CHAPTER 7
Rogan drove the Mercedes to the Freislings’
gas station the next day and asked them to make some modifications
on its body. Specifically he wanted the huge trunk in the rear to
be made airtight. While the work was being done he became very
chummy with the brothers, told them about his computer work and how
his company was looking for an opportunity to sell their ideas to
the countries behind the Iron Curtain. “Legally, of course, only
legally,” Rogan said in a tone of voice that implied he was just
saying it for the record but that he would welcome a profitable
crooked deal.
The two brothers smiled slyly. They understood.
They questioned him more closely about his work. They asked him if
he would be interested in making a tourist visit to East Berlin in
their company. Rogan was delighted. “Of course,” he said eagerly,
and pressed them for a specific date. But they smiled and said,
“Langsam, langsam. Slowly, slowly.”
Several times they had seen Rosalie with him, and
they had drooled over her beauty. Once when Rogan had gone into the
office to pay a bill, he had come out to find Eric Freisling, with
his head inside the Mercedes, talking earnestly to Rosalie. As they
drove away Rogan asked Rosalie, “What did he say to you?”
Rosalie answered impassively, “He wanted me to
sleep with him and spy on you.”
Rogan didn’t say anything. As he parked in front of
the hotel Rosalie asked, “Which brother was it that talked to me?
What is his name?”
“Eric,” Rogan said.
Rosalie smiled at him sweetly. “When you kill them
let me help you kill Eric.”
The next day Rogan was busy making his own personal
modifications on the Mercedes. He spent the rest of the week
driving around Berlin and thinking out his plans. How would he make
the Freisling brothers give him the names of the last three men?
One day he went past the huge parking area of Berlin’s main railway
station. Thousands of cars were parked there. Rogan grinned. A
perfect cemetery.
To build an image of being a big spender who had
crude tastes—which in turn might suggest a moral corruptness—Rogan
took Rosalie to the more expensive and disreputable nightclubs,
night after night. He knew that the Freisling brothers, perhaps
even the East German counterintelligence apparatus, would be
checking him out.
When the Freislings arranged an East Berlin tourist
visa for him and Rosalie, he expected the contact to be made then.
He had in his pocket a sheaf of computer blueprints for sale. But
no contact was made. They saw the concrete Headquarters Bunker in
which Hitler had died. The Russians had tried to blow it up, but
the concrete walls were so thick, so solid with cement and steel,
that it had proved impossible to destroy. So this historic bomb
shelter, which had witnessed the suicide of the most feared madman
of all time, was now a grassy mound in the middle of a children’s
playground.
Strolling farther on through the Hansa quarter
bristling with huge, gray, avant-garde apartment buildings, they
were repelled by one of the new architectural gimmicks in the
building complex. All its pipes for garbage, toilet waste, water,
ended exposed in a huge glass terminal building, so that they
looked like a nest of malignant steel snakes. Rosalie shuddered.
“Let’s go home,” she said. She did not like the new world any
better than the old.
Back in West Berlin they hurried to their hotel.
Rogan unlocked the door to their suite and opened it for Rosalie,
patting her round bottom as she went by. He followed her inside and
heard her surprised gasp as he closed the door. He wheeled
around.
They were waiting for him. The two Freisling
brothers sat behind the coffee table, smoking cigarettes. It was
Hans who spoke. “Herr Rogan, do not be alarmed. You understand that
in our business one has to be careful. We did not wish anyone to
know we had contacted you.”
Rogan went forward to shake their hands. He smiled
reassuringly. “I understand,” he said. He understood more. That
they had come early to search his room. To find out if he was a
plant. To perhaps find and steal the blueprints so they would not
have to pay cash for them—
Communist cash they could then put in their own
pockets. But they had been out of luck and forced to wait. The
blueprints were in his jacket pocket. More important, the seven
envelopes, plus the gun and silencer, were in a small bag that he
had checked into the hotel storage cellar.
