Hunter's Rain (11 page)

He described what he had seen.

“Jesus,” she said.

“That man,” Müller went on, “has had that picture of my parents, on his wall like some trophy, for all these years. One of his great scoops,” he went on, a cold bitterness in his voice. “He’s the bastard who wrote an editorial about their having the morals of alleycats. According to that editorial, my mother deliberately crashed the plane, because she had found out about my father’s supposed affairs. People still believe that was the reason for the crash. It was that editorial that started the smear campaign rolling. Even that woman in there, helpful though she was.”

“She knows?”

“She saw me staring at the photograph. Something like that, so unexpected, I could not have helped it.”

“And you
told
her?”

“Yes.”

“Was that smart?”

“Smart or not, to have denied it after she asked me if I knew who they were, would have felt like betrayal.”

“I guess I can understand that. Sorry you had to see that photo, Müller.”

“One of those things. It was there, and I was led there. I was meant to see it.”

“Was the guy home?”

“No. He’s in Wannsee. She gave me the address. Ironic. I was down there this morning. The person who gave me this address either did not know about Wannsee, or he knew and still chose not to tell me.”

“He wanted you to see that picture?”

“Possibly.”

“We might have got here later, and missed the woman. Then what?”

“But we didn’t. And that, for me, is all that matters.”

“What are those things you were looking at?”

“
Stolpersteine
.”

“’Stumbling stones’?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They are small memorials. Those three out there have the names of the people who once lived in that house: two adults, and a child; their dates of birth, and of death, and their fate, are written there. Written in stone, if you like. They died in concentration camps.”

“Now he’s living there.”

“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Müller said as he started the car. “These ‘stones’ are being laid all over Germany. I wonder if
Herr
Vogel sees the ghosts of those three people. I wonder if he sees the ghosts of my parents.”

“Back to Wannsee?” Carey Bloomfield said tentatively, noting the stillness of his expression.

“Back to Wannsee, and a slight change of plan.”

“Which is?”

“That room I offered…”

“Oh no, Müller. You’re not going to say I’ve got to check back into the hotel.”

“Not that at all. But you’ll have to wait for the organ recital. We’ll not be going back to my place, after Wannsee. But I promise you’ll like your room. You’ve been there before.”

“Aunt Isolde’s?”

He nodded. “So it’s on to Thüringen, and Aunt Isolde’s near Saalfeld. She’ll be very pleased to see you.”

“I love that great mansion she calls a schlosshotel. And I get to see the long-lost husband?”

“You get to see the long-lost husband.”

“How can I refuse?”

They drove slowly out of the courtyard, the exhausts rumbling in the rain, the powerful sound bouncing off the buildings like muted thunder.

Roberts, in his thirties, was at a console with a bank of monitors, topped by a bank of state-of-the-art speakers. Next to him was an older man with glasses, like him, in shirtsleeves. Conversations in several languages were coming through on the speakers. Discs within the console were recording everything.

“What do you think?” the older man asked. “Where could he have gone? And without telling us?”

Roberts shrugged. “Maybe he went out with that colonel Mary-Ann talked about. Although she did say she never saw him leave.”

The older man made a dismissive noise. “Mary-Ann. Brains in her fingernails. A good decorative plant.”

“Be nice, Joe,” Roberts said with a smile. “She can’t help it, and she’s useful where she is.”

The man called Joe gave a world-weary sigh. “The people who send us kids like that need their heads examined. She belongs on some beach where testosterone-rich boys can drool over her all day; not in an office like this.”

“Then talk to Adams. He chose her.”

“Maybe she’s got a relative on Capitol Hill. Maybe she’s just close to Adams, if you get me.”

Each gave a knowing smile.

“I’ve heard of Bloomfield,” the older one continued. “Adams definitely knows her. They worked together in the Mideast. She’s meant to be good.”

“Why didn’t he warn us she was coming?”

Joe shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe they’re running something special.”

Roberts looked puzzled. “It still feels strange. I’m going to check again.”

“If it’ll make you feel better,” Joe Mahony said.

Roberts stood up, and left the room once more. He went to Adams’ door, tried it, and discovered it was still locked.

“Damn!” he swore. He went back into the room. “Still locked,” he said to

Mahony.

“What do you expect to find? He’s not in there having a little cosy with Mary-Ann, unless she can manage to be in two places at once. As she’s hardly in one place at a time…”

Mahony shook his head slowly.

The Porsche was racing along the A115 to Wannsee, trailing a high plume of spray.

Carey Bloomfield glanced at the speedometer, then thought the better of it.

“What?” Müller said.

“Nothing.”

“Are you afraid?”

She looked at the ribbon of road ahead of them, made dark by the wet of the day. She glanced in the wing mirror on the passenger side, and could see the rising spray. She listened to the fierce roar of the engine behind her.

“A speedboat on land. What’s to be afraid of?”

“Part of this stretch of road,” he said, smiling at her comment, “used to be a section of the Avus…the original racetrack.”

“No wonder,” she said.

“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re thoughtful. Your remark lacked its usual bite.”

“You’re a mind reader now?”

“Only when I need to be.”

When she had made no comment to this, Müller glanced at her thoughtfully.

They drove on in silence.

Roberts came back into the room. “That’s it. I’m going to open the office. No one has seen him.”

He reached into a drawer and took out a small bunch of keys. He also took out an automatic pistol.

