by G T Almasi
Patrick comms from downstairs, “That doesn’t sound good. You all right?”
Oops. I didn’t notice I was still transmitting. “I’m fine, but she’s gone.” I holster my sidearms. “Do you think she’s looking for the same thing we are?”
My partner joins me on the roof. He unhappily nods. “Yeah, and now she’s closer to it than we are.”
“Why’d she use the telephone?”
“I don’t know. She has a commphone, so—”
Krysta cuts in. “Scarlet, Darwin, sirens approaching. Let’s get out of here!”
“No,” Patrick comms. “We need to search the apartment.”
I look down toward the street in time to see Krys and Dos stomp up the front steps and hotfoot it inside. The sirens grow louder as two police cars swerve into view down the street.
An idea unfolds in my mind. My lips tighten.
“Guys,” I comm, “leave the cops to me.”
A heartbeat’s pause, then Krysta comms, “You got ’em, Scarlet.”
The pair of fuzzmobiles skid to a stop in front of Troust’s apartment building and burp out two cops each. I jump to the ground out of their sight, then run around the house toward them.
“Hilfe, bitte!” I shout, waving my arms. Help, please!
The policemen see me coming, look at one another, then back to me. They haven’t drawn their pistols yet. I bum-rush the closest pig and smash him with my right fist. I swing behind the wheel of his cruiser, ratchet the seat all the way forward, and peel out in a cloud of tire smoke. In the rearview mirror, one cop looks to his unconscious buddy while the remaining two jump in their car and take off after me.
The police radio allows me to dodge patrols and roadblocks. My wild driving techniques do the rest. I scorch smoldering rubber stripes into sidewalks, driveways, and parks. I leave streaks of black-and-white paint on parked cars, the wall of a grocery store, and the underside of a giant plaster dinosaur. Dino’s tummy scrapes off the light bar and sirens with a metallic shriek.
By the time I dump the derelict roller in the southern suburbs the brakes are toast, the transmission is nearly melted, all the tires are flat, and the bodywork’s every surface is dented. Not even the vehicle’s nether regions are spared: A daring jump between two autobahn overpasses ground the undercarriage into sparkling steelburgers. This spectacular stunt was the last straw for the cops, who stopped their cars and got out to watch me disappear into the sunrise.
I hoof it to the Garching U-Bahn station where I buy a ticket, a copy of Bild, and a cheese pretzel the size of a Frisbee. As the subway carries me back to Munich’s city center, I hide behind the luridly illustrated newspaper and devour my salty lunch.
Mmm, Käsebretzel. Om nom nom.
30
NEXT DAY, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 3:45 P.M. CEST
MARIENPLATZ, MUNICH, GREATER GERMANY
I follow Brando out of the U-Bahn station into Odeonsplatz. The afternoon sun washes across the large plaza and throws long shadows from the many pedestrians. The stripes pass through one another like phantoms.
I ask my partner, “What if Troust Junior isn’t at the Hofbrauhaus tonight?”
Patrick is not in a great mood. The stitches in his ear have been keeping him awake. “I told you,” he grumps. “We’ll visit Sasha again.” Brando grabs my jacket’s sleeve to lead me across the street. I watch my step near the trolley tracks. Last night one of the damn things tried to eat my shoe.
I counter my partner’s grumpy answer by singing a modified version of the jingle from the Coke ad with all those assholes joining hands.
“I’d like to smack. My partner’s face. He’s full of ba-lo-neyyy. I’d like to kick. Him in the butt. From here to Nor-man-dyyy.” I raise my arms over my head and screech like Ethel Merman, “It’s the RE-AL thin-n-ng!”
I draw in breath to belt out another rousing verse. My partner presses his palm across my mouth. “Okay, I’m sorry! I thought you heard me before.”
My partner approaches a shop and opens the door for me. I precede him inside. It’s a clothing store.
I ask, “What are we doing in here?”
Patrick finds a rack of plaid dresses. “We need to get you an outfit.”
“What’s wrong with the clothes I have on?”
