The Watchdogs of Abaddon

PROLOGUE

Berlin

20 April 1945

Only hours before, the dog run had been destroyed by a direct hit. Luckily, Blondi and her pups had been in the bunker below. Now the enemy terror bombing had let up, but a distant rumble of Russian guns from the front remained as an ominous reminder of the destruction that at any moment could again come screaming down on the bomb-cratered garden of the Reich Chancellery.

Standartenführer Dr. Franz Schindler gazed soberly at the desolation around him as he and a group of officers and high officials strode into the garden through the heavy steel door from the blockhouse entrance to the Führerbunker. Blocks of jagged concrete and soot-blackened timbers lay strewn among stripped, uprooted trees in the once beautifully kept grounds. He glanced up at the sun, high in the sky, trying to penetrate the smoky haze that lay like a red shroud over the tortured city of Berlin. It was only a few minutes past noon, April 20, 1945. The birthday of Adolf Hitler.

He was in good company, he thought. Bormann, Himmler, Goebbels, Goering, Axmann, Naumann—and, of course, the Führer himself. They had all followed him as he laboriously climbed the fifty stone steps from the bunker to the garden above.

Lined up in front of a shrapnel-scarred wall, a row of boys barely in their teens stood rigidly at attention, awaiting the approaching group. They were the last heroes of the crumbling Third Reich, clad in oversized uniforms, their peaked caps perched jauntily on close-cropped heads: Hitler Youth soldiers.

With their leader, the one-armed Reichsjugendführer Artur Axmann, at his side, Hitler stopped in front of the first boy. Axmann presented the starry-eyed youth to him, and with a slightly trembling hand the Führer solemnly shook the boy’s hand. The boy soldiers watched with awe as the prematurely old man, stoop-shouldered and sallow-faced, slowly shuffled from one to the other, patting their blond heads and their cheeks with a shaky hand, and pinning Iron Cross medals on their chests. He was still the Führer. He was still Adolf Hitler—and they carried his name proudly.

Standartenführer Schindler was watching. He was shocked at the Führer’s appearance—so markedly in contrast to the youngsters before him.

They are the ones, he thought. They—and others like them—who will lift the burden from the shoulders of their leader. In their hands lies the destiny of the fatherland.

Hitler stopped in front of one of the smallest boys in the group. He gazed into the cherubic face, meeting huge, round, awe-filled eyes.

What is your name, my boy? Hitler asked, his voice hoarse.

The child-soldier drew himself even more erect. "Czech, Alfred, mein Führer!" His young voice rang with pride.

"Gefreiter Czech displayed exceptional bravery under fire, mein Führer," Axmann said. And he discovered and arrested an enemy spy. He has been recommended for the Iron Cross, Second Class.

Hitler smiled at the boy. How did you discover this spy? he asked.

"He was wearing his corporal’s stripe on the wrong arm, mein Führer," the boy replied.

Hitler nodded. He pinned the medal on the boy’s tunic. He touched his cheek.

How old are you? he asked.

"Twelve, mein Führer!"

Again Hitler nodded. He gazed at the boy. Suddenly his eyes, deep in his pallid face, clouded over. He turned away.

Dr. Schindler! he called.

Standartenführer Dr. Franz Schindler stepped forward. "Zu Befehl, mein Führer!—At your orders!"

Hitler looked into his face—eyes suddenly burning with intensity. Es ist soweit, he said, his voice low. The time has come.

Schindler felt a surge of elation. He knew what those simple words meant. He knew they were to be the most important in his life.

I will see you in my rooms at once, Hitler said. The harsh-voiced command still carried unchallenged authority. At once!

The Führer turned away. Away from the boys. Away from the waiting entourage. Away from Standartenführer Dr.

Franz Schindler. Bent and limping slightly, the collar of his greatcoat turned up around his ears as if to ward off the disasters that crowded in on him, he strode purposefully toward the entrance to the bunker, his right hand firmly clasping his trembling left arm.

Schindler followed.

