Brandenburg (27 page)

“Yes.”

“You see him much?”

Volkmann wanted to tell Molke. But not here. Another time.

“Sure.”

“You’re lucky, Joe. Sons need fathers as much as fathers need sons.”

22

Erica left at ten the following morning. Soon after that, he looked around her apartment, starting with the living room. He didn’t know what he was looking for and he disliked having to search through her personal belongings, but he knew it had to be done.

Next to the computer terminal sat a neat stack of papers and a small wooden filing cabinet. He searched through the papers first, then the unlocked filing cabinet. Mostly rough drafts of magazine articles and correspondence from editors.

He was aware of the scent of Erica’s perfume as he went through the closet and drawers in her bedroom. Her clothes and underwear were put away neatly, and under some panties he saw a bundle of old letters addressed to her bearing Paraguayan stamps. All were in Spanish, and were signed by Rudi Hernandez. He looked through the other drawers.

He came across two slim photograph albums on a shelf in the mirrored sliding wardrobe. One contained mostly photographs from Erica’s childhood, snapshots of her and her mother and sister that appeared to have been taken in Argentina.

The second album contained mostly photographs of Erica in her teens and twenties, taken with friends at Heidelberg, and a couple of pictures with Rudi Hernandez.

On the wardrobe floor were some boxes containing jewelry. He examined them and the rods of clothes, searching in pockets, but he found nothing of interest. He tried the bathroom. Perfumes and makeup and some pills and herbals in plastic bottles.

He crossed back into the kitchen and sat on the couch. He knew that he had to make contact with Lubsch again, despite the danger. He thought about how he’d do it, then picked up the commercial directory by the telephone.

He found the name and address in Mainz where Karen Gries had her shop.

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN. MONDAY, DECEMBER 12, 7:30 P.M.

The restaurant was ten miles from Stockholm along the north coast, an intimate place of log fires and pine tables. Only half a dozen other customers were dining that evening, and with typical Scandinavian respect for privacy they ignored Shaeffer and his companion.

The food was excellent, Shaeffer thought, as he chewed a delicious mouthful of fried Baltic herring, then washed it down with a sip of ice-cold beer. It was a pity about the company.

The Turk had hardly spoken. He was tall and handsome, with a haunted look in his brown eyes. His thinning black hair was brushed
back off his face and he wore a cheap, ill-fitting suit. He regarded Shaeffer with wary detachment, and when he did speak he spoke good German.

Shaeffer couldn’t fail to notice the thick pink scars on the backs of the man’s hands. “I take it the meal is to your satisfaction?”

Kefir Ozalid sipped his mineral water and spoke quietly. “Yes, thank you.”

Polite but distant. As if the man disliked Shaeffer. The Turk irritated him from the beginning of the meeting. Had it not been for the excellent smorgasbord, Shaeffer considered, the evening would have been a washout.

An hour later, they stepped out onto the cold, snowy street, wearing their overcoats.

A wooden promenade overlooked the glassy, freezing Baltic Sea across the street, a harbor nearby. Shaeffer could understand why the Turk had chosen such a place; in winter the harbor town was desolate. Anyone following them would have been easy to spot.

The Turk pulled up the collar of his frayed overcoat and tugged on his woolen gloves, then gestured for Shaeffer to follow him across to the promenade.

“There have been no changes to the plan?” Ozalid asked.

“None. And you, there are no last-minute doubts?”

The young man shook his head. “None.” There was a finality in the Turk’s reply. “Your people will keep to your agreement?”

“Of course,” Shaeffer replied. “I’ve been authorized to transfer the money to the account once you’ve kept your part of the bargain.”

The Turk turned toward the cold, dark sea, as if the money were of no importance. Shaeffer removed an envelope from his pocket.

“All the necessary details are inside. Destroy them once you memorize everything. The airline ticket is in the name on your false passport. The money in the envelope will more than cover your expenses.”

“There’s no change concerning my identity?”

Shaeffer shook his head. “None. You’re a businessman trading with a Berlin electronics company. Any questions?”

The Turk shook his head and tucked the envelope in his pocket.

Shaeffer added, “Once you reach the safe house, our people will give you secure passage to Switzerland. After that you’re on your own.”

The Turk flashed a rare smile, but no humor there. “Presuming I live, of course?”

And with that, he turned and walked back across the snowy street.

•   •   •

Snow was falling as the Turk entered the drab apartment building near Stockholm’s Skansen district.

He went up in the creaking elevator to the eighth floor. Graffiti was on the walls; the noisy, overcrowded apartment block was bursting at the seams with immigrants. Ethnic music blared on every floor the elevator passed, and children cried out in a babble of tongues.

The Tower of Babel, the tenants called it. Africans. Arabs. Vietnamese. Turks. Kurds. Refugees who had dreamed of a better life but traded their dignity for a nightmare.

Despite the shabbiness of the building, the apartment offered a panoramic view of Stockholm. He switched on the lights, removed his overcoat, and went to stand by the window. The city winked beyond the thick fall of snow. Like the snow that fell on the blue mountains in Izmir in winter. For a brief moment it made him think of home and Layla.

He tried to ignore the thought as he took the envelope from his pocket, ripped it open, and studied the contents. Half an hour later he put the pages back in the envelope, then lit a cigarette from a packet of Turkish he kept on the scratched pine coffee table.