“You need to look the part.” He flicks through the hangers, looking for my size. “But now that you mention it, what you’re wearing is getting a bit worn out. We should find you another set of field duds.”
I look in a full-length mirror on the wall. Black boots—laces broken and knotted in three places, toes stained with perma-mud, left heel missing a chunk the size of a 9mm bullet. Black cargo pants—pockets stretched out, seat rubbed shiny, legs ripped and stitched in half a dozen spots. Red leather jacket—frayed along the hem, peeling around the wrists, patched at the elbows, and scorched black over the collar and shoulders. Black knit cap—new, but already crackly with dried blood.
“My clothes look fine to me,” I say.
“Here.” Patrick pulls a dress from the rack. “Try this on.”
“Brando.” I hold the garment like it’s a poisonous insect. “You have got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”
—DARE: HIGHLORD—
21 SEP 1981
GESTAPO ANTICIPATES LOYALIST ATTACK ON MUNICH
From: Potsdam, GG
To: ExOps HQ, Washington, D.C.
Sir,
Gestapo signals reveal their growing suspicion of a Loyalist plan to attack Munich. If there is such a plan, the timing is not yet known to the secret police. If Markus Wolf marches his army north to Berlin before the attack, Munich would fall quickly, but the hare would slip the trap.
Yours,
—Grey, L12-INF
31
SEVEN HOURS LATER, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 11:28 P.M. CEST
HOFBRAUHAUS, MUNICH, GREATER GERMANY
I will never again underestimate a German’s capacity for beer-swilling. Most of the people here have reverted to a primitive, Cro-Magnon language where every word is “argh” preceded by some random combination of consonants.
Glargh! Plargh! Blargh!
One of the drunks—a sweaty, pale-faced half-wit—pinches my ass. My forearm knocks him out his seat, then I scoop up the empties from his table. Another drunk tries to kiss me and I smash his face in with my fistful of empty beer mugs. He blurts, “Flargh!” and topples over.
Incredibly, my sociopathic beer-wenching goes totally unnoticed. The oompah band swings into action and the crowd arghs along.
Hrargh! Trargh! Slargh!
Patrick comms, “How’s it goin’, Hot Stuff?”
I brandish the heavy mugs as a battering ram to bull my way through the bellowing mass of boozers. “Oh my God, Darwin. These people are so plastered they’re talking like cavemen.”
“Now we know how the other half lives, I guess.”
I drop my empties at the kitchen and walk toward the bar for a fresh load. “They can have it, especially this stupid dress.”
“It’s not a dress, it’s a dirndl.”
“Whatever. I look like the St. Pauli Girl in this thing.”
“Which is why all the guys are trying to pinch your butt.”
“How can you tell from way over there?”
“The trail of unconscious men in your wake.”
“Hm.”
I’m posing as a waitress at the Hofbrauhaus, the world’s most famous hangover factory. As I work, I continuously comm the noise in the rooms to my partners, who separate the chatter into individual voices. This allows them to listen in on almost every conversation in the restaurant.
All the wait staff have to wear traditional Bavarian country costumes. Mine is a blue-and-white diamond-patterned skirt, white stockings, chunky shoes, and a frilly
bodice that does its best to present my boobs to everyone in the hall. We topped off this feminine costume with a heavily embroidered jacket so I have somewhere to hide my sidearms.
I grab ten more one-liter mugs of lager and lug them into the smoky, steamy beer jungle. As usual, the people at my table greet me with enthusiastic cheers and amazement that a little girl like me can serve fifty pounds of brewskis all at once. I’m halfway through passing the mugs around when Brando comms in.
“Scarlet, we heard something. Can you retrace your steps to the kitchen?”
I fend off another wave of gargling smooches. “Will do,” I comm. My heavy shoes carry me slowly across the large room.
“Wait, stop. To your right, that small table. Gimme a look at them.”
