Chapter 19
Berlin
There is something about hotels which makes people lose their inhibitions. The tidy become slovenly, the sober raid the minibar, and as for sex, well, anything goes. Agnes Kwiatkowski had lost count of the number of propositions she had received during her two years as a chambermaid at the Brandenburger Hof. The single businessmen, towels wrapped around their waists, were bad enough, but worse was the couples who did not believe that three was a crowd. A good Catholic girl, she had resisted all offers; besides, her boyfriend was the jealous type and worked as a porter downstairs.
All her experience, however, paled into insignificance when confronted with the scene that met her in room 527. Knocking, as she had been taught, she used her key-card to open the door when there was no reply. She expected to conduct the usual turn-down duties, arranging the bed, leaving a chocolate strategically on the pillow. She did not expect to see a half naked woman and a fully clothed man bound and gagged on chairs opposite each other. Nor did she expect the woman to have a man’s head buried in her lap. Chalking it up to experience, she made a retreat for the corridor until stopped by the muffled cries of the two guests.
Heading back into the room, Agnes undid the gag tied around the woman’s head and was surprised to hear an extremely gratified “Danke”.
“Please, call someone to help us” the blond woman said, the words rushing out like a mountain stream.
Agnes looked at her, seeing the livid mark on her face, her eye beginning to swell shut. Picking up the telephone, she dialled reception and asked them to send someone up immediately. It was than that she noticed that the man lying on the woman’s lap had not moved all the time she had been in the room. A fact perhaps explained by the large red hole at the back of his skull. Gasping in shock, her hand flew to her mouth, just as her legs buckled and she fainted.
Large, luxury hotels usually have a detective on their staff. Their regular duties include clearing loiterers and prostitutes from the lobby, helping with unruly guests and re-assuring old ladies that their lost jewels have probably not been pilfered by the staff. Occasionally, they are required to act in more serious matters, though rarely murder.
Observing the scene in room 527, the Brandenburger’s detective made two quick judgements. Firstly, a doctor would have to be summoned immediately, given the injuries to the blond lady, and secondly, the third man in the room was way above his pay grade and the police would have to be called, whether the management liked it or not.
The doctor arrived first and inspected the two guests, the third being above his pay grade now also. Quickly diagnosing concussion in both, he proscribed painkillers and sedatives, and ordered bed rest, the hotel management kindly arranging new rooms for both, whether out of embarrassment or fear was not obvious. Before they left, DNA samples were taken from both Elena and Simon, to help the police in their investigations. They would not be questioned for a while in deference to their injuries, but armed officers would be stationed outside their rooms, both to protect them, and to discourage them from disappearing.
In the meantime, room 527 became the busiest room in the hotel as every branch of the German constabulary except the Transport Police sent a representative to supervise the forensic operation. There is such a thing as overkill, and eventually the chief crime scene investigator ordered the room cleared as more evidence was being destroyed than collected.
While the focus was on the room in which the murder had occurred, there was a parallel operation across the courtyard, as the police tried to gather evidence about the killer. In truth, they had little success, save from a few odd fibres from hotel carpets different to those in the Brandenburger Hof. Given the skill they assassin had shown, they were not surprised, or at any rate, not as surprised as the elderly couple from Iowa whose bedroom would shortly be featured on the nightly news. They were, however, considerably more amenable, after the manager waived the charges for their stay and offered a complimentary dinner, before retiring to his office to count the cost of the worst day of his professional life.
The drugs worked their magic on both Simon and Elena, and the morning was relatively well advanced when they awoke. Simon still had a headache, but it was manageable, while Elena’s face was bruised, but the swelling had subsided dramatically. As if psychically, the police seemed to know of their recovery as Simon was summoned to meet Agent Waldheim shortly after getting up, the uniformed officer on guard duty politely but insistently suggesting that he might like to get dressed for a meeting.
Having made himself as presentable as he could, Simon followed the young officer downstairs to a meeting room, to find the bald, moustachioed Agent sitting behind a table, tucking into a plate of pastries, a steaming cup of coffee by his side. Something about near-death experiences affected Simon’s digestive system, so he refused Waldheim’s offer of breakfast, and began, without prompting, to describe the ordeal of the previous evening.
