City of Shadows (55 page)

The last push sent Busse staggering so that the Luger hit against the wall. “He’s going to kill her, Busse, you bastard. He’s going to kill your Führer’s grand duchess, because he’s going to kill my woman and he daren’t get rid of one without the other.”

“Stop that.
Stop.
” Busse brought up the gun. “I don’t know.”

“The Anastasia file is with a friend and will be published if any
thing happens to me or Solomonova. I’m quite clear on that point, am I? Anna Anderson has just been to tea with Hitler; he’s thrilled with her. The czar’s daughter, his Russian puppet. He hasn’t read the file, has he? You haven’t shown it to him yet. He doesn’t know she’s more likely a Polish peasant, or even a Gypsy. Who had an illegitimate baby at one time. But
you
know, Busse, you’ve read the statement from the hospital. Let me think
.. . .
Are Gypsies on Adolf ’s list? I believe they are. A newspaper’s going to print all that, Busse, and when your Führer reads it, he’s not going to be pleased, because he’ll look like a fool.”

He was using dirty ammunition, but if he didn’t, Esther would die.

“These are dramatics,” Busse said. “Why will this man take them anywhere?”

“He likes to kill in the open. Tell you what I’ll do,” Schmidt went on. “I’ll give you the file. I’ll give you the file and my word that Fräulein Solomonova and I will say nothing. Ever. Just get me there in time.”

He watched Busse assess the balance sheet. It was a matter of whether the Führer would persist in his choice against the evidence, whether he preferred his fairy tales untrammeled by facts, whether— God help us all—he’d carry an oriflamme that had pitiable humanity’s stain on it.

There was throbbing in his temples: she’s dying, R.G.’s going to kill her, she’s dying, he’ll kill her. But Schmidt was a hunter, always had been, and he was holding out fresh meat for Busse to snap at.

“No good trying to make black white this time, Busse,” he said. “Everybody’ll see what color it is.”

“Yes,” Busse said, not listening. He sat himself in Schmidt’s chair to consider. “But at least the Führer has made no public declaration so far.”

Schmidt stood and watched Busse reject the meat and knew he hadn’t been offering bait, he’d been digging a trap. And had fallen into it.

Busse had been dubious about Anna, it was why he’d wanted all copies of the file under his control. Now he had to jump one way or the other—and was jumping out of reach. Hitler would be persuaded to re
ject Anna as an impostor; the Führer would be stopped from making a fool of himself before the public got wind of the fact that he had.

Busse stretched a hand to the phone ...then brought it back. Diels, like almost everybody else in the building, had gone to the parade. He looked up at Schmidt, settling back. “It is regrettable, but there is noth
ing to be done.”

Esther was dead, then. The world didn’t hold her anymore. The par
ticular, irreplaceable thing that she was to him was going and taking all that mattered with her.

Busse was bothering him, suddenly standing beside him, asking ques
tions. “You say Günsche? Is that Major Günsche? SA Intelligence?”

“Yes.” Schmidt looked up. There’d been a change.

“Röhm’s bum-boy. Well, well,” Busse said. “There
is
a place. Unau
thorized, of course—those SA get above themselves—but I’ve heard about it.”

“Take me there.” He grabbed his coat.

They were out in the corridor, its dreary Bakelite shades directing pools of light down onto the linoleum in patches that left areas of dark
ness in between. He’d never seen it so empty. Or so quiet.

Busse paused, and Schmidt was impatient with him. “What now?”

“I might need reinforcements.”

“For God’s sake, he’s on his own—he’s always on his own. You’ve got your damn gun.”

Busse didn’t move; he was considering. When he looked up, he said, “Yes, I have.”

They went down the fire escape that led to the parking lot.

“Where is this place?”

“Grünewald.”

“Shit.” Far west. And Alexanderplatz as far east of the old city as you could get.

The cold was reviving; freezing air dulled the throbbing in his head.

No good to Esther if he didn’t think. His mind narrowed down to a wicked point of light that made some things gleam with clarity and left everything else in blackness.

The snow was thin but beginning to settle. Behind him Busse gave a “Tcha” as he slipped on the steps. All the police cars were out, even the antiriot Kettles. The only vehicle in the lot was a four-seater Mercedes tourer, an SS pennant on one side of its hood, a swastika flag on the other.

The parade, Schmidt thought. They’ve sent everybody to the parade. Good night for killers.

A storm trooper on guard at the back entrance met them at the bot
tom of the steps, revolver at the ready before he recognized Busse. “Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler.” Busse pushed Schmidt past him.

The storm trooper trotted anxiously behind them. “Sir, sir.”

“What?” Busse was already unclipping the weather cover off the tourer. “You drive,” he told Schmidt.

“I can’t.” There’d never been a need; he’d had police drivers or public transport.

Busse looked at him, surprised. “Oh, very well.” He got into the driv-er’s seat, putting the Luger on his left side where Schmidt couldn’t reach it. Schmidt got into the passenger’s seat.

The storm trooper was still bothered. “Sir, this man, sir. He’s on the list.”

Busse said, “I’m arresting him, Corporal. Go away.”

“Heil Hitler.”

At the gate the guard, not to be caught napping, had the barrier al
ready raised for them and Heiled them through, his arm popping up and out like celery on springs.

Into the alley, turn, into Alexanderplatz, across the lines of a tram coming toward them, and they were speeding down Liebknecht toward the Linden. Hell of a lot of traffic about. One thing about the Nazi pennant—people got out of the way.

They were being halted at the Brandenburg Gate by a barrier and a policeman with a lantern. “Sorry, sir. Heil Hitler. You’ll have to go around. We’re closing it off for the victory parade.”

“Move that thing out of the way,” Busse said. “Führer’s orders.”

