that idiot didn't check it, he thought. He pressed the page deep into his left boot, pulled his trouser legs down around his feet, and sprinted toward the sound of confusion.
In the brief moments it took Hans to respond to the whistle, a routine police matter had escalated into a potentially explosive confrontation.
Near the blasted prison gate, five Soviet soldiers stood in a tight circle around two fortyish men wearing frayed business suits. They pointed their AK-47s menacingly, while nearby their commander argued vehemently with Erhard Weiss. The Russian was insisting that the trespassers be taken to an East German poliee station for interrogation.
Weiss was doing his best to calm the shouting Russian, but he was obviously out of his depth. Captain Hauer was nowhere in sight, and while the other policemen stood behind Weiss looking resolute, Hans knew that their Walthers would be no match for the Soviet assault weapons if it came to a showdown.
The sergeants of the NATO detachments kept their men well clear of the argument. They knew political dynamite when they saw it. While the Soviets kept their rifles leveled at the wide-eyed captives-who looked as if they might collapse from shock at any moment-the Russian "sergeant" bellowed louder and louder in broken German, trying to bully the tenacious Weiss into giving up "his" prisoners. TO his credit, Weiss stood firyn. He refused to allow any action to be taken until Captain Hauer had been apprised of the situation.
Hans stepped forward, hoping to interject some moderation into the dispute. Yet before he could speak, a black BMW screeched up to the curb and Captain Hauer vaulted from its rear door.
"What the hell, is this?" he shouted.
The screaming Russian immediately redirected his tirade at Hauer, but the German bnisquely raised his hand, breaking the flood of words like a wave against a rock.
"Weiss!" he barked.
"Sir!"
"Explain."
Weiss was so relieved to have the responsibility of the prisoners lifted from his shoulders that his words tumbled over themselves.
"Captain, five minutes ago I saw two men moving suspiciously inside the perimeter. They must have slipped in somewhere between Willi and me.
I flashed my light on them and shouted, 'Halt!' but they were startled and ran. They charged straight into one of the Russians, and before I could even blow my whistle, every Russian on the lot had surrounded them."
"Radios," Hauer muttered.
"Captain!" the Soviet "sergeant" bellowed. "These men are prisoners of the Soviet government! Any attempt to interfere-" Without a word, Hauer strode past the Russian and into the deadly circle of automatic weapons.
He began a rapid, professional interrogation of the prisoners, speaking quietly in German.
The black American sergeant whistled low. "That cop's got balls," he observed, loudly enough for all to hear. One of his men giggled nervously.
The terrified civilians were elated to be questioned by a fellow countryman. In less than a minute, Hauer extracted the relevant information from them, and his men relaxed considerably during the exchange. It revealed a familiar situation-distasteful perhaps, but thankfully routine. Even the Russians holding the Kalashnikovs seemed to have picked up on Captain Hauer's casual manner. He patted the smaller of the two trespassers on the shoulder, then slipped out of the circle. A few of the rifles dropped noticeably as he stepped up to the Russian officer.
"They're quite harmless, Comrade," he explained. "A couple of homos, that's all."
Misunderstanding the slang, the Russian continued to scowl at Hauer.
"What is their explanation?" he demanded stiffly.
"They're homosexuals, Sergeant. Queers, Schwiile ...
golden boys, I think you call them. Looking for a temporary love nest, that's all. They're all over Berlin."
"No matter!" the Russian snapped, grasping Hauer's meaning at last.
"They have
In the brief moments it took Hans to respond to the whistle, a routine police matter had escalated into a potentially explosive confrontation.
Near the blasted prison gate, five Soviet soldiers stood in a tight circle around two fortyish men wearing frayed business suits. They pointed their AK-47s menacingly, while nearby their commander argued vehemently with Erhard Weiss. The Russian was insisting that the trespassers be taken to an East German poliee station for interrogation.
Weiss was doing his best to calm the shouting Russian, but he was obviously out of his depth. Captain Hauer was nowhere in sight, and while the other policemen stood behind Weiss looking resolute, Hans knew that their Walthers would be no match for the Soviet assault weapons if it came to a showdown.
The sergeants of the NATO detachments kept their men well clear of the argument. They knew political dynamite when they saw it. While the Soviets kept their rifles leveled at the wide-eyed captives-who looked as if they might collapse from shock at any moment-the Russian "sergeant" bellowed louder and louder in broken German, trying to bully the tenacious Weiss into giving up "his" prisoners. TO his credit, Weiss stood firyn. He refused to allow any action to be taken until Captain Hauer had been apprised of the situation.
Hans stepped forward, hoping to interject some moderation into the dispute. Yet before he could speak, a black BMW screeched up to the curb and Captain Hauer vaulted from its rear door.
"What the hell, is this?" he shouted.
The screaming Russian immediately redirected his tirade at Hauer, but the German bnisquely raised his hand, breaking the flood of words like a wave against a rock.
"Weiss!" he barked.
"Sir!"
"Explain."
Weiss was so relieved to have the responsibility of the prisoners lifted from his shoulders that his words tumbled over themselves.
"Captain, five minutes ago I saw two men moving suspiciously inside the perimeter. They must have slipped in somewhere between Willi and me.
I flashed my light on them and shouted, 'Halt!' but they were startled and ran. They charged straight into one of the Russians, and before I could even blow my whistle, every Russian on the lot had surrounded them."
"Radios," Hauer muttered.
"Captain!" the Soviet "sergeant" bellowed. "These men are prisoners of the Soviet government! Any attempt to interfere-" Without a word, Hauer strode past the Russian and into the deadly circle of automatic weapons.
He began a rapid, professional interrogation of the prisoners, speaking quietly in German.
The black American sergeant whistled low. "That cop's got balls," he observed, loudly enough for all to hear. One of his men giggled nervously.
The terrified civilians were elated to be questioned by a fellow countryman. In less than a minute, Hauer extracted the relevant information from them, and his men relaxed considerably during the exchange. It revealed a familiar situation-distasteful perhaps, but thankfully routine. Even the Russians holding the Kalashnikovs seemed to have picked up on Captain Hauer's casual manner. He patted the smaller of the two trespassers on the shoulder, then slipped out of the circle. A few of the rifles dropped noticeably as he stepped up to the Russian officer.
"They're quite harmless, Comrade," he explained. "A couple of homos, that's all."
Misunderstanding the slang, the Russian continued to scowl at Hauer.
"What is their explanation?" he demanded stiffly.
"They're homosexuals, Sergeant. Queers, Schwiile ...
golden boys, I think you call them. Looking for a temporary love nest, that's all. They're all over Berlin."
"No matter!" the Russian snapped, grasping Hauer's meaning at last.
"They have
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