Day of Judgment. Jack Higgins

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      DAY OF JUDGMENT

      Contents

      Dedication

      Epigraph

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      15

      16

      Publisher’s Note

      About the Author

      Also by Jack Higgins

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      Dedication

      For Mike Green, with thanks

      Epigraph

      Freedom has many difficulties and democracy is not perfect, but we never had to put up a wall to keep our people in.

      President John F Kennedy 26th June 1963

      Publisher’s Note

      DAY OF JUDGMENT was first published in the UK by William Collins Sons & Co Ltd in 1978 and in 1979 by Pan Books, but has been out of print for some years.

      In 2007, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back DAY OF JUDGMENT for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.

      1

      As Meyer turned the corner in the old hearse he reduced speed, his hands slippery with sweat as they gripped the wheel, his stomach tightening as he drove towards the checkpoint, clear in the night under the harsh white light of the arc lamps.

      ‘I must be mad,’ he said softly. ‘Crazy. The last time, I swear it.’

      There were two Vopos at the red and white barrier wearing old-fashioned Wehrmacht raincoats, rifles slung. An officer lounged in the doorway of the hut smoking a cigarette.

      Meyer braked to a halt and got out as one of the sentries opened the door. The street ran to the wall itself through an area in which every house had been demolished. Beyond, in a patch of light, was the Western Zone checkpoint.

      He fumbled for his papers and the officer came forward. ‘You again, Herr Meyer. And what have we this time? More corpses?’

      Meyer passed his documents across. ‘Only one, Herr Leutnant.’ He peered anxiously at the officer through steel-rimmed spectacles. With his shock of untidy grey hair, the fraying collar, the shabby overcoat, he looked more like an unsuccessful musician than anything else.

      ‘Anna Schultz,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Age nineteen. A trifle young, even for these hard times.’

      ‘Suicide,’ Meyer explained. ‘Her only relatives are an uncle and aunt in the Western Zone. They’ve claimed her body.’

      One of the Vopos had the back of the hearse open and was starting on the brass screws of the ornate coffin lid. Meyer hastily grabbed his arm.

      The lieutenant said, ‘So, you don’t want us to look into the coffin? Now why should that be, I wonder?’

      Meyer, wiping sweat from his face with a handkerchief, seemed at a loss for words.

      At that moment a small truck pulled in behind. The driver leaned out of the window holding his documents. The lieutenant glanced over his shoulder impatiently and said, ‘Get rid of him.’

      One of the Vopos ran to the truck and examined the driver’s papers quickly. ‘What’s this?’

      ‘Diesel engine for repair at the Greifswalder Works.’

      The engine was plain to see, roped into position on the truck’s flat back. The Vopo returned the documents. ‘All right – on your way.’

      He raised the red and white pole, the truckdriver pulled out from behind the hearse and started towards the gap in the wall.

      The lieutenant nodded to his men. ‘Open it.’

      ‘You don’t understand,’ Meyer pleaded. ‘She was in the Spree for a fortnight.’

      ‘We shall see, shall we?’

      The Vopos got the lid off. The stench was so immediate and all-pervading that one of them vomited at the side of the hearse. The other flashed his torch for the lieutenant to peer inside. He moved back hurriedly.

      ‘Put the lid on, for God’s sake.’ He turned to Meyer. ‘And you, get that thing out of here.’

      The truck passed through the barriers on the other side and pulled in at the checkpoint hut. The driver got out, a tall man in a black leather jacket and flat cap. He produced a crumpled packet of cigarettes, stuck one in his mouth and leaned forward to accept a light from the West German police sergeant who had moved to join him. The match, flaring in the sergeant’s hands, illuminated a strong face with high cheekbones, fair hair, grey eyes.

      ‘Don’t you English have a saying, Major Vaughan?’ the sergeant said in German. ‘Something about taking the pitcher to the well too often.’

      ‘How do things look back there?’ Vaughan asked.

      The sergeant turned casually. ‘There appears to be a little confusion. Ah yes, the hearse is coming now.’

      Vaughan smiled. ‘Tell Julius I’ll see him at the shop.’

      He climbed into the cab and drove away. After a while he kicked one heel against the front of the bench seat. ‘Okay in there?’ There was a muffled knock in reply and he grinned. ‘That’s all right then.’

      The area of the city into which he drove was one of mean streets of old-fashioned warehouses and office blocks, alternating with acres of rubble, relic of the wartime bombing campaign. Some fifteen minutes after leaving the checkpoint, he turned into Rehdenstrasse, a dark street of decaying warehouses beside the River Spree.

      Half way along, a sign lit by a single bulb read Julius Meyer and Company, Undertakers . Vaughan got out, unlocked the large gates, opened them and switched on a light. Then he got into the truck and drove inside.

      The place had once been used by a tea merchant. The walls were of whitewashed brick and rickety wooden steps led up to a glass-walled office. Empty coffins were stacked on end in one corner.

      He paused to light a cigarette and the hearse drove in. Vaughan moved past it quickly and closed the doors. Meyer switched off the engine and got out. He was extremely agitated and ceaselessly mopped sweat from his face with the grimy handkerchief.

      ‘Never again, Simon, I swear it. Not if Schmidt doubles the price. I thought the bastard was on to me tonight.’

      Vaughan said cheerfully, ‘You worry too much.’ He leaned into the cab of the truck, fumbled for a hidden catch so that the front of the bench seat fell forward. ‘All right, you can get out now,’ he said in German.

      ‘This is a life, this life we lead?’ Meyer said. ‘Why