Five Past Midnight - James Thayer [105]
He turned for Katrin, who was stepping to the car door, too slowly. He almost lifted her off the ground as he threw her into the cab. He ran around the front of the car toward the driver's side. The engine was still running. He slid into the seat behind the wheel, then stepped on the clutch and pulled the gearshift back, the pistol resting on the knob.
The sedan rolled away from the back door. Shots came from behind, one punching out the rear window and exiting through the roof. Cray yanked on the steering wheel, taking the car around a corner onto Hemplemann Street. More shots sounded behind them, but distant.
Katrin tried to breathe, but could not work her chest. Ninety seconds had passed since the doctor had held up the needle, prepared to stitch closed Cray's wound. She had not had time to be afraid. The car passed a shuttered bakery and a bank that had sandbags up to its second story.
Finally she said, ''You left your coat and shirt behind."
He looked down at his chest. "Well, that's one more damned thing I have to think about."
She stared at him. That dumb American grin returned to his face.
He said, "You do this enough, you begin to like it."
Cray swerved around potholes.
"You won't be satisfied getting just yourself killed, will you?" she asked dully.
Cray glanced at his arm. "Know where I can get a needle and some thread?"
"You'll get me killed, too."
"I can sew this up myself. I've done it before."
She persisted, "I can't get away from you, can I?"
"And it's cheaper than having a doctor do it."
A wall of rubble blocked an intersection, so Cray turned north. He slowed the car. The sedan's headlights were taped. Little could be seen out the front window, shadows and smudges, mostly darkness.
"You are insane," she said. "I only suspected it before, but now I know."
He finally looked at her, his smile fading. "I'm good at what I do. That's not being insane."
"You are good at what you do. But you are also insane."
The smile again. "I find it helps."
3
"You ARE on the list, Inspector," the SS guard said, pointing at a line on a clipboard. "This man is not."
"Wait here, Peter." Dietrich handed his Walther to Hilfinger, then spread his hands and feet for a search. The moon was hidden by high clouds. British bombers had not made their appearance that night yet. Any moment now.
Hilfinger stepped back to look again at the mammoth concrete block in the garden. "I think I'd rather stay out here, anyway."
One of the guards checked his watch, then nodded at Hilfinger. "You can step inside the blockhouse with us when the British bombers appear."
Dietrich followed an SS guard past a telephone hox and through the doors into the block. As he descended into the bunker, Dietrich felt his faith in his ability as a detective being shaken. He prided himself on his knowledge of Berlin. More than anything else, knowing the city's streets and alleys gave the detective an advantage over lawbreakers. And an advantage over fellow detectives, an edge Dietrich savored, truth be told. Other detectives knew Dietrich had better eyes and ears than they did. Friends and informants on those streets made sure that little in the city escaped Dietrich.
Yet here was an enormous structure—apparently the seat of the German government—that Dietrich had heard rumors about but had never been able to confirm. Right in the center of Berlin, a short walk from his own precinct station. It made Dietrich wonder what else he had missed.
The guard led him to the bottom of the stairs, where two more guards started to search Dietrich, but gently, showing more deference than they did to Wehrmacht generals. At this point in the war, men possessing all their limbs and wearing civilian suits were doubtless powerful.
The escorting trooper turned back, climbing the stairs. One of the