The Wind and the Rain
Page 29
Everything is slowing down. I see the shocking recognition on his face of what is about to happen. I open my right hand holding the blade and hold it behind my back. My training has led me to this point, my body is as primed as a coiled snake.
Finally - it feels like minutes but in reality it is milliseconds - the old man tries to lunge at me. He is too slow. Time is not his friend. I skip around the back of him, evading his grasping, pale hands like a Russian ballerina. I grab him by the shirt collar and pull my face up to his sweating neck.
He can’t force me off him. I am too strong.
“There will be no more experiments on our children, Doctor,” I whisper in his ear. I raise up my right arm and rake the bagh naka across his throat.
Tremmick utters a pathetic yelp and crumples to the floor. He hits the floor hard and utterly without grace, there’s no gradual fall to his knees like you see in the movies. Dark red blood spurts lavishly from his shredded throat. There is so much blood it doesn’t look real. He grabs his throat but in mere seconds his life passes away.
Within seconds the platform is covered in a circle of rose-red blood. It is dripping onto the tracks painting the tracks burgundy. I stare at the tracks and think back to Auschwitz. There can be no erasing what happened there but the wind and the rain has finally cleansed the world of this malignancy.
A Safe Haven
Sunday, 11 May 1986
What on God’s earth do I do now? How do I make my way back? Janko could have parked up and waited for me but instead he drove off like a maniac to catch Beckermann.
I stand on the platform for a few moments. I’m momentarily lost, geographically and mentally. My heart is beating in my chest at a mad rate making me anxious. Gunari’s voice plays in my head telling me the cure to anxiety is steadying my inhalation and exhalation.
I close my eyes and try to control my breathing. As soon as I take the first breath, my mind shouts at me to get the hell out of here. And make it quick! But I don’t rush off, instead I concentrate on holding my breath, and then taking a long exhalation. I repeat it nine more times and after that, I open my eyes and feel bizarrely calm.
Walking away proves a challenge to my serenity as I stumble trying to avoid the mammoth blood spillage that surrounds me. I manage to hop between the pools and sploshes. I lean on the wall next to a telephone on the wall that must be a hundred years old.
It is unbelievably lucky that no other passengers have come on to the platform. The next one who does is going to get the shock of their lives. No trains are approaching from either side.
If I was James Bond, I would head down to the beach fifty metres below and steal a speedboat and shoot away. Unfortunately I can’t see this as a viable option. I wouldn’t know how to turn it on and if there were any mishaps my standard of swimming would be less than ‘competent’ and more ‘can temporarily prevent drowning’.
Will I have to walk it? It’s not that far, maybe a couple of hours journey but I’d rather not be on the main road when the police inevitably show up. I have to leave this platform immediately, that much is certain.
I take one last look on the slain Nazi on the platform. His prone corpse reminds me of Second World War photos featuring civilians lying dead in the street. The irony isn’t lost on me. I don’t feel anguish or guilt, instead my mind is solely focusing on escape.
I walk back around the station and reclaim my bag from underneath the van. I pull out my trainers and slip them on my feet. I take out my sunglasses and as I place them on, I notice something move over the road.
Two men have exited a car and are walking over the road towards the station. Shit. Both men are in their early thirties and wearing jackets despite the morning warmth. One has fair hair and broad shoulders, the other long legs, dark hair and a moustache.
I ready myself to try and take them both out if needs be. I am holding the rucksack in my left hand and I have retained the bagh nakh in my right. I don’t want to be using this again if I can help it. If they are police perhaps I should take the consequences. It would provide me with the opportunity to state why I murdered Dr Albert Tremmick on a Riviera train platform. If I go to prison for this it would probably be fair karma in response to burning down my headmaster’s house.
The dark haired man calls to me in English from about five metres away:
“Hey, hold on a second,” I stand still and hold my right hand behind my back, hoping that my manner appears to be nonchalant. The dark-haired man gestures to his pal and the fair-haired man walks through the passage towards the platform.
“Who are you?” the dark-haired man says to me. He is stood between the station and the road blocking my exit. If it comes to a race, I fancy my chances. The opportunity remains for me to run to the left where we originally parked up and then I can spin back around once I’m on the main road. Although, if they are policemen they could easily call for back-up and it’s highly probable that I would be swiftly captured.
“Why are you speaking English?” I say, also in English. It is strange that he didn’t address me in French. I’m not sure if it makes him more or less likely to be a cop. I don’t even look English or American.
The man doesn’t reply but instead he moves his hand inside his coat, obviously reaching for a weapon. My time is running out. Fight or flight. I tense my arm ready to lash out if the guy makes a move.
The fair-haired man returns and whispers something in a language I can’t make out. The dark-haired man smiles at me and then gestures to his acquaintance to leave. The two men start walking back to their vehicle. I don’t understand what is going on. I follow the men up to the main road and to their car.
The two men get in their car. In the passenger seat, the dark-haired man winds the window down. He is still smiling. This must be the strangest encounter with a policeman ever.
