They walked silently up the dark lane. The silence was interrupted only by the howling of the wind and rattling of the dead leaves still clinging to a few of the otherwise bare branches in the trees. It was an unsettling quiet, more so because both knew the consequences of what they were about to do, the crime they would be committing. Two police officers were about to break into the home of a dead man.
“There,” Faust whispered, pointing.
Heinz looked at the first-floor window. It was located near the back of the house, facing the woods. Up close, it looked to be the window of a small study or reading room.
“Is it unlocked?” Faust asked.
Heinz gave it a tug, but it did not give.
“Let’s look around back.” Both tip-toed through the dead grass. It was overgrown and crunched beneath their feet, sounding louder in their ears than necessary.
“There’s a back door,” Heinz noted. He kept to the wall in the shadows. “Think you can pick the lock?”
Faust pulled out his tools. “I guess we’re going to find out.” He unrolled the cloth and chose first one of the skeleton keys. Slipping it into the slot, he gave the doorknob a turn. Nothing. It remained locked in place.
“Here, try this one.” Heinz handed him the next of three keys. Faust tried them one by one, none of which worked.
“It would’ve been too easy, I suppose,” Faust mumbled. “Hand me the small pick and the credit card.”
Heinz complied, taking the last key, and switching it out for the requested items. “Good luck.”
Faust looked over his shoulder at Joseph, one eyebrow raised.
“What?” Heinz asked. “What am I supposed to say? Break a leg?”
A soft snort answered him. “Next thing you’ll be breaking out your pom poms and performing a cheer.”
“Fuck off and hurry up. It’s damned cold out here.” Heinz looked around them, making sure they were still alone, still unnoticed.
“Stop complaining, woman.” Faust admonished, working the pick inside the lock and jimmying the credit card into the minuscule space between the door and the jamb. A loud click popped in the night air. Faust smiled as Joseph tensed, freezing in place. He glanced around again as Faust slowly pulled the door open.
Heinz breathed a sigh of relief. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”
Faust chuckled low, rising to his feet and slipping inside. “You dared doubt?”
Joseph followed, closing the door behind them. “Never again. Your criminal status is now sealed and forever legend as far as I’m concerned.”
The silence inside the house engulfed them. A faint mustiness greeted their noses. The air inside had grown stale with no one there to stir it up with his comings and goings. The police had been in briefly the day before, moving items around and leaving cabinets and closets open. They would return in the oncoming weeks to tear the place apart as more of Meyer’s involvement in bringing in a biological weapon was revealed. But tonight, it was just Herman and Joseph, two pawns in a deadly ongoing game of war served up cold.
“I’ll take the first floor. You take the second.” Faust pointed to the staircase. Heinz nodded, and made his way up by the dim light filtering in through the window shades.
Herman walked through the kitchen, not quite knowing what he was looking for. He checked the refrigerator and the freezer. Other than a few food items, he found nothing of import. Next, he entered the study. This was the room with the window facing the woods. It was, indeed, a study. It contained a solid oak desk with a leather chair the rolled around on squeaky wheels. Another tufted chair sat opposite, and a bookshelf lined one wall filled with hardback and paperback books. Some were books on banking law, both domestic and international, while others were simply old western mystery novels. It seemed that Gunter Meyer was a fan of cowboy tales.
On top of the desk sat a calendar with a date circled. It was the day he pulled Meyer over. A reminder, no doubt, of his sister’s arrival, but how did she get word to him? How did Meyer know when and where to be waiting for her? Figuring there had to be some kind of letter, Faust began looking through the drawers. Other than personal tax papers and stationary there was nothing of note.
Joseph came back down, carrying a piece of paper. “I found this in his nightstand.” He handed it over.
Faust looked at it. It was a dry-cleaning receipt. “What about it?” He looked at his friend.
Heinz pointed at the top of the ticket. “Look at the address. It’s located near the Checkpoint. This is the dry cleaner most of the allied soldiers use.” Faust raised a questioning brow. Heinz blew out a breath. “Look on the back.”
