know why he used their first names, as if they had become friends. He called out again, in a low urgent voice, to warn them they were going into the eternal darkness of death, so that they could compose whatever souls they had, say whatever prayers possible to make themselves ready for the black void. Again he banged on the trunk, louder this time, but there was no answer. He realized suddenly what must have happened. In their drugged condition they had probably died shortly after Rogan had switched to the carbon monoxide. To make sure that they were dead and not shamming, Rogan unlocked the trunk and raised the lid.
Evil they had been, no loss to the world, but in their last moments they had found some spark of humanity. In their final agony the two brothers had turned to each other and died in each other’s arms. Their faces had lost all slyness and cunning. Rogan stared at them for a long time. It was a mistake, he thought, to have killed them together. Accidentally, he had been merciful.
He locked the trunk and drove on to the railway station. He swung the car into the vast car park, filled with thousands of vehicles, and parked it in the section he thought most likely to remain filled, near the east entrance. Then he got out of the Mercedes and started toward his hotel. As he walked he let the keys to the Mercedes slip out of his hand and into the gutter.
He walked all the way back to the hotel, and so it was nearly three in the morning before he let himself into his hotel suite. Rosalie was waiting up for him. She brought him a glass of water to take with his pills, but Rogan could feel the blood pounding in his head, louder and louder. The familiar sickish, sweet taste was in his mouth, and then he felt the fearsome spinning vertigo, and he was falling… falling… falling…
CHAPTER 9
It was three days before Rogan became conscious of his surroundings. He was still in the hotel suite, lying in his bed, but the bedroom had the antiseptic smell of a hospital. Rosalie was hovering over him, instantly at his side when she saw he was awake. Peering over her shoulder was a peevish-faced man with a beard who resembled the comical German doctor in films.
“Ah”-the doctor’s voice was a harsh voice-“you have finally found your way back to us. Fortunate, very fortunate. Now I must insist you go to the hospital.”
Rogan shook his head. “I’m OK here. Just give me a prescription for some more of my pills. No hospital is going to help me.”
The doctor adjusted his spectacles and stroked his beard. Despite the facial camouflage he looked young, and he was obviously disturbed by Rosalie’s beauty. Now he turned to scold her. “You must give this fellow some peace. He is suffering from nervous exhaustion. He must have complete rest for at least two weeks. Do you understand me?” The young doctor angrily tore a sheet from his prescription pad and handed it to her.
There was a knock on the door of the hotel suite, and Rosalie went to answer it. The American Intelligence agent Bailey came in, followed by two German detectives. Bailey’s long Gary Cooper face was sour. “Where’s your boyfriend?” he asked Rosalie. She nodded toward the bedroom door. The three men moved toward it.
“He’s sick,” Rosalie said. But the three men went into the bedroom.
Bailey did not seem surprised to find Rogan in bed. Neither did he seem to have any sympathy for the sick man. He looked down at Rogan and said flatly, “So you went ahead and did it.”
“Did what?” Rogan asked. He was feeling fine now. He grinned up at Bailey.
“Don’t bullshit me,” Bailey snapped angrily. “The Freisling brothers have disappeared. Just like that. They left their gas station closed; their stuff is still in their apartment; their money is still in the bank. That means only one thing: They’re dead.”
“Not necessarily,” Rogan said.
Bailey waved his hand impatiently. “You’ll have to answer some questions. These two men are from the German political police. You’ll have to get dressed and come down to their headquarters.”
The young bearded doctor spoke up. His voice was angry, commanding. “This man cannot be moved.”
One of the German detectives said to him, “Watch yourself. You don’t want all those years in medical school to be wasted on a pick and shovel.”
Instead of frightening the doctor, this made him angrier. “If you move this man he may very well die. I will then personally press charges of manslaughter against you and your department.”
The German detectives, astonished at this defiance, did not say another word. Bailey studied the doctor and said, “What’s your name?”
The doctor bowed, almost clicked his heels, and said, “Thulman. At your service. And what is your name, sir?”
Bailey gave him a long intimidating stare; then, in obvious mockery, he bowed and clicked his heels together. “Bailey,” he said. “And we are going to take this man down to the
The doctor gave him a look of contempt. “I can click my heels together louder than you when I am barefooted, you poor imitation of a Prussian aristocrat. But that is beside the point. I forbid you to move this man because he is ill; his health will be severely endangered. I do not think you can afford to disregard my warnings.”
Rogan could see that the three men were baffled. He was, too. Why the hell was this doctor sticking his neck out for him?
Bailey said sarcastically, “Will it kill him if I ask him a few questions right here and now?”
“No,” said the doctor, “but it will tire him.”
Bailey made an impatient gesture and turned his lanky frame toward Rogan. “Your visas for travel in Germany are being revoked,” he said. “I’ve had that arranged. I don’t care what you do in any other country, but I want you out of my territory. Don’t try to come back with phony papers. I’ll have my eye on you as long as you’re in Europe. Right now you can thank this doctor for saving your ass.” Bailey walked out of the bedroom, the two German detectives followed, and Rosalie ushered all three out of the suite.
Rogan grinned at the doctor. “Is it true-I really can’t be moved?”
The young doctor stroked his beard. “Of course. However, you may move yourself, since then there would be no psychological stress on your nervous system.” He smiled at Rogan. “I dislike seeing healthy men, especially policemen, bully sick people. I don’t know what you are up to, but I’m on your side.”
Rosalie saw the doctor to the door, then came back and sat on the bed. Rogan put his hand over hers. “Do you still want to stay with me?” he asked. She nodded. “Then pack all our things,” Rogan said. “We’ll leave for Munich. I want to meet Klaus von Osteen before the others. He’s the most important one.”
Rosalie bowed her head to his. “They will kill you after all,” she said.
Rogan kissed her. “That’s why I have to take care of von Osteen first. I want to make sure of him. I don’t mind so much if the other two get away.” He gave her a gentle push. “Start packing,” he said.
They caught a morning flight to Munich and checked into a small pension where Rogan hoped they might not be noticed. He knew that Bailey and the German police would trace him to Munich, but it would take them a few days to discover his whereabouts. By then his mission would be completed and he would be out of the country.
He rented a small Opel while Rosalie went to the library to read up on von Osteen in the newspaper file and to locate his home address.
When they met for dinner, Rosalie had a full report. Klaus von Osteen was now the highest-ranking judge of the Munich courts. He had started off as the wastrel son of a famous noble family related to the English royal family. Though he had been a German officer during the war, there was no record of his having joined the Nazi party. Shortly before the end of the war he had been severely wounded and that had apparently turned him into a new man at the age of forty-three. Back in civilian life he had studied law and had become one of the best lawyers in Germany. He had then entered the political arena as a moderate and a supporter of the American entente in Europe. Great things were expected of him; it was possible that he might even become the chancellor of West Germany. He had the support of the German industrialists and the American occupation authorities, and a magnetic influence over the working classes as a superb orator.
Rogan nodded grimly. “That sounds like the guy. He had a terrific voice, sincere as hell. The bastard really covered his tracks, though.”
