Kessler played with his shaking hands. Then his face brightened. “Before you tell me what you want of me, we should negotiate price.” He counted on his fingers. “Day of lost sales at the markets, one copper who brutalizes me, psychological damages—”
Mason counted on his fingers. “Asking Oberinspektor Becker not to arrest you, avoiding twenty years in prison . . .”
“Okay, okay,” Kessler said, and he plastered on his best salesman smile. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“We want to talk about your new partner,” Becker said. “The American selling hospital equipment and surgical supplies.”
Kessler shrank in his chair. Obviously he didn’t like where this was going. “Surgical equipment? I don’t know anyone who sells such things.”
Becker pulled out his handcuffs. “I am finished listening to this animal. Herr Kessler, you are under arrest—”
“No, wait! I only know one person. But, please, don’t ask me to tell you who. He is connected to a very dangerous gang. They will kill me if I tell you.”
“They won’t know it’s you,” Mason said.
“They will. They will find me and kill me.”
“You’re forgetting our arrangement. You give us information, and Oberinspektor Becker here doesn’t throw you in prison.”
Wolski leaned on the table, his mouth by Kessler’s ear. “And if you get thrown in prison, we’ll have Oberinspektor Becker spread the word that you’re a child molester. Guys bigger than me will ravage you and beat you over and over again. You’ll spend the rest of your days in a bloody pulp with an asshole as big as my fist.”
“All right!” Kessler cried out with his characteristic shriek. “His name is Frank Wertz. He sells on the street, but he is a member of a very dangerous gang of American deserters and Russian and Polish refugees.”
Mason laid a sketch of Ramek on the table in front of Kessler. “Have you seen this man buying from Wertz?”
Kessler studied the face for a moment. “I think so. A big man, yes?”
Mason leaned on the table. “What do you know about him?”
“Very little, except that he has some influence with some crime boss, so he receives special privileges. Wertz sometimes delivers to him.”
Mason and Wolski exchanged glances. “Where?” Wolski asked.
“Do you think they would share such information with me?”
“We want to meet Wertz, and you’re going to point him out,” Mason said.
Kessler’s jaw dropped.
Wolski held his fist in Kessler’s face, then made an obscene gesture. “Remember, Heinrich . . .”
Kessler dropped his head onto the table. “Why is life so cruel to me?”
“Ask that to the people you sell diluted penicillin to,” Becker said.
• • •
Minutes later, Mason, Wolski, and Becker exited the interrogation room and descended the stairs to the squad room.
“Since Wertz won’t show his face until tomorrow morning, we’ll keep Kessler locked up overnight,” Mason said to Becker. “You can do whatever you want with him once we’re finished.”
“I will honor the agreement. He will be free to go. For now. Good night, gentlemen.”
Mason and Wolski returned the farewell and watched Becker leave.
“How about a shot before calling it a night?” Wolski asked.
“You’re on.”
Wolski sneezed, his whole body convulsing from the effort. “God damn it. I can’t get a cold. I promised to take Anna to the OMGB Christmas dance tomorrow night.”
“Having a cold doesn’t make you concerned about giving this investigation your full effort?”
“My full effort’s what gave me this cold.”
As they walked to Mason’s office, Wolski said, “When I was sick as a kid, my dad would give us shots of hot bourbon and honey. Don’t know how much good it did the cold, but it sure did him good.”
Mason didn’t hear Wolski. He was fixed on the foot-high object wrapped in brown kraft paper sitting on his desk. Since Timmers had a clear view of Mason’s office door, Mason stopped at his desk.
“Tim, did you see who brought in that package on my desk?”
Timmers lifted his tired gaze from his paperwork. “An MP. He asked where your office was, then dropped it off and left.”
“He say what it was?”
“Nope.”
“What time?”
“About an hour ago. Before you guys got back.”
Mason and Wolski walked into the office and stared at the package.
“Could be something sent down from the war crimes records office,” Wolski said.
“There’s nothing written on the outside. Usually those have destination and official labels plastered all over them.”
