubsch. “Joe and I are working on a story. But it’s not exactly the one I told Karen about.”

“Oh?” Lubsch said, his eyes intent and curious. “And what’s the real story?”

“A man was murdered in Berlin ten days ago. Someone you knew at Heidelberg.”

“Who?”

“Dieter Winter.”

Lubsch paused, but his face showed no reaction. “I read about it in the papers. What’s it got to do with me?”

“We’re trying to find who killed Winter and why.”

“And why are you so interested in Winter’s death?”

Erica hesitated. “Because we think his death is connected to other murders.”

“Really. And what murders might these be?”

She told him about Rudi Hernandez and about what they had found in Paraguay.

Lubsch inhaled on his cigarette, then shrugged. “So what’s this got to do with me?”

“The German connection,” she answered. “The men in Paraguay are Germans. And Winter was killed in Germany. The police don’t know who killed Winter or why. They think there may be a drug connection, but they’re really in the dark. You knew Winter at Heidelberg. I hoped you could help us. That maybe with your connections you knew people we could talk with. Anyone who might know what Winter was involved in, or who his friends were.”

Lubsch smiled. “Interesting. Do you know what these cargoes from South America were?”

“No.”

Lubsch stared at Volkmann. “And what part do you play in all of this?”

“We’re working on the story together.”

Lubsch glanced down at the table. “You carry a French driver’s license, Volkmann. But you’re not French, or German, are you? Your German is rather excellent, but your accent”—Lubsch shook his head as he looked back up—“a vowel here and there betrays you.”

“I’m British.”

The small blue eyes stared suspiciously. “Is there any other reason you’re both so interested in Winter, besides what you told me?”

“Should there be?”

“I asked the question, Volkmann. Answer it.”

“There’s no other reason.”

Lubsch nodded his head, the merest of gestures.

The scar-faced man lifted a hand, and the leather truncheon swished through the air and struck the left side of Volkmann’s face. The force sent him flying backward. The man with the truncheon caught the chair and pushed it back again. Erica screamed, and a hand went over her mouth.

Volkmann felt the cutting sting the truncheon left on his face, and when his hand went to touch his jaw, he felt a painful welt.

Lubsch gripped Volkmann’s hair savagely and yanked his head back. “Are you sure there’s no other reason, Volkmann?”

“I told you . . .”

Lubsch stared into Volkmann’s eyes. “Then listen to me, Volkmann. Listen to me, both of you. Number one, I don’t help smart reporters who set me up for a meeting on the pretext of some stupid story. Number two, I take a very poor view of people wasting my time and putting me at risk meeting them. Do you understand?”

Lubsch waited for an answer. When Volkmann didn’t reply, the terrorist roughly pulled Volkmann’s hair back again. “I asked you a question, Volkmann. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Lubsch released his grip and turned to Erica as the hand covering her mouth came away.

“And you. Don’t contact Karen again. What Volkmann got was a friendly warning. Next time, there won’t be one. For either of you. And understand something else. You’re on dangerous ground sniffing around Winter’s friends. If you want to stay alive, I’d forget about him and your story.”

Lubsch nodded to the man with the truncheon, who turned and went out. Moments later came the sound of the Mercedes starting up.

The man with the AK-47 slipped outside. Then came the rumble of the van door sliding open.

Lubsch grabbed the kerosene lamp from the hook in the wooden beam and crossed to the door. He looked back at Volkmann and Erica. “Remember what I said. And be grateful you’re both still alive.”

Lubsch extinguished the lamp, and the small cabin plunged into darkness. Footsteps crunched on the gravel outside and a door slammed shut.

The van moved off down the track. Its engine noise faded, and then there was only silence and the squalid smells of the cabin.

•   •   •

They followed the track through the forest, and it took them half an hour to reach the village. The road sign said
KIEDRICH
. It was pitch dark, and when Volkmann and Erica stepped into the first inn they saw open, the half-dozen customers inside looked at them warily.

Erica was pale and her lips trembled. Their clothes were covered in mud after the walk through the woods, and they tried to ignore the stares.

Volkmann dabbed his jaw. “Not a pretty sight, are we? Order us a couple of drinks while I see to this, will you?”

He went into the men’s room, threw cold water on his face, and dabbed it with some bathroom tissue. The welt had swollen painfully and it hurt when he touched his skin, but the flesh hadn’t been cut.

When he came out, Erica had ordered two brandies, and he asked the innkeeper for some ice. He put a couple of ice cubes in a handkerchief and pressed it to his face.

The innkeeper inquired, “Is everything all right?”

“Wonderful. Our car broke down and I bumped into a tree in the darkness. I know we’re in Kiedrich, but where exactly is that?”

“Twenty miles from Rüdesheim. There’s a breakdown service in the next town, if you need to get your car.”

“A taxi would be better. Can you call us one?”

“Of course. Enjoy your drinks.”

When the taxi came it took half an hour to reach Rüdesheim. The Ford was still parked near the station, and they drove back to Erica’s apartment, arriving just after ten.