Hans Freisling smiled. The last time he had smiled
like that, his brother Eric had crept up behind Rogan to fire the
bullet in his skull. “We wish to purchase some of your computer
blueprints, in strict confidence of course. Are you
agreeable?”
Rogan smiled back. “Have supper with me here
tomorrow evening,” he said. “You understand I have to make some
arrangements. I do not keep everything I need in this room.”
Eric Freisling smiled slyly and said, “We
understand.” He wanted Rogan to know that they had searched the
suite; he wanted him to know that they were not men to be trifled
with.
Rogan looked at him steadily. “Come tomorrow
evening at eight,” he said. He ushered them out of the room.
That night he could not respond to Rosalie, and
when she finally fell asleep, Rogan lit a cigarette and waited for
the familiar nightmare to come. He was on his third cigarette when
it started.
And then in his mind a dark curtain was drawn aside
and he was in the high-domed room of the Munich Palace of Justice.
Far away in the limitless shadows of his brain seven men took their
eternal shapes. Five of them were blurred; but two—Eric and Hans
Freisling—were very clear, very distinct, as if they were standing
in a spotlight. Eric’s face was as he had looked into it that fatal
day, the slack heavy mouth, the sly, snapping black eyes, the thick
nose, and stamped over all the features, a brutish cruelty.
The face of Hans Freisling was similar to Eric’s,
but with cunning rather than cruelty in the expression. It was Hans
who advanced on the young prisoner Rogan and encouraged him with
false kindliness. It was Hans who looked directly into Rogan’s eyes
and reassured him. “Dress in those nice clothes,” Hans had
whispered. “We are going to set you free. The Americans are winning
the war and some day you can help us. Remember how we spared your
life. Change your clothes now. Quickly.”
And then, trustfully, Rogan changed his clothing;
gratefully he smiled at the seven murderers of his wife. When Hans
Freisling put out his hand in friendship, the young prisoner Rogan
reached out to grasp it. Only then did the faces of the five other
men become clear with their furtive, guilty grins. And he thought:
Where is the seventh man? And at that moment the brim of his
new hat tilted forward over his eyes. He felt the cold metal of the
gun barrel against the back of his neck. He felt his hair bristle
with terror. And just before the bullet exploded in his skull he
heard his cry for mercy, the long shrieking “Ahhhhhhhh.” And the
last thing he saw was Hans Freisling’s sly smile of delight.
He must have cried out loud. Rosalie was awake. His
whole body was shaking, absolutely out of control. Rosalie got up
out of bed, and using a smooth cloth towel, she wiped his face with
cooling alcohol. Then she bathed his whole body with it. Next, she
ran the tub full of hot water and made him sit in the steaming
bath. She sat on its marble rim as he soaked. Rogan could feel his
body stop shaking, the pounding of blood against the metal plate in
his skull easing off.
“Where did you learn all this?” he asked her.
Rosalie smiled. “The last three years in the asylum
I was used as a nursing aide. I was almost well then. But it took
me three years to get up enough courage to run away.”
Rogan took her cigarette and puffed on it. “Why
didn’t they release you?”
She smiled down on him sadly. “They had no one to
release me to,” she said. “I have no one in the world.” She paused
for a long moment. “Except you.”
The following day was a very busy one for Rogan.
He gave Rosalie five hundred dollars’ worth of marks and sent her
out shopping. Then he went out to do some necessary chores. Making
sure he was not followed, he drove to the outskirts of Berlin and
parked the Mercedes. He went into a pharmacy and bought a small
funnel and some chemicals. At a hardware store he bought wires, a
small glass mixing bowl, nails, tape, and a few tools. He drove the
Mercedes to a deserted side street, its ruins not yet rebuilt, and
worked on the interior of the car for almost three hours. He
disconnected all the wiring that operated the rear brake lights,
and ran other wires into the car trunk. He bored holes into the
airtight trunk, and then put tiny hollow rubber tubing into the
holes. He mixed the chemicals, then put them in the small funnel
and placed it over the piece of hollow tubing that now came up from
the floor to the steering wheel. It was all very ingenious, and
Rogan hoped it would work. He shrugged. If it didn’t, he’d have to
use the pistol and its silencer again. And that could be dangerous.
