Five Past Midnight (27 page)

"Do you think I give a good goddamn about what's behind you?" Cray prodded the man's forehead with the pistol barrel. "The question is, are you living your last seconds?" He had learned the phrase from Katrin.

The driver turned to face the vision block with the armored binoculars hanging over it. With his right hand he pulled the gear lever back. In front of the driver, to the right of the vision block, was an electrically driven gyroscope direction indicator, and to his right was the instrument panel with a speedometer and an oil-pressure gauge and a water-temperature meter. Spilled sideways against the compartment, the radio operator gasped against the pain in his leg.

The driver wound up the Maybach engine, and the tank began to vibrate. Cray's compartment acted as a sounding board, amplifying and containing the engine's roar. The driver gripped the steering levers and released the clutch. The tank lurched backward.

Blood rolled down the gunner's arm and through the hatch and onto the driver's beret. The gunner was breathing shallowly, his eyes fixed on Cray. Perhaps he had decided Cray had done to him all he was going to do. His breath whistling, he said, "Goddamn Americans. You just had to come into the war, didn't you?"

Cray looked at him. "Don't talk to me. Just sit there and bleed."

Orders had apparently been given to sacrifice the Panzerkampfwagen III's crewmen, because a shell—perhaps from an armored car—banged against the turret, but it had hit it at an angle, and it bounced off. The sound was of being inside a bell when it is rung.

"You don't look as tough as in the posters," the gunner sneered. "Where's your knife, killer?"

Cray held up a finger like a schoolteacher. "Let me explain a little of my philosophy: Shut the hell up."

He shot the gunner again, this time his other arm, clean through it. The bullet smacked against the steel turret wall and slid to the deck. Cray picked up the flattened bullet and slipped it into the gunner's tunic pocket. "Here's a little souvenir of the war. Now just sit there quietly and don't try my patience again."

Gasping, the gunner slipped sideways.

The back of the tank rose as it climbed a tree, then leveled off as the tree toppled under the tank's weight. Then it did so again. Cray gripped the handle of the MG-34 and loosed a long string of bullets, the spent casings falling into a canvas bag below the breach, which prevented them from ricocheting around the compartment. The shots were warnings not to get close to the tank.

Cray's ears rang. He yelled down at the driver, "Turn us around and head south across Tiergarten Street."

The tank stopped, then wheeled about and took off again.

Cray shouted down into the driver's compartment. "I've got a problem, driver."

The driver braved a look up at the American.

"When I climb out of this tank, you are undoubtedly going to try to run me over or shoot me through. So I've got a problem letting you live."

"Sounds more like my problem, frankly," the driver replied. Cray shoved aside the injured gunner to peer through his sighting telescope. He couldn't see anything but night. "Where are we, driver?"

"Crossing Tiergarten Street Buildings straight ahead. Which way do I turn, east or west
?
Better tell me quickly or we'll tarn the buildings."

The tank tilted off the curb, and the fighting compartment filled with the sharper sounds of treads on concrete. The turret interior smelled of grease, exhaust, spent powder, and old sweat.

"Bombed-out buildings ahead." The driver's voice rose "If you're the new goddamn commander, give me directions."

Cray wet his lips. He knew soldiers would be following the runaway tank, but probably at a respectful distance. He also knew that in a battle the tank crew should avoid leaving their vehicle if at all possible because tanks draw fire, and that a crewman is never more vulnerable than when trying to climb out of the turret.

The American leaned back against a bag containing a 150-pound belt of machine ammunition that hung from the turret. The loader stared at him with glassy eyes. Cray ordered, "Straight ahead. Ram one of the buildings."

"What, for Christ's sake?"

"Put your tank through one of those shattered buildings." Perhaps Cray's plan was immediately apparent to the driver, who saw a reprieve for himself and his crew, because he only nodded and said, "Here we go."

The tank ground forward, up the curb, then up two steps to the apartment building's door, knocking aside two cement planters. The building had been partly destroyed in a bombing run. The door was off its hinges and lying on the porch. The upper story had tumbled out over the street, leaving bricks and masonry about. The windows had been blown out and fire had charred the building's brick façade.

