Brandenburg: A Thriller

by Glenn Meade

  “There’s something Kesser’s girlfriend didn’t tell you about Schmeltz.”

  The terrorist grimaced, his voice suddenly strained. “She told us, Volkmann. I didn’t mention it, because I thought you’d think I’d lost my reason.” Lubsch shook his head as if in disbelief. “Part of me wants to believe what she said, and yet another part of me is questioning my sanity. Still, I know she didn’t lie. They say that history repeats itself. Only, in this case, who would have believed it?” He paused. “What do you want, Volkmann? A chance to speak for the dead?”

  55

  BERLIN. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 24, 12:16 A.M.

  The Mercedes braked to a halt on the gravel driveway.

  The porch light was on outside the house, and as Ritter opened the car door for Dollman, the chancellor slid out of the warm limo.

  Lisl was waiting in the hallway, and while Ritter disappeared as usual into the study she led Dollman inside.

  On the dining room table supper was laid. A bottle of Dom Perignon stood in a silver bucket of crushed ice. Next to it were fresh flowers and two lit candles. Lisl had drawn the curtains to stop the prying eyes of the bodyguards, and as Dollman crumpled into a leather armchair by the fire, she said, “You had a difficult day?”

  “Exhausting.”

  She went to stand behind him, massaging his shoulders.

  Dollman groaned with pleasure. Moments later she felt his hand grasp her arm, and he pulled her around. She saw the look of impatience on his face and said, “Let’s eat first.”

  Dollman’s hand started to slide along her thigh, but she smiled, and led him to the table.

  Dollman wolfed down his food and drank three glasses of champagne. When it came to dessert, Lisl served him chocolate mousse. He looked longingly at her and let his hand slide down the curve of her hip.

  She smiled down at him. “What about dessert?”

  “I’d much rather have you, my sweet.”

  The chancellor managed a weak grin, but tiredness and alcohol crumpled his face. She smiled back, took Dollman by the hand, and led him upstairs to the bedroom.

  • • •

  Five minutes later, Dollman watched as Lisl slid a disc into the sound system. Then the strains of Mozart filled the room.

  She came to lie beside him on the silk sheets. Dollman’s energy was spent, it was obvious, and when he made a weak attempt to touch her she gently pushed his hand away. “It’s better you sleep for now, liebchen. Time to recharge your batteries. I’ll be waiting for you when you wake.”

  Dollman murmured gratefully and turned over, exhausted.

  She waited for several minutes before she slid off the bed, crossed to the window, and peered out through a parting in the curtain. Three cars were parked below: one in the street, the others in the driveway, though there was no movement. But Ritter’s men were out there. And Ritter himself was downstairs in the study, as usual.

  As the curtain fell back into place, she heard Dollman begin to snore, his big body rumbling under the covers. She checked her watch before she crossed to the sound system again. She lowered the volume to near silence, waiting for the second hand to sweep past for one minute exactly, aware of her heart beating furiously; then she raised the volume again gradually until the music resumed its former pitch. She went to sit at the dressing table, her hands trembling as she stared down at her watch again.

  1:10 a.m.

  In another ten minutes, it would all be over.

  • • •

  In the basement, Ozalid tensed as he heard the sounds of Mozart die and flicked on the pencil light. He watched the second hand sweep around: one minute, then the music volume rose again.

  He had heard the cars pulling into the driveway, heard the sounds of footsteps in the hall, then moving up the stairs to the bedroom. But nothing this last half hour. Until now.

  He tensed again. His watch read 1:10. He flicked off the light and stood in the darkness, a knot of expectancy in his stomach, but every sense alert.

  He would wait five minutes, just to be certain.

  Then he would move.

  12:46 A.M.

  Christian Bauer was director of the Berlin Landesamt, a tall, lean man in his mid-fifties with gray sleeked hair and a handsome face. He wore a dressing gown over blue crumpled cotton pajamas, but even so, he had the well-groomed look of the diplomat about him.

  He had made coffee, but Werner Bargel ignored the steaming black liquid. Bargel had telephoned him to say he was coming over. That it was urgent.

