Berlin Burning (7 page)

‘Far away from here,' Fleischer said, sitting down atop the raised platform.

‘You've packed her off to Alexanderplatz station, I expect?' Roth said. ‘Some brilliant scheme like that?'

Fleischer looked from Roth to Trautmann and said nothing.

‘Oh, tell me you haven't,' Roth said. Now it was his turn to look at Trautmann. ‘The man's an idiot, after all. You don't think we've got every station crawling with police on the lookout for her?'

Fleischer wiped blood from his eyes and sighed.

‘You'd better hope our people get to her before Kessler's do,' Trautmann said.

Kessler's voice reached them on the loudhailer, a tad tinny, as though he'd shrunk to Thumbelina size and was shouting at them from the corner:

‘What the hell was that, Mule? Have you been drinking?'

There were two doorways at either end of the room, both hung with leather straps. An orange glow from the one to Trautmann's right told him the flames were getting closer and they needed to find a way out.

‘You needn't think I'm sending anyone in after you!' said Thumbelina-Kessler.

‘I wish he'd shut up,' said Fleischer.

‘You know a way out of here?' Trautmann said.

‘Look, I killed the Meist boy. I admit it. Just leave me here. Makes no difference if the fire gets me or Kessler does.'

‘Rubbish,' Trautmann said. ‘You no more killed that boy than I did.' The kommissar moved in closer. ‘Help me get him up, Roth.'

They reached for him, but he shrugged them off.

‘Why does this mean so much to you? You're so desperate to prove Kessler wrong?'

‘Isn't that motive enough?' Roth said.

‘Your niece didn't kill him either,' Trautmann said. ‘Whatever foolish notion you have in your head. And think about it for a minute. If Kessler can't get you for this, who do you think's going to be number two on his list? Someone who shares your flesh and blood perhaps?'

That did it. Fleischer stood and glanced at the two doorways.

‘We'll have to go out through the killing shed,' he said, and headed for the doorway to Trautmann's left.

Once in the killing shed, the smell of dung came through stronger. The murmurs of confined cattle were much louder, too. Not to mention the crack of hooves and horns against wood.

The electric lights had failed altogether in this shed but daylight shone in through gaps in the walls – and fire crackled around the room's single opening to the stockyards. Only trouble was, between the three men and their only way out was a funnel created by two stout wooden fences and blocked off by a gate that slid into place from above like a guillotine blade. And the funnel was crammed with cattle.

That gate was the only thing stopping the cattle stampeding through the shed, and it buckled under the panicking press of flesh behind it.

Sweat dribbled down Trautmann's back and crawled from his underarms like a nest of damp spiders.

‘This the only way out?' Roth said. ‘Christ, we may as well give ourselves up to Kessler right now.'

Trautmann shushed him, unsure if Roth could hear over the noise of the fire and the livestock. The gate was attached to a chain that ran up through a ring set in a beam in the ceiling and then ran down again. That was how the stock men opened it. Stood to reason it would still work.

‘Help me,' Trautmann said, heading towards the hanging chain. Whether the others had cottoned on or not, they followed.

They had to cross in front of the gate to get to the chain, though. And as they did so, the gate cracked.

‘Quick!' Fleischer said, pushing Trautmann out of the way to the tortured sound of splintering wood.

‘What about Roth?' Trautmann said, his words lost.

He turned back to see the gate smash open under the pressure and cattle burst out of the funnel. He reached for Roth's outstretched hand to pull him clear. Their fingers touched.

Just as a piece of the gate flew out and knocked Roth on the side of the head. He slipped from Trautmann's grip and fell beneath the stampede.

Chapter 14

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T
he hooves carried Roth away. Trautmann, unbalanced, took a half step towards the seething cattle, arms still stupidly outstretched.

A tug at Trautmann's back told him Fleischer was trying to keep him from getting caught under the stampede too. He sagged backwards even as he cursed his cowardice.

He let Fleischer guide him back against the nearest wall, the hoof-churned dust catching the back of his throat. He coughed, and the coughing turned to hacking, then dry heaving from guts that felt like they'd taken a punch.