It would hook him up with the other killings when the police
compared ballistic tests. Rogan shrugged again. The hell with it,
he thought. By the time they got all the evidence together his
mission would be completed.
He drove back to the hotel and parked in the
special area reserved for guests. Before he went up to his room he
drew his suitcase from the storage cellar. Rosalie was already
waiting in their suite. It hadn’t taken her long to spend the
money. She modeled the seductive Paris gown she had bought, which
scarcely covered her breasts. “If that doesn’t distract those two
bastards nothing will,” Rogan said, with an exaggerated leer. “Now
are you sure you know what you have to do tonight?”
Rosalie nodded, but he briefed her again, slowly
and thoroughly. “Do you think they will tell you what you want to
know?” Rosalie asked.
“I think so,” Rogan said with a grim smile. “One
way or the other.” He picked up the telephone and ordered dinner
for four to be sent up to the room at eight o’clock.
The Freisling brothers were punctual; they arrived
with the food trolley. Rogan dismissed the waiter, and as they ate
they discussed the terms of their deal. When they had finished
eating he poured four glasses of Pfefferminz liqueur, half
brandy, half peppermint. “Ah, my favorite drink,” Hans Freisling
said. Rogan smiled. He had remembered the smell of peppermint in
the interrogation room, the bottle Hans had carried around with
him.
When Rogan capped the bottle he dropped in the drug
pellets. He did it quickly and expertly; the brothers were not
aware of what he was doing, though they were looking directly at
him. With their natural suspiciousness, they were waiting for him
to drink first. “Prosit,” Rogan said, and drank. The sweet
liqueur almost made him sick. The two brothers drained their
glasses, and Hans licked his thick lips greedily. Rogan passed him
the bottle. “Help yourself,” he said. “I must go and get the
documents. Allow me.” He went past them into the bedroom. As he did
so he saw Hans fill his glass and drain it. Eric was not drinking.
But then Rosalie leaned over, her creamy breasts showing. She
filled Eric’s glass for him and let her hand fall on his knee. Eric
lifted the glass and drank, his eyes on Rosalie’s breasts. Rogan
closed the door of the bedroom behind him.
He opened the suitcase and took out the Walther
pistol and its silencer. Quickly he fitted them together. Then
holding the gun in plain view, he opened the door and walked back
into the other room.
The drug in the liqueur was a slow-acting one, not
a knockout drug. It was designed to cripple the victim’s reflexes
so that he would move and react very slowly. It was similar to the
effect that too much alcohol has on a man’s physical coordination,
throwing it out of balance, yet leaving him the illusion that he is
performing better than ever. So the Freisling brothers were not yet
aware of what was happening to their bodies. When they saw the gun
in Rogan’s hands they both jumped up from their seats, but they
moved in slow motion.
Rogan pushed them back onto their chairs. He sat
down opposite them. From his jacket pocket he took a flattened
bullet, tarnished with age, and threw it on the coffee table
between them.
“You, Eric,” Rogan said. “You fired that bullet
into the back of my skull ten years ago. In the Munich Palace of
Justice. Do you remember me now? I’m the little play-mate you
sneaked up on while I was changing my clothes—and while your
brother Hans kept telling me that I was going to be freed. I’ve
changed a lot. Your bullet changed the shape of my head. But look
hard. Do you recognize me now?” He paused, then said grimly, “I’ve
come back to finish our little game together.”
Mentally dulled by the drug, they both wore looks
of blank incomprehension and stared at Rogan. It was Hans who first
showed recognition, whose face first showed the natural shock,
fear, and terrified surprise. Then they tried to flee, moving like
men underwater. Rogan reached over and again gently pushed them
back in their seats. He frisked them for weapons. They had
none.
