Hunter's Rain (3 page)

“No need. We’ll drive.”

“But I thought you said…”

“We’ll drive,” Pappenheim repeated firmly.

“You haven’t had a cigarette since I got here,” she said as they walked towards a lift, along a corridor festooned with no-smoking signs.

“All in your honour,” Pappenheim said. “But don’t remind me.” He glared balefully at one of the signs. “The Great White’s work, as you know. Every corridor in this building has them. And, naturally, in the parking garage too.” He sighed, the longing raging through him. “I’m cursed by that man.”

Her smile was one of sympathy. “Smoke in the car, Pappi. I can hack it.”

“I’ll smoke in the car,” he said with relief. “Now let’s hurry, in case the Great White is on a prowl.”

They got to a lift without incident, and entered quickly as it hissed open.

“I swear I heard footsteps,” Pappenheim said as the doors shut. “Did you hear footsteps?”

She responded with an amused smile as she shook her head. “You’re hearing things, Pappi.”

Pappenheim glanced upwards, as if expecting to see Kaltendorf clamped by all fours, to the ceiling.

“I hope so,” he said. Then the lift stopped two floors down. “Oh no,” he added with a sigh of resignation.

But it was not Kaltendorf. A dark-haired man in his mid-twenties in black jeans, black tee-shirt, and service pistol at his belt, entered.

He nodded at Pappenheim. “Morning, sir.”

“Morning, Hammersfeldt. Wet day.”

Hammersfeldt was staring at Carey Bloomfield. “It isn’t dry, sir.”

“Hammersfeldt has wit,” Pappenheim said to Carey Bloomfield. “Hammersfeldt,” he added as the doors shut.

“Sir?”

“I know she’s very pretty, but it’s rude to stare.”

Hammersfeldt seemed to pull himself together. “Oh! Er…yes, sir.” He appeared confused.

Pappenheim made no introductions as Hammersfeldt tried to look anywhere else, but at Carey Bloomfield.

The lift stopped a floor later, and after a self-conscious nod at them both, Hammersfeldt got out quickly.

“Poor guy,” she said as the doors hissed shut once more. “You embarrassed him, Pappi. Shame on you!” The incident had amused her. “I think he got out before his floor.”

“He was staring,” Pappenheim insisted, as if in explanation.

“So you think I’m pretty?”

“Miss Bloomfield,” he said, “I’m too old. Save the sparring for Jens. He’s better at it than I am.”

“Oh…I don’t know, Pappi. You don’t do so badly.”

Pappenheim favoured her with a brief smile. “But I must be kind to him from time to time.”

“Why?”

“He probably saved my life.”

“’Probably’?”

“He was down by the front desk when I went out, talking to the officer on duty. He saw someone in a hooded jacket, run past outside. Look like a jogger. Hammersfeldt wondered what a jogger was doing at that time of the night…”

“A night runner?” Carey Bloomfield suggested.

“I’ll take that as a dry comment, Miss Bloomfield. Hammersfeldt drew his weapon and rushed out, just in case. It is just possible, that Hammersfeldt’s appearance made my would-be killer run on. Who knows? He might well have decided to pause for a second shot, just to make sure.”

“Your guardian angel
was
putting in some overtime.”

“Looks like it. Hammersfeldt came up to me yelling
‘Sir, Sir! Are you alright?
’ At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I was in shock, and can’t swear to it. But Hammersfeldt insists I told him to shut up. I don’t remember that, either.” Pappenheim grinned. “Even when I’m out, I’m in.” The lift stopped. “Ground zero.”

The got out and as they entered the pristine, secure garage, light flooded the place. It was almost full. Marked and unmarked police cars and vans were separated from private vehicles.

“To separate him from his Porsche, you’d need to slice off an umbilical cord.” “Smile when you say that.”

“I’m smiling.”

“So? What’s the story?” Carey Bloomfield asked as they got into the car.

“This,” Pappenheim began, “was once used by the man who was contracted to

kill Jens…”

“You’re kidding.”

“No kid. As he has no further use for it – being dead – and the real owners won’t claim it on the grounds that it might incriminate them…” Pappenheim started the powerful engine. “…I’m using it.”

The rain was still chucking it down as the car nosed into Friedrichstrasse and turned left, heading towards Unter-den-Linden. A short while later, Pappenheim pulled over, and parked next to Starbucks.

He got out into the rain and hurried to the building to take shelter. He remained outside, and quickly fished a packet of his Gauloises out of a pocket. He lit up gratefully, took a deep, satisfying drag, shutting his eyes for long moments in the sheer pleasure of it.

Watching as he urgently smoked the cigarette to the very end, hunched slightly against the sprays of rain that encroached upon his shelter, Carey Bloomfield thought he looked like a teddy bear that had found a big jar of honey.

Pappenheim killed the glowing end with a pinch, put that into the pack then went in, stuffing the pack into a pocket.

Carey Bloomfield relaxed as she waited for him to return. Every so often, she would idly peer into the wing and rear view mirrors. That was how she spotted the green and white patrol car drawing to a stop behind.

“If you’re coming to say I can’t park here,” she murmured, “you’re in for a surprise.” As far as she could tell, the driver was the sole occupant.

She watched curiously as the uniformed officer got out, and walked purposefully towards the BMW. As if suddenly realising there was no one behind the wheel, he veered off the road and onto the pavement, to approach from the passenger side.

He stopped, knocked sharply on the roof with his left hand and left it there as he leaned forward to peer in. The right hand was on his sidearm.

