“And you didn’t do anything about it?”
“You and your mother were more important.”
She pulled her head back and searched his eyes for the truth.
“So you don’t have anyone, either,” she said softly.
“I have you.”
The sorrowful look remained on her face.
A breeze entered through the open door and wafted around the room, caressing their faces.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone when I called?”
She shook her head and clenched her teeth. “I was angry.”
“Because it wasn’t me who told you?”
She nodded timidly. “Scared, too.”
“Of what?”
Daniella smiled, and the tears welled up in her eyes again. “Scared that now that I know, you won’t want me anymore.”
He kissed her brow and held her tighter.
“I miss Mom so much. I have no one to talk to.”
“You have me.”
“You’re a man. It’s not the same.”
She got ice cubes from the freezer, wrapped them in a dirty towel, and pressed them to her swollen eyes.
Alex looked around him. The walls were painted in Tuscan yellow stucco. Angled oak beams supported a terra-cotta ceiling. Under different circumstances, this place could be heaven.
She came back to the sofa and leaned her head against his shoulder, and they sat there in silence. Only the stubborn moth kept thumping.
“It didn’t take you long to get here,” she said.
“I was in Berlin.”
“Do you have to get back?”
“Quiet!” he whispered, placing his hand over hers. He rose silently and moved to the open door. He stood still and listened to the night. Glancing back at Daniella, he saw that her face had gone white. He went out onto the covered veranda, which cast a long shadow on the railing and its sleeping flower boxes.
There was no one there. He came back inside. “We have to get out of here.”
“When?”
“Now. It isn’t safe here.”
“I can’t. I have to pay my bill, I have to say good-bye—”
“Leave a note. Do you have enough money?” he asked, taking out his wallet.
“I have to pack.”
“Go take a shower. You’ll feel better. Put on some clean clothes, and then I’ll help you pack. Meanwhile, I’ll find us a flight.”
“Can I come to Berlin with you?”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Is Jane there?” she asked.
“Why?”
“I want to meet her.”
“You’ll meet her soon, but not now. You’ve been through enough. I’ll make us something to eat. Go.”
“Do I smell?”
He threw her a smile.
Alex closed his eyes, feeling drained and exhausted. The sound of running water came from down the hall.
On the kitchen counter he found a bag of dry Tuscan bread hidden among the dirty dishes. The small refrigerator yielded butter, aging mozzarella, and prosciutto whose edges had gone stiff. He washed a plate and a knife, made sandwiches, and wrapped them in aluminum foil.
Bone-weary, he sank heavily onto a rustic wooden chair. He would have liked nothing better than to shut his eyes and get some sleep. He gazed out at the veranda through the open door. The red bike was standing there.
The brake cable was missing.
GRUNEWALD, BERLIN | 01:49
The blade of the pickax landed with a clang in the dark, hitting stone and sending shards flying. The surface of the ground was cracked and crumbly. Nocturnal predators shrieked in the depths of the Grunewald forest, and a mysterious groan issued from among the dense trees.
The flashlight warmed Jane’s hand. The strong, haloed light shone on the rectangular contour of a pit in the snow, just about big enough for a human body folded up in the fetal position.
Paris put down the ax and picked up a heavy shovel. His hands were encased in black work gloves. The night air was filled with the smell of moss and exposed roots. White vapor issued from his mouth. His breathing was labored. The shovel whistled while it dug into the ground. The heap of soil beside the pit grew higher.
Paris took off his dirty jacket and hung it on a branch. Jane turned the beam of light on him. His face was sweaty. His body, as solid as a tree trunk, was waist-deep in the pit. The silence was eerie.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked.
“All sorts of things—odd jobs,” he answered in the darkness. “I don’t have a steady job.”
“So what do you do all day?”
Paris stopped digging and gave her an unreadable look. Turning back to the task at hand, he said, “Wait. I wait.”
A hundred flashlights wouldn’t shed any more light on this man.
The wind wailed through the trees. It was cold in the forest. She was about to ask what he waited for when he got in ahead of her. “Are you married?”
“Single.”
“And the man, Alex. What’s he to you?”
