Dying to Tell (16 page)

"I will treat Rupe leniently, Lance. I will not try to punish him for what he has done."

"You don't need to be so generous on my account."

"But he is your friend. And you are my friend. Therefore I will help him. I hope you would help Mayumi and Haruko .. . for the same reasons."

I looked round to find Hashimoto smiling at me. I reckoned this was as gushing as the guy ever got. "I'd do my best for them, Kiyo. Sure."

"It is all I ask. Oh His smile broadened. "I nearly forgot the other appropriate thing about "Dancing Spaghetti". The tubes are made of aluminium."

"Aluminium?"

"According to '

"According to your guidebook, yeh." I looked back at the sculpture. "Well, you can be as lenient with my very good friend Rupe Alder as you want, Kiyo, but you'll not have to mind if I tell him exactly what I think of him. Where the bloody hell is he?"

"Close, I suspect. Very '

Something pierced the air just in front of me and

Hashimoto gave a strangled gasp. I swung round towards him. The right lens of his spectacles had shattered. For a fraction of a second, I thought he'd been hit by nothing more sinister than some bizarrely ricocheting pebble. Then I saw the raw red gap where his eye should have been. Before I could reach out to touch him he toppled sideways into the aisle between the seats, falling face down with a thump that merged with a crack of metal on metal as a bullet I didn't doubt what it was struck the rail near my elbow and pinged past me. I dived for the deck.

Hashimoto's face drew close to mine as I crawled into the aisle. His glasses were askew, his left eye clear and open and staring, his right lost in a gouge of brain and bone from which blood was seeping onto the floor. His lips sagged apart, as if he was still trying to tell me how close Rupe might be. But he was never going to tell me or anyone else anything, ever again. Kiyofumi Hashimoto was dead and the fact that he'd been alive and well and talking to me only a second or two before changed nothing.

Another bullet struck the back of one of the seats beyond and above me. I saw the foam splay out of the hole in the leather. Somebody was trying to kill both of us and they weren't about to stop with the job half done. I had to get off that bus. I had to get away. I squirmed past Hashimoto towards the stairs, catching some object on the floor as I went and dragging it with me. I reached down and pulled it out from under me. It was the tape of Rupe's message. It must have slipped out of Hashimoto's pocket as he fell. Only then did I remember that it was Rupe who had lured us into this trap. "Trust me," he'd said. And I had. Suddenly, I wanted to find Rupe more powerfully than I could ever have imagined. I closed my hand round the tape, gritted my teeth and made for the stairs.

Another bullet whined overhead. Then I was in the relative safety of the stairwell. I rolled and scrambled to my feet, leapt down the treads two at a time and lunged for the open door at the bottom.

People were scattering in both directions along the pavement,

some of them screaming. I saw the guide and the driver crouched by the front wheel-arch. I heard another shot and saw them flinch. Then the guide spotted me. "Get down," he shouted. "You're safer behind the bus. I've called the police." He held up his mobile for me to see. "They'll be here soon."

Maybe they would. And maybe he was safe where he was. But he wasn't the target. I had no intention of waiting to find out what the marksman's next move might be. Hashimoto was dead. And all I could think about was staying alive. The bus had stopped just past a turning and the body of the vehicle would shield me as far as the corner. At least, I hoped it would. I started running.

There may have been another shot as I rounded the corner, clinging close to the shop fronts I'm not sure. By then my senses were filtering out everything not strictly essential to my survival. I was heading south, away from Tauentzien-strasse. That was all that mattered. But not for long. As I ran, my mind struggled to assimilate what had happened and put together a response. What was I going to do? Where was I going to go? "This is life and death," Hashimoto had told me back in London. I hadn't believed him. I did now.

The route south ended in a T-junction. I turned right, breath failing me, legs aching. I was in no condition to run as fast or as far as I wanted to. But still I had to run. Where to? That was the question. Where the hell to? We'd been set up from the start. That was obvious. Rosa Townley had played for time and we'd given it to her. And in that time she and Erich and Rupe too, it seemed, had plotted our execution. They were in it together. And they were all my enemies. My only ally lay dead on the top deck of the 12.15 tour bus.

