In the Davidswache the officer in charge, an elderly man, came out of his office. He walked over to the desk where the doctor was still writing, and read over his shoulder.
Well, there you are," he said. "I thought right away: That man isn't sane. Liitjens, take a look at Reimers. He's liable to do something to himself."
"Yes, sir!" Liitjens went off.
The young officer in charge of the radio equipment that transmitted and received messages from the patrol cars came into the room. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. "What is it, Friedrichs?" asked the commanding officer.
"This woman... Fraulein Gottschalk... she was here, wasn't she?"
"Yes, but she's gone. Why?" asked the broad-shouldered clerk.
"Gone? Well, that's great!" Friedrichs slapped the paper he was holding. "This got mixed up with other teletype messages. I just found it."
"What does it say?"
"To all precincts from police headquarters/" Friedrichs read. "'According to a psychiatrist from the Ludwigskranken-haus in Bremen, a certain Dr. Erkner, a mentally disturbed woman, Louise Gottschalk, has apparently escaped from a mental institution, and was last seen on a train to Hamburg '"
16
That day it never stopped raining. I drove with Bertie, in our rented Rekord, quite a distance northwest. At 4:30 it was already night and the cars had their lights on. Raindrops glistened on the | windshield. Bertie sat beside me. His duffel bag and suitcase with his films, Hasselblad, and Nikon-F were in the back. I had called Edith from the hotel and told her I'd be waiting in front of t the hospital again when she visited Conny, then I had looked in t on Irina. I had given her ten milligrams of Valium, and since she wasn't used to it, the effect on her was strong. She was lying on t the bed and just nodded sleepily as I said good-bye.
In the Metropole travel bureau we bought a plane ticket to Helsinki, 7:40 p.m. with Pan Am, and a flight from Helsinki t< New York, also Pan Am, leaving at midnight. There were seal left on both flights. The tickets were ready for us at the Pan Am desk in Fuhlsbiittel, and Bertie paid for them. He was so accustomed to flying all over the world at a moment's notice, hi didn't even comment on the trip. He wasn't particularly pleased about it, but he didn't complain; he had only stopped to say a hurried good-bye to his mother from the telephone booth in Club 88.
While he was packing his things, I had taken another look at the material from the Blitz files on Karl Concon. According to them, the headquarters of MIB were in Von-Hutten-Strasse, far to the west, near Luther Park and the Ottensener Cemetery. There were a lot of cemeteries west of the city—a Jewish one,
too. I had put a note with the address in my pocket, and a photograph of Jan Bilka, the one Irina had given to us on our arrival in Hamburg. I should say "lent" to us. In the picture Bilka was in civilian clothes, and he didn't look happy. Something in Czech was written on the back. "With love, your Jan," according to Irina's translation.
The drive to MIB headquarters was a tedious one and made me think again what a huge city Hamburg was. I let myself be guided by the steady stream of traffic and saw hordes of pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalks. "Such a lot of people," I said, and Bertie agreed. "An awful lot of people." We finally arrived at Von-Hutten-Strasse. I parked behind the Regerstrasse crossing and we proceeded on foot from there, through the dark and the rain, past old houses and villas built at the turn of the century. They stood behind gardens. It smelled good here—of wet leaves, trees, and grass.
Bertie had both cameras strung around his neck under his coat. By now it was completely dark. "Did you leave the binoculars in the car?"
"No," I said. They were dangling from a leather strap around my neck. They had a very sharp lens. We had used them often when we were doing research together. You could see clearly over a fantastic distance with them.
We came to a high iron fence and walked alongside it until we reached a large, neglected garden in front of a brick building. So this was where MIB functioned, according to the information in our files. It was our intention to play the idiot and simply ask why MIB was guarding Conny in the hospital. If they let us in at all. And then we were going to—
"God lives!" said a soft voice.
A thin little man was huddled against the fence under the bare, drooping branches of an old tree. He was shabbily dressed, had deep hollows in his cheeks and a kindly expression on his face. He was holding a plastic bag with about a dozen pamphlets in it and I could read the tide of the one on top: The Watchtower.