“Fine work Ana,” he says. My mouth falls open in shock and I barely manage to utter the word “Kaj?” which means “What?” in Slovenian.
The car begins to drive off and the man leans out of the window and says:
“Jacob sends his regards,”
The car drives off leaving me outside the cafe pondering who they were. I can’t ponder too long as this is distracting me from scarpering from here. I place the bagh nakh back in my rucksack and contemplate walking it back to Monaco. As I do a bus approaches, I hunt in my bag and find a few French coins.
The bus stops for me and I hand over a couple of francs for a ticket. I casually wander to the back seat. The bus is virtually empty save for a few middle aged men in office wear. The bus begins to weave along the coastal road, the Mediterranean glistening like an impossible jewel and I begin to cry softly.
Finishing the Race
Sunday, 11 May 1986
The bus driver is shouting and it breaks me out of my trance. The bus is parked at a jaunty angle alongside a taxi. The driver’s head and neck are hanging out of the window and he is launching a wide variety of insults and is now threatening to shit down the taxi driver’s neck. I’ll remember that one next time Gunari whacks me in training.
The taxi driver simply shrugs and laughs and the bus driver cuts his losses and pulls the bus away. We are travelling along virtually the same route Janko and I took the other way, barely a couple of hours ago. Never has one morning felt as long as this one. At the big roundabout near the palace on the hillside, the driver takes a different route and it brings us out at the harbour. Gleaming white yachts are on one side of us and apartments of equal white gleam are on the other.
The bus slows to a stop and the driver drops me off at the harbour. The morning traffic has significantly picked up. Honking horns and crowded cafes attack my senses and bring me out of the stupor I have been in since I got on the bus.
I move towards a roundabout and look up and I can actually see the lower and upper train station entrances from this spot. I now have my bearings but I’m not sure where to go. I need to see if Gunari is still hanging around the upper entrance.
A group of immaculately turned out older women give me filthy glares as I power through the middle of their group. About halfway up the hill, I lean over the metal wall and check out the lower station entrance. I can’t locate Janko, Gunari or the Argenta so after a minute or two I continue my ascent.
After only a couple more minutes I arrive at the upper entrance. No sign of Gunari outside so I enter the station and reach an upper level above the tracks. I examine the platform areas which are covered by arches illuminated by golden lights.
Again, I fail to locate Gunari. The station is very busy now with commuters and tourists. I sigh and decide to check out Tremmick’s place before heading back here to catch a train back to the Nice and see if the guys are at the hotel.
The giant Millefiori building comes into view as I round the corner. I still can’t believe how high it is, it’s crazy. I can’t help but look up towards the top of it as most people must do. I break my touristy eyeballing and realise Rue des Roses is round the corner.
And then I see it.
The car that Tremmick was travelling in is parked less than ten metres away. I double check the license plate matches the one we followed to Èze, which it does. I quickly go to the car and touch the bonnet which is still very warm. Surely they’ve headed to Tremmick’s place but where is Janko and his beloved Argenta?
My eyes flash towards the turnoff to Rue des Roses. I spot the giant figure of Paul Beckermann going around the corner. I couldn’t see the other guy. I jog to reach the end of the road.
I carefully look around the corner and see three men. Beckermann, the driver and Janko too. I can’t believe it. Janko is in front of the driver and I don’t think he is there willingly. Oh my God, my stomach lurches and I have to battle the urge to throw up and instead I start gasping like a maniac.
My legs have become jelly-filled and I struggle to walk. They are at the entrance to number 13 less than twenty metres away. I move to the row of mopeds that line the street and pretend to be messing about with one of the bikes. I pick up a helmet too to complete the picture.
Beckermann is keeping an eye out. I think he looks directly at me but he pays me no heed and I notice he takes some keys out and opens the door. He holds it open for Janko and the driver to walk through.
WIthout hesitation I run across the street and put my foot inside the main door to prevent it closing. I hear footsteps on the stairs. I enter the block and slowly shut the door. There is a postbox on the wall that lists fourteen apartments so I assume number thirteen will be on the top floor. The address bar simply has the name Müller written on the label, presumably his pseudonym here in Monaco.
I can still hear footsteps above but I decide to go for it. I climb the stairs with the stealth of a Japanese ninja. I use my arm to hold my rucksack tightly against my side. By sticking to the outside of the stairs I hope to minimise any creaky floorboard sounds that can occur on the inner bannister side.
After reaching the halfway point on the second floor, I pause and listen. I overhear a voice, possibly Beckermann speaking in German:
“Keep moving, you filthy Jew. Joachim, if he talks one more time, punish him,”
I can’t hear if Janko replies. Knowing him, he won’t stay silent. They must be near the top floor now so I resume my upward creeping. Upon reaching the third floor, I hear a door slam.
Helplessness envelops me. Janko faces grave danger. Gunari is nowhere to be seen. I head to the top floor and stop outside the door. My heart is beating so fast it is hurting me. Fight or flight?
The Greater Love
Sunday, 11 May 1986
I am torn. I know I am duty-bound to try and rescue Janko but every little voice in my head is telling me to run out of here. Run far away from all of this. My heart is beating so fast, it’s surely medically impossible, the rhythm of the end of the world.
