Part 12 (2/2)

The major folded the oversized envelope and tucked it into his jacket pocket before leaving the building. His clothing was entirely German in origin, as were the sungla.s.ses which he donned on opening the door. He scanned the sidewalk in both directions, looking for anyone who might be trailing him. Nothing. The KGB officer had promised him that the safe house was totally secure, that no one had the least suspicion that they were here. Perhaps. The taxi was waiting for him across the street. He was in a hurry. The cars were stopped on the street, and he decided to go straight across instead of walking to the corner. The major was from Russia and not accustomed to the unruly European traffic where the pedestrians are expected to follow the rules too. He was a hundred meters from the nearest traffic cop, and the nearby German drivers could sense that the cop's back was turned. It should have been as much a surprise to the major as to American tourists that, when driving, the orderly Germans were anything but. He stepped off the curb without looking, just as the traffic started moving.

He never even saw the accelerating Peugeot. It was not moving fast, only twenty-five kilometers per hour. Fast enough. The right fender caught him on the hip, spun him around, and catapulted the major into a lamppost. He was knocked unconscious before he knew what had happened, which was just as well, since his legs remained in the street and the Peugeot's rear wheel crushed both ankles. The damage to his head was spectacular. A major artery was cut open, and blood fountained onto the sidewalk as he lay motionless on his face. The car stopped at once, its driver leaping out to see what she had done. There was a scream from a child who had never seen so much blood, and a postman raced to the corner to summon the police officer standing in the traffic circle, while another man went into a store to call an ambulance.

The stopped traffic allowed the taxi driver to leave his vehicle and come over. He tried to get close, but already a half dozen men were bending over the body.

”Er ist tot,” one observed, and the body was pale enough to make one think so. The major was already in shock. So was the Peugeot's driver, whose eyes were already dripping tears as her breaths came in irregular sobs. She was trying to tell everyone that the man had stepped right in front of her car, that she hadn't had a chance to stop. She spoke in French, which only made things more difficult.

Pus.h.i.+ng through the spectators, the taxi driver was almost close enough to touch the body by now. He had to get that envelope . . . but then the policeman arrived.

”Alles zurck!” the cop ordered, remembering his training: first, get things under control. His training also enabled him to resist the instinct to move the body. This was a head injury, perhaps a neck injury also, and those were not to be moved except by Experten. A bystander called out that he had summoned an ambulance. The policeman nodded curtly and hoped it would arrive soon. Making traffic accident reports was far more routine than watching an unconscious-or dead?-man bleed untidily on the sidewalk. He looked up gratefully a moment later to see a lieutenant-a senior watch supervisor-pus.h.i.+ng his way in.

”Ambulance?”

”On the way, Herr Leutnant. I am Dieter, Gunther-traffic detail. My post is down the street.”

”Who was driving the car here?” the lieutenant asked.

The driver stood as erect as she could and started gasping out her story in French. A pa.s.serby who had seen the whole thing cut her off.

”This one just stepped off the curb without looking. The lady had no chance to stop. I am a banker, and I came out of the post office right behind this one. He tried to cross at the wrong place and stepped into the street without looking at the traffic. My card.” The banker handed the lieutenant his business card.

”Thank you, Dr. Mller. You have no objection to making a statement?”

”Of course. I can come directly to your station if you wish.”

”Good.” The lieutenant rarely had one this clean-cut.

The taxi driver just stood at the edge of the crowd. An experienced KGB case officer, he'd seen operations go bad before, but this was . . . absurd. There was always something new that could ruin an operation, so often the most simple, most foolish thing. This proud Spetznaz commando, cut down by a middle-aged Frenchwoman driving a sedan! Why hadn't he looked at the d.a.m.ned traffic? I should have gotten someone else to fetch the envelope, and screw the d.a.m.ned orders. Security, he swore behind an impa.s.sive face. Orders from Moscow Center: minimum personnel involvement. He walked back across the street to his cab, wondering how he'd explain this to his control. Mistakes were never the Center's fault.

The ambulance arrived next. The sergeant removed the victim's wallet from his pants. The victim was one Siegfried Baum-wonderful, the lieutenant thought, a Jew-from the Altona district of Hamburg. The driver of the car was French. He decided he had to ride in to the hospital with the victim. An ”international” accident: there'd be extra paperwork on this. The lieutenant wished he'd stayed in the Gasthaus across the street and finished his after lunch pilsener. So much for devotion to duty. Then there was his possible mobilization to worry about . . .

The ambulance crew worked quickly. A cervical collar was fitted around the victim's neck, and a backboard brought in before they rolled him over onto the stretcher. The broken lower legs were immobilized with cardboard splints. The paramedic clucked over them. Both ankles looked to be badly crushed. The whole procedure took six minutes by the lieutenant's watch, and he boarded the ambulance, leaving three police officers to manage the rest of the incident and clear the accident scene.

”How bad is he?”

”Probably fractured his skull. He has lost a lot of blood. What happened?”

”Walked out into traffic without watching.”

”Idiot,” the paramedic commented. ”As if we don't have work enough.”

”Will he live?”

”Depends on the head injury.” The ambulanceman shrugged. ”The surgeons will be working on him within the hour. You know his name? I have a form to fill out.”

”Baum, Siegfried. Kaiserstra.s.se 17, Altona District, Hamburg.”

”Well, he'll be in the hospital in four minutes.” The paramedic took his pulse and made a notation. ”Doesn't look Jewish.”

”Be careful saying things like that,” the lieutenant cautioned.

”My wife is Jewish. His blood pressure is dropping rapidly.” The ambulanceman debated starting an IV, but decided against it. Better to let the surgeons make that decision.

”Hans, have you radioed in?”

”Ja, they know what to expect,” the driver replied. ”Isn't Ziegler on duty today?”

”I hope so.”

The driver horsed the ambulance into a hard left turn, and all the while the two-tone siren cleared traffic ahead of them. One minute later he halted the Mercedes and backed it into the emergency receiving area. A doctor and two orderlies were already waiting.

German hospitals are nothing if not efficient. Within ten minutes the victim, now a patient, had been intubated to protect his airway, punctured for a unit of O-positive blood and a bottle of IV fluids, and wheeled up to neurosurgery for immediate surgery at the hands of Professor Anton Ziegler. The lieutenant had to stay in the emergency room with the registrar.

”So who was he?” the young doctor asked. The policeman gave the information over.

”A German?”

”Does that seem strange?” the lieutenant asked.

”Well, when the radio call came in, and said you were coming also, I a.s.sumed that this was, well, sensitive, as though a foreigner were injured.”

”The auto was driven by a Frenchwoman.”

”Ach, that explains it. I thought he was the foreigner.”

”Why so?”

”His dental work. I noticed when I intubated him. He has a number of cavities, and they've been repaired with stainless steel-sloppy work.”

”Perhaps he originally comes from the East Zone,” the lieutenant observed. The registrar snorted.