by Glenn Meade
If the plan worked.
He drove back into Wiesbaden and found a hardware store on the outskirts. He purchased a twenty-yard length of orange-colored nylon rope, a rubber-wrapped flashlight, and four spare batteries. Volkmann put his purchases in the glove compartment, then drove back to the apartment in Frankfurt.
When he went up, the windows in the front room were closed, but the air smelled of fresh lavender. He poured himself a scotch from the bottle in the kitchen.
He stared at his reflection in the wall mirror and raised an eyebrow as he said to himself, “You must have a death wish to attempt what you’re about to do, Volkmann.”
He checked his watch. Two-fifteen. He’d have time to rest for a couple of hours before he risked meeting Lubsch for the second time.
• • •
He drove back into Mainz, arriving just after five.
He didn’t know whether he would need the Ford or not; it depended on how many men Lubsch would have with him and what kind of transportation they had. He had no doubt Lubsch would make an appearance, but he guessed that the terrorist wouldn’t come alone and would certainly be armed.
He had dealt with people like Lubsch before; they wouldn’t think twice about shooting in a crowded street, and Volkmann knew that for his plan to work, he’d have to act quickly.
He decided to use the same underground parking garage again, near Karen Gries’s place. He checked the Beretta before he got out of the car, making sure the weapon was cocked and the safety was on, then he slipped it into his pocket. He placed the flashlight and spare batteries in his other pocket and put the nylon rope in the pouch inside his overcoat.
Darkness had fallen, and Christmas lights were strung across the buildings. He walked along the illuminated one-way street, mingling with the shoppers. If he guessed right, Lubsch and his people would arrive early. He thought maybe in an hour, but just to be certain, ninety minutes. He guessed Lubsch would send a runner to watch the bar long before Volkmann was due. Lubsch or his people wouldn’t expect him to be armed, and they wouldn’t expect him to go on the offensive.
He walked back to the café where he had sat that morning. He ordered coffee and unfolded his newspaper, keeping his eyes on the road outside, looking down only to check his watch.
It was 5:31.
• • •
It wasn’t the Mercedes van this time, but a dark blue Opel sedan.
It trundled down the one-way street, then disappeared around the corner. It did the same thing three times before it pulled up fifty yards away on the same side of the street as Karen Gries’s premises. Two men sat in front and one in the back.
Volkmann recognized Lubsch in the driver’s seat, his face illuminated by a string of colored Christmas lights above the street. The little red-haired man wore the same padded dark Windbreaker. Volkmann couldn’t see the faces of the other two men from where he sat.
Five minutes later, the man in the rear of the Opel stepped out and closed his door, then walked toward Gries’s shop. Next to the art gallery was a pharmacy, its neon sign lit up overhead, and the man went to stand in the alcove. He pulled out a newspaper and began to browse through it. Volkmann recognized him as one of the men from the Mercedes. He was going to watch the bar from across the street, and Volkmann guessed the guy had a walkie-talkie.
Volkmann felt his heart pounding in his chest and his palms sweated. The street below was still crowded with shoppers, which would give him cover, but it was also dangerous. If Lubsch or his men started firing, there was a real danger a passerby could get shot.
Volkmann rechecked his watch. There was still more than an hour to go before the meeting. He knew he had to make his move before Lubsch left the car or drove around the block again.
The man in the passenger seat beside Lubsch would be a problem. And his luck would depend on whether the terrorist who was watching the bar across the street had left the rear door of the car unlocked.
He saw Lubsch’s face peer out through the glass and then look away impatiently. The third terrorist, standing in the alcove, stared over at the bar from behind his newspaper every few moments. A Christmas tree illuminated the pharmacy window, its lights winking; the lurid colors tinted the man’s face and fogging breath as he watched the Zum Dortmunder bar.
Volkmann’s body tensed. He folded his newspaper and paid for his coffee.
It was time to go.
