by Walter Wager
Her tone changed abruptly. “What?” she challenged sharply.
“I like fresh sheets.”
“If you think you’re moving in with me again—in my apartment—”
“Our apartment, Di,” he corrected.
“Never. We haven’t really settled anything. You’re too damn cocky, mister.”
“Honey,” he cajoled.
“Never!”
She slammed down the phone, and he sighed as he reflected on her complexity. She’d always been so romantic, so unpredictable despite her splendid mind. After a minute he picked up the telephone to call Cavaliere, whose return Lomas had delayed so they could organize the Victor watch. If there was anyone in West Berlin who’d know where to find a big map of the Federal Republic at two in the morning, it would be Angelo Cavaliere.
Hell, he was a walking atlas. He probably knew where Freudenstadt was without even looking.
Then Merlin recalled the unpleasant question that he’d avoided in the car as they left the dude ranch, the same one that the Israeli had asked. Merlin hadn’t wanted to face it then, and—despite his trans-Atlantic exchange a minute earlier—he didn’t want to confront it now.
Why the hell should he hunt down the doctor?
Merlin had identified him, and was no longer irritated by the puzzle and his own mistake. Only a day earlier the woman who was begging him to pursue Beller had been pleading with Merlin to leave it all to the Germans.
Why not?
They’d turned a three-year-old kid into a homicidal avenger, so why not let them cope with him now? After all, they were competent and they’d find the executioner sooner or later. Later might be better, Merlin brooded. Let him wipe out a few more of the monsters, the creatures who frightened everyone because they reminded us all of the horrors that men and women were capable of committing. It wasn’t just the Germans who were ashamed of the mass murderers. Even Merlin felt queasy at being part of the same species as those butchers.
Queasy and angry.
Angry and conflicted.
She’d been right, and that made him even more bitter. Merlin should never have gotten involved in this mess, this desperate dilemma created by a moralistic madman. What the hell was that quote from R. D. Laing that Cavaliere kept mouthing every couple of weeks? Yeah, “Madness is a state of grace in this crazy world.” Merlin had always brushed it off because Laing was a British shrink, and it was infuriating to think that the psychotherapist might be correct.
Merlin could always tell her that he hadn’t been able to find Ernest Beller. After all, even the best agents failed sometimes. Huge population, one tricky fanatic who spoke good German and knew the scene—almost impossible to catch. Merlin sat on the edge of the bed, annoyed with himself and Diane McGhee and that Old Testament avenger out there somewhere, smiting so skillfully and righteously.
“No,” Merlin said aloud.
Screw Freudenstadt.
Screw Ernest Beller too.
It wasn’t going to be Merlin who hunted him down. Merlin reached for the phone, hoping that someone was on duty at Pan American at half-past two in the morning. Merlin had done what he’d been asked to do—more—and he was going home to his woman.
The Pan Am reservations clerk told him to get to the airport by one o’clock the next afternoon, assured him that the “gold” American Express card would do the trick. Less than a minute later, Merlin tossed his suitcase onto the bed and began to pack. One of Merlin’s survival skills was knowing when to leave, and he was suddenly and utterly certain that it was time for him to get out of Germany.
Maybe Beller would too.
45
This one would be the most dangerous of all.
The most heavily guarded prison in Germany.
The most famous Nazi alive.
The Big One.
Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s handpicked deputy führer.
Hess was the only fascist still in Allied custody, Beller thought grimly as he dressed, and security would surely be tight at the strange and special Berlin prison that held him. Spandau Citadel was massive, reportedly impregnable. Its seventeenth-century stone walls and tower had survived the Anglo-American bombing, the Soviet shelling and the ferocious ground fighting as the Red Army clawed and hammered its way—yard by yard—through the last Nazi fanatics in a burning city.