  It was strictly business and Bauer saw that his assistant’s face was ashen, but Bauer spoke calmly, as if he were used to emergency calls to his home in the early hours. “Tell me what’s so urgent, Werner.”

  “I got two telephone calls just before I called you, sir. Both from Munich. The first was from a man I know named Volkmann. He’s with DSE.”

  “Go on.”

  “According to Volkmann, a man named Kefir Ozalid is going to assassinate Chancellor Dollman.” Bargel paused briefly, saw the look of alarm on the director’s face. “He also said the entire cabinet is going to be killed.”

  Bauer’s mouth was open. “When?”

  “Tonight. Now. He didn’t know how, only that it’s going to happen after the attempt on Dollman’s life.” Bargel swallowed. “All the cabinet are staying in Berlin, sir, for Weber’s security meeting in the Reichstag this morning.”

  Bauer put down his cup, his face draining of color.

  His assistant director flicked a glance at his watch, as if for emphasis. “Before I came here, I had Ozalid’s name put through our computers. We’re also trying to locate the chancellor.”

  “What did the computers say?”

  “There’s a Kefir Ozalid listed under security-risk category two. He’s Turkish. Immigrated to Germany in his teens. Thirty years old.”

  Bauer stood up anxiously. “Okay, so we’ve got a file on him, but why would he want to assassinate Dollman?”

  “Two years ago Ozalid spent three months in prison for seriously assaulting an Interior Ministry official in Bonn. The sentence would have been longer, only the court took into account extenuating circumstances.”

  Bauer’s eyebrows rose. “What extenuating circumstances?”

  “According to his file, he and his wife were the victims of a group of right-wing thugs who firebombed an immigrant hostel. His wife died from her injuries. She was also pregnant. The thugs involved were never apprehended.” Bargel paused. “Dollman was interior minister at the time, responsible for federal security. Apparently, Ozalid wrote to him, blaming Dollman for not having the thugs brought to justice. The official Ozalid attacked was one of Dollman’s staff.”

  “Good grief . . . ,” Bauer said. “Did the computer say anything about Ozalid’s whereabouts?”

  “He left Germany a year ago, last known address in Stockholm. But he could have slipped back into Germany on a false passport . . .”

  Bauer thought for a moment. “Do you trust Volkmann?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we speak with him?”

  Bargel shook his head. “He just made the call to my home number, pressed on me the absolute urgency of the situation, and then he hung up.” Bargel paused. “But there’s something else, sir, tied in with Volkmann’s information. Something very disturbing.”

  “What?”

  Bargel took a deep breath. “According to Volkmann, the threats to Dollman and the cabinet are only part of it. There’s going to be an attempted coup.”

  Christian Bauer looked at Bargel disbelievingly. “By whom?”

  When Bargel told him, Bauer shook his head slowly and said, “You . . . you can’t be serious?”

  Bargel didn’t stop; he explained all he knew about the missile and its location. Then he caught his breath nervously, drew in a deep lungful of air, saw Bauer’s shocked reaction.

  The director asked quickly, “Where’s Dollman now?”

  “With Lisl Henning.” Bargel swallowed. “Volk
mann said she was involved.”

  “He mentioned her by name?”

  “Yes, sir. I ordered security to contact Dollman’s bodyguard Ritter and tell him what’s happening. However, because of the complexity of the situation and the protocol involved, the other orders I gave await your confirmation.”

  “What orders are those?”

  “I gave the duty officer a list of senior military officers and security personnel to contact. On your command, they’re to come here immediately. There’s a team already on its way to Lisl Henning’s house in Wannsee—I took the liberty of issuing the order as soon as I heard from Volkmann.” Bargel quickly checked his watch. “They should be arriving within the next few minutes. Another team is making ready in Munich to move to the Kaalberg.” Bargel paused. “You may, of course, countermand my orders.”

  “What about the cabinet?”

  “I’ve already ordered that their personal security be increased and put on alert.”

  Bargel looked at his superior expectantly. Bauer’s face was tense. He nodded quickly.

  “Okay. Confirm your orders, with my approval.”

  “What about the interior minister, sir? He’ll have to be informed.”