Herman flipped it over. On the backside, a number was scrawled in pencil.
“The location can’t be a coincidence. What would a Jewish banker in Steglitz need with a dry cleaner so close to the Checkpoint? We should call it, see who it belongs to.”
Faust folded the receipt. “No need.” He bit his lip.
“What? Why not?”
“Because I already know who it belongs to.” Faust closed the desk drawer and stood.
“Who?” Heinz waited, one eyebrow raised.
Herman looked his friend in the eye. “To Captain Rheinhardt.” He buttoned his coat, preparing to leave. “It’s his pager number, the one we all use to contact him when necessary. The question is, what the hell was Meyer doing with it?”
“Holy hell. Now what?” Heinz followed Faust as he exited the study, making his way to the back door.
“Now, we search Rheinhardt’s flat.”
The two left, locking the back door behind them, and retracing their steps back to the car. Heinz cruised out of the neighborhood slowly, not even turning on the headlights until they cleared the block. They passed rows of parked cars tucked in for the night. Only one woke, pulling out, and merging into the darkness behind them.
CAPTAIN ROLF RHEINHARDT lived in an apartment building on the outskirts of the Tiergarten district. Faust stopped once along the way to answer a page from Major Beck. Heinz kept the motor running as Herman ducked into a phone booth, dropping a coin into the slot, and dialing the number flashing on his device.
“Faust here.”
“Officer,” said Beck, “I have some information for you, something of note.”
“On Rheinhardt?”
“Yes.”
“What have you found?” Faust huddled inside the booth, his eyes sweeping the block ahead. Several cars passed, at least four. As they drove on or turned off, he relaxed.
“He was a defector.”
This caught Faust by surprise. “What do you mean?”
Beck continued. “Rheinhardt came over to West Berlin from the Eastern Bloc with his family when he was six years old. His mother and father brought their two children across during a brief moment when Jews were practically being expelled by the communists. His maternal grandfather, Sergei Davidovich, served in the Soviet military. He’s now retired, and still living in East Berlin.”
“I had no idea.” Faust chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking. “Is that it?”
“No.” Beck paused. “Davidovich wasn’t just any soldier. He was up in rank; a Colonel-general. His name is flagged in our database, sir.”
“Flagged? Spit it out, Major. It’s damned cold out here.”
Beck cleared his throat. “The Colonel-general retired not only from the military, but as the ranking officer in charge of Obolensk. You understand the significance?” The Major waited as his words sunk in.
“Scheisse!” Faust’s mind raced. “But you said he’s retired. Even if all the dots connect, how does that involve the captain?”
Beck coughed. “No career military man is ever fully retired, Officer Faust. We all remain in the game somehow,” the mercenary stated the obvious.
Faust grunted. “I see your point. Is there anything else?”
“Not at this time. I’ll keep digging.”
“Do that.” Faust started to hang up, and then paused. “Ma
jor Beck?”
“Yes?”
“Good work. Thank you.” Faust hung up. The trek back to the police cruiser was a quiet one. Herman was deep in thought when a car passed as he was about to climb into the driver’s seat. Heinz interrupted his solitude.
“I’m pretty sure that car has passed by here twice already.” He watched as it continued slowly down the street.
“What?” Herman glanced up, eyeing the dark BMW sedan.
“It’s late, and there’s not much traffic out,” Heinz stated. “That car has passed by now for the third time. We’re being followed, Herman.”
“Goddammit, by who?” Faust slammed his door shut. “Pull out and go straight. Let’s see what’s what.”
Heinz maneuvered over to the right, going straight. The car turned right ahead of them. As they passed, Faust noted the license plate. They drove down two more city blocks, and just as they passed the third side street, headlights pulled out behind them. Herman pulled down the visor and used the mirror to look back at the front of the car, but the headlights blinded his vision. He couldn’t make out the front plate.
