Switching to another computer, one set up specifically to hack into government sites, she typed a series of digits, then keyed in the Captain’s name and hit ENTER. The screen changed, and then locked. She retyped the digital skeleton key and hit ENTER once again. A warning popped up, blinking red.
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. FSB ENCRYPTION HACK ATTEMPT. A new window opened, running a trace program. It wasn’t hers.
“Shit!” Lana pulled the plug on the computer, unplugged the CPU, and carried it out to her car, stashing it in the trunk. She ran back in, shoved a CD in the backup drive of her mainframe, ran the program, transferring all data to the disc, and when she popped it out, keyed in a system-wide delete. Once she pushed ENTER, all data would be wiped, but this was an emergency. Somehow, Sokolov’s personnel file had set off the alarm in the backdoor program she used to access police records. The FSB would be showing up on her doorstep, and she needed to make sure they found nothing incriminating. She hit ENTER. Her entire network of connections would be gone within thirty seconds.
She used that time to turn off the lights, lock up, and leave. She would need to swing by her home and pick up her son. It wasn’t safe right now. The FSB would use him to get to her, and she couldn’t have that.
“Fuck!” She drove fast out of the parking lot, speeding down the road. “Dammit, Martin Lintz, you better be worth it!”
IT WAS SUNDOWN BY THE time Lana Karakova arrived at the safe house. Heinz had already awakened and gone in search of something to eat. He found bread, cheese, and tomatoes, so made himself a sandwich. There was also coffee. He was standing at the stove heating the water in the old percolator when he heard a car approaching. Headlights filtered through the slats in the kitchen blinds. He stepped out of sight, eyeing the vehicle cautiously from the side. Two people emerged. One was a young man who appeared to be in his teens. He had short, dark blond hair that stood up in the back like alfalfa sprouts. He swung a backpack over his slumped shoulders. He looked angry. The other was Lana Karakova. The expression on her face alarmed him.
Heinz walked to the front door, opening it wide. “What’s going on?”
“Who’s this loser?” the young man asked, addressing Lana.
Heinz looked to her for translation. None was offered, but she responded back to the boy in her native language.
“This is Herr Lintz. I am helping him. Behave. I’ve already told you. This is no joke, Alexei!” To Heinz, she made introductions, switching to German. “Herr Lintz, this is my son, Alexei.”
Heinz nodded at the boy who walked past him heading towards the kitchen. He watched the boy go, and then turned to Lana. “What’s going on? Why would you bring him here?”
She stepped up onto the porch, looking him in the eye. “Something happened. We might need to leave here. Step inside,” she brushed past him in the narrow doorway, “and I’ll explain.”
Heinz felt her pass, like an electric current humming. He shook off the feeling and tried to ignore the lingering scent of her perfume. There were obviously more pressing matters than his traitorous libido. He swept his gaze around the darkening yard one last time, and then closed the door, locking it.
Inside the kitchen, Alexei sat at the table with earbuds in his ears, music cranked up loud on his Mp3 player. Lana glanced at the boy, and then tilted her head indicating the living room. She walked ahead, and Heinz followed.
“So what happened?” he asked as they entered the larger room.
Lana stopped, turning to face him. “I tripped an FSB alarm.”
Heinz’s eyes narrowed. “What, exactly, do you mean? Tripped how?”
She wrung her hands. “I spent the afternoon researching Brezhnev, and I finally found your bulldog. He’s police Captain Zakhar Sokolov, by the way.”
“A Captain? He’s senior—”
“Yes, he’s up there, which means he has quite a bit of pull. Still, his record shouldn’t be classified. I’ve searched hundreds of police personnel records before today, and never once have I run into one that was FSB classified encrypted.”
Heinz was still trying to put the pieces together. “Why would the FSB have this Captain’s record classified? Do you think they’re investigating him?”
