Hunter's Rain

  The Müller Series

  A COLD RAIN IN BERLIN

  ROMEO SUMMER

  WINTER AND THE GENERAL

  A HOT DAY IN MAY

  HUNTER'S RAIN

  HUNTER’S RAIN

  5th (of 9) of the Müller series

  JULIAN JAY SAVARIN

  The first hardback edition published in 2004 by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD (Great Britain) and SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS INC (USA)

  Copyright © 2004 by Julian Jay Savarin

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living or dead persons is purely coincidental.

  Cover Photograph © JJS

  One

  In the heat of a wet July day Müller sat in his car, watching the rivulets stream down before him. The water formed a perfect barrier, screening the occupants from the outside world. It hit the Porsche like a demented drummer high on something more than adrenalin, and who had forgotten what he was supposed to be playing.

  “A vale of bloody tears,” his companion said, staring at nothing through the rain-drenched windscreen. “Whatever is responsible – El Niño, El Niña, or whatever fucking name they want to call it – this is shit! It’s supposed to be summer…”

  “Don’t take your frustrations out on the weather,” Müller said. “It won’t stop the rain, nor bring the sun out today.”

  The man, cropped blond hair, hard face and a tan that did not come out of a sun studio, stared at him. “Are you always like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Philosophical about things.”

  Müller gave a short laugh. “Philosophical? I simply don’t think it’s worth getting…”

  “Jesus, Müller! Allow a person the right to be pissed off about the weather.” The man tried to peer out. “I can’t see a damned thing out there.”

  “Which is what we want. You can’t see out, they can’t see in….assuming anyone is crazy enough to be out in this deluge, keeping surveillance. I chose this rendezvous for that very purpose. Not even a tourist in sight when I arrived.”

  “Smart of them. Which is more than I can say for us. Nice choice,” the man continued grumpily. “Wannsee. Nice, historical ring to it.”

  “I picked it for practical reasons. On a day like this, no one in their right mind would come to this shore of the lake.”

  “Wannsee,” the man repeated. “Sounds like Wahnsinn, doesn’t it? Fitting the madness that went on at that villa. There was a Müller at the conference too; and he was a Berlin policeman.”

  “I’m the wrong age to be Gestapo Müller,” Müller said, refusing to be needled. “Finished with the weather, so now you’re starting on me?”

  “I don’t want to be here,” the other grumbled, still trying to peer through the windscreen. “I just hope you’re right about the surveillance. When Pappi set up this meet, I was not happy. He and I have never met. Now, you’ve seen me.”

  “And I’ll forget I ever saw you, just as quickly.”

  There was silence for a while, then the man reached into an inside jacket pocket, and took out a plain, postcard-sized envelope. He handed it to Müller.

  “The information you need is in there.”

  “How many?”

  “Two.”

  “Two?”

  “Be thankful you’ve got any at all, Müller.”

  “Thanks,” Müller said with a straight face.

  The man stared at Müller with a blank expression. “I can’t guarantee you’ll get anything out of them.”

  “I’m not asking for guarantees.”

  The man kept on his blank expression. “These people have been living in anonymity for years; with very good reason. Many of those you’re looking for are no longer alive. Rumour is, they were helped on their way.”

  “Rumour?”

  “Rumour,” the hard-faced man repeated. “Let’s leave it at that.” He gave Müller a searching look. “The people you’re after would dearly like to send you on your way too.”

  “They’ve tried.”

  The man nodded. “I know. And you’ve managed to kill off all those they have sent openly, and not so openly. But do you notice something wrong with the picture?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You have not taken a single one alive. Therefore, no information. Those you don’t kill, they do. When you find the time, count the people you have come up against, then count how many are still alive. Nothing that can lead back to them is tolerated. The day they find a fool proof way to get rid of you, you can start ticking off your own days. You are the thorn they need to pull, and they will not stop.”

  “Don’t sound so happy.”

  “That’s not happiness you hear. That’s reality. They don’t know how much you know.” The man paused.

  Müller said nothing.

  “Cautious. Wise.” A thin smile lived for the briefest of instants. “When they have persuaded themselves you do know too much, their own caution may take second place to their need to succeed in their aims. You are a dangerous man, Müller…not because you’re going about like a madman bent upon revenge; but precisely because you’re not. At least, outwardly.”

  The man paused again, then gave Müller another searching look. “Pappenheim said I should be careful of you. Why?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  The man looked as if he did not believe it. “He said you could sometimes be worse than a Rhodesian ridgeback, if rubbed the wrong way.”

  “You know about the lion dogs, do you?”

  “They will defend their territory ferociously, sometimes to the death. Good hunters, they will keep a lion at bay, even though given the chance, it would make mincemeat of them. Very brave, or very foolish dogs. Which are you, Müller?”

  “I’m just a policeman.”

