CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Schloss von Schiissler was nestled in the thick, dark pine forests about thirty kilometers northwest of Berlin. It protruded from a mountaintop, with its battlements and conical turrets of ancient stone, its steep red stone roof and ancient white stone walls, looking precisely like the fourteenth-century castle-fortress it was. Centuries ago, the von Schiisslers had been Free Knights of the Empire, a status greater than any noble title, though the title of Graf, or count, was bestowed upon one of Rudolf von Schiissler’s illustrious ancestors in the early nineteenth century. The estate had been in the family for centuries, and though it had not served as a true fortress since medieval times, its fortifications remained intact.

Kundrov had given Metcalfe directions to the von Schtissler family estate. While the Russian made preliminary arrangements, Metcalfe had bought a car off of a downtrodden-looking German several blocks from Unter den Linden. The German had been parking his beat-up Opel Olympia when Metcalfe had approached and, in his best, most colloquial German, had offered close to a thousand Reichsmarks, far more than the vehicle was worth. Money was tight in Berlin these days; the German seemed surprised at the generosity of the offer and had hastened to turn over the keys. Only when Metcalfe was driving up the mountainside to von Schiissler’s schloss did he see why the German had been in such a hurry to sell his Opel. Not only was the car underpowered, but it had all sorts of transmission problems; the car shivered and shuddered as it climbed the mountain to the schloss, to an extent that Metcalfe feared he wouldn’t make it.

On the way he managed to buy a pair of Zeiss binoculars for bird-watching as well as some Tyrolean-style clothing, all loden-green and gray boiled wool. By the time he arrived at the schloss parking the Opel in the woods, out of sight he was attired as a bird-watcher. It was early evening, however: not a plausible time of day for any legitimate birder. But his cover was better than nothing, and as long as he didn’t linger, he would have time to conduct a brief surveillance. Ideally, if he could enter the schloss undetected, he could find a place to hide and then meet up with Lana later in the evening.

But after circling the schloss, he determined that the obstacles to penetration were formidable indeed. The stone walls were high and smooth, and inside the walls roamed trained German shepherd guard dogs. The fortress mentality was probably more a matter of style than of necessity. It was the way rich Germans liked to live, a symbolic display that had practical uses in wartime. Metcalfe attempted to scale the walls at one point, which set off the dogs, who obviously smelled him. Rather than risk alerting the castle’s caretakers von Schiissler himself was still at the Opera House, but he would have staff in residence Metcalfe dropped back to the ground and returned quickly to his car. But he had seen enough to know that climbing into the grounds would be difficult to the point of impossibility. At the main entrance to the schloss were massive tall iron gates, where more German shepherds, and even more Doberman pinschers, growled menacingly as he drew near. Only authorized vehicles would be permitted to enter. Not far from the main schloss building was a brick carport where a stunningly beautiful Daimler saloon was parked. It obviously belonged to the master of the house. As Metcalfe watched from behind a broad oak tree, he saw a man emerge from the side of the schloss, dressed in the livery of a chauffeur. He stopped for a moment, seeming to observe the dogs growling.

Metcalfe tensed. The driver must have been alerted by the disturbance. If he came to investigate, Metcalfe would have to run through the woods without being seen. But he waited to see what the chauffeur would do.

The uniformed man pulled out a small silver whistle and blew into it. Immediately the dogs stopped their growling. Metcalfe breathed a sigh of relief. The driver must have assumed that it was some animal that the dogs were growling at.

A few minutes later, Metcalfe returned to Berlin, driving down Unter den Linden to the Staatsoper, then pulling around to the rear of the building. He did not have to wait long before von Schiissler’s Daimler ivory with black trim, its tall radiator grille distinctive, its interior cream leather and walnut burl pulled up near the stage entrance. After a few minutes, the liveried driver, the same one Metcalfe had seen calling off the dogs at the schloss, got out of the car. He lit a cigarette. Leaning against the building, he smoked placidly, waiting for his employer and his employer’s lady friend.

Kundrov, who made it his business to know Lana’s whereabouts at all times, had told Metcalfe that the chauffeur had earlier brought Lana and von Schiissler’s bags to the schloss. Kundrov also reported that von Schiissler was inside the Staatsoper, standing by the dressing rooms, bearing an armful of poppies. Hearing that, Metcalfe was embarrassed by his feelings of jealousy. It was ridiculous, of course; she detested the man. But still… He checked his watch. The performance should be just about over by now. Lana would emerge, probably with von Schussler, and together they would get into the Daimler. The trick was for Metcalfe to catch her eye first, let her see him without von Schussler seeing him as well. He had to get a note to her, somehow arrange a rendezvous. He had considered and rejected the idea of giving the driver a note to hand to her the chauffeur worked for von Schussler, so he would be loyal to the German and might instead give any such note to his employer. No, the only way to get a message to Lana safely was to hand it to her himself as she exited the theater.