“Don’t be afraid,” Rogan said, deliberately
imitating Hans’ voice. “I’m not going to harm you.” He paused. “Of
course I’ll turn you in to the authorities, but all I want from you
now is a little information. As a long time ago you wanted some
from me. I cooperated then, didn’t I? I know you’ll be just as
intelligent.”
Hans answered first, his voice thick with the drug
but still sly. “Of course we’ll cooperate; we’ll tell you anything
we know.”
“But first we’ll make a bargain,” Eric growled
sullenly.
As long as they kept sitting still the brothers
seemed to function normally. Now Hans leaned forward and said with
ingratiating friendliness, “Yes. What do you wish to know, and what
will you do for us if we cooperate?”
Rogan said quietly, “I want to know the names of
the other men who were with you in the Munich Palace of Justice. I
want to know the name of the torturer who killed my wife.”
Eric leaned over, parallel to his brother, and said
slowly, contemptuously, “So you can kill us all like you killed
Moltke and Pfann?”
“I killed them because they would not give me the
other three names,” Rogan said. “I offered them a chance to live as
I now give you a chance to live.” He signaled now to Rosalie. She
brought over pads and pencils and handed them to the
brothers.
Hans looked surprised, then grinned. “I will tell
you right now. Their names are—” Before Hans could utter another
word Rogan jumped up and smashed the German’s mouth with the butt
of his pistol. Hans’ mouth became a dark hole out of which bloody
pieces of gum bubbled, and bits of broken teeth. Eric tried to come
to his brother’s defense, but Rogan pushed him back into the chair.
He did not trust himself to hit Eric. He was afraid he wouldn’t
stop until the man was dead.
“I don’t want to hear any lies,” Rogan said. “And
to make sure you don’t lie to me, you’ll each—separately—write down
the names of the other three men who were in the Munich Palace of
Justice. You’ll also put down where each man is living now. I’m
especially interested in the chief interrogator. I also want to
know which man actually killed my wife. When you’ve finished, I’ll
compare your separate lists. If both have the same names, you won’t
be killed. If the information does not tally, if you have different
names listed, you’ll both be killed immediately. That’s the deal.
It’s up to you.”
Hans Freisling was gagging, clawing pieces of
broken teeth and bits of gum from his smashed mouth. He couldn’t
speak. Eric asked the final question: “If we cooperate, what will
you do to us?”
Rogan tried to sound as earnest and sincere as
possible. “If you both write down the same information, I won’t
kill you. I’ll accuse you as war criminals, however, and turn you
in to the proper authorities. Then you’ll have to stand trial and
take your chances.”
He was amused by the secret looks they gave each
other and knew just what they were thinking. Even if arrested and
tried, even if convicted, they could appeal and get out on bail.
Then they figured they could defect to East Germany and thumb their
noses at justice. Rogan, pretending not to notice the looks they
exchanged, pulled Hans out of his chair and moved him to the other
end of the coffee table so that neither one could see what his
brother was writing down. “Get busy,” he said. “And it had better
be good. Or you’ll both die here in this room, tonight.” He pointed
the Walther pistol at Eric’s head while keeping Hans in full view.
With the silencer, the pistol was a frightening-looking
weapon.
The brothers began to write. Hampered by the drug,
they wrote laboriously, and it seemed a long time before first
Eric, then Hans, finished. Rosalie, who had sat on the coffee table
between them to make certain they could not signal to each other,
picked up their pads to hand them to Rogan. He shook his head.
“Read them to me,” he said. He kept the pistol pointed at Eric’s
head. He had already decided to kill him first.
Rosalie read Eric’s list aloud. “Our commanding
officer was Klaus von Osteen. He is now chief justice in the Munich
courts. The other two were observers. The man from the Hungarian
army was Wenta Pajerski. He is now a Red party chief in Budapest.
