by Glenn Meade
Jakob Fischer said, “Just answer the question.”
“Herbert didn’t mix with anyone like that.”
“What about his background? Did he ever talk about his past? His parents? His family?”
“Once or twice, sure. But he didn’t say much.”
“Tell me what he did say.”
“His mother died when he was twenty. His father he never knew.”
“Why?”
The woman shrugged again. “He died in some camp.”
“A concentration camp?”
She grinned. “No. One of those places in Siberia the Russians sent our soldiers to after the war.”
“Why was Rauscher’s father sent there?”
“He was some kind of Nazi officer. Herbert only mentioned it when he was drunk.”
“What did he say?”
“That his father was wounded in Berlin at the end of the war and captured by the Russians. That they sent him to one of their camps in Siberia.”
“Do you remember anything else he said about his father?”
“No. He didn’t really talk much about his past.” The woman sighed impatiently at Volkmann. “Look, is this going to take much longer?”
“One more question. Do you have any idea why your boyfriend was murdered?”
“No, I don’t. And I told your people that a hundred times already.”
Volkmann looked at Jakob Fischer and nodded. Fischer stood up and said, “Thanks for your time.”
• • •
He had one drink in the hotel bar with Fischer, then he walked him to the foyer.
“I appreciate your help, Jakob.”
“I wish it was more constructive. What about Rauscher’s father, Joe? You going to check up on his background?”
“There’s not much point. There could have been hundreds of officers named Rauscher but I’d need a date of birth and a Christian name to take it further.”
“Anyhow, let me know how it works out.”
“Sure. I’ll call you. And thanks again, Jakob.”
“It’s been good seeing you again, Joe.”
He watched Fischer go, and then he went up to his room and poured himself a scotch. He opened the window and stood at the cold balcony.
None of it made any sense to him. If it was true about Rauscher’s father being a Nazi officer, then Rauscher would have been the least likely target for Winter’s people. Besides, Herbert Rauscher would have been a child when his father had been captured by the Russians and probably never knew the man.
He phoned Erica at the apartment before he undressed for bed and told her about his lack of progress. “What about the woman, Hedda Pohl, Joe?”
“We can drive down to Lake Konstanz tomorrow, see if we can turn up anything.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’m taking the first flight tomorrow.”
There was a pause, then Erica said, “Joe . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“I miss you.”
31
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16
Volkmann could see the snowcapped mountains of Switzerland across Lake Konstanz as they drove into the pretty lakeside town of Friedrichshafen. He parked the Ford, and they walked along the lakefront toward the police station. Christmas trees twinkled in the windows of the old Bavarian-style houses, a dusting of snow falling.
“How do you want to handle this?” Erica asked.
He smiled and flashed the press ID. “The same way we did with Lubsch. We’re a couple of journalists on a case. Just be yourself, working a story.”
Two officers were on duty at the desk. Volkmann showed his ID and asked to speak with one of the senior detectives on duty. It was ten minutes before a middle-aged man appeared from one of the offices. He was big and ruddy-faced, his beer belly protruding over his belted trousers. He introduced himself as Detective Heinz Steiner. When they showed him their press IDs and asked to speak in private, Steiner led them back to a small office down the hall.
“What can I do for you two?”
Erica said, “We’re working on a series of articles on unsolved homicides for a popular German magazine and wanted to talk with you about the murder of a local woman named Hedda Pohl five months ago. We thought it would interest the readers.”
Steiner’s eyes flickered with curiosity, but he didn’t move in his chair.
“What do you want to know exactly?”
Volkmann smiled. “About the woman’s background. The newspapers didn’t go into much detail at the time. And if you have any idea of why she was killed or by whom, I’d be grateful. Sometimes an article can help a case. Jog someone’s memory and get you a lead.”
Steiner considered, and seemed to relax, his tone less formal. “We’ve no idea why she was killed or by whom, but the case is still wide open, I assure you.”
Erica took a notebook and pen from her handbag. “Can you tell me how the woman was murdered?”
Steiner lit a slim cigar and blew smoke up to the ceiling. “Three shots, one in the chest, two to the back of the head at close range. Nine-millimeter slugs. She went out one night in her car, told her son she was going for a walk on the promenade. But she didn’t go to the promenade so far as we know. And she didn’t come back. Her body was found by a hiker two days later in a forest two miles inland. Her purse had been rifled through and some money stolen.” Steiner frowned and his ruddy face creased with lines. “But the murder was very strange.”
“In what way?”
“You’re the journalists. You ought to know that kind of crime isn’t prevalent in this area. And Hedda Pohl wasn’t your typical victim for that kind of death.”
“Tell us,” Volkmann said, opening his own notebook and scribbling.
“Lots of reasons. The style of murder was more like a gangland killing. Hedda Pohl was an elderly widow. Well-off, but not rich. No vices. Absolutely no criminal past or convictions. She hadn’t ever got a parking ticket, in fact. A very upstanding lady, involved in her church.” Steiner drew on his slim cigar. “Something else. We found her car nearby in the woods. It was like she went to meet someone she knew. But her family knew of no prearranged meeting.”