Mahony stared at him. “A
gun?
Are you nuts?”

“Just being careful,” Roberts said, going out again.

Mahony stared at the closing door. “Nuts,” he repeated.

Roberts went up to the door to Adams’ office and unlocked it. Gun at the ready, he slowly pushed the door open. He entered, and stopped in shock.

“Oh Jesus,” he said.

Adams was in his chair, mouth open, head back at a strange angle.

Roberts went forward, made a quick check. “Oh Jesus,” he repeated.

He left the office quickly, shut and locked it.

Mahony swung round as Roberts re-entered the room. He stared at Roberts’ expression. “What?”

“He’s dead,” Roberts said flatly. “Neck broken.”

Mahony’s eyes seemed to grow behind his glasses. “He
what?
”

“Dead,” Roberts repeated. “Someone’s snapped his goddamed neck.”

“But how…”

“Do I look like a wizard? How the hell should I know?” Roberts tightened his lips. “I
knew
something was wrong…”

“Sounds like wizardry to me.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Alright. What do you want to do?”

“What do
I
want to do? You’re next in line, Joe. It’s
your
ball game now.”

Mahony sighed. “I guess it is.” He got to his feet. “I’ve got a call to make. Looks like your Colonel Bloomfield might have some questions to answer.”

“
My
Colonel Bloomfield?”

“Manner of speaking. Relax. I’ll make the call from Adams’…my office.”

Mahony went out.

Pappenheim was leaning back in his chair blissfully polluting his lungs, when one of his phones rang. He blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling, and picked up the phone at its third ring.

“Pappenheim.”

“You’ve got trouble.”

“So what’s new?” Pappenheim retorted, recognising the voice at the other end. “I’ve always got trouble.”

“Not like this, you haven’t.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Then sit back. An American called Adams has just been killed…”

“
What?”
Pappenheim sat bolt upright, and stubbed out the cigarette he’d been enjoying.

“Is that the sound of a Gauloise dying?”

“If this is a joke…”

“I never make jokes.”

“Tell me about it,” Pappenheim remarked pointedly. “So? What’s the full story?”

“Early days yet. Only just got the essentials, and it looks like a certain Colonel Bloomfield – whom I’m certain you’ve never heard of – is in the frame.”

“You have got to be joking.”

“I’ve just said…”

“Yes, yes, I know. You never joke. How certain are you about this?”

“Don’t insult me,” the person said. “I’ll call you later.” The line went dead.

“Touchy as ever,” Pappenheim said as he slowly replaced the receiver. “With news like this, one needs corroboration.” He picked up the other phone, and dialled an extension. “Ah. Miss Meyer. I need your expertise again, I’m afraid. I’ll square it with Herman.”

“I’ll be right there, sir.”

“Thank you.”

They left the A114 at the Zehlendorf junction and fed onto the B1, for Wannsee. The rain had stopped for a while and the road, though damp, was no longer wet enough for the fat wheels of the Porsche to generate much spray. Müller barely needed to use the wipers.

“Hey,” Carey Bloomfield began, peering upwards. “Think the sun will make it?”

“It might,” Müller replied. “On the other hand, it might not.”

“What kind of an answer is that?”

“The weather’s.”

“You’re something, Müller. You know that?”

“I know it.”

“Müller?”

“Yes?”

“The Wannsee Conference villa is near here, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Once we cross the water, we’ll be getting off at next junction. That’s Am Grosser Wannsee. The villa is along that road.”

“Can we have a look first, before we go check on
Herr
Vogel?”

“It’s on the way. Why not? But are you certain you would like to? The pictures in there are not pretty.”

“I know what you’re getting at. My dad’s Jewish; but my Mom isn’t. And I’m as secular as it’s possible to be. I can hack it.”

“You don’t need to be Jewish to be moved.”

“I realise that. Have you been there?”

“No.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”

“I don’t need to. But I’ll come with you.”

They came to the turning and Müller left the B1 to take the road, which skirted the shore. He drove along it until they came to an area on a wide bend where they could stop.

“There’s a car park further along,” he said, “but as we’re not going to be long, might as well stop here. That’s the place, over to the right. The Villa Marlier.”

The sun had actually begun to shine, and a strangely clear light had come upon the day. They walked along a tree and hedge-lined driveway, towards a circular flower bed at the entrance. They went round it, then paused just before entering.

They entered the villa with its dark, polished wooden floor, and pale walls covered with captioned photographs depicting events of humankind’s notorious inhumanity to itself.

They went through to the concentration camp display. Carey Bloomfield’s face was still, but she showed no emotion. They then went through to the actual room where the conference had been held. This room held a neat array of the photographs of the actual participants, with information on each individual.

They went back outside and walked round the building until they came to a spot close to the water, with two benches facing each other. They stopped, and looked out across the lake, at a long stretch of beach. The remained silent for long moments, enjoying the sudden warmth of the sun.

“Gives a special meaning to let’s do lunch, “ she said, hugging herself. “Christ. They had a buffet lunch while they did this. Such a beautiful place. I mean, who wouldn’t have wanted to live here? All those ghosts. It’s obscene.”

Pappenheim was already in the Rogues Gallery, and opened up to Hedi Meyer’s knock.

She went straight to the computer, and powered it up. “What are we looking for, sir?”

“The beacon our mysterious informant left as a calling card, months ago,” Pappenheim told her. “I want to see if he has sent us any recent updates.”