The three men were alone in the spartan conference and map room adjoining Hitler’s quarters deep in the Führerbunker. They were seated at one end of a long table. The maps that covered it had been pushed aside to make room for a small pile of papers.

Schindler was listening intently to a squat, heavy-set man seated across from him. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann looked solemn and grim.

Kulmbach has fallen, he said. Already several days ago. His small eyes glinted. "We have only now had definite confirmation that the entire Sondersicherheitzone—the entire special-security area—is in enemy hands." He looked toward Hitler sitting stiffly at the end of the table.

My generals have betrayed me, the Führer said, his voice hoarse. But there is still time. He fixed Schindler with an intent gaze. His waxen face twitched. The right man, he said. The right man can still carry out the mission successfully. Do you have this man?

"I do, mein Führer." Schindler’s steady voice did not betray the excitement that was building in him. His name is Sepp Knauer. Sturmbannführer Sepp Knauer. Of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler.

Hitler nodded with satisfaction.

"He is young, mein Führer. His men are young. It will take the audacity of youth to carry out this mission as it must be carried out."

Again Hitler nodded. He turned to Bormann.

Is Jenbach ready? he asked.

Yes. Bormann riffled through the papers in front of him. Here is the latest dispatch, received two days ago. He found the document and held it out to the Führer.

Hitler ignored it. He stood up. He looked down on Schindler.

You know the charge I have given you, he said weightily. You know its momentous importance. It will begin—now. He reached out his hand.

Schindler at once rose to his feet. He stood ramrod straight. He grasped the Führer’s hand.

It will be your life, Standartenführer Dr. Schindler, Hitler intoned. From now on it will be your entire life. You cannot fail! There was a strange imploring command in Hitler’s voice. "You must not fail!"

Schindler’s eyes met Hitler’s and locked onto them.

"Mein Führer, he said, his voice raw with emotion, I pledge to you—I will not fail!"

For a brief moment the two men stood immobile as if carved in rock. Then Hitler abruptly let go of Schindler’s hand, turned on his heel and walked quickly from the room.

Schindler was conscious of letting out his breath. Had he held it that long? He turned toward Bormann.

The Reichsleiter pulled a map toward him. "Knauer and his Sondereinsatzgruppe will leave Berlin by way of Potsdam. With a stubby finger he traced the route on the map. Schindler bent over him to follow. South to Torgau on the Elbe and on to Dresden. The route is clear. The American front is somewhere in the vicinity of Plauen. Here. He looked up gravely. The last fifty kilometers will be in enemy-held territory."

Schindler nodded. I shall leave for Mariendorf at once, he said. Knauer is at a unit HQ there. Elements of the Hitlerjugend Division. He—

You will have to wait, Bormann interrupted. There are final documents to be prepared. Papers to be assembled. He stood up, collecting the papers on the table. You will personally carry a set to Jenbach. A special courier will carry a duplicate set to Switzerland. To Bern. All financial matters have been arranged through there.

Schindler frowned. How long a delay? he asked. Now that action was imminent, he felt impatient.

You will leave here at 2100 hours.

Knauer will want twenty-four hours to get his men and equipment together before jumping off.

Bormann slowly shook his head. In twenty-four hours his mission will have been accomplished, he said quietly, or it will have failed.

He fixed his pale, cold eyes on Schindler.

Hals-und-Beinbruch! He gave the traditional good luck wish impersonally. May you break your neck and your leg!

He turned away.

You will not return here.

Emerging from the underground garages of the Chancellery, Standartenführer Dr. Franz Schindler turned south past the Tiergarten.

Only that morning the Zoo had been closed down when the electricity throughout the city failed and it became impossible to pump water and maintain the special environments needed for many of the animals. The Zoo director had made an impassioned plea to Bormann himself to save the popular hippo, Rosa, and her two-year-old baby, Knautsche. Of course the Reichsleiter had had to dismiss the man. The animals would have to be destroyed. Certainly the dangerous ones.

