The Boy from Berlin

by Michael Parker

Amos shook his head. ‘Why do you think I went to Demski? I can’t trust the department, Captain; no way.’

  ‘You can trust me.’

  Amos looked at him sharply. ‘You going to find Holly on your own? Because that’s the only way you’ll do it.’

  Dubrovski shook his head. ‘I’ve asked the NYPD to come in on this. I understand your concerns, but whenever an officer is personally involved, like you are, it’s important to have an independent unit take care of it.’

  Amos struggled up into a sitting position. The thin tube running from the saline drip went taut. Dubrovski stepped round the bed and loosened it.

  ‘Captain, you don’t know how deep Mason has his claws in this. He has powerful friends. Real powerful.’

  Dubrovski shook his head. ‘Nevertheless, I can’t let you go off like a loose cannon. And God knows what you thought you’d get out of Demski, Amos. What did you offer him?’

  Amos looked away in disgust. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Others will say different,’ Dubrovski suggested. ‘And it’s your career that will suffer.’

  ‘Fuck my career, Captain,’ Amos spat out. ‘Holly’s more important than my fucking career.’

  Dubrovski put up a restraining hand. ‘Calm down, Amos. Calm down. I know what you’re saying, and I understand, completely. But think of your wife too. She’s in this hospital, in a coma and you’re in here all banged up because you wanted to climb into bed with Demski. That isn’t going to do either you or your wife any good. So get a grip and think it out properly. Let me handle it. I’ll keep you on side with the NYPD and we’ll get Holly back for you.’ He put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out Amos’s police revolver. ‘You left this at Demski’s place. Bad move, Amos.’ He put the gun back in his pocket. ‘But that’s as far as it goes. OK?’

  Amos nodded and sank back on to the pillows. ‘So what happened at Demski’s?’

  Dubrovski sat on the edge of the bed and told Amos what he knew and what he had been told. ‘Isaac Demski is dead. His son, Jack is OK, but took a beating. About four of Demski’s men were shot dead. It was a professional hit, Amos.’ He made a clicking sound with his tongue as he shook his head. ‘Too professional for a mob operation.’

  Amos nodded thoughtfully. ‘There’s only one man who could organize something like that; Mort Tyler.’ He looked up at Dubrovski. ‘Demski told me something before everything went to rats. Gus Mason’s backers are so far to the right they will be a major threat to the security of this country once Mason is president. Demski has something on Gus Mason, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. Mason knows of Demski’s threat, and I believe this is how he or Mort Tyler has responded. And that’s why they have taken Holly.’

  Dubrovski considered it briefly. Then he stood up. ‘So we’d better find your Holly quickly and somehow find a way of preventing Gus Mason becoming elected.’ He shook his head despairingly. ‘It would be fucking easier becoming an astronaut.’ He then put on a firm expression and looked directly at Amos. ‘I’m confident we can find Holly, Amos, but there’s no way we can stop a juggernaut once it’s rolling.’ The reference to Mason’s bid for the White House was not accidental; Dubrovski knew he wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of de-railing the Mason bandwagon. He took Amos’s hand and shook it briefly. ‘I’ll keep you posted. Just get back to work as quickly as you can.’

  He left and Amos wondered how straight the young captain was. All he could do now himself was get discharged from the hospital and make sure he had a close involvement in the search for Holly.

  Mort Tyler took the call in his hotel room in Oregon. He told Babs that her husband was asleep and wasn’t to be disturbed. It was still the early hours of the morning because of the time difference between Newark and the West Coast. Despite the hour, Tyler was already aware of the success, if that was the right word, of the attack on Isaac Demski’s home. As a result of Babs’s call, he now had the television on and was watching CNN, who were carrying the report. He was smiling as Babs railed at him for what she called the unnecessary violence.

  ‘Babs, honey, you gotta remember that it was Demski who started this,’ he drawled. ‘He threatened you and we weren’t gonna let him get away with that.’

  ‘There must be other ways,’ Babs insisted. ‘Gus wouldn’t have wanted this.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Babs; Gus was with us all the way on this. He’s calling the shots now.’