Waldheim listened, taking some notes, but mainly concentrating on his breakfast, finally dabbing his moustache with a heavily starched napkin. Simon had the impression that the agent already knew exactly what had happened and was interviewing him more for the sake of protocol than anything else. While he could understand his point of view, he also felt slightly ill done by, like a child whose parents ignore his tale of derring do. When he finished his story, Waldheim suggested that he return to his room to await some more questions, and recommended breakfast while he did so.
Just as the trolley bearing his food arrived, so did a messenger from downstairs, requesting that Simon re-join Agent Waldheim. Frustrated, his hunger having just returned, Simon followed the officer once more and was shown into the same meeting room. In front of the desk, he saw Elena. Moving over to her, he saw that her swelling had gone down and turned a dark shade of purply blue. Despite her obvious pain, she stood and embraced him, murmuring something about being glad he was ok. Simon held her tightly, drawing a slight groan as he pressed against her bruises.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about last night” he said, adopting the persona of the English gentleman.
“It wasn’t your fault.” she replied.
“But still, ...” he started before a cough from the other side of the desk reminded him that Waldheim was present, and was not interested in his attempts at chivalry.
“Well, at least your stories match, that’s the good thing. For you. But I have a problem. And I don’t like problems.
“You see, while you two were sleeping, some of us have been working.”
Simon was about to interject that Waldheim had not been attacked by a knife-wielding psycopath, but something about the look in his eyes suggested that silence was a wiser course.
“About 8 o’clock last night, your attacker’s mobile phone rang. Stupid really, he should have kept it off. It wouldn’t have stopped us of course, but it might have held us up a bit. Anyway, we immediately put a trace on the number and found that it came from another cell-phone located in the forest in Thuringia. There’s not much coverage there, but we were lucky and were able to pinpoint the location very closely. It seemed to be coming from a hunting lodge. The sort of place that gets hired out to groups while they go and prove themselves against nature.”
Waldheim obviously wasn’t the huntin’, shootin, fishin’ type.
“The number rang three times, so we asked our colleagues near there to take a look as soon as they could. It was about an hour before they got there; the lodge is in the middle of no-where, and the snow had been falling heavily. When they arrived, they discovered several sets of tyre tracks, and a burned out hunting lodge. All of which means that the owners have a large insurance claim, and I have a case of arson to add to my two murders.”
“How can you be sure they are all connected?” Elena asked, the policewoman taking over from the crime victim. “It could just be coincidence.”
“I think you’re under-estimating yourself, Inspector. You arrive here, with information regarding a murder case, and in return for your help, I give you a phone number. A few hours later, you are attacked in your hotel, by a man claiming to work for me, and only saved by an assassin shooting your attacker in the head. Exactly the same modus operandi which accounted for the missing soldier in your bell tower. Shortly thereafter, the only place which we can link to the dead man is torched, with what the attending officer described as ‘industrial quantities of gasoline’. I don’t think coincidence stretches that far, do you Inspector?”
“The man who attacked you in your room was Sergeant Axel Merkens. He was a member of the same unit as your man in Austria. About a year ago, they all resigned en masse. Caused a bit of a flap in the Defence Ministry apparently. They were highly trained and highly decorated. The Major had a bit of a reputation as a cowboy. He was very good, but given to cutting corners, doing things his own way. My contact tells me that he got away with things that no other soldier could, he had friends in the right places.
About a year before they resigned, your army, Dr Pelham, filed a complaint about the conduct of Major Frei’s unit. Your SAS had come across them somewhere in Afghanistan and, let’s just say, they were not following the Geneva Convention to the letter. The complaint particularly named Merkens, alleging that he had tortured civilians, in quite sadistic ways.
The complaint came from the very top. Hearts and Minds, is that the expression? Can’t have allied soldiers torturing people. Caused a real stink. Anyway, the unit got recalled to Germany, but it went no further. Like I said, Frei had powerful friends, and he looked after his own. They stayed on for a bit, then they all left together. Which leaves me with two questions.
One, why are these highly trained, highly aggressive soldiers trying so hard to kill you? And two, who is it who keeps saving you? I have no problem with scum like Merkens dying, he was a disgrace to the uniform, but I will not have bodies piling up across Berlin because of you. I could have you deported, but that would merely drop the problem back on to my Austrian colleagues. This must end, and it will end here. So, Dr Pelham and Inspector Stahlberg, I suggest you go off and have a think about what I have said, and bring me some answers.”
