The Checkpoint, Berlin Detective Series Box Set

by Michele E. Gwynn

  She nodded, keeping her voice low and soothing. “They are, but also, they are sedatives. You need your rest. Now, just close your eyes. By the time you wake, I’ll be back.”

  “Dammit, Lana. How can I possibly trust that you don’t work for them too?” His eyes fluttered closed.

  “Sssh. You will just have to have faith, Martin Lintz.” She ran her fingertips over his scowl lines, smoothing them out. In just moments, he was sound asleep. “I know how hard it is to trust someone.” She kissed her fingers and lightly touched his cheek. “Worry not.”

  THE DINGY POLICE STATION was bustling with activity. Officers walked out, civilians walked in, and the streets crossing at the corner maintained a heavy flow of traffic. The snowfall had increased, covering the roads and sidewalks in white, fluffy flakes, masking their flaws. The pug-like policeman parked out front in a reserved spot for Police Captain.

  “Of course.” Faust pulled in across the street, watching from a safe distance.

  “A Captain. A corrupt Captain. Great.” Elsa wrote this down.

  “Not just a low-ranking officer. He is in a senior position.” Faust’s phone pinged. He picked it up off the dash, looking at the text message. “Zakhar Sokolov,” he said, reading. “Captain Zakhar Sokolov. Age fifty-three, married, three children. Earns a Captain’s pay, but lives in a four-bedroom home far above his pay grade, and all of his offspring attend private school out of the country.” He held up the mobile, turning the screen toward Kreiss. “HackTwice is marvelous. I even have his banking records, account numbers, and oh, look at this,” he scrolled down, “several official internal investigations against him...” Faust read quietly. “All dropped.” He sighed.

  “This hacker of yours operates far outside of the law.” Elsa raised an eyebrow even as she made more notes.

  “Sometimes, Kreiss, you have to tip-toe around the rules.”

  “That’s dangerous thinking, Herman. Criminals think that way.”

  “Which is how you catch them. Think like a criminal. I know it seems counterintuitive, but you’ll understand one day. The difference is the intention.”

  Elsa shook her head. “Still stinks. When you have to justify your actions, then maybe the actions are wrong.”

  Faust looked her dead in the eye. “Should we let Joseph just die out here if he isn’t dead already or are you willing to bend a few laws to save him?”

  That stopped her cold. She took a deep breath. “That’s not fair, Herman—”

  “No, it’s not. Life isn’t fair, Elsa. Criminals don’t play fair. As one of the good guys, you can’t always remain clean. You still sometimes must get down in the muck to fight. You know this already after the Ivchencko affair.” He shifted and softened his tone. “The fact that you find it distasteful is why I know you will always do what’s right. Your heart is in the right place, and your ethics will always stay true even if you find yourself in situations where you’ll need to abandon them temporarily to save a life...or just survive.”

  He gave her much to think on. Elsa chewed her lip. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be. You don’t have to apologize to me for having a backbone. It’s the one thing I truly appreciate about you.”

  She laughed. “Okay. So now what?”

  “Now, we know who he is, where he lives, and that he’s definitely on the take. We’ll avoid Sokolov for now. Punch in the next destination. We need to follow the trail. Hopefully, we’ll find our friend.”

  The third destination took them to a row of warehouses along the port. Faust drove through slowly, reading the numbers written in several languages, along the way. The GPS informed them they’d arrived at their destination. Warehouse 214. “He found the warehouse. The time stamp that came with these coordinates showed he spent several hours here on his first two days.”

  “Staking it out, I imagine,” Elsa offered.

  “Yes. But what did he find?” Faust located a parking spot not far from the front of the warehouse. The doors were open wide. Inside, he could see crates stacked nearly to the roof, three vehicles, two medium-sized produce trucks, and one black limousine. “Odd. A limo in a warehouse?” He threw a questioning eyebrow at Elsa.

  “Not what I’d expect.”

  “It’s too bad we can’t get a closer look.” Faust was regretting not bringing along binoculars.

  “I can.” Elsa opened the car door, stepping out.

