The Checkpoint, Berlin Detective Series Box Set

by Michele E. Gwynn

  The edges of Obermeyer’s eyes tightened on her last words. He said nothing for a moment. Then, “I’ll write up a list as soon as we get to my office. My assistant, Rudi, will help you with any other information.”

  Mahler turned right, and then right again into the parking lot of the Reichstag building where the Bundestag convene. There was already a line of tourists at the visitor center. The Reichstag was one of the most popular attractions in Berlin for visitors. Maintaining a check on who was allowed in and around Obermeyer’s office was not going to be easy. Mahler found a parking spot, and turned off the engine. She got out first, scanning left and right before opening his door and letting the minister out. She stayed at his flank as they bypassed the visitor center heading for a side door for employees. She showed her badge to the guard at the interior checkpoint. He waved them past, and she followed Minister Ritt Obermeyer to the lifts. It was going to be a long day of compiling a list of suspects, and then beginning to rule them out one by one. She did not look forward to delving into this man’s personal life. Knowing the tales and tidbits reported by the press, she knew it was going to be very messy.

  Chapter Ten

  SAINT PETERSBURG

  The Kseniya

  Dawn arrived gray and thick with the promise of snow. Heinz showered and dressed quickly, heading downstairs to the dining room for a quick breakfast of boiled egg, toast, and hot coffee. It was still mostly dark outside, but the kitchen staff was busy with cooking up the morning meal. The older woman with the mole who’d served him the night before was not in the dining room. Instead, a young man of around eighteen took Heinz’s order, returning promptly.

  Only two other people sat in the small room eating. They were a young couple with heads bent together whispering low and smiling often. Honeymooners or at the very least, lovers who still found adventures in foreign countries to be exciting so long as they had each other. Heinz envied them. Not a care in the world. He looked forward to enjoying that very same feeling with Birgitta in a few short weeks.

  He finished his meal, paid the bill, and left.

  Outside, the temperature was far colder than the day before. The thick, dingy gray clouds overhead blocking out the sun hung heavy with unshed snow. Heinz pulled his overcoat tighter around his body as he retrieved his rental car from the parking garage across the street. The Kseniya did not boast its own. Once again, he found the corner convenience store where he purchased bottled water and snacks to hold him over during his vigil at the dock.

  The drive to port was slow. Traffic was heavy, and one accident along the way pushed three lanes of cars into one inching along as everyone rubbernecked to see what had happened. At the turnoff to the docks, Heinz noticed a black limo ahead of him. It pulled through the entry and drove smoothly to Warehouse 214. The large, muscular man from the day before got out of the passenger side and pushed the buttons on the alarm unlocking the bay door. Heinz kept his eyes straight ahead, using his peripheral vision as he drove past and pulled into the parking lot surrounded by chain link fencing. He backed into a spot near where he’d parked the day before, but this one offered a slightly better view of the warehouse. Several more vehicles drove past, dock workers on their way to punch in, as the limo glided inside the warehouse. Today, however, the door did not close immediately. Instead, it remained open for a full thirty minutes.

  A large truck turned onto the dock and drove straight to the warehouse where it pulled inside. It was the type of truck that would usually transport produce of some type. The side logo showed a bright yellow ear of corn with a smiling face. The Cyrillic writing meant nothing to Heinz, but he photographed it with his camera zooming in on the driver, an older man with heavy jowls and graying brown hair, and then focused on the license plate. Noting the time, he wrote it down in his notebook. As he scribbled the information, the driver hopped out and went around to the back. He yanked the lock sideways and slid the metal door up. A girl ran out, screaming for all she was worth, onto the dock.

  Joseph looked up, and saw the brawny muscled man chase her, catching her easily, and lifting her up into the air. He hauled her back inside, one hand clamped over her mouth. He glanced left and right, clearly angry, as he moved fast to get back inside the warehouse. Loud words were exchanged between muscle man and the truck driver, with the driver backing down, head bent in submission. He appeared afraid.