That was more than thirty-two years ago, and all the high-level fascists whom the War Crimes Tribunal had sent to Spandau were released or dead—except Hess. The bitter Russians—who had such good reasons to be bitter—insisted on keeping this one symbol imprisoned in memory of their massacred millions. The Soviets had suffered five times as many casualties as any of their allies, and they weren’t about to forget. Brushing off “humanitarian” appeals that it was hardly worth a million dollars a year to isolate this sick and weary old man who’d been a prisoner since May 1941, when he flew to Scotland, the Russians insisted that he remain in Spandau.
Good—for Ernest Beller.
Sitting target.
There was something fitting in this. Hess had to be somewhat removed from reality thirty-six years ago when he tried to persuade Churchill to join Hitler in a crusade to obliterate Red Russia, and Beller was certifiably insane. A madman to slay a madman—there was a nightmarish Kafka logic here. Beller was unaware of the irony as he adjusted his tan tie before the mirror, pleased that his army uniform still fit so well. That clothing was a key part of his plan. The BND had alerted all the German prisons about the threat to war criminals, but not Spandau. It was run by the Big Four powers. The British, French, Russian and U.S. governments rotated in running Spandau, and this month the Americans were in charge.
Good—for Ernest Beller.
With a U.S. Army Medical Corps uniform.
With old I.D. he could alter and the experience in military terminology and forms needed to forge orders.
He rechecked the contents of the GI doctor’s bag he’d carefully kept hidden since leaving the army, looked lovingly at the snapshot of Anna on his bed table and picked up the envelope addressed to his aunt. He knew that he might have to lay down his own life to destroy Hess, but the letter was a cheery one that spoke of his plan to return to New York soon—perhaps with a fiancée. His aunt would like that, for she’d been urging him to “get married and settle down” for almost two years.
He put a stamp on the letter, stared at Anna again.
She was so beautiful, so tender, so right.
He sighed, smiled at her and forgot about the Nazis—for a moment. Then he scooped up the medical bag and the letter, descended to the hotel lobby and took a taxi to the U.S. Army Hospital, where armed secret agents watched the armed secret agents who watched Victor. He felt safe and assured as he entered, for he knew all about the layout from earlier visits and nothing about the dangerous men and women—more than a dozen cunning operatives—who walked these corridors disguised as healers.
“Is my staff car here yet?” he asked the nurse at the reception booth testily.
“What?”
“I’m Major Keller, and that damn car was supposed to pick me up twenty minutes ago.”
“I’ll call the motor pool, sir.”
The khaki military vehicle pulled up twelve minutes later, and Beller slammed the door in noisy outrage as he bounded into the back.
“Jeezus Christ!”
“Sorry, major. Someone must have screwed up,” the driver apologized.
“What the hell are you guys in the motor pool doing—beating your meat? I’m supposed to be at Spandau in nine goddam minutes.”
“Do my best, sir.”
“Softest damn duty in the whole army, and you guys sit around smoking grass and goofing off. Someone screwed up all right, and someone’s going to get his butt bored. You can bet on that, soldier.”
“Wasn’t me. Don’t blame you for being sore, major,” the skinny Nebraskan behind the wheel soothed—and smiled at the possibility that Sergeant Hance would be the one to get the reaming. Teac
h that Dixie dick a lesson.
Twenty-two minutes.
Traffic wasn’t too bad, and that’s how long it took to reach the walled citadel.
“Sergeant Hance—he’s running this shift at the motor pool,” the vengeful Nebraskan volunteered hopefully.
“Fix his ass. I surely will,” Beller promised nastily.
There were two armed sentries visible at the gate, both surprisingly alert for a post at a prison whose lone inmate was almost forgotten.
“Major Keller, Edward O.,” the cool madman announced.
It had worked so far.
The guard glanced at the staff car, looked at his clipboard for several seconds, and hesitated. “Don’t see your name, sir.”
Killing him wouldn’t do any good, but Beller tensed as he considered alternatives.
“Look again,” he ordered.
No, the other sentries inside would cut him down before he crossed the courtyard.
“Right, here ya be. Edward O.—sir. Welcome to Spandau.”
