Hauer, unarmed, strode purposefully toward the command trailer, while the Russians-looking a bit sheepish in spite of being armed to the teeth-herded their rumpled prisoners along behind. The British brought up the rear.
The American master sergeant stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in amazement. "That Kraut is one smooth son of a bitch, gentlemen. I hope y'all were paying attention. He may be wearing a cop's uniform, but that man is a soldier. Yes, sir, I'd bet my stripes on it!"
The American was right. As Hauer marched toward the trailer, every inch of his ramrod bearing bore the indelible stamp of military discipline.
Nothing betrayed the turmoil he felt knowing that the only thing stopping the angry Russian from taking control of the prisoners was the ring of men and steel at the checkpoints leading out of the city@ertainly not one headstrong police captain just six weeks from retirement.
inside the police van Hans calmed down a little. He pulled into the Wilheimstrasse, then wheeled onto the Heerstrasse, heading east.
For a time no one spoke. Hauer's actions had unnerved them all.
Finally Weiss broke the silence.
"Did you see that, Hans?"
"Of course," he said tersely. The sheaf of papers felt like a kilo of heroin strapped to his leg.
"Old Hauer stepped in front of those machine guns like they weren't even there," said one of the younger men.
"I kind of got the feeling he'd done it before," mused Weiss.
"He has," Hans said flatly.
"When?" asked a chorus of surprised voices.
"Quite a few times, actually. He works Hostage Recovery for Special Tasks Division."
"How do you know so much about him?"
Hans felt his face flush; he shrugged and looked out the window to cover it.
"I'm glad it happened," Weiss said softly.
"Why?" asked one of the recruits.
"Showed those Russians what for, that's why. Showed them West Berlin's not a doormat for their filthy boots.
They'll have quite a little mess on their hands now, won't they, Hans?"
"We all will, Erhard."
"Hauer ought to be prefect," suggested an old hand of twenty-one.
"He's twice the man Funk is."
"He can't," Hans said, in spite dr himself.
"@y not?"
"Because of Munich."
"Munich?"
Hans sighed and left the question unanswered. How could they understand? Every man in the van but him and Weiss had been toddlers at the time of the Olympic massacre.
Turning onto the Friedrichstrasse, he swung the van into a space in front of the colossal police station and switched off the engine.
He sensed them all-Weiss especially-watching him for a clue as to what to do next. Without a word he handed Weiss the keys, climbed out of the van, and started for his Volkswagen.
"Where are you going?" Weiss called.
"Exactly where Hauer told me to go, my friend! Home!"
"But shouldn't we report this?"
"Do what you must!" Hans called, still walking. He could feel the papers in his boot, already damp, with nervous sweat.
The sooner he was inside his own apartment, the better he would feel.
Again he prayed silently that Ilse would be home when he got there.
After three unsuccessful attempts, he coaxed his old VW to life, and with the careful movements of a policeman who has seen too many traffic fatalities, he eased the car into the morning rush of West Berlin.
The car that fell in behind him-a rental Ford-was just like a thousand others in the city. The man at the wheel was not. Jonas Stern rubbed his tired eyes and pushed his leather bag a little farther toward the passenger door. It simply would not do for a traffic policeman to see what lay on the seat beneath the bag. Not a gun, but a nightvision scope-a third-generation Pilkington, far superior to the one the American sergeant had been toying with.
Definitely not standard tourist equipment.
But worth its weight in gold, Stern decided, following Hans's battered
The American master sergeant stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in amazement. "That Kraut is one smooth son of a bitch, gentlemen. I hope y'all were paying attention. He may be wearing a cop's uniform, but that man is a soldier. Yes, sir, I'd bet my stripes on it!"
The American was right. As Hauer marched toward the trailer, every inch of his ramrod bearing bore the indelible stamp of military discipline.
Nothing betrayed the turmoil he felt knowing that the only thing stopping the angry Russian from taking control of the prisoners was the ring of men and steel at the checkpoints leading out of the city@ertainly not one headstrong police captain just six weeks from retirement.
inside the police van Hans calmed down a little. He pulled into the Wilheimstrasse, then wheeled onto the Heerstrasse, heading east.
For a time no one spoke. Hauer's actions had unnerved them all.
Finally Weiss broke the silence.
"Did you see that, Hans?"
"Of course," he said tersely. The sheaf of papers felt like a kilo of heroin strapped to his leg.
"Old Hauer stepped in front of those machine guns like they weren't even there," said one of the younger men.
"I kind of got the feeling he'd done it before," mused Weiss.
"He has," Hans said flatly.
"When?" asked a chorus of surprised voices.
"Quite a few times, actually. He works Hostage Recovery for Special Tasks Division."
"How do you know so much about him?"
Hans felt his face flush; he shrugged and looked out the window to cover it.
"I'm glad it happened," Weiss said softly.
"Why?" asked one of the recruits.
"Showed those Russians what for, that's why. Showed them West Berlin's not a doormat for their filthy boots.
They'll have quite a little mess on their hands now, won't they, Hans?"
"We all will, Erhard."
"Hauer ought to be prefect," suggested an old hand of twenty-one.
"He's twice the man Funk is."
"He can't," Hans said, in spite dr himself.
"@y not?"
"Because of Munich."
"Munich?"
Hans sighed and left the question unanswered. How could they understand? Every man in the van but him and Weiss had been toddlers at the time of the Olympic massacre.
Turning onto the Friedrichstrasse, he swung the van into a space in front of the colossal police station and switched off the engine.
He sensed them all-Weiss especially-watching him for a clue as to what to do next. Without a word he handed Weiss the keys, climbed out of the van, and started for his Volkswagen.
"Where are you going?" Weiss called.
"Exactly where Hauer told me to go, my friend! Home!"
"But shouldn't we report this?"
"Do what you must!" Hans called, still walking. He could feel the papers in his boot, already damp, with nervous sweat.
The sooner he was inside his own apartment, the better he would feel.
Again he prayed silently that Ilse would be home when he got there.
After three unsuccessful attempts, he coaxed his old VW to life, and with the careful movements of a policeman who has seen too many traffic fatalities, he eased the car into the morning rush of West Berlin.
The car that fell in behind him-a rental Ford-was just like a thousand others in the city. The man at the wheel was not. Jonas Stern rubbed his tired eyes and pushed his leather bag a little farther toward the passenger door. It simply would not do for a traffic policeman to see what lay on the seat beneath the bag. Not a gun, but a nightvision scope-a third-generation Pilkington, far superior to the one the American sergeant had been toying with.
Definitely not standard tourist equipment.
But worth its weight in gold, Stern decided, following Hans's battered
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