by Walter Wager
The warden smiled back—warily.
“The message is from the BND, and so am I.”
“No one can visit him. That’s the order.”
“Right. I’m here to check out his cell. Get some guards and move him to another cell for an hour while I search to make sure no one’s put a bomb in here.”
They made Beller stand twenty yards away as they marched the mass murderer out, and ninety seconds later the doctor entered Monitz’s cell. The warden had quite a sense of humor. The child-killer’s cell was hung with a score of model airplanes, hand-carved in light wood and meticulously painted. He was a “model” prisoner, all right. The guard captain watched from the door as Beller searched—and analyzed. It had to be the powder, the slow-acting poison absorbed right through the skin.
“Where’s the warden?”
The captain turned to look up the corridor, and Beller sprayed a tiny puff of the odorless powder across the pillow. In ten or twenty days—depending on his strength—Monitz would fall ill. Within a month after that, he’d die.
“He’s coming,” the captain replied a few seconds later.
Beller told Wankel that the cell was “clean,” ordered him to maintain maximum security for Monitz and pumped his hand twice before he left. The warden beamed when he heard the promise to report to the BND on how well his prison was run. Beller beamed when he walked to his car in the afternoon sun.
It had gone well, Beller thought as he checked for the sign pointing to the highway south.
Everything had worked—and in due course the slow-acting poison would too.
Still, Dr. Beller felt oddly uneasy and looked back several times in his rearview mirror.
No, there was no pursuer in sight.
Not yet.
26
Life is full of surprises.
A gifted Nashville songwriter named Tupper Saussy crafted a splendid little number with that title in 1975, and he was correct. Surprises and smart-ass types such as Klaus Tomburg abound, and there’s no way to predict when you’ll run into them. Ernest Beller didn’t expect either that sunny July morning at 11:05, for his papers were “in order” and his dark suit was entirely appropriate for a junior partner in an important Frankfurt law firm.
“You can’t, and you couldn’t anyway,” Tomburg told him with a large grin.
The size of the grin wasn’t the surprise, for Tomburg weighed two hundred and thirty pounds. He was the biggest and least popular officer on the Kuppenheim staff. Every other guard captain in the German penal system was a wonderful, decent, sincere person deeply concerned about the world’s hunger and population and pollution problems, and many of those good chaps had pen pals in Nigeria and Pakistan and southern California. Tomburg was different, a gross glutton with bad manners and an even worse sense of humor.
The others were embarrassed to have such an oaf at Kuppenheim, a provincial prison some twenty-six kilometers north of Baden-Baden. It’s a lovely region. Sitting in the Oos Valley between the Black Forest and the fertile Baden vineyards, the luxurious Baden-Baden spa has been known for attracting the affluent since Rome’s Emperor Caracalla arrived to try to cure his rheumatism. Kuppenheim isn’t known for anything, certainly not its medium-sized penitentiary.
“No, you can’t see Herr Dolken,” Tomburg said slyly.
This is a matter of some property he’s inherited,” Beller insisted, “and I have an official pass signed by—”
The captain’s coarse laugh was almost a guffaw. “You probably don’t know it, counselor, but Herr Hugo Dolken was sent here for what they used to call war crimes—or was it mass murder?”
Beller blinked behind his thick spectacles several times in a rather good simulation of bewilderment and surprise.
“He killed a lot of people in one of those camps,” Tomburg explained, “and now some gang of fanatics is out killing the killers. Funny, uh?”
“I’m here on a real-estate matter,” Beller insisted.
“Counselor,” the captain sneered, “don’t waste your breath. We’ve had orders that no one can visit the war criminals. That’s why you couldn’t see Dolken even if he was here.”
What the hell was this ape talking about? Dolken had received a life sentence.
“We released that grumbling old fart—no offense, counselor—five or six days ago. Poor health, I heard. His granddaughter came up from Freudenstadt to collect him.”
“Ilse—the plump one?” the homicidal doctor improvised.
Tomburg’s grin turned into something just short of a leer—about that much. “Not fat at all. Slim but very pretty. Good set of knockers for her size.”
