The Boy from Berlin

by Michael Parker

  As her mouth opened in a gasp, she heard a noise behind her. She was about to turn round when a hand came round to her face. Someone wrapped his arms round her and a soft cloth was pushed over her nose and mouth. Babs began to struggle and tried to scream out, but her vision clouded over and she felt herself being lowered to the ground. Then she blacked out.

  When Babs came to, she was lying on the sofa. She lifted her head and looked around at the familiar surroundings. She sat up and put her hand to her head, trying to recall what had happened.

  ‘Hey Babs, you’re awake.’

  Babs turned her head to where the voice came from as her husband walked into the room. He was carrying a cup of coffee.

  ‘Looks like you’ve been having a quick nap.’

  Babs sat up. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Eh?’ He came over and kissed her, then sat down beside her. ‘What do you mean?’

  Babs looked puzzled. ‘What am I doing here?’

  Gus frowned. ‘You’re not making sense, Babs.’

  She stood up and looked over at the clock above the fireplace. It was late evening. She spun round and ran to the front door. Gus put his cup down and went after her. As Babs got outside she saw Gus’s car parked beside her Jeep and another car with Gus’s bodyguards leaning up against it.

  Gus came up beside her. ‘You want to tell me what you’re doing?’

  Babs pivoted on her heel. ‘Whose car is that in the barn?’

  Gus screwed his face up. ‘What car?’

  She didn’t answer but ran across to the barn. Gus followed her. The door yielded easily as she pulled it back and stepped inside. The barn was empty. Babs felt her whole body sag.

  ‘There was a car here,’ she told him.

  ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon.’ Her head snapped round. ‘When did you get here?’

  Gus looked at his watch. ‘About fifteen minutes ago. Why?’

  ‘And there was nobody here?’

  He shook his head. ‘Only you. You were fast asleep on the couch.’

  Babs was stunned. Gus seemed quite relaxed about her manner. Perhaps she had been dreaming after all? But she was convinced that she had seen a car in the barn. She was now thinking about the sounds she heard in the house and the warm kettle. Had someone been there? And if so, what for? And why wasn’t Gus concerned?

  ‘I must have been dreaming,’ she said eventually.

  Gus took her arm. ‘Come on; let’s get back to the house.’

  Babs allowed herself to be led back across the yard. The two men standing up against the escort car, standard issue Ray Ban sunglasses covering their eyes, were unaware of the little drama being played out, but watched with some interest.

  Once inside the house, Gus briefed Babs on his meeting with Tyler and Lawrence. He kept out the sordid details but told her that she would no longer be allowed to drive herself but would have a car and chauffeur provided. It was for her own safety, he explained.

  As he predicted, Babs was furious, but no amount of argument was going to persuade Gus she was to be allowed her own independence and freedom of movement. He also told her that it was time to get on the election bandwagon with him and be seen at his side more often. Despite her continuing objection, Gus beat her down with cogent argument until she relented and agreed to go along with his wishes.

  He left her to her own devices for a while as he went through his father’s papers, looking for the files he needed, although Babs didn’t know what for. When he had finished, and they were about to leave, Babs went through to the back door of the house to make sure it was locked. Gus had said there was no need because no one had been there since the funeral, but Babs said she wanted to make sure anyway.

  When she reached the rear door, she could see the key was still in the lock. She thought this strange because she knew Bill Mason never left his keys in the doors; he always put them in a drawer. Babs turned the key and locked the door, removed the key and popped it into a drawer.

  Then she realized that the door must have been opened. That meant that someone had been in the house.

  FOURTEEN

  AMOS WAS SHOWN into Isaac Demski’s villa after being frisked for a weapon. His police revolver was removed and left on a side table by one of the mob chief’s huge minders. He was then taken through to a lounge where he was asked to wait.

  Amos looked around the room at the trappings of wealth. He’d never seen such a display of quality and richness anywhere other than in films. Occasionally he would get to see similar gear during an investigation that took him in to the homes of some of the high flyers in his jurisdiction. But what he was looking at was an opulence provided mainly through the crime syndicate run by the Demski family.

  It was late evening but he was just able to see the waters of the Hudson River, and the lights that dappled their blackness. He could see the silhouettes of large and small boats, their navigation lights showing dimly in the fading light. Soon these craft would be secure against their moorings and only the larger boats would be out there, running back and forth. He wished he could be there now with his wife and daughter, relaxing on somebody’s yacht, without a care in the world. But instead he was caught in a nightmare from which he could see no escape.

  A door opened and Jack Demski came into the room. Amos stood up and held out his hand. Jack shook it and asked Amos if he would like something to drink. Amos declined.

  ‘So, Lieutenant,’ Demski began, settling himself into a chair, ‘strange call of yours. You sounded desperate, but I don’t understand; how can we of all people be of help?’

  Amos knew that Demski was alluding to the fact that they were on opposite sides of the fence, and would only get to speak to each other if the police were interested in the family’s operations.