  Heinz wrote down the details. Young girl, approximately 15-17 years of age, long dark hair, blue dress, no shoes, hands tied. Distressed. For Heinz, this changed everything.

  The warehouse door closed and remained closed for two hours. When it once again began to open, the limousine came out first, heading for the main road. The produce truck with the bright yellow smiling corn cob came out after it, stopping as the muscled man who arrived in the limo hopped out to close the door and lock the warehouse. The driver sat in the truck waiting. Heinz knew beyond a doubt that the truck contained at least one kidnapped teenage girl, if not more. It was surely on its way to deliver its cargo to a brothel where the girl or girls would be drugged and prostituted. Turning the key in the ignition, Heinz prepared to follow them. This was the clue he’d been waiting for. This was, undoubtedly, what had happened to Marlessa Schubert. This, he told himself, was why he was here.

  He pulled out as soon as the truck was in motion, careful to hang back just enough to remain undetected. Heinz flipped on the GPS in the rental as an afterthought checking to make sure he’d remembered to input the address to the hotel. Getting lost in Saint Petersburg was not something he wanted to experience. For the next half hour, he tailed them, all along thinking hard about what, if anything, he would be able to do once the produce truck arrived at its destination. He had no weapons, no backup, and as the vehicle in front of him slowed to turn into an upscale neighborhood, Heinz knew he was running out of time.

  MAHLER STOOD NEXT TO a man of medium height. He was petite, dark of hair, with blue eyes. He wore a tailored suit in charcoal gray with pin stripes. His tie was blue silk with an antique silver tie pin reminiscent of one that her Opa Walter used to wear to church on Sundays. Walter Mahler was very particular that a man should dress well and respectfully before going into the house of God even though the other six days of the week he wore work clothes that were frequently dirty from farming. Although not nearly as robust, Rudi Oppel’s style did remind her of her Opa. That’s where the similarity ended, however. Obermeyer’s Undersecretary tried to project a quiet confidence, but it came across more as ingratiating in the manner of a woman trying to suck up. It didn’t help that his eyes held a slyness that struck Mahler as deceptive. What he had to be deceptive about, she didn’t know as she’d only met him for the first time three hours prior. Since then, he’d been helpful in providing a list of people who might wish to snuff out the Prime Minister.

  Oppel went through the appointment book reading off names of recent visitors to Obermeyer’s office. When he reached the end, he closed the ledger carefully, running his hand over the black leather binding. It did not escape Mahler’s scrutiny that in the age of computers, Oppel kept all of Herr Obermeyer’s appointments written down in what could only be categorized as a fancy notebook. On the man’s index finger was a gold signet ring with a raised star, possibly a Jewish insignia. His hand motion was graceful, effeminate. He glanced up pinning Mahler with his stare.

  “And now, I suppose, we can begin with the juicier list.”

  She waited patiently; pen poised over her own, far cheaper notebook. “I’m ready.”

  Oppel smirked before taking a seat behind his desk. “His paramours may surprise you, Detective, and public knowledge of them could end his career. I need to know that you will protect the information I give you, as it has been my job to help the Prime Minister to maintain absolute discretion.”

  Mahler swallowed down a laugh. The man was odious, and tabloids had already had a field day with his supposed discreet affairs, but here sat his assistant, more concerned about appearances than preventi
ng murder. “You have my word,” she said.

  Oppel held her gaze a moment longer, and then sat back. “Most of the minister’s dates come from an agency,” he began. “They are paid escorts that he sees once or twice before moving on to the next. Most of those I would discard out of hand since no relationship ever develops beyond the night.”

  “I will need the name of this agency,” Mahler interrupted.

  “And I will provide it, but only after you promise not to cause a problem there. This particular agency doesn’t advertise to the public. Their client list is top secret. Discretion is everything for both the employees and the clientele. I promise you they operate completely within the law.” Oppel watched Mahler, pinning her where she sat with his blue stare.

  She gave as good as got, not blinking as she showed with minimal emotion that she was losing patience with his insistence on promises. It was her hardened detective look. “Herr Oppel, the name of the agency, bitte.”