Then Captain Tomburg belched loudly and Beller thanked him mechanically and turned toward his car.
“Don’t blame me, counselor. Ain’t my fault if some moronic clerk forgot to notify the rest of the family… Ilse? Nah—it was…it was Hanna…I think.” He belched again—onion sausage.
Klaus Tomburg would never have been promoted to captain if his wife’s brother weren’t so well connected, but the personnel policies of Kuppenheim Prison weren’t what was on Dr. Beller’s mind. He had to get a map to locate Freudenstadt, and when he got there he had to find some young woman whose first name was probably or possibly Hanna. Her family name could be anything. That crude slob could even be wrong about Freudenstadt.
It was warm in the midday glare as Beller drove south toward Baden-Baden, but the dark-green woods on the nearby hills helped considerably. The Black Forest had obviously received some more rain than other regions, and wasn’t nearly as parched as eastern France less than a hundred miles away. Shortly before noon he guided the tan Dasher past the ruins of the old castle at Hohenbaden that dominated the valley, and twenty minutes later he bought the map he needed at the newsstand in the lobby of the Bellevue Hotel on Baden-Baden’s fashionable Lichtentaler Allee.
Those green-sheathed Michelin guides were terrific.
The Black Forest, locally called the Schwartzwald, stretched a hundred and six miles south from Karlsruhe in the industrial Saar basin to Basel in Switzerland. The Germans had sensibly divided the Black Forest into three parts—the Northern Black Forest, the Central Black Forest and the Southern Black Forest.
There was Freudenstadt, at the southern end of the Northern Black Forest, less than fifty miles down the mountain road from Baden-Baden. It was—praise the Lord—a smallish town with a population of just under fifteen thousand. Yes, it might be possible to find a slim, pretty woman whose name could be Hanna in such a community. Whatever her name was, Beller was hungry and in no mood to wait two hours for lunch. With all the twists and turns on the scenic Hochstrasse—the Black Forest crest road so popular with tourists—it would take at least that long for a prudent driver to reach Freudenstadt.
After lunch of Rhine salmon and onions at a nearby restaurant, Beller began driving south, at less than thirty miles an hour. He had no intention of spinning off one of the endless series of curves into the valley. He meant to arrive in Freudenstadt in perfect health, and then he would kill Hugo Dolken. That story about poor health didn’t deceive Dr. Beller. The pathologist had read the reports on Dolken’s trial, remembered how tricky and vicious the S.S. dentist had been.
Dolken was alive, but not for long.
It was really very pretty country, and as Beller left the vineyards in the foothills south of Baden-Baden he could see why so many vacationers came to these slopes. The masses of dark green conifers were broken by spaces that lured thousands of German skiers in the winter, and in the summer foreign tourists and hiking enthusiasts poured in to enjoy the natural splendor—and buy cuckoo clocks. This was the scenic Germany they featured in the travel brochures, each town a picture postcard. Buhlerhohe, Sand, Unterstmatt and Mummelsee, with the peak called the Hornisgrinde dominating the horizon. Two busloads of tourists—one Japanese—slowed Beller as he approached Allerheiligen and the impressive Butten waterfalls, but he squeezed by and reached Freudenstadt at a quarter to four.
The town stood among those now-so-familiar pines on a high plateau where several mountain roads met, and a lot of people—including several guides from the American Express Company and Thomas Cook Ltd—had called the views “breathtaking.” Being obsessed and just a bit nearsighted Dr. Beller paid little attention to the wonderful panoramas—all four-color jobs that any National Geographic subscriber or amateur photographer would adore. The purposeful pathologist did notice that there was a lot of new-look to Freudenstadt, and that there was a big town square surrounded by Renaissance arches. It was certainly the most impressive marktplatz in this part of the Black Forest.
Ernest Beller was completely unimpressed.
He was focused on finding a hotel for the night, and a certain dentist who had ripped gold fillings from the mouths of concentration-camp prisoners who were still alive. Witnesses at the trial had testified that Dolken never used any pain-killer, because he enjoyed the screams.