  ‘My wife is lying in a hospital bed at this moment. She is in a coma and the doctors are not convinced she will recover.’ Demski’s expression of sympathy and curiosity only lasted a few seconds. Amos carried on. ‘She was involved in a car accident going after the men who had just taken our little girl, Holly. My daughter is only thirteen years old.’

  Demski back straightened. Amos’s voice had no emotion in it, but the immediate statement of his daughter’s kidnap had a distinct impact on him. Amos went on.

  ‘I believe the people who did this are the men behind Gus Mason.’

  Demski’s interest sharpened. His expression changed as a deep furrow crossed his brow. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Under normal circumstances, I would expect to lead the hunt for my own daughter, but I cannot.’

  ‘Why?’

  Amos took a deep breath. ‘I’d better start from the beginning, when Gus Mason was running for State. Did you ever hear of Senator Ann Robbins?’

  Demski nodded. ‘Yeah, she died, drowned in the lake. What, five or six years ago?’

  And so Amos told him how he was convinced of Mason’s involvement in her death and that of the chief medical examiner’s change of heart. He told Demski everything he knew, or believed to be true, and how he also knew that the men who were behind Mason had some of his police officers on their payroll.

  ‘So if I lead the hunt for my daughter’s kidnappers,’ Amos admitted. ‘I know they will always be one step ahead of me. I would never find her.’

  ‘So why have you come to me?’

  Amos had given this a great deal of thought before he had phoned Demski from the hospital. ‘I know your family are interested in Gus Mason. I also know you called a meeting this week to discuss him.’

  Demski reeled back. ‘How the fuck do you know that?’

  Amos shrugged. ‘How I know is not important. But what I believe is.’

  ‘OK, I’ll ask the question again: Why have you come to me?’

  ‘I want you to find my daughter.’

  It was almost midnight as four men climbed out the back of a nondescript van at Paulsboro refinery, just south of Philadelphia on the Delaware side of the Hudson River. They crossed the railway li
ne and beat a path through the trees lining the banks of the river. All the men were wearing black fatigues and had balaclavas pulled over their faces. Each of them was carrying an AK47 rifle. One of them had an RPG slung over his shoulder. They clambered through the trees until they reached a clearing on the river bank. A small inflatable dinghy was tied up to a mooring post. It had an outboard motor on the rear board, lifted from the water. The last man into the boat lowered the outboard into the water and fired it up, using the pull cord. The engine roared into life and within seconds of climbing into the boat, the craft was powering its way down the river towards Bridgeport.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Demski said, his forehead creasing above his eyes. ‘You want us to find your daughter?’ Amos nodded. ‘But you don’t know where she is, and you can’t lead the investigation because you believe it will be compromised.’ Amos nodded again. Demski went on. ‘And you believe that Gus Mason, or men connected with Gus Mason are responsible for taking your little girl?’

  ‘Her name is Holly,’ Amos told him.

  ‘OK, Holly,’ Demski responded a little irritably. ‘So what’s in it for us?’

  ‘You get to find Holly,’ was all Amos said.

  Demski gave out a kind of half laugh and tossed his head back. ‘Lieutenant, I’m sorry to hear about your little girl,’ he held his hand up defensively, ‘Holly. But what makes you think we could find her, and more importantly, what makes you think we want to get involved?’

  Amos leaned forward in his chair. His expression had hardened and he even managed to look threatening, but he wasn’t trying to intimidate Jack Demski; he was simply reacting to his own dilemma, and the fear of losing Holly for good.

  ‘You want to get Mason off your backs for some reason.’ He held his hands out in an open gesture. ‘I don’t know why, but you do. If you can find my Holly, and implicate Mason, then you’ll get what you want and I will get my daughter back.’

  The two men were quiet for a while, each one studying the other, weighing things up. Then Demski stood up.

  ‘I’m going to speak with my father.’ He glanced up at the ceiling. ‘He’s in his room at the moment, not too well, but he would need to make a decision on this.’ He pointed a finger at Amos. ‘But understand this, Lieutenant, if my father says no, you walk out of here and forget the whole business. Is that clear?’

  Amos nodded. ‘Very clear.’

  The inflatable edged up to the bank beneath the private mooring that fronted Demski’s place. The mooring was about a hundred yards from the house. There was a high wall that ran along the river bank and continued around the grounds of the house. Set into the wall was a security gate, unmanned, which gave access to and from the mooring. The four men climbed out of the dinghy and walked quietly up to the wall, pressing up close as one of them pushed a small wad of plastique explosive into the lock of the gate. A detonator was inserted into the plastique and attached to a small box. As the other three men stood clear, the fourth man pressed a button on the box. This was followed immediately by a small, but loud explosion. The gate flew open and the fourth man tossed the box into the river as the other three men ran through the opening and up towards the house.

  ‘What was that?’ Isaac Demski asked his son.

  Jack was standing at the foot of his father’s bed. He had spent about five minutes explaining the strange visit of Lieutenant Amos and the reason for it. But before he could give it a great deal of thought, the sound of the exploding plastique came thundering up against the house and rattled the windows.

  Jack Demski spun round as the window shattered beneath a hail of bullets, each one peppering the wall alongside his father’s bed. He dived for cover beneath the bed, pulling his father with him as he sought refuge beneath it.

