Brandenburg (56 page)

When Volkmann explained about the tape, Delon said angrily, “Why weren’t we informed?”

“Because until today, I didn’t know there was radioactive material involved. And until you showed me that signal, I didn’t know the material was plutonium. Until now, the pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit together.”

The Frenchman shook his head. “Joe, this doesn’t just concern the British desk. It’s too serious a matter. I’ll have to inform my superiors.”

“André, I need time before the alarm bells start ringing. If these people learn that we know about the material, then who knows what they might do?”

“What do you mean? How could they know?”

“Because they’re planning a coup. A putsch.”

The Frenchman’s head shook slowly, as if not daring to believe what he had heard. He stared into Volkmann’s face, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“How do you know this?”

“Trust me, André. It’s going to happen. The signal confirms it.
The people behind this have sympathizers in the German police and army. They must, if they intend to succeed.”

Delon looked at him doubtfully. “I don’t understand. Why the plutonium?”

“To stop others from interfering. It’s the only reason that makes sense.”

Delon’s hand massaged his brow in an act of indecision.

Telling him about Schmeltz would totally bewilder him, and Volkmann decided not to. For a long time Delon just sat there. When he seemed to finally realize he was being told the truth, he sat forward.

“What you ask, I can’t do it, Joe. I can’t take the chance. It’s too much to ask.” The Frenchman regarded Volkmann keenly. “You’re close to the woman?”

“Yes.”

“Then emotion is clouding your judgment. You must realize that?”

“You’re wrong, André. Believe me.”

“Then I have a question. How much support do these people have?”

“I don’t know, but they don’t need it. With plutonium they can hold everyone to ransom.”

Delon thought for a moment. “You say you need time, but what do you propose to do?”

“One of their people in Munich, a guy named Kesser—he may know where they have the material. Give me eight hours. If I can find out, I’ll call you. In the meantime, you contact every section head personally. Tell them what I told you. But stay clear of the German desk, just in case. There are people in Berlin I’d trust, but I’d want to talk with them personally. The first thing we need to do is to locate the material. You have the signal from Asunción. Explain what I intend.”

“And when is this coup going to happen?”

“My guess is soon. It’s Christmas; every army in Europe will have
most of its personnel on leave. No one would be expecting something like this.”

Delon said anxiously, “And what if I don’t hear from you within eight hours?”

“Then it’s up to our governments. If it means crossing German borders to stop these people, I hope they’re capable of making that decision.”

Delon sighed and wiped his brow, and Volkmann knew the Frenchman had given in.

Volkmann said, “Can I keep the signal copy?”

“Yes. The original’s still in the basement safe.”

“Give me a number where I can contact you, André.”

The Frenchman wrote a number on a piece of paper. “I’ll stay at headquarters. That’s my own private line, in case you can’t get through. The lines were damaged by the blast, but we patched up the emergency ones. I’ll call the section heads on a secure line as soon as I get back. Here’s hoping they believe me. You’re sure you don’t want any backup?”

“There isn’t time, André.” He saw the beads of sweat on the Frenchman’s face.

“You think this is the right thing, doing it this way, Joe?”

“It’s the only way, believe me.”

“Then good luck, my friend.”

•   •   •

Volkmann took the autobahn to Munich.

It started to snow, and two hours later it was coming down heavily, the fields ghostly white.

The traffic was thin, and as he passed Augsburg, a column of twelve German army personnel carriers and six supply trucks lumbered in single file in the slow lane, heading toward Munich.

Volkmann’s heart pounded as he overtook the army trucks slowly, trying to glimpse the stenciled divisional markings, but the vehicles were caked with snow and mud. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a filling station and made the call. It lasted less than a minute.

As he climbed back into the car, he checked his watch before he turned back onto the Munich road. It read ten-fifteen.

52

BERLIN. 8:15 P.M.

The Turk stepped out of the crowded train station at Wannsee.

Kefir Ozalid carried the briefcase and wore his overcoat, scarf, and woolen gloves. He crossed the street toward the lake, the tourist boats tied up for the winter. The wind coming in off the choppy water was biting cold, but he scarcely noticed, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

At the station exit he hesitated, to make sure he wasn’t being followed, pausing to light a cigarette as he looked back over his shoulder.

He saw only workers and Christmas shoppers coming out of the station, returning late from the city, but no one remotely interested in him. He reached the house ten minutes later.

The lights were on downstairs, and a Christmas tree flickered in the window. As he walked past, he saw that the porch light was off, as it should be. A footpath led around the back and he found the rear gate.

Flipping up the wooden latch, he let himself in, eyes alert and watchful. The houses nearby were bordered with high evergreens, and their privacy ensured that no one could see him.

He had spent an hour that morning walking through the Wannsee streets and footpaths that bordered the lake, getting his bearings, and studying the house.

No lights were on at the rear, but he could see the open basement window and he walked smartly across the lawn and knelt down. There was enough room for him to squeeze through, and moments later, he was standing in the basement.

He closed the window and made sure the latch was firmly locked before he removed the slim flashlight from his pocket and shone the beam around the room.

Lime-green walls, a couple of wooden boxes stacked against the wall farthest from the window. He saw the bare wooden stairs that led up. He placed the briefcase on the floor and climbed the stairs carefully, keeping to the side so the boards didn’t creak.

When he reached the top, he gripped the door handle. As he opened the door a crack, faint music came from somewhere in the house. He felt a pleasant wave of heat against his face, and he saw the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. He couldn’t hear the woman, but he knew she was somewhere in the house, a faint scent of perfume lingering in the hallway.

