Free Berlin Burning by Damien Seaman

He’d been acting like an hysteric. He had the Schupo help them get Roth out of the van and into the back of the auto he’d found, pushing Fleischer in after him and then getting in the front with the shocked civilian driver, who looked at the gangster’s blood-soaked clothing with some alarm.
    Back down the road, Kessler’s men shifted the dead cow from beneath the wheels of the armoured car. Trautmann and Fleisher had to get out of there, now.
    â€˜Well done officer,’ Trautmann said to the traffic cop. ‘I’ll be sure to put you forward for a commendation once we’re through at the Charité.’
    â€˜Thank you, kommissar.’ The Schupo beamed.
    â€˜When our friends get here, do tell them where we’ve gone, won’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Good lad.’
    Then Trautmann lowered his voice, turned to the driver and told him to take them to the Evangelisches Krankenhaus in Lichtenburg – two districts away from the Charité hospital in Mitte.
    Chapter 16
    â€“–––––––
    â€˜O w!’ Trautmann was getting his burns sponged with salt water, his bosomy, middle-aged nurse being none too gentle about it.
    â€˜Just sit there and take it, can’t you?’ Fleischer said. His attendant – a junior doctor, by his appearance and manner – was sewing up the bullet wound in his arm.
    Turned out the slug had gone all the way through. Lucky, as it meant they wouldn’t have to hang around long enough for Kessler to track them while someone fished the damn thing out.
    The doctor had cut Fleischer’s shirt sleeve away and now, thick with crusted blood, it flapped in a draft that Trautmann couldn’t source for the life of him.
    Aside from the draft it was hot in there, the mysterious breath of air doing little to cool them. The unburned side of Trautmann’s face was slick with sweat he hadn’t the nerve to wipe away lest his ministering angel decided to treat his burns with still less tenderness than she was already.
    â€˜Doctor, is there any news about my... colleague?’ Trautmann said.
    â€˜Colleague?’ The doctor didn’t turn around.
    â€˜Yes, the man we brought in with us. He was in an accident. And I –’ Trautmann winced at yet another indelicate sponge application – ‘I need to know if he’s going to live!’
    The doctor turned around with a frown. Fleischer caught Trautmann’s eye, shared a look that said stop drawing attention to yourself .
    Trautmann glanced down at the floor. ‘Was I shouting? Sorry... I have tinnitus.’
    â€˜That’s not all you’ve got,’ the doctor said, breaking off from his sewing to look at Trautmann’s injuries. ‘Were you in a fire?’
    â€˜Yes... the accident.’
    â€˜Listen, doctor.’ That was Fleischer, who had come up behind the doctor and now lay a hand on his arm. ‘Our friend was in a bad way. We’re very worried. Perhaps you could just go and... see for us?’
    His voice was low, the tone even.
    The doctor scratched behind his right ear. ‘Yes, of course. I can see you’re upset. I’ll find out what I can. Nurse?’
    Trautmann’s torturer looked up.
    â€˜Perhaps you could finish up here for me?’
    The doctor nodded at the needle sticking out of Fleischer’s arm. The nurse stopped what she was doing with a sigh and pushed Fleischer back into his chair.
    â€˜What was his name?’ the doctor said.
    â€˜Schmidt,’ Trautmann said. ‘Johann Schmidt.’
    They’d agreed on that when bringing him in. Hoping the false name would keep Kessler off their tail – for a while at least.
    â€˜I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ the doctor said.
    â€˜Take your time,’ Fleischer called. Then to the nurse he said, ‘That tickles. Tell me, you tease your husband with those nimble fingers?’
    The woman