The last of the cattle bolted through a hole in the shed wall. The sound of the hooves had been so loud he'd not even heard the wood breaking as the herd punched its way through.

But that could have been the tinnitus; it was with him again, swelling now to fill his head. Dizziness made him stumble before Fleischer righted him. The hair smoked on the rumps of the last of the cattle, giving off the smell of roasting shit.

Then the shed was clear of all but the haze of mingled dust and smoke.

A scarecrow-shaped jumble of clothing lay mid-way between Trautmann and the far shed wall. As he noticed it, it moved. He hobbled over to it, pulling Fleischer along.

Roth groaned as they neared. Thank God he was alive, at least. For now.

‘We need to get him out,' Trautmann said, his throat so dry it came out as a whisper.

‘Under the arms,' Fleischer suggested.

They each took hold of an armpit, Trautmann taking the stump side and having to pull on loose clothing. They dragged Roth backwards through the smashed gate and along the fenced-in channel. Roth's legs bounced on the stony floor and he groaned anew.

Trautmann flinched at each bounce, each one shaking through the tiring muscles in his arms. He was losing his grip on Roth's clothing.

He wanted to ask Fleischer to stop but his weak voice wouldn't carry. Besides, they were nearing the exit to the cattle yards now and it was wreathed in flames.

Trautmann refreshed his grip with his left hand but Roth kept slipping. He was paying too close attention to his grip as Fleischer yanked them through the fire. Heat blasted Trautmann's face, fire burning the hair on his right side. He ignored the pain, crouched low and pulled.

Then, finally, they were through.

Fleischer pushed him to the ground and kicked dust on him. Then he kneeled close and rolled him around. Trautmann didn't have the strength to stop him – could barely see what was going on through his squinting eyes. His flesh had singed coming through, he knew that. He just didn't know how bad his burns were.

Fleischer stopped and pulled Trautmann into a sitting position.

‘You ok to drive?' Fleischer said. ‘I don't trust my bad arm.'

‘Drive?'

A delivery truck was less than ten metres away and it sounded as though the engine were turning over. Of course, that must be the same truck Trautmann had seen the Schupo pulling the driver from when they'd first arrived.

This close, the truck looked massive, the back doors still hanging open and its ramp still attached for the cattle to walk down. Trautmann wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it. But what choice did they have?

‘Yes,' Trautmann spat out dust, and tried not to think about the odds that he'd swallowed some cow dung. ‘I'll drive. Let's get Roth on the front seat with us. I don't want him rolling around in the back.'

They carried Roth into the front and Fleischer got in after him, holding him in place as Trautmann went around to the driver's side and got in. The keys were in the ignition and the engine was idling, all ready to go.

Good thing Kessler's men had been so over-enthusiastic after all.

Trautmann shut the door.

‘What about the back doors?' Fleischer said.

‘You want to go and close them? Or do you want to get out of here without being shot?'

Fleischer said nothing.

Trautmann put the truck in gear and pumped the accelerator; the truck gave a burp and lurched forward, cracking Fleischer's head against the back of the cabin.

Trautmann grinned. At least, he meant to. He had no idea whether the thought made it as far as his face.

He was still grinning mentally when they crashed through the gate into a side street.

His arms ached already, even worse than before. He wrestled with the wheel, with the unfamiliar weight of the vehicle and its wide turning circle. He managed to turn it just enough so they hit the opposite wall side on.

The engine stalled. Up at the end of the street, Schupomen were gathering.

‘Come on, Trautmann,' Fleischer hissed.

Some of the Schupo crept toward them. Trautmann wondered if they had any kerosene with them.

He fought with the starter. After a couple of tries, the engine growled back into life. He jammed the gears into reverse, backed into the remains of the ruined gate, and steered right into the Schupo swarm, hoping he wouldn't hit any of the stupid bastards.

Leastways, not hard to enough to kill them.

At the end of the street, he swung left, back into the main thoroughfare and past the remaining Schupo, who scattered.