Lana paced. “More than likely. It would be the only explanation. Still, triggering that alarm leads them to me, eventually. They’ll back trace. It will take a while. I have several routers in place that I go through, but with their manpower, they’ll find me. Russians are very adept at hacking, Martin. I’ve wiped my main server and brought the CPU from my other computer with me. That’s why I brought Alexei here. I have to protect him.” She stopped pacing and sat on the dark brown sofa.
Heinz noted the anxiety in her amber eyes. His own anxiety inched ten notches higher. The last thing he wanted to do was put her in danger. That’s why he wanted to leave earlier. Continue on his own. Now it was too late. She was involved, and he had no idea how to protect her from her own people. He walked across the short distance and sat down next to her, maintaining some personal space. He rubbed his hands together, thinking. “So now what? Is there any way they can trace you here?”
“This house is in a client’s name, but I can’t be certain they wouldn’t pinpoint the connection.”
“So we might have at least twenty-four hours?” He looked at her.
“Perhaps.” She turned. “I need to tell you what I found.” Lana shared the information she’d uncovered highlighting Brezhnev’s criminal career, his rise in the Bratva, and his newfound status as a community leader along with his connections to the military, the police, and more.
Heinz listened. His mind processed the information even as he silently wished Mahler were there with her calm, cool approach, and her manic notetaking. He’d come to rely upon her organized way of laying out the details. He was more of a ‘go with your gut’ kind of guy. It was one of the reasons they worked so well together. In that moment, he knew he missed her terribly. She was truly his other half.
“So, we know this Sokolov works for the Butcher. We know the FSB has their eye on Sokolov. We also now know that Brezhnev sometimes uses the police to handle his dirty work like he did with me. This means Sokolov knows full well what Brezhnev is up to inside that house, and he helps protect that bastard even as young girls are being kidnapped, raped, and sold. It’s even possible this disgraceful fuck has seen Marlessa. And even if he doesn’t have that information, he has access to it.” Heinz’s eyebrows came together as anger took over his features. “How any officer of the law, in any country, can condone such is beyond me. That piece of shit has children of his own from what you’re telling me, and yet he lets this go on?” He looked at Lana.
“You have to remember; he may not be helping Brezhnev voluntarily. The man is a killer, Martin. He threatens and bullies to get what he wants. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“I’m not.” He steepled his fingers, pressing them to his chin. As he sat, elbows leaning on hi on knees, he grew more determined. “We need to have a word with Sokolov.”
“No, Martin!” She sat forward.
“Then I need to. Do you have his address? Tell me you have it!” He begged with his eyes.
Lana saw the raw appeal in them, and wanted to resist, but his was a soul in torment, one that would not rest until he found his answers. She knew this, but it still pained her heart. “I don’t have it.”
Heinz’s face fell.
Lana watched, and against her better judgement, said, “But I can get it.” Her softly spoken words were filled with sadness.
Heinz felt the weight of them even as triumph filled him. He reached out, covering her hand with his, and looking into her amber eyes. “Thank you.”
Chapter Nineteen
THE DAY WAS NEARLY over. One more stop carting Obermeyer around, and Mahler would then be free for the evening to continue her investigation. She hadn’t heard back from Jensen on the IP address yet, but she wanted to run more background che
cks on the sex workers she’d interviewed. She also wanted to look into the tax records of Madame Denouve’s business. If even one item was off or missing, it would provide enough reasonable doubt to open an official investigation, which, considering the nature of the business, might also grease the wheels for a search and seizure warrant. If she could find a pathway forward in that direction, she’d be able to keep her promise to Salome, and any others who were being kept there against their will.
The last stop was a ribbon cutting ceremony at the new, improved park in Obermeyer’s home district. Residents had come together to raise funds for landscaping, a jogging trail, a playground for the children, a dog run, and thirty newly planted trees. The local government had promised to match what was raised, and the community effort proved worth every penny. Mahler looked around as she followed Obermeyer from the car to the podium set up in front of the gleaming white, centrally located gazebo. A bright, red ribbon was tied around the structure, and ten other government and community leaders, including the mayor, stood ready as the press vied for position from which to take their pictures. A large crowd was assembled, filled with smiling faces. Some brought their kids; others had their pets in tow on leashes. A vendor was passing out balloons while an Oompah Band in full lederhosen played a lively polka. It was a festive occasion set to commence at exactly 4:00 p.m.
