Brandenburg (6 page)

The apartment overlooked the city and had a sweeping view of the river south of Asunción. Rudi loved it. A bachelor’s place, compact, one bedroom, a couch in the living room, where he had slept during Erica’s stay. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a large scotch, added some cracked ice, then went to sit by the window, staring absentmindedly at the riverboats plying up and down the Rio Paraguay.

He glanced up at the photograph of his mother and father on the bookshelf in the corner of the living room. Why had his mother chosen to come to such a godforsaken city as Asunción? And yet it was home for him; he fit in more easily here than he ever had in his mother’s homeland. There were many things he hated about this city, many things he loved. He hated the poverty, the corruption; he loved the girls, the sun, the easygoing mestizos.

He finished his scotch quickly, placed the glass on the table. He could still smell the scent of Erica’s perfume lingering in the room.

He looked at the photograph on the bookshelf again, his father dark and handsome and smiling; his mother blond, pretty, but her Nordic face set in a harsh, strained smile. She should have smiled more. But then, she had never had much to smile about. That was the one thing the mestizos had done to his blood. Made him smile more.

He smiled now, thinking of the suite in the Excelsior Hotel, the plan coming into his head with such ease, so complete, that he picked up the telephone at once and began to call the number.

Perhaps the old Indian woman on the Calle Estrella had been right. Perhaps Erica would bring him luck.

He hoped so.

Because if not, then maybe he would end up dead, too.

5

RICHMOND, SURREY, ENGLAND. NOVEMBER 24

There were no pedestrians in the quiet street of redbrick Victorian houses, the small park it faced empty on this winter’s day.

The black taxi drew up outside Number 21, and Volkmann paid the driver and stepped out. It was cloudy and cold, the sky threatening snow as he walked up the narrow front path. The garden was overgrown, dockweed climbing between the bare winter rosebushes.

As Volkmann unlocked the door and stepped inside, he heard the faint sound of music coming from the room at the back of the house and smiled. Cole Porter’s “Night and Day.”

He left his overnight bag by the door and passed the small parlor, its door open to reveal the silver-framed photographs on the mantelpiece and the walnut sideboard, the bric-a-brac his mother had collected over forty years.

In the kitchen, the big Aga range was fired, its metal throwing out a blanket of heat into the small room, the door at the end open, the music louder now as he stepped toward it.

She sat by the window of the music room, her gray head bent close to the Steinway piano. The silver-topped walking cane lay on top of the black, polished wood. She looked up as he peered around the door, smiled before removing her glasses.

“You’ve made an old woman very happy. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

He smiled back warmly, crossed to where she waited, and kissed her cheek. “It’s only two days, I’m afraid. I’ve got to be back by Saturday.”

She touched his face with her palm. “No matter, it’s good to see you, Joseph. How was your flight?”

“Delayed, two hours. Why don’t we go into the kitchen? It’s warmer there.”

He handed her the silver-topped cane and helped her toward the door, holding her arm as she limped. “I managed to get some tickets for the Barbican tonight. What do you think?”

“Tonight? But that’s wonderful.”

“It’s Per Carinni. He’s doing the three Beethovens.” He smiled down at the old woman. “And how’s the patient?”

“Much better now that you’re here. You can tell me all the gossip about Strasbourg.”

•   •   •

It never changed, the house, remained always as he remembered it each time he returned: the same familiar smells, the same peaceful quiet that enveloped him like a warm cocoon, and always music somewhere in the background. The radio was on, Bach playing softly.

They sat in the kitchen drinking tea. She had placed a plateful of cookies beside his cup, but he left them untouched, the old guilt creeping in on him again, the thought of her alone in the big old house, shuffling around on the silver-topped cane.

Every time he returned Volkmann remembered her as younger. He glanced up at the photographs on the wall over the kitchen fireplace: his father and her, taken more than thirty years before, her dark hair falling about her face as she smiled out at the camera, himself a boy sitting on her knee outside the cottage in Cornwall.

“Tell me about Strasbourg.”

Volkmann put down the china cup. “There’s not much to tell. There’s still a lot of work to be done, and there’s a lot of distrust about. The French don’t trust the English; the English don’t trust the French.” He smiled at her. “And the Italians, of course, don’t trust anybody. So much for mutual-security cooperation.”

“What about Anna? Do you hear from her?”

“She telephones now and then. She met someone. She seems happy.”

He stood up and placed a hand on her shoulder, smiled down at the wrinkled face. “Come. I’d like to hear you play for me. We have some time before the concert. Then I’ll call a cab and have them pick us up at seven.”

•   •   •

It was after one o’clock when the taxi taking them home after the concert turned into the street. The snow had stopped and when they reached the park, the old woman told the driver to stop, they would walk the rest of the way; she needed the exercise. Volkmann helped her out and gripped her arm, the snow soft underfoot, his mother ignoring his protests, saying she felt better, the evening had done her good.

The trees of the park were ghostly white as they passed the entrance, snow outlining their branches, the open spaces a gray expanse in the gloaming.

She wasn’t limping now as they strolled toward the house. For someone of an artistic nature who had fallen ill, his father had once remarked, the doctor ought to prescribe a round of applause, not pills. Volkmann smiled in the darkness, remembering the remark.

She looked up at him. “Wasn’t Carinni divine?”