Schindler thread-needled his open Volkswagen through the rubble-strewn street toward Potsdamer Platz. He’d picked the sturdy little vehicle instead of a more comfortable staff car and driver. It was less apt to get bogged down in debris—and it was easy and fast to get out of, in case of trouble.

At Potsdamer Platz he cut across to Wilhelmstrasse, one of the few thoroughfares kept passable. His mind was still whirling with excitement. The city around him was dying. The people were dying. The Reich itself. But he felt like a Phoenix reborn from the ashes, preparing for glorious flight.

In the cause and in the name of the Führer, Adolf Hitler . . .

His thoughts flew briefly back. As an eighteen-year-old medical student he had been with the Führer at the first magnificent Party Rally at Nürnberg in 1933. He had devoted his life to the man and his ideals ever since, serving him faithfully. From his triumphs—to now. Five years ago he had been with Hitler in Paris, when the Führer visited Napoleon’s tomb in the Invalides. They had stood gazing down upon the sarcophagus in the huge, round pit. And Schindler remembered his Führer’s outrage.

They put him in a hole! Hitler had exclaimed. "Napoleon! People must look down on him! I shall never make such a mistake. His voice had been tense. I know how to keep my hold on the world—even after I am gone. My life, my destiny shall not be denied, shall not end with my death. And his eyes had burned with a strange fire. That—to the contrary—shall be the beginning!" And he had gripped the marble balustrade and stared down into the pit.

Now. Now he, Franz Schindler, knew what his Führer had mean. And now—from the ashes and destruction, from the suffering and defeat of war—Hitler’s prophecy was about to be fulfilled. It is an omen, he thought, a providential omen, that the first step should be taken on the birthday of the Führer. . . .

He touched the black briefcase lying on the seat beside him, as if to reassure himself.

At the heavily damaged Reichsluftfahrtministerium, Goering’s huge Air Ministry Building, he turned south on Wilhelmstrasse, the center of government offices. The destruction was abominable. Building walls had collapsed into the streets, adding obstacles of broken masonry to the burst water mains, the gaping bomb craters, the fallen lampposts. Shattered glass and rubble lay everywhere. Ashes from still blazing fires floated down like black snow.

He was profoundly shocked. He had not been outside the Führerbunker for over a week. He could well believe Speer’s estimate that 600,000 buildings had been destroyed in the city.

He crossed the canal and jolted down Mehring Dam toward Tempelhof Airfield. A haze of reddish brick dust from the last air raid still hung in the air, creating a false overcast. The night streets, illuminated by the many fires still burning, were deserted. People were huddling in the cellars. Terror lay over the mortally wounded city like a blanket over a corpse.

He passed Tempelhof off to his left. He’d double back after briefing Knauer and catch his plane to the south.

Suddenly, ahead of him, loomed several huge black shadows.

Roadblocks.

He slowed down.

Placed across the street, interlocking like the massive teeth of gigantic combs, the jury-rigged defense barriers, hastily made from old tramcars and trucks filled with bricks and broken masonry, guarded the approaches to the airfield. One of them had crude lettering across its side: BERLIN BLEIBT DEUTSCH (Berlin Stays German).

He began to wind his way through.

The witz—the joke that had been whispered in the bunker—flitted through his mind:

It will take the Russians four hours and fifteen minutes to get through those barriers, they’d said. Four hours of laughing. Fifteen minutes of blasting!

He bit his lip. It might have been amusing—once. Gallows humor. But not now. Not with the Russians only thirty-five kilometers from the city. He guided his way through the obstacles and sped on.

He was approaching the suburb of Mariendorf, careening past the cemetery. Even the dead had not been spared the enemy’s terror bombing. The once beautiful shade trees of their resting place had become charred stumps, or lay uprooted, still encased in their ornamental ironwork. Headless angels with shattered wings uselessly stood guard over open craters.

