'And Zotin?' Kosov said, leaning over his rival.
'Yes?'
'Keep nothing from me again. It could be very dangerous for you.'
Zotin blanched.
'I want everything there is on this man Apfel. Everything.
I suggest you ride your staff very hard on this. Powerful eyes are
watching us.'
'How will you approach this policeman?'
'Approach him?' Kosov cracked a wolfish smile. 'Break him, you mean.
By morning I'll know how many times that poor bastard peeked up his
mother's skirts.'
Hans awoke in a cell. There was no window. He'd been thrown onto a
stack of damp cardboard boxes. One pale ray of light filtered down from
somewhere high above. When he had focused his eyes, he sat up and
gripped one of the steel bars. His face felt sticky. He put his
fingers to his temple.
Blood The familiar slickness brought back the earlier events in a
throbbing rush of confusion. The interrogation ... his father's stony
silence ... the struggle in the hallway. Where was he?
He tried to rise, but he collapsed into a narrow space tween two boxes.
Rotting cardboard covered almost the entire concrete floor. A cell full
of boxes? Puzzled, Hans reached into one and pulled out a damp folder.
He held it in the shaft of light. Traffic accident report, he thought.
Typed on the standard police fonn- He found the date-1973. Flipping
through the yellow sheaf of papers, he saw they were all the same, all
traffic accident reports from 1973. He checked the station listed on
several forms: Abschnitt 53 every case. Suddenly he realized where he
was.
In the early 1970s, Abschnitt 53 had been partially renovated during a
city wide wave of reform that lasted about eighteen months.
There had been enough money to refurbish the reception area and overhaul
the main cellblock, but the third floor, the basement, and the rear of
the building went largely untouched. Hans was sure he'd been locked in
the basement.
But why? No one had accused him of anything. Not openly, at least. Who
were the policemen who had attacked him? Funk's men? Were they even
police officers at all?
They had said he would soon be dead weight. It was crazy.
Maybe they were protecting him from the Russians. Maybe this was the
only way the prefect could keep him safe from them. That's it! he
thought with relief. It has to be.
A door slammed somewhere in the darkness above. Someone was
coming-several people by the sound-and making no effort to hide it.
Hans heard clattering and cursing on the stairs; then he saw who was
making the noise. Outlined in the fluorescent light streaming down from
the basement door, two husky uniformed men were wrestling a gurney off
the stairs. Slowly they cleared a path to the cell through the heaps of
junk covering the basement floor. Hans closed his eyes and lay
motionless on the holes where he'd been thrown.
'Looks like he's still out,' said one mdn.
'I hope I killed the son of a bitch,' growled the other.
'That wouldn't go over too well upstairs, ROIL'
'Who gives a shit?
The bastard broke my ribs.'
Hans heard a low chuckle. 'Be more careful the next time. Come on,
we've got to clear a space in there for this thing.
'Fuck it. Just throw this filthy Jew in on top of that one.
Not much left of him, anyway.'
'Apfel isn't a Jew.'
'Jew-lover, then.'
'The doctor said leave this one on the gurney.'
'Make him clear a space,' said Rolf, pointing in at Hans.
'Sure. If you can wake him up.'
Rolf picked up a rusted joint of pipe from the floor and rankled the
bars with it. 'Wake up, asshole!'
Hans ignored him.
'Get up or we'll kill you.'
Hans heard the metallic click of a pistol slide being jerked back.
Christ ... Slowly he rose to his feet.
'See,' said Rolf, 'he's not dead. Clear out a space in there, you. And
be quick about it.'
Hans tried to see who lay on the gurney, but Rolf smashed the pipe
against the bars near his face. It took him forty seconds to clear a
space wide enough to accept the gurney.
'Get back against the wall,' Rolf ordered. 'Go on!'
Hans watched the strange policemen roll the man on the gurney feet-first
into the cleared space, then slam the door behind him.
'You stay away from this Jew-boy, Sergeant,' @olf warned.
'Anything happens to him, it's on your head.
The pair hurried up the stairs, taking the shaft of light with them.
Hans couldn't make out the face of his new cellmate. He felt in his
pocket for a match, then remembered he'd given them to Kurt in the
waitin room upstairs. He put his hands on the unconscious man's
shoulders and stared downward, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the
blackness, but they didn't. Moving his hand tentatively, he felt
something familiar. Shoulder patches. Surprised and a little afraid,
Hans felt his way across the man's chest like a blind man. Brass
buttons ... patch ... collar pins ... Hans felt his left hand brush an
empty leather holster. A police officer!
Shutting his eyes tight, he put his right hand on the man's face and
waited. When he opened his eyes again, he could just make out the lines
of the face.
My God, he thought, feeling a lump in his throat. Weiss!
Erhard Weiss! For the second time tonight Hans felt cut loose from
reality. Gripping his friend's body like a life raft, he began trying
to revive him. He spoke into Weiss's ear, but heard no answer.
He slapped the slack face hard several times. No response.
Groping around in desperation, Hans crashed into the back wall of the
cell.
