On the same day von Osteen had gone to visit the prisoner ’s wife and found that she had been taken to the medical room, in childbirth. Walking toward the room, he had heard the young girl’s screams of pain, and when the doctor had told him the girl was dying von Osteen had decided to have the screams recorded to frighten Rogan into talking.
What a clever man he had been, von Osteen thought. He was clever in everything. Clever in evilness; and after the war, living with his ruined face, clever in goodness. And being clever, he now knew why he had destroyed Rogan so completely.
He had done so, von Osteen realized, because evil and good must always try to destroy each other; and it must follow that in the world of war and murder, evil must triumph over good. And so he had destroyed Rogan, slyly led him on to trust and hope. And at that final moment when Rogan had begged for mercy with his eyes von Osteen had laughed, his laughter drowned by the roar of the bullet exploding into Rogan’s skull. He had laughed at that moment because the sight of Rogan, with his hat tilted forward over his brow, had been genuinely comical; and death itself, in those terrible days of 1945, was merely a burlesque.
“It’s time.” His wife was touching his closed eyes. Von Osteen rose from the sofa and his wife helped him into his jacket. Then she walked with him to the limousine. “Be merciful,” she said.
It caught him unawares. He looked at her, his eyes dazed with incomprehension. She saw this and said, “On that poor wretch you will have to sentence this afternoon.”
Suddenly von Osteen had the overwhelming urge to confess his crimes to his wife. But the car was wheeling slowly away from the house on its way back to the Munich Palace of Justice. Already under sentence of death, but hoping for a reprieve, von Osteen could not bring himself to confess.
CHAPTER 21
Arthur Bailey paced the office of the CIA communications center in the U.S. Army headquarters outside Munich. Early that morning he had sent a coded radiogram to the Pentagon explaining the entire situation regarding von Osteen and Rogan. He had recommended that no action be taken by his organization. Now he was waiting impatiently for the answer.
It was nearly midday before a reply was received. The clerk took it into the top secret decoding room, and half an hour later the message was placed in Bailey’s hands. It stunned him. It instructed him to have von Osteen guarded and to inform the German police of Rogan’s intentions. This course of action would be so disastrous, Bailey thought, that he decided to use the radiophone to the Pentagon. The code signature on the reply was that of a former German teammate of Bailey’s, Fred Nelson. They couldn’t speak too freely over the radiophone, but maybe Bailey could get his message across to Nelson. And he sure as hell had to hurry. Rogan might be right behind Judge von Osteen this minute.
It took him ten minutes to get a connection. After identifying himself he said cautiously, “Do you people know what the hell you’re doing with those instructions you sent me? You could blow the whole political setup sky- high.”
Nelson’s voice was cool and noncommittal. “That decision came from the top in Intelligence. It’s been cleared by the State people. So just go ahead and follow orders.”
Bailey said disgustedly, “They’re all crazy.” His voice sounded so worried that Nelson took pity on him.
“That one aspect you’re worried about,” Nelson said guardedly, “that’s being taken care of.”
Nelson was referring to the letters Rogan had sent to his friends in the States. “Yes, I understand,” Bailey said. “What was done about that?”
“We’ve kept a file on him since your first report. We know everybody he might correspond with, and we’ve placed a postal intercept on the post of every person he knows.”
Bailey was genuinely surprised. “Can you get away with that in the States? I didn’t think of that at all.”
“National security. We can do anything.” Nelson sounded sardonic. “Will this guy let himself be taken alive?”
“No.”
“He’d better not be,” Nelson said, and broke the connection.
Bailey cursed himself for having called instead of just following instructions. He knew what Nelson’s last remark meant. He had to make sure that Rogan was not captured alive, or not allowed to remain alive after he was captured. They didn’t want him talking about von Osteen.
Bailey got into the waiting staff car and told the driver to take him to the Palace of Justice in Munich. He didn’t think Rogan had had enough time to make his move, but he wanted to make sure. Then he would pick up Vrostk, and they would both go to the pension and finish Rogan off.
CHAPTER 22
In the emergency clinic of the Munich Palace of Justice, Rogan prepared for his final meeting with Klaus von Osteen. He combed his hair and straightened his clothing; he wanted to look as presentable as possible so as not to stand out in the crowd. He patted his jacket pocket on the right side to make sure the Walther pistol was still there, though he could feel its weight.
Rosalie took a bottle of colorless liquid from her mobile tray and poured some on a thick square of gauze. She put the gauze in Rogan’s left-hand pocket. “If you start to feel faint, hold it to your mouth and breathe in,” she said.
He bent down to kiss her, and she said, “Wait until he finishes with his court; wait till the end of the day.”
“I’ll have a better chance if I catch him coming back from lunch. Be in the car.” He touched her cheek lightly. “There’s a good chance I’ll get away.”
Sad-eyed, they smiled at each other with pretended confidence; then Rosalie took off her white tunic and tossed it on a chair. “I’ll go now,” she said, and without another word, without a backward look, she left the clinic and walked through the courtyard to the street beyond. Rogan watched her before he, too, left the clinic and climbed the interior stairs to the main-floor corridor of the Munich Palace of Justice.
The corridor was filled with convicted people waiting to learn their punishments, and with them were families and friends, as well as the defenders and dispensers of justice. They gradually began disappearing into the individual courtrooms, until the cool dark hall was empty. There was no sign of von Osteen.
Rogan walked down the hall to the courtroom where von Osteen had sat that morning; he was late. The court was already in session, and had been for some minutes. It was ready to sentence the criminal before it. Von Osteen, as president of the court, sat between his two fellow judges. They all wore black robes, but only von Osteen wore the high conical hat of ermine and mink that designated the chief judicial officer, and his figure seemed to exert a dread fascination on everyone in the courtroom.
He was about to sentence the convicted criminal before him. The decision was announced in that magnificent persuasive voice that Rogan remembered so well. It was a life sentence for the poor wretch before him.
Rogan felt an enormous relief that his search was ended. He walked a hundred feet past the doors of the courtroom and stepped into one of the empty niches in the wall of the corridor, a niche that for a thousand years had held the armor of a German warrior. He stood there for nearly an hour before the people in the courtroom came out of the oaken doors into the corridor.
He saw a black-robed figure exit from the courtroom through a small side door. Von Osteen was coming toward him through the shadowy corridor. He looked like an ancient priest prepared for sacrifice, black robes flapping, the conical hat of ermine and mink like a bishop’s mitre, holy and untouchable. Rogan waited, blocking the corridor. He drew the Walther pistol and held it before him.
They were face-to-face now. Von Osteen peered through the shadowy light and whispered, “Rogan?”
