Фолькер Кучер: Babylon Berlin

‘You’ll get it once I’m satisfied with the quality of the goods.’

‘Then take a look!’ Wolter remained by the tank car, where he had positioned himself to keep Marlow’s men in check. He had a bad feeling about this. If it was a trap, then it should be Röllecke who fell into it.

The two SA men marched to the first wagon. Eagerly Schäffner removed the bolt and slid the heavy door open, staring inside as if he had seen a ghost.

Röllecke stepped forth impatiently. ‘What is it, man? Stand aside.’

Then he looked on in surprise too. Furiously, he approached Wolter.

‘Is this a joke?’

‘What?’

‘Hiding this man in the wagon. Where are the weapons?’

‘What man?’

‘The messenger you sent yesterday.’

Röllecke gestured towards the goods wagon. Out of the darkness stepped Gereon Rath, with pistol drawn.

He must have looked at least as surprised as Hermann Schäffner. Rath hadn’t counted on it being his caretaker, of all people, who opened the wagon, but rather one of Marlow’s people or even Bruno himself.

A successful entrance, nevertheless. He looked around, and saw that all eyes were on him. It was starting to get dark. Hopefully Gräf had what he needed in the can.

‘I wouldn’t shoot if I were you,’ he barked at Wolter’s companions, who had aimed their weapons nervously in his direction.

‘Well, if it isn’t Inspector Know-it-all,’ said Wolter. ‘And why,’ he asked with a smile, ‘shouldn’t I tell my people to simply blow you away?’

‘Because there are marksmen positioned under the roof of the goods shed who have each one of you in their sights and are just itching to pull their triggers. Besides, I haven’t come alone.’

Rath raised his left hand. The men inside the goods wagon had been waiting for this sign and leapt out with weapons drawn. In no time there were two dozen armed plain-clothes officers standing on the platform. Behind them Liang climbed out of the locomotive.

‘Quite a little army,’ Wolter said. ‘Scary stuff. I trust they’re not actually going to do anything.’

A few of the younger Stahlhelmers grinned uncertainly. The two SA officers obviously found it less amusing that their weapons deal was off. Röllecke looked as though he was about to breath fire.

‘This little army consists of upright police officers who will now arrest you and your men, DCI Wolter.’

‘Why would they do that? Is it illegal to be in a train station?’

‘Drop the act. We’ve heard enough, and we have enough in the can too.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re saying.’

‘Up there with the marksmen there’s also someone who’s good at taking pictures.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ If Wolter was surprised, his face wasn’t giving anything away.

‘It means that the Berlin police force now has enough evidence to prove that one of its officers, DCI Bruno Wolter, is in cahoots with the SA and engaging in illegal arms deals.’

Wolter laughed out loud. ‘Where did you get that idea?’

He hadn’t even finished his sentence when the shot rang out. Wolter had squeezed the trigger with a smile, and shot as casually from the hip as other people light cigarettes during a conversation. A single shot.

Heinrich Röllecke gazed more in surprise than horror at the little red stain that was growing ever larger on his brown shirt. He wheeled halfway round as his knees buckled, and toppled onto the concrete of the ramp.

Hermann Schäffner crouched by his side and felt for his pulse. Nothing there. The SA man gazed at his dead commander in disbelief. It took a moment for him to work out what had happened.

‘You bastard,’ he cried, before, still squatting, he pulled a heavy Colt-Browning and started firing wildly in Wolter’s direction. He was able to squeeze the trigger five times before a shot from Wolter’s Luger blew the gun out of his hand.

Wolter laughed, as Schäffner was overpowered by two police officers. He hadn’t been hit by a single shot.

Nevertheless, several had gone into the tank wagons beside him; and one of them must have caught the drain valve of the middle chamber.

As if in slow motion, Rath saw a metallic bolt fall to the ground at an angle behind Wolter. There was a sound like the banging of a gong as the heavy part struck the floor.

In the same instant that Wolter turned to fire at his putative attackers, hydrochloric acid spurted out of the defective valve.

The acid sprayed out of the tank at high pressure, hitting Wolter in the face and transforming it within a fraction of a second into a confused grimace. He fired a desperate reflex shot, before covering his eyes with his arms. The pistol clattered to the floor.

Wolter was swaying, trying to support himself, but could find only the acid that was forming an ever greater puddle on the concrete floor. He recoiled, and his whole body crashed to the ground, only for him to leap back to his feet. Driven wild by pain, blind and disorientated, he moved in the wrong direction, hit his head against the still spitting metal tank, stopped screaming and plunged back into the steaming puddle of acid.

Schäffner, whom two officers had taken between them, looked on in horror and everyone else stood as if paralysed.

Marlow was the first to react, issuing his men instructions and disappearing inside the shed. When he emerged a moment later with a bucket of water, the pain had caused Wolter to regain consciousness, but his strength had left him completely. From a safe distance Marlow tipped the water over the twitching, writhing body. It was impossible to move him away from the wagon, as the acid shower still hadn’t abated. Meanwhile, two of Marlow’s men had climbed onto the wagon from the other side and were trying to close the valve using an iron bar. They managed to stem the flow just enough for Liang, who had donned a pair of heavy leather work gloves, to close it properly with a few nimble flicks of the wrist and refasten the bolt that had been blown off.

Marlow grabbed Wolter by the feet. His clothes had in large part dissolved, and scraps of material and flaps of skin were left behind as Marlow dragged the heavy body across the acid-soaked concrete. Finally Wolter lay at a safe distance from the tank wagon, unconscious once more, acid steaming from his entire body. It took some time for one of Marlow’s men to emerge with a second bucket of water. Rudi Scheer and the Stahlhelmers were still gazing disbelievingly at the gruesome spectacle, while Hermann Schäffner continued to stare wide-eyed at Wolter’s steaming, acid-ravaged frame, forgetting his own bloody hand in the process.

After a few showers of water the steam began to clear, though it only made the sight of Wolter’s devastated body even more horrific. There were still shreds of clothing hanging to him. Blisters had formed on his skin, which was massively inflamed and coming loose in places to expose raw flesh. His eyeballs had melted and were leaking like undercooked soft-boiled eggs. It was impossible to say whether he was still alive. Marlow, too, had donned leather gloves, and was searching Wolter’s jacket. He lifted a damp scrap of paper and flung it furiously onto the ground. The sorry, now worthless, remains of the second Sorokin map, Rath guessed. Now the one he had given Dr M. earlier was worthless too.

The valve was still spitting slightly and stank like hell, the pungent stench of acid mixing with the smell of raw flesh and blood. A repulsive mixture.

Rath held a handkerchief over his nose and went over to Wündisch’s people.

‘We need the paramedics now,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything they can still do.’

On his signal, one of the officers opened the second goods wagon and a troop of uniformed officers sprang onto the platform, around fifty men in total.