Hunter's Rain (2 page)

Müller said to himself, “
with
its engine running, would have looked.
I
would have looked…unless I wanted to pretend I hadn’t seen it.”

The cyclist still continued without breaking pace, until he had ridden out of sight.

Müller waited a full minute in the pouring rain, looking about him, blinking the water out of his eyes, peering through the trees for signs of movement. Nothing.

The cyclist did not return.

The strange uneasiness remained as Müller slowly put the pistol away, wiped his shoes on a tuft of grass as best he could, then got back into the car. He was not yet soaked through, but his lightweight summer suit was wet enough to feel as if it would stick to the leather seat.

Still checking for the cyclist, he eased the car onto the path, turning right to head back in the direction of the infamous villa. He drove away with as little noise as possible.

“I’m coming for you,” he said quietly to the unseen people responsible for the killing of his parents. “No matter how long, or what it takes.”

The cyclist had turned round, and was on his way back to the spot where he had seen the Porsche. When still out of sight from the vantage point of the car he stopped, got off the bike, and moved a little way into the woods. He leaned the cycle against a tree then cautiously, using any convenient tree as cover, continued towards where he expected the car to be.

He stopped. “No engine,” he muttered. “I can’t hear an engine.”

He moved on, then stopped again.

He was close enough; but the Porsche was no longer there.

“
Shit!”
he swore softly.
“Shit!
Too fucking late. And I didn’t even hear it leave.” He approached the spot, stopped, and looked down at the tracks. “
Two
cars. Two fucking cars. They had already met.
Damn
it!”

Moving back into the cover of a tree, he took out a mobile and made a call.

“Yes?”

“I was too late,” the cyclist said against the noise of the rain.

There was a long silence in his ear that in the rainy woods, was strangely menacing.

“So you did not see the person with whom he met,” the voice at the other end said at last. It was an accusation.

“No. I came across country to make time, intending to get here first…”

“Intent,” the other interrupted, “and achievement, can sometimes be separated by a great distance.”

The cyclist said nothing.

“You gave us a time for the meeting,” the pitiless voice went on. “What happened?”

“The information I got must have been wrong. Wrong timing…”

“We have placed you where you are for a purpose. You are being handsomely rewarded. We expect results; not excuses, or failure. Do not make the mistake of believing you are indispensable.”

“He…he must have changed the timing,” the cyclist offered in mitigation.

The cyclist squeezed his eyes shut, and briefly turned his face upwards in the rain that still managed to crash through the foliage of the tree. The slamming droplets felt as if they were searing his skin; but he ignored them. He gritted his teeth.

“
Shit,”
he said for a third time, anger and frustration coming through.

He held the phone such a way that it appeared as if he wanted to throw it to the ground. Instead, he put it away in a controlled manner which plainly betrayed his continuing frustration. He then returned to his bike, mounted, and made for the
Rotkäppchenweg,
the track that would eventually lead him back across country to Wannsee harbour.

Müller was on the
Bundesstrasse 1
, already approaching the Zehlendorf intersection with the A115 autobahn. He was planning to take the exit that would feed him onto the A115, to head back to Berlin.

He changed his mind before the first of the three exit warning signs - the 300-metre marker – came into view and continued along the Potsdamer Chaussee which was itself part of the B1. The B1 was a direct, if marginally slower route into the heart of the city, where it would eventually lead him to his home in Wilmersdorf.

The cyclist had arrived where he had parked his own car, near the yacht marina. It was a big, dark blue Mercedes saloon that was older than the coupe in which Müller’s informant had arrived; but its excellent condition was evidence of the care that was lavished upon it. Even in the greyness of the rainy day, it gleamed. The pounding droplets rolled off it like glistening marbles.

The car, parked on a surfaced area between a pair of trees, pointed towards the rows and rows of neatly moored small sailing boats and motor cruisers. Some of the bigger cruisers were moored at the end of the rows, bows pointing landwards. Given the weather, there was barely anyone about. Three people who could be seen at the water’s edge, looked tiny in the distance. If there were any occupants on the boats, they had all decided to remain below.

