Brandenburg (61 page)

Bargel checked his watch: 2:10 a.m.

Three of the ministers had already arrived without incident. Gaunt-faced, all of them, as they climbed the Reichstag’s stone steps, flanked by a deep wall of antiterrorist police. Dollman’s death had shattered them. The threat to their own lives wasn’t helping their nerves.

Bargel looked out toward the waves of green uniforms and plainclothes. All of them wore yellow discs on their lapels, marking them as part of the security teams. But a yellow disc meant nothing. Anyone in the street could be waiting for the right moment, including
someone in uniform. Bargel scanned the faces of the cops, chatting nervously in groups, some of them watching the entrance.

Any one of them, or more.

Whom to trust?

But Bargel doubted that anyone in his right mind would risk an assault on the cabinet now. It would be suicide. Security at the Reichstag was as tight as a rusty nut.

No one was allowed in or out without the personal permission of the Berlin chief of police, or Bargel himself. The chief of police stood outside on the cold street, ten yards away—his bleached face looking as if someone had cut his arteries. No one looked sure of anything, despite the precautions. The security teams scoured the Reichstag building three times with specially trained dogs in tow, checking all the rooms and every cranny, the basement, every floor, every wing of the building.

Nothing.

No one there who shouldn’t be, no bombs or explosives.

Bargel had decided with the chief of police what would happen next. As the cabinet arrived, they would be led to an elevator that would take them to the third floor and the north wing of the building, to the room designated 4-North. The route was two minutes’ walking distance from the entrance. When Weber arrived, accompanied by his bodyguards, Bargel would lead him there personally.

The room called 4-North had another name in the Reichstag. The Wire Room, they called it. Used only in emergencies and for high-security meetings.

Not so much a room as a big soundproofed box with one double-door entrance, the room was suspended on eight thick steel wires above the floors of the Reichstag. There was no way to bug it because the walls, ceiling, and floor touched nothing. No telephones. No communication. Only one way in and out, sealed by oak doors with bullet- and bomb-proof sheathing. And that entrance would be heavily guarded.

Bargel glanced over at faces in the swarms of cops, thinking again about Volkmann’s warning. Any one of them could be an assassin, waiting for the moment to strike.

But that was too risky, too unlikely.

It had to be a bomb, Bargel thought. But the building had been thoroughly checked, even room 4-North, even the security staff’s own personal lockers. Three bomb-squad teams went over the same ground, one after the other. Nothing. Clean. Not a trace of explosive.

So if not a bomb, how?

A scream of sirens made Bargel’s heart jump. A cavalcade of Mercedes and motorcycle cops arrived. More cabinet ministers, worried men stepping out of black limos, cops surrounding the cars, helicopters hovering lower overhead, radios crackling.

Bargel greeted them at the door, eighteen of his armed men waiting inside, ready to guide each minister to room 4-North, along with one of his bodyguards.

More wailing sirens, blue lights.

The next car was Konrad Weber’s.

A buzz of activity erupted as faces strained to see Weber arrive, a rush of men from the antiterrorist squads surrounding the car to protect him.

Bargel prayed that none of the A-T squad were there to kill Weber.

Bargel deftly unbuttoned the jacket under his raincoat where the SIG pistol was clipped to his belt, ready just in case, though he somehow knew that nothing would happen here. He waited at the double glass doors until Weber had climbed the steps, the man’s long, dark winter overcoat flapping about his legs, a bleak look on his white face, the two bodyguards flanking him trusting nobody, not even the Berlin chief of police leading the way.

Once inside the glass doors, Bargel gestured at the elevator that led to room 4-North. What did he call Weber now? Vice chancellor, or chancellor? Stick with the safe one.

“This way, sir,” he said gravely.

Bargel led the way, and Weber and his bodyguards followed.

•   •   •

Meyer left the house and walked across the lit snowy driveway to the concrete building.