  Silence stretched out for fifteen excruciating seconds.

  “Alright. It’s the Midnight Belle Agency. I trust we understand each other?” He raised a manicured eyebrow.

  Mahler was struck again by his effeminate mannerisms which conflicted with the passive-aggressiveness he was displaying now. Of course, she could simply pinpoint his behavior as bitchy, but that might be too easy, and a gross underestimation. She didn’t like to make those types of generalizations. Instead, she made a mental note, filing it away to revisit later.

  “Clever. And an address, please.” He rattled off the address, warning her at the same time that without a recommendation from a person in the inner circle, no one there would speak with her.

  “I will, of course, be pleased to accompany you, and make an introduction.” A self-congratulatory smile spread across his rather full lips.

  Mahler counted to ten in the privacy of her own head, and then said, “Kind of you, Herr Oppel. Now, who else shall we add to this growing list?”

  The man sat forward. “Well, there really is only one other I can think of.”

  “Yes?”

  “Vera Wolf.” He let the name hang upon the empty space between them.

  Mahler knew the name. Wolf had been in the news often lately. Within the Socialist Democratic Party of Germany were many activist groups. The most vocal of these recently was the Women’s Socialist Alliance headed by none other than Vera Wolf, an accomplished prosecutor and defender of women’s rights, and very popular throughout Germany. Everything that she stood for was directly opposite that of the Minister of the Interior whose policies were conservative. This was very interesting.

  “Are you telling me that Obermeyer and Vera Wolf are having an affair?”

  Oppel actually grinned. “Had. It has been over for the past three months, but yes. Politics do, indeed, make strange bedfellows.”

  There was something in his eyes. To Mahler, it almost seemed like glee, as if the fact that the minister bedding the head of an opposition party leader pleased him greatly. Why, she couldn’t fathom, but she made yet another mental checkmark.

  “And why did the affair end, do you know?”

  “The same reason all affairs end, Detective. She wanted more.”

  This time, Mahler couldn’t prevent the dry laugh from bursting forth. “You’re saying she wanted to marry the minister and that he refused?” Somehow, the idea that Vera Wolf would even condescend to date the man was laughable, but people could often be surprising when the laws of attraction were at work.

  “Why laugh? Isn’t that what all women want? Always more? Always a legal contract to bind themselves to a man’s fortune?” The slyness entered his eyes again. “You’re marrying soon, aren’t you, Detective? Your partner, I heard. You would know better than myself what it is women are after.”

  His snide insult did not go unnoticed, but Mahler was more interested in how he knew anything at all about her personal life.

  “I’d hardly call marrying Joseph an opportunity to hitch my wagon to his star. We are both adults, both equal, but that is neither here nor there. We’re discussing your boss.”

  “Interesting that you’d say you’re equals. Everyone in Berlin knows the reputation of Kommissar Heinz, but until recently, I’d never heard of you.” He stood.

  Mahler closed her notebook and joined him. “And why would you hear about me, Herr Oppel? Unless, of course, you’re up to no good?” She let her words hang between them, and then, “I have a list to begin working on. I trust you will set up that introduction expeditiously.”

  His eyes narrowed briefly before his face relaxed, and the undersecretary returned. “Of course. Give me an hour. I have to remind the minister of his afternoon appointments and tie up a few loose ends.”

  “Of course.” Mahler watched him as he picked up the black leather appointment book, tucked it against his side, and sauntered off to the minister’s office. She walked out into the hallway just outside the door and pulled out her mobile. Names needed to be run through the police database. She needed rundowns on everyone so she could begin ruling people out. She also wanted as much information on Vera Wolf as she could garner. It really did seem implausible that Wolf and Obermeyer would be a couple no matter how briefly, but Oppel seemed sure of his information, and he obviously wanted to direct her attention to the woman. All of this had her wheels spinning, and she spent the next hour doing what she did best, running background checks, collecting all the details, and sifting through each systematically.

