The Day After Tomorrow

by Allan Folsom

  So, except for the select handful at the highest level of Nazi power who knew, the immense piece of work that was der Garten simply did not exist. And now, nearly a half century later, save for Scholl and Von Holden and the remaining few others at the top of the Organization, it still didn’t.

  A door slid open in front of Von Holden and he entered a long spherical corridor inlaid with thousands of white ceramic tiles. It was now 8:10. Whatever had happened at the Hotel Borggreve, he had to put it out of his mind. Other than what he had seen, he had no information; therefore it was impossible for him to do anything other than to follow instructions as ordered.

  At the halfway point in the corridor, he stopped and faced a door made of red ceramic tiles fused to titanium. Running his fingers over a Braille-like square, he punched in a five-number code and waited until a light above the square glowed green. When it did, he punched in three more numbers. The green light went out and the door raised up from the floor. Ducking his head, he entered, and the door lowered behind him.

  It was a long moment before his eyes became accustomed to the near translucent blue-silver hue that filled the room. Even then, there was no feeling of depth or even space. It was as if he had entered a place with no existence at all. A figment of a dream.

  Directly in front of him was the vague outline of a wall. Beyond it lay Sector F, der Garten’s innermost room. Small and square, it was protected from above and below and on all four sides by walls of fifteen-inch-thick titanium steel, reinforced by ten feet of concrete that had been laminated every eighteen inches by partitions of a jelly-like substance designed to keep the inner room stable even if subjected to the direct hit of a hydrogen bomb or the rumbling of a ten-point-zero earthquake.

  “Lugo,” Von Holden said out loud, waiting as his voice-print was digitally compressed and matched to the digitally compressed original in the archives. A moment later, a panel on the wall next to him slid back and an illuminated translucent glass screen appeared. “Zehn—Sieben— Sieben—Neun—Null—Null—Neun—Null—Vier” (Ten—Seven—Seven—Nine—Zero—Zero—Nine— Zero—Four), he enunciated carefully. Three seconds later black letters materialized on the screen.

  LETZTE MITTEILUNG/LEITER DER SICHERHEIT

  IREITAG/VIERZEHN/OKTOBER !

  (Final Memorandum/Director of Security

  Friday/Fourteen/October)

  Then the letters disappeared. Leaning forward, Von Holden pressed both hands firmly on the glass, then stood back. Immediately the glass went dark and the panel slid I closed. Ten seconds elapsed while his fingerprints were scanned. Seven seconds later a matrix of dark blue dots appeared on the floor, moving toward the center of the room until they formed an exact two-foot by two-foot square.

  “Lugo,” he said again. The square faded and a platform rose out of the floor in its place. On it, cased inside a transparent housing, was a gray metallic-looking box made of a composite of fibers, including carbon, liquid-crystal polymers, and Kevlar. It measured twenty-six inches high by two feet square. It was what he had come for, and what would be presented to the select few at the Ceremony in the Charlottenburg Mausoleum minutes after Elton Lybarger had finished speaking.

  From the beginning, it had been code-named Übermorgen, “the day after tomorrow.” Both a vision and a dream, it was now, and had been, the focus of everything, the thing that would carry the Organization into the next century and beyond. And once it left der Garten, Von Holden would protect it with his life.

  118

  * * *

  GRETA STASSEL was the twenty-year-old cabdriver Von Holden had left waiting outside number 45 Behrenstrasse. She’d seen him look at her posted driver’s papers and wondered if he’d remembered her name. She doubted it. He’d seemed troubled, but he was also very sexy and she was thinking how she might help him with whatever was bothering him, when the streetlights flickered and then went out.

  She started as a figure suddenly appeared out of the darkness and tapped on her window. Then she realized who it was and that he was telling her through the glass that he had something to put in the trunk. Taking the keys from the ignition, she got out and walked to the back of the cab. Yes, he was sexy and very handsome and he seemed calm, so maybe he wasn’t troubled after all.

  “Where is it?” She smiled, unlocking the trunk.

  For a moment Von Holden lost himself, thinking he’d never seen such a beautiful smile. Then Greta saw the square white plastic carrying case sitting on the curb. The red glow of the taxi’s taillights highlighted the words stenciled on its top and sides: FRAGILE—MEDICAL INSTRUMENTS.

  “I’m sorry, that’s not it—” Von Holden said as she moved to pick it up.

  Turning back, she looked puzzled but smiled anyway. “I thought you had something you wanted put in the trunk—”

  “I do—”

  She was still smiling when the slug from the nine-millimeter Glock penetrated her skull at the very top of her nose. Von Holden caught her just as her knees began to buckle. Picking her up, he rolled her into the trunk in a fetal position. Closing the lid, he took the keys, put the case in the front seat next to him, then started the engine and drove off. A half block later he turned onto the brightly lit Friedrichstrasse. Finding the driver’s log, he fore off the top page, folded it with one hand and put it in his pocket. The clock on the dash read 8:30.

  At 8:35, Von Holden was passing through the dark expanse of the Tiergarten on Strasse 17 Juni, five minutes away from Charlottenburg. He gave no thought to the body of the cabdriver in the trunk. Killing her meant nothing. It had simply been a necessary means to an end.