"What is it?" asked Bertie.
"God lives!" the litde man said again, quietly, politely.
"Of course He lives," said Bertie.
"How much?" I asked.
"One mark a copy."
"Let me have five."
He got them out of the plastic bag awkwardly, and handed
them to me. I gave him ten marks and said he should keep the change.
"Thank you, sir. I shall give it to the poor."
"You'd better buy yourself something substantial to eat," said Bertie. "You look starved."
"I am hungry," said the litde Jehovah's Witness.
I am not making up anything, nor am I lying. This is just how it happened. We met all of them, one after the other, men who had the same nationality or faith as Frfiulein Louise's dead friends
"Well, if you're hungry, why don't you go and get yourself something to eat?"
"I can't go away until I've sold all my copies."
"Who says so?" asked Bert.
"I say so. I have made a vow."
"But very few people are going to come by here tonight," said Bertie. "How many copies have you sold so far?"
"You bought the first ones," said the Jehovah's Witness. "I've been standing here since eleven this morning. But you bought five. Now I only have five left. That's never happened to me before."
"What hasn't?" I was looking at the big brick house. All thej* curtains were drawn—very thick curtains, I decided. I could see only two rays of light filtering through where they hadn't been | closed properly.
"That somebody buys that many," the Jehovah's Witness was saying. "You see, I'm living on a pension. I always stand here, in front of this house. It's not a bad place. Many who go in or come out buy a copy. And I live near here. I made my vow two years ago, but I haven't always been able to keep it. Most of the time I feel weak and dizzy before I've sold them all, and can't stand any longer."
"God will forgive you," said Bertie.
"He forgives all sinners," said the old man. "I'm very happy you came. In the rain nobody buys anything. When it rains, | people aren't good."
"Why don't you look at it like this?" I said. "You got ten marks from me instead of five, so practically speaking you've sold ten copies. So you could go home."
"Oh, no, sir! If I did that, I would be deceiving God, and the Lord Almighty won't let you deceive Him."
"I see," said Bertie. "Have you any idea who lives in that house?" 352
"Oh ... a lot of gentlemen."
"What kind of gentlemen?"
"I don't know. They come and go all day. Some are in uniform. And many cars. Then the gate opens automatically, and closes the same way."
"Did you ever speak to any of the gentlemen?"
"Oh, yes. Often. When they buy a copy from me. Very polite gentlemen, all of them. A few times they bought all my copies in one day. And there are young girls, too. Secretaries, I suppose. They sometimes buy a copy. Yes, this is a good spot." He sounded lost and now he sneezed—a cold, hungry old man.
"What sort of cars?" asked Bertie.
"Oh, all kinds. Last night, at around half past eight, for instance, it was really strange."
"What was strange?"
"Three cars drove up—two were full of men, but the third was a big, closed, black car. The kind you move a dead body in, you know what I mean?"
"A hearse?" I asked.
"Not exactly. A van, I'd say. I thought somebody must have died and they were coming to get
the body."
"And did they get the body?"
"Well, first all the cars drove through the garden and around to the back, and I couldn't see them anymore. But right after that, just a few minutes later, the cars came back, and the van stopped right beside me, because the car in front had stopped, and the driver got out. He came over to the driver of the van—stood right there where you're standing now—and said, 'Niendorferstrasse 333. You know how to get there?' And the driver of the van said something strange."
"What?"
"He said, To the Amis. Of course I know how to get there. I know the street, so let's get going.' And they they all drove off. I don't understand. Why were they taking the body to the Amis?"
"You said Niendorferstrasse 333?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely sure. That's a number you don't forget. What are they going to do with the body at Niendorferstrasse 333?"
"Listen here," I said. "I'm going to buy the other five copies from you, and here's five more marks for your poor."
"Oh!" He gave me the remaining five copies. His hands were
trembling, and he looked at me with an ecstatic expression on his face. "Thank you, gentlemen. Now I have kept my vow. I haven't been able to do that for a long time." He shook my hand. "I'll sleep well tonight because I have had a blessed day. May God the Almighty protect you and make your day blessed, too."