  Babs felt her mouth drop open, and for a moment she was speechless. She thought Gus would have opposed that kind of violence. But then she remembered how she was already beginning to see another side of her husband; one that she never believed existed.

  ‘What about the press?’ she asked. ‘They are bound to uncover something that will connect us and Demski.’

  ‘It’s not a problem, Babs,’ Tyler replied. ‘The press will only print what they are told to print.’

  He left the rest unsaid, but it didn’t take Babs long to realize that Tyler meant he had most of the key editors and newspaper owners in his pocket. The gangland feud, as the attack on Demski’s house was bound to be presented, was nothing more than a bauble compared to the news of Mason’s electrifying drive to the White House.

  ‘I want to speak to Gus,’ she told him.

  ‘No, I told you; Gus is asleep. He has a heavy schedule tomorrow and needs all the sleep he can get.’

  Babs felt like an appendage to the campaign. It was as though she was to be sidelined if she became too much of a nuisance, despite the fact that Gus had told her he needed her by his side more often.

  ‘He’s my husband, Mort,’ she argued. ‘I have a right to speak to him.’

  ‘Denied,’ he answered perfunctorily. ‘I’ll get him to call you when he has a free moment. Goodbye Babs.’

  ‘Mort!’ But the phone was dead. Babs swore and slammed the phone back on to its cradle. Bastard, she thought angrily; Tyler was treating her like a third grade secretary. She felt anger building up inside her and wanted to strike out at something or somebody, preferably Mort Tyler. The campaign was taking precedence over everything, including her life, and she could see the distance between her and Gus widening. Sure, they would fetch her out when there was a convenient photo shoot, and some glamour was required, but close involvement seemed to be only on Mort Tyler’s terms.

  There was little Babs could do, so she decided to go back to Bill Mason’s place and spend some time there, perhaps even figuring out what exactly had happened to her the day before. She showered and dressed, then buzzed down to the front desk and asked for her car to be brought round. Five minutes later she stepped out of the lift and walked over to the desk where one of Mort Tyler’s men stood waiting.

  ‘You my driver for today?’ she asked airily.

  He nodded briefly, most of it being lost in his massive frame. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Good,’ she said briskly, ‘I’d like to go over to Bill Mason’s place.’ She looked at him, a bland expression on her face.

  The heavyweight shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s off limits; Mort Tyler’s instructions.’

  Babs was stunned. The house was as good as their own property now that Bill Mason was dead. And here was some goon telling her that she couldn’t go there?

  ‘I insist,’ she tried, rather weakly.

  Again he shook his head. ‘Won’t do you any good, ma’am; Mason’s place is off limits.’

  Babs felt her breath pulsing in her chest as she tried to come to terms with what was effectively a restriction on her movements. And the goon who was standing in front of her telling her what she could or could not do was effectively a representative of what her husband Gus and his power brokers were bringing into American politics. She stamped her foot in disgust and swore at the man. Then she turned away and headed back towards the lift.

  ‘Go fuck yourself!’ she called back at him as the doors of the lift slid open. She stepped inside and punched the button for the penthouse apartment, wondering how on e
arth she was going to get out of the straitjacket Mort Tyler had put on her.

  Jack Demski had moved into a suite in the Zuckerman hotel. He was in a pensive mood as he talked with Zeek Davidoff, his West Coast boss. The news of Isaac Demski’s death had travelled swiftly among the organization bosses, and Zeek had flown to New York as soon as he was aware of the circumstances of Demski’s death.

  ‘Can’t believe the old man’s gone, Jack. He was too young.’

  ‘He was murdered, Zeek,’ Jack muttered through gritted teeth. ‘Too young or not.’

  Jack’s arm was in a sling, and across his forehead was a long cut. Beneath his clothes his body was covered in bruises. Two of his ribs had cracked when his father fell on top of him.

  Zeek took a cigar from a small clip. He popped it in his mouth and showed his cigar lighter to Jack who nodded. Zeek lit the cigar. When he was settled, he asked Jack what he planned to do.

  ‘I want to wait until after the funeral. No violence until we’ve paid our respects.’

