Ring of Lies (11 page)

Winter had its claws in Berlin. The sun was sinking listlessly in the cloudy graphite sky. In Grunewald, the lawns were buried under snow. The tall trees in the forest behind the houses were as bare as fish bones.

Croissant crumbs were still scattered on Justus's kitchen counter. As he wiped them away, Alex recalled the sketch Gunter had drawn seconds before he died. What did it mean?

He opened the freezer of the Sub-Zero refrigerator and rooted around among the neatly arranged plastic containers. He found frozen croissants, chicken stock, and beef stew, but no list of Nibelungs.

Alex switched on the TV. On one of the German channels, the Israeli prime minister was standing in front of a wall of microphones bearing foreign media logos. Speaking in Hebrew, he said, “Israel will never apologize for exercising its legitimate right to defend itself in all places and ensure the security of its citizens at all times.”

Cut to the dead body of Karabashi.

Alex went over to the glass wall and gazed out mournfully at the forest. He remained standing there for a long time. Finally, he turned around and was struck once more by the monumental size of the library.

The Bebelplatz rose up from the depths of his memory. The empty bookshelves buried in the subconscious of the frozen
square, in the subconscious of Berlin. Justus was a man of books; a man of many faces; an enigma.

Alex scanned the shelves, struggling to grasp the logic of their organization. He mapped the subjects and their locations on a piece of paper. German literature; Austrian, French, Russian, Italian, American, British, and Spanish literature; even Israeli literature in German translation.

The upper shelves held reference books and volumes of history, philosophy, and poetry. The bottom shelves were reserved for anthologies of art and architecture, and books on science and mechanics. All the German greats were represented, a sea of icons. Symbols of the cultural distinction of the German nation. An august array.

Six guides to identifying and growing orchids ignited a glimmer of hope. There was no greenhouse on the grounds and not a single orchid anywhere. Alex paged through them carefully but found nothing.

Were more Nibelungs being murdered in the meantime? He had to warn them, save them. Each Nibelung was a whole world. Each killing seriously jeopardized Mossad and forced them to halt operations in that territory.

Alex remembered the underground memorial at the Bebelplatz again. The empty bookshelves crying out to the world. What was Justus trying to tell him by meeting him there? Was he giving him a clue in case anything happened to him?

All the shelves were full, except one: the lowest one on the far left, closest to Justus's study.

A biography of Jane Austen caught his eye. For some reason, it wasn't with the other biographies on the right-hand side of the
library but on the half-empty shelf on the left. Next to it was a book in Italian describing how to butcher a cow.

What is a celebrated author like yourself, dear Miss Austen, doing here beside a guide for beginning butchers?

Alex took the thick British volume into the kitchen and laid it on the counter. He paged through it impatiently.

Nothing.

He felt the dust cover and shook the book. Nothing fell out.

Alex shoved the book aside. Outside, the light had grown dimmer. Jane was snoring gently. He returned to the book and carefully scrutinized each page.

On page 286 he found a tiny crumb under the page number and tried to wipe it away.

It didn't move.

It wasn't a crumb.

He brought the book closer to his eyes. It wasn't a stain, either.

The mark had been made deliberately.

He felt a tiny flutter of hope in his belly. He examined every page closely and found another mark on page 351.

He wrote down the two page numbers: 286–351.

The difference between them was 65. Did that mean something?

What if he put them together: 286351.

It was too short to be a telephone number, unless the prefix was missing. What else could it be?

He sat down on the sofa beside Jane and touched her shoulder. Her eyelids twitched. She opened her eyes with a smile, but there was a look of confusion on her face.

“We're in Justus's house in Berlin,” he whispered.

Jane sat up, folding her long legs under her.

“Did Justus transfer your money into a special account?” he asked.

“What time is it?”

“Do you have a special bank account?”

“Yes. It's late, isn't it?”

“Do you remember the number?”

“286351.”

Golden rays of light seemed to dance through the room. For the first time in a long while, Alex's mood lightened. He ran to the library and examined the other books on the bottom-left shelf.

He found the same marks in a book of conversations with Isaiah Berlin, as well as in a French baking guide. Berlin and Paris. London was here with him, and Rome must be the butcher. He had found the answer.

Forty-eight books were bunched together on the shelf, and each had tiny marks under three-figure page numbers.

“Justus was a genius,” he announced.

Working together, they made a list of all the Nibelungs and their six-figure account numbers, revealing the structure and extent of the ring. The most urgent thing now was to decipher the spare BlackBerry Ancona's team had found.

Alex called the Brussels station. “I'm sending you a list of codes to decipher. They are bank accounts, but also partial phone numbers. Try to figure it out,” Alex said.

Zengot let out a sigh. “Alex, I've got my best people working for you, but for God's sake, you're not an only child.”

“Sammy, while we're wasting time talking, our people are being killed.”