Suddenly he hit the brakes. Ahead of him, eerily illuminated by the flames of a burning building, a small group of soldiers was blocking the road, guns held ready. As he came to a stop, he saw they were boys. Fourteen? Fifteen? He knew at once what they were. He knew about the Hitler Youth patrols that were roaming the city streets in search of deserters and renegades. Ruthless packs of little savages, meting out quick justice. Or—injustice. In the name of the man whose name they bore. Despite his rank and his wholly legitimate mission, Schindler felt himself grow tense.

The leader of the patrol, a Hitlerjugend Gefolgschaftsführer, perhaps sixteen, an angular youth whose cheeks had never felt the steel of a razor, stepped up to him. His patrol of children flanked the Volkswagen—watching its occupant with eager, hungry eyes.

The Gefolgschaftsführer stuck his hand out. He did not salute.

Papiere herzeigen! His voice was young and arrogant. Show your papers!

Schindler felt a flush of anger hot on his neck. Nevertheless, he reached into his tunic for his ID.

I am Standartenführer Dr. Franz Schindler, he said coldly. Courier for the Führer.

That’s what they all say. The boy mocked him openly. He grabbed the papers from Schindler, glanced at them and returned them.

Even a Standartenführer can be a deserter, he observed insolently. You would not be the first.

You have examined my papers, Schindler said curtly. Now—get out of my way and let me through!

"Not so fast, Herr Standartenführer," the boy said, with obvious scorn. "You have only told us who you are. Not—what you are doing here. His voice grew ominous. Alone. Driving your vehicle yourself. Herr Standartenführer!"

I’ve told you I am a courier for the Führer, Schindler snapped. He felt a gathering clamminess in his armpits. Damn the young whelp!

Prove it! the boy challenged. Prove it. Now! Or you may have to join your friend over there. He nodded toward the edge of the street.

Schindler looked. And blanched.

From an ornamented bronze lamppost turned gibbet dangled the limp body of a soldier. An Unteroffizier. The noose around his elongated, broken neck pushed his head awkwardly askew. On his chest hung a large cardboard placard. The flames from the fire gave a flickering life to the childish scrawl that proclaimed: ICH WOLLTE MIT DEN BOLSCHEWIKEN HERUMBUMMELN! (I Was Going to Bum Around with the Bolsheviks!).

That one, the Hitler Youth scoffed. "He was also on a special mission." He shrugged elaborately. He could not prove it. Either. But he had a pocket full of gold watches.

He gave a brief, scornful laugh. "Perhaps you, too, Herr Standartenführer, are on your way to the Bolsheviks, huh? For a little schwanzstreicheln—a little cock-stroking!"

One of the boys giggled.

The Gefolgschaftsführer snickered.

Schindler felt cold. Bleak. Would a snot-nosed brat destroy the Führer’s dream?

The Hitler Youth leader pointed to the briefcase on the seat beside Schindler. What’s in the case? he demanded.

State papers, Schindler answered.

Open it.

They are secret documents.

Open it!

That is impossible.

Is it? the Hitler Youth said disdainfully. He pointed his gun at Schindler’s forehead. "Either you open it—now. Or I will—after you are dead!"

Schindler felt suddenly calm. Icy. He knew what he had to do. He had no choice whatsoever.

He placed the briefcase on his lap. He opened it. He put his hand inside—

Slowly, the Hitler Youth cautioned. Nice and easy. And be sure that what you come up with is only paper!

Of course, Schindler said curtly.

The sudden crack of the shot splattered shock across the children’s faces. The bullet from the Luger tore through the briefcase and caught the Hitler Youth leader squarely in the throat. He toppled back, astonished eyes glazed in instant death.

In the same split second Schindler stomped down on the accelerator. Firing gravel and dirt from its spinning tires, the Volkswagen shot forward. In the few seconds it took the boys to recover from their shock, the car was already disappearing into the gloom. Schindler hardly heard the bursts of gunfire behind him.