"Yes," I said. "That would be nice," and I watched the old man walk away on stiff legs, but with dignity. His coat was stained by. the rain and his shoes were downtrodden. I watched him for quite some time, until Bertie said, "Come on. Let's go. Niendorferstrasse 333. Such luck! Incredible!"
"Yes," I said, and thought of Fraulein Louise. "Incredible!"
And I thought of the antiques dealer, Garnot, and the
superintendent, Kubitsky, and of Fraulein Louise's Frenchman
and her Pole, and of the car belonging to the Municipal Cemetery
and its license, which Garnot had written down.
17
Niendorferstrasse 333 was surrounded by a long iron fence with pointed palings. A big garden lay behind the fence, and a broad driveway led to a large villa. It was lit up as light as day by strong floodlights. We came to an iron gate. Behind it big German shepherds began to bark crazily and jumped up against the fence. Bertie raised his fist at them, and they barked louder.
The villa had a balcony on the second floor, supported by white columns. In the bright light of the illuminated front (the floodlights were evidently installed in the grass and shrubbery), two men in dark suits walked out onto the terrace. I took my binoculars and looked through them and could see the two men clearly. Square shoulders, heavyset, boxer figures. One was holding a gun. They stared in the direction of the gate. The sight of the gun startled me, and involuntarily my binoculars moved up. And then I saw them, behind the window on the left side of the balcony. "Bertie! Up there!"
"I see them," he said, the Hasselblad up to his face already. He was taking pictures, and I thought: If we're lucky and they turn out, we've got something. The front was so brilliantly lit that it 354
might be possible to enlarge the window, or a part of the window. Even if the result was coarse-grained, one might be able to make out the man and the woman. Because that's what was visible behind the window—a man and a woman. They, too, were looking in the direction of the gate. The man was much taller than the woman, who was young, pretty, and blond. The man was wearing a brown suit, not old; he could have been thirty, and looked strong. His hair was blond, too, a military crew cut; his face was long. I fiddled with the binoculars in an effort to get a still clearer picture and saw the scar on his tanned face, to the right of his chin. It was the man whose face I knew from the picture Irina had given me.
'Til be damned!" said Bertie, who was still taking pictures.
"That's enough," I said. "Let's get out of here." I had to yell because the dogs were going crazy. "This way," I said, pulling him to one side. "It's going to get hellishly light here in a minute."
He limped along behind me, and almost right away two bright floodlights in the trees in front of the entrance lit up the entire area. But we were out of its range. I could see the men on the terrace looking as if they didn't know what to do next.
"We've got him!" I said. "Bertie, we've got him!"
"I don't know "
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," Bertie repeated. "Things are moving too smoothly for my taste. Too damn' smoothly."
"Oh, go on!" I said. "Let's get off the street." I pointed to a bar on the other side. "To that dive over there. From there we can watch the entrance."
We crossed the street. A car came driving up. It splashed mud all over us, then it swerved and stopped in front of the iron gate, in the floodlights, its engine throbbing. A man wearing a hat and coat got out and stood quietly for a moment, so that the men on the terrace could see him. They came running across the gravel driveway and opened the gate. The men shook hands with both of them, got back into the CitroSn he had been driving, drove into the garden, and stopped just behind the gate. The men locked the gate again and got into the Citroen, which drove up to the villa, where everybody got out and disappeared into the house.
"I don't believe it!" I said, almost too amazed to speak.
"I do," said Bertie.
"But I just spoke to him!"
"When? Two hours ago. Longer. If he went to the airport right after your talk and there was a plane free, he could have managed it easily. The airfield isn't so far from here, and he rented the car."
"Well, I can see that it's possible Blitz has two corporate planes. One of them could have been ready to take off."
"There you are," said' Bertie. "And can you understand now why I say I don't like it? Can you tell me why just this man has to come to Hamburg to see the Amis and Herr Bilka? And is in such a hurry about it?"