It was freezing outside. The wind had died down, and the trees in the forest were still. A bird shrieked in the distance. A grunt issued from deep in the woods. The piercing cold hurt the man's skin. He couldn't feel his toes. His body was numb from long hours without moving.

He had gathered branches and woven them into the netting of his camouflage suit. His wait was nearing its end.

The clear glass wall along the width of the house gave him an advantage. He knew the house well.

When he'd arrived in the middle of the night, the two of them were already there. Then the white coveralls came and tore the place apart.

Moving as silently as a cat, he climbed down out of the linden tree in the yard.

It was time.

Jane had gone to wash up in the guest bathroom upstairs. Alex lay on the sofa in the living room, conjuring up images of her young naked body. He would gladly have joined her in the shower right now, but something still stood between them, keeping them apart.

His eyes closed and he nodded off.

Naomi appeared in his dream. Pale linoleum. A dark pool of blood spreading out around her. He opened his eyes, shaken and horrified. God, how long would it go on?

He got up and went into the kitchen. The last vestiges of daylight cast a blue tinge over the wooden floorboards. A soft, comforting snow was falling.

He ground fresh coffee beans. Then he packed down the grounds with the tamper and slowly lowered the lever of the La Pavoni machine. Thick, speckled espresso dripped into the cup, suffusing the air with a heady aroma. In the stainless-steel jug, milk gurgled and frothed.

Jane joined him, fresh and sweet smelling, her wet hair combed back. She sliced an onion, beat eggs in a bowl, and started frying a thick omelet. Alex got cheese and sausage from the refrigerator.

The landline rang.

The fork fell from Jane's hand, striking aplate. Alex turned to stare at Justus's desk at the other end of the house. Who was calling the late Justus Erlichmann?

“Should we answer it?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

After six rings the phone fell silent. They went back to cooking.

The ringing started up again.

Alex crossed the living room at a run and picked up the phone. An unfamiliar voice with a foreign accent said, “There's a silver Audi A6 parked outside, near the gate. Open the trunk.”

“Who is this?”

“Go now. Alone.”

The man hung up.

Alex got his Glock and pulled back the slide. There was a bullet in the chamber.

“What's going on?” Jane asked.

“There's a man outside who wants something from us.”

“Let's go,” she said, getting up. She pulled her own Glock from her bag and cocked it with a practiced motion. “He can see us,” Alex said. “He told me to come alone.”

“He's in the forest?”

Alex nodded and looked out the window. The snow was coming down harder, turning everything white. The eggs were sizzling.

Jane covered the pan with a plate and turned the omelet out onto it. “We're totally exposed. It's too dangerous here.”

Alex went into the pantry and raised the edge of the curtain. She was right behind him.

“Where outside?”

“Over there. The silver Audi,” he said, pointing with the Glock.

“I hope it isn't Justus.”

“Where?”

“In the trunk.”

The red Calder mobile at the far end of the hall hung motionlessly in the air. When Alex opened the front door, it began to swing erratically.

Visibility was limited in the snow-filled dusk. He walked through the gate and looked back at the house one last time. She was standing at the window.

Alex moved toward the Audi, checking the street. A motocross bike roared by, leaving a black stripe in the fresh snow.

Alex circled the car parked along the fence. He couldn't see anyone. He tugged on the passenger-seat door handle. The door glided open.

He leaped back, slipping on the ice and nearly losing his balance. At the last minute, he managed to grab hold of the freezing fence and stop his fall.

She was watching him from the pantry window.

Kneeling, he looked under the car. Then he stood up and reached out for the trunk-release button. If it was booby-trapped, he'd have nowhere to run.

Alex took out the Glock and pressed the button with his left hand. The lid of the trunk began to rise slowly. As he leaped back, he almost discharged the gun.

The trunk was empty.

He glanced over at the window.

Jane wasn't there.

Jane didn't answer her phone.

There was a cold throbbing in his neck. He closed the trunk lid with the hand holding the gun.

The unfamiliar voice answered Jane's phone. “Come to the living room. Try anything and the woman dies.”

The call was disconnected.

Who was he? How did he get into the house?

Alex made his way quickly back, his boots crunching on the snow. The service door was ajar. He pushed it open with the barrel of his Glock and quietly entered the kitchen.

“Don't turn around!” ordered a man behind him. “One false move and the woman dies.”

He'd fallen into another trap. He was desperate to turn around, pull the trigger, and empty the magazine into the intruder.

“Put the gun on the floor and go sit on the sofa. Hands on your head.” The stranger's voice was steady.

Alex swiveled around sharply, his gun pointed.

Jane's pale face was in his sights. A gun barrel fitted with a silencer was pressed to her head. Her eyes burned with fury. The stranger had her in a headlock from behind. He was shorter than she was. His eyes peered over her shoulder as he used her body as a shield.

Suddenly she dropped to the floor, exposing the man behind her, but he immediately swung his arm around her neck and pulled her back up in front of him.

Alex didn't have enough time to get off a shot.

But the man's head was still visible. Alex aimed his gun at his forehead. The stranger lowered his weapon and pulled the trigger.