“Maybe it’s a bomb from one of your admirers.”
Mason gave him a look of rebuke. He leaned over and put his ear to the package. No sound from inside. He lifted it and turned it on its side. Something metallic rattled.
“Bombs don’t rattle,” Wolski said. “Could be from Laura. Open it.”
Mason placed the object on his desk. He delicately unwrapped the paper and revealed a mahogany and brass pendulum clock. Mason was puzzled at first. He couldn’t think of who would send him such a beautiful gift.
Then he remembered the workshop, and Ramek, and having admired the exact same clock. He suddenly felt very cold.
“God damn. Look at this,” Wolski said.
Wolski held up the kraft paper. Written on the underside, in large block letters:
YOU MUST WIND IT. I DIDN’T WANT YOU TO THINK IT WAS A BOMB. A TOKEN OF OUR BRIEF YET INTERESTING ENCOUNTER, AND A REMINDER OF LIFE’S FLEETING TIME.
DEATH IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER.
With a swipe of his forearm, Mason batted the clock against the wall. It shattered and fell in pieces on the floor.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Mason looked at his watch again then scanned the square. He sat in an army sedan, with Wolski behind the steering wheel. Kessler hunched low in the back. Across from where they were parked on Paradiesstrasse, they could survey the square formed by five intersecting streets that lay on the southern tip of Munich’s immense park, the Englischer Garten. Three hours, and still no sign of Wertz.
From what Mason could see, not much of the park had been spared. Bombs had shattered the decorative pavilions, splintered the trees, and left behind craters in the place of flowerbeds. But it was a good place to conduct black market trading: populated, but not too much so, with wide lines of sight and a large five-street intersection providing multiple escape routes—not to mention the vast park itself.
Several “vendors” traded their wares on the square and by the park entrance: two separate women with racks of clothes emptied from closets, a butcher hawking questionable meat, lone individuals selling jewelry displayed by opening their overcoats. Behind them, in the park, people hacked away at fallen trees for firewood. The easy pickings had already been taken; now an intrepid few attacked the large branches and trunks.
To the left of the square, Timmers and Pike, dressed in civilian clothes, milled on a corner of the park entrance. Four other investigators of his team were occupied in other parts of the city following up on reports from eyewitnesses, so Mason had no other choice but to take Colonel Walton up on his offer to use Havers.
Mason glanced to his right, where MacMillan and Havers sat at one of the sidewalk tables of a café. Havers was supposed to be using a newspaper as cover, but he kept eyeing the square, or he would get up and pace before MacMillan could urge him to sit again.
“I’m hungry and I have to pee,” Kessler said.
“Shut up,” Mason said.
“That’s the first two words I’ve heard you utter since we got here,” Wolski said.
&nbs
p; Mason glowered at Wolski, then went back to watching the plaza.
“You can’t let Ramek leaving that clock get to you.”
“You going to tell me now that it’s no big deal? He’s thumbing his nose at both of us. We’re flailing around, totally blind, trying to find this guy, and he walks right into a building full of cops and plops it on my desk.”
“I suppose you’re pissed off about Laura, too.”
“That subject is off-limits.”
“I’ve got to pee,” Kessler insisted.
“What are you, five years old?” Mason said. “Get out on the blind side of the car and pee in the gutter.”
As Kessler got out of the car, Wolski said, “Don’t pee by my door. I don’t want to step in it.”
In the middle of relieving himself, Kessler stifled a cry. He ducked down and peered through the sedan windows. “There he is. Green coat and brown fisherman’s hat.”
To his right, Mason spotted Wertz crossing Lerchenfeldstrasse. Wertz looked to be in his midtwenties and walked with an athletic gait. He kept checking his flanks as he entered the square and headed for the park.
Mason got out of the car and removed his hat. That was the signal for the others. Wolski told Kessler to hide in the backseat. “Don’t go anywhere,” Wolski said, then he followed Mason across the wide intersection.