I had to get out of Berlin. The realization came to me just as I spotted a taxi approaching with its light on. They knew the city. I didn't. If I stayed, I was lost. The police wouldn't believe me. I hardly believed me myself. If I stayed, they'd get me. I flagged the taxi down, ran across the road and jumped in. "Flughafen Tegel," I shouted to the driver.

"Flughafen Tegel. Ja." He started away.

Then I remembered. My passport was back at the Adlon.

nx

Without it, I was going nowhere. "No. Not the airport. Hotel I stopped. They knew I was likely to go there. They could be waiting for me. But I had to get my passport. I had to go to the Adlon. Just not necessarily by a direct route. I pulled out my map. "Komische Oper," I said, spotting how close it was to the Adlon; I could cut round from there to the rear entrance of the hotel. That, of course, was where Hashimoto had been to see The Magic Flute. Just last night, he'd been humming along to Mozart. And now

"Komische Oper. OK." The driver picked up speed. We were on our way.

I can't remember much about the taxi ride, except that it wasn't as fast as I'd have liked. In another sense, though, it was too fast, because I'd no better idea of what to do when it ended than when it had begun. Get the hell away was all my stunned reasoning process could come up with by way of a plan of action. Hashimoto was dead and I was lucky not to be dead as well. I wasn't looking for Rupe any more, or Stephen Townley, or an old letter containing an older secret. I just wanted out.

There didn't look to be anyone hanging around the back entrance of the Adlon. I ran across Wilhelmstrasse without waiting for the lights to change, causing at least one car to brake sharply. Then I rushed into the hotel and hurried through the function suites, suppressing the instinct to break into a trot. I knew I ought to be as inconspicuous as possible, but I felt anything but. My shoulder was aching from the scramble off the bus and there was a stain on my sleeve that was probably Hashimoto's blood. I made it to reception without drawing any looks and tried to make the request for my key sound casual while keeping it sotto voce. The lobby and bar were busy without being crowded. If anyone was watching the front door, there was a reasonable chance they wouldn't notice me as I took the key and doubled back to the lifts. And you had to have a room key to access the guest floors (by waggling it in front of a sensor in the lift). I reassured myself I was in the clear. (Well, what else could I do?)

I jogged round the corridor from the lift to my room, opened up and rushed in, swinging the door shut behind me as I made for the safe in the corner, where I'd stored my passport and a wad of spare Deutschmarks Hashimoto had given me.

I was stooping in front of the safe, tapping in the combination, when I heard a rattle from behind me, as if my shove hadn't been enough to close the door. I glanced over my shoulder. And there was Erich Townley, pushing the door gently shut and leaning back against it.

"In a hurry, Lance?" he asked, smiling sourly.

I stood up slowly and turned round to face him.

"Oh, you can go ahead and open the safe. I'd like to see what you have inside. Just in case it includes the letter."

"What letter's that?"

"Trying to be smart when you're as dumb as you are is just pathetic, Lance. You know that? Why'd you come back here?"

"Too dumb not to, I suppose."

"I heard there was a shooting near the Europa-Center. Some Japanese tourist's on his way to the morgue."

"Who did the shooting, Erich?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? Not Rupe. He's no marksman. But he's one hell of a decoy, don't you think?"

"Why did you kill Hashimoto?"

"I haven't killed anyone." He moved towards me. "Yet."

"What's in the letter?"

"Maybe you know better than I do. Open the safe."

"I'm afraid I can't."

"Why not?"

"I've forgotten the combination."

"Not funny, Lance." He stopped a few feet from me. "Not funny at all." He reached into the pocket of his coat and took something out. I'd expected it to be a knife. But it wasn't. It was a gun. I stared with a strange, detached fascination at the barrel as he pointed it at me. "Open up."

"As a matter of fact, the combination's just come back to me."

"Amazing."

I turned and crouched down in front of the safe. I needed the passport above all else. Once I had it But I couldn't look more than a few seconds ahead. I tapped in the numbers and opened the door.

Take out everything that's inside."

This was crazy. Why the hell should he think I had the letter? It made no sense. I picked up the passport and the rubber-banded bundle of cash, holding the handful up for him to see. "This is all there is, Erich."

"Stay where you are." He moved back and crouched down for a view past me into the safe. There was nothing for him to see. "I guess it was an outside chance anyway," he said, standing up again. "Worse luck for you."