  Zeek grunted his approval. ‘It’s the right thing to do, Jack. Then we’ll have a meeting. Do you know who did this?’

  Jack shrugged and then winced. He put his good hand up to his shoulder and rubbed it gently. ‘It has to be Mort Tyler. He was head of the National Guard before he retired.’ He looked directly at Zeek. ‘Lot of hot-heads there. Good pickings for any crackpot who wants to form his own army. Mort Tyler will have men ready to do his bidding, no question.’

  ‘You sure it wasn’t Granelli’s mob?’ This was a reference to the Italian Mafia who operated in parallel to Demski; both sides had clear lines over which neither group stepped.

  Jack shook his head. ‘No. This had militia stamped all over it; real professionals. They hit us quick and hard. There were seven or eight of us in the house, Zeek. Only me and Lieutenant Amos survived.’

  Zeek pushed his shoulders back and raised his head. He took the cigar from his mouth. ‘You had a cop there?’

  Jack lifted his good hand. ‘Yeah, he wanted me to find his little girl.’ He saw the puzzled expression on Zeek’s face and explained the bizarre request that Amos had put to him.

  ‘Shit, you don’t say. He thinks Mason has kidnapped her?’

  Jack nodded. ‘But it doesn’t make sense. Mason is fighting a presidential campaign. Why would he jeopardize that?’

  ‘Mort Tyler. Maybe he took the girl.’

  Jack gave it some thought. Then he lifted his head. ‘Zeek, it still don’t make sense. This story about Mason being Hitler’s son; that isn’t going to faze him. Besides, Tyler’s got that many newspaper owners in his pocket, they’ll ridicule whoever comes out with it. And who’s gonna prove it?’ He shrugged as he put the rhetorical question to Zeek. ‘Bill Mason’s dead. His wife died a few years ago. And the old Sister in the sanatorium will be dismissed as a crackpot.’

  ‘But the cop? He didn’t know this, did he? So why have they taken his little girl?’ Another cloud of cigar smoke followed the question from Zeek.

  ‘He has something on Mason that could blow his whole campaign out of the water. That’s why they took his daughter.’

  ‘So where’s the cop now?’

  Demski shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but he won’t be far away.’

  ‘And what about his little girl? You going after her?’

  Jack ran the fingers of his good hand through his hair. ‘If we get a chance, yes. I’ll put the feelers out, see what comes up. Trouble is, Zeek, if Tyler has her, there’s no way we’ll find her. No way.’

  Zeek could see that Tyler’s security would be watertight. There was little chance of one of his militia thugs opening up on where they had the little girl. It was best left to the police to handle the search.

  ‘OK, Jack, I’ll get back to ’Frisco. Let me know when you have a date for the funeral.’ He got up from the chair. Demski stood up and they embraced.

  ‘Shalom,’ Zeek said to him.

  Jack nodded. ‘Shalom.’

  The funeral was seven days later. It was in the same cemetery in which Bill Mason had been buried. The funeral cortège was enormous; half a mile of black limousines following the hearse carrying Isaac Demski’s body. Following the procession was a line of police cars. Outriders flanked the limousines at regular intervals. All the traffic on the route to the cemetery had been stopped; all traffic lights on red until the cars had passed. Inside the perimeter, Lieutenant Amos stood motionless. Dubrovski stood beside him. The press were well represented as well as the Granelli family. At strategic points around the perimeter, armed security guards kept watch over the proceedings as Demski’s coffin was brought to the side of the open grave. The ceremony, conducted by the chief rabbi of the Sharee Zion Synagogue was conducted in Hebrew and finally the coffin was lowered into the grave.

  It was several minutes before Jack Demski climbed into the back of the waiting limousine, flanked by Zeek on one side and Levi Ben Haim, the union boss on the other. The car pulled away from the graveside and glided softly towards the large, open gates. The TV crews kept up their continuing coverage of the events as the paparazzi ran and flashed their cameras at the blacked out windows of the limousines.

  Jack sat between the two men, motionless. Zeek glanced at him, understanding the pain and anger he must be feeling. Jack sensed the man’s eyes on him and he turned his head.

