The Germans screamed and scuttled away from the pools of blood forming on the deck.
Bless heaved a great sigh, wiped the sweat from his face, and replaced his pistol. “Let him go,” he said to Danny. “All right, calm down, calm down, it’s all over. Any of you people speak English?”
“Ya, I do.”
“There is a German officer at the foot of the steps. Get him up here. I want him to record everyone’s name and address and the story of what happened. Tell these people they will be informed where they can claim their possessions.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Calm down now. It’s all over.”
Bless knelt and turned one of the Russians over. The shot had been true, through the heart. The other one was a grotesque sight, a bullet through his face.
They could hear the sirens of support cars.
“Ambulance?” Danny said, fighting off sickness.
“They’re both dead,” Blessing answered. “And the damned fool thing about it is I know they were bluffing. They got to learn if they go for their guns to use them.”
Bless leaned against the building, and bit his lip hard. “You okay, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah ... I’m okay.”
Chapter Ten
NEAL HAZZARD ARRIVED AT the two-story Kommandatura building in Dahlem fifteen minutes before the general session was due to begin for a special meeting with T. E. Blatty, the chairman for the month.
T. E. Blatty, always the perfect gentleman, tall, sandy, well-groomed, arrived a moment later, and as he passed into the confines the Union Jack was raised on the second of four masts, and a British sentry took a post next to the American already posted there.
The two commandants met in Blatty’s office.
“I want to take the nomination of Hans Kronbach off today’s agenda,” Hazzard said.
“You seemed quite keen on the chap when you telephoned me and I think he would be good for us.”
“It has nothing to do with Kronbach. Two Russian soldiers were killed by us last evening. They were caught in the middle of an armed robbery.”
“I heard rumors of it.”
“It’s a lead-pipe cinch Trepovitch is going to blow his top. Today is not the day to push for the nomination of a deputy police president.”
“Speaking quite frankly,” the Englishman answered, “you’re making it a bit awkward, are you not? We can never expect to establish order if we jigger the agenda around every ten minutes.”
Neal Hazzard stifled an impulse to wring Blatty’s neck. “Hans Kronbach is too important for us to lose. Just don’t make a federal case out of this and let things cool down before I put his name up.”
“See here, Hazzard, I’m only trying to run the show properly. Once we impress the Russians that we play the game by the rules through thick and thin they’re not so apt to bugger us around.”
“For Christ’s sake. We’re not on the goddam sporting fields of Eton.”
“Well!”
“I mean, close your eyes this once.”
“If you insist, Colonel Hazzard, but I act under duress.”
Hazzard sighed with relief. “I’ll return the favor.”
The tricolor of France was raised on the third flag pole as Colonel Jacques Belfort arrived. They all met on the first floor in the main conference room around a square table, with seats behind theirs for advisors and translators.
At precisely nine o’clock Colonel Nikolai Trepovitch arrived with a bevy of staff following him. Hazzard watched the Russian carefully. His face was frozen in a cold glare, he was sullen, and there was an absence of greeting. Hazzard knew it was going to be a long, hard day.
Trepovitch nodded curtly to the chairman, Blatty, sat, adjusted his glasses, unloaded his briefcase, and picked up the agenda.
“This session is called to order,” the Englishman said. “We have a request to remove from the agenda the nomination of a deputy police president.” He looked at Hazzard. “This is a unilateral action of the Americans. Do I hear an objection?”
Trepovitch’s interpreter buzzed into his ear and pointed to the agenda. To Hazzard this was another bad sign, for Trepovitch’s English was better than passable when he so desired. He had a knack of forgetting English in order to force slow, tortuous translations.
Blatty continued. “The first order of business will be to continue discussion on a subcommittee report regarding the removal of Berlin’s dairy herd by the Soviet Union before our arrival in the city. The vote stands three to one that we should not be compelled to replace the herd, that being the duty of the Soviet Union. Whereas,” Blatty droned on, “we have agreed to feed our sectors, an original source of food has been deliberately removed in the Soviet act of spiriting 7000 cows away. Speaking for His Majesty’s Government as well as the American and French governments, it is our position that the Soviet Union owes us 5000 cows ...”
“Last night,” Nikolai Trepovitch began as though he had not heard a word the Englishman said, “two soldiers of the Soviet Union were murdered.”
“I say, Colonel Trepovitch, you are most out of order.”
“They were shot down in cold blood by American aggressors.”
“We are discussing the dairy herd, sir.”
“The guilty murderers are to be found, full restitution made to their grieving families, and a public apology is to be rendered to the Soviet Union.”
“There is a proper place allotted on the agenda for the discussion of emergency contingencies. In due course we shall examine your charges.”
“This was an arrogant murder of two soldiers of the Soviet Union who fought the Nazis with valor only to be slaughtered in the streets by American police brutality.”
Thus far, Neal Hazzard had kept a slight smile on his lips, and had otherwise remained expressionless.
“See here, now,” Blatty answered, “you simply cannot twist the agenda about because you are in a fit of pique. It is not done.”
The Russian brought his fist on the table. “There is no other order of business until this is settled!”
“Sir, is it the position of the Soviet Union that you refuse to allow the business of this body to proceed?”
The fist fell again.
“As chairman of the Kommandatura, I shall not submit to threats or highhanded methods. Now then, if you are finished pounding on the table, we will continue to examine the question of the dairy herd.”
“Is it your position then to protect paid murderers?” Trepovitch broke into an impassioned speech filled with such names as warmongers, fascist bullies, gangsters, lynchers. Within moments the translators were unable to keep up and the translation broke down. Trepovitch didn’t mind. He ranted on, alone.
Blatty waited until he had spent his passion. “Inasmuch as Colonel Trepovitch refuses to recognize the orderly procedures and is attempting to submit us to anarchy, I adjourn this council.”
The Russian jumped to his feet, pointed a finger at Blatty, and further accused him of covering the American crime. He snapped out orders to subordinates, and began to stuff his briefcase. The obvious threat of a walkout existed.
“Gentlemen,” Neal Hazzard said, uttering his first words, “I am completely willing to waive the other order of business to take up the Soviet Union’s charges.”
“That is commendable,” the French commandant said quickly, “and in keeping with the spirit of working together.”
“Sporting gesture,” Blatty said, “but if we permit this we would be endorsing chaos.”
Son of a bitch, Hazzard thought. Between the two of them, you could go nuts. Blatty was so adamant he would even allow a disastrous Soviet walkout.
“I’d like a vote,” Hazzard said.
“I will veto if I am outvoted,” Blatty warned.
Hazzard had guessed that part of Trepovitch’s tirade was pure play acting, but the Englishman was genuine in his stodginess.