Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

At first light he woke Cordell.

It was cold and clear, light traffic as they drove to Frauenplatz, seeing the orange roof and onion-dome towers of the Frauenkirche looming in the distance.

“You gonna tell me what we’re doin’?”

“Planning our moves.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I’ll show you.”

Harry parked on Löwengrube and got out of the car, looking at the long rectangular side of the Frauenkirche. They walked to the square at the rear of the church, deserted now, but it would be crowded when they returned at four that afternoon. There was a fountain but the water was turned off. There were restaurants and shops in the buildings on the opposite side of the square.

Cordell said, “You really think they’re gonna bring Colette?”

“They better or it’s over.” Harry paused. “They’re going to want me to go with them and I will, but where’re you going to be? How’re you going to follow me?”

“I don’t know.”

“They could come from any direction,” Harry said. “Take me out to any of the streets around here, car pulls up, we get in. They’ve scoped the place out. They’ve got a plan, and we have to figure out what it is.”

Harry and Cordell walked around Frauenkirche, Harry looking for something that made sense. “I think their car’s going to be here,” Harry said, pointing to a side street to the west of the church. “It’s the closest, most direct way in and out.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

Huber was getting ready to go home when he received a wire from customs and immigration, saying that Harry Levin had crossed the Austrian border into Germany at a remote station somewhere north of Innsbruck. It seemed incomprehensible. Why would Levin, knowing the charges facing him, risk returning to Germany?

Huber had admired the man, a Holocaust survivor who stood up for himself. He had even believed Levin’s allegations against Ernst Hess, believed the arrogant former Nazi had murdered Jews during the war. So, of course he was sympathetic when Levin was arrested in the young Jewish couple’s apartment. Arrested not for murder, but for carrying a concealed weapon — still a serious charge.

Huber had stuck his neck out, put his reputation on the line when he stood up for Levin, had him released from prison and deported. A few weeks later Huber felt like a fool when a hunter discovered three badly decomposed bodies in the forest outside Munich, and ballistics confirmed they had all been shot with the same weapon, an unregistered revolver the police had taken off Harry Levin.

Huber knew Levin had not checked into a hotel or his department would have a record of his passport. So where would he stay? Levin’s friend, the journalist Colette Rizik, had an apartment on Wagnerstrasse, and that’s where Huber had gone, but no one was there.

Next he checked Martz, the murdered Jew’s house and found takeout containers in a trash bin in the kitchen, a duffel bag full of clothes on the floor in one of the bedrooms, and an open suitcase in the other. People were staying there, and Huber had no doubt it was Harry Levin. He had the house watched but so far Levin had not returned.

Back at his desk, Huber received an anonymous phone call about Ernst Hess.

“I know where he is,” the man said.

“Who is this?”

“Who I am is not important. But what I can give you is.” After the newspaper article had appeared, Hess was a hot topic again. “Come to police headquarters and we’ll talk.”

“It’s not safe. Hess has friends everywhere.”

“You choose the place.”

“English Gardens this afternoon at one.”

This is what Huber had been waiting for, hoping for, a connection to Hess, a way to find and arrest him. They had almost had him at the Bayerischer Hof. Conlin, the American detective, had given him accurate intelligence about Hess murdering and assuming the identity of an American citizen named Max Hoffman. Hoffman’s passport had been registered with the police. That’s how Huber knew he was staying at the hotel. They had found his clothes and passport in the room. Huber had leaked the story to a reporter at Suddeutsche Zeitung.

Arresting Hess would be a real coup. It would make his career. Whatever influence Hess had had with the police was eroding fast. From what Huber had heard, Hess had even lost standing with the Blackshirts.

Huber was in the English Gardens at the agreed time, at the agreed place. It was too cold to sit. He moved around, paced and rubbed his gloved hands together trying to stay warm. There were a couple tourists taking pictures of the Chinese Tower. Huber saw a thin, nervous-looking guy, maybe thirty-five, approach and knew he was his man.

“Detective Huber?”

“And you are?”

“That’s not important at the moment.”

“Where is Hess?”

“I don’t know. But I know where he’ll be this evening.”

“How many men does he have?”

“Six.”

“It’s hard to believe there are six Germans naive enough to still believe in him.”

“It’s difficult to say no.”

Huber could relate. With sheer force of will Hess made you do things you didn’t want to do. But now he was an outcast.

“Did you bring the money?”

“It doesn’t work that way. When we have Hess in custody we’ll talk about the reward. Tell me your name?”

“Franz Stigler.”

“Where will Hess be this evening?”

Colette had been in the room for two days. In addition to Hess and Stigler she had seen six others. There were the two who had accompanied Stigler when she had been kidnapped that first night. One of the men, Riemenschneider, was huge and powerfully built. He had picked her up and carried her to the van like she was a stuffed animal.

There were the two that brought her meals. Colette had had the most contact with them. She would hear them come up the stairs with the tray and return later to take it away. One of the men, Willi, was small, shorter than she was, polite and nervous around her.

‘Fraulein, how was your dinner? Are you finished? May I take your plate?’

Colette didn’t think he was going to make it as a hate-mongerer, he was too nice.

Stefan was just the opposite, confident and belligerent. He had muscular tattooed arms on display in black sleeveless or denim shirts, calling her a traitor, a Jew-lover for turning against Ernst Hess, a true German, a hero.

There were two more Blackshirts she had seen smoking cigarettes in front of the house, but she didn’t know their names. She had overheard them talking about meeting Harry at Frauenplatz. If she could escape she could be there before them.

Colette had tried to loosen the bolt in the floor, even bending one of the forks, but couldn’t budge it. Then she thought of another way out.

On the morning of the third day Stefan had surprised her, saying, “Do you enjoy candy?”

Colette thought he was trying to be nice and said, “I have a weakness for chocolate.”

He picked up the tray and walked out of the room.

Just after noon Colette heard footsteps on the stairs and a key slide in the lock. The door opened. Stefan walked in and placed the lunch tray on top of the dresser, and came toward her, tossing a chocolate bar on the bed.

“You remembered.” Colette smiled.

“Now, what’re you going to do for me?” Stefan took a small black semiautomatic out of a back jean pocket and placed it next to the tray. He came over, stood in front of her and unzipped his jeans. “Get on your knees.”

Colette lifted her hands and said, “It will be better if you take these off.”

He selected a small silver key from the ring hanging from his belt, unlocked the cuffs and dropped them on the floor. She looked up at him, unbuckled his belt, opened the top of the jeans and tried to pull them down but they were too tight.