The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [62]
“What is it?” Anne called from the other room.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Christ, maybe he should tell her to get up and get dressed. But then what? Go out the tiny air-shaft window in the dark and up the fire ladder to the roof? Why? If the police knew where they were, they wouldn’t have a chance to begin with.
He moved farther back from the window, giving him a view of the alley where it met Ziegelstrasse. The sounds grew louder, the shrillness bouncing off the old brick facades of the neighboring buildings. His heart was pounding. If they came, they came. Just give up. There was nothing else to do.
The sounds grew louder and louder. Then they were right there on top of him. He expected to hear the screech of brakes, the instant cutting of sirens, the slam of doors as armed police jumped from the cars. Instead he caught the briefest glimpse of flashing lights. And then, like that, they passed, taking their noise with them.
For a long moment he just stood there in the darkness listening to the pounding of his heart and the sound of his own breath. Suddenly he wondered about his emotional state, if things were beginning to get to him that shouldn’t, or at least that he should have control over. Thinking, too, that this was no time or place for such fragility. It was far too dangerous.
“You need to sleep.” Anne’s voice floated out of the darkness nearby. He started and looked up.
He saw her in the light-spill from the streetlights, standing in the doorway watching him. Her dark hair tucked behind her ears, she was barefoot and still wearing nothing but the T-shirt and panties.
“You’re overtired,” she said quietly.
“I know.” His voice was barely a murmur.
“Come to bed.”
Marten stared at her.
“Please.”
“Alright,” he said finally, then left the window and followed her down the narrow hallway into the bedroom.
1:48 A.M.
36
BERLIN POLICE HEADQUARTERS,
PLATZ DER LUFTBRÜCKE. 2:02 A.M.
“Why this took so long to reach me, I don’t know. But I promise you I will find out.” Hauptkommissar Emil Franck sat behind his serviceable steel desk in his very utilitarian office, his black eyes cold and unblinking.
Two uniformed motorcycle officers stood in front of him; Detectives Gerhard Bohlen and Gertrude Prosser were to his left. For a moment he stared at the motorcycle officers, then pressed the PLAY button on a digital recorder in front of him. A short silence was followed immediately by a recorded conversation between a motorcycle officer and a Funkbetriebszentrale, a central radio dispatcher at police headquarters.
MOTORCYCLE OFFICER: West for West 717.
DISPATCHER: West 717, go ahead.
MOTORCYCLE OFFICER: Male and female pedestrians with resemblance to fugitives on Schiffbauerdamm, approaching Weidendamm Bridge at Friedrichstrasse. Copy.
DISPATCHER: I have it, West 717.
There was a several-second pause and then:
MOTORCYCLE OFFICER: Ah, West for West 717, again, Dispatch. Cancel that. They’re just two lovebirds playing suck face.
DISPATCHER: I have it, West 717.
Immediately Franck’s right index finger shot out and punched the STOP button. The player went silent, and he looked up at the two motorcycle officers across from him.
“Your first call came at 19:38:44 hours,” he snapped at the officer designated West 717. “Why did you cancel it?”
“It seemed like nothing. They saw us. They didn’t care. Hardly the style of fugitives, Hauptkommissar.”
“How do you presume that? You said yourself they resembled the suspects. How do you know what they were doing or why? Schiffbauerdamm at the Weidendamm Bridge is less than a twenty-minute walk from the Hotel Adlon, and 19:38 was in the correct time frame.” Immediately Franck’s eyes shifted from West 717 to the second officer.