  “Übermorgen,” the pinnacle of everything, sat gently swaying in the white case on the seat beside him. Its presence lightened his heart and gave him courage. Even though twice more he had radioed for his operatives and still had no response, things were changing for the better. News broadcasts from radio correspondents on the scene at the Hotel Borggreve were reporting at least three members of the German federal police killed in a shootout, explosion and fire. Two unidentified bodies had been removed, burned beyond recognition. Two other bodies had been found but had not yet been identified. A factional terrorist organization had called police claiming responsibility. Von Holden relaxed and sat back, breathing deeply at the turn of fortune. Perhaps his anxiety had been unfounded, perhaps all had gone as planned.

  A mile away, parked limousines lined Spandauer Damm in front of Charlottenburg, their drivers collected in groups, smoking and talking, collars turned up and caps pulled down against the rawness of the thickening fog.

  On the sidewalk directly across the street, Walter van Dis, a seventeen-year-old Dutch guitar player in a black leather jacket and hair to his waist, stood with a crowd of spectators watching the palace. Nothing was happening but they were watching anyway, entertained by the spectacle of a luxury that would never be theirs unless the world changed dramatically.

  The dull staccato of car doors slamming caught his attention and he changed position a little to see what was going on. Four men had just gotten out of a car and were crossing the street, heading toward Charlottenburg’s front gate. Immediately, he stepped back into the shadows, at the same time lifting a hand to his mouth.

  “Walter,” he said into a tiny microphone.

  A moment later Von Holden’s radio beeped. Eagerly he switched on, expecting to hear the voice of one of his Hotel Borggreve operatives. Instead, he came in on anxious chatter between Walter and several of the palace’s security people demanding details. What men was he talking about? Was he sure of the number? What did they look like? What direction were they coming from?

  “This is Lugo!” he said sharply. “Clear the line for Walter.”

  “Walter.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Four men. Just got out of a car and are approaching the front gate. By description one looks like the American, Osborn. Another might be McVey .”

  Von Holden swore under his breath. “Hold them at the gat
e! Under no circumstances are they to be let inside!”

  Abruptly he heard a man identify himself as Inspector Remmer of the BKA and say that he had police business inside the palace. Then he heard the familiar voice of Pappen, his security chief, defy him. This was a private affair, with private security. The police had no business there. Remmer said that he had a warrant for the arrest of Erwin Scholl. Pappen said he never heard of an Erwin Scholl, and unless Remmer had a warrant to enter the property, he would not be allowed inside.

  McVey and Osborn followed Remmer and Schneider across the cobblestone courtyard toward the palace entrance. When even the threat of the fire marshal’s closing the building didn’t dissuade them. Remmer had radioed for three backup units. Lights flashing, they’d arrived within seconds and taken the chief of security and his lieutenant into custody for interfering with a police operation.

  Racing through traffic, Von Holden pulled up in the snarl created by Remmer’s action just as Pappen and his second in command were wrestled into a police car and driven away. Getting out of the cab, he stood beside it and watched the remainder of his central gate security force step aside as the intruders reached the front door and entered the building.

  Scholl would be furious, but he’d brought it on himself. Von Holden knew at the time he should have argued longer and harder, but he hadn’t, and it made the truth all that more bitter.

  There was no doubt in his mind, none whatsoever, that had he been at the Hotel Borggreve, neither Osborn nor McVey would now be at Charlottenburg.

  119

  * * *

  WEARING A big Hollywood smile, Louis Goetz came down the grand stairway toward the men waiting at the bottom.

  “Detective McVey,” he said, immediately picking McVey out and extending his hand. “I’m Louis Goetz, Mr. Scholl’s attorney. Why don’t we go someplace we can talk.”

  Goetz led the way through a maze of hallways and into a large paneled gallery and closed the door. The room had polished gray-white marble floor and was coupled at either end by enormous fireplaces of the same material. A sidewall groaned with the weight of heavy tapestries and opposite, French doors opened to a lighted formal garden that faded quickly into the darkness beyond. Over the door they had entered hung a 1712 portrait of Sophie-Charlotte herself, the corpulent, double-chinned queen of Prussia.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Goetz gestured toward a gathering of high-backed chairs placed around a long, ornate table. “Geez, Detective, that’s a mess. What happened?” he said, looking at McVey’s facial burns.

  “I was kind of sloppy about watching what was cooking,” McVey said with a straight face and eased into one of the chairs. “Doctor suspects I’ll live.”

  Osborn sat down across from McVey, and Remmer pulled up a chair beside him. Schneider stood back near the door. They didn’t want this looking like an invasion of detectives.

  “Mr. Scholl had set time aside to see you earlier. I’m afraid he’s tied up for the rest of the evening. Right afterward he leaves for South America.” Goetz sat down at the head of the table.

  “Mr. Goetz, we’d just like to see him for a few minutes before he leaves,” McVey said.

  “That won’t be possible tonight, Detective. Maybe when he gets back to L.A.”

  “When’s that?”