He closed the door, descended the basement stairs, then flicked open the briefcase locks. He removed the Beretta pistol, the silencer, and the two loaded magazines, then closed the briefcase again and placed it beside him.

It took him less than ten seconds to screw on the silencer and slide a magazine into the pistol butt. When he felt it gently click home, he slipped the second magazine into his pocket. He had not taken the prayer mat with him, but there was a small red foot carpet at the end of the basement stairs and he carefully turned it to face the wall before he knelt down. He said one final prayer for Layla before he touched the rug gently with his lips and stood up.

Now, as he waited in the cold basement, adrenaline raced through his veins. He checked his watch: eight-forty-five.

He flicked off the flashlight and waited patiently in the darkness.

Four more hours.

Four more hours and Dollman would be dead and Layla would be avenged.

MUNICH

It was 10:45 p.m. exactly when Volkmann pulled up outside the house in the Starnberg district.

Ivan Molke came out to stand under the porch light in the lightly falling snow. He quickly led Volkmann into a paneled study, where a fire blazed in the grate.

When they were seated, Molke said seriously, “Your phone call was very brief, Joe. Has this got something to do with what happened in Strasbourg? I heard it on the news.”

When Volkmann spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. It took him almost five minutes to explain everything, and he saw the reaction on Molke’s face, disbelief mixed with fear, and when he had finished, Molke stared at him with incredulous eyes.

“No, it can’t be . . . ,” he said. “You’re certain about the woman in the photograph?”

“Hanah Richter identified her, there’s no question. The other part’s guesswork, Ivan, but it makes some kind of sense. It’s like a puzzle fitting together.”

“Karl Schmeltz is Adolf Hitler’s son?” Molke shook his head as he stood up. “It sounds crazy, Joe.” His face was pale. “A neo-Nazi putsch I can imagine as possible, yes. But not another Hitler, Joe. Never that. No way.”

As Molke continued to shake his head, Volkmann took out the signal copy from Asunción and placed it on the desk. Molke read the paper. After a time, he looked up as if in a daze.

“Do you think the people who trailed my men belonged to the same group?”

“I don’t know, Ivan. Have you been tailed since we last spoke?”

“Not that I’m aware of. And I’ve been careful after what happened with my guys.” Molke slipped his right hand into his pocket and removed a Glock, weighed it in his palm. “I haven’t been taking any chances. I keep this with me.” He swallowed hard as he placed the pistol on the desk. “Do you have any idea where Erica is now?”

“Assuming she’s still alive, Kesser’s people probably have her.”

“Where’s Schmeltz, do you know?”

“After what happened in Mexico City, my guess is that he’s already in Germany. Or soon will be.”

Molke looked at Volkmann blankly; then he said, “What do you want me to do?”

“Do you know someone with authority in the State Ministry? Someone you’d trust your life with?”

Molke said, “I don’t know if I’d go that far with those guys. They’re career types. But there’s a politician named Grinzing I’m on first-name terms with. He’s the only one I can think of right now who might listen to me.”

“Then I want you to deliver a letter to him by hand, tonight. See that he reads it. In the letter will be everything I’ve told you, everything I suspect, except what I told you about Karl Schmeltz. Because no doubt Grinzing will want to ask you a few questions about me.” Volkmann paused. “Like if I’m crazy. If the letter is some kind of joke. The contents he’ll have to judge for himself. Regarding me, make him know that he can trust me.” He looked directly at Molke. “We worked together in Berlin for four years, Ivan. You know my character. That I can be trusted. Simply tell him that when he asks. But above all, tell him it’s vital that he act on the letter. The signal from Asunción can be verified by Strasbourg. His own state security people can make contact there directly.”

“Why don’t you want me to tell him about Schmeltz?”

Volkmann shook his head. “He’d never believe it, Ivan. You must know that. And explanations will only waste time. I don’t know how long we’ve got before these people start to move, but I can guess from what’s happened that it’s going to be soon.”

“And if Grinzing doesn’t believe me, what then?”

“You still know people in Berlin. Contact them. The same with state security. Tell them everything you’re going to tell Grinzing.”

“You honestly think they’ll believe me, Joe?”

“I don’t know. But you’re the only hope I have, Ivan.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Drive over to Kesser’s place. If he’s not at the apartment, his girlfriend may be. One of them’s got to know something. If neither one is there, I’ll drive up to the place at Kaalberg.”

“And do what?”

“Find Kesser. He’ll know what’s going to happen.”

Molke shook his head vigorously. “Joe, you saw the armed guards up there. It’s too dangerous. Let me call a couple of my people in as backup.”

“There’s no time to lose, Ivan. It would complicate things further. Just deliver the letter.”

Molke sighed and looked at Volkmann solemnly. “You know, I never thought this would happen again in Germany. Not in my lifetime. Sure, there’ve always been the crazy, extremist groups like the ones who burn down immigrant hostels. The shaved heads with swastikas who march and give the Nazi salute at the Brandenburg Gate every anniversary of Hitler’s birth.” Molke shook his head fiercely. “But not this. Never this.”

•   •   •

He tried not to think of Erica, but she was still in his thoughts when he reached Kesser’s apartment twenty minutes later. The snow had stopped falling and he tried to check his anger as he stepped out of the car, forcing himself to figure out how to handle the situation.

Christmas candles burned in the windows of the apartments and nearby houses, and here and there the lights of a Christmas tree winked on and off. The lights were off in Kesser’s apartment, and he saw no sign of the gray Volkswagen in the parking lot. His heart skipped a beat when he thought Kesser or his girlfriend might not be at home.

He had the Beretta in his pocket. This time he used the copy keys Ivan Molke had given him, and he let himself in the front entrance and went up to the second floor.