A couple of bullets chipped the windscreen, but they were through.

Trautmann hauled on the wheel in an effort to keep the truck straight as it careered past stray cattle that had got into the road. He eased the pressure on the accelerator to avoid hitting any of them.

A fistful of loose stones rattled in the back of the van – or that's how it sounded. Trautmann's mind took a second to catch up: more bullets.

He glanced into his side mirror and saw the pillbox behind them move, the turret swinging in their direction. If that thing got within range, they were done.

‘Eyes on the road,' Fleischer said.

Trautmann snapped back to the road ahead, where one of the cows stood right in their path. Hitting it head-on would mean the end of their merry jaunt, so Trautmann twisted the wheel hard. The van skidded left. He slammed on the brake; the back of the van spun out and nudged the cow out of the way.

Then another shower of machine gun bullets hit their exposed left side and took down the cow, its back legs buckling.

Fleischer loosed a string of curses; Trautmann backed up, wrenched the truck into gear and pulled away.

They were picking up speed, but not fast enough. In his side mirror, the pillbox gained ground.

But the armoured car still had cattle to navigate, while for Trautmann the road ahead was clear. Now he pushed down the accelerator with as much force as he had in him, nudging the wheel left and right to present a moving target.

Roth cried out.

‘Is he ok?' Trautmann said, taking his eyes off the road.

‘Petra!' Roth said.

‘Which way's the hospital?'

‘Which one?'

‘The nearest one, you imbecile!'

‘Go right at the junction here.'

Another burst of machine gun fire made Trautmann look in his mirror again. The pillbox was still getting closer. Up ahead was a crossroads with traffic lights. And the lights were turning red.

More bullets hit them and the van juddered, losing height on the left side. The steering wheel slipped through his hands and tapping the brakes did nothing to help him regain control.

‘Are the tyres hit?' he asked. That crossroads was coming up fast. Less than fifty metres away now.

Fleischer looked in his side mirror.

Another rattle of bullets and the right front tyre burst, sending them skidding through the red light. A couple of horns screeched. An auto slammed into them and spun them around.

Trautmann let go of the wheel and flung himself across Roth.

Then they hit something else and stopped moving.

Chapter 15

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T
rautmann opened his eyes.

He ached all over, the blistered skin on the side of his head screeching its pain.

Roth groaned beneath him. Trautmann sat bolt upright and looked around. His head was spinning and he wanted to throw up. Again.

Hell of a night shift this was turning out to be.

Fleischer had braced himself against the dash with his legs. The man's wide-eyed stare morphed into a smile.

Autos boxed them in. They'd hit a nearby lamp post, far as he could make out, and bounced off it. Drivers hooted their horns, and a traffic Schupo was looking through the windscreen at them like they were something from a HG Wells novel that had crash landed on his beat.

Trautmann fumbled his door open. It struck the auto next to them, resulting in more horn tooting.

He slid out of the van with a rude gesture at the driver, and called out to the Schupo.

‘Son?' He flashed his ID.

The young cop tried to snap to attention, but, in his shock, he couldn't quite pull it off.

‘Sir?'

‘Commandeer us a vehicle, will you? There's a good lad.'

‘Sir?'

‘There's an injured man in here. We need to get him to a hospital quick smart.'

The Schupo snapped off a salute and bolted into the press of autos, throwing his voice about. Probably helped to give his addled mind something to occupy it. So far, so good. Now where was that damned pillbox?

Not that Trautmann's addled mind was doing all that well. He stepped up onto the running board of the van, trying not to move his head too violently lest it set off a chain reaction to his guts.

‘Fleischer?' he bellowed, realising the other man had made it out of the van, and was laughing. He was about to ask why when he followed Fleischer's line of site down the street they'd driven through. The pillbox had crashed straight into the cow it had shot and got stuck. Bluecoats gathered about the front of the car trying to drag the carcass away.

Trautmann started laughing too. The traffic Schupo had to clear his throat a couple of times to get his attention.