  “Elsa, no! Get back in here right now!” Faust leaned over trying to grab at her jacket.

  She turned and leaned down. “Don’t worry, Herman, I’ve been handling bad men for a long time. Just give me a few minutes.”

  “But you don’t even speak the language! You’ll give yourself away.”

  She smirked. “There’s one universal language, Herr Direktor. No worries.”

  “Dammit!” Faust watched her flip her red hair back, and strut across the road, taking her time. She looked as if she were searching for something, or someone.

  As she grew closer to the open doors of Warehouse 214, a tall, muscular man wearing a dark, fitted suit walked out. His build was intimidating, but the slow smile spreading across his lips revealed he wasn’t the least bothered by the interruption.

  Faust lowered his window, focusing in, trying to hear what was said.

  “Hallo. Is this where Lukas works?” Elsa, smiling brightly, asked. She played up the confused and lost woman act. “I’m trying to find my boyfriend. Can you help me?”

  The man’s eyebrows came together. He shook his head. “What are you saying?” he asked, speaking Russian.

  Faust heard him and muttered a prayer under his breath.

  “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” She asked.

  “Nyet, sorry,” he replied, laughing. Someone inside the warehouse spoke to him. The tall man looked over his shoulder, replying, “Just some bimbo. I can handle her.”

  Elsa, clueless, continued to smile at the man. He seemed to be falling under her spell, too, approaching slowly, grinning. Elsa mimicked smoking a cigarette, and the man reached inside his coat, pulling out a pack, and handing her one.

  “Spasibo.” She put the cigarette between her lips as the man flicked his lighter, igniting the tobacco.

  “So you know a little Russian after all, Da?” He chuckled, knowing she didn’t understand him. “You’re a beauty. What are you doing out here all alone?”

  Elsa played along, replying in German, “You’re eating this up, aren’t you, big boy?” She fell back into her role. “Lukas. Have you seen Lukas?”

  The man made a face, smiling. “Lukas? No, no, Konstantin.” He laid his hand over his chest, looking down at her.

  “Oh, you are Konstantin.” Elsa touched his hand flirtatiously, then put her hand over her own chest saying, “Greta Zimmerman.” She tilted her head.

  The man’s grin grew to salacious proportions as he took her hand, kissed it, and offered a somewhat formal bow. “Konstantin Petrovich at your service, Greta Zimmerman.”

  From a distance, Faust rolled his eyes at the display. “Oh, boy.”

  “And Lukas is?” He asked.

  Elsa bit her lip in a comical display of feminine confusion as if she were trying to figure out how to communicate her next words. She glanced up, and then wrapped her arms around herself, puckering her lips in mock kisses, and said, “My boyfriend. Lukas is my boyfriend, you big, dumb, Russian!” She grinned.

  Petrovich laughed. “Oh, I see.” He took her hand again, pulling her in closer, and placing it on his chest. “You are wasting your time with this Lukas. What you need is a real man. Konstantin will take care of you, beauty.”

  Elsa turned coy, flicking the ashes off her cigarette with her free hand. She took another drag, compliant. As the wordless flirtation played out, she glanced over his shoulder at the interior. There were three more men inside; one short, balding man standing near the first produce truck with a clipboard in his hands, one brawny bald man wearing a fitted suit similar to the one Konstantin wore, and finally, the
third man who stood head and shoulders above them all. His dark gray suit complimented the salt and pepper of his short beard. He wore a black turtleneck sweater beneath completing the outfit. He was clearly the man in charge, and stood looking down at the short, balding man, speaking. The little man kept his head down, listening, and occasionally making a note.

  Petrovich snaked an arm around Elsa’s waist, pulling her in closer. She redirected her attention to the man, pushing at his chest.

  “Hey, don’t get too handsy, big boy.” She kept the smile on her face, but her eyes said no.

  Konstantin Petrovich did not like the look, and held tighter, causing Elsa to react in a way he was not expecting. She brought the high heel of her boot down on his instep. When he yelped, she brought her knee up straight into his groin. He released her immediately, clutching his jewels, bending over in pain. While this got her free, it also attracted unwanted attention.