Pkow. A silenced shot. The bullet entered the wooden floorboards no more than an inch from Alex's toes. The bastard was a pro.

“Put the gun on the carpet!” he hissed. “The next time, I'll aim for your dick.”

Alex placed his gun on the living room carpet and retreated to the sofa.

“Sit next to him,” he ordered Jane, shoving her in his direction. “Hands on your head!”

Jane swung around and kneed him hard in the balls. He grunted and folded over. His face went red. Then he struck her in the head with his gun.

She let out a scream, her face scrunching up in pain. She wobbled a little but didn't fall.

Fuck. Alex's gun was too far away.

The stranger thrust the silencer between her eyes. His body was as massive as a Hummer. He had a broad face and oily skin. The veins stood out on his neck, as thick as a tree trunk.

Blood trickled from Jane's temple. “Do that again and I'll kill you,” she breathed.

Through the stranger's quilted jacket, Alex could see the contours of his burly arms. Compared to the size of his body, his hands were huge.

“Who are you?” Alex asked.

“Shut up!” The man's small brown eyes flared. He was sharp and experienced.

Jane pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her jeans and held it to the cut on her forehead.

“How do you know Justus?” Alex said.

Pkow. A silenced bullet whistled past his ear. A chunk of plaster fell to the floor behind him.

“I'm the one with the gun,” the man said.

“So shoot, chatterbox,” Alex goaded.

“Who are you?” the stranger asked.

Jane examined the bloodstained tissue. “Friends of Justus,” she said.

“Liar!” Again he pointed the gun at her head. His expression grew more serious, and a deep furrow appeared between his eyes. “What were you looking for?”

“Who are
you
?” Alex demanded.

“Where is Justus?” the stranger thundered.

“What's he to you?” Alex said.

“We have a connection.”

“What kind?”

“Friends.”

“Are you in the habit of sitting in trees and spying on your friends?”

“I could tell something was wrong, so I came.”

“From where?” Jane asked.

“Paris.” He checked for their reaction. “You're Mossad?”

“Maybe,” Alex said.

“One of your guys was tailing me in Paris.”

“How do you know it was one of our guys?”

“He's dead.”

The stranger placed his gun on the glass table and sat down opposite them.

“What happens if I grab the gun?” Alex asked.

“Take it,” the stranger handed it to him.

Alex exchanged a quick glance with Jane, took the icy gun, and pulled back the slide. A bullet fell from the chamber and rolled noisily onto the wooden floorboards. Alex didn't bend down to retrieve it. The stranger's face was expressionless, but his body was tense.

A soft hissing issued from the heating system. Alex scrutinized the man. Something about his face seemed familiar. What was it?

“Come,” the stranger said suddenly, standing up and crossing the living room.

Exchanging another glance, Alex and Jane followed. The cold outside penetrated their clothing. They went out to the street and stopped by the silver Audi, but the stranger kept going.

“This one's mine,” he said, pointing to a beat-up blue Renault Mégane parked in front of the Audi. “Over here.”

They flanked him. From this position, they could easily grab him by the throat and break his neck. Spots of sap glittered on his jacket. Snowflakes were piled up on his head and broad shoulders. His little eyes scanned the street. Empty.

A delivery truck filled with tall gas canisters drove slowly by, its cargo rattling in the back.

The stranger opened the trunk of the car. The bottom was covered with a thick sheet of plastic.

Jane flinched.

A white plastic body bag. He pulled down the zipper. The body inside was putrid, curled up in the fetal position. The man's gray face showed dark bruising around the closed eyes. The jaw was dislocated and the right eye socket was damaged.

“You know him?”

Jane shook her head, holding her stomach.

“Why did you kill him?” Alex asked.

“I didn't.”

“So what happened, he died in his sleep?”

“Do you know him?” the stranger repeated.

“Not one of ours.”

“I was sure he was.”

“Ours don't look like that.”

“What do you mean,
like that
?”

“Dead.”

“So where did he come from?”

“Clean him up and then maybe I can tell you,” Alex said.

The stranger zipped up the body bag and slammed the trunk shut. A sheet of ice slid off the car and splintered on the road.

“Back inside,” the stranger said. His intensity was more intimidating than the barrel of the loaded gun.

“Do you often ride around with a body in the trunk of your car?” Jane asked.

“He followed me home. Tailed me up the stairs to the fifth floor. Fucking amateur. I took him by surprise and he lost his balance and sailed through the window into the courtyard. I left a message for Justus.”

“Where?”

“Where I'm supposed to. He never got back to me. I called. He didn't answer. So I came.”

“From Paris?”

The stranger nodded.

“Six hundred miles with a body in the trunk?”

“Six hundred and sixty-three.” He smiled. There was a space between his front teeth.

The house was warm, and the living room smelled of books.

There was a bullet wound in the oak flooring.

The stranger removed his quilted jacket, revealing his muscular arms.

“I'm Paris.”