Private Berlin (Private 5)

Then she spotted the imprint of soles on the wet rug.

She followed the tracks with her eyes to the closet door at her immediate right, then slipped the crumpled paper into her pocket, took a step toward the cat, and started to reach for her pistol, saying, “Good Socrates. You hungry?”

The closet door exploded outward.

CHAPTER 14

A BURLY MAN in black leathers and a motorcycle helmet smashed into Mattie’s left side and blew her off her feet.

She crashed to the rug next to Socrates. The man tried to kick her in the stomach, but she saw it coming and curled up so her thigh took the impact.

He took two steps to the window and jumped out.

Mattie fought to get to her feet, drawing her pistol. She heard the motorcycle engine growl to life and staggered to the window just as he popped the clutch, throwing up grass as he wove toward the entry to the building.

Without thinking, Mattie jumped.

She landed in the soggy, freshly tilled bed and then rolled out of it as a parachutist might. She saw Krauss coming into the courtyard from the opposite side, horror on his face.

“Mattie!” he cried.

She had no time to explain. The motorcyclist was getting away. She sprinted through the building’s main door, hoping to catch the license plate.

The motorcyclist was accelerating west. She could see his back and helmet but no license plate.

“Shit!” she cried.

The BMW screeched up beside her, Burkhart at the wheel. “Get in.”

She jumped in the passenger seat and they went squealing after the motorcyclist, who braked and turned onto Englische Strasse, heading south.

By the time they reached the corner he was turning west again, paralleling the canal and the campus of the Technical University. Burkhart downshifted and almost caught him before he crossed the March Bridge onto campus.

Students were diving out of the way of the motorcycle and Burkhart’s car as they raced through campus.

At a roundabout the rider curled left onto Hardenbergstrasse and then crossed under the Zoologischer S-Bahn station, where he wove hard to his right onto Joachimstaler, then sharply left onto Kantstrasse, heading east toward the ruins of the belfry tower.

Despite the serpentine course they ran through the city, Burkhart had somehow managed to close the gap again when the man who’d trashed Chris’s apartment dodged without warning across traffic and up onto the plaza that surrounded the ruins.

“Don’t you dare!” Mattie cried at Burkhart. “There are people all over that plaza. Take the next right at Budapester instead.”

Burkhart gritted his teeth but did as he was told, lucking out that the light was in his favor. The street ran parallel to the plaza. Mattie could see the motorcyclist weaving through pedestrians, who scattered ahead of him.

“There’s got to be a cop there somewhere,” Mattie said.

“They’re never around when you need them,” Burkhart said, barreling down Budapester Strasse.

The motorcyclist veered off the plaza and out onto Budapester.

But Burkhart was right behind him.

“He’s got no license plate,” Mattie said.

“I imagine not,” Burkhart said as they shot off-road through the busy Palme-Platz.

Burkhart was a genius behind the wheel. He made every move the motorcyclist did, until they crossed the canal again east of the zoo.

On the immediate north side, the motorcycle suddenly braked hard, as if trying to avoid something in the road ahead.