• • •
He stepped out onto the street and crossed over. He was ten yards behind the Opel, and as he walked toward it, he strained his eyes to see if the door lock in the rear was up. Five yards from the car, he saw that it was.
The guy sitting in the passenger seat was wiping the side window with the sleeve of his coat, and Volkmann got a glimpse of his profile. It was the same man who had wielded the truncheon, and he was grinning as he spoke with Lubsch.
Volkmann turned and went back down the street. The alleyway behind the bakery was empty, and as he entered it, he unfolded his newspaper, slipped the Beretta under the fold in the pages, and flicked off the safety.
He went back out onto the crowded street, toward the blue Opel. The man in the passenger seat was still wiping the side window; Volkmann saw his companion standing in the alcove glance toward the Opel, then step back out of view.
Volkmann came up alongside the car from behind, wrenched open the door, and clambered into the backseat, the Beretta already out. The two men in the front turned, and Volkmann saw the surprise on their faces as Lubsch said, “What the—?”
Lubsch was reaching frantically in his jacket, and the passenger was doing the same.
Volkmann’s fist smacked twice into the passenger’s face hard, and the man’s head cracked against the window.
As Lubsch struggled to remove his gun, Volkmann pressed the Beretta firmly into the terrorist’s neck. “Don’t.”
Lubsch turned chalk-white.
“Slip the gun out of your pocket. Hand it to me, slowly, grip-first, or I take your head off.”
“Volkmann, you’re dead . . .”
“Do it, or you’ll be keeping the devil company.”
Lubsch slowly removed a Glock from his jacket and handed it over.
Volkmann said, “Face front. Keep your mouth shut, and start the car. Drive to the end of the street, then turn right. And don’t try anything as we go past your friend.”
“Volkmann, when this is over—”
Volkmann yanked Lubsch’s collar tight, and pulled him back, pressing the Beretta harder into the terrorist’s neck. “Are you deaf? Behave yourself, and you and your friend here walk away from this alive. You don’t, and I drop you both. Get it? Now start the car. Drive.”
He let go of Lubsch, who leaned forward and started the Opel. Volkmann’s free hand was already moving over the passenger. The man was out cold, and Volkmann found a Walther PPK in his right pocket and a walkie-talkie in the other. He put them on the floor beside Lubsch’s weapon.
As the Opel pulled out from the curb and picked up speed, Volkmann kept the Beretta steady.
He saw Lubsch’s man in the alcove stare at the Opel in disbelief as it went past the pharmacy, and then suddenly the man dropped his newspaper and was running after them.
Volkmann said to Lubsch, “Keep driving. Move it!”
As the car picked up more speed, the third man caught up beside them, running fast. Volkmann put down the safety locks just as he reached the car and began wrenching at the door handle. The man’s face was up against the window, and when he couldn’t open the door, his fists hammered madly on the glass, his face convulsed in confusion and anger.
Volkmann pressed the Beretta into Lubsch’s neck and said, “What’s your friend’s name?”
Lubsch answered through clenched teeth. “Hartig.”
Volkmann smiled out at the running man. “Happy Christmas, Hartig.”
And then the car picked up even more speed and rounded the corner, and the face was gone from the window.
24
Thirty minutes later, Volkmann told Lubsch to take the turnoff for the Taunus Nature Park.
The passenger started to come around. Volkmann slid his thumb into the concavity behind the man’s left ear, his other four fingers sliding around the man’s neck and locking in a vise. He applied the pressure quickly and heard a small cry as the man’s body sagged.
Lubsch’s eyes flicked angrily at Volkmann, who kept the Beretta aimed at the terrorist and said, “Keep your eyes on the road.”
As the passenger slumped back in the seat, Volkmann heard the man’s breathing, heavy at first, then slow and regular. He felt for a pulse. It was slow. The amount of pressure he used would keep the passenger out for a couple of hours. From the crack of bone when he had hit the man, Volkmann guessed he had broken the man’s nose.
Lubsch asked, “Who the devil are you?”