  Bauer was under pressure, and he spewed out his words. “I’ll contact Weber myself. But for heaven’s sake, get onto Ritter.”

  At that moment the portable buzzed in Bargel’s hand. He listened, and then spoke sharply into the receiver. “Keep trying! Do you hear me? Keep trying!” Bargel covered the mouthpiece and looked up.

  Bauer said urgently, “What is it?”

  “It’s about Ritter, sir. We’re getting no reply from his phone.”

  • • •

  Karl Schmeltz stepped out onto the snow-swept balcony and buttoned up the green loden coat to the collar. He crossed to the end of the low wall and stared out at the snowy darkness.

  Ghosts.

  Ghosts everywhere.

  An icy wind gusted, eddying the snow falling thinly in the valley below.

  He had been in these mountains before, listening to the Föhn wind, knew it with certainty. Osmosis. Absorbed in his bone jelly. The memory ached there now like a soft pain.

  Flakes of icy snow brushed against his cold cheeks. Chilled, invigorating.

  Bone-cracking coldness.

  He sucked in a deep breath, felt the chilled air probe his lungs like icy fingers.

  Good.

  Twice, in youth, he had been brought here, to the south, remembering faces and names before his journey began: Bormann, Mengele, Eichmann. Secret trips and safe houses and furtive meetings. Yes, here’s the boy. Take a good look at him. Someday, not in your lifetime perhaps, but someday . . . when the time is right, when the opportunity presents itself . . .

  The Prussian snapping of heels, the firm shaking of hands, the pledges of allegiance. Old faces and new faces that kept the flame burning.

  Who would have thought it would take so long?

  An icy blast blew across the balcony. He sucked in another deep breath of the chilled air.

  So close, so very close.

  A noise sounded and he turned toward the French windows. Meyer stepped out onto the balcony, his footsteps crunching on snow.

  “The woman’s here.”

  Schmeltz nodded, and both men strode back into the house.

  • • •

  Ozalid flicked on the pencil light.

  1:14 a.m.

  Four minutes had passed. He flicked off the light.

  In the darkness, he took a quiet, deep breath. Impatience was setting in.

  Do it.

  He began to climb the basement steps very slowly. When he reached the top, he flicked off the Beretta’s safety, switched off the light, and slid it into his left pocket, then gripped the door handle lightly.

  He opened the door a crack. The table lamp was on in the hallway, the study door closed, and he could see no light under the door where the guard would be resting.

  He stepped out into the hallway.

  Above him, the landing was in darkness, but he could hear the music coming softly from the bedroom. He moved up the stairs, reached the landing. The music was louder now, the bedroom door open a crack, revealing a thin splinter of light.

  Ozalid took a deep breath as he raised the silenced Beretta.

  He stepped toward the light.

  • • •

  In the study darkness, Ritter was asleep on the couch when his phone buzzed. He came awake with a start, exhausted after a hectic schedule with Dollman, resting his eyes but falling asleep in the process.

  Now he fumbled for his phone, found it in the darkness, said sleepily, “Ritter.”

  “Ritter, this is Werner Bargel. Where the devil have you been? Are you with the chancellor?”

  Ritter found the lamp and switched it on, almost knocking it over as the voice crackled with urgency.

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “There’s no time to explain, just listen, Ritter. There’s going to be an attempt on the chancellor’s life. Stay close by him. Do you hear? Stay close! Don’t let him out of your sight. Support will be with you in minutes. But stay with Dollman!”

  Ritter dropped the phone, grasped the walkie-talkie on the table, and spoke into it rapidly, not waiting for a reply from the bodyguards in the cars outside.

  “Watch units . . . Alert Red! . . . Repeat, Alert Red! Watch units!” Ritter shouted into the mouthpiece, his voice strained. “Cover entrances and exits, now!”

  He reached the door in one big stride, stepped out into the hallway, the SIG Sauer pistol already raised in his free hand, eyes scanning the ground floor. Music, but other sounds, too, doors opening outside in the driveway, the other bodyguards responding to his call.

