Rogan pushed them back onto their chairs. He sat down opposite them. From his jacket pocket he took a flattened bullet, tarnished with age, and threw it on the coffee table between them.
“You, Eric,” Rogan said. “You fired that bullet into the back of my skull ten years ago. In the Munich Palace of Justice. Do you remember me now? I’m the little play-mate you sneaked up on while I was changing my clothes-and while your brother Hans kept telling me that I was going to be freed. I’ve changed a lot. Your bullet changed the shape of my head. But look hard. Do you recognize me now?” He paused, then said grimly, “I’ve come back to finish our little game together.”
Mentally dulled by the drug, they both wore looks of blank incomprehension and stared at Rogan. It was Hans who first showed recognition, whose face first showed the natural shock, fear, and terrified surprise. Then they tried to flee, moving like men underwater. Rogan reached over and again gently pushed them back in their seats. He frisked them for weapons. They had none.
“Don’t be afraid,” Rogan said, deliberately imitating Hans’ voice. “I’m not going to harm you.” He paused. “Of course I’ll turn you in to the authorities, but all I want from you now is a little information. As a long time ago you wanted some from me. I cooperated then, didn’t I? I know you’ll be just as intelligent.”
Hans answered first, his voice thick with the drug but still sly. “Of course we’ll cooperate; we’ll tell you anything we know.”
“But first we’ll make a bargain,” Eric growled sullenly.
As long as they kept sitting still the brothers seemed to function normally. Now Hans leaned forward and said with ingratiating friendliness, “Yes. What do you wish to know, and what will you do for us if we cooperate?”
Rogan said quietly, “I want to know the names of the other men who were with you in the Munich Palace of Justice. I want to know the name of the torturer who killed my wife.”
Eric leaned over, parallel to his brother, and said slowly, contemptuously, “So you can kill us all like you killed Moltke and Pfann?”
“I killed them because they would not give me the other three names,” Rogan said. “I offered them a chance to live as I now give you a chance to live.” He signaled now to Rosalie. She brought over pads and pencils and handed them to the brothers.
Hans looked surprised, then grinned. “I will tell you right now. Their names are-” Before Hans could utter another word Rogan jumped up and smashed the German’s mouth with the butt of his pistol. Hans’ mouth became a dark hole out of which bloody pieces of gum bubbled, and bits of broken teeth. Eric tried to come to his brother’s defense, but Rogan pushed him back into the chair. He did not trust himself to hit Eric. He was afraid he wouldn’t stop until the man was dead.
“I don’t want to hear any lies,” Rogan said. “And to make sure you don’t lie to me, you’ll each-separately-write down the names of the other three men who were in the Munich Palace of Justice. You’ll also put down where each man is living now. I’m especially interested in the chief interrogator. I also want to know which man actually killed my wife. When you’ve finished, I’ll compare your separate lists. If both have the same names, you won’t be killed. If the information does not tally, if you have different names listed, you’ll both be killed immediately. That’s the deal. It’s up to you.”
Hans Freisling was gagging, clawing pieces of broken teeth and bits of gum from his smashed mouth. He couldn’t speak. Eric asked the final question: “If we cooperate, what will you do to us?”
Rogan tried to sound as earnest and sincere as possible. “If you both write down the same information, I won’t kill you. I’ll accuse you as war criminals, however, and turn you in to the proper authorities. Then you’ll have to stand trial and take your chances.”
He was amused by the secret looks they gave each other and knew just what they were thinking. Even if arrested and tried, even if convicted, they could appeal and get out on bail. Then they figured they could defect to East Germany and thumb their noses at justice. Rogan, pretending not to notice the looks they exchanged, pulled Hans out of his chair and moved him to the other end of the coffee table so that neither one could see what his brother was writing down. “Get busy,” he said. “And it had better be good. Or you’ll both die here in this room, tonight.” He pointed the Walther pistol at Eric’s head while keeping Hans in full view. With the silencer, the pistol was a frightening-looking weapon.
The brothers began to write. Hampered by the drug, they wrote laboriously, and it seemed a long time before first Eric, then Hans, finished. Rosalie, who had sat on the coffee table between them to make certain they could not signal to each other, picked up their pads to hand them to Rogan. He shook his head. “Read them to me,” he said. He kept the pistol pointed at Eric’s head. He had already decided to kill him first.
Rosalie read Eric’s list aloud. “Our commanding officer was Klaus von Osteen. He is now chief justice in the Munich courts. The other two were observers. The man from the Hungarian army was Wenta Pajerski. He is now a Red party chief in Budapest. The third man was Genco Bari. He was an observer from the Italian army. He now lives in Sicily.”
Rosalie paused. She switched the pads to read what Hans had written. Rogan held his breath. “Klaus von Osteen was the commanding officer. He was the one who killed your wife.” Rosalie paused at the look of anguish that passed over Rogan’s face. Then she continued reading.
The information tallied-both brothers had put down essentially the same information, the same names, although only Hans had named Christine’s murderer. And as Rogan compared the two pads he realized that Eric had given the minimum of information, whereas Hans had included extra details such as Genco Bari being a Mafia member, probably a big man in the organization. Rogan, however, had the feeling that the brothers had held back something he should know about. They were exchanging sly, congratulatory looks.
Again Rogan pretended not to notice. “OK,” he said. “You did the smart thing, so I’m going to keep my part of the bargain. Now I must turn you over to the police. We’ll leave this room together and go down the back stairs. Remember, don’t try to run. I’ll be right behind you. If you recognize anyone when we get outside, don’t try to signal them.”
The two men looked unconcerned; Eric was smirking at Rogan quite openly. Rogan was a fool, they thought. Didn’t the Amerikaner realize the police would release them immediately?
Rogan played it very straight and very dumb. “One other thing,” he said. “Downstairs I’m going to put you in the trunk of my car.” He saw the fear in their faces. “Don’t be frightened and don’t make a fuss. How can I control you if I have to drive the car?” he asked reasonably. “How else can I conceal you from any friends who may be waiting for you outside when I drive out of the parking lot?”
Eric snarled, “We made the trunk of that car an air-sealed chamber. We’ll suffocate. You plan to kill us anyway.”
“I’ve had special air holes drilled into the trunk since then,” Rogan said blandly.
Eric spat on the floor. He made a sudden grab for Rosalie and held her in front of him. But the drug had so weakened him that Rosalie easily twisted out of his grasp. And as she wrenched free one of her long painted fingernails went into Eric’s eye. He screamed and held his hand to his left eye. Rosalie stepped out of the line of fire.
Up to this moment Rogan had controlled his anger. Now his head began to throb with familiar pain. “You dirty bastard,” he said to Eric. “You put down as little information as possible. You didn’t tell me it was Klaus von Osteen who killed my wife. And I’m willing to bet you helped him. Now you don’t want to get into the trunk of the car because you think I’m going to kill you. All right, you son of a bitch. I’m going to kill you right now. Right here in the hotel room. I’m going to beat you to a bloody pulp. Or maybe I’ll just blow your head off.”