“Keep driving and shut up.”
The half-moon night sky was patchy with black clouds. Twenty yards from the lakeshore, Volkmann ordered Lubsch to halt and get out of the car.
Trees at the edge of the forest tossed furiously in the wind, and as Volkmann stepped out, he flicked on the flashlight and told Lubsch to move down to the jetty. Moonlight silvered the choppy lake and Volkmann shone the flashlight ahead.
As they approached the boardwalk Lubsch suddenly made a frantic run for it. Volkmann sprinted after him, dropped the flashlight, and gripped the terrorist’s shoulder. As Lubsch spun around, his small, wiry frame crashed into Volkmann in the darkness.
The terrorist grappled for the weapon in Volkmann’s hand and tried to wrench it free but he locked the little man’s neck in a vise. Volkmann heard his gurgle as he fought for breath, and moments later, Lubsch’s body sagged and slid to the ground.
He retrieved the flashlight and shone it in Lubsch’s face. The man wasn’t unconscious but his eyes were dilated from lack of oxygen, and as his hands massaged his neck, he started to cough violently on the grass.
His voice was hoarse with pain. “When this is through, you’re dead, Volkmann. Dead.”
Volkmann jerked the Beretta. “Get up, Lubsch. Walk down to the pier.”
Lubsch struggled to stand, and when they came down to the water, Volkmann said, “Now tie your shoelaces together.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Tie them.”
Lubsch did as he was ordered. When he finished, Volkmann flashed the light and checked them. He told Lubsch to take off his belt and then lie down on his stomach. When Lubsch hesitated, Volkmann forced him down. Once the terrorist had removed his belt, Volkmann used it to tie the man’s hands behind his back, then he pulled Lubsch up into a sitting position. A bitter cold wind coming in off the black water clawed at their faces.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Lubsch. The easy way is for you to tell me what I need to know. The hard way is for me to deliver you and your buddy to the nearest police station.”
Anger blazed in Lubsch’s face. “You think you’ll get away with it, Volkmann? My men would hunt you down and find you. Who are you? Police?”
Volkmann ignored the question. “Think about it. A high-security prison for maybe twenty years. That’s if the judge is in a good mood. Guards watching your every movement. No visits except from your lawyer, if you were lucky enough to find one who’d take your case.” Volkmann slipped the Beretta into his pocket, removed the nylon rope, and held it in front of Lubsch’s face. “So what’s it to be? I wrap you and your friend up like a Christmas present for the cops, or you talk?”
Volkmann shone the flashlight in Lubsch’s face; the terrorist blinked and looked away. The icy-cold wind was lapping the dark water with ragged gusts.
Lubsch shivered, his skin raw from the cold. “And if I talk, what’s in it for me?”
“I let you and your friend go.”
Lubsch spat his reply. “What do you want to know?”
“What I wanted to know the last time we met. About Dieter Winter and his friends.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your word, Volkmann?”
“You’ll have to trust me. But if I find out you lied to me or didn’t tell me everything, I can promise you that your friend Karen will get a visit from the police.”
Lubsch’s face strained with rage. “You really are crazy, aren’t you? Just like Karen said you were—”
Before the terrorist could finish his sentence, Volkmann reached over and gripped Lubsch’s collar and dragged him over to the edge of the jetty. He grabbed a handful of Lubsch’s hair and pushed his face into the freezing-cold water. Lubsch bucked and squirmed, his legs kicking wildly in the air.
Volkmann saw the air bubbles rise before he pulled Lubsch’s head back up. The terrorist gulped in deep breaths as his lungs fought for air.
“. . . Okay, okay. I’ll tell you.”
Volkmann dragged him back into the middle of the pier and Lubsch caught his breath. His hair was plastered over his forehead, water dripped from his face, and he shivered violently.
Volkmann said, “I want to hear it from the beginning. From how you first met Winter. Leave nothing out. Got that?”