The tank charged through the wall, rising and plowing forward, bulldozing bricks and wood inward. Remnants of the second story collapsed onto the vehicle and out onto the sidewalk. The tank growled ahead, into the apartment's living room, crushing a sofa and table, then to the back of the room, where the treads gripped the wall and rose. Cray could hear wrenched timbers falling against the turret. The wall buckled, and the tank climbed higher, its blunt nose almost at the ceiling. Then the treads spun, without gaining more purchase.

"That's as far as we go." The driver disengaged the gear. "Now what?"

Cray unlatched the turret hatch, and rose to stand on the commander's chair to push open the hatch. Plaster and lathe fell away from the cupola. He pushed away debris, then grabbed the rim to lift his legs out. Here, inside the fractured building, he was protected from gunfire as he exited the tank.

Cray quickly surveyed the ruined room. The tank filled it. A family portrait was still on one wall, but darkness hid the rest of the room. Shots came from outside, from across the street in the park. More orders were called. Armored vehicles rushed along the street.

He bent back through the hatch. "Don't try to follow me, driver."

The driver shook his head. "The notion hadn't occurred to me."

Cray slipped off the turret to the fender, then down to the room's floor. The tank's weight had bent the room's back wall, revealing beams and sky above. The treads and wheels had sunk into the floor as if it were water. Exhaust from the tank's engine filled the room. Carrying his pistol, Cray stepped over a lampshade and through a door to a kitchen where utensils were scattered over the floor, then out a back door. He sprinted along the alley, then onto a side street where the night took him in.

PART THREE

1

OTTO DIETRICH'S desk was cluttered with tokens of appreciation. He would diminish them with a shrug when asked about them. But he was too proud of them to consign them to a box on a closet shelf. The largest was a glittering brass fire nozzle. Etched into the brass was To DETECTIVE INSPECTOR OTTO DIETRICH WITH ETERNAL GRATITUDE FROM THE FIREMEN OF CHARLOTTENBURG STATION No. 2, OCTOBER 12,1938. Dietrich had caught the gem-setter who in a fit of pique resulting from a denial of a raise had burned down his employer's jewelry store. Three firemen had died when a floor collapsed.

A bronzed glove was on a polished walnut stand. The glove—before being bronzed—had been floating on the Wannsee, the first trace of evidence that Baroness Maria von Hinton had done anything but journey to Baden-Baden, as was her routine at that time of year. When the lake was dragged, her body was found wrapped in enough chain to anchor the
Bismarck.
The coroner, Dr. Wenck, had determined that the baroness was alive when dropped into the water. Her family had presented the glove to Dietrich upon conviction of the notorious playboy Count Erich von Stoln, who had wrapped the baroness in iron and thrown her in the lake, two bottles of brandy having altered his perception of an acceptable frolic. Also on Dietrich's desk were an inscribed pair of brass knuckles inlaid with diamonds, a silver-plated hatchet head, a crystal decanter containing a human ear (a row of teeth marks clearly visible), and other mementos.

Dietrich seldom sat at his desk, but he did now, still weak from his time in the prison. He asked mildly, "How many Jack Grays are out there now?"

Detective Peter Hilfinger stepped to the window overlooking Alexanderplatz. The day was fading, with red in the sky, some from the sunset, some from that day's bombing-raid fires. "Nine, looks like With some of the Jack Crays in uniform, it's hard to tell them from their guards."

Hilfinger's back was to the desk, but Dietrich knew he was working to suppress a laugh. Dietrich picked up a gold-plated letter opener that at one time had also opened a kidney. "I hadn't anticipated this, Peter."

"Perhaps both of us should have," Hilfinger said charitably. "But with the American's face covering almost every vertical surface in Berlin, we are getting an average of fifteen sightings and three arrests an hour."

"I have supervised city-wide manhunts before." Dietrich leaned back in his chair. "And you have assisted me. We know how to do it."

"Of course."

"Berliners will not tolerate a knife-wielding killer walking their streets."

"No." Hilfinger turned from the window. His face was inappropriate for a policeman, all in the department agreed. His eyes were set merrily, and the corners of his mouth were permanently turned up. Hilfinger was eager and enthusiastic and helpful. He used his happy countenance to his advantage, Dietrich knew, particularly during interrogations. Just like everyone else, criminals wanted to befriend him.