  ‘Zeek,’ he said. ‘It’s time to unleash the dogs.’

  FIFTEEN

  BABS LIFTED THE phone on the third ring. It was the front desk of the apartment block.

  ‘There’s a Lieutenant Amos here wishes to speak to you.’

  Babs let out a soft moan. ‘Tell him I’m busy.’

  ‘I already told him. Says he’ll wait.’

  Babs clicked her tongue and shook her head. ‘OK, let him come up.’ She put the phone down and glanced around the room for no other reason than it was an automatic gesture. Whenever guests called, Babs always made sure the place was presentable, but in this case, Lieutenant Amos was not a guest and she didn’t give a damn what state the place was in. But she couldn’t help the natural, quick look. It was almost as if she was looking for signs of incriminating evidence because there was a police officer on his way up.

  The doorbell chimed musically and Babs opened the door wide. Amos was standing there, almost filling the door frame with his bulk. He looked different to the way he had looked the last time Babs had spoken to him. She thought she could see signs of bruising on his face. Amos walked through and waited for Babs to close the door and go through into the lounge.

  Babs followed, her arms folded across her body, and sat in a leather chair against a small, writing bureau. She said nothing for a while, just kept her eyes on Amos. Finally she asked him what he wanted. There was a tension in her voice that she found difficult to control.

  ‘My daughter, Holly, has been kidnapped.’ As a statement, it was a simple fact. The force of it came from the fact that his daughter had been taken.

  Babs felt herself recoil inside, and a sense of foreboding began to build rapidly, giving her more problems with her voice. She wanted to say something in answer to Amos’s startling admission, but her voice seemed to choke on itself. She coughed and cleared her throat.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I think you heard first time, ma’am,’ he replied almost impassively. ‘But I’ll say it again so you understand clearly. My daughter was kidnapped a couple of nights ago; taken from our home. My wife went after the thugs who did this but was in an accident. She’s now in hospital in a coma.’

  Babs felt small, tingling sensations at the tips of her fingers and down her legs. She felt weak and thought she was going to faint. She put a hand to her chest and could feel her heart thumping beneath her ribs.

  ‘My God. Oh, I’m so sorry.’ She stood up. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said. ‘I want to get a drink of water.’ She left the room and returned clutching a glass of spring water. Then she realized what she had done and for
ced herself to remember old fashioned courtesy.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant Amos. Would you like a drink?’

  He shook his head. ‘No thank you, ma’am, but I would like to know where my daughter is.’

  Babs was mortified. She realized that Amos believed she had something to do with the kidnapping, whereas the truth was she had no idea at all that Holly had been taken.

  She shook her head slowly, disbelievingly. ‘What on earth makes you think I know anything about your daughter’s kidnapping?’

  ‘The only reason Holly was taken was because you and your husband want me to pull my investigation.’ His demeanour changed and he held out both hands in an appealing gesture. ‘My little girl has gone and my wife may never recover. Is this what you want? Can you imagine what must be going through my little girl’s mind? How terrified she will be? Can you imagine how I feel? Or is it because I am black that I don’t matter? Don’t you understand? Don’t you know?’

  Babs was close enough to see Amos’s eyes filling with tears, and for the first time it was as though she was seeing through the colour of his skin and deep into his soul. It was the same colour as hers.

  She dropped her head and looked into her lap, more to hide the growing feeling of shame than anything else. She recalled a little sister of hers, many years ago, dying from a child’s illness. Babs was very young then, but could remember the deep loss she felt when her sister finally died. She could remember her mother’s tears and the deep, deep sadness in her father’s eyes; almost the same as what she had seen in Amos’s.

  She looked up. ‘Lieutenant Amos,’ she managed to say before her voice cracked and a sob lodged there. She coughed and cleared her throat. Fixing her eyes on the lieutenant’s she said, ‘I promise you I have no knowledge of the kidnapping. I wish I could make you understand that. I just can’t believe you think I am involved in any way.’ She got up and walked over to Amos, standing in front of him, showing that by her closeness she was demonstrating, or hoping to, that she was sincere.