One hundred rooms—sixty with private bath—and a good dining room. That’s what the Luz-Hotel-Waldlust at 92 Lauter-badstrasse promised, and even though it didn’t offer an indoor pool like some of the others on the edge of town, Beller picked it for the central location. The government travel office had rated this establishment “first-class, superior,” a notch above the others even though three of them had indoor swimming pools.
“It’s our kitchen,” explained the bellboy as he pocketed the tip. “We’re famous for our kitchen. The skiers come in the winter, the hikers in the summer—and the sick ones all year round. You’ve heard of our spa, no doubt. Freudenstadt’s water cures are known all over Germany, and in France and Switzerland too.”
“It’s a charming town,” Beller said mechanically.
“We get more hours of sun each year than any other resort in all of Germany, mein herr.”
What could one say to such Chamber of Commerce cant? Beller didn’t know, so he gestured vaguely and faked a smile and the thirty-year-old “boy” departed. The doctor didn’t waste the time to unpack. He reached for the telephone book on the bedside table instead.
Dolken, Stuttgarterstrasse 42.
Gerhardt Dolken had a wine shop, and perhaps a daughter named Hanna. Beller memorized the address, cautiously walked three blocks from the hotel before he asked a man outside a grocery to direct him to Stuttgarterstrasse. Less than fifteen minutes later he stood across the street from number 42. Bottles of Sylvaner and Rulander dominated most of the window display, with some of the fiery Black Forest raspberry brandy grouped in front of a photo-poster of a grinning skier. Beller circled the entire block slowly, remembering what the Special Forces men had taught him.
Reconnoiter the area thoroughly.
Check the traffic flow and possible escape routes.
Find the sentries.
No, there wasn’t a policeman in sight.
“Guten tag,” the woman behind the counter said politely.
She wasn’t pretty, and she was at least fifty. This wasn’t the granddaughter, but could be her mother or aunt. Beller paid for a bottle of the raspberry brandy, accepted his change.
“Frau Dolken?”
“Jah?”
She was local all right. The accent proved that.
“You wouldn’t have a daughter named Hanna?”
The middle-aged woman with the pursed lips shook her head.
“I met the young lady in Baden-Baden a few weeks ago, at a concert.”
Frau Dolken nodded in approval. She respected concerts and all such cultural activities.
“She said that her grandfather lived somewhere near here,” Beller tested. “Hugo Dolken? A dentist?”
“We’re the only Dolkens in Freudenstadt, mein herr. My late husband used to joke about how rare our name is in this part of the country, and now there’s only his mother and me left. A dentist, you say?”
“She said.”
“No, we’re a family of shopkeepers. Sorry I can’t help you.”
Was she lying?
It wouldn’t be surprising, for no one in Germany today would be proud of a war criminal relative.
Another customer entered, and Beller walked out into the fine bright afternoon. The sun was shining—of course—and the clean mountain air was fresh, and Ernest Beller was thwarted.
He was not discouraged.
The sadist would not escape him. It was simply a matter of applying his intelligence to the problem—the same analytical mind that had done so well at Harvard and the Columbia medical school and those other German prisons earlier. If he couldn’t reason it out, Beller would wait and let his subconscious float the solution up to him. He knew it would work, for it always had. All he had to do was—not do anything, and he’d wake up tomorrow or the next day with the answer. Johnny Mercer, the genial/shrewd southern gentleman who had crafted the lyrics for such gracious and lovely songs as “That Old Black Magic,” “Laura,” “Too Marvelous for Words” and “When the World Was Young,” had once told an interviewer that you couldn’t force creative thinking. The answers just came when they were damn good and ready, according to the talented and savvy Mr. Mercer, and if you were really a creator they always came. Dr. Beller recognized that there was much rubbish in popular music, but he also knew better than to ignore the fundamental “country” wisdom of a folk philosopher such as Johnny Mercer.
The solution would come.