Berlin
There is something about hotels which makes people lose their inhibitions. The tidy become slovenly, the sober raid the minibar, and as for sex, well, anything goes. Agnes Kwiatkowski had lost count of the number of propositions she had received during her two years as a chambermaid at the Brandenburger Hof. The single businessmen, towels wrapped around their waists, were bad enough, but worse was the couples who did not believe that three was a crowd. A good Catholic girl, she had resisted all offers; besides, her boyfriend was the jealous type and worked as a porter downstairs.
All her experience, however, paled into insignificance when confronted with the scene that met her in room 527. Knocking, as she had been taught, she used her key-card to open the door when there was no reply. She expected to conduct the usual turn-down duties, arranging the bed, leaving a chocolate strategically on the pillow. She did not expect to see a half naked woman and a fully clothed man bound and gagged on chairs opposite each other. Nor did she expect the woman to have a man’s head buried in her lap. Chalking it up to experience, she made a retreat for the corridor until stopped by the muffled cries of the two guests.
Heading back into the room, Agnes undid the gag tied around the woman’s head and was surprised to hear an extremely gratified “Danke”.
“Please, call someone to help us” the blond woman said, the words rushing out like a mountain stream.
Agnes looked at her, seeing the livid mark on her face, her eye beginning to swell shut. Picking up the telephone, she dialled reception and asked them to send someone up immediately. It was than that she noticed that the man lying on the woman’s lap had not moved all the time she had been in the room. A fact perhaps explained by the large red hole at the back of his skull. Gasping in shock, her hand flew to her mouth, just as her legs buckled and she fainted.
Large, luxury hotels usually have a detective on their staff. Their regular duties include clearing loiterers and prostitutes from the lobby, helping with unruly guests and re-assuring old ladies that their lost jewels have probably not been pilfered by the staff. Occasionally, they are required to act in more serious matters, though rarely murder.
Observing the scene in room 527, the Brandenburger’s detective made two quick judgements. Firstly, a doctor would have to be summoned immediately, given the injuries to the blond lady, and secondly, the third man in the room was way above his pay grade and the police would have to be called, whether the management liked it or not.
The doctor arrived first and inspected the two guests, the third being above his pay grade now also. Quickly diagnosing concussion in both, he proscribed painkillers and sedatives, and ordered bed rest, the hotel management kindly arranging new rooms for both, whether out of embarrassment or fear was not obvious. Before they left, DNA samples were taken from both Elena and Simon, to help the police in their investigations. They would not be questioned for a while in deference to their injuries, but armed officers would be stationed outside their rooms, both to protect them, and to discourage them from disappearing.
In the meantime, room 527 became the busiest room in the hotel as every branch of the German constabulary except the Transport Police sent a representative to supervise the forensic operation. There is such a thing as overkill, and eventually the chief crime scene investigator ordered the room cleared as more evidence was being destroyed than collected.
While the focus was on the room in which the murder had occurred, there was a parallel operation across the courtyard, as the police tried to gather evidence about the killer. In truth, they had little success, save from a few odd fibres from hotel carpets different to those in the Brandenburger Hof. Given the skill they assassin had shown, they were not surprised, or at any rate, not as surprised as the elderly couple from Iowa whose bedroom would shortly be featured on the nightly news. They were, however, considerably more amenable, after the manager waived the charges for their stay and offered a complimentary dinner, before retiring to his office to count the cost of the worst day of his professional life.
The drugs worked their magic on both Simon and Elena, and the morning was relatively well advanced when they awoke. Simon still had a headache, but it was manageable, while Elena’s face was bruised, but the swelling had subsided dramatically. As if psychically, the police seemed to know of their recovery as Simon was summoned to meet Agent Waldheim shortly after getting up, the uniformed officer on guard duty politely but insistently suggesting that he might like to get dressed for a meeting.
Having made himself as presentable as he could, Simon followed the young officer downstairs to a meeting room, to find the bald, moustachioed Agent sitting behind a table, tucking into a plate of pastries, a steaming cup of coffee by his side. Something about near-death experiences affected Simon’s digestive system, so he refused Waldheim’s offer of breakfast, and began, without prompting, to describe the ordeal of the previous evening.
