by Glenn Meade
“Terrific. The one man who might give us a line on Winter turns out to be a terrorist and probably unreachable.”
Erica said, “Maybe not. I knew his girlfriend, Karen Holfeld. We roomed together one year. I think she’s living in Mainz somewhere.”
“You think you could find her?”
“I could telephone some old friends who might know. She may have lost contact with Lubsch. But if I do find her, what do I say?”
He thought for a moment. “How about telling her you want to write a story with a colleague from one of your magazines . . . a human-interest piece about those involved in left-wing politics? Tell her you want to talk with Lubsch in confidence. And that you won’t use his name. Maybe he’ll bite at the chance of some positive publicity. Your old school ties may help. But keep it low-key. And if you can’t find this Karen through your own friends, I’ll put my people on it.”
He fell silent, then said, “I’d like to ask you a question. Did you sense anything strange about the Chaco house?”
“In what way strange?”
“Apart from the way it was left. A feeling. Like an atmosphere.”
She put down her fork. “I sensed something. But I’m not sure what. The small house, the one next to the hacienda . . . I remember that I shivered when I stepped inside, even though it was a hot day.” Erica shrugged. “It was kind of like the feeling you get when you step into a house in which someone has died.” She looked at him. “Is that what you mean?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. All I know is that it felt kind of weird.”
When the waiter took away the dishes, Erica reached across and touched his hand. “Thanks, Joe. Thanks for your help.”
Volkmann looked over at the blue eyes and the pretty face and wondered if she meant it, or if she was just a good actress.
• • •
He was awakened by the telephone ringing in the next room. It was midnight, the bedroom curtains lifting and falling in a soft breeze. He dressed and went into the living room.
Erica was sitting by the telephone, a notepad open beside her.
“I’ve made a lot of calls. I think I’ve managed to trace Wolfgang Lubsch.”
“How?”
“Someone I knew in Heidelberg . . . she gave me Karen’s phone number.” She caught Volkmann’s eye. “When I called her, she seemed wary about talking to me.”
“That shouldn’t come as a surprise—especially if she and Lubsch are still friends.”
“I asked her if Lubsch was open to an interview. She told me he wasn’t eager to talk to reporters these days. So I tried the approach you suggested—with a few embellishments. I said I wouldn’t use Lubsch’s name but that the article was very important to me. She seemed to think Lubsch might be interested in a story like that. She told me she’d phone and ask him. She called back just now and said it was okay.”
“Good work. So when do we get to meet him?”
“Tomorrow afternoon we’re to be in a bar called the Weisses Rossl at four o’clock. It’s in an old wine town on the Rhine called Rüdesheim, about an hour’s drive from Frankfurt. Karen asked me not to involve anyone else, apart from us. I assured her she could trust me.”
He waited until Erica had gone, watching her retreat into the spare bedroom before he telephoned the night-duty officer, Jan de Vries, and requested the files for Wolfgang Lubsch of Baden-Baden, a graduate of Heidelberg. De Vries promised to get back to him by eight that morning.
After Volkmann replaced the receiver, he crossed to the bookshelves. He found the Times Atlas and flicked the pages. He traced with a finger to the place on the border between Paraguay and Brazil named Bahia Negra, where Sanchez had said the radar picked up the aircraft signal. From the map, it looked like a small, insignificant town straddling the border on the banks of the Rio Paraguay. He wondered if Sanchez had made any further progress, but knew the man would make contact if he did.
He replaced the atlas on the shelves, then went back into the bedroom and found the Beretta 9 mm service pistol, removed it from the holster, and checked the action. There was a full clip of shells and a spare magazine. He read through Hernandez’s tape transcript again. When he finished, it was cold outside and raining now, fine needles scratching at the glass. He lit a cigarette, inhaling slowly.
20
RÜDESHEIM. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 3:00 P.M.
The town faced the riverfront, a maze of cozy inns and narrow, cobbled streets.
In summer, the pretty wine town would have been flooded with visitors, the Rhine banks awash with the floating hotels and tourist barges. But in winter, the visitors trickled to a few hardy weekenders.
Volkmann drove through the town to get his bearings, then made his way down toward the waterfront and parked the Ford. He left the Beretta and his DSE identity card tucked under the driver’s seat; Facilities had provided him with a press ID card.
A couple of squat tourist ferries were tied up for the winter season. It didn’t feel like Christmas, but decorations hung in shop windows, and in the central platz colored lights winked in the fading afternoon light.