Unless .. . There were other ways. A delivery boy could run up, hand her a bouquet of flowers, a note inside. Yes. That could work. He looked around and noticed that the chauffeur was walking toward the stage entrance. Why? To greet von Schussler there? Metcalfe hadn’t noticed anyone coming out; had the driver seen something Metcalfe hadn’t? Then he overheard the driver speaking to the guard attending the stage door. A snatch of German floated toward him: “die Toilette.”

Metcalfe looked at the unattended Daimler and made a snap decision.

It was an idea, perhaps a crazy idea… but if it worked, it would solve the problem of how he and Lana could meet.

He raced toward the rear of the Daimler, pushed the trunk release, and lifted the lid. The roomy trunk was empty, lined with carpet, and immaculate. There weren’t any bags, because Lana and von Schussler had already sent them ahead. The only thing in it was a folded blanket.

He looked around; no one was in sight.

If he did this, he would have to move fast… now!

He climbed into the trunk, then pulled the lid closed. The latch snapped shut, and he was in darkness. He rolled over to one side of the compartment, reached for the blanket, pulled it over him.

If everything went well if… the trunk would not be opened: there was no reason for anyone to open it. Until they reached the schloss and von Schussler, Lana, and the driver got out. A few minutes later, once he was sure there was no one around, Metcalfe would open the trunk from the inside and climb out. It was a bold maneuver and risky, yet it was the best way to reach her.

If everything went well. If the trunk was not opened.

And if it was? He had a gun, provided for him by Chip, and would use it if he had to.

He felt around the pitch-black interior of the trunk, shifted his body until he could reach the top of the trunk lid, feeling for the trunk-release lever.

There was nothing there.

Only smooth enameled steel.

There was no trunk release! He was flooded with panic. How the hell was he going to get out of here? He was locked inside!

Metcalfe could smell the fuel exhaust from the idling car, the gases filling the space in which he was coiled. People could pass out, even die, from breathing a car’s exhaust fumes.

He ran his hands frantically over the trunk’s interior, searching desperately for a lever, a knob, anything that would pop open the trunk. But there was nothing nothing but smooth steel.

Christ on a raft!

He was trapped!

The violinist parked his car by the circular drive and walked slowly toward the schloss, taking in the medieval architecture with a gimlet eye. It was impressive, to be sure, but he had seen much finer.

The news that his prey was in Berlin had come to Kleist’s hometown! was an invitation, a provocation, impossible to resist. The violinist did not like to leave business unfinished.

He rang the bell, and the mammoth wooden door was opened by a wan gray-haired manservant.

uH err Kleist? Darf which Sie bitten, na’hrer zu tret en The head butler, who had already been told to expect the SD man, asked him to enter in the excessively formal manner that one would use with a tradesman. It was a deliberate snub, but Kleist ignored it.

“Is your master here?” Kleist asked.

“No, sir, as I told your boss “

“He’s not my boss. When are you expecting von Schlissler?”

“Graf von Schiissler is not expected for two hours. He is in Berlin, at the opera house.”

“Have you had any visitors?”

“No.”

“Are von Schiissler’s wife and children in residence?”

“No,” the butler answered huffily. “They are on holiday in the mountains.”

The violinist paused for a moment, took in the dank, fungal odors of the old castle, the fetid smell of ancient stone mixed with the must of decomposing organic material. On top of it was the smell of cleaning fluids, of silver polish and furniture oil, and a faint trace of a female perfume. The only male smells were that of der Hausdiener and the ammoniac, per spirant smell of a laborer. Not von Schiissler. The female smells were not strong, indicating that the family members were indeed absent, had not been here for several days.

He returned to his car a few minutes later, discouraged. This was a blind alley. Maybe the American would attempt to contact von Schiissler later on or tomorrow. That was theoretically possible, of course.

Then, as he opened the car door, a gust of wind came his way, bearing a plume of odor that arrested his attention.

Very faint.

His nostrils flared. Someone had been here within the last few hours. Someone wearing brand-new woolen clothing, brand-new leather, fresh from a clothing store. Not too many Berliners had new clothing. One wore what one had. He turned his head to catch another draught of the scent. Male, that he was certain of. And not a German: not that beery, barley, potato odor that most German men gave off. He detected a secondary note of soap not a scented soap, not deodorant soap exactly, but something clean, foreign.