They had reached the park entrance, and Volkmann looked down at her. “I’ve heard you play better.”

She smiled. “You’re a flatterer, Joseph. But you know the way to an old woman’s heart.”

She stopped to regain her breath, and he watched as she looked around at the snowy park landscape, then moved toward the
entrance, stepping through the open gates. He stayed close behind her.

“This reminds me . . . ,” she said.

“Tell me.”

“Of when I was a little girl. Of Christmas. There was always snow in winter in Budapest.” She looked up at him and he could see her face dimly. “But that was all such a long time ago. Long before I met your father.”

“Tell me again.”

He had heard it all before, many times, her words like some comforting litany. The season of plenty in Budapest, and the anticipation of Christmas. When the blue flag was up on the frozen lake in Octagon Square, and the ice was thick enough for skaters, and the red candles flickered in the windows of warm houses, warm as an oven, the smell of burning oil lamps, great gray plumes of coal smoke rising in the cold air. Budapest long ago, the city of her childhood.

But she was silent. Volkmann looked down, saw her wipe tears from her eyes. He touched her arm gently.

“Come, you’ll catch cold.”

She turned her head then, looked out over the cold white park. Volkmann moved to grip her frail arm before the melancholy took hold. As he looked at her face, he remembered the young woman she had been on the beach in Cornwall all those years ago.

She looked up at him and he saw the grief in the wet brown eyes. “I miss him, Joseph. I miss him so.”

Volkmann bent and took her wrinkled face fondly in both hands, kissed her forehead. “We both do.”

6

ASUNCIÓN. FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 25

The giant Iberia 747 banked onto final approach and began its descent into Campo Grande airport.

Of all the passengers on board the packed flight to Paraguay’s capital that late afternoon, none was probably as tired as the middle-aged man in the dark-blue suit who sat quietly in row 23.

The flight he had endured earlier from Munich to Madrid had been tolerable, but the long haul from Madrid to Asunción had taken its toll and now his dehydrated body ached.

It was almost three months since he had last visited Paraguay. He hadn’t enjoyed it then, and it was unlikely he would enjoy it now. Mosquitoes. Heat. Temperamental natives. But this time his visit would be even briefer, twenty-four hours, and for that, he was grateful.

The man in the blue suit picked up the leather briefcase from the floor in front of him and clicked it open. He flicked carefully through the documents inside, checked that everything was in order.

A pretty flight attendant moved down the aisle, a last-minute check on seat belts. The man glanced up, saw the slim hips sway rhythmically toward him. The attendant paused, said something rapidly in Spanish as she pointed to the briefcase on his lap before moving on. The man in the blue suit clicked shut the case, tucked it neatly under the seat in front, and sat back.

Beyond the port window he glimpsed the sprawling, ragged suburbs of Asunción: the flat-roofed, white- and yellow-plaster adobes and the tin-roofed shacks of the barrios. As the bowels of the big plane shuddered, he heard the whirr of the flaps extending and the dull thud of the undercarriage lowering into place.

Five minutes later, he saw the yellow lights of the runway rush up beneath him, and then came the rumble of wheels on concrete as the giant aircraft touched down.

•   •   •

The man—his name was Meyer—retrieved his suitcase from the carousel and passed unquestioned through customs twenty minutes later.

In the arrivals area, a tall, blond young man who stood out from the waiting crowd held a placard stiffly in front of him: Pieter De Beers. Meyer stepped forward and the young man took his suitcase and beckoned for him to follow.

A Mercedes stood parked nearby, its black bodywork muddied, and he saw the three men waiting inside. Schmidt sat impassively like a rock in front, and the two men reclined in the back.

Both wore immaculate business suits, and both smiled when they saw Meyer.

One was young, in his middle thirties, and wore a light-gray suit. He was stockily built, and his dark hair glistened. Not handsome, but ruggedly attractive, and his broad face was deeply tanned from years in the sun.

The second man was old, his wrinkled face handsome. His silver-gray hair was more silver than gray and was combed back. He was tall, and had the look of a self-assured diplomat. He wore a charcoal-gray business suit, a white shirt, and a red silk tie, and his gentle blue eyes radiated confidence and charisma. He raised a hand and smiled again as Meyer approached.

The blond young man put Meyer’s suitcase in the trunk, and Schmidt got out to open the rear door for him.

When Meyer slid into the backseat, the two passengers shook his hand in turn.

“You had a good flight, Johannes?” the silver-haired man asked.

“Ja, danke.” As he turned to the younger, dark-haired man, he said, “Any problems?”

Kruger glanced at him and shook his head. “No, but some bad news.”

“Oh?” said Meyer, feeling uneasy now, wondering if it had anything to do with the project.
It couldn’t,
he told himself. Everything was in order, he was absolutely certain.

“We’ll talk about it on the way, Johannes,” said Kruger as he leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

“The hotel, Kurt.”

As the car started and pulled out from the curb, Meyer sat back, dabbing his forehead and silently cursing the heat, wondering what the bad news could be.

•   •   •

Rudi Hernandez was tired; he had been up until two that morning. Ricardo Torres had not arrived with the equipment until twelve-thirty, and it had taken him another hour to explain how to set it up.

“It’s only a loan, okay? Make sure it all comes back in one piece,” Torres had said. “Otherwise, my boss kicks me out on my butt, and I’m selling nuts outside the city zoo, comprende?”