  As Ritter moved toward the stairs, he glimpsed the open door leading down to the basement, his every sense signaling danger. He hesitated, but only for a split second. The door hadn’t been open earlier, he was certain, and if it was open now, then someone must have . . .

  No!

  He could hear the men moving frantically about outside, but he ignored the sounds as he raced up the stairs. Pistol at the ready and taking three steps at a time, Ritter bounded toward the landing.

  • • •

  As Ozalid stepped into the bedroom, he saw the man sleeping in the white silk sheets, the beautiful young woman wearing the pink nightgown sitting by the dressing table.

  She stared over at him silently, not making a sound, but with fear in her eyes.

  There was something surreal about the scene, the music playing on, and for an instant Ozalid hesitated as he stared back at the young woman.

  Their eyes met, and her gaze shifted nervously to the figure lying on the bed, as if pointing out the target.

  Ozalid saw Dollman’s body half covered by the bedclothes, his white shoulders, his back and part of his torso visible, the gray chest hair and his belly rising and falling as he breathed.

  Ozalid stepped forward, aimed the Beretta, and heard racing footsteps on the stairs.

  Then other sounds from below the landing, wood splintering, a door crashing in . . .

  Ozalid turned instantly as the bedroom door burst in and the bodyguard appeared, clutching a pistol.

  The bodyguard saw the gun in Ozalid’s hand swing around, his face registering his shock and his disadvantage.

  As Ritter rolled suddenly to the right, Ozalid fired two quick shots, one of them clipping Ritter’s left shoulder. The bodyguard screamed as the bullet cracked into bone. Then the Turk turned back to face his target.

  He aimed as Dollman came awake with a startled look on his face, the big body rising from the covers.

  Ozalid fired twice before the chancellor could speak.

  The bullet struck Dollman’s left cheek just below the eye socket; then he was flung back in the bed as the second shot blasted his chest.

  As Ozalid started to fire a third time, out of the corner of his eye he saw the bodyguard raise his pistol.
<
br />   Before Ozalid could aim again, he heard the explosion and felt the piercing hot lead enter his right side. And then he was punched sideways by a quick series of shots, lead tearing into his flesh as the bodyguard emptied his pistol.

  Ozalid reeled back, glimpsing the woman in the nightgown, hearing her screams. As he was spun around by the force of another bullet, the gun went off in his hand. The shot tore into the woman’s throat, and she was flung back against the wall.

  As the last burst of lead hammered into Ozalid’s body, he pitched forward onto the silk sheets on top of Dollman, not aware of the sounds of the men bursting into the room, or of the harsh voices screaming frantically, but dimly conscious of the hands tearing at his body, pulling him off the chancellor.

  • • •

  Forty seconds later Vice Chancellor Konrad Weber got the emergency call in his sixth-floor suite in Berlin’s Kempinski Hotel.

  Despite the hour, Weber was still dressed and reading through his papers, and he sat up expectantly and placed his leather briefcase on the bed beside him.

  Weber listened on the phone as Christian Bauer described the chancellor’s assassination in Wannsee and explained what he knew about the intended coup.

  A stunned silence followed, until Weber said hoarsely, “Oh no . . .”

  Konrad Weber, a pragmatic and precise man, was clear about his duties as vice chancellor despite the shocking news of Dollman’s assassination, and he left Christian Bauer in no doubt as to what had to be done to protect the German state. By law, Weber would assume the position of chancellor immediately and convene an emergency cabinet meeting within the next hour at the parliament building.

  The threat to the cabinet’s lives was a grave and real one, and Weber agreed with Bauer’s strategy. Reichstag security officers were already contacting ministers staying at hotels throughout the city. Security at the Reichstag itself was to be stepped up in case of an attack on the building during the coming hours.

  A state of emergency would be declared by Weber and those in the army and police whose loyalty was without question would be contacted at once, and the borders sealed.

  Weber ordered Christian Bauer to confirm the location of the site in Bavaria but to hold off on any attempt to seize the missile until Weber and the cabinet decided on a course of action. He was quite adamant about that, despite Bauer’s protests: Konrad Weber said he wasn’t going to risk the decimation of Germany and its people until he had all the facts concerning the coup and who the plotters were.