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The high commissar climbed the stairs and walked between the kneeling statues. He looked out over a graveyard of five thousand of Stalin’s soldiers who died in the battle for Berlin at the end of World War II.
But Dietrich was not looking at the sixteen crypts that held the bodies, nor was he thinking about Stalin, or the particulars of the Soviet War Memorial. He was peering beyond all of it through the lightly falling rain to a path that ran parallel to the cemetery through a grove of trees.
In the dull pewter light and the rain, a lone figure appeared from the trees in a black raincoat, jogging pants, and shoes. He strode briskly down the path, arms pumping and his head up like a dog on alert.
The high commissar checked his watch.
Five p.m. on the dot.
He shook his head in mild disbelief. “Like fucking clockwork.”
CHAPTER 16
DIETRICH WATCHED THE figure move away from him toward the rear of the war memorial and calculated his speed. When he thought he had it right, he headed off at a slant to the walker, weaving through the sarcophagi and losing sight of his quarry for several minutes.
The high commissar stopped on the north side of the statue of the victorious Soviet and the German child. The rain had slowed, so he could hear the slap of the man’s feet coming long before he spotted him.
“Oberst?” Dietrich said. “Colonel? Can I have a moment of your time?”
The colonel was old, in his eighties at least, but his bearing was autocratic, a man used to giving orders and having them carried out. And he had a steel-blue penetrating stare that slashed all over the high commissar before a look of disgust curled his lip. He did not slow his pace, and tried to get by him.
Dietrich reached out and grabbed the older man by the elbow. “I need to talk. I need your help. Your advice.”
“You need my help?” the colonel laughed spitefully and wrenched his arm free with surprising strength. “For years you want nothing to do with your own father, and now, out of nowhere, after what, ten years, you need?”
For a moment, Dietrich felt as sick as he’d claimed to be earlier in the afternoon. His stomach ached and he was bombarded by a sense of claustrophobia that he had not felt since the last time he’d spoken with his father.
“I’m on a case,” Dietrich said.
“Yes,” the colonel said with mild contempt. “You are a police officer.”
“Hauptkommissar,” Dietrich said, feeling old anger stirring in him. “I just need to rule a few things out.”
“About what, Hauptkommissar?”
It had begun to rain again in earnest. His father’s hood was down, but the old man showed no bother.
Dietrich hesitated, and then said, “I need you to tell me what you know about certain ancient rumors.”
The colonel turned suspicious. “What kind of ancient rumors?”
“About the old auxiliary slaughterhouse near Ahrensfelde.”
Something cracked in the old man’s expression.
But it sealed tight a moment later. “I don’t know anything about it. And neither should you.”
Dietrich said, “I have reason to believe someone might have been murdered in there. Assaulted certainly.”
“Blood but no body then?”
“A piece of skin but no body. And animal blood. Lots of it. We’re searching the place now. Are we going to find anything?”
The colonel blinked at raindrops that hung from his lashes, and then said, “It could be squatters fighting.”
“No evidence of that yet.”
“Then I can’t tell you.”