  The sound of returning gunfire could be heard, but it was practically lost as the four men literally hosed down the house with a hail of bullets. Then came the distinctive sound of the RPG being fired. The grenade screamed through the shattered, ground floor windows and exploded. It knocked out an internal wall and brought the ceiling crashing down on to the floor.

  Demski pulled his father further underneath the bed, cursing loudly because he had no way of defending himself, and no way of letting his men know where he was. All he knew was that the men he had still in the house would be returning fire.

  Another explosion rocked the house as a grenade exploded virtually beneath Jack’s feet. He felt the floor tilt violently and suddenly give way. He struggled to hold on to his father as he began slipping away on the tilting floor, reaching out for anything he could grab hold of. Then it gave way and he felt himself falling. He heard his father call out but then nothing. He hit something hard which knocked the breath from his body, and then a terrific thump as his father fell on top of him. He passed out and the cacophony of ricocheting bullets and exploding grenades receded.

  Ten minutes after the sudden attack, the four men were back in the inflatable and slipping away into the darkness of the Hudson River.

  Dubrovski stood at the edge of the police tape surveying the scene of carnage. The police floodlights lit up the area like a film set, while the noise from the generators throbbed rhythmically in the background. The fire chief had declared the remains of the building safe, which meant the forensics teams could go about their business, and the paramedics could work among the dead and the injured as the coloured, flashing beacons from the police and emergency vehicles leant a surreal effect to the scene.

  The alarm had been raised almost the moment the attack had reduced much of the building to rubble. Horrified neighbours had rushed out of their detached riverside homes in their nightclothes and witnessed a one-sided battle which they would talk about for years to come. It was too early for the police to gather coherent reports from the witnesses, but it was apparent that there would be very little for them to act on. Already the word was going round, put out by Mort Tyler’s propaganda machine, that this was a gangland feud that had boiled over into all-out war.

  Dubrovski had been hauled from his bed at about an hour after midnight, and was now standing inside the police cordon waiting for an opportunity to inspect the scene of the crime himself. It was obvious there had been more than one death, judging by the bodies lying covered on the ground. He was aware there were others inside the rubble but no numbers had been passed on to him.

  A police sergeant approached carrying an evidence bag. He handed it to Dubrovski.

  ‘This was found lying on the grass near the front of the house, Captain.’

  Dubrovski took the bag from him. Inside the bag was a police revolver. Dubrovski studied it for a moment, feeling its weight, and then looked at the sergeant.

  ‘Police weapon?’

  The sergeant nodded. ‘One of the forensics guys found it.’

  ‘And did you trace it?’

  ‘Yes sir; it belongs to Lieutenant Amos.’

  Babs had not been able to sleep. The experience at Bill Mason’s place had unsettled her, and despite her husband’s assurances, she couldn’t get it out of her head; someone had been at the ranch and had knocked her out. No way did she walk into Mason’s house and fall asleep on the sofa; she had been put there.

  She got up early and went through to the kitchen in the apartment they now rented in Newark. Gus was not with her, having left for a late flight to Oregon. He was back on the campaign trail canvassing among the Republicans who might be wavering. He had asked Babs to go with him, but she had declined because she wanted time to think and try to make sense of the situation. Gus was almost certainly going to be voted in as the next president of the United States. This would mean a complete stop to their lives as they would be put into a bubble from which there would be no escape. She was already under a form of guard since Jack Demski had threatened her. Once her husband was president, that guard would become official and unbreakable.

  Babs had detected a change in her husband’s demeanour too. No longer was there a self-effacing hope of success; it ha
d been replaced by a singular, almost demonic assumption that he was now unstoppable. Gus’s public persona was a metamorphosis from the man she first met; a Jekyll and Hyde change from the private person to the public person. Now Babs was unsure which man she had married, and she was now beginning to feel uneasy in his company.

  She made a cup of coffee and switched the TV on to the local news. As she brought the cup to her lips, she stopped. There on the screen was a picture of Isaac Demski, described as the notorious crime boss. He had been found dead in the rubble of his home which had collapsed after a series of mysterious explosions. Babs put her cup down and reached for the phone. With a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, Babs knew that somehow, in some way, her husband had something to do with the awful scenes that she was now watching. She punched in her husband’s number and waited for him to pick up.

  Dubrovski stood at the foot of Amos’s bed. The lieutenant was hooked up to a drip and the top of his head was covered in an elastic bandage.

  ‘What the hell were you doing there, Amos?’ he asked, his voice showing a kind of weariness.

  Amos wasn’t hurt, just a few bruises and a dislocated shoulder which had been put back. He had been hospitalized as a precaution and on the express wishes of Captain Dubrovski. He didn’t want Amos disappearing again.

  ‘I wanted Demski to find my Holly.’ His eyes filled with tears.

  Dubrovski put his hands on the rail at the foot of the bed and leaned forward. ‘That’s our job, Amos. We’ll find your little girl.’

  ‘Her name’s Holly.’

  Dubrovski nodded. ‘OK, Holly. We’ll find her.’