They were through. Schmidt settled deeper into the leather seat. “What does this thing do?”

“Hundred and twenty.”

Good. With luck, R.G. wouldn’t have anything as fast as this.

Through the Tiergarten, making good time.

“Left,” he said. “What the fuck are you doing? Turn
left.
”

“No, Bismarck Allee first. He might still have them there.”

“He won’t. He’ll take them to Grünewald. Go south, go fucking south!”

“Be quiet.”

“He likes to kill in the open,” Schmidt said. “Oh, God, you’re wasting
time
!” He heard his voice break.

“We’ll see.”

It’s what his bunch would do, Schmidt thought. Kill them in the apartment and explain afterward. But R.G. doesn’t dare explain; he’s got to make them disappear.

Bismarckstrasse. They were turning into Bismarck Allee, very nearly knocking down an old man crossing the avenue. There was a kerfuffle outside number 29 that made him catch his breath, but it was an agi
tated Frau Schinkel surrounded by neighbors. The policeman who was supposed to have kept an eye on the house was with them. The front door stood open.

Busse pulled up. “What happened?”

Frau Schinkel’s face was framed in Busse’s window. She saw Schmidt. “A man in uniform took them away, Herr Schmidt. In a car. I told him, ‘Fräulein Anderson is not a Jewess.’ I said, ‘Why do you take her?’ but he took them. He took them without their coats.”

“What sort of car?”

The patrolman’s voice said, “It was an Audi. He sat in the back. He made the Jewess drive. He was an officer; I couldn’t do anything.”

“How long ago?”

“What does it matter how long ago?” Schmidt yelled at him, “Get on.” Without their coats they’d die of cold before the bastard could cut their throats.

The image of her body, thin, scarred, infinitely beautiful, came into his mind so strongly that his fingertips felt her skin. “Get
on.
”

They were driving again. Past the entrance to Charlottenburg Palace, and
now
they were turning left toward the Grünewald.

He could have taken them north toward Tegel or Reinickendorf, plenty of woodland there. And lakes. They could have gone north. They could have gone east, west
.. . .

“You say you haven’t been to this place before?” He had to shout. The force of their speed was making the hood flap loudly where one of the studs hadn’t been done up properly.

“No. It’s SA territory.”

Shit,
shit.

No streetlights now and houses becoming infrequent. Less traffic. Busse was driving well—the car’s speedometer needle was trembling on the 90; the flap of the hood turned into drumming.

Good, that’s good, go faster.

Without taking his eyes off the road, Busse reached out for the knob on the neat little radio in the dashboard. Turned it.

“. . .
the crowd is immense, threatening to overwhelm the cordons, and the police are trying to push it back, ready for the marchers.”

You had to hand it to them. One day in power and Goebbels had commandeered State Radio to make an outside broadcast of the Nazis’ celebration of victory.

And Busse was going to kill him. Schmidt had no doubt about it; he just didn’t know what for. It hadn’t come in a revelation; the knowledge had accreted like the freezing slush gathering along the edge of the wind
shield. Something had happened back there in the Alex; Busse had stopped to consider. He’d thought of taking reinforcements, of turning up at the killing ground in force, and then he hadn’t. Instead of putting Schmidt under arrest and leaving him behind, he’d taken Schmidt along with him.

Which was illogical.

But Busse was a logical man. The eyes looking out from the glasses were those of Death playing chess. There was nothing left of the father and husband who’d lived downstairs, the knobbly-kneed,
lederhosen-wearing, hiking accountant. Unlikable but understand
able, that man had gone, and the creed of the Nazis that anything—
anything
—could be achieved if you were ruthless enough, had infused the thing that had taken his place.

When Busse had looked at him back there in the Alex corridor, Schmidt had seen himself reflected in those glasses—expendable.

Busse was going to kill him.

“Already we can hear the first blare of the trumpets from beyond the Brandenburg Gate
.. . .
”

The lights of oncoming vehicles appeared and were gone in the same second.

“You’re missing the parade,” Schmidt said. “Shame.”

Suburbs. Houses, petering out to become more and more infrequent.

“And here they come!”
shouted the radio announcer.
“Magnificent . . .”

Think, think. You’re a detective. Detect.

If Willi Ritte had been sitting on the hood of the Mercedes looking inward, he would have seen Schmidt’s face go blank and his jaw slacken. And Willi would have read the signs.

I am Busse. I have read the Anastasia file and it worries me; Ander
son may be an impostor, but my impulsive, intuitive, little Führer has adopted her cause, though, thank God, he has not yet declared for her in public.

“For a moment we return you to the studio for the announcement of the new chancellor’s cabinet, which met at five o’clock this afternoon
.. . .
”

So if R.G. of Munich kills her, no harm done. Sorry, my Führer, she’s dead as mutton. Just as well under the circumstances.

But if Major Günsche of SA Intelligence kills her . . .

Schmidt’s eyes opened. That’s when it had changed. That’s when Busse had sat up and taken notice—when he’d realized who it was had taken the women.

Trees flashing past, white phantoms in the lights of the car, a glimpse of a lake, and then it was gone, air cold on the ears and smelling of pine and water. They were near Grünewald.

Think.
Eisenmenger told you. He told you twice:
Röhm has become too powerful, and therefore, like all threats to Herr Hitler, must be dealt with. He’s a queer anyway, and our Adolf loathes queers.

Röhm’s bum-boy,
Busse had said of Major Günsche of the SA. And if Schmidt had heard loathing, he’d heard it then.

The Gestapo hadn’t been able to dispose quietly of R.G. of Munich because Röhm had been protecting him; Röhm, the too-powerful, Röhm, the homosexual whom Hitler was finding to be a threat to his own position.