He drove at the greatest possible speed. Knauer’s HQ was only a short distance farther. He had a brief moment of regret. The young Gefolgschaftsführer had merely done his duty. Only hours before, he, Schindler, had seen similar boys being honored by the Führer himself. What was their motto? Etched in steel on their little daggers? BLUT UND EHRE! (Blood and Honor!). So be it. . . .

He dismissed the feeling.

No choice.

No choice whatsoever . . .

The HQ of Kampfgruppe Knauer—Task Force Knauer—composed of elements of the 12th SS Panzer Division Hitlerjugend—was located in the basement storage rooms of a boys’ school. It seemed appropriate. Division recruits were originally drawn from the Hitler Youth with experienced officers and noncoms from Hitler’s former bodyguard, the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler.

Sturmbannführer Sepp Knauer sprang to his feet when he saw Schindler enter. Heil Hitler! His arm shot up in a smart salute.

Schindler didn’t break stride as he walked straight for a door on the far side of the room.

Knauer, he barked, I want to see you. Alone. Now.

The small, windowless cubicle that served as Knauer’s private quarters had been a storage room for gym equipment. It was lit by a single glaring light bulb hanging naked from the ceiling. A pommeled horse, a balancing bench, a worn vaulting horse and box, a heavy, coiled climbing rope and a cardboard box with limply inflated volleyballs had been pushed against one wall. A few rings hung from a large rusty nail, and several soiled gym mats had been folded and placed on top of one another to form a makeshift bed. There was a faint odor of stale sweat in the air. Seating was provided by a couple of locker-room benches, and an old table served as a desk.

Schindler placed his briefcase on the cluttered table and sat down on a bench beside it. He motioned toward the stacked gym mats.

Sit down, he ordered curtly.

He was surprised at the harshness in his voice. Perhaps it was the magnitude of the mission he was about to set in motion. He turned to Knauer.

First—what is your present situation?

"As expected, Herr Standartenführer." Knauer exhibited an easy, aweless calm. With a mixture of approval and annoyance Schindler took note of it. The young officer continued, This damned place is half a step from hell—and losing ground fast. We are opposite a crack outfit pushing hard, the Soviet 28th Guard Rifle Company, and I’ve got nothing but kids and old men to hold them with.

With a curt move of his hand Schindler dismissed it. As of now, you are relieved of command, he stated flatly.

Knauer felt a surge of apprehension tinged with astonishment. Had he screwed up somewhere?

As soon as I leave, Schindler went on, "you will turn your command over to your executive officer. Vedstanden?"

"Understood, Herr Standartenführer." What the hell was going on?

Solemnly Schindler pulled his briefcase to him. You have known for some time, Knauer, that I have selected you for a special, top-secret mission—when time and the situation demanded it.

Knauer nodded. So that was it. He perked up. "Yes, Herr Standartenführer. I am honored."

Schlinder fixed him with an intent gaze. You have an admirable record, Knauer, he said. Admirable.

"Thank you, Herr Standartenführer."

It remains to be seen if you are up to carrying out this present mission successfully.

"I shall do my best, Herr Standartenführer."

Will that be good enough? Schindler shot at him, his voice suddenly piercing.

"Yes, Herr Standartenführer."

"Why?"

Why? Knauer was momentarily flustered. Because—I—

Why? Schindler interrupted sharply. "What makes you think so? You don’t even know what the mission is, do you?"

"No, Herr Standartenführer," Knauer answered in a firm voice. He had regained complete control.

"Then how do you know you will succeed?" Schindler fired the question at him.

"Sir. The Fatherland has trained me. In the Hitler Youth. In the SS. In the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler. The best training in the world, Herr Standartenführer. You and the Fatherland have selected me for the mission. The Fatherland is never wrong. I shall succeed."

Schindler contemplated the young officer, a hint of a cynical smile on his lips.

It is a good answer, Knauer, he said. "It is Kwatsch, of course—a lot of bullshit—but it is a good answer to an unreasonable question by your superior! You think on your feet. I knew I was right in selecting you."