  The tall, bearded man turned, watching the commotion, and began walking toward them. When he cleared the door, Faust saw him, and sucked in a breath.

  Elsa backed away, chastising Petrovich. “That’s not how you treat a lady, buster!”

  The bearded man reached their side, and Elsa looked up, catching sight of herself in his blue eyes.

  “My apologies for my employee’s behavior, Fraulein,” he said in perfect German.

  Elsa blinked. She now curbed her words knowing this man, at least, understood her. “Yes, well, he got a little fresh.”

  The bearded man spoke softly in his native language to Petrovich who straightened up, and without looking at her again, walked back inside the warehouse.

  “Can I help you?” The man offered.

  Elsa dropped her cigarette, crushing it under her boot. “I was simply looking for my boyfriend, Lukas.”

  The man put his hands behind his back, casually standing, regarding her. “And where does your boyfriend work?”

  “Here,” she gestured around, “but I don’t know which one.” She straightened, showing not a flicker of fear, and maintaining eye contact.

  “I see. Well, there is no Lukas working here. I’m sorry I cannot be of further assistance, Miss?” He let the question trail.

  “Zimmerman. Greta Zimmerman.”

  “Frau Zimmerman,” he bowed his head courteously, a half-smile on his lips.

  Elsa noted the look in his eyes, part suspicion, part male appreciation. She relaxed her posture slightly, preparing to leave, when he reached out a hand, palm up. She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. He bent over, offering an old-world, gentlemanly kiss to her fingertips. It was what she would expect from a character in a novel like Anna Karenina or old Russian-themed movies like Doctor Zhivago. But that is not what struck her. It was the tattoos on his knuckles, and the one on the back of his hand once he released hers. This man was Bratva. This must be what Heinz discovered.

  Carefully, she extracted herself. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for your help.” She turned to leave.

  “Aren’t you going to check the other warehouses?” he asked.

  She turned back. “No. I’ll just call him. He’ll find me. Thank you.”

  The man stood tall, smiling at her as she walked away. Elsa moved past the car where Faust was parked, continuing out of sight of Warehouse 214.

  As soon as the bearded man returned inside, Faust started the engine, pulled out, and went in search of his protégé. He found her more than a half-mile down the dock, waiting.

  “Jesus, Kreiss! Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Do you know who that man is?”

  She slipped into her seat, buckling the seatbelt. “I saw the tattoos. He’s Bratva.”

  Faust blew out a breath. “You haven’t been doing all of your homework, Kreiss. He’s not just Bratva, he’s the head of the snake. He’s the damned Butcher!”

  “What?” She blinked. “That was Vladimir Brezhnev?”

  “Yes, damn you!” Faust was angry. She’d put herself in danger unnecessarily. “Had you simply waited, we most likely would’ve seen him when they left.”

  “Holy scheisse!” she said, shaking her head. “Well, he doesn’t know who I am. I used my alias, and he’s not suspicious. You saw him. And it’s entirely possible we wouldn’t know who he was because he would’ve been inside the limo. Those windows are tinted. We would never have seen him. Now we know for certain.” She turned to Faust. “You’re welcome.”

  “Don’t be a smartass, Kreiss!” Faust counted to ten in his head. He knew part of the reason why he was so angry was his worry for her safety. After he calmed down, he turned, looking at her. “Don’t do that again, do you understand? That’s an order.” His bark had lost most of its bite.

  Elsa had heard this tone before, from Heinz during the Ivchencko affair, and from her own father when she was but a girl. She knew what it meant. “I’m sorry, Herman. I won’t do that again.” She spoke softly.

  He relaxed, clearly relieved. “So, that warehouse belongs to the Bratva. That makes sense considering the information in the ledger. And those trucks could easily carry anything.”

  “Like kidnapped girls,” Elsa added.

  “Yes, like kidnapped girls. You realize we’ll have to follow them.” He turned the car around, heading back in the direction of the warehouse. He pulled off to the side. “Can you do something with your hair? It’s like a red flag waving.”

  Elsa raised an eyebrow. She lifted her arms and began plaiting her locks into a tight French braid. When she finished, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a knitted, black skull cap, pulling it on. “Better?”