Volkmann jotted a few notes. “Was she active politically?”
Steiner’s eyebrows rose. “No, definitely not. Why do you ask that?”
“No reason, just trying to get a fix on the lady. How well did you know her, Detective Steiner?”
Steiner leaned back in his chair. “Quite well.”
Volkmann looked up with interest. “That helps. Is there anything else about her background you can think of?”
“Her husband used to be a respected businessman. He passed away years ago.”
“What about him—did he have any criminal background?”
Steiner laughed. “He was as clean-living as a Lutheran minister. Very decent.”
“What about her family?”
“All upstanding. And as I said, she was a good woman and well liked locally.” Steiner shrugged. “As to the murder, the only scenario we can think of that makes sense is that she picked up a hitchhiker. Some crazy who decided to rob and kill her.”
“What about clues?”
Steiner shook his head. “No fingerprints. No clues. Whoever did it was very careful. A professional criminal, perhaps. Or someone who had killed before. We checked all the usual angles: family, friends, acquaintances. But nothing gave off a whiff of suspicion.”
Volkmann looked at his watch, then said, “Thanks for your help, Detective. I’m sure you’re a very busy man, so I won’t take up any more of your valuable time.”
“You’re welcome, Volkmann. You’ll send me a copy of your article?”
“You bet.”
• • •
The snow had stopped as they walked along the promenade.
Erica slipped her arm through his, and when they sat on one of the benches that faced out toward Lake Konstanz, she said, “There’s no obvious reason why Winter’s people woul
d want to kill her. She had no terrorist connections. No criminal past.”
“There has to be a connection somewhere, Erica. We just can’t see it.”
“So what happens now?”
He looked out at the gray choppy waters. A small boat with a blue sail was being tossed in the swell, and as it tried to hug the lakeshore, the image seemed fitting. He felt hopelessly lost. “There’s only one other thing I could do.”
“What?”
“Talk to the Landesamt in Berlin.”
The Landesamt was the German equivalent of MI5 or CIA and was responsible for keeping track of terrorist and extremist organizations. “It’s the only hope we have of turning up more information on Kesser and Winter. If there’s anything of significance in either man’s past, they ought to have it in their files.”
“You know someone who could help?”
“A guy called Werner Bargel. He’s the assistant director. If he can’t help us, then nobody can.”
32
BERLIN. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 17
Werner Bargel sat in his office in the leafy suburb of Dahlem and waved to the chair opposite.
“Sit down, Joe.”
At forty-two, Bargel was one of the youngest men ever to hold the position of assistant director of the Landesamt für Verfassungsschutz in Berlin, the state office for the Protection of the Constitution, otherwise known as Lf V.
Tall, thin, and boyishly fresh-faced, Werner Bargel looked more like a young, bespectacled accountant than a senior intelligence officer.
“Well, Joe, what brings you to Berlin?” He looked across and smiled. “It must be at least a couple of years since we last met.”
“I’d like to pick your brains, Werner. And ask a favor.”
Bargel raised his eyebrows. “Is this something you’re working on that directly concerns my people?”
“It’s too early to say.”
“What kind of information are you looking for?”
“Have you been getting much trouble from the extremist groups recently?”
Werner Bargel sat back in his seat, placed his hands behind his neck. “Whenever you get a recession, you always get an upsurge in left- and right-wing activity—you know that, Joe. You get our reports?”
“Sure.”
“There’s a piece in this month’s report about a percentage rise.”
“Any new groups?”
“None that have caused us much grief. But the old ones have been pretty active of late. The usual stuff. Last month in Berlin another refugee center was evacuated after a three-day siege by right-wing gangs. Two black street vendors were stabbed in Leipzig a week later. A Turkish boy was tossed from a second-floor window in Essen and died from his injuries the same day. I could go on. But it’s all in the report I told you about.”
“Are your people worried?”
Bargel smiled thinly. “That kind of thing always worries us. We try to keep it under control. But there’s always going to be that fringe element in every country, isn’t there?” Bargel stared at him. “Is that the only reason for your visit?”
“A few weeks ago, a young man named Dieter Winter was shot to death in Berlin. You recall the case?”
Bargel thought for a moment. “The shooting was at the Zoo Station?”
“That’s the one. I’d like to know if you kept a file on Winter.”
“I can have it checked. Anything else?”
“I’m flying to Munich tomorrow. Winter had an address there. If it’s okay with your people I’d like to take a look at Winter’s place. Also, a guy named Lothar Kesser. Comes from somewhere in Bavaria. Graduated from Munich University in computer science. If you’ve got a file on him and a photograph, I’d like to see them, too.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Was Winter involved with a right-wing group?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. The murder weapon was also used in the shooting of a British industrialist in Hamburg. That’s why Ferguson is interested.”
“What about this other guy, Kesser?”
“I’m only fishing at this stage. There may be no connection.”
“But you’ll keep me informed if anything comes up that we ought to look into, Joe?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll get you a copy of last month’s report. And a preview of the next.” Bargel stood up. “You’re staying in Berlin tonight?”
