Chapter One
Berlin, Germany
1 September 1985
Berlin felt… different.
Leutnant der Polizei Herman Wieland strode down the street, feeling oddly exposed for the first time in his long career. Nothing was the same any longer. People who had once eyed him with respect, or fear, were now meeting his gaze challengingly, while political agitators walked through the streets openly, surrounded by hordes of admiring supporters. Anyone could speak now, without fear of arrest. It seemed as if everyone in Berlin had something to say.
He sighed inwardly as he turned a corner and saw yet another speaker, a middle-aged man standing on a box, telling the crowd what needed to be done to save the revolution from itself. Apparently, all of the former servants of the state were to be herded into the concentration camps and exterminated, even though the Reich couldn’t survive without the bureaucrats and former regime officers who ran the state. There were quite a few Herman would cheerfully have watched die – he wouldn’t have crossed the road to piss on them if they were on fire – but it was hard to separate the truly dangerous ones from the bureaucrats who were necessary. And yet, the crowd was murmuring in approval.
Nothing is the same any longer, he told himself, glumly. Too many people have too many grudges to pay off.
He forced himself to look back, evenly, as some of the crowd eyed him in a distantly hostile manner. No one would have dared to look at him like that, even a year ago, but things had changed. These days, the police had strict orders to use as little force as possible, even when dealing with riots. Herman was all too aware that a number of police officers had been waylaid and killed, their bodies brutally mutilated by their murderers. There were just too many possible suspects for the police to track down even one of the killers. The police had few friends on the streets of Berlin and they knew it.
The crowd scowled at him, but made no move to attack. Herman kept his relief off his face as he strolled past, forcing himself to walk normally. He had a pistol, of course, but he couldn’t have hoped to kill more than a handful of rioters before they tore him apart. The old fear was gone, leaving a civilian population that was growing increasingly aware of its strength. And they definitely had far too many grudges to pay off.
His companion elbowed him. “So tell me,” Leutnant der Polizei Hendrik Kuls said. “What’s it like to have powerful relatives?”
Herman groaned, inwardly. Nepotism was epidemic in the Reich – he didn’t expect that to change anytime soon – but his case was unique. His daughter was a Reich Councillor, under Chancellor Volker Schulze. His teenage daughter. Herman honestly wasn’t sure what to make of the whole affair – Gudrun had defied him to his face, not something any self-respecting German father could tolerate – but she had avenged her boyfriend and forced the Reich to change. He was torn between pride and a sense of bitter horror. The youngsters might believe they’d won, yet Herman knew better. It wouldn’t be long before the SS mounted a counterattack from Germany East.
“It has its moments,” he said, finally. Gudrun hadn’t done anything for his career, as far as he knew. Certainly, his superiors hadn’t moved him to a safer post in one of the police stations, rather than allowing him to patrol the increasingly dangerous streets. “And your relatives are doing what for you?”
“Getting out of the city,” Kuls said. “They’re convinced that Berlin is going to tip into anarchy at any moment.”
“They might well be right,” Herman commented.
He frowned. Berlin was on a knife-edge these days, torn between hope and fear. The provisional government had doubled military and police patrols through the city, but it would take a far larger army to keep the entire city under control. Berlin was the largest city in the world; miles upon miles of sprawling government buildings, apartment blocks, factories and Gastarbeiter slave camps. A riot in one place might easily do some real damage before it could be crushed, now the fear was gone.
And with a quarter of the police force gone, he thought, we don’t have the manpower to keep running regular patrols through a third of the city.
“I think so,” Kuls agreed. “What happens when we run out of food?”
“We starve,” Herman said, flatly.
He pushed the thought aside as they walked down the long road, striding past a row of apartment blocks. They were new, designed more for young unmarried professionals rather than men with wives and families; now, their windows were decorated with political slogans and demands for change. Herman wondered, absently, just what would happen when the young professionals realised that change wouldn’t come as easily as they hoped, then shrugged. They’d just have to learn to cope, same as everyone else.
Some of them will have military experience, he thought. They’ll be able to join the defence force, if nothing else.
He jumped as a door banged open, a middle-aged woman running out onto the street and waved desperately to them. Herman tensed, wondering if it was a trap of some kind, then walked over to her, keeping one hand on his pistol. Up close, the woman was at least a decade older than his wife, although time seemed to have been kind to her. Her hair was going grey, but otherwise she seemed to be in good health.
“I need help,” she gasped. “One of my tenants is wounded. There’s blood under the door!”
Herman blinked. “Blood?”
“Blood,” the landlady said. “It’s coming out from under the door!”
Herman exchanged a glance with Kuls, then allowed the woman to lead the way into the apartment block. Inside, it was dark and cold, the only illumination coming from a single flickering light bulb mounted on the wall. A shiver ran down his spine as he carefully unbuttoned his holster, glancing from side to side as his eyes struggled to adapt to the dim light. It grew brighter as they walked up two flights of stairs and stopped outside a single wooden door. Blood was dribbling from under the door…
“Call it in,” Herman snapped.
“Jawohl,” Kuls said.
Herman tested the wooden door, then pulled a skeleton key from his belt and inserted it into the lock. Legally, locks had to be designed so a policeman could open them with his key, but it wasn’t uncommon to find a door that had been designed before 1945 or one put together by a crafty locksmith. He allowed himself a moment of relief as the door opened without a fuss, then swore out loud as he pushed it open. A body – horrifically mutilated – lay on the carpeted floor. Behind him, he heard a thump as the landlady fainted.
“Take care of her,” he ordered. “Did you get any reply?”
“Not as yet,” Kuls said. “The dispatcher merely logged the call.”
“Tell them we have a body,” Herman said. He frowned as he peered at the corpse, careful not to touch the remains. “And one that doesn’t look to be long dead.”
He felt his frown deepen as he silently listed the wounds. The murderer – or murderers – had been savage. They’d cut their victim’s throat, stabbed him several times in the chest and castrated him, probably after force-feeding him some kind of anticoagulant. The blood should have started to clot by now, but it was still liquid. He’d been bled like a pig. Herman shuddered – he hadn’t seen anything like this outside a brief tour in Germany East – and then glanced around, looking for clues. But there was nothing to be found.