There are four people at the table, two dark-haired oafs and two blond tarts. Mid-thirties and forties. They’re white, they all smoke, and they’re totally average looking. One of the skeezers wears glasses and has a blue scarf over her head like a babushka. Their conversation is extremely animated. Lots of hand waving and fist pounding. More like an argument, really. I catch the names of cities—Berlin, Frankfurt, Moscow, and New York.
“Okay,” my partner comms. “Give us a minute.”
I get back to work, humping full beer mugs to the tables, and then lugging the empties to the kitchen.
“Scarlet,” Doska comms. “Can you give us another look at the woman in glasses?”
“In the blue scarf?”
“Affirmative.”
I circle the room to approach the small table from a different direction. Blue Scarf Lady loudly reacts to one of her friends.
Her glasses look funny. Not the frames, but—
“Hey,” I comm, “the lenses in our chick’s glasses are flat. I don’t think they’re prescription.”
Blue Scarf Lady angrily shakes her blond head. Her wrap slips back a bit, revealing black roots along her hairline.
“A-a-and she’s a brunette.”
“Okay, stand by. Processing.”
Miss Blue draws her scarf back over her hair, checks her watch, and looks around the room. I turn away and busy myself pulling empty mugs off a nearby table. In one of the ornate mirrors on the wall I see the four people stub out their cigarettes, take a last swig of beer, then stand to put their jackets on.
“Darwin, hurry up, they’re leaving.”
The foursome walk away from me, toward one of the side exits. They’re still squabbling about something.
“Scarlet,” Doska comms. “You’ve hit the jackpot.”
“Is one of those people Troust?”
“Even better. The woman in the scarf is Ulrike Meinhof. The people with her are Andreas Baader, Gudrun Ensslin, and Horst Mahler.”
Red Army Faction.
“I’m on my way.” I put down the empty beer mugs and follow the group outside. They climb into a dingy white passenger van. The twists sit up front and the doinks settle themselves all the way in the rear, leaving the spacious middle area unoccupied. The van backs into the street and joins the flow of traffic.
The Meat Locker skids to a stop in front of me. I reach for the door handle, but something makes me pause to take a good look at the enemy vehicle as it turns onto Sparkenstrasse.
I’ve seen that fucker before, but where…
The white van’s big side door is rust-red.
Son-of-a-bitch.
I pull open the Mercedes’s front passenger door and hop in. “Darwin,” I say. “They’re driving the same van that picked up Talon outside of Dr. Troust’s apartment.”
Brando peers through the windshield from the backseat. “You sure?”
“Yes!” I yell. “Extra long, needs a wash, and the big door doesn’t match.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” my partner mutters.
That’s why Talon was at Dr. Troust’s apartment: She was pulling a job for the Faction. I can’t imagine how the RAF forced her to work for them. Maybe they encased her precious Fredericks in a solid block of iron. Whatever the reason, Bitchface won’t put up with it for long. Soon enough she’ll just hoist Jakob’s block of iron onto her back and carry him across a carpet of dead terrorists.
I hop in the front passenger seat. Patrick and Dos sit in back, keeping watch to the sides and rear. Krys drives to the corner of Sparkenstrasse, ready to run the traffic light. He slams on the brakes when three brand-new Mercedes streak through the intersection and race after the Faction crew. The shiny black sedans are crammed with sinister-looking thugs. Each man bears a deep scowl over beady eyes and a thin, colorless mouth.
“Gestapo,” Krys snarls as he takes the corner and accelerates after the goon squad.
The Meat Locker’s tires rumble across the cobblestoned city center. Krysta holds us half a block behind the three Gestapo cars, which maintain a block or so distance from the Faction van, which is hopefully leading us to Fredericks.
“Anybody following us?” Patrick comms facetiously.
Dos misses the joke and simply replies, “All clear.” I glance back to my partner, who winks at me.
Our spy-vs.-spy convoy loops through the narrow one-way streets until we emerge onto the city’s swanko main drag, Maximilianstrasse. The Faction vehicle turns left off the boulevard onto a small back street, then into an alley. The Gestapo creeps make no bones about what they’re doing and follow the van all the way. Krysta hangs back and parks at the corner of the avenue, in front of a fancy clothing store.
