Freelance 2

CHAPTER THREE - DÜSSELDORF

Old hatreds are emotions that can burn almost forever, fuelled by prejudice, ignorance and fear, and the Teutonic Knights prided themselves on guarding deep and bitter enmities. History had cast a temporary shadow, for the Knights had seen the Reich die, betrayed by cowardice and greed and destroyed by the combined forces of bolshevism and world jewry. But they also knew that a fourth manifestation must one day rise again, phoenix-like, victorious and finally triumphant, and they were prepared to bide their time. Some members of the Order’s ruling council were now old men, battle-scarred veterans of one, and sometimes two world wars, but the Order remained strong. Funds continued to flow in from a refugee diaspora scattered across the world, and both the Federal government in Bonn and the CIA were providing generous covert support. There was no shortage of new recruits, young men with bitter memories of flight from former German lands east of the Oder. The Order was disciplined, well-armed, and steeped in a thousand years of tradition. It was a secret and very potent power.

Tristan Altenburg, Count Altenburg von und zu Mecklenburg-Altenburg-Schonhau, Lord of the Lettonian Marches, and Protector of Eastern Masuria, was one of the oldest, and perhaps also one of the most bitter of the Knights. The Altenburgs had once owned vast estates bordering the Baltic in the Middle Ages, when an earlier Order of Teutonic Knights ruled as lords supreme from Finland down to Berlin, and had still ranked as powerful landowners up to the October Revolution, before Lenin and his bolshevik hordes forced them back into Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and East Prussia, and a second wave of red terrorism stripped the family virtually bare. Two of Tristan’s three sons had vanished in action on the Eastern Front, and now the Altenburgs owned little more than a large villa in the outskirts of West Berlin, a chunk of the Riviera bought by a greatgrandfather who liked consorting with English milords and Russian princes, an island in the Bahamas, some silver mines in Mexico, and a few vineyards strung out along the Rhine.

But whilst he might have grown old and sour, and even relatively poor – by Altenburg standards anyway – Count Altenburg had lost none of his energy, and none of his hate. Pure coincidence placed him on the flight from London to Dusseldorf, but he recognised Roswirtha from photographs in a ‘most wanted’ list held at the Order’s headquarters in Berlin, and he could already taste her blood on his lips. He was seated at the very back of the BEA plane, an aristocratic figure with a long aquiline nose and close-cropped silver, hair accompanied only by Kotowski, his faithful manservant: he disliked flying on an Allied aircraft, but he had no choice, for Lufthansa had no flights to Berlin. He was on his way home from a fund-raising tour of South America, coupled with a detour into Mexico and California, and he had good news for his fellow members on the Order’s Council, for a group of wealthy Americans had promised to pay for some adventurous new chemical weapons. But now the vagaries of fate also presented him with a chance to eliminate a dangerous enemy as well, and he was busy formulating a plan.

Schulz might be booked through to Berlin, but he knew that she would get off the plane at Dusseldorf, because Tempelhof represented too much danger for her. Kotowski had a senior level police pass, and could use it to clear Dusseldorf airport controls ahead of the other passengers, mobilise official support, and arrest Schulz. She would be taken to a safe house and questioned, for she might well be on some mission of interest to the Order, and then she could be killed. Altenburg smiled wolfishly to himself. He had heard that Schulz was both brave and cunning, but the Knights had their own ways of making people talk, and he can already see her blood flowing and terror in her eyes.

He spoke quietly, but his voice held a sharp edge. ‘You must do it quickly.’

‘Yes, master.’ Kotowski nodded obediently. He was not well pleased at the diversion, because he had a wife and son in Berlin, and he had been away from home too long. But a master was a master, and there was not much he can say.

‘So?’

‘I must call the airport police,’ Kotowski parrotted Altenburg’s words. ‘I must identify Schulz to them, secure their help in arresting her, and deliver her into the hands of the Rhineland Chapter.’

‘You must not make a mistake.’ Count Altenburg frowned. Kotowski was a slow man. Very strong, very reliable, but slow. ‘Schulz is a dangerous enemy, and she must be dealt with.’

‘No, master. I will not make a mistake.’ Kotowski’s voice was neutral. He was a big man, an ox of a man, and he liked to take his time about thinking. He was doubtful about Schulz, for he had heard stories about her ability to escape, something about the Hotel Crillon in Paris that he had never quite understood. He wondered whether BEA had an afternoon flight from Dusseldorf to Berlin, and whether he would be able to sort Schulz out in time to catch it. It would be nice to be with Magda and little Wolfgang for abendessen – to eat a nice plate of ham and schinken and black bread, drink an ice cold beer or two, read Wolfgang a bedtime story, and then catch up for lost time with Magda, for Kotowski had a troublesome longing burning in his loins, and needed satisfaction. But duty must come first.