  The man looked sceptical. “My father was out there in the seventies…” he began, as if to explain his knowledge of ridgebacks.

  “On which side?”

  The man gave Müller another stare. “I take it that’s a joke.”

  “It’s called sarcasm.”

  “Pappi was right.”

  “The strange deaths of one’s parents,” Müller said, “when one was twelve years old, tends to alter the perspective a little. So where’s your father now?”

  The man turned to stare at the rain once more. “When the shit hit the fan in Rhodesia, he went to South Africa…”

  “Where it also went pear-shaped for people like him.”

  “He’s still out there, with my mother.”

  “Tolerant, these Africans.”

  The man shot him another blank look. “More sarcasm, is it? In case you’re wondering, I’m not like my father. I only visit for my mother’s sake.”

  “I did wonder about the tan. It doesn’t look like sun studio.”

  The man said nothing for a few moments, as if considering Müller’s remark. He looked at Müller speculatively.

  “I could be setting you up,” he said. “The information I just gave you could be nothing. Innocent bystanders. Bait for a trap.”

  “I have considered that.”

  “And?”

  “If it is, you’ll be a very sorry man.”

  The tiniest of smiles again fled across the man’s face. “Your five minutes are up.” The man glanced about him. “996 Turbo. Nice car.”

  “I manage. Sorry you’ll be getting your nice suit wet.”

  The other looked at him neutrally. “That’s rich, coming from a man who wears a ponytail, an earring, and Armani linen.”

  “It tak
es one to know one.”

  The man did not smile. “Tell Pappi if he ever puts me out on a limb like this again, I’ll finish the job that was bungled last May, by whoever it was.”

  “I’ll tell him. I’m certain he’ll appreciate the sentiment.”

  “Yes. Well.”

  The man opened the door of the car and got out. The noise of the rain swelled exponentially.

  “Shit!” Müller heard him say. “This is drowning weather. Fucking rain!”

  Then the door was shut, cutting out the sound as if switched off. There followed the muted thud of the door of the other car being shut angrily. It was less than a metre away.

  “Friendly man who hates the rain,” Müller said to himself.

  Müller did not start the Porsche but turned on the wipers briefly as the sun-tanned man started the big Mercedes coupe and wheels spinning, pulled out in front of him to drive off. The windscreen remained clear long enough for him to get a second look at the official licence plate, as if to confirm what he’d seen when the tanned man had first arrived for the meet.

  “No mistake about that number,” he said to himself.

  To all intents and purposes, Wannsee, some 14 kilometres southwest of Berlin but still part of the city state, was an island. At its closest point, it was no further than a canal’s width away. Five bridges – including the Glienicker of spy-exchange fame - connected it at various points to the mainland. Careful forestation had given it mixed woods that was mainly pine and oak, but included beech, birch, poplar and ash, among others. Plenty of screening for anyone not bothered about getting soaked.

  Müller looked about him, but the force of the downpour gave everything a blurred look through the glass. If anyone were out there he or she could not, for the moment, be seen.

  Müller still did not start the car. Instead, he opened the envelope. On a single sheet of notepaper were the names, addresses, and telephone numbers he wanted. It had taken several weeks to get the information. He put the note back into the envelope, and put that into an inner jacket pocket. Only then, did he start the car.

  The 450 bhp of the enhanced Porsche Turbo barked into life. The wipers cleared the windscreen, disclosing the rain-battered surface of Berlin’s infamous, beautiful lake.

  Müller again scanned the immediate area. He had driven along what was in effect one of the pedestrian paths that criss-crossed the virtual island. This particular path was coastal – wide enough for a car – and was surfaced. Müller and the sun-tanned man had parked side-by-side nose on to it before a backdrop of trees, on a stretch between Kleines Tiefehorn and the rounded headland of Grosses Tiefehorn, across the water from Kladow. The path was also a popular run for cyclists; but the rain continued to pound with a vengeance. Through the briefly wiped screen, not a soul could be seen.

  Not even a hardy cyclist.

  The muddy area beyond the path - caused by the deluging rain - would create no problems for the four-wheel-drive Turbo; but Müller had no doubt that his reluctant informer was probably still cursing him for the spinning wheels, as he had made his way back.

  Müller paused, looking to his right. An indistinct shape, fully clothed in hooded, bad-weather cycling gear, head down, was approaching in the teeming rain.

  The unexpected, hardy cyclist.

  “Cycling in this?” Müller remarked, staring at the blurred shape. “He must be mad. Or…” He let his words fade.

  The way Müller had parked allowed a clear view of the lake. Was the mad cyclist coming to admire it? On brighter days, the headland was a popular spot.

  Choosing discretion, Müller ducked low, and drew his automatic from its shoulder holster. The big Beretta 92R was his favourite, but was a non-standard-issue weapon. He held it ready, eased his way out of the car and shut the door quietly, moving to keep the Porsche constantly between the rider and himself. The sound of the rain greeted him like thunder.