Moments later, a storm of gunfire bangs off the walls of the narrow street. Bullets ricochet onto Maximilianstrasse and break a couple of windows.
“How discreet,” Doska says with a sigh as we scramble out of the car. He and Krysta advance up the side street while Brando and I look to get some altitude.
I break open the clothing store’s front door. We run straight to the back rooms, past the squawking clerks. Patrick finds the emergency stairs. Our shoes pound up the steps until we emerge on the roof.
We’re four stories above downtown Munich. The buildings on this block press tightly against one another, forming an irregular rectangle. The leftover space in the middle of the block serves as a parking lot.
The two of us navigate around the block by jumping from one roof to the next. The city’s streetlamps illuminate my partner’s haggard face from below, like a vampire movie poster. We circle the parking area to a position directly across from the three Mercedes and the van. The Gestapo agents trade fire with a gang of bullet-slinging loonies defending one of the buildings. Men and women lean from the windows and shoot down at the secret policemen. The combatants scream, shout, and curse. German is a language particularly well suited to this form of discourse.
The hollering is cut short by a sharp detonation. We crouch at the edge of the roof.
“Grenade, you think?”
“Sounded like it. If that went off anywhere near the cars, it might—”
A wall of fire erupts from the gunfight below and lights up the whole neighborhood. The heat is so intense, it feels like God’s own hair dryer. We drop to the roof’s shuddering surface and cover our heads.
“Well,” my partner comms, “there goes one—”
The building lurches as a second car goes up. When the third car explodes I swear the roof drops an inch.
“Should we get out of here?” I ask.
Patrick comms to our teammates, “Dos, Krys, how’s it lookin’ down there?”
Krysta answers, “Like a fucking volcano.”
“Any Gestapo competitors left standing?”
“As piles of ash, maybe. How about you two look around and see if there’s another way in?”
“Will do.”
Brando and I retrace our steps around the block until we’re on top of the Faction’s building. A narrow alley separates this structure from its neighbor. We t
race the edges, looking down toward the ground. The grenade battle with the Gestapo was at the rear entrance. There’s a fire escape on the alley side, and the front of the building faces Wurzerstrasse. I see a Middle Eastern fast-food sign at street level.
The lighted sign reflects off the shiny black exteriors of six more Mercedes parked in the middle of Wurzerstrasse. A ferocious stanza of gunshots flash and flicker from the building’s lower windows. A man—no, it’s a woman—flies out a second-story window and splats onto the sidewalk. Her dark, damp shirt is riddled with bullet holes.
A dark-suited pair of bagmen rush from the ground-floor entrance and hustle a wounded comrade into one of the sedans. They quickly drive away from the scene. The gun battle grows louder as the Gestapo triggermen force the Faction desperadoes upstairs one room at a time.
I lean over the roof’s front lip to peek in the top-floor windows, but heavy curtains block the view. My partner reaches into his X-bag for his millimeter-wave radar gadget. He points it at the rooms beneath us and scans back and forth.
“People,” Brando says. “Five standing and one sitting. The five are armed.” He adjusts a dial on the radar gun. “The sitting person is tied to a chair.”
I confirm what he sees by turning on my own radar vision. Five on their feet, one in a chair. “Think it’s Talon?”
“It isn’t Fredericks, that’s for sure. It’s definitely a Level, but her entire midsection reads as metallic. Even Talon doesn’t have that many Mods.”
“Maybe it’s SoftArmor?”
Patrick cocks one eyebrow. “Who leaves their prisoner in a bulletproof vest?”
I comm, “Krysta, can you get inside from back there?”
No answer. My Eyes-Up display shows my comm-signal at zero.
“Darwin,” I say, “my commphone isn’t working.”
My partner says, “Mine isn’t, either.”
“Dammit,” I bark. “How about you go tell the boys what’s happening while I crash the party inside?”
“Okay.” He gives me quick kiss before he hustles toward the fire escape. “Give ’em hell, Hot Stuff.”