Ivory soap. Yes, he was sure. It was an American. Wearing brand-new woolen boiled-wool, in fact clothing and brand-new leather boots. The smell of Alpine, perhaps Tyrolean clothing. Being worn by an American.

He carefully shut the car door and returned to the schloss.

The servant was not happy to see him again.

“You have had no visitors,” Kleist said ponderously.

“You asked me that already, and I told you: none.”

Kleist nodded. “I see you have guard dogs on the property. Was there any disturbance earlier this evening?”

“No … well, yes, I suppose there was, but that doesn’t necessarily mean “

“You had a visitor. Someone who visited the perimeter of the grounds, at least. Quite recently. And he will be back.”

SS Oberfrihrer Walter Rapp, chief of the Reichssicherheitshaup-tamfs Department VI, stared at Hermann Ehlers.

“Kleist is certain that Metcalfe was there?” he demanded of the younger man.

“So he says.”

“The servants say so?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then what does he base this on?”

” “Trace evidence’ is all he would say. But he says he is absolutely certain.”

” “Trace evidence,” ” Rapp muttered, reaching for the phone. “Well, one thing there’s no shortage of is Gestapo agents,” he said. “I want a team assigned to the schloss at once.”

The Daimler was moving.

Two minutes ago, he had heard voices close by, one of them Lana’s. His heart lifted to hear it, it alleviated somewhat the panic he felt at being locked in the trunk.

Then came the sound of a car door being opened, then closed. He braced himself for what might come next: the trunk. It was almost humorous to consider which was worse: being locked in here for the foreseeable future or having the chauffeur discover him. If the latter happened, he would have no choice but to lunge at the chauffeur and subdue him, but that would mean trouble.

The vehicle accelerated with a deep-throated mechanical purr.

Lana and von Schtissler were sitting a few feet away, in the passengers’ compartment. They were speaking, but he could make out nothing beyond a murmur. He thought of what he was going to tell her, what he was about to ask her, and he wondered how she would react. She was a brave woman and practical, but she could be unpredictable. What he was about to suggest to her was a scheme that was brazen to the point of seeming ridiculous.

It was dangerous as well.

But it was the only way to save both Die Wolfsfalle and Lana.

The Daimler’s engine strained at a lower gear, and the car felt as if it was climbing a hill. They were nearing the schloss; they must have reached the steep stretch of road just before the gates of the castle. Then the car slowed: probably they had arrived at the gates and were waiting for them to be opened. He heard other voices now, shouts from nearby. There seemed to be a number of men at the gates; Metcalfe wondered what was going on. But after a moment, the car resumed, more slowly. Presently it stopped, and a door was opened. He heard von Schiissler’s unpleasantly grating voice, then Lana’s lilting, sensuous voice. He heard their footsteps scrape on the gravel, then the door slam.

But the engine was not shut off. The car kept going at a slow pace, a brief distance longer, before it stopped again, and this time the motor was switched off. Had the car entered a garage?

He waited in silence, in the absolute darkness of the trunk. There was a low, tuneless whistle, then the car doors opened, and closed, again. Was the driver cleaning up? After a few more minutes, he heard the scuff of the driver’s shoes against the pavement, heard the jingling of the car’s keys being hung up, and then there was silence.

He waited.

Five, ten minutes he couldn’t keep track of time. He wanted to make sure the chauffeur was nowhere nearby before he moved,

before he attempted to figure out some way to free himself from this claustrophobic steel chamber.

Finally, enough time had gone by. He felt the entire expanse of the trunk lid, patiently, but there still was no internal release knob or lever. There were cables and wires tucked into the corners, but none of them popped open the trunk.

The sense of panic that he had felt earlier had returned in force. His heartbeat thudded in his chest; he was short of breath; his mouth was dry.

There had to be a way out of here, damn it!

He thought of Lana, who’d been sitting just feet away, so close he could almost touch her. And then an idea came to him.

So close he could almost touch her.

He felt around until he found a small compartment that contained an emergency tool kit, which was used for changing tires. He pried it open. Inside were screwdrivers, a tire pressure gauge, pliers, and lug wrenches. Using the slotted screwdriver, he lifted the carpet liner, peeling it back until most of the rear section of the trunk compartment was exposed down to its bare sheet metal. As he expected, he felt several bolts that fastened a detachable panel in place; working quickly, he was at last able to loosen the rectangle of steel, slide it away, and reach the rear-seat assembly. It was not meant to be accessed from the trunk side, but by reaching around through the coils and struts he managed to loosen the bolts enough to push the rear seat forward.

