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Baumgarten examined it for several moments before saying, “Czech-made Semtex, smiliar to C-4. Soviet era. Got to be twenty-five or thirty years old.”
“Who put it down there and when?” Mattie said. “I mean, if Burkhart’s right, whoever set those bombs off had to have been watching us, or at least had to have known there were police at the site. He didn’t know we were rushing to get out. He was willing to kill all of us to keep that boneyard buried.”
While Baumgarten considered that, Dietrich said, “I agree. And more, I think what Frau Engel discovered could be a dumping ground for a serial killer. How else do you explain thirty skulls in the same place?”
“Maybe he’s an assassin,” Burkhart said. “Maybe when people hire him to make their enemies disappear, this is where he dumps them.”
Dietrich nodded. “I could see that too.”
Baumgarten did not comment on any of it. Another agent called to her and she left them just as Inspector Weigel reappeared. “Where does this leave us, High Commissar?”
“Blocked, at least as far as this place is concerned,” Dietrich said. “We really have no other course of action except to wait for the forensics teams to find us some evidence.”
“That could be a week or more!” Mattie protested.
“It could,” the high commissar said.
“So you’re going to put this investigation down?”
“Not at all,” Dietrich said. “But I know what my supervisor is going to say. We’ve got a backlog of homicide cases and the federal agencies have taken the lead now. Until we get more physical evidence, I’m sure I’ll be spending my time working cases with more short-term promise.”
Mattie looked at the Kripo investigator in disbelief and then anger. “Well, you can be damn sure of one thing, Hauptkommissar—Private Berlin will be spending every waking moment working on this case. We are not resting until we nail the bastard who killed Chris and the other people buried under that debris.”
CHAPTER 31
THE NIGHTCLUB CABARET was empty and dark except for a few workers and a man in a leotard on stage practicing a dance routine in time to an amplified tune that Jack Morgan could not place.
Cabaret’s décor was over-the-top lavish with velvet booths and crystal chandeliers and a booming sound system.
Morgan took one look and wanted to leave for Ahrensfelde. He’d just heard from Burkhart about Mattie’s discovery of Chris’s body, the mass grave, and the destruction of the slaughterhouse.
But Burkhart had assured him they were fine, and there was little Morgan could do there because the federal police had taken over the investigation. He’d reluctantly decided to continue pursuing the Cassiano angle.
A burly, big-necked man stocking the bar regarded Morgan and Brecht suspiciously and asked them what they wanted. Brecht showed him his Private badge, introduced Morgan, and asked for Maxim Pavel.
The bartender, a Russian, seemed amused and switched to stilted English, addressing Morgan: “You have office in Moscow, Mr. Private?”
“We do,” Morgan replied.
The bartender grinned, revealing a missing tooth. He nodded at Brecht. “Good think you put this bloodsucker in Berlin. He wouldn’t last ten minutes in Russia. They’d put a stake through his heart.”
Without a change in expression, Brecht showed his canine teeth, and said, “I bite guys like you in the neck.”
The bartender snarled at Brecht, “Get out of here before I call police or throw you in the sun.”
“Not before we talk with Pavel,” Brecht said.
“He’s not—”
“I am Pavel,” said a voice behind them.
Morgan turned to find a man coming at him from the main entrance, removing a raincoat and setting it on a chair. Pavel was a fit, handsome man whose age was hard to peg; his skin was so taut Morgan believed he’d had plastic surgery at some
point.
“What do you want?” Pavel demanded.
“We’re with Private,” Morgan said.