"And that's why we've had this flood of reports." Dietrich thought his own words lame. The truth was that his manhunt had failed.

"Inspector?" The voice came from the doorway. "Will you check this man out?"

Dietrich's chair squeaked as it turned toward the door. The detective rubbed his eyes before looking at the door, hoping whoever stood there would disappear.

Detective Egon Haushofer shared the door frame with a blond refugee wearing a miner's cap. The refugee kept his head bowed and repeatedly ran his tongue over his lips. He had a thick chest and rugged hands cuffed together. He had a passing resemblance to Jack Cray.

Detective Haushofer explained, "He was turned over to me by three SHD men, who spotted him on Keller Street near the armory."

The Security and Help Service were part of the air defense system, conscripted reservists who were required to sleep every other night in their barracks, which most gladly tolerated because they were exempt from the armed services.

"Are you German?" Dietrich asked.

"From Stettin," the prisoner replied.

Dietrich went through the motions. "What is the name of the six- hundred-year-old church in Stettin?"

"St. James." The refugee almost smiled. Perhaps he could feel the handcuffs loosening.

"What is the longest ship moored on the Oder?"

"The aircraft carrier
Graf Zeppelin.
It's been there for years, but it isn't finished."

"What's the name of the building across the roadway from the
Graf Zeppelins
moorage?" Peter Hilfinger asked.

"The Western Pomeranian Museum."

"Release him," Dietrich ordered.

Detective Haushofer pushed his key into the handcuffs to snap them open. The refugee rubbed his wrists. He nervously looked right and left.

"What's your name?" Dietrich asked.

The refugee again lowered his eyes. "Ewald Schack."

"Where were you going when you were arrested?" Dietrich knew the answer, of course.

"West. With my wife and daughter. We lost our home in Stettin and .. ." His voice trailed away.

Dietrich asked, "I don't suppose you have any identity papers on you."

Schack hesitated. "My Wehrmacht ID."

"Anything to show why you aren't with your unit? Any travel passes?" With that Dietrich conveyed to the refugee that he knew he was a deserter, had left the army to return to Stettin to try to take his family to safety.

For an instant the man looked like he might try dashing down the stairs. Haushofer moved his hand to the small of the refugee's back.

Dietrich reached for a piece of stationery and a pen. He wrote several lines, then passed the paper to Schack. "This will help. Good luck to you."

The refugee stared at the stationery, which below the Berlin Police Department's impressive logo and Dietrich's imprinted name and rank, read, "Ewald Schack is working for the Berlin Police. I have Reichsführer Himmler's authority to order that Schack and his family are not to be disturbed or delayed in their travels," followed by Dietrich's signature.

The refugee gripped the letter as if it were a life ring. He mumbled his thanks and backed away from Hilfinger, then disappeared down the hallway.

Detective Haushofer asked, "Want me to bring up another Jack Cray?"

Dietrich rubbed a human skull on his desk that had a hole in the temple precisely the diameter of an alpine climbing pick. "Maybe later." Dietrich gripped the fire nozzle and slammed the desk with it, so uncharacteristic a gesture that Hilfinger and Haushofer glanced at each other.

Dietrich exclaimed, "I thought we had that bastard last night at the Tiergarten airstrip. Thought General Eberhardt and I had him trapped, goddamn the American anyway."

After a moment he was able to release his fingers from the nozzle. He looked sheepishly at his subordinates, clucking his tongue by way of apology, then to the document on his desk, marked boldly in red across the first page. "State Secret" and "Top Secret," below which was the title, "Führerbunker Fire-fighting and Rescue Plan." General Eberhardt had provided him with the copy. It set out which organization had which responsibility, and who would make the determination to initiate fire fighting or a rescue or an evacuation. General Eberhardt had the ultimate responsibility for the decisions, and was to consult with the guard captain at the bunker. The document was signed by the Führer, so presumably Hitler would comply with whatever emergency decisions Eberhardt might some day have to make. Any rescue would be attempted by the Technical Emergency Corps from their station closest to the bunker, on Mauerstrasse. Fire-fighting teams would come from Berlin No. 1 Station on Kaiserhofstrasse near the Hotel Kaiserhof. If either the Rescue Squad or the firefighters were ever called to the bunker because of Jack Cray, it would of course mean that Dietrich had failed.