Timmers and Pike were doing the same thing, entering the square from the west to cut off Wertz’s potential escape into the park. MacMillan was waiting until Wertz passed him, but Havers got up too soon. Wertz whirled around. Havers froze.
Mason and Wolski broke into a run. The other team did the same thing. MacMillan shot up from the table and charged, but Wertz pulled out a nine-millimeter pistol from his pocket and fired. MacMillan jerked from the pain and went down. Civilians screamed or ran for cover. Havers remained frozen as Wertz fled down a small street branching off from the intersection.
As Mason rushed past Havers, he yelled, “Help MacMillan.”
When Mason and Wolski reached the street, Wertz had a fifty-yard lead. Both sides of the road were lined with ruins and rubble that lay in piles at the base of collapsed buildings.
Mason and Wolski had their pistols out. “CID! Halt!”
Wertz put on a burst of speed and leapt over a heap of rubble, but his foot landed on loose gravel and he slipped and fell on his side. He scrambled behind a heap of bricks and fired his pistol. The bullet whizzed by Mason’s ear. Mason and Wolski dived to opposite sides of the street and took defensive positions. A silent standoff ensued, a sharp contrast to the explosion of the gun. In the distance came the wail of sirens. To keep Wertz pinned in place, Mason aimed for the bricks at the top of the heap protecting Wertz. He shot twice. The bricks shattered into dust.
Apparently judging the risk worth it, Wertz jumped to his feet and ran. Mason and Wolski chased after him. Fifty feet later, Wertz turned again and fired. Mason dropped to the street and aimed. Before Wertz could turn to run again, Mason pulled the trigger.
The bullet smashed into Wertz’s thigh. He screamed and fell face-first onto the pavement. Mason and Wolski raced up. Wertz tried to reach for his pistol, but Wolski kicked it away. Timmers and Pike arrived seconds later.
“We’ve got this,” Mason said, out of breath. “Help MacMillan. If you can’t get an ambulance, take him yourselves.”
“What about him?” Timmers asked, pointing to Wertz. “He’s gonna need—”
“We’ll take care of him. Now go!”
Timmers recoiled as if he’d been slapped in the face. He looked at Wolski for a moment, then took off with Pike. Mason turned his attention back to Wertz. The bullet had passed through his thigh, taking a chunk of leg with it. Mason looked around. There were a few curious bystanders at both ends of the street.
“What are you thinking?” Wolski said. “He could bleed out if we don’t get him to a hospital.”
Mason leaned over Wertz. “You hear that, Wertz? If we don’t get you to a hospital you’re going to die.” Wertz could only moan. “So the sooner you talk, the quicker you’ll get your sorry ass to a hospital.”
“Chief, don’t do this,” Wolski said.
“Shut up. This asshole just shot a cop. And he tried to do the same to us. He is gonna talk. Right here, right now.”
Mason flipped Wertz on his back. He pulled out the sketch of Ramek and held it in Wertz’s face. “You sold surgical equipment to this guy. Dr. Ramek. I want to know where he lives.”
Between gasps for air and spasms of pain, Wertz said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You want to bleed to death, huh, Wertz? Start talking or we’re going to walk away and let you bleed out.”
“I swear I don’t know him!”
MP and ambulance sirens echoed in the narrow street as they pulled into the square. Mason was desperate. He ground the toe of his boot into Wertz’s wound. Wertz screamed.
“Chief, come on—”
Mason dug his boot deeper into Wertz’s gaping wound. Wertz cried out, almost squealing.
“You tell me where I can find Ramek, or I’m going to keep doing this. . . .” Mason put the full weight of his body behind his boot.
Wertz screamed and held up his hands for Mason to stop. “All right. Just stop.” He took a few gulps of air. “I made some deliveries. A couple of times. He had some kind of machine shop. . . .”
Mason raised his foot to strike. “That’s not good enough. Not a shop. Not his favorite hangout. We need a residence. His house.”
“All right! He has a house. On Landsberger Strasse. I don’t remember the number. Two seventeen, or something. White brick with red shutters.” His face had gone white from blood loss and pain. “Now, please. Get me to a hospital!”
