Six Graves to Munich - Mario Cleri [56]
Bailey was genuinely surprised. “Can you get away with that in the States? I didn’t think of that at all.”
“National security. We can do anything.” Nelson sounded sardonic. “Will this guy let himself be taken alive?”
“No.”
“He’d better not be,” Nelson said, and broke the connection.
Bailey cursed himself for having called instead of just following instructions. He knew what Nelson’s last remark meant. He had to make sure that Rogan was not captured alive, or not allowed to remain alive after he was captured. They didn’t want him talking about von Osteen.
Bailey got into the waiting staff car and told the driver to take him to the Palace of Justice in Munich. He didn’t think Rogan had had enough time to make his move, but he wanted to make sure. Then he would pick up Vrostk, and they would both go to the pension and finish Rogan off.
CHAPTER 22
In the emergency clinic of the Munich Palace of Justice, Rogan prepared for his final meeting with Klaus von Osteen. He combed his hair and straightened his clothing; he wanted to look as presentable as possible so as not to stand out in the crowd. He patted his jacket pocket on the right side to make sure the Walther pistol was still there, though he could feel its weight.
Rosalie took a bottle of colorless liquid from her mobile tray and poured some on a thick square of gauze. She put the gauze in Rogan’s left-hand pocket. “If you start to feel faint, hold it to your mouth and breathe in,” she said.
He bent down to kiss her, and she said, “Wait until he finishes with his court; wait till the end of the day.”
“I’ll have a better chance if I catch him coming back from lunch. Be in the car.” He touched her cheek lightly. “There’s a good chance I’ll get away.”
Sad-eyed, they smiled at each other with pretended confidence; then Rosalie took off her white tunic and tossed it on a chair. “I’ll go now,” she said, and without another word, without a backward look, she left the clinic and walked through the courtyard to the street beyond. Rogan watched her before he, too, left the clinic and climbed the interior stairs to the main-floor corridor of the Munich Palace of Justice.
The corridor was filled with convicted people waiting to learn their punishments, and with them were families and friends, as well as the defenders and dispensers of justice. They gradually began disappearing into the individual courtrooms, until the cool dark hall was empty. There was no sign of von Osteen.
Rogan walked down the hall to the courtroom where von Osteen had sat that morning; he was late. The court was already in session, and had been for some minutes. It was ready to sentence the criminal before it. Von Osteen, as president of the court, sat between his two fellow judges. They all wore black robes, but only von Osteen wore the high conical hat of ermine and mink that designated the chief judicial officer, and his figure seemed to exert a dread fascination on everyone in the courtroom.
He was about to sentence the convicted criminal before him. The decision was announced in that magnificent persuasive voice that Rogan remembered so well. It was a life sentence for the poor wretch before him.
Rogan felt an enormous relief that his search was ended. He walked a hundred feet past the doors of the courtroom and stepped into one of the empty niches in the wall of the corridor, a niche that for a thousand years had held the armor of a German warrior. He stood there for nearly an hour before the people in the courtroom came out of the oaken doors into the corridor.
He saw a black-robed figure exit from the courtroom through a small side door. Von Osteen was coming toward him through the shadowy corridor. He looked like an ancient priest prepared for sacrifice, black robes flapping, the conical hat of ermine and mink like a bishop’s mitre, holy and untouchable. Rogan waited, blocking the corridor. He drew the Walther pistol and held it before him.
They were face-to-face now. Von Osteen peered through