“At the Schweizerhof. I appreciate your help, Werner.”
“No problem. I can have my secretary book a table for us this evening at Le Bou Bou, if that’s okay with you.”
“Why not? We can have a chat about old times.”
• • •
The restaurant was almost empty but the service superb, as always.
Bargel brought along the reports and the files he promised but he didn’t discuss them, except to say that he had arranged for Volkmann to be met in Munich and taken to Winter’s last known address. They spent more than an hour talking about the old days in Berlin, and when they had finished their meal, Bargel walked with Volkmann back to the hotel.
“Do you ever see Ivan Molke now, Joe?”
Volkmann shook his head and said, “You know he took early retirement. Before he did, we used to talk now and again, but we’ve been out of touch for the last couple of years.”
Bargel nodded. “Right.” He caught Volkmann’s eye. “I hear he’s in Munich. Maybe you should call him up when you go south. I suspect he could be useful to you. I can give you his number.”
Volkmann brightened, liking the idea. “Sounds good. You could be right.”
“You and he were pretty close.”
“Sure. When I was only a rookie posted to Berlin years ago, Ivan often took me under his wing. I feel bad that we’ve gotten out of touch. But you know how it is.”
“Can I ask you a personal question, Joe?”
“Sure.”
“What did you and Ivan do with Felder?”
“I thought you knew.” When he saw Bargel shake his head, Volkmann said, “We took him out to the Grunewald.”
“I always wondered. That animal deserved what he got.” He looked at Volkmann and said, “He was a brutal killer. But then it was a lousy business in those days. We were up against the scum of the Stasi and KGB.”
Volkmann asked, “Where do your own police and armed forces stand when it comes to right-wing activity?”
Bargel shrugged. “They’re apolitical, or supposed to be. What they think personally, of course, is quite another matter. I guess some might sympathize with fascist groups. But there’s nothing we can do about that, so long as it doesn’t interfere with their work.” The intelligent eyes regarded Volkmann carefully. “Why do you ask, Joe?”
“The number of neo-Nazi attacks is increasing. But your people don’t seem to be having much success putting a stop to them.”
Bargel said, “It’s a difficult area. You’ve got the usual calls to put all these extremists away. But if you started doing that, you’d get the bleeding-heart liberals who oppose them, saying we’re becoming a police state again, putting people in concentration camps. And for us Germans, that’s a touchy subject.” Bargel shook his head. “There’s no easy solution.”
“Do the neo-Nazis have much support?”
“Some, but they wouldn’t appeal to the majority of Germans; that goes without saying.”
“What kind of numbers are we talking about?”
“In Germany? A conservative figure would be over a hundred thousand.”
“Hard-line neo-Nazis?”
“Pretty much hard-line. You could probably triple that figure with softer supporters.”
“That’s a lot of support, Werner.”
Bargel regarded him keenly. “What you’re really wondering is, could it happen again? Could a Nazi Party ever come to power again in Germany? Are you asking me that, Joe?”
“If I remember my history, the Nazis had fewer than five thousand supporters when Hitler led the Beer Hall Putsch in 1
923. When he started his campaign to become chancellor of Germany, the party had fewer than a quarter of a million members.”
Bargel shook his head fiercely. “It couldn’t happen again, Joe. Surely you know that. Only those parties that conform to the Constitution are admitted to the political system. And then there’s the five percent barrier. That means any party polling less than five percent of the vote in an election can’t enter Parliament, which effectively excludes extremists. But besides all that, people are wiser; Germany would never tolerate another Nazi Party or anything like it.
“Sure, we have a problem with extremists. There’s a neo-Nazi riot in the streets of a German city, and the world’s press prints banner headlines that suggest the Fourth Reich is imminent. But in Germany, these groups have never had great support. And the people who do support them are cranks and misfits. The shaved-headed thugs who beat up immigrants and desecrate Jewish graves are not well organized. It’s a fringe element.”
Volkmann looked across. “But there are similarities, Werner. The street riots. Immigrants being attacked instead of Jews. The call to have foreigners expelled. All the social and economic problems you had in the past when the Nazis came to power.”
Bargel nodded. “Sure, you can draw parallels in any situation. But another Nazi Party in power? Joe, it’s not possible. You may say we allowed it in 1933. But Germany was different then. And besides, every day we see reminders, on television, in the press, of the sins committed in our name, and the vast majority of this nation has no wish to repeat those sins.” Bargel shook his head vigorously. “That another Nazi Party would ever come to power in Germany? Joe, I could never see that happening. Besides, the problems with neo-Nazis is going to be resolved.”
“How?”
“You know of Konrad Weber?”
“The vice chancellor? Sure.”
“He’s also the interior minister, responsible for federal security. He’s a good man, Joe. Tough, conservative, responsible. Between you and me, I hear that Weber wants to bring in some tough changes in the law to put a brake on these extremists for good.”
“What’s he going to do?”
Bargel smiled. “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you that. But my ears in the Interior Ministry tell me Weber’s going to crack the whip pretty hard and put a stop to it for good.”