  Chapter Eleven

  HEINZ WAS IMPRESSED. He’d never imagined the upscale neighborhoods of Russia before. It wasn’t a thought that entered his head, ever, but now, he was seeing firsthand how the upper echelon of Russian society lived. Every house he passed was a mansion made of hand-carved stone and gold. Compared to the region where his hotel was located, this was an entirely different world. Ahead, the produce truck turned into a long driveway. It came to a stop at a security gate that stretched around the property. Beside the gate was a concrete gray guardhouse. A large man with a blond crew cut stepped out. He wore a tailored black suit and dark sunglasses. The man approached the driver. There was a brief exchange, and then he reached up to touch his ear. That’s when Heinz noticed the earpiece the man wore. He nodded absently, and the gate began to roll back on its rail allowing the truck to pass through. The driveway continued up, winding back to a large three-story house partially obscured by tall trees. The blond crew cut stood in the driveway until the gate closed once again, locking into place. He re-entered the gatehouse, and stood at attention, waiting. This was no ordinary guard.

  Heinz noted all of this as he slowly drove by, continuing down the long, residential street until he came to a crossroad. It was there that he turned right, drove approximately three houses down, and pulled over. He wrote down the address gleaned from the front of the gate, inputting it into the car’s GPS. He then pulled out his mobile and searched the address in Earth Maps on Yandex. It took a long time to pull up on screen. “I miss Google already,” he said.

  Finally, the site opened, showing him a street view of the house. From there, he was able to see the front and backside satellite images and determine the acreage it sat upon. There was approximately four acres of land, and all of it was surrounded by the wrought-iron fencing. It was possible the fence was electrified, but he hadn’t seen any posted warning signs, and the only way to know for sure was to touch it, which wasn’t smart, or throw something against it, which would alert security. There had to be a way in, but in broad daylight, he would not be able to recon the area. He’d need to wait until nightfall, and if he was truly going to do this, he’d need to procure a firearm. Heinz checked his watch. It was noon. He had five and half hours to sniff out a criminal arms dealer, convince him to sell a gun to a complete stranger, who was not Russian, and could not, if need be, properly defend himself should it all go south. Great.

  He took the next street over to go back out to the road on which he came in. From there, Heinz heade
d back towards the docks. Not far from the busy, industrial Baltic was a commercial road upon which were at least three pubs. None of them looked particularly welcoming. He decided to begin with the least welcoming hoping to hit a home run on his first try. He mentally prepared himself as he parked and got out. Shrugging into his overcoat, he worked out his angle; a lover’s quarrel. He would play the part of the cuckold whose wife had run off with the Russian playboy that visited his faux hometown of Salzburg. Russian men were known for their machismo and would respect a man trying to bring his own wife home, and reclaim his honor, if nothing else. There would be few questions...he hoped.

  Inside, smoke filled the small room creating a blue haze that stung Heinz’s eyes, and filled his lungs. He’d kicked the habit a couple of years back and hadn’t really noticed until now how badly it stunk. Still, there was something satisfying about it, and with each breath he drew, that region of his brain responsible for his addiction began to unfurl, expressing its pleasure. By the time he reached the bar, he desperately wanted a cigarette. It was like putting rows of white powder before a cocaine addict. As his craving increased, his irritability grew. It made him edgy, and there was only one thing to do now, use it to his advantage and get the hell out as quickly as possible.

  A short, barrel-chested man with a shaggy beard stood behind the bar. He had the worn look of a person who’d had to work hard all his life with very little reward. His stained white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he sported a faded tattoo of a sleeping infant laying on a bed of white roses on his right forearm. The Russian equivalent of Rest in Peace was written in formal script above the child’s head. It was telling. The man had lost a child. Heinz felt his pain, and instantly determined that if anyone would understand a gentleman’s need to keep his family together, this bartender would. His cover story just acquired another layer, children waiting back home for their wayward mother swept off her feet by a smooth-talking Russian playboy. It had to work. He had no other alternatives at this point.