"Why's that?"

"Work it out for yourself." (I tried not to.) "Now, stand up. Slowly."

I obeyed, turning to face him as I rose.

"Empty your pockets."

That didn't take long. My wallet; the keys to my flat in Glastonbury; a grubby handkerchief; some coins; and the tape.

"Where's my cigarette lighter?"

"Hashimoto has it. Had it, I should say. It's probably in the safe in his room."

Erich chewed his lip while he thought about that for a discomforting few seconds. It looked like he believed me, even though he didn't want to. "Dump that stuff on the desk," he growled.

"OK." The desk was to my right. I took one cautious step towards it and dropped the whole lot on the blotter.

Erich stared at the scatter of objects for a moment, then returned his gaze to me. "What's on the tape?"

That tape?"

"Yeh. That fucking tape."

"Oh, I wondered '

"What's on it?"

"Abba's greatest hits."

He glared at me (it was certain now, beyond a shadow of a doubt: I wasn't his type), then stepped towards the desk and leaned forward to pick up the tape.

"Don't say you're an Abba fan too, Erich."

"Shut up."

He looked away for the fraction of a second it took him to grasp the tape. And that, I knew, was the only fraction of a second luck was likely to hand me. I lunged at him in as good a rugby tackle as I could manage. We both went down hard. I braced myself for the gun to go off, but it didn't. Erich hit the floor, grunting as the breath shot out of him. I heard a clunk somewhere behind us and rolled round to see the gun lying several feet away under the desk. A table lamp wobbled above me as I came to rest against the cabinet it stood on. Erich began to scramble back up, his gaze focusing on the gun. I swivelled and kicked, catching him on the side of the head. He fell against the foot board of the bed, clutching at his ear. Then I was on my feet, grabbing the lamp by its heavy brass base. Erich saw me pick it up as he rose onto his knees. But he was too late to block or dodge the blow. I brought the lamp down fast, the rimmed base hitting him somewhere above his left eye. There was a solid crunch of brass on bone.

And then there was Erich Townley, slumped and motionless on the floor, blood oozing from a triangular wound on his brow. I put the lamp slowly back down on the cabinet. My hands were shaking. My knees were shaking. I tried to think, quickly and clearly. Had I killed him? I jammed two fingers under his ear and felt for a pulse. Yes. His heart was still beating. He was unconscious, but he wasn't dead. Thank God. I didn't want to leave Berlin as a murder suspect on the run. But leave it I had to, fast. Someone deadlier by far than Erich had been responsible for shooting Hashimoto. He might be on his way to the Adlon as I stood there, umm-ing and ah-ing.

I rushed to the wardrobe, grabbed my bag and flung in the spare clothes I'd brought. Then I threw in my toothbrush and shaving kit from the bathroom, stuffed the items on the desk into my pocket (tape included, along with the all-important passport and cash), and made for the door.

I stopped halfway. I needed an edge over the enemy; any kind of edge I could get. What did Erich have I could make use of? I stooped over him and checked his coat pockets. Some keys he was welcome to keep and a wallet. All in all, I reckoned he'd have to live without that. I slung it into my bag, closed the zip and headed for the door again. This time, I didn't stop.

I left the Adlon the way I'd come in, by the back door, and picked up a taxi within a couple of blocks. By then I was more or less certain I wasn't being followed. (What my certainty on the point was worth I didn't ask myself.) Mercifully, the route to Tegel Airport didn't go anywhere near the Europa-Center. I imagined Tauentzienstrasse had already been blocked off by the police, investigating what they probably reckoned was an outbreak of anti-tourist terrorism. As the taxi sped through Tiergarten, I seriously wondered if I should divert to Police HQ and tell them everything that had happened. But that would mean questions, questions, questions, and a long stay in Berlin. I doubted I could convince them I was telling the truth. I was sure there'd be nothing to link the Townleys with the shooting. And I'd probably end up being charged with assaulting Erich. No, I had to go.

But my run-in with Erich had changed something in my mind. Before, I'd been high on fear and the instinct for self-preservation. Now, I was beginning to feel angry. Hashimoto was my friend. He'd said so himself. Maybe, despite the short time we'd known each other, he was a better friend than Rupe had ever been. He deserved to be avenged. And the people who'd killed him deserved to be punished.