The cyclist began to take his bike apart. It was an expensive, multi-geared sports model that had been designed for swift dismantling. It fitted easily into the boot.

He then began to remove his outer clothing. First were the waterproofs that had covered his jeans. He threw those into the boot. Next was the hooded jacket, which revealed a black leather jacket beneath. The waterproof jacket was thrown in after the trousers. He then shut the boot.

He got into the car, started it, and drove slowly away, face expressionless. The black leather jacket, worn over a white t-shirt, was a surprise.

Upon its epaulettes, were the two green stars of a
polizeimeister
; a junior

police sergeant.

When the sergeant came to the intersection unlike Müller, he joined the A115; but like Müller, headed for central Berlin.

The rain continued to pound.

Berlin-Mitte. Friedrichstrasse. 0915.

Pappenheim sat in his office blowing a luxurious plume of smoke at the ceiling, like a dragon that had inadvertently taken a drink of water.

A knock sounded on his door.

“
In!”

Berger entered cautiously.

Pappenheim took the
Gauloise Blonde
out of his mouth. There was little left of it. He gave it a regretful look, then stubbed it out in the already full ashtray on his large, untidy desk.

“
Obermeisterin
Berger,” he began with the air of one who had seen too much, done too much, and was never again going to be surprised in this life. “Stop looking at my ample self as if you expect me to fade before you. I was shot
last
May, not yesterday. I was not wounded, although the bruising took longer to go away than I would have liked…”

“If you hadn’t worn body armour, you’d be dead.”

“I’m an
oberkommissar
, you’re an
obermeisterin
. That means you just interrupted your superior; but I’ll ignore that for now.”

She smiled at him. “Yes, Chief.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“No, Chief.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Berger?”

Berger’s eyes, seemingly too lively, were telegraphing something Pappenheim failed to read.

“See who I found dripping by the front desk.” She stepped back to allow someone enter.

Carey Bloomfield, in jeans, white shirt, thin-soled slightly damp trainers, and a raincoat speckled with rapidly drying wet patches slung over an arm, entered the smoke-filled room. A bag was slung crosswise from a shoulder.

Pappenheim got to his feet in astonishment, then smiled with a real pleasure. He stepped from behind the desk and went towards her, hand outstretched.

“Miss Bloomfield!” he began. “A pleasure. A pleasure to see you!” He glanced at Berger. “Thank you, Berger.”

Berger gave Carey Bloomfield a look that was neither hostile, nor particularly friendly.

“I’ve got the message,” she said, and went out.

“She really does not like me, that woman,” Carey Bloomfield said.

“Don’t mind her,” Pappenheim said, shaking Carey Bloomfield’s hand with enthusiasm. “It’s the weather.”

“The weather,” she repeated, not believing it. “The very first time I ever came here, I nicknamed her Miss Hawk Eyes. Glad to see some things don’t change. Hey, Pappi,” she continued, looking at him closely, “you seem really pleased to see me.”

“I am. I am. Here. Let me take your coat. So you made it,” he went on, “as you promised in May.”

“I made it. Always keep my promises…when I can.”

She handed the coat over and he hung it on a wall hook.

“I’ll remember that,” Pappenheim said. “As for Berger, she’ll soon have some news which should make her very happy.”

“Will that be good for me? Or bad?”

“Come, come, Miss Bloomfield. Be nice. She’s only worried that you may have a…bad influence on Jens. Remember when she first met you, you were pretending to be a journalist. Now that we know you’re CIA…”

“
Not
CIA, Pappi, as I’ve been repeating since I first met you guys.”

“Whatever.”

“So what’s this happy news she’s going to get?”

