The Day After Tomorrow

118

GRETA STASSEL was the twenty-year-old cabdriver Von Holden had left waiting outside number 45 Behrenstrasse. She’d seen him look at her posted driver’s papers and wondered if he’d remembered her name. She doubted it. He’d seemed troubled, but he was also very sexy and she was thinking how she might help him with whatever was bothering him, when the streetlights flickered and then went out.

She started as a figure suddenly appeared out of the darkness and tapped on her window. Then she realized who it was and that he was telling her through the glass that he had something to put in the trunk. Taking the keys from the ignition, she got out and walked to the back of the cab. Yes, he was sexy and very handsome and he seemed calm, so maybe he wasn’t troubled after all.

“Where is it?” She smiled, unlocking the trunk.

For a moment Von Holden lost himself, thinking he’d never seen such a beautiful smile. Then Greta saw the square white plastic carrying case sitting on the curb. The red glow of the taxi’s taillights highlighted the words stenciled on its top and sides: FRAGILE—MEDICAL INSTRUMENTS.

“I’m sorry, that’s not it—” Von Holden said as she moved to pick it up.

Turning back, she looked puzzled but smiled anyway. “I thought you had something you wanted put in the trunk—”

“I do—”

She was still smiling when the slug from the nine-millimeter Glock penetrated her skull at the very top of her nose. Von Holden caught her just as her knees began to buckle. Picking her up, he rolled her into the trunk in a fetal position. Closing the lid, he took the keys, put the case in the front seat next to him, then started the engine and drove off. A half block later he turned onto the brightly lit Friedrichstrasse. Finding the driver’s log, he fore off the top page, folded it with one hand and put it in his pocket. The clock on the dash read 8:30.

At 8:35, Von Holden was passing through the dark expanse of the Tiergarten on Strasse 17 Juni, five minutes away from Charlottenburg. He gave no thought to the body of the cabdriver in the trunk. Killing her meant nothing. It had simply been a necessary means to an end.

“Übermorgen,” the pinnacle of everything, sat gently swaying in the white case on the seat beside him. Its presence lightened his heart and gave him courage. Even though twice more he had radioed for his operatives and still had no response, things were changing for the better. News broadcasts from radio correspondents on the scene at the Hotel Borggreve were reporting at least three members of the German federal police killed in a shootout, explosion and fire. Two unidentified bodies had been removed, burned beyond recognition. Two other bodies had been found but had not yet been identified. A factional terrorist organization had called police claiming responsibility. Von Holden relaxed and sat back, breathing deeply at the turn of fortune. Perhaps his anxiety had been unfounded, perhaps all had gone as planned.

A mile away, parked limousines lined Spandauer Damm in front of Charlottenburg, their drivers collected in groups, smoking and talking, collars turned up and caps pulled down against the rawness of the thickening fog.

On the sidewalk directly across the street, Walter van Dis, a seventeen-year-old Dutch guitar player in a black leather jacket and hair to his waist, stood with a crowd of spectators watching the palace. Nothing was happening but they were watching anyway, entertained by the spectacle of a luxury that would never be theirs unless the world changed dramatically.

The dull staccato of car doors slamming caught his attention and he changed position a little to see what was going on. Four men had just gotten out of a car and were crossing the street, heading toward Charlottenburg’s front gate. Immediately, he stepped back into the shadows, at the same time lifting a hand to his mouth.

“Walter,” he said into a tiny microphone.

A moment later Von Holden’s radio beeped. Eagerly he switched on, expecting to hear the voice of one of his Hotel Borggreve operatives. Instead, he came in on anxious chatter between Walter and several of the palace’s security people demanding details. What men was he talking about? Was he sure of the number? What did they look like? What direction were they coming from?

“This is Lugo!” he said sharply. “Clear the line for Walter.”

“Walter.”

“What have you got?”

“Four men. Just got out of a car and are approaching the front gate. By description one looks like the American, Osborn. Another might be McVey .”

Von Holden swore under his breath. “Hold them at the gate! Under no circumstances are they to be let inside!”

Abruptly he heard a man identify himself as Inspector Remmer of the BKA and say that he had police business inside the palace. Then he heard the familiar voice of Pappen, his security chief, defy him. This was a private affair, with private security. The police had no business there. Remmer said that he had a warrant for the arrest of Erwin Scholl. Pappen said he never heard of an Erwin Scholl, and unless Remmer had a warrant to enter the property, he would not be allowed inside.

McVey and Osborn followed Remmer and Schneider across the cobblestone courtyard toward the palace entrance. When even the threat of the fire marshal’s closing the building didn’t dissuade them. Remmer had radioed for three backup units. Lights flashing, they’d arrived within seconds and taken the chief of security and his lieutenant into custody for interfering with a police operation.

Racing through traffic, Von Holden pulled up in the snarl created by Remmer’s action just as Pappen and his second in command were wrestled into a police car and driven away. Getting out of the cab, he stood beside it and watched the remainder of his central gate security force step aside as the intruders reached the front door and entered the building.

Scholl would be furious, but he’d brought it on himself. Von Holden knew at the time he should have argued longer and harder, but he hadn’t, and it made the truth all that more bitter.

There was no doubt in his mind, none whatsoever, that had he been at the Hotel Borggreve, neither Osborn nor McVey would now be at Charlottenburg.