83
THE SA TROOPER DISAPPEARED down the stairwell toward the cellar.
Bauer spun in a half circle, facing the glass doors, and removed the beveled cap from his head.
Six… five…
“Where is that bloody ink for the stamp?” said the receipt sergeant.
… four… three…
Bauer’s heartbeat rose to a banging drum. Any moment, the SA trooper would find his colleague unconscious in the cellar.
… two…
Then he heard the man’s shout from the cellar—
“Hey!”
—followed immediately by a commanding boom, an explosion, a fiery ball lighting up the darkness outside, enough to rattle the windows of the station house.
“Fire!” shouted the receipt sergeant. “Fire outside!”
Every officer in the station—kripo, SA, and SS alike—bolted to their feet, grabbing their weapons and rushing out the entrance doors. The SA transport truck parked outside was now a ball of flame, plumes of gray smoke billowing from the top.
Bauer held Amalie close as the men raced by.
He drew his weapon and directed her back from where they had come, toward the cellar door but also the rear exit of the directorate.
As they passed the door leading to the cellar, the brownshirt who had found his colleague unconscious was on his way back up the stairs, his sidearm drawn.
His eyes widened when he saw Bauer—and the barrel of Bauer’s gun.
Bauer fired once, striking the trooper in the midsection, sending him spiraling backward down the stairs.
“Let’s go!” He and Amalie ran down the hallway to the rear exit. He shoved open the door, the cold air smacking them as they stood in the alley. “The car’s down there. Run!”
She gripped his arm. “Not without you.”
“I’ll meet you. Go now!” He ran back inside, took the stairwell down, moving belowground. He fit the key in the lock of the heavy metal door to the cellar. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Amalie. “Our kids are waiting for their mother!” he hissed.
“And their father,” she pleaded, her voice cracking.
Bauer looked at the cellar door, then back at her. “I can’t leave them in there. You have to go now! Don’t wait for me!”
She looked at him for one long moment, then turned and disappeared.
Bauer pulled the heavy door open, immediately encountering the criss-crossed wooden planks nailed into the other side. He gripped the sides of the doorway, leaned back, and kicked at the planks until they disengaged, falling forward into the room.
He entered the cellar with his weapon in one hand, the key in the other. The guard he had shot was immobile at the bottom of the staircase, but was starting to stir.
“Here.” He handed the key to the outstretched hand of one of the detainees in the first cell. “Unlock them all and get out! Hurry!”
He approached the awakening guard as he heard the cell doors clang open, the sound of countless footfalls as the inmates rushed out of the cells to the exit.
The guard, recovering, blinked twice and peered up at Bauer.
“Heil Hitler,” said Bauer, before kicking the man in the face, knocking him out again. Then he turned and ran out the exit door.
He rushed up the stairwell and sprinted two blocks, jumping into a waiting car. The driver was Erich von der Haas, no longer wearing a gray wig, no longer stooped, no longer carrying the stielhandgranate he used to blow up the SA truck.
“That was fun,” von der Haas said, putting the car in gear and driving away. “Haven’t mashed potatoes since the war.”
The stick hand grenade von der Haas had used, with its long hollow wooden handle and sheet-steel cylinder containing the explosive charge, resembled a potato masher, thus its nickname.
“Your wife’s getting out of the country?” asked von der Haas.
Bauer nodded. “Tonight.”
Von der Haas looked over at him. “Does that mean you’re leaving the country, too?”
“It won’t take them long to figure out which police officer helped her escape.” Bauer shook his head. “There’s nothing left for me here.”
They went quiet, driving in silence for several minutes.
“You sure about that?” asked von der Haas.