Waldheim listened, taking some notes, but mainly concentrating on his breakfast, finally dabbing his moustache with a heavily starched napkin. Simon had the impression that the agent already knew exactly what had happened and was interviewing him more for the sake of protocol than anything else. While he could understand his point of view, he also felt slightly ill done by, like a child whose parents ignore his tale of derring do. When he finished his story, Waldheim suggested that he return to his room to await some more questions, and recommended breakfast while he did so.
Just as the trolley bearing his food arrived, so did a messenger from downstairs, requesting that Simon re-join Agent Waldheim. Frustrated, his hunger having just returned, Simon followed the officer once more and was shown into the same meeting room. In front of the desk, he saw Elena. Moving over to her, he saw that her swelling had gone down and turned a dark shade of purply blue. Despite her obvious pain, she stood and embraced him, murmuring something about being glad he was ok. Simon held her tightly, drawing a slight groan as he pressed against her bruises.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about last night” he said, adopting the persona of the English gentleman.
“It wasn’t your fault.” she replied.
“But still, ...” he started before a cough from the other side of the desk reminded him that Waldheim was present, and was not interested in his attempts at chivalry.
“Well, at least your stories match, that’s the good thing. For you. But I have a problem. And I don’t like problems.
“You see, while you two were sleeping, some of us have been working.”
Simon was about to interject that Waldheim had not been attacked by a knife-wielding psycopath, but something about the look in his eyes suggested that silence was a wiser course.
“About 8 o’clock last night, your attacker’s mobile phone rang. Stupid really, he should have kept it off. It wouldn’t have stopped us of course, but it might have held us up a bit. Anyway, we immediately put a trace on the number and found that it came from another cell-phone located in the forest in Thuringia. There’s not much coverage there, but we were lucky and were able to pinpoint the location very closely. It seemed to be coming from a hunting lodge. The sort of place that gets hired out to groups while they go and prove themselves against nature.”
Waldheim obviously wasn’t the huntin’, shootin, fishin’ type.
“The number rang three times, so we asked our colleagues near there to take a look as soon as they could. It was about an hour before they got there; the lodge is in the middle of no-where, and the snow had been falling heavily. When they arrived, they discovered several sets of tyre tracks, and a burned out hunting lodge. All of which means that the owners have a large insurance claim, and I have a case of arson to add to my two murders.”
“How can you be sure they are all connected?” Elena asked, the policewoman taking over from the crime victim. “It could just be coincidence.”
“I think you’re under-estimating yourself, Inspector. You arrive here, with information regarding a murder case, and in return for your help, I give you a phone number. A few hours later, you are attacked in your hotel, by a man claiming to work for me, and only saved by an assassin shooting your attacker in the head. Exactly the same modus operandi which accounted for the missing soldier in your bell tower. Shortly thereafter, the only place which we can link to the dead man is torched, with what the attending officer described as ‘industrial quantities of gasoline’. I don’t think coincidence stretches that far, do you Inspector?”
“The man who attacked you in your room was Sergeant Axel Merkens. He was a member of the same unit as your man in Austria. About a year ago, they all resigned en masse. Caused a bit of a flap in the Defence Ministry apparently. They were highly trained and highly decorated. The Major had a bit of a reputation as a cowboy. He was very good, but given to cutting corners, doing things his own way. My contact tells me that he got away with things that no other soldier could, he had friends in the right places.
About a year before they resigned, your army, Dr Pelham, filed a complaint about the conduct of Major Frei’s unit. Your SAS had come across them somewhere in Afghanistan and, let’s just say, they were not following the Geneva Convention to the letter. The complaint particularly named Merkens, alleging that he had tortured civilians, in quite sadistic ways.
The complaint came from the very top. Hearts and Minds, is that the expression? Can’t have allied soldiers torturing people. Caused a real stink. Anyway, the unit got recalled to Germany, but it went no further. Like I said, Frei had powerful friends, and he looked after his own. They stayed on for a bit, then they all left together. Which leaves me with two questions.
One, why are these highly trained, highly aggressive soldiers trying so hard to kill you? And two, who is it who keeps saving you? I have no problem with scum like Merkens dying, he was a disgrace to the uniform, but I will not have bodies piling up across Berlin because of you. I could have you deported, but that would merely drop the problem back on to my Austrian colleagues. This must end, and it will end here. So, Dr Pelham and Inspector Stahlberg, I suggest you go off and have a think about what I have said, and bring me some answers.”
No comments:
Post a Comment