As he stepped in, he hit a switch, and light flooded the cold room. He crossed to the console and telephone, his eyes flicking to the gray missile gantry standing in the center of the building as he picked up the receiver, aware of his heightened anxiety.

The phone line in the house had gone dead.

Twenty minutes earlier, when his head of security had relayed the news, Meyer’s face drained. Not only Dollman was dead. Grinzing was dead, too.

And Kesser and his girlfriend gone, their apartment in disarray.

The head of security said he would call back within ten minutes; his men were searching Kesser’s apartment, hoping to find some clue, trying to get further news on Grinzing.

But still no call.

The lines dead; even the cell phones had no coverage.

Meyer swore as he tried the only other line, aware of the beads of sweat on his face, of the others waiting in the house for him to return before Kruger went down to the barrier to find out if anything was wrong.

Dead.

He tapped the cradle a half-dozen times just to be certain, but still nothing. Slamming down the receiver, he heard the far-off crackle of gunfire . . .

His heart jolted as he paused to listen, hardly breathing, like an animal scenting the wind. More gunfire raging in the distance.

Meyer pulled himself together and hurried toward the door.

•   •   •

Snow fell heavily as Volkmann and Lubsch came out of the bank of trees to the right of the driveway.

Floodlights blazed overhead, washing across the snowed-under driveway, tire marks on the white carpet, empty except for two Mercedes caked in snow. Off to the right, the roof of the flat concrete
building was covered in white. They crouched low behind the first Mercedes.

Beyond the veil of snow, Volkmann saw lights on in the house, but no movement in the windows. Lubsch flicked on the CEL, spoke quickly, then turned to Volkmann.

“Hartig cut the phone communications. Let’s hope he can find the power lines. Ready?”

Volkmann nodded.

Lubsch said, “Then let’s do it,” and he barked a command into the CEL.

Seconds later the valley below erupted into a riot of gunfire and small explosions.

Volkmann moved forward across the snow-covered gravel toward the berghaus, Lubsch after him, just as they heard the door open behind them.

•   •   •

As he stepped out into the falling snow, Meyer saw the two men standing there, a surprised look on their faces. Each pointed a Kalashnikov at him.

Meyer froze in shock.

The dark-haired man put a finger to his lips, said quietly, “Not a word. Hands by your side.” He took a step toward Meyer. “Where’s Erica Kranz? And where’s Schmeltz?”

Meyer hesitated. The man pointed the barrel of the weapon directly at his head.

Meyer’s legs began to buckle. The man grazed the Kalashnikov’s cold tip against his cheek.

“Answer!”

“Inside the house.”

“Your name?”

“Meyer.”

The man with the Kalashnikov flicked a glance back toward the gray concrete building, light spilling out from the open steel door. “Move back inside.”

Meyer sweated, his mind in turmoil. He glanced at the second man, the light from the floodlamps reflecting off his glasses. The gunfire grew louder, and Meyer wondered why the others hadn’t heard it and come out of the house.

This time the cold Kalashnikov barrel pushed painfully hard into his head, and Meyer faltered.

“Move or I blow your head off.”

Anger in the man’s eyes, a kind of madness, but controlled; he would squeeze the trigger, no question.

Meyer was pushed, and stumbled toward the building.

A noise sounded just as Kruger came running out of the house, reacting to the distant gunfire, the Walther in his hand, alarm on his face.

There was the briefest second of indecision as Kruger took in the scene and then he raised his gun.

Before Volkmann could swing the Kalashnikov around, Kruger fired wildly.

Meyer’s body was punched back, and the Kalashnikov was wrenched from Volkmann’s grasp as a bullet pierced his hand.

Bullets ripped through the frozen air, a scream from behind as Lubsch took the brunt of Kruger’s fire, bullets cracking into concrete and flesh.

As Volkmann crouched and rolled to the right in the snow, he felt another round hammer into his right arm, glimpsed Kruger moving back frantically toward the house, still firing wildly.