“Damn. Turn left up here,” he pointed.
Heinz made the left.
The car behind them turned left too.
“Alright, Joseph, let’s see how much you learned in evading tails back in the academy.” Faust slipped the seat belt across his lap and fastened it.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Joseph punched the gas pedal down, speeding up. The car behind them increased its speed. Heinz made a quick right followed by a hard left. He made it one block down turning right again before breaking and sliding into a back alley. He shut off the engine and killed the lights. In less than thirty seconds, the other vehicle flew past them, not noticing a parked car in a side alley among several others. They could hear the breaks squealing as the tires slid on the asphalt, and then the sound of the engine speeding up again, moving away quickly. Heinz and Faust breathed a sigh of relief.
“Who do you think it was?” Heinz looked at Herman.
“I don’t know at this point. After what Beck just told me, I’m almost afraid to speculate.” He scratched his head. “It’s either the Americans or the bastard who called me last night. And now I’m convinced that whoever that is, is connected directly to the Soviets.”
“Why do you say that?”
Faust relayed the information from Beck. At the end of the telling, Heinz whistled.
“Damn, what the hell is going on?”
“Exactly. Jesus, Joseph,” Faust muttered, “my job is supposed to be traffic violations and drunks, not international espionage.”
Heinz swallowed, and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “And yet, here we are.”
“And yet, here we are,” Herman repeated. “Let’s get out of here. Head east. I want to go through Rheinhardt’s place quickly. It will be dawn soon, and I don’t want to get caught in the light of day breaking and entering.”
“What are we looking for?” Joseph cranked the engine, putting the car in gear.
“Any clue as to his whereabouts. We need to find him fast. There’s no time to waste. Every hour that passes puts more lives in danger.”
Chapter Eight
THE METRO HAUS APARTMENT building stood six floors high in a middleclass neighborhood of the Tiergarten. It was exactly what one would expect a police captain’s salary to afford. That appearance ended once Faust and Heinz got inside. After climbing the stairs to the fifth floor, they made their way down the hall to door number 511. It was a corner flat, shaped oddly in a triangular fashion, but it had a terrace that wrapped from one side around to the other. The lock was easy to pick, or at least, it seemed easier after Faust’s last effort. He feared he might be getting rather good at being a criminal.
“No lights,” he told Heinz, placing his hand over the wall switch as they stepped into the darkness within.
“I know that, Herman.” Joseph pulled a small pen light out of his pocket and used it to find their way forward in the living room.
The interior was decorated with expensive furnishings and plush carpets. Nothing inside from the wall hangings to the statuettes cost less than eighteen months’ worth of Faust’s own pay. It was apparent that Rheinhardt either had a trust fund he hadn’t disclosed, or he was involved in illegal enterprises which afforded him the ability to indulge his champagne tastes.
“I’ll take the bedrooms. See if you can find anything out here.” Faust directed Joseph towards the small library off the living room as he turned to make his own way down the short hall to the back of the flat.
There were two bedrooms. The first one appeared to be a guest room. Faust made quick work of rummaging through the wardrobe and nightstands. Other than a few family photo albums and spare clothing, there was nothing of consequence. The master suite contained a queen-sized four poster bed with royal blue velvet bed curtains. A gold and royal blue duvet covered the bed which was decorated with several matching pillows. The furniture looked antique with brass knobs on the drawers. Herman began with the wardrobe closet, carefully going through each clothing item hanging, checking pockets. He moved down to the shoes on the shelf, and then started in on the drawers below. Nothing. He moved on to the nightstands on both sides of the bed. He found the usual items one would expect, but nothing of interest. A small desk sat in the corner by the window. If Rheinhardt kept anything in the apartment, it would probably be here.