Janko and Gunari saved me in the clinic in Berlin. It’s now my turn to save Janko, I wish Gunari was here too. He must be back at the hotel in Nice. I could leave and try and telephone him at the hotel.
No, there’s no time. These monsters could kill Janko at any minute. If they knew what I have done to their pal Tremmick an hour ago, they would murder him right away.
The door in front is not only a physical barrier. I move my arm to touch the handle but it refuses to move. My body is stuck in its fight or flight response. My mind and body are in a fifty-fifty split. Unlike earlier with Tremmick, every fibre of my being is telling to leave this building. My hands are shaking and I can feel a tear dripping down my cheek. I have never been so scared.
Five deep breaths, that’s what I need. The voice of Gunari by the lake.
One. Janko needs to be saved.
Two. Be strong Ana.
Three. Remember your training.
Four. They fear you more than you fear them.
Five. Love is more powerful than hate.
I place my hand on the handle and gently turn it. Gunari frequently tells me to keep it simple. I bring the handle completely down and push the door open as softly as I can manage.
The door makes a barely audible whoosh as it slides away from the jamb. I freeze at the sound. I can’t envisage how anyone else would have heard it but I hold still for ten seconds before guiding the door open, sneaking in and closing the door equally mindfully.
I am inside a dark hallway, there is no furniture, only a couple of black and white family photographs on the walls. One is of a younger Tremmick with another man who are holding an oar each and two young lads lifting a rowing boat up and grinning. I rest my rucksack down and take out the bagh nakh and strap it to my hand again. A smell of the roses from the train station where I left Tremmick’s body hits me and I almost heave.
I silently edge my way along the hallway. Two doors are on either side of the hallway. Only one door is open which is on the far left hand side so I move there. I make it to the open door and I can hear laughter.
I daren’t look around the corner into the room. The laughter ceases and I hear a voice that once more has the sounds of a big man, surely it is Beckermann:
“Stay lying down there, if you move we will shoot your friend in the head,”
Your friend? Oh my God, please don’t say it is Gunari in there too. My fear has now transformed into abject terror. I don’t think I was this scared when I was at the clinic facing a completely different future.
“The Israelis have really started letting things slip sending you two clowns. We spotted this old kike following us in Cap d’Ail. And now we catch you snooping around this apartment. Why are you here, you filthy animal?”
If it is Gunari, he doesn’t reply.
I try and work out a plan. If one of them is within striking distance I should try and take them out without delay. I need to try and see what is going on in the next room.
My stomach is lurching desperately and the adrenalin is making my unmoving body tingle. I ready myself and slowly move my head around the door frame so I can assess the scene.
Beckermann is nearest to me, about two metres away with his back to me. Gunari is lying face-down on the floor in front of him underneath where the living room window is situated. Over on my left, Janko is on his knees and Beckermann’s acquaintance, the man he called Joachim, is stood over him.
Joachim is holding a pistol to Janko’s head although his eyes are fixed on Gunari. The young man looks nervous. He probably didn’t realise today day would turn out like it has so far.
Join the club, Joachim, join the club.
“You should allow us to leave,” Janko says, his voice is frail but he is speaking each word very clearly, “Our colleagues know where we are and they will be here very soon. If you let us go, you will be able to escape from here,”
Beckermann once
again laughs. A hearty boom around the living room almost as if he had heard a fantastic mother-in-law joke at the bierkeller.
“You stupid, conniving creature,” Beckermann’s manner has turned cold again, “We know you have no one else, the other two are on the train to Barcelona chasing shadows. This is one time where the Mossad finally receive what they deserve. Now tell me why you are here. Old man, start with you,”
Janko stares up at Beckermann and says nothing. The atmosphere is so heavy, it reminds me of the clinic where my own human instinct told me nothing good was in that place. I sense Beckermann is about to order Joachim to kill Janko.
“Speak, kike,” Beckermann spits at Janko, most of the substance hits his shirt, “What are you doing here at this apartment?”
“I was thinking of relocating,” Janko smiles at Beckermann, “How is the climate at this time of year on the Côte d'Azur?”
Beckermann nods to Joachim who whips the pistol against Janko’s face. I see blood and teeth fly out of his mouth. My heart sags and I know I have to intervene any second now. Janko looks at Beckermann and smiles at him, blood dripping from his mouth.
Gunari then begins speaking:
“Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength,”
“What did you say?” Beckermann is furious. His focus is pulled from Janko to Gunari.
“They will soar on wings like eagles;” Gunari’s voice rises powerfully despite him facing the floor.
“Shut up,” Beckermann’s fists are balled up like puffy pillows. Joachim is entranced by the raving mystic on the floor.
I shift my gaze to Janko. He sees me, smiles and shakes his head once. He wants me to leave. He must realise I would never desert him. I nod and I hope he understands what I am trying to signify. He nods in response and my courage is building to a crescendo.
“They will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint,” Gunari must be channelling the voice of God.