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?”
Thirty-one
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.
He pushed the jeans over his hips and grabbed a fistful of Colette’s hair. Now the fabric was loose and she pulled them down, bunching at his ankles, keys jiggling, and got a whiff of him, the sour stench of unwashed man.
He had to sit on the bed to get out of the black combat boots. This is what Colette was hoping for, pictured it going this way, get the man thinking with his weenie. She made her move, got up, went to the dresser, grabbed the pistol. Stefan stood up, tried to take a step and fell, rolled on his back and pulled up his jeans. When Colette racked the pistol, he stopped moving, looked up at her. “Cuff yourself and get on the bed.”
Stefan grinned. “You’re never going to get out of here. Give me the gun before you get hurt.”
Colette bent her knees slightly, holding the gun with two hands, barrel pointed at Stefan’s head. He sat up, reached for the handcuffs and clamped them on his wrists.
“Give me the key.”
He unhooked the key from the ring and tossed it on the floor at her feet. Colette crouched and picked it up, never taking her eyes off him.
“How many are in the house?”
“You’ll find out.”
“Get over on the other side of the bed.”
He did without saying anything. Colette opened the door and went down the stairs. Figured she had a few seconds to get out of the house, moved past two Blackshirts sitting in the salon, reading the newspaper. Heard Stefan open the bedroom door, yelling from upstairs. “She’s getting away. Stop her.” Colette ran to the front door, opened it and took off. Heard the explosive discharge of a gunshot, glanced over her shoulder and saw two Blackshirts running after her. The tree line was thirty meters. Twenty-five. Twenty. She was almost there when the big sedan skidded to a stop in front of her. Two more jumped out and charged toward her. Colette aimed the pistol at them, but now the others had caught up and surrounded her. Franz Stigler said, “Are you going to shoot us all?”
At 3:30 they put her in the back seat of an Audi sedan sandwiched between Stefan and the big man, Riemenschneider, a hood over her head. Where were they taking her? She felt the bumps on the dirt road that went through the woods, and then a smooth ride followed by stop-and-go traffic, the sounds of a city around her. When they were parked the hood was lifted off her head, eyes squinting in the bright afternoon sun. They were in the shadow of the Frauenkirche. Colette saw Harry walking toward the car with Franz Stigler. Her eyes met his and then the car was moving. Stefan pulled the hood over her head. Everything was over in a few seconds.
“You see, Herr Levin, Fraulein Rizik is alive and well.”
Stigler steered Harry to another sedan parked just down the street and frisked him, moving his hands under Harry’s arms, behind his back and between and down his legs.