“In his infinite wisdom,” Pappenheim began, “ the Great White Shark…”

“Your beloved boss
Direktor
Kaltendorf…”

“Not beloved by anyone here,” Pappenheim corrected, “and still a probationary
Direktor
…”

“
His
bosses still don’t trust him to do the job? They gave him a special police unit to play with…”

“It isn’t quite like that. Well… perhaps it is. Whatever their reasons, it’s a way of keeping him on his toes, which has a ricochet effect on us. He gets in our hair, as you know.”

“Do I!” Carey Bloomfield said with the air of a veteran.

“So in his infinite wisdom,” Pappenheim continued, “he decided we needed an extra kommissar in our little part of the unit. We decided to head him off at the pass, before he could dump one on us.”

“Berger,” Carey Bloomfield said.

Pappenheim nodded. “She’s fully qualified for the job. She’s already done the three years’ study and passed the first and second examinations, with excellent results.”

“So she’s really just waiting for an appointment.”

“Yes. And she’ll be highly recommended. As yet, she knows nothing about it.”

“Will Kaltendorf let you?”

“There are ways,” Pappenheim said dangerously.

She gave him a searching look. “Why do I think there’s more to this than you’re telling me?

“So how’s the brand new lieutenant-colonel?” Pappenheim asked.

Carey Bloomfield’s expression said it all. “Nice change of tack, Pappi. The brand new lieutenant-colonel is fine, and hopes to keep the rank. So I hope you’re not getting me into any trouble. They can take the silver oak leaves back as quickly as they gave them.”

“Nothing you can’t handle.”

“Is that a compliment? Or should I worry?”

“You should not worry.”

“
That
worries me already.” She gave him another searching look. “And did I just hear you say you got
shot
?”

He nodded. “Sadly…yes. One night, someone jogged up behind me and put a single, silenced shot into my back. It was a powerful gun. Threw me to the ground…”

“Jesus!”

“My thoughts at the time, were less pious. Luckily, for a reason I will never know, I’d decided to wear a new body armour that I had kept in a cupboard for months. Hate wearing the things; as does Jens. But this one is very light and very strong, for wearing under your clothes. It was a fine evening. I decided to walk home and thought if I didn’t get fed up with wearing the thing by the time I got there, perhaps I wouldn’t send it back.”

Carey Bloomfield was staring at him. “You’re kidding. And it saved your life.”

“I would not be here talking with you. The shooter was a pro. It was a clean, fast shot. He fired on the run, and never paused. He ran past as I fell, and kept going. He was so sure of the kill, he never looked back. Lucky for me he was so sure of himself. He might have considered a second shot – to the head – just to make certain. In which case, goodbye Pappi.”

“Jesus,” she said again. “My God, Pappi. How could you have been taken like this? Like a rookie. You, of all people.”

“I’ve been annoyed with myself ever since. We’d been having some…exciting times. Plenty going on, and still is. I let my guard down. That’s not an excuse. I would not accept it from one of my people, so I can hardly accept it from myself. It was stupid.”

“We all have off-days.” She shook her head slowly, amazed he had survived. “As you’ve said, lucky for you your guardian angel didn’t.“

“Yes.” Pappenheim gave a rueful smile. “Definitely working overtime that evening.”

“Who would send a hitman after you, Pappi?”

“There are a lot of people upon whose toes I have tread over the years.”

“But?”

“This one was a message.”

“Since you’d have been dead if they had succeeded, who was the message for?”

“You have one guess.”

“
Müller?”

“I did tell you exciting things have been happening. I’ll bring you up to date while we wait for Jens.”

“He’s
late
? That’s not like him.”

“Not late. He’s been out on an early trip. He should be back soon. Let’s get you some coffee.”

“Police coffee?”

“That bad?”

“No…”

“I’ll take that to mean drinkable. But I meant outside. A treat from home. Not far from here - on our very street - we’ve even got a Starbucks; two, in fact, and eight in all in Berlin, at the last count. Plenty to choose from.”

“I’m not from Seattle…”

“And I’ll take that to mean a yes.”

“Then I’d better have my coat back. It’s raining more than cats and dogs out there.”