He pressed the button for the other one, thinking that maybe someone had switched the sign as a joke.
He got in the elevator and pressed eight, and the elevator ascended slowly, as though it worked for the government. He would definitely take the staircase down—if Herr Richter didn’t shoot him on sight.
The doors opened and Brodie stepped into a very narrow hallway lit by fluorescent lights, many of which were burned out. A wall sign directed him to the left, and he passed between pools of light and located 8F in a dark section of the hallway. He rapped on the door. “Lieferung!”
He heard footsteps, and then the door slowly cracked opened.
A tall, elderly man with wispy white hair and a sour face stared at him through the crack in the doorway. The chain lock was still secured.
Herr Richter saw that the delivery man had no delivery and asked again, “Wer sind Sie?”
“Scott Brodie.” He produced his badge and held it up. “U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Division.”
The man’s eyes widened.
Brodie asked, “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”
The man demonstrated his English by saying, “Go away,” and slammed the door.
Brodie knocked again. “Herr Richter. I am working with your government on an investigation. You must open the door and speak to me. Or you will be subject to arrest.”
The man did not respond. Should he kick the door in? What if this guy was the wrong Stefan Richter? Wouldn’t be the first time that happened.
But… this guy’s reaction… He knew what this was about. It was about the past that had caught up to him. It was about biological warfare, which Stefan Richter had blabbed about thirty years ago. But now Richter knew about Harry Vance’s murder, and that must have changed his mind about having his fifteen minutes of fame. Therefore… there must be a connection. But was this enough for Brodie to kick down the door? Maybe he should try a different approach and call Captain Soliman, and get some Berlin cops here to take Stefan Richter in for questioning. That was SOP, but… Scott Brodie liked to keep what he found.
He banged on the door again and shouted, “Achtung, asshole! Polizei! Open the door!”
No response.
Brodie gave the door a kick above the handle, but it held fast. “You Stasi bastard! How do you like it when someone does to you what you used to do to other people?”
No response.
The direct, forceful approach wasn’t working, so Brodie tapped on the door and called out, “Lieferung. Flowers for Mr. Richter.”Asshole.
No response.
Well, Herr Richter might be calling the police himself, which was okay, but not likely. Or someone on this floor was calling the police, which was also okay. One way or the other, Stefan Richter was going to answer some questions.
Brodie put his ear to the door, to listen for Richter making a phone call,but what he heard was music. Classical music. Something very Germanic, like maybe a Wagner opera.
Well, thought Brodie, whatever calms your nerves when you learn that the Polizei are coming for you. Maybe a little schnapps with the music.
Then a loud, explosive sound blotted out the music for Brodie, who recognized that sound, spun away from the door, and put his back against the wall. The music continued. There was no second gunshot.
Brodie took a deep breath. Well… that’s what people sometimes did. He’d had two of those in his last twenty years. This was number three. He didn’t think the music was bad enough to put a bullet in your head, so Stefan Richter had other reasons to end his life. And Brodie could only guess at those reasons, and whatever they were, they were good enough for Herr Richter. But not good for this investigation.
Brodie reached for his phone to dial Captain Soliman’s direct number, but then he caught a movement to his left and looked down the long hallway. Emerging from the fire stairs doorway was a tall guy, coming toward him. As the figure passed under a light, he saw that the man was dressed in black tactical clothes. As the guy got closer, Brodie also saw that he was wearing a ballistic vest with the wordPOLIZEIemblazoned across it. Well, that was fast. Actually, this guy had been here, in the stairwell for a while, and he’d heard Brodie talking to the door. And Brodie had the feeling that something was wrong about that, and about this guy, who was not saying anything as he approached.
Brodie was about to ID himself, but then he heard a sound to his right and glanced down the hallway to see the elevator doors opening, and another guy stepping out. The elevator guy was dressed the same as the stairwell guy, and he had a walkie in his hand that he clipped on his belt as he continued toward Brodie.
They were both within thirty feet of him now, and neither man had IDed himself, though Brodie assumed that was procedure here as it was in most countries. Maybe one of them was going to point to the letters across his vest. Maybe not. The good news was that they were not going to kill him here. This was a snatch job.
The stairwell guy stopped about ten feet from him, but said nothing. The guy was about thirty with close-cropped blond hair and a nasty face to match the bad haircut.
Brodie glanced at the elevator guy. Same age as his accomplice, also tall, but very burly with buzz-cut brown hair. To Brodie’s trained eye, they looked less like police and more like military.A secret army.The neo-Nazis in the police and military who had their own agenda.
Elevator guy also stopped, and the three of them stood there in silence. Brodie noticed that each of them had a holstered gun, and both holsters had the safety band unclipped.