  “March of next year.” Goetz smiled as if he’d just given a punch line, then held up a hand. “Hey, it’s true. I’m not trying to be a wise-ass.”

  “Then I guess we better see him now.” McVey was dead serious and Goetz knew it.

  Goetz sat back sharply. “You know who Erwin Scholl is? You know who he’s entertaining up there?” He glanced at the ceiling. “What the hell do you think, he’s gonna get up in the middle of everything and come down here to talk to you?”

  From upstairs came the sound of an orchestra playing a Strauss waltz. It reminded McVey of the radio inside the room where they found Cadoux. He looked to Remmer.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Scholl will have to change his plans,” Remmer said, dropping the Haftbefehl, the arrest warrant, on the table in front of Goetz. “He comes down and he talks to Detective McVey, or he goes to jail. Right now.”

  “What the hell is this, for Chrissake? Who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with?” Goetz was outraged. Picking up the warrant, he glanced at it, then threw it back on the table in disgust. It was written totally in German.

  “With a little cooperation maybe we can save your client a great deal of embarrassment. Maybe even keep him on his schedule.” McVey shifted in his chair. The painkiller Osborn had given him was beginning to wear off, but he didn’t want more for fear it would make him groggy and he’d lose his edge. “Why don’t you just ask him to step down here for a few minutes.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what the fuck this is all about?”

  “I’d just as soon discuss that with Mr. Scholl. Of course you have every right to be present. Or—we can all go with Detective Remmer here and have our conversation in much less historical surroundings.”

  Goetz smiled. Here was a civil servant, totally out of his league and not even in his own country, trying to play hardball with one of the world’s top power brokers. The problem was the warrant. It was something none of them had anticipated, chiefly because not one of them would have believed McVey capable of convincing a German judge to issue one. Scholl’s German lawyers would handle it as soon as they’d been notified. But that would take a little time, and McVey wasn’t about to give it. There were two ways to deal with it. Tell McVey to go fuck himself or play the mensch and ask Scholl to come down and spread a little confectionery sugar around and hope everything would ease over long enough to get the Kraut lawyers here.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. Getting up, he glanced briefly at Schneider standing by the door and left.

  McVey looked at Remmer. “This might be a good time to see what you can do about finding Lybarger.

  Von Holden turned the taxi onto a darkened residential street a dozen blocks from Charlottenburg. Finding a space, he parked and shut off the lights. The neighborhood was quiet. In the fog and damp people were inside. Opening the door, he got out and looked around. He saw no one. Reaching back inside, he pulled out the white plastic case, attached a nylon carrying strap to clips at the top, and hefted it over his shoulder. Tossing the keys back in the taxi, he locked it and walked off.

  Ten minutes later he was in sight of Charlottenburg. Crossing a footbridge over the Spree River at Tegeler Weg, he approached a service gate at the back of the palace grounds. Beyond it, he could see the building’s lights looming through the damp and realized how much heavier the fog had become in the last hour. By now the airports would be closed and unless the weather changed, no planes would fly until morning.

  A guard stationed at the service gate let him in and he walked down a path lined with chestnut trees. Crossing another bridge, he followed the path under an avenue of pines to an intersection where he turned left and approached the mausoleum.

  “It’s nine o’clock. Where have you been?” Salettl’s voice shot out at him from the darkness and then he appeared on the pathway directly in front of Von Holden. Pencil-thin and wrapped in a dark cloak, his skull alone stood out in the blackness.

  “The police are here. They have a warrant for Scholl’s arrest.” Salettl came closer. As he neared, Von Holden could see the pupils in his eyes were little more than dots and every part of him seemed wired, as if he were pumped full of amphetamine.

  “Yes, I know,” Von Holden said.

  Salettl’s eyes darted to the white case thrown over Von Holden’s shoulder. “You treat it as. if it were some kind of picnic box.”

  “I apologize. There was no other way.”

  “For now the ceremony here at the mausoleum is postponed.”

  “By whose order?”

  “Dortmund.”

  “Then I will return to der Garten.”

  “Your orders are to wait in the Royal Apartments until I
further notice.”

  Thick fog swirled around the rhododendrons on the path where they stood. Further down, the mausoleum loomed against the trees shrouding it like the vortex of a Gothic nightmare, and Von Holden felt himself being drawn toward it as if pulled by some unseen hand. Then they came again, the colossal red and green curtains of the aurora, slowly undulating, threatening to absorb the core of his entire being.

  “What is it?” Salettl snapped.

  “I—”

  “Are you ill?” Salettl snapped again.

  Fighting it to break it, Von Holden shook his head. Then he took a deep breath of cold air. The aurora vanished and everything cleared.

  “No,” he said, sharply.

  “Then go to the Royal Apartments as you have been told.”

  120

  * * *

  8:57 P.M.

  JOANNA WAS brushing the lint off Elton Lybarger’s midnight blue tailcoat and thinking of her puppy, now some where over the Atlantic on his way back to the holding kennel at Los Angeles Airport where he would be kept until she picked him up. Abruptly there was a sharp knock at the door and Eric and Edward came in followed by Remmer and Schneider. Behind them were Lybarger’s tuxedoed bodyguards and two men with armbands that identified them as security.