Something bothered him about the meeting. Something bothered him about the whole thing. Something not quite right. He sensed it from the start.

Not about the crime he intended to commit, but about the people and the plan. Yet he accepted it knowingly because he so wanted to kill the man who had allowed his life to be flooded with grief. And if his own life was forfeit, then so be it. He had resigned himself to that.

For Layla.

Allah was with him; he sensed it in his bones. He glanced down at the thick pink scars that ran in ugly puckered waves along his hands and arms. He thought again of Layla. Of the big, dark brown eyes lifting to his face, the sweet clean smell of her hair, and the taste of her breath like honey on his lips, seeing her for the first time all those years ago in his father’s village in the mountains. A young, innocent girl in bare feet. Far too beautiful for him.

He looked up at the photograph of Layla above the unlit fireplace and he wanted to cry, no matter how long ago the pain.

He stubbed out his cigarette, tried to push away the thoughts creeping in on him: the fire consuming flesh, the sadistic grins on the faces of the men with shaved heads, laughing as fires raged around their victims. And Layla, her body bloated with their love, unable to move.

Hate made him want to do this. Hate made him want to kill. And it was only hate that kept him alive.

Minutes later, he unrolled the blue woolen prayer mat, placed it facing the window.

When he had said his prayers, when he had prayed for Layla, he rolled up the prayer mat and kissed it as if he were kissing her again, then placed the mat on the shelf beside the fire.

23

MAINZ. MONDAY, DECEMBER 12

Volkmann took the A66 autobahn to Wiesbaden and across the Rhine into Mainz, arriving just after ten.

He parked the Ford in a twenty-four-hour underground garage near the cathedral and walked to Karen Gries’s address.

The markets area was busy with Christmas shoppers. A maze of alleyways and shopping malls branched off from the street, and Karen Gries’s shop was on the first floor above a modern art gallery. Volkmann spent half an hour checking out the nearby streets.

As he walked toward the cathedral, he tried to figure out his plan.

A bar stood almost directly opposite. The name overhead said
ZUM DORTMUNDER
. Maybe seventy yards away was a shopping mall. On the mall’s first floor was a smart café whose panoramic window looked down onto the street, and Volkmann reckoned there was a clear view back to Karen Gries’s premises.

He bought a copy of the
Frankfurter Zeitung
and went up to the café, sat by the window, and ordered a coffee. He watched the street below, the view unobstructed, and he could see Karen Gries’s place on the opposite side of the street. When the waitress came with his coffee, he asked her what time the café stayed open to, and the girl told him they stopped serving fifteen minutes before the mall closed at eight.

Volkmann familiarized himself with the street layout, then tucked the newspaper in his pocket. He went downstairs to the mall and crossed the road.

An alleyway veered off near Karen Gries’s shop. It led to the back of a bakery and then onto a public parking lot. For his plan to work, a lot depended on luck and timing, even assuming that Karen Gries would take the bait.

A narrow flight of stairs led up to a landing and a glass-fronted door. The sign on the frosted glass said, in English,
SWEATSHOP, BRUNO & KAREN GRIES
.

Just as Erica said, it contained fashionable athletic wear, tastefully displayed. He saw a balding, middle-aged man fitting a woman with hiking boots.

Behind the man was a glass-fronted office, where a woman with tight-cropped blond hair and wearing a leather jumpsuit sat talking with an Asian woman. Volkmann guessed that the woman with the cropped blond hair was Karen Gries and the man was probably her husband.

The blond kissed the Asian woman on the cheek and handed her a plastic shopping bag, then came over to Volkmann.

“Can I help you?” she smiled.

She could have been pretty, Volkmann thought, but she wore too much makeup. It made her look a bit trashy. “Karen Gries?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Volkmann. I’m a colleague of Erica Kranz’s.”

Her smile faded instantly. “What the devil do you want?”

“It’s about Wolfgang Lubsch. Is there somewhere quiet where we can discuss it?”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Volkmann. Joseph Volkmann.” He flashed the press ID.

“Why did you come here?”

“Your friend Lubsch had a chat with Erica and me yesterday. Only it wasn’t very helpful. I need to talk with Lubsch again.”

Karen Gries flushed angrily. “You’re wasting your time coming here, Volkmann. Lubsch isn’t a friend; he’s someone I knew a long time ago. Erica asked if I could help find him because she wanted to talk with him. But that’s as far as I was prepared to go. So if you don’t mind . . .”

She turned away impatiently, toward the balding man, who was finishing a sale. He half smiled and stared at Volkmann warily before turning back to his customer.

Volkmann said, “We can do this one of two ways, Frau Gries.”

“What do you mean?”

“Either you do as I ask, or I call the police and tell them what a bad girl you’ve been. I’m sure they’d be interested to learn that you’re associating with a wanted terrorist. Before you know it, the antiterrorist squad will be crawling all over this place. Your customers can read about it in the newspapers.”

The woman’s eyes blazed. “Are you threatening me, Volkmann?”

“I’m asking for your help. I could also tell your husband you’re still seeing Wolfgang Lubsch.”

Karen Gries’s mouth tightened with rage. “Who do you think you are, making an accusation like that?”

“You do still see him, don’t you?”

The balding man went to open the door for his customer. Volkmann saw him stare across before he came to join them, as if he sensed something was wrong.