Lubsch coughed and spat. “I first met Winter at Heidelberg. He was in the history faculty.”
“You were friends?”
“No, just acquaintances. We used to meet sometimes to drink and talk.”
“Tell me everything.”
Lubsch sniffed, then spat into the water. “Winter and I had different political views. He was a right-wing fanatic; I leaned the other way. But he was always a convincing speaker. For a time, he even managed to convince me that we had something in common.”
“Like what?”
Lubsch looked up at Volkmann, then turned his head away again. “The future of Germany.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It was a pet topic with Winter. He and his friends had this idea that they could change the country.”
“And who were his friends?”
“Fellow students. Others who shared his views.” Lubsch hesitated, then said, “What’s this got to do with me, Volkmann? The murders you spoke about, or something else?”
“Just carry on talking until I tell you to stop. What about Winter’s friends?”
“Six months into our second year at the university, I’d gotten to know Winter pretty well. He was a drinker and a talker, and sometimes we’d have a beer together and argue about politics. We held opposing views, but our discussions were always good fun. Then one day Winter asked me to join him and a group of his friends for a weekend on Lüneburg Heath. There were to be seven of us. Some were students, but others came from different parts of Germany and from different backgrounds, most of them working-class. Toughs, a couple of them, and out of their depth intellectually. We stayed in a rented house in the forest and drank in the local inns. We walked and talked day and night. About politics. Philosophy. History.”
“The others, they all knew Winter?”
Lubsch looked up. “Sure. It was like a fraternity. They all knew each other pretty well.”
“Who were these people?”
“I told you, Winter asked them along. I’d never met them before.”
“I want names, Lubsch.”
“I remember only one. A science student. His name was Lothar Kesser. He was about my age, and he came from Bavaria.”
“Where in Bavaria?”
Lubsch shook his head. “Some hick town, I don’t remember where.”
“You said the group was like a fraternity. What did you mean?”
Lubsch shrugged. “It was like they had some bond between them. It was kind of weird. Like a secret society. Don’t ask me to explain it, Volkmann, because I can’t. But it was like I was outside the circle, not one of them. I was there only because Winter asked me. I guess they liked me because I was an intellectual who wasn’t afraid of action. And because I liked to spend time talking with Winter, maybe they thought they could convert me.”
�
�Go on.”
“One night after everyone’s gone to bed, this guy Kesser suggests we go for a walk in the forest. Just him and me. It’s dark and gloomy outside, and we’ve had a few drinks. Kesser said he wanted to talk with me in private.
“So we walked together and Kesser talked about Germany’s past. Not the bad things. The good things. How Germany had always come through in times of great suffering and upheaval. Overcome all obstacles. Created order out of chaos. That sort of bull. Like Kesser was giving me some sort of political speech. He said that Germany would go through a phase of disorder again. There were definitely going to be problems in the future. Not only in Germany, but in all of Europe, in the world. Politically. Economically. Socially. But there were also going to be opportunities. And that we were all Germans together and that when that time came, we should strive together to seize the opportunity to create a better Fatherland. I was pretty drunk, but I thought Kesser was talking garbage, and told him so.”
“How did he respond?”
“He got annoyed and said that when the right time came, he and the others who supported his beliefs would have financial support for their cause. He said he knew I was involved with the Red Army Faction. That he didn’t see me and my friends as terrorists, merely as disenchanted Germans who sought a different Germany. He said we could join him if we wished.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said it was kind of him, but he was wrong. I wasn’t involved with any group. I was drunk, Volkmann, but I was careful. I didn’t know if Kesser was playing some kind of trick. Maybe he and Winter were police plants. They do that, you know. Send their brightest cadets into German universities to spy on extremist undergraduates. Lead them along, and then trap them.”
“How did he react?”
Lubsch shrugged. “He said I was making a grave mistake, and that was the end of our conversation.”
The wind gusted across the lake and Lubsch shivered.
Volkmann asked, “When did you see either of them again?”