Berlin.
Saturday, November 3
Six p.m.
Anna Roffe Gassner did not know how much longer she would be able to stand it.
She had become a prisoner in her own home. Except for the cleaning woman who came in for a few hours once a week, Anna and the children were alone, completely at Walther's mercy. He no longer bothered to conceal his hatred. Anna had been in the children's room as they listened together to one of their favorite records.
"Welch ein Singen, Musizieren, Pfeifen, Zwitschken, Tiriliern..."
Walther had stormed in. "I'm sick of that!" he had yelled.
And he had smashed the record, while the children cowered in terror.
Anna had tried to placate him. "I - I'm sorry, Walther. I - I didn't know you were home. Can I do something for you?"
He had walked up to her, his eyes blazing, and he said, "We're going to get rid of the children, Anna."
In front of them!
He put his hands on her shoulders. "What happens in this house must be our secret" Our secret. Our secret. Our secret.
She could feel the words reverberating in her head, and his arms started to crush her until she could not breathe. She fainted.
When Anna woke up, she was lying in her bed. The shades were drawn. She looked at the bedside clock. Six P.M. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Her first thought was of the children, and terror swept through her. She rose from the bed on shaky legs, and stumbled over to the door. It was locked from the outside. She pressed her ear hard against the panel, listening. There should have been the sounds of the children. They should have come up to see her.
If they had been able to. If they were still alive.
Her legs were trembling so hard that she could barely walk to the telephone. She breathed a silent prayer, then picked it up. She heard the familiar dial tone. She hesitated, dreading the thought of what Walther would do to her if he caught" her again. Without giving herself a chance to think, Anna began to dial 110. Her hands shook so badly that she dialed a wrong number. And another. She began to sob. There was so little time left. Fighting her growing hysteria, she tried again, willing her fingers to move slowly. She heard a ringing, then miraculously a man's voice said, "Hier ist de Notruf der Polizei."
Anna could not find her voice.
"Hier ist der Notruf der Polizei. Kann ich Ihnen helfen?"
"Ja!" It was a high-pitched sob. "Ja, bitte! Ich bin in grosser Gefahr. Bitte schicken sie jemanden - "
Walther loomed in front of her, ripping the telephone out of her hand and hurling her against the bed. He slammed down the receiver, breathing hard, tore the cord out of the wall, and turned to Anna.
"The children," she whispered. "What have you done with the children?"
Walther did not answer.
The Central Division of the Berlin Kriminal Polizei was located at 2832 Keithstrasse in a district of ordinary-looking apartment houses and office buildings. The emergency number of the Delikt am Mensch department was equipped with an automatic hold system, so that a caller was unable to disconnect until the line had been electronically released by the switchboard. In this way every number calling in could be traced, no matter how brief the conversation. It was a sophisticated piece of equipment of which the department was proud.
Within five minutes of Anna Gassner's telephone call, Detective Paul Lange walked into the office of his chief, Major Wageman, carrying a cassette player.
"I would like you to listen to this." Detective Lange pressed a button. A metallic male voice said, "Hier ist der Notruf der Polizei. Kann ich Ihnen helfen?"
Then a woman's voice, filled with terror. "Ja! Ja, bitte! Ich bin in grosser Gefahr. Bitte schicken sie jemanden - "
There was the sound of a thud, a click, and the line went dead. Major Wageman looked up at Detective Lange. "You've traced the call?"
"We know whose residence it came from," Detective Lange replied carefully.
"Then what's the problem?" Major Wageman demanded impatiently. "Have Central send a car to investigate."
"I wanted your authority first." Detective Lange placed a slip of paper on the desk in front of the major.
"Scheiss!" Major Wageman stared at him. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, Major."
Major Wageman looked down at the slip of paper again. The telephone was listed in the name of Gass-ner, Walther. Head of the German division of Roffe and Sons, one of the industrial giants of Germany.
There was no need to discuss the implications. Only an idiot could miss them. One wrong move and they would both be walking the streets, looking for a job. Major Wageman thought for a moment and then said, "All right. Check it out. I want you to go there yourself. And walk on fucking eggs. Do you understand?"
"I understand, Major."
The Gassner estate was in Wannsee, an exclusive suburb in southwest Berlin. Detective Lange took the longer Hohenszollerndamm instead of the speedier autobahn, because the traffic was lighter. He went through the Clayalle, past the CIA building, hidden behind half a mile of barbedwire fences. He passed the American Army Headquarters and turned right on what was once known as Road One, the longest road in Germany, running from East Prussia to the Belgian border. On his right was the Brucke der Einheit, the Bridge of Unity, where the spy Abel had been exchanged for the American U-2 pilot Gary Powers. Detective Lange turned the car off the highway into the wooded hills of Wannsee.
The houses were beautiful, impressive. On Sundays, Detective Lange sometimes took his wife out here, just to look at the outside of the houses and the grounds.
He found the address he was looking for and turned into the long driveway leading to the Gassner estate. The estate represented something more than money: it represented power. The Roffe dynasty was big enough to make governments fall. Major Wageman had been right: he would be very careful.
Detective Lange drove to the front door of the three-story stone house, got out of the car, took off his hat and pressed the doorbell. He waited. There was the heavy hanging silence of a house that has been deserted. He knew that was impossible. He rang again. Nothing but that still, oppressive silence. He was debating whether to go around to the back when the door unexpectedly opened. A woman stood in the doorway. She was middle-aged, plain-looking, wearing a wrinkled dressing gown. Detective Lange took her for the housekeeper. He pulled out his identification. "I'd like to see Mrs. Walther Gassner. Please tell her Detective Lange."
"I am Mrs. Gassner," the woman said.
Detective Lange tried to conceal his surprise. She was totally unlike his image of the lady of this house.
"I - we received a telephone call at police headquarters a short time ago," he began.
She watched him, her face blank, disinterested. Detective Lange felt that he was handling this badly, but he did not know why. He had a feeling that he was missing something important.
"Did you make that call, Mrs. Gassner?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered. "It was a mistake."
There was a dead, remote quality to her voice that was disturbing. He remembered the shrill, hysteircal voice on the tape recorder half an hour earlier.
"Just for our records, may I ask what kind of mistake?"
Her hesitation was barely perceptible. "There was - I thought that a piece of my jewelry was missing. I found it."
The emergency number was for murder, rape, mayhem. Walk on fucking eggs.
"I see." Detective Lange hesitated, wanting to get inside the house, wanting to find out what she was covering up. But there was nothing more he could say or do. "Thank you, Mrs. Gassner. I'm sorry to have troubled you."
He stood there, frustrated, and watched the door close in his face. He slowly got into his car and drove off.
Behind the door Anna turned.
Walther nodded and said softly, "You did very well, Anna. Now we're going back upstairs."
He turned toward the stairway, and Anna pulled out a pair of shears that had been concealed in the folds of her dressing gown and plunged them into his back.