He unlocked and opened his briefcase, studiously ignoring the powder-burned bullet hole. He became coldly authoritative once more.

You were ordered to have at hand at all times an up-to-date list of men. Hand-picked men. Young. Aggressive. You have such a list?

"I do, Herr Standartenführer."

Schindler nodded. He had expected nothing else. He took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

Knauer was watching him. Despite his outward calm, he did feel a certain awe. Standartenführer Dr. Franz Schindler was a man to be regarded with awe. At thirty he had already distinguished himself in his special work for the Party to become one of the Führer’s most intimate and trusted confidants—the envy of many older, more important Party bigwigs. His enormously efficient work in supervising the Fuhrer’s program for elimination of the mentally retarded and defective had earned him a reputation of utmost competence.

Schindler looked up from his papers. "The time for your mission is now, Knauer. I am here to brief you personally. I want not even the possibility of a slip-up."

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer."

Schindler handed Knauer the papers. Read this, he said. Commit it to memory. It is your mission.

Knauer took the papers. He began to read.

Schindler rose from the hard bench. He felt strangely keyed up. It had begun. He lit a cigarette. The smoke burned bitter in his mouth. The taste was awful. What the devil did they put in those things? Dried horseshit? But he smoked it, taking deep gulps. He glanced at Knauer, engrossed in reading the papers. He was conscious of the enormously important role the young SS officer would play. If Knauer failed, all would be lost. His, Schindler’s, own future; the plans of the Führer himself. Everything. He looked closely at the young man. At twenty-six he seemed the personification of the mythical blond, clean-cut Aryan of Goebbels’ propaganda posters. It was almost inconceivable that he could fail. . . .

Knauer looked up. His eyes were shining, excited.

"I am ready, Herr Standartenführer," he said.

Schindler took back the papers. Carefully he placed them in his briefcase. He locked it. Then he turned to Knauer.

How do you propose to mount the mission? he asked, quiet tension in his voice.

"A small Einsatzkommando, Herr Standartenführer," Knauer said. Sixteen men including myself.

As you can see, Fichtendorf is the key.

Yes.

What do you need?

Twelve heavy motorcycles. BMW 750s. Eight with sidecars. Four without.

Schindler took notes. Other vehicles?

"None. The operation calls for special mobility, Herr Standartenführer. We must have as great a mobility as possible—in any kind of terrain. He grinned. We’ll have to make it a Bubibummel—a schoolboy fuck. In—and out!"

Schindler ignored his vulgarism. Armament?

"Light arms only, Herr Standartenführer. Schmeissers. Lugers."

Agreed. You have, of course, top priority on any equipment, any manpower you want.

"I shall use it, Herr Standartenführer."

Schindler eyed him. Your men? he asked. From where are you drawing them?

"From my own unit, Herr Standartenführer. Men I know. Men I can trust. Young—but combat-seasoned. Courageous—but not reckless. Devils on motorcycles, all of them! He looked at Schindler. What can I tell them about the mission?"

Nothing! Nothing—except that it is for the Führer.

That is enough.

"You must mount your operation at once, Knauer. The enemy situation is such that the mission must be completed within twenty-four hours."

Knauer frowned in concentration. He walked to his cluttered table and rummaged until he found a map. He bent over it.

I can be ready to take off in—four hours, he said. He looked at his watch. At 0200 hours. He studied the map. It’s close to 450 kilometers to Plauen via Torgau-Dresden. Allow—twelve hours. Another couple of hours to get to Fichtendorf in the enemy-held special-security zone. That should place us at the Kugelberg target at about 1600 hours.

Schindler nodded. Good. You are ordered to avoid direct confrontation with the enemy forces—if at all possible.

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer." Knauer frowned. "Sir. My plan of action must, of course, cover all contingencies. Of necessity this means also—a firefight. Perhaps—capture. Should, I repeat, should this occur, what are my orders?"

Schindler sighed. Gravely he looked at the young SS officer.