“Do you think you can stand back over there?” Obermeyer looked at Mahler, pointing over her shoulder to the far right of the podium. “I don’t need police protection showing up in the press from this event. It makes people nervous,” he said.
Or makes your voters nervous, she thought. “It’s not an optimal position.” Mahler scanned the area. The best spot would be to position herself on the gazebo. It would give her a vantage point, but to protect the budget-cutting bastard, she’d really need to be out in front of him. There was a sea of journalists between the community leaders and the crowd. The press moved about freely, but the crowd was being contained behind a green velvet rope. Several security guards were stationed on either end. The next best protective position was there. “I’ll stand right there,” she pointed to the center, “in front of the cordoned off area. That puts me in the best place to keep an eye out without being in front of any cameras.” I have no desire to be connected to you, either, Herr Minister.
“I doubt we need to worry about anything here, Detective. These are my people. They love me.” Obermeyer smirked, patting Mahler on the shoulder in a condescending manner.
She breathed slowly, fighting the urge to grab his hand and twist it painfully up behind his back. “I’ll be over there.” Mahler walked through the journalists, and positioned herself in front of the rope, dead center. Her short stature wouldn’t cause any problems for those watching behind her.
Birgitta cast her eyes about. Five minutes to go. In front of her, a slender young man wearing a blue jacket and black baseball hat positioned himself, shouldering a DSLR camera. He was taller than her, and blocked her view of the podium. Mahler shifted right, shooting an annoyed glare in his direction. It went unnoticed as the camera prevented him from seeing her.
The mayor stepped to the podium, lifting his hands to get the crowd’s attention. The band ceased playing, and when everyone quieted down, he began to speak.
Mahler scanned the crowd, looking left and right. The mayor droned on about community pride, family, and German values. She shifted further right, turning slowly, skimming the sea of faces.
“And now, let me introduce to you one of our own, the Minister of the Interior, Ritt Obermeyer!” The mayor’s voice was drowned out by the swelling applause from the crowd.
Obermeyer shook the mayor’s hand and took his place at the podium. Mahler glanced in his direction, checking the order of those surrounding him. The Minister was smiling, waving, and taking it in. He raised both hands to gain control, preparing to speak. To her left, the tall, slim man with the heavy DSLR camera moved closer, pushing through two other photographers who were snapping pictures. He stopped, aiming the camera. Obermeyer began speaking. A shot rang out, slicing through the air, startling the birds from the trees. The Minister was thrown backwards, and the crowd panicked, erupting in screams.
Mahler pulled her gun, looking left and right, searching for the shooter. When the tall, slim man dropped the camera and ran, she thought nothing of it until she glanced down. The lens of the camera was smoking. She looked to the podium and saw that the mayor and community leaders were at Obermeyer’s side.
“Call an ambulance!” she shouted. “I’m going after him!” Mahler took off, running after the man. She saw him ahead, slipping between the cars in the lot, quickly moving through and racing for the street. If he made it, she’d lose him. There were too many side roads he could duck down on the other side.
From the distance, the blaring of sirens grew louder. Help was on the way. Mahler made it through the parking lot, and was catching up when a bus drove past, cutting off her line of sight. She ricocheted left, running behind it. Throwing up her hand at the oncoming traffic, she dashed out into the road. On the other side, there was no sign of him. She looked left, and then ran right. The cross streets for the next three blocks were void of anyone even remotely similar. She’d lost him.
“Scheisse!” Mahler pulled out her cell phone and called dispatch. She gave them a detailed description, ordering an all-points bulletin. Several of the police cars broke off, making the rounds in the area searching for the suspect. She returned to the scene.