The oak desk stood upon four carved, curved legs. It had two drawers beneath the surface leaving the rest of the desk open. Inside the first drawer was a small box of stationary, some pens, envelopes, and a pack of batteries. The second drawer was locked. Faust tugged on it, and then pulled out his handy lock picking tools. He found the smallest pick in the group and inserted it into the keyhole. After jimmying it around, it gave with a click. He slid the drawer open. This time, he found something. A red leather-bound personal journal occupied the small space. He lifted it out and opened it. After the first two pages, Herman knew he’d found the incriminating evidence of a double agent. The sinking feeling in his gut made him swallow hard. He skipped ahead to the current week finding the last two entries. He tilted the pages toward the moonlight coming in from the window in order to better read the words. In Rheinhardt’s familiar scrawl was information detailing a public event scheduled earlier in the day that had made the news. Faust recalled hearing a bit of the broadcast while at the hospital. The American ambassador, Peter Holmstead, and his family had attended a ceremony honoring both German and U.S. troops for the holidays. This wasn’t unusual or alarming, until he turned the page. Tucked into the binding was a newspaper clipping from the local Berlin Zeitung dated two days ago. The author had interviewed the American ambassador for the piece. Highlighted in bright yellow was Holmstead’s own words. “We’re looking forward to spending the week with my wife’s family back home in D.C. for the holidays. We’ll attend the ceremony on Wednesday, and then leave Thursday afternoon. It will be good to see everyone.”
Written under the current date was a time and place; 1300 hours, U.S. Embassy. It was circled in red.
“Anything?” Joseph poked his head into the room.
“Yes. Everything.” Faust stood, pocketing the journal. He knew he’d need it later as evidence.
“What do you mean?” Heinz stepped into the room.
“It means I know where Rheinhardt is going to be in less than twelve hours. We don’t have much time, Joseph. He’s targeting the American ambassador and his family. We need help. It’s time to contact the LKA.”
BY 0700, FAUST HAD met with Colonel von Friedrich, Major Beck, and the head of the LKA, Lars Muller.
“Gentlemen, I don’t think I need to tell you how serious this is,” the Colonel stated. He paced the length of the makeshift war room Major Beck had set up inside the hospital room on the fifth floor.
Muller’s nostrils flared. “Why the hell didn’t you contact my office earlier?” He nailed Faust with a glare. �
��What made you think you could keep this to yourself this long?”
Faust squirmed in his seat but straightened his spine. “My apologies, Herr Direktor, but in light of the threat to my family, and the events of the last forty-eight hours, I didn’t know who I could trust.”
Muller grunted. “Heads are going to roll!” He pointed at a thin, younger man in the corner, the Assistant Direktor, Victor Platz. “You get me Captain Schneider on the line as soon as he reports in to work.” The man nodded. The Direktor eyed the Colonel. “How the hell did you get dragged into this, Colonel? You’re retired.”
“My niece and grandniece are under threat. And you know better, Lars, we never really take off the uniform. I won’t apologize. I’m protecting my own. The rest is up to you. I won’t interfere in that, but I’m at your disposal should you need me, and so are my men.”
Muller raked a hand through his thinning gray hair. “The goddamn CIA,” he muttered. “When those two stiffs came to my office last week, all they said was that they had intercepted ‘chatter’ about a threat surrounding the embassy. We granted permission for them to investigate, but only in direct cooperation with the Landeskriminalamt, not on their own. Goddamned American cowboys!”
“Did you really expect them to be transparent, Lars?” Von Friedrich asked. “You know better than that. Spooks operate in the dark. Always have, always will. They feed you just enough to gain your trust, and then they screw you.”
“Yes, but now we have intelligence that they don’t.” Muller grinned sardonically.
“And you can thank my nephew-in-law for that,” the Colonel stated pointedly.
Muller’s grin froze, and then receded. He looked at Faust and his partner in crime, Officer Joseph Heinz, sitting quietly at the table. “Yes, it seems I do owe you a thank you, Officer Faust. It doesn’t excuse your activities. You’ve acted with insubordination, conducting an unsanctioned investigation while not even officially on duty.”
The Checkpoint, Berlin Detective Series Box Set Page 78