Good question.
“What about you?” she asked.
“On my own.”
Something buzzed too close to her ear. She shuddered and waved it away.
“Was Justus a friend?” she asked.
“You could say that.”
The shovel hit a stone.
“How so?”
Paris stopped shoveling, took a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”
A bird of prey flew over their heads, breaking through the darkness.
“I’ll go get him,” he said. “Bring the flashlight.”
Jane followed him. The beam of light dancing in front of them revealed their footprints in the snow and the tangled roots of the birch trees. Paris opened the trunk of his car, and they were assaulted by a sickening odor. He pulled the white plastic bag toward him, encircled the corpse’s waist with his mighty arms, and threw it over his shoulder. Fluid collected in the bottom of the bag.
Jane’s stomach heaved. Bile rose in her throat.
“Shine the light on the pit,” he instructed, dropping the body, which landed with a dull thud.
“Why didn’t you drag him over here?” she asked.
“Have you ever tried to get the air out of a hundred pounds of rising dough? You have to grab it in the middle, hoist it in the air, and fold it over.”
He wiped the sweat from his brow, crouched down, and opened the zipper of the body bag. “Give me some light.”
Paris cradled the man’s chin in his hand and scrutinized the pale face. The beam of light trembled.
“What are you looking at?” Jane asked.
A sudden blast of cold wind numbed her face.
The corpse’s eyes were open.
“Look!” Jane shrieked.
“What happened?”
“He closed his eyes!”
“Don’t be—”
And then the corpse coughed, and pink fluid spilled from his mouth.
GRUNEWALD, BERLIN | 02:01
“He’s alive!” Jane stammered, fighting off a wave of nausea. She couldn’t allow herself to hurl, to leave incriminating DNA at the scene.
“That’s impossible!” Paris sputtered. “There was no pulse.”
The white plastic banged against the snow dotted with footprints.
“Maybe he can talk,” Jane said.
Paris picked up the shovel. “Don’t look!”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Shut your eyes.”
“No!”
“I’m not waiting.”
“Maybe he can talk,” she repeated, but Paris had already raised the shovel in the air. He brought it down on the skull. The gruesome sound of bones being crushed. He continued to beat at the skull until the head hung on the neck at an unnatural angle.
“You’re a psychopath!”
“He was already gone.”
I can’t puke, she thought, forcing herself to breathe through her
nose. Why wasn’t Alex here when she needed him the most?
Was Paris afraid of what the man might say? What was the Frenchman hiding?
He went on digging in the dark. Only his head extended past the edge of the hole. She shone the light on the grave. A shudder ran down her spine. It seemed deeper and wider than necessary. Pulling out her gun, she held it parallel to the flashlight.
“Get out!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Out!”
“Madame London, I have to finish the work.”
Pointing the Glock at his head, she warned, “Get out, or I shoot.”
“Okay, okay,” he chuckled warily, climbing out of the pit and standing beside it.
She moved back, beyond reach of his arm.
“Lie down on the ground!”
“What’s going on, London?”
“Do it!”
He lay down on his back, his eyes fixed on her and on the silencer attached to the barrel of the gun.
She aimed the gun and the light at his head.
“Pull down your pants!”
BUCINE, TUSCANY | 02:08
“You’re to blame for the fuckup in Turkey. It’s your fault Galia is dead. Justus told me about you and the warehouse, and I kept my mouth shut. Then you landed me with the Nibelung shit—and what do I get in return? You go for Daniella like a rabid dog!” Alex fumed into the phone.
“What are you going on about? It’s three in the morning,” Reuven said, his voice blurred by sleep.
A chef’s knife was lying on the counter. Alex grabbed it by the handle.
“You should have talked to me. We could have done it right, shown some sensitivity.”
“Control told me you’d made a stop in Florence. I assumed you’d seen her and told her yourself. It’s not my fault you couldn’t find the time—”
“Reuven, the girl was raped! Her mother was killed. She was molested by the Iranians. She’s hurting. She’s trying to recover. Have you seen what she looks like? Do you have the slightest inkling of what she’s going through?”
“Come off it, Alex. Don’t play the perfect dad.”