They walked through the cobbled alleyways toward the center of the old town. Most of the weinstuben were closed, but they found a café open and ordered coffee and pastries.
Erica’s blond hair was tied back and she wore hardly any makeup, but her face was still strikingly pretty. Volkmann said, “You better describe Lubsch to me. If I’m going to meet a dangerous, wanted terrorist, I want to know as much as I can.”
Erica sipped her coffee. “He wasn’t the kind of guy most women would find attractive. Small. Thinly built. Glasses and red hair. But he looked kind of vulnerable and at the same time arrogant, if you know what I mean. A dreamer. But very bright. Does that help?”
He smiled. “It’s enough. Does your friend Karen still have a relationship with him?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But Karen always had a reputation as a man-eater. Even though she’s married now.”
“Tell me more.”
“She and her husband run a business together. It’s in the center of Mainz. And her name’s no longer Holfeld, but Gries.”
“What kind of business?”
“A sports boutique. You know, high-end athletic shoes, designer active wear. Very fashionable. Very chic. Business is booming, Karen claims.”
“Which department was she in on campus?”
“Politics, the same as Lubsch.”
“So how did she get into sportswear?”
“Apart from politics, Karen was very physical—into running, swimming, hiking, climbing. At university, she always had lots of boyfriends.”
“What about you?”
“What do you mean?” she answered, coloring a little.
“At the university. Did you have lots of male friends?”
“A few,” she said carefully.
“You don’t like to talk about that part of your life?”
She shrugged. “Not to someone I’ve just met.”
“Fair enough,” he said with a slight smile. “Tell me about the right-wing groups Winter belonged to.”
She paused for a moment to collect her memories. “I don’t think they were particularly organized. Just guys who got together to drink and tell each other how brilliant and deep they were and—what’s the expression in your language—to throw the bull?”
He laughed. “Close enough.”
“They’d throw the bull about the state Germany was in,” she went on. “They liked to scapegoat immigrants. In their view, Germany had become a half-breed state because of its five million immigrants. When they were drunk, they might shout insults at foreign-looking students. There were fights, too, a few times, but nothing serious.”
She paused. “And when they were very drunk, they’d beat their beer mugs against the tables and chant, ‘Germany for the Germans.’ I saw a Nazi salute or two now and again. But most of us just thought that these guys were being stupid and silly.”
; “After they graduated, what became of them? Did they stay involved in extremist politics?”
Erica shook her head. “I really can’t say. I didn’t pay them a lot of attention—except when I was in the same beer hall or at a party and couldn’t avoid them.” She looked at him. “You know, Joseph Volkmann, you’re a very strange man.”
“Tell me why you think so,” he said softly.
“You make me want to fill the silence by answering your questions. To confide in you. I’m the journalist. And that’s supposed to be my strategy. It’s rather absurd.”
“What is?”
“I spend the night in a man’s apartment about whom I know nothing. It’s not the kind of thing that usually happens, Joe.”
“And what does usually happen?”
“Nothing to write home about, I assure you. I have my work. I listen to my music. I go out with friends. But mainly my work. I’m afraid I’m not hausfrau material.”
“You have a boyfriend, Erica?”
She shook her head. “There’s no one special right now.” She looked across at him. “Don’t I get a chance to ask some personal questions?”
He smiled. “What would you like to know?”
“Do you like your work?”
“It’s what I’m trained to do.”
She smiled again. “Was that a yes or a no?”
“I guess it’s a yes.”
Dusk was falling. Lights coming on in the cobbled street outside.
He said, “I had Lubsch checked out. No surprises. His group’s been involved in at least two kidnappings and the murder of an industrialist. He also likes making withdrawals from German banks without having an account. All in the name of freeing the downtrodden and protecting the defenseless, no doubt.”
He looked hard at her. “But he’s no ivory-tower intellectual, Erica. He’s a dangerous, wanted man. Maybe even a killer. If you decide you’d rather not go with me . . .”
“If it means finding the people who killed Rudi, I want to meet him.”
“Good. Just remember, he can’t know that I’m with DSE.” Volkmann produced his press ID. “It’s genuine. So what you told Karen ought to hold up. No matter what happens, stick to our cover story.”
“What about when we have to ask Lubsch about Winter?”
“Leave that to me. You’re sure you can go through with it, Erica?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let’s go find this bar and pray we’re not walking into big trouble.”
• • •
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.”