  “Much. Thank you.” He put the car in drive, and they came within sight, waiting for one of the trucks to leave. They didn’t need to wait long. Within half an hour, the limo pulled out, followed by the two produce trucks. One stayed with the limo, the other turned off in the opposite direction.

  “Which one do we follow, Herman?”

  Faust kept his eyes on the prize. “The one behind the limo. That’s what Heinz would’ve done.”

  Elsa thought about it. “Agreed. That’s exactly what Joseph would’ve done. Did do,” she corrected herself, keeping her mentor in the present tense.

  They shared a look, comforting each other in the silence. “Then let’s go.” Faust followed as soon as the one they now knew was Petrovich closed and locked the warehouse doors and climbed inside the limo.

  Chapter Eighteen

  LANA KARAKOVA STARED at her computer screen, shocked. Hours passed as she followed one lead to the next. Port entry records had led nowhere. Whatever Warehouse 214 was used for secretly was a mystery, because publicly, it was listed as a Federation Army receptacle, and therefore, its import listings were classified. She’d then searched all records of Vladimir Brezhnev online, of which there were many. News articles in the thousands came up in her keyword search for Bratva, Brezhnev. Some were gossip, some actually touted his donations to various senior housing projects, children’s educational programs, and even one to, of all things, a women’s shelter. The rest covered his criminal activities, investigations, and most often, his acquittals, but there were a handful of articles that detailed his first few incarcerations beginning with the man’s first murder, his own father, Kirill. This was the case that earned him his nickname, the one given to him by the press, and one he had wielded successfully as a weapon of fear since. The Butcher.

  At age nineteen, Vladimir Brezhnev was convicted of the brutal murder of his father, noted drug runner, Kirill Brezhnev. Already, the young man had several arrests on record for possession with intent to sell so when he was presented to the court as the defendant in a murder trial, his fate was already sealed. The crime described was cold-blooded. The nineteen-year-old viciously stabbed and dismembered his father while the man lay passed out drunk. His only explanation was that he was defending his mother, Olga, whom his father had beaten in a drunken rage, leaving the woman with a broken arm, two cracked ribs, and multiple contusions. He said
his only regret was that he had not done the deed sooner.

  In short order, he was sentenced to ten years in Matrosskaya Tishina in eastern Moscow, far from family and friends, but he made new friends inside. Unfortunately for Brezhnev, he also made enemies. Confinement was supposed to be rehabilitative, or so his judge stated at the hearing, but everyone in Russia knew that prisons were overcrowded, filled with child molesters, rapists, murderers, and worse. If one of them didn’t kill you, the rampant diseases running amok like Tuberculosis would. If a person managed to survive incarceration, he or she always came out worse than they went in. The Butcher survived, and on the outside, thrived, rising in rank amongst his new family, the Brotherhood known at the Bratva.

  As he grew older and took control, his status as a Godfather figure swelled. There were far less articles in recent years connecting him to crimes, and instead, more articles showcasing the man as some sort of upper-class citizen to be revered. Lana found this disconcerting. There were pictures of him escorting his mother to the opera, dining with upper echelon businessmen, and even several shots of him with high-ranking members of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation and two members of the FSB. She sifted through the Yandex search engine. Brezhnev was standing in the background at a ceremony celebrating the military funding of a scientific medical research institute to be headed by Doctor Boris Nikilin, a leader in biomedical engineering. He was being congratulated by Colonel-general Dmitry Vasiliev.

  “Now what is a mobster doing with a Colonel-general and a scientist?” she asked herself. She flipped through a few more images and backed up. One picture caught her eye. A pugnacious face standing out from the sea of faces. A face that, to her, reminded her of a pug, but to a man, would equate to more of a bulldog. She looked closely. Brezhnev was among five in the shot listed as magnanimous donors to the policeman’s youth soccer league. The bulldog was listed as Captain Zakhar Sokolov, head of the league’s precinct, and father to one of the boys who participated in the league each summer. “Aha!” She sat back, feeling a sense of triumph.