Volkmann gripped the Kalashnikov in his left hand, brought it up, and fired in one fluid movement just as Kruger reached the door.

The Kalashnikov bucked wildly, the hail of bullets tore into Kruger’s left side, and he spun violently.

Volkmann squeezed the trigger again.

The second burst caught Kruger in the neck, almost decapitating him, and his body arched and fell.

The gunfire echoed and died.

Volkmann stood, aware of a numbing sensation in his arm. Blood oozed from his right hand, where a bullet pierced his palm; a second
bone-shattering wound just below the elbow. All he felt was a dull sensation, no pain yet, but it would come soon enough.

The bodies of Lubsch and Meyer lay on the snow. Meyer’s eyes were open in death, and a gaping hole drilled Lubsch’s face, his glasses lying in the white snow powder.

Far below, Volkmann heard sustained gunfire—Lubsch’s men, meeting stiff resistance by the sound of it, but it seemed far away, as if happening in another time, another place.

There was a timelessness to everything, but he was aware of the ticking seconds, aware of the pain now flooding into his arm and hand.

Suddenly he was plunged into darkness, every light extinguished. Volkmann stood in the dark, feeling cold snow on his face, his heart pounding.

Seconds later, the area flooded with intense white light, blazing through the falling snow as the floodlamps came on again.

Hartig had cut the power lines; the emergency generator was kicking in now.

The house porch light and the floodlights overhead flickered a couple of times, then came bright again as the generator settled.

Volkmann looked back at the concrete building. The door was still open, but the inside was in darkness.

If Hartig was wrong . . .

The sound of gunfire rose, raging, eddying, dying, rising again.

An awesome silence suddenly filled the snowy darkness like a force as the firing died abruptly.

He turned back toward the house, light spilling out from the hallway, dropped the heavy Kalashnikov, fumbled as he wrenched the Beretta from his pocket with bloodied fingers, felt a sudden weakness engulf him, his mind fogging. He closed his eyes as unspeakable pain began to surge into his wounds.

He opened his eyes again, inhaled deep lungfuls of chilled air, tried desperately to remain conscious.

Volkmann stepped past Kruger’s body, and into the house.

57

A log fire blazing, French windows leading to a balcony. White flakes dashing against glass.

The man stood by the fire, a surprised look on his face, but no fear. Erica stood beside him. As Volkmann moved into the room, she saw the Beretta, went to speak.

Volkmann said, “Nobody move.”

He held the weapon at arm’s length, took a deep breath, tried to take in the scene. Erica and the man, standing close together. She looked at him palely, shock on her face, and Volkmann felt the confusion. Blood draining from his shattered arm, senses blurring.

He stared over at the man. Fit-looking. Tanned skin, wrinkled face, intense stare. Handsome. Silver hair. Schmeltz, no question.

Volkmann watched as the man’s eyes flicked to the Beretta, then back at him.

Erica started to move toward him, and the man made no move to stop her.

“Joe . . .”

Volkmann swung the Beretta to point at her, said hoarsely, “I said nobody . . . not unless I tell you. Just do as I say.”

Erica froze, her face white.

Volkmann aimed at the man’s head, gestured toward the table. “Step away from her. Slowly.”

Schmeltz did as he was told. He glanced up as the lights flickered overhead, then settled.

Volkmann said, “Sit. At the table. Hands on top.”

Schmeltz moved to the table, placed slim hands on the polished wood as he calmly looked over.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Volkmann.”

For several seconds Schmeltz stared at him. “Yes, Joseph. I know of you.” The blue eyes became hard; then he looked toward the floor between Volkmann’s feet.

Volkmann glanced down. Blood trickled onto the carpet. Red spots. His face burned.

He looked back up as Erica said, “Joe, listen to me, please.”

Concern in her voice. Or was it his imagination? Volkmann felt his senses slipping away, his vision going. An unreality about the scene.