The third man was Genco Bari. He was an observer from the Italian
army. He now lives in Sicily.”
Rosalie paused. She switched the pads to read what
Hans had written. Rogan held his breath. “Klaus von Osteen was the
commanding officer. He was the one who killed your wife.” Rosalie
paused at the look of anguish that passed over Rogan’s face. Then
she continued reading.
The information tallied—both brothers had put down
essentially the same information, the same names, although only
Hans had named Christine’s murderer. And as Rogan compared the two
pads he realized that Eric had given the minimum of information,
whereas Hans had included extra details such as Genco Bari being a
Mafia member, probably a big man in the organization. Rogan,
however, had the feeling that the brothers had held back something
he should know about. They were exchanging sly, congratulatory
looks.
Again Rogan pretended not to notice. “OK,” he said.
“You did the smart thing, so I’m going to keep my part of the
bargain. Now I must turn you over to the police. We’ll leave this
room together and go down the back stairs. Remember, don’t try to
run. I’ll be right behind you. If you recognize anyone when we get
outside, don’t try to signal them.”
The two men looked unconcerned; Eric was smirking
at Rogan quite openly. Rogan was a fool, they thought. Didn’t the
Amerikaner realize the police would release them immediately?
Rogan played it very straight and very dumb. “One
other thing,” he said. “Downstairs I’m going to put you in the
trunk of my car.” He saw the fear in their faces. “Don’t be
frightened and don’t make a fuss. How can I control you if I have
to drive the car?” he asked reasonably. “How else can I conceal you
from any friends who may be waiting for you outside when I drive
out of the parking lot?”
Eric snarled, “We made the trunk of that car an
air-sealed chamber. We’ll suffocate. You plan to kill us
anyway.”
“I’ve had special air holes drilled into the trunk
since then,” Rogan said blandly.
Eric spat on the floor. He made a sudden grab for
Rosalie and held her in front of him. But the drug had so weakened
him that Rosalie easily twisted out of his grasp. And as she
wrenched free one of her long painted fingernails went into Eric’s
eye. He screamed and held his hand to his left eye. Rosalie stepped
out of the line of fire.
Up to this moment Rogan had controlled his anger.
Now his head began to throb with familiar pain. “You dirty
bastard,” he said to Eric. “You put down as little information as
possible. You didn’t tell me it was Klaus von Osteen who killed my
wife. And I’m willing to bet you helped him. Now you don’t want to
get into the trunk of the car because you think I’m going to kill
you. All right, you son of a bitch. I’m going to kill you right
now. Right here in the hotel room. I’m going to beat you to a
bloody pulp. Or maybe I’ll just blow your head off.”
It was Hans who brought peace. Almost tearfully,
through his puffed and bloody lips, he said to his brother, “Be
calm, do what the American wishes us to do. Don’t you see he has
gone mad?”
Eric Freisling looked searchingly at Rogan’s face.
“Yes,” he said then. “I will do what you wish.”
Rogan stood very still. Rosalie came up beside him
and touched him as if to bring him back to sanity. And his terrible
anger began to subside. He said to her, “You know what you have to
do after we leave?”
“Yes.”
Rogan herded the two brothers out of the room and
down the back stairs of the hotel. He kept the gun in his pocket.
When they went out of the rear entrance that led to the parking
lot, Rogan whispered directions until they came to where the
Mercedes was parked. Rogan made them kneel in the gravel at his
feet while he unlocked the trunk. Eric got into it first,
awkwardly, the drug still affecting his movements. He gave Rogan a
last distrustful look. Rogan pushed him to the floor. As Hans
crawled into the spacious trunk his mouth tried to form a smile; it
was an obscene leer because of his smashed lips and fragmented
teeth. He said meekly, humbly, “You know, I’m glad this happened.
All these years what we did to you has been on my conscience. I
think it will be very good for me, psychologically, to be
punished.”
“Do you really think so?” Rogan said politely, and
slammed the trunk lid down over them.