Altenburg was silent for a moment. He would have preferred to take care of Schulz himself, but he was expected: Siegfried, the Master of the Order’s Berlin chapter, was hosting a special chapter meeting, and he must be present. He frowned. Something at the back of his mind demanded to be noted, but it slipped away every time he tried to focus on it. It was an hindrance of age, thoughts sometimes drifted in and out of his mind like ghostly wraiths, and his powers of recall were not what they once were. Then he remembered.

‘She had an Englishman with her. I want him detained when we reach Tempelhof.’

‘Yes, master.’ Kotowski tugged a small notebook from his pocket to jot in it quickly. He was ten years younger than the Count, and knew well both that a good manservant never made a mistake, and never forgot. ‘I will telephone from Dusseldorf.’

They are silent for the rest of the flight: master and servant each locked each in their own thoughts. Then the plane began to circle, homing in on Dusseldorf airport, and Kotowski signalled to a stewardess, showing his pass. The girl listened to him, and then nodded, waving him forward into the business class compartment at the front of the plane. Neither Schulz nor her Englishman noticed him passing, because both were deep in each other, and it was a good omen, because he wanted to carry this business through with a minimum of fuss. He would be first off the plane, but he would do nothing until the passengers reached the terminal building. Then he would pounce quickly. A quick word with the policeman at the terminal building entrance to delay incoming travellers, a few words of explanation, a couple of sturdy helpers, and the deed would be done. Schulz would be rushed out of the building to a police car, he could hand her over to colleagues at a certain large villa in a wooded estate some fifteen kilometres from the airport, and then he would be finished. He allowed himself a brief smile as he settled into a seat by the door. Perhaps he would have schinken for abendbrot in Berlin after all.

Roswirtha was poised and alert as she prepared to disembark. She had enjoyed her flight: it was always good to catch a new man: the same pleasure, the same joy, as a fisherman landing a fish. Some fish were easy, most fish were easy. But it always sent a shiver of excitement tingling through her when she felt a tug at the end of her line, and she drew in some happily writhing silvery form, to scoop it deftly into her net; for it was a shiver of power, of possession and mastery. She had also neatly solved a problem, and she was certain that Colonel-General Ivachkoi, the station head for Savod in East Berlin, would be well pleased. She allowed herself a slight smile. She was a soldier in a war, and had just successfully carried a skirmish in a silent battle where battles accumulated into campaigns that might change the direction of history.

She touched the side of Lindsay’s face as passengers began queueing in the aisle of the plane for disembarkation, sensing the jealousy of his companions and their envious glances, and this again was something that gave her pleasure. ‘Do not forget, sweet one.’ She hesitated for a moment, but the envy of the other Englishmen was a provocation, and she bent quickly to kiss his cheek. ‘Go to the coffeeshop of the Hilton hotel at five, and looked for a man with a real mane of white hair and a sabre scar across his cheek. His name is Delahaye. Tell him that you come in my place, and give my little package, and I will owe you a debt of gratitude.’

Lindsay simmered. ‘He’ll be disappointed to see me.’

‘Perhaps.’ Roswirtha allowed herself a slight smile. The passengers had begun to move, and she must be going. ‘His loss will be your gain.’

Everything ran smoothly for Kotowski as he reached the terminal building. The two policemen on duty at the entrance noted that his pass had been counter-signed by both the head of the West Berlin police department and the head of the West German BSD and were mightily impressed: one led him quickly along a passage to the airport police desk whilst his companion blocked the way to Kotowski’s fellow arrivals.

Kotowski explained his mission quickly to the inspector in charge of airport security. The inspector barked a stream of orders, and a policeman hurried to pass on Altenburg’s instructions about detaining an Englishman in a dark blue suit to Berlin. A quick radio call summoned a police car, and three policemen checked their handguns. One threw Kotowski a bulletproof vest. He caught it and eyed it doubtfully.

‘Am I going to need this?’

‘Standard equipment.’ The inspector was terse. Nothing ever happened when he was on airport duty, and he was not going to lose a moment of glory. He would supervise this situation personally, and everything would be done by the book. A nice quiet arrest with a minimum of fuss would looked good on his career record. He checked his own gun, shrugged himself into his vest and signed to Kotowski to lead the way.