It would appear suddenly—clear, logical and simple—within two or three days, and there was no need to sweat it. This was a delightful region, a splendid place to rest and celebrate the wonders of nature. The pathologist felt completely relaxed as he strolled the streets of the pleasantly unhurried city, and he was just as free of tension when he returned to the hotel for dinner. The cuisine posed no threat to the chefs at the Oustau de la Baumanière at Les Baux in Provence or those at Lutèce in New York, but the food was better than good and the halfbottle of Baden-grown Ihringer Winklerberg left him ready for sleep.
The Martians weren’t at all sleepy.
Full of histamines, excitement and the crazy commitment that so many people get when they’re sure that they’re right, the terrorists were sawing the lock off the door of a supply hut at a construction site on the edge of Bremen. They stole four cases of explosives, loaded the boxes into two cars stolen that afternoon and drove south toward the chemical, gas and rubber factories of the industrial Ruhr.
Just before 5 A.M. there was a very loud noise just outside the city of Beckum. Then there were several other explosions that awoke at least a quarter of the 370,000 hard-working residents, civilized burghers who were just as proud of the Shakespeare productions at the City Theater as they were of the fine productivity at the auto, machine and chemical plants. Now a big ball of fire blossomed, and two other red pillars defaced the dawn horizon only minutes later.
Werner Buerckel had done an excellent job of sabotage. The terrorists’ demolition specialist had used only one case of explosives to destroy most of a 52,000,000-mark chemical plant. Now there were more fires and the sounds of bullhorns as half a dozen “engine companies” raced toward the blazing factory. The intermittent series of blasts and clouds of choking smoke reminded more than one fire-brigade officer of an unforgettable RAF visit back in late ’43, or was it early ’44? It had been a terrible winter in the Ruhr.
The terrorists were already a dozen kilometers away, heading east just under the legal speed limit. Despite the explosions and the red glare on the horizon, Marta Falkenhausen was still the only one to congratulate Buerckel on his success.
“Sehr gut, Werner,” she complimented.
Then Karla Lange—seated up front beside Lietzen, who was driving—remembered how much the explosives man needed reassurance. “Fine work,” she chimed in dutifully.
“I only used one box,” Werner said in tones edged with pride. “We’ve still got three left. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“That’s very good,” Lietzen agreed.
“What are we going to do with the other th
ree?” Buerckel wondered almost childishly.
It was difficult not to laugh.
“Don’t worry, Werner,” Lietzen replied as he smiled in the darkness. “We’ll think of something—soon!”
27
When Ernest Beller awoke the next morning, he was just a trifle disappointed to find that he still had absolutely no idea how to continue his search for Hugo Dolken. There was no reason to panic, of course. The inspiration would come. It had to, for Johnny Mercer himself had predicted that, sooner or later, “Something’s Gotta Give.”
Nothing did.
After a superior breakfast, the pathologist wandered over to one of Freudenstadt’s intensely modern spas, where a proud member of the staff presented a brochure listing all the treatments offered. “Pine extract movement bath; remedial gymnastics; exercises (group therapy); underwater gymnastics (butterfly tub); sauna; Turkish baths; Kneipp (hydropathic) therapy; full, partial and connective tissue massage; underwater jet massage; packs; medicinal baths; respiratory therapy; inhalations; rest rooms; course of therapy by drinking the waters; chiropody; organized gymnastics; breathing exercises; and ‘terrain’ cures,” Beller read aloud.
The incredulity in his voice was obvious, but the spa attendant misunderstood. “You are impressed,” he said smugly. “Well, most people are. We use many different sports too.”
“Just what medical problems do you treat with all this?” the American physician asked cautiously.
The man in the white jacket handed him another leaflet with a flourish. Before Beller could study it, the attendant began to chant. “Asthma, emphysema, bronchitis, callus formations in the bronchial tubes, diabetes, metabolic disorders, exudative diathesis and pulmonary complaints, degenerative disorders of the locomotory apparatus, cardiac and circulatory diseases and disorders of the bloodstream.”
“Wonderful,” the American lied with a straight face.