“
Sie dürfen hier nicht stehen bleiben,”
he said to her in a firm voice as she lowered the window. The rain did not seem to bother him.

Carey Bloomfield decided to use English. “I’m sorry. Did you just say I can’t park here?”

“Yes,” he said briefly in the same language. Then his eyes widened slightly; but it was not in surprise. “American. Miss Carey Bloomfield?”

In Starbucks, Pappenheim had been staring with devotion at a tempting chunk of chocolate cake when from a corner of his eye, he spotted the police car arriving. He had turned to look with interest, amusing himself with the thought of how Carey Bloomfield would react.

Then he’d frowned. No partner in the car, and the number plate seemed wrong.

He had already decided to go and check, and had watched keenly as the policeman had rested a hand on the BMW.

“Excuse me,” he said to the young woman who’d been serving him. “I won’t be long.”

He was already moving as he saw the officer unsnap the restraining flap. He began to draw his own weapon from beneath his jacket. He moved with a speed that astonished those who had wrongly assumed his “comfortable” size - as he sometimes liked to describe it – would give him all the alacrity of a snail on valium.

Some of the customers gaped when they saw the gun. The young woman put a hand to her mouth. A customer by the utensil counter who had been putting sugar into her coffee, dropped the full cup. It smashed explosively, sending sprays of hot coffee in all directions.

Pappenheim was at the door. He flung it open.

The policeman, hearing the noise, darted his head round. When he saw Pappenheim, he moved with astonishing swiftness. He immediately stopped in the act of taking out his weapon, pushed himself off the BMW, and ran back to the police car. He got in and with lights flashing, reversed at speed against the traffic. Cars came to sliding, panicked halts.

The police car swung backwards into the nearest side street. It did a rapid U-turn, and raced away as oncoming traffic parted like the Red Sea to let it through.

Pappenheim, at the BMW, lowered himself to peer anxiously down at Carey Bloomfield.

“Are you alright, Miss Bloomfield?”

“Yes. I’m okay. What the hell was that all about, Pappi?”

He slowly put his gun away, turning his head to peer through the rain, in the direction the police car had gone. He was silent for some moments.

“I’m not sure,” he said quietly as he turned back to her. “We’ll talk in the car. Did you bring your artillery?” he added.

“No. This is not an…official visit. You invited me, remember?”

“So I did.” But Pappenheim did not look as if he believed there was nothing “official” tagging along. “In there.” He pointed to the glove compartment. “One of your favourite guns. Beretta 92R. In case he comes back…”

“You’re authorising me to shoot a policeman?”

“That,” Pappenheim began with certainty, “was not a policeman. Now I’m going to finish our order. I’ve seen some nice chocolate cake.”

“
Chocolate
cake? At this time of the day?”

“Are you saying I’m big?”

“Hey,” she said. “I can’t talk.”

“I think there’s a difference between us, Miss Bloomfield. Many women would kill to look like you and…Jens likes you the way you are.” Pappenheim paused. “And if you tell him I said that…” She smiled at him.

“You’ll shoot me. I know. Now go get our order, Pappi. You’re getting soaked.” He glanced upwards. “It’s easing off, and it’s getting brighter.”

Berlin-Wilmersdorf.

Müller had decided that though his clothes were now virtually dry, he would go home to change anyway.

His home was the penthouse of a classical three-storey building that had been reconstructed in the fifties to its former glory, upon its bombed-out shell. The entire building was his, having inherited it from his parents. Its three vast floors had been converted by his father - who had inherited the rebuilt family home from
his
father - into huge luxury apartments. The apartments on the lower floors were rented out, each with its own, separate entrance. All apartments shared the underground garage, each with three wide, allocated parking bays.

Müller waited for the steel door at the entrance to roll itself upwards. A bright red light switched to green as the door locked into place. He drove down the gentle slope of the entry ramp and into the spacious parking area, the main lights coming on as he did so. The door began to lower itself and by the time he had parked next to a Porsche Cayenne that gleamed its newness, the entrance was again secure. Most of the cars in the other bays were sleek BMWs.

Müller got out, locked the car, and left the garage via a solid steel door with a keypad entry lock. As with the access from the street, this was his own private entrance from the garage. Each apartment had the same form of separate access. Only the garage itself remained communal.

A marbled staircase took him upstairs. He entered the high-ceilinged apartment, which boasted a large colonnaded hall with a glistening, polished floor.

He smiled as he entered, suddenly thinking of Carey Bloomfield, and remembering a jumble of her words when she had first seen the place.

“If I ate off this floor, it would get sick.” “This hall would not be out of place in a Roman villa…and those paintings…Müller, you’d give a thief a heart attack. Living room…
sitting
room…
dining
room… Persian rugs…bedroom one, with a bathroom suite. Gawd. This is
huge.
Look at these walls. Müller, this is a palace…” “Don’t you get lost in this place? “The kitchen! Oh wow! Stainless steel temple. I know of two apartments that would fit in here and leave room for an airfield. Do you cook? You can’t have a kitchen like this and not cook. You do! God. I hate guys like you. I can’t boil water...”

He smiled again to himself. “Miss Bloomfield, you are an original.”

He went into his bedroom and quickly changed; then he got out his mobile, and decided to call Pappenheim.

Pappenheim brought the car to a halt on a short, wide avenue, not far from the left wing of the
Bundestag,
on their right
.
To their left, was the glass-rich structure of the Paul Lobe building.