Kotowski and the four men in uniform marched back to the terminal entrance. Frustrated passengers had already begun to grumble audibly in the hot sun, but Kotowski smiled to himself, because he glimpsed a flash of yellow silk tucked into the queue, and he knew that he had his prey in the palm of his hand. He stood back a little, behind the uniformed policemen, and he had no gun, because he did not need one. But this was his game, and soon he would be in Berlin.

He waited, ready to pounce, and moved as Roswirtha Schulz prepared to pass the waiting policemen. ‘Fraulein Schulz.’ He stepped forward, barring her way, and spoke in a commanding voice, holding his police card up in front of her like a barrier. ‘I am authorised to detain you.’

Roswirtha stopped dead. She had prepared herself for everything, but she was not prepared for this. Her pupils dilated a little, and she quickly searched the hall beyond the waiting policemen for help, but the hall was empty. She was still for a moment, and then she nodded slightly, and it was an assent. She was a prisoner, and now her only path must lead to death. She was not afraid, because she had no knowledge of fear. She had a small pill, sewn into the hem of her dress, and she would have to take the only escape route left to her.

Suddenly a stocky, redfaced man pushed past her brusquely. He was moustached, and he had blue eyes, and they were burning fiercely. He held up an identity card, card to card with Kotowski. ‘I’ll take her.’ His German was good, but he spoke with an English accent.

Kotowski stared at him in disbelief. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Major Jones, British Control Commission.’ The stocky man touched Roswirtha’s shoulder. ‘We’d better get out of here.’

Kotowski was outraged. ‘My authority is signed by the BSD.’ Little flecks of spittle began to gather along his lower lip.

‘Mine derives from Britain’s residual rights as an Occupying Power.’ Blue eyes flash dangerously. ‘I outrank you on all fronts.’

The four policemen shifted uncomfortably. The inspector half drew his gun from its holster, and then thought better of his action, balancing the gun between the holster and the palm of his hand indecisively, half-in, half-out. He suspected that the newcomer was talking rubbish, because the Occupation had been ended for more than fifteen years. But he knew that the British ruled alongside the Americans, French and Russians in Berlin, and it might well be that they also had rights in the Bundesrepublik about which he knew nothing. He decided to watch and wait: he had his career to think of, and would not put a foot wrong. He edged away a little from Kotowski, and his three subordinates noticed his movement and all edged back in turn.

A kind of giant wheel began to rotate slowly in Kotowski’s mind. ‘Go home, Englander, where you belong.’ He snarled the words, for he could feel a fuse light within him, and he knew that it was short. Some might think him slow, but he was not a man to be pushed about. ‘Go home, you dirty shitdog. The war is over. You are nothing here.’

The stocky man’s eyes hardened to blue ice. He moved to outflank Kotowski, and the watching policemen edged back again to make way for him. These two could fight this little battle out all on their own.

Suddenly something snapped in Kotowski’s mind. He moved suddenly, in a twisting, snatching movement, and suddenly the inspector’s handgun was no longer balanced between his hand and its holster, but nestled now in Kotowski’s fist. ‘Let go of the woman, she is coming with me.’

The inspector reached out, and thought better of his movement. He stepped back, and realised that he had backed out of Kotowski’s field of direct vision, and stared meaningfully at one of the three other policemen, now facing him, and his outrage was unmistakable. Kotowski had already begun to push Roswirtha towards an exit where he could see a police car waiting, and the inspector gestured slightly with his chin.

The second policeman pulled his gun free slowly. Kotowski was now some distance from them, moving away at an angle, with his hand buried in Roswirtha’s copper hair, forcing her along with him as a shield, and he presented a difficult snap target. But he was also closing on the door between him and the police car, and he was now more interested in escaping than defending himself.

The policeman fired once. Kotowski half turned, so that Roswirtha was now a shield in front of him. He smiled thinly, for his bulletproof jacket had neatly deflected the shot. The policeman fired again. He was a good shot, and this time he winged Kotowski’s arm. Kotowski shook himself like an angry bull. In the same moment Roswirtha made a lunge for freedom. Several shots cracked out, and for a moment there was silence, and then two bodies slumped together into an untidy heap on the airport terminal floor, blood already staining yellow silk.

The policemen ran to the bodies and two knelt, one beside each tangled form, to straighten them out awkwardly, bending low as they knelt. The inspector and the stocky man followed, but both kneeling policemen looked up as they arrived, shaking their heads in negation. It was plain that they could do nothing: the police at Dusseldorf airport had been issued with high velocity ammunition, bullets with expanding heads designed to stop and kill at first impact, and both Kotowski and Roswirtha were quite, quite dead.

Freelance 4