As she arrived at the podium, the people helping Obermeyer parted, making room. He was lying on the ground, unconscious, a gunshot wound in his chest. The mayor was beside himself, but another gentleman with dark red hair seemed to be handling the situation. He’d pulled the cloth covering off the podium and used it to staunch the bleeding.
“What’s the damage?” Mahler dropped down beside him.
The red-haired man looked up. “Not sure. The bullet hit the right side of his chest, which may be a good thing, but I have no idea how grave the injury is. Where the hell is the ambulance?” He cast his eyes around, clearly agitated.
Mahler laid her hand on top of his. “It’s on its way. You’re doing great. Keep the pressure on. You’re a hero.” She spoke calmly, attempting to soothe the man’s frazzled nerves. “I’m Detective Mahler. What’s your name?”
“Felix. Felix Kraus. I’m...I’m the parks and recreation architect. I designed the park,” he said, babbling.
“It’s beautiful. You did a great job.” She patted his back with her free hand. To their right, what was left of the crowd of gawkers parted as the emergency medical response technicians arrived.
“What happened?” One asked.
“Gunshot wound to the chest. A single bullet. Approximately twelve minutes ago. This man here applied pressure to help stop the bleeding. His name is Felix.” She spoke in even spurts.
The paramedic, a man in his early forties with short, curly blond hair, pulled out several large gauze pads, and began lifting Felix’s hand away, removing the podium cloth and replacing it with the pads with incredible speed born of experience. He spoke as he and his partner worked to stabilize the Minister.
“You’ve done a fine job, Felix. Thank you, we’ll take over now.”
Felix sat back, dazed. He appeared to be in shock. The paramedic exchanged a glance with Mahler who put her hands on Felix’s shoulders, helping the man rise.
“Come with me. We’ll need a statement from you. After all, you’ve just helped save the Minister, isn’t that right?” She looked at the paramedic who nodded.
“Precisely. A real hero.”
Mahler walked Felix towards one of the police cruisers. She called the officer over and asked him to take Felix’s statement. “And then get someone to check him over. The man is in shock.”
The medical team ran an IV, put the Minister on a gurney, and before long, had him loaded into the ambulance. As they took off for the hospital, another arrived to handle those wh
o’d been hurt in the stampede of bystanders. Someone was checking Felix’s response to light and stimuli. The police took statements and pictures. A forensics team put police tape around the area. What was once a festive occasion to open a park only a short time ago had now become a crime scene. She dialed a number. The phone rang four times.
“Levitz.”
“Captain, it’s Mahler. There was an incident,” she began.
“Is the Minister dead?” His tone was calm, but there was an edge to it.
“No, but that may change in the next hour.”
He paused, surprised. “What happened?”
Mahler gave Levitz a detailed briefing.
“Get to the hospital, Mahler. Whoever did this will try again once they realize he isn’t dead. Stay at his side. I’ll put the fear of God into the forensics unit to lift any and all information off that camera-slash-gun. If there’s a single fingerprint, we’ll get it.”
“Yes, sir.” She hung up. After giving her statement to the first officer that arrived on scene, she left, heading straight for the hospital. It was going to be a long night.
“THIS IS IT.” LANA POINTED to the stately stone mansion with modern lines, and crisply manicured hedges. Despite being mostly bare and covered in snow and ice, it was obvious that the yard was maintained on a regular basis, even in winter. Streetlights illuminated the structure in the predawn darkness, casting a somber glow. The silence surrounding them held an energy all its own, one that left them feeling on edge.
Heinz shook his head. “A police captain, and yet he lives like a celebrity by the grace of his own criminal compliance. Bastard! Has he no shame?”
Lana watched his face. “Not everyone possesses nobility of character. Not here. Corruption is widespread in the police units.”
He glanced at her. “We have our own, as well, although I haven’t seen it be as blatant as this.”
“Or maybe you just haven’t had cause to really see it.”
The Checkpoint, Berlin Detective Series Box Set Page 60