You must do everything you can—take any evasive measures—make any sacrifices to avoid capture and to safeguard the secrecy of your mission. His eyes grew dark. "But—should you be in danger of being taken, you will destroy any survivors. You will destroy—the object of your mission. And yourself."

Knauer met his superior’s gaze steadily. Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer, he said quietly.

The destiny of everything we believe in, Knauer. Everything we have fought for—and died for—is now in your hands. All will depend on what you do in the next twenty-four hours.

He picked up his briefcase.

For a long time now, you have been concerned with only two things. Every waking hour, he continued earnestly. Killing the enemy—and staying alive yourself. Simple. Life—and death. He stepped closer to the young SS officer. He looked at him with penetrating eyes. After Fichtendorf, he said quietly, nothing is going to be quite that simple for either of us ever again!

ONE

Los Angeles

6–17 March 1978

1

The rains had finally stopped. Los Angeles had begun the Herculean task of digging out after the series of devastating storms and the almost biblical downpour that had turned the county into a federal disaster area, converting the lowlands into rivers of mud, gouging out roadways and toppling houses from the hillsides. Angelenos would not soon forget the storms of early 1978.

Past midnight Jaymar Street was deserted. It usually was at that time. And dark. The neon lights from Lassen’s Liquor Store on the corner of Franklin did not reach very far down Jaymar, and streetlamps were few and far between in the modest neighborhood.

His apartment hotel, incongruously named the King’s Court, was on the east side of the street, and the outdoor spots that used to illuminate the shrubbery in front of the building with red and green lights had long since been turned off to save energy. And money.

He hurried along, the six-pack promisingly heavy in the brown bag. His mind was full. So much was happening. . . .

Suddenly an urgent whisper from behind him shocked him out of his reveries:

Don’t turn around, man, or you’re dead! Keep walking. Drop your wallet. And your watch.

He whirled around, the heavy beer bag swinging from his arm. Before him loomed two men. Burly. Young. Teenagers. He saw the face of the nearest one, distorted with fear and hate. He saw the piece of iron pipe clutched in the boy’s hand descend toward his head. He seemed frozen in the eternity of no time at all. In the split second before death he registered the vicious blow that crashed into his temple. . . .

Sprawled in an awkward heap on the sidewalk, he was unaware of the swift, callous hands that rifled his pockets and tore his watch from his wrist. He did not hear the hurried footsteps that disappeared into the night and the dark.

He was merely another mugging victim left in the shadows on the street—stripped of his valuables—and his life. . . .

2

He knocked over the open aspirin bottle on the night table next to his bed as he groped for the telephone. He heard the tablets roll across the tabletop and clatter on the bare floor where the imitation Persian rug didn’t quite reach the wall. Damn! That meant rummaging around on hands and knees. He fumbled the receiver to his ear.

Bendicks, he growled, his sleep-numbed voice a full octave lower than normal.

He listened for a short while.

Thirty minutes, he said.

He worked the receiver back onto its cradle. The large luminous figures on his digital alarm clock glowed 1:27.

Investigator II Harry Bendicks lay back in his bed. Just one more minute. He hated these calls in the middle of the night. He stretched. His joints felt stiff. At least the aspirin had taken care of the dull ache in his arm.

He let his left arm fall to the other side of the bed. It had been ten years since he had felt Edith there—or the warmth her body had generated. But he still slept on his own side of the double bed. And his arm—knowing it would find nothing—still automatically sought her. Some habits are hard to break.

He yawned and swung his legs out from under the sheet that was his only cover. He was wide awake. That was the worst of it, he thought. No way could he do his job half asleep, like most other working stiffs.

Hurriedly he began to dress.

At fifty-seven he was in pretty good shape, although the spare tire around his middle was getting a little too inflated—a fact he noticed every time he buttoned the top button of his pants, like now—and despite the fact that he occasionally had to cheat a little on the tests for his physical-fitness reports. Still, standing six feet one, with his full head of graying hair and strong features, he cut an impressive figure. And he had no trouble putting a nice, tight pattern in the paper man on the range.