A jeep and ambulance pulled up behind Mason and Wolski. Two medics went into action, applying sulfa powder and a tourniquet. A large pool of blood had formed around Wertz’s leg, and he had become still, his eyes glazed, his skin shading to gray. Mason watched in silence as the medics put on a pile of gauze and mounted Wertz onto a stretcher.
“What’s his status?” Wolski asked.
One of the medics said, “He’s lost a lot of blood, and he’s in shock. If we get him back in time, he should live.”
Wolski shot a hard look at Mason and walked back toward the square. Mason sprinted past Wolski and up to where MacMillan had been shot. Havers sat at the café table, his eyes fixed on MacMillan’s spilled blood. The ambulance had already taken MacMillan away.
“Is Mac going to be all right?” Mason asked Timmers.
“He got hit in the chest. A clean exit wound, but it collapsed his lung. He’s pretty bad.” He turned his head toward Havers. “If this asshole hadn’t screwed things up, no one’d be hurt.”
“That’s enough,” Mason said.
Wolski walked up. “Are we going after Ramek?”
Mason nodded. “We’ll pick up some fresh bodies then get Becker and a German team to go with us.”
“What about Havers?”
“Tell him to go back to headquarters. I don’t want to talk to him right now.”
“Why? You might torture him, too?”
“If you’re getting squeamish, just let me know. We’ll get you off the street and behind a desk.” When Wolski didn’t respond, Mason said, “Let’s get moving. Now we know where this bastard lives.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
The neighborhood could have passed for any American middle-class suburb: one- and two-story houses on tree-lined streets, a peaceful setting spared by the ravages of war. Mason and Becker sat in an army sedan with a clear view of Ramek’s house. They were parked a hundred feet down on a street that formed a T intersection with Ramek’s street. Mason checked his watch for the umpteenth time, then scanned the house with his binoculars.
The Handie-Talkie crackled, and Wolsk
i’s voice came over the handset. “One pedestrian coming your way. Long blue coat and black hat. His back is to us, so I couldn’t get a good look at him.”
Mason acknowledged and they waited. Wolski had opted to team up with Timmers, and they were parked at the far end of Ramek’s street. Pike and two MPs had stationed themselves at one of the main approaches to Ramek’s street, with Mannheim and four German police covering a second approach and the back of the house.
Moments later, the pedestrian came into view. Mason sighed and dropped his binoculars. “Not our guy.”
“Ramek knows we’ve discovered at least his workshop alias,” Becker said. “He may have even heard of Wertz’s arrest. In all probability, he will stay clear of this house.”
“Yeah, I figured that. You can’t blame a man for hoping. We’ve been here for five hours. It’ll be dark soon. I say we take a look around, then post a couple of surveillance teams just in case he tries to sneak back.”
Becker nodded. “He may have to come back for something that is vital to him.”
“Yeah, maybe he forgot his toothbrush.” Mason said into the Handie-Talkie, “It’s time to go in. You all know how I want this to go down: Approach on foot, safe and quiet, on the off chance that he’s hiding out in there.”
Silently, Timmers and Pike with a team of MPs sprinted toward the back of the house to join a team of German police. Mason and Wolski, along with two other MPs, sneaked up to the front door, while Becker, Mannheim, and four German police officers fanned out along the front lawn.
When everyone was in position, two German police officers came forward. One had a sledgehammer. Mason nodded, and, with one strategic swing, the sledgehammer hit the latch and the door flew open. Mannheim and the German officers charged in first. Mason, Wolski, and Becker came in behind them.
The German police yelled a warning—“Polizei!”—as they advanced into each room. Mason, Wolski, and Becker stayed in the living room, which only contained a few rows of chairs and a desk in the corner.
Mason scanned the area while waiting tensely. Protocol was for the German police to make any arrest. With each successive search of a room, the German officers called out, “Klar! . . . Klar!”
Ruins of War Page 27