Twenty minutes after he had begun, he was in the backseat of the Daimler, at last free of the trunk.

The car had been parked in some sort of carport, not a closed garage. It was a rudimentary brick structure, open at one end, allowing in the moonlight. He got out of the backseat quickly, the interior dome light flashing on, then off, but only for a second or two. Was there anyone around to see the light go on? He remembered the voices that had accosted the car as it entered the estate. Looking out through the open end of the carport, he was able to see the tall iron fence a few hundred feet away and down the hill. Just outside it were the shifting silhouettes of men. Guards? He heard the crunch of boots against gravel, the testy whine of dogs straining against their leashes. The guttural growl of other dogs the German shepherds and Doberman pinschers he had seen earlier, roaming restlessly inside the fence chuffing warningly at the men and their leashed dogs.

A match flared up, struck by one of the guards as he lit a cigarette, and in that brief moment of illumination Metcalfe saw that these were not guards at all.

From their uniforms he could see at once that they were Gestapo. A detachment of guards from the Gestapo was patrolling the main gates.

Why?

They had not been here earlier. Von Schiissler, a minor functionary in the Foreign Office, did not merit the sort of protection that might be given to a high-ranking official of the Reich. Why were they here? Metcalfe’s thoughts whirled. Von Schiissler had just arrived in town, accompanied by Lana. Did the Sicherheits-dienst know Metcalfe was here as well? Did they know of his connection to Lana and suspect that he might come here to find her?

It was possible anything was possible but it seemed unlikely. The Gestapo was here to watch for someone either leaving the schloss or entering. Which was it?

They were outside, not on the grounds, he realized. They were not searching the estate; that meant they were waiting for someone to arrive.

For me, he thought. Could it be?

He had to get into the schloss without being seen by the Gestapo team. The main house was perhaps a hundred feet away, the path more or less exposed. He could see lights in several rooms on the top floor. One of the rooms glowed with a pinkish light, and he knew that had to be Lana’s: she sometimes liked to drape a red silk scarf over her bedroom lamp, he remembered.

The Gestapo agents were looking for arrivals, not someone within the gates; if he moved silently through the darkness … But what about the dogs? They seemed to be gathered by the gates, whimpering at the Gestapo’s dogs. Perhaps they were poorly trained, or more likely they had been trained like their human counterparts, the Gestapo to watch for intruders from outside, not those within the grounds.

He stepped quietly out of the carport. Spying a low yew hedge that bordered the circular drive, he dropped to the ground and crawled on his hands and knees along the lawn. When the hedge ended, he pulled himself across the grass on his belly. In short order he had reached the castle. He loped around toward the back of the building, searching for a service entrance of some sort.

He found it without trouble: a narrow wooden plank door that was unlocked. The schloss was so well guarded, surrounded as it was by walls and gates, defended by prowling dogs, that there was no need to lock the servants’ door. He pulled the door open slowly, cautiously, wary of any squeaky hinges.

He did not hear the thump of paws against the earth until too late.

There was a sudden, terrifying growl, deep and throaty. Instantly the body of a Doberman crashed into him as it sank its teeth into his woolen coat, tearing wildly at the fabric in a furious attempt to attack the meat of his upper arm. A jagged lightning bolt of pain shot up and down his arm when the dog’s fangs broke the skin.

Metcalfe kicked at the ferocious beast, torquing his body to loosen its monstrous jaws. The door was half-open; he jumped into the entrance, at the same time slamming the door, slamming it repeatedly on the dog until finally, with an angry yelp, it released its grip.

He raced into the dark hall, his adrenaline pumping. Far down the corridor, a crack of light appeared under a door. He had to get out of here before a servant, alerted by the noise of the dog attack, came out into the hall. Several doors lined the hall, though he had no idea where they led. He tried the first knob, then the second. The third turned. The door gave onto a narrow staircase. He shut the door behind him, descending the steps to a dank basement.

Despite the darkness he saw that he was surrounded by hundreds of bottles of wine, Rhinehessens and Moselles. He was in von Schiissler’s wine cellar. Backing himself into an alcove, he waited.

When no one came down within the next few minutes, he calculated that he was safe. He glanced at his watch: it was twenty minutes before midnight. He would wait another hour down here. By then, it was more likely than not that Lana and von Schiissler would have gone to sleep. Only then would the servants go to bed as well. It was too risky to go looking through an unfamiliar house.

But the clock was ticking. If Kundrov had succeeded in arranging his part, no more than six hours remained.

For all that needed to be done, that was not enough time.