The senior officer on duty—Lieutenant Colonel F. M. Rich—wasn’t quite that cheery. “Only got the call hour’n’a half ago. Why can’t you medical hot shots give us more warning, dammit?”
The deadly doctor shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I take orders just like you do.”
Rich continued complaining as they walked. “What’s this all about?”
“Blood pressure check. You want to do it? I won’t object.”
“Doesn’t Pinney usually handle him?” Rich wondered as he nodded to another pair of sentries.
“He’s got the runs. Too much beer, I guess. Nice guy, but no sense about beer or pussy.”
Lieutenant Colonel Rich laughed in macho agreement, signaled still another guard to open a steel door into the court-yard. He noticed Beller’s roving eyes. “First time here, huh? Damn dull duty. He takes a walk in the garden on mornings when he feels okay—and that’s it. I’m bored out of my skull.”
Perfect cue.
“Medical duty in Berlin’s worse,” the executioner grumbled deftly in the great military tradition. “Some twisted ankles, an appendix or two and a ton of clap. That’s boring, chum.”
Would there be metal detectors?
Body search?
They entered what seemed to be the main building, took five steps—and bells rang. More armed men jumped out of corridors on either side of the passage, pointed their short-barreled carbines.
There were metal detectors.
Beller squeezed out a smile, grunted and reached for his trouser pocket. Now the carbines pointed right at his stomach.
“Easy, easy. Just a Swiss Army knife my girl gave me last year,” he announced as he produced the red-coated tool.
Rich stared at him. “Don’t panic, doc,” he advised as his face blossomed with a grin. He waved at the carbines. “Hell,” he added, “nobody’s goin’ to shoot you for a lousy pocketknife. I’ll hold it for you.”
Beller handed him the knife.
“Scared you, huh?” the security officer joked.
“A bit—for a second.”
“Crissakes, doc, we’re careful but we’re not that trigger-happy.”
They started walking again, and suddenly Rich stopped.
Body search.
Beller knew it before a word was spoken.
“Gotta check out your medical bag. Open it, will ya?”
As he obeyed, Ernest Beller hoped that there wasn’t going to be any trouble. His mind was made up, had been for days since the impact of revisiting Dachau. They weren’t going to put him in any place like that again. He’d die first, and he’d take them with him.
“Let’s see. Stethoscope, good ol’ blood pressure…the usual crap. Tools of the trade, right?”
’Tools of the trade,” the homicidal healer agreed.
Now Rich eyed him oddly, and he seemed to smirk. “You like boys, doc?”
Was it a trick?
“What?”
“I asked whether you dig boys.”
The sexual implication was clear.
“No, women.”
“Me too, but I’ve got to frisk you. S.O.P. for everyone. Didn’t want you to misunderstand,” Rich leered.
He stepped forward.
“I’m wearing a brace,” Beller volunteered. “Strained my back playing tennis.”
Rich nodded, tapped Beller’s armpits, thighs and lower legs.
He came close—very close.
He missed it by an inch and a half, two at most.
“Okay, doc. One brace and no guns, knives or nuclear devices… You know, my brother had to wear a brace coupla years ago. Wrecked his sex life for three miserable months.”
He handed back the medical bag, and they headed toward the stairs at the end of the corridor. Chatting away briskly about such popular subjects as sex, food, sports, the weather, sex, the army and sex, Rich had no idea how close he’d come to another subject that people rarely discussed.
Death.
Up the steps to the third floor, fourth cell down.
Rich slid back the bolt on the heavy metal door, pulled out a ring of keys and inserted one in a wholly modern lock.
“Max security, doc. Put in a coupla years ago—just in case some of his old buddies tried to spring him,” Rich explained.
Then he opened the door.
“Hey—Hey, Herr Hess. Dr. Keller’s here to see you.”
The cell was large, sparsely furnished. The thick stone walls kept it cool despite the August heat, and if there was any major drawback it was probably the limited light that came through the small barred window.