He had five days to go. Five days before busting out—after thirty-two years. He felt a twinge of annoyance. What the hell was this DB in the street going to do to his last few days? He’d been looking forward to turning them into one long retirement party. A Dead Body could too damned easily turn into a dead end. . . .

Harry had joined the Los Angeles Police Department in 1946, a few months after his honorable discharge from the Army. He was still in top shape and he’d hated standing in line every week with the other members of the 52–20 Club to collect his Veteran’s Readjustment Allowance of a lousy twenty bucks. It was no life for a man who had volunteered immediately after Pearl Harbor and had served better than four years in the ETO as an agent in the CIC—the Counter Intelligence Corps. Detachment 212, XII Corps, AUS. Through France, the Battle of the Bulge, across the Rhine, through all of Germany into Czechoslovakia, and nine months of occupation. The works. It had been an obvious assignment. Harald Harry Bendicks was a second-generation Dane and spoke both Danish and German fluently. Moreover, he’d been familiar with those countries and their people from several vacation trips to the old country as a teenager in the 1930s. If it were possible to enjoy a war, Harry had enjoyed his investigative work as a CIC agent, and he’d opted to continue that kind of work with the LAPD. He’d had no trouble at all making the grade.

With his junior teammate, Pete, Investigator II Peter Hastings, he formed SIT-7—Special Investigation Team #7, Homicide, working out of the Hollywood Division of the LAPD.

He glanced at the digital alarm clock as he shrugged into his shoulder holster. 1:44. Pete would beat him to the scene. . . .

Harry turned the corner from Franklin into Jaymar. Ahead of him down the street he could see the flashing red lights of the ambulance and the patrol cars. A patch of sidewalk was illuminated by the headlights. The proverbial scene of the crime.

Looks something like a theater stage, he thought as he brought his car to a stop behind the Division Commander’s vehicle, or a movie. . . . There’s the set. The big star is the DB, the victim, his co-star the murderer. Offstage—for the moment. And the supporting players and bits, each acting out his role: the investigators, the uniformed cops, the Division officers, the deputy coroner, the ambulance attendants, the photo-and-print Man. Cast of thousands! And, of course, the curious. The extras. Just like shooting some two-bit movie. Only—this one’s real. . . .

Would anyone but a Hollywood cop think crazy like that? He grinned to himself.

As he got out of his car he saw Pete talking to one of the IHD investigators.

He took in the scene quickly. He was the last one to arrive. As if he’d missed his cue. He walked over to his partner.

Car trouble? Pete asked sweetly.

Very funny, Harry growled. What’ve we got?

Mugging, Pete answered matter-of-factly. Murder. Male. Caucasian. Late fifties. Got himself his head bashed in.

ID?

Pete shook his head. Negative. He was completely cleaned. Except for this. He handed Harry a small slip of paper.

Harry looked at it. It was a cash-register receipt. Lassen’s Liquor Store. $1.75. 6 March 1978. He nodded toward the corner.

That’s the joint up there, he said. Today’s date.

Yeah. Pete nodded. I figure he was on his way back home with a six-pack. He gestured toward the gutter. It’s lying out there. Budweiser. The guy probably lived around here.

Okay, Harry said. First stop, Lassen’s Liquor. He turned to the IHD investigator. Who found him?

The man from Investigative Headquarters Division at Parker Center, downtown LA, shrugged. Who knows? A conscientious citizen who’d rather not get involved.

So what’s new? Pete observed.

A 187 was routed to IHD about an hour ago, the investigator went on. He glanced at the dead man. And we rolled on it. It’s a who-done-it. Have fun.

Thanks a heap, Harry said sourly. Some fun for his last five days . . .

The deputy coroner came up to them. You boys going to handle this one? he asked.

Harry nodded. What’s the story?

Well, unless we find a dose of arsenic or some exotic South American poison in his belly, the deputy said cheerfully,

"I’d say he died of a crushed skull. Left temple caved