The man we had just seen was our immaculately groomed and always impeccably mannered general manager—Herr Oswald Seerose.
The "dive" across the street turned out to be an elegant restaurant. Three steps led up to the entrance. There was a shiny dark-wood bar, the floor and wall paneling was also in dark wood. There were booths with small tables, a small lamp on every table, three on the bar, and a fire burning in the fireplace. A few old men were sitting in some of the booths, playing cards or chess and drinking beer.
A waiter in black pants and a green jacket came over and greeted us. There was a large menu. They even had Chivas! I ordered some, Bertie ordered a beer and schnapps, then we pushed aside the heavy curtain over the window a little and could see the lit-up villa in its garden. We couldn't have asked for a better location.
The waiter brought our drinks and wanted to know if we were going to have dinner. I said no, but Bertie wanted something to eat. "Well, then, I'll leave you," I said, after the waiter had gone away. "I have to go to the hospital to meet Edith. Then I must go back to the hotel. You take the car. Here are the keys. When Bilka and the rest come out to go to the airport, you drive behind them. The car can stay at the airfield. Give the keys to the attendant, with the registration, in an envelope addressed to me. I have the 356
receipt for the car. I'D pick it up tomorrow. If you can, call me from Helsinki. At Club 88."
"Will do."
"And from New York, call Hem. At the office or at home. I don't know where 111 be tomorrow. Depends on what happens tonight. As soon as I'm finished here I want to get Irina to Frankfurt. Fast. That's where she's going to have to stay. I need her available when I write."
"Do you have any more ammo for the Colt?"
"Yes." I had seen two clips in Conny's apartment and had taken them with me. Now I gave them to Bertie. "If you have any difficulties, call Club 88 and ask for Jules. Ill be back at the hotel in an hour, and be staying there. Be careful what you say over the phone. Jules can read you."
"Incidentally," said Bertie. "Let me have three thousand ma
rks. After paying for the tickets, I don't have much left."
I gave him the money. Fortunately, I had taken quite a lot with me. But the 15,000 from Blitz weren't going to be enough, not the way things were going.
Bertie was incredibly calm and relaxed—one might almost say bored. To Helsinki, to New York, on the trail of a man who had stolen vital top-secret papers from his country—Bertie wasn't impressed. He was studying the menu. "They recommend pot roast with dumplings. Specialty of the house." Good old Bertie!
I went out into the rain to our Rekord and drove it a litde nearer the restaurant so that Bertie wouldn't have to walk too far on his lame leg. Then I went back in and gave Bertie the keys to the car and the registration, also my binoculars. "Good luck," I said.
"The same to you. 'Bye, old fellow." He had pushed the curtain back far enough so that he could keep a constant eye on the villa. "And all the best to Irina. She's a nice girl."
"Yes," I said, and shook hands with him, and asked the waiter to call a taxi. When it came, I nodded to Bertie once more and he smiled back like a boy.
"Where to?" asked the driver.
'The University Hospital in Martinistrasse."
We got into the late-afternoon traffic and it took a long time to get to the hospital. The driver, a nervous little man, cursed constantly. He damned all car drivers, but he drove badly himself, and a few times I thought we'd surely have an accident. I
was thankful when he finally stopped opposite the hospital entrance, and I paid fast and got out.
Little driver Ivanov would be waiting in the parking area, beside the circular bed of dead flowers, opposite the entrance of the University Hospital. It was my intention to get into Ivanov's car and wait for Edith with him. That was the way we had arranged it. I reached the circular flower bed. Six private cars were parked there, and I could see Ivanov's taxi, a black Mercedes 220.1 had memorized the license number. I remember numbers easily. The parking lights of Ivanov's taxi were on, the motor was running. I opened the back door and got in. "Here I am," I said.
One side of the glass that separated passenger from driver was open and I could hear the voice of a girl. It came from Ivanov's two-way radio, which he used to keep in touch with his dispatcher. The voice said, "Car 3-1-9. Please, call in. Car 3-1-9," and it sounded as if she wasn't saying it for the first time.
The Traitor Blitz Page 39