  “Now I’m the one getting wet,” he muttered. His shoes made a soft, squelching sound, barely audible within the noise of the rain. “And muddy.”

  The cyclist drew closer but did not alter the rhythm of his pace, even as he went past. He did not look at the car though this close, he must have heard the powerful exhaust note of the engine at idle, even above the thundering rain.

  Müller peered from behind the cover of the car as the cyclist kept going. “Anyone seeing an empty car near a path meant for walkers and cyclists only,”

  Müller said to himself, “with its engine running, would have looked. I would have looked…unless I wanted to pretend I hadn’t seen it.”

  The cyclist still continued without breaking pace, until he had ridden out of sight.

  Müller waited a full minute in the pouring rain, looking about him, blinking the water out of his eyes, peering through the trees for signs of movement. Nothing.

  The cyclist did not return.

  The strange uneasiness remained as Müller slowly put the pistol away, wiped his shoes on a tuft of grass as best he could, then got back into the car. He was not yet soaked through, but his lightweight summer suit was wet enough to feel as if it would stick to the leather seat.

  Still checking for the cyclist, he eased the car onto the path, turning right to head back in the direction of the infamous villa. He drove away with as little noise as possible.

  “I’m coming for you,” he said quietly to the unseen people responsible for the killing of his parents. “No matter how long, or what it takes.”

  The cyclist had turned round, and was on his way back to the spot where he had seen the Porsche. When still out of sight from the vantage point of the car he stopped, got off the bike, and moved a little way into the woods. He leaned the cycle against a tree then cautiously, using any convenient tree as cover, continued towards where he expected the car to be.

  He stopped. “No engine,” he muttered. “I can’t hear an engine.”

  He moved on, then stopped again.

  He was close enough; but the Porsche was no longer there.

  “Shit!” he swore softly. “Shit! Too fucking late. And I didn’t even hear it leave.” He approached the spot, stopped, and looked down at the tracks. “Two cars. Two fucking cars. They had already met. Damn it!”

  Moving back into the cover of a tree, he took out a mobile and made a call.

  “Yes?”

  “I was too late,” the cyclist said against the noise of the rain.

  There was a long silence in his ear that in the rainy woods, was strangely menacing.

  “So you did not see the person with whom he met,” the voice at the other end said at last. It was an accusation.

  “No. I came across country to make time, intending to get here first…”

  “Intent,” the other interrupted, “and achievement, can sometimes be separated by a great distance.”

  The cyclist said nothing.

  “You gave us a time for the meeting,” the pitiless voice went on. “What happened?”

  “The information I got must have been wrong. Wrong timing…”

  “We have placed you where you are for a purpose. You are being handsomely rewarded. We expect results; not excuses, or failure. Do not make the mistake of believing you are indispensable.”

  “He…he must have changed the timing,” the cyclist offered in mitigation.

  “Of course he changed the timing! Müller is no fool. He would have done that instinctively. You should have foreseen it.”

  “But he could have changed it to any time…”

  “That, is your problem.”

  The conversation was abruptly terminated.

  The cyclist squeezed his eyes shut, and briefly turned his face upwards in the rain that still managed to crash through the foliage of the tree. The slamming droplets felt as if they were searing his skin; but he ignored them. He gritted his teeth.

  “Shit,” he said for a third time, anger and frustration coming through.

  He held the phone such a way that it appeared as if he wanted
to throw it to the ground. Instead, he put it away in a controlled manner which plainly betrayed his continuing frustration. He then returned to his bike, mounted, and made for the Rotkäppchenweg, the track that would eventually lead him back across country to Wannsee harbour.

  Müller was on the Bundesstrasse 1, already approaching the Zehlendorf intersection with the A115 autobahn. He was planning to take the exit that would feed him onto the A115, to head back to Berlin.

  He changed his mind before the first of the three exit warning signs - the 300-metre marker – came into view and continued along the Potsdamer Chaussee which was itself part of the B1. The B1 was a direct, if marginally slower route into the heart of the city, where it would eventually lead him to his home in Wilmersdorf.

  The cyclist had arrived where he had parked his own car, near the yacht marina. It was a big, dark blue Mercedes saloon that was older than the coupe in which Müller’s informant had arrived; but its excellent condition was evidence of the care that was lavished upon it. Even in the greyness of the rainy day, it gleamed. The pounding droplets rolled off it like glistening marbles.

  The car, parked on a surfaced area between a pair of trees, pointed towards the rows and rows of neatly moored small sailing boats and motor cruisers. Some of the bigger cruisers were moored at the end of the rows, bows pointing landwards. Given the weather, there was barely anyone about. Three people who could be seen at the water’s edge, looked tiny in the distance. If there were any occupants on the boats, they had all decided to remain below.