Alex disconnected and thrust the knife tip into the cutting board.
Daniella was still in the shower, under the cleansing water.
He called HQ in Glilot. There was no plane available at the moment.
He leaned against the cool marble. A refreshing breeze blew in through the open door, circled the room, and soothed his neck. He shut his eyes.
The shower was still running.
“Is everything all right?” he called out. No answer. Maybe she couldn’t hear him.
“Daniella?”
He reacted too slowly. Something metallic glimmered in the corner of his eye and was instantly wrapped tightly around his neck. He barely had time to stick his hands between his throat and the steel cable. The cable was pulled tighter from behind with enormous force. He tried to flip the attacker on his back, but the man was too strong and too determined. He managed to get close enough to the counter to knock over a glass, which shattered on the floor. Panting, the assailant strengthened his stranglehold. Alex struggled to free his right hand, but the cable tore into it, cutting a deep wound. Blood flowed from his hand. He got a glimpse of the man’s reflection in the window. He tried to push him backward into the table. The floor lamp wobbled and fell over.
Alex tried to elbow his attacker in the face, but he couldn’t move his hands, couldn’t even shift position. He grunted, and with a huge effort he hurled himself and the stranger at the flat-screen TV. The man pulled him back savagely. Alex’s hands were on fire, throbbing in pain. He kicked at the screen, which fell to the floor with a crash, smashing into pieces.
The shower was still running.
Black spots swam before his eyes, and his head was threatening to explode. Blood flowed down his arms and onto the floor. The steel cable went deeper, and then there was a harsh grunt.
It hadn’t come from him. The hold around his neck loosened. Something had happened. His attacker was now pressing his whole weight against Alex’s back, presumably attempting to drop him or break his neck. With the last of his strength, Alex pulled the cable away and slipped out of the noose. He fought to take in air through his injured windpipe. The assailant slumped to the floor.
The man was lying on his stomach. The chef’s knife was stuck deep in his back, just behind the heart, only the black handle visible.
Daniella was standing there in panties and a red T-shirt. Her hair was wet. Her eyes burned with horror and fury.
BUCINE, TUSCANY | 02:16
“Are you okay?” Alex asked.
“I heard a groan and something breaking,” Daniella said.
Fat drops of blood were falling from his hands. The pain was becoming more intense, radiating to his shoulders. He raised his hands above his head, but the bleeding didn’t stop.
“You’re bleeding from the neck, too,” she said.
He remembered the swaddled infant he had held moments after her birth. “You saved my life,” he said. “He would’ve killed me.” He looked with repulsion at the dead man on the floor. He was about six feet tall, with a tight, muscular body. His hands were protected by black Gore-Tex gloves reinforced with what appeared to be Kevlar strips. The shiny steel brake cable was still wrapped around his hands.
Alex hurried into the bathroom. The water was still running in the shower, and the room was steamy. Daniella followed right behind him. He stuck his hands under the water. It burned like white-hot iron. The floor of the shower turned red, and the glass walls became spattered with pink dots. He breathed deeply, bit his lips.
“I killed him.”
“You saved my life. Both our lives. Get some towels.”
She stared, mesmerized, at the floor of the shower stall. “It’s so red.”
“Daniella, give me a towel!” he ordered. Pain was shooting from his hands to the top of his head. He kept forcing himself to breathe deeply, fighting not to scream.
Daniella didn’t respond. Gingerly removing his hands from the water, he shuffled toward the towel rack on the opposite wall. Bloody water dripped down his arms, staining the floor. He wrapped his throbbing hands in the white towels and let out a groan. His blurred image was reflected in the steamy mirror over the sink. Blood was still issuing from the cut in his neck. He soaked it up with the white towel around his hand. A smell of iron wafted around the room, carried by the steam.
They had to get out of there. He moved toward Daniella. She flinched, staring in terror at the towels, which were quickly turning red.
“Is there anyone else on the farm?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Can you get yourself ready to leave?”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“Go pack your things. I’ll take care of the rest.”
He found some kitchen towels, poured some grappa on them, and replaced the bloody dressings on his hands. It