Hess was either deaf, tired or moodily ignoring them. He sat at a small table, reading by a crook-necked lamp. His back to the door, he didn’t turn, move or speak.
“Herr Hess,” Rich said more loudly.
There was no visible response.
“When you’re finished, knock on the door, doc,” the military police officer suggested, and announced that he’d check back in five minutes.
Beller heard him lock the door.
Five minutes alone.
Good.
No, perfect. The curare—just as in Hamburg.
He’d tell them that Hess was sleeping and shouldn’t be disturbed, and by dusk Ernest Beller would be on a plane out of Berlin. He opened the medical bag, took out the hypodermic and uncovered its tip. Hess still stared down at his book, and Beller stepped forward.
The white-haired old man looked so bent.
So vulnerable.
So worn after thirty-six years of imprisonment.
To his own astonishment, Beller hesitated—for the first time uncertain. Was it really necessary to kill this sick and weary old jailbird?
Click…click…click.
The pictures flashed across his mind like a series of newspaper photos, stills from front pages of the past.
Hess with Hitler.
Hess with Goering, Himmler and the butcher Bormann.
Hess and Hitler and the rodentlike Goebbels.
The doubt and the pity vanished, and Beller moved closer, looking for a place to plunge the needle. Five or six feet away from this final target, Beller raised the hypo—and the man in the chair turned.
“Don’t!” he said in a strong young voice.
There was a .357 Magnum in his fist.
“If that’s curare again, don’t waste your time. I’ve got the antidote right here.”
The man with the gun pulled off a wig, and he wasn’t Hess at all. He was much younger, spoke like an American.
“Where’s Hess? I came for Hess.”
“Gone.”
“Who are you? You’re not the man,” Beller complained. He gestured angrily with the lethal hypodermic, and the impostor pointed the big gun directly at him.
“I work for the U.S. government, Dr. Beller, and I understand your efforts to punish the murderers,” Merlin soothed. “After all, retribution—”
“Justice,” the boy from Dachau corrected.
/>
“Of course, justice. Now put down the hypo, and we can talk…Please, put it down. You don’t need it. Hess isn’t here.”
The physician looked around the room as if he hoped to find the old Nazi hiding somewhere in the shadows, and then his expression changed. He seemed much calmer, much more rational. He didn’t have the look of a homicidal maniac at all. He sighed, put the hypodermic back into the medical bag and closed it.
He smiled—almost cheerfully—and Merlin felt a lot better. He had no desire to hurt Beller, only to stop him and get him into psychiatric treatment. Merlin smiled back encouragingly, rose from the chair.
“I’m your friend, Dr. Beller.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
The physician was backing away now, just a bit.
“They call me Merlin.”
“Take me to Hess.”
It was going to take some talking and cajoling to get him out to the car, and Merlin decided to make a conciliatory gesture to show his goodwill. He put the gun on the table.
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“You’ll have to.”
Merlin didn’t quite understand—for about four seconds. Then Beller unbuttoned his jacket, and Merlin froze.
In an odd-looking harness, there was a battery and a small box and some wires that led to eight sticks of dynamite.
Eight goddam sticks of dynamite.
Enough to smear the two of them across the walls in a nice even layer, about one-quarter of an inch thick.
Merlin wasn’t frightened, however.
He was merely scared shitless.
46
The crazy son of a bitch really was crazy.
Rich had screwed up on the body search, and now Merlin was locked in this cell with a brilliant lunatic and a bomb.
Merlin looked at the device and the man, shook his head. Best fucking security in Western Europe, they’d said, and here he was, alone with a goddam homicidal maniac and eight goddam sticks of dynamite.
How crazy was he?
“You all right, doctor?” Merlin tested.
Not surprisingly, that puzzled Beller.
It was supposed to.
“What?” He blinked as he responded, but his fingers didn’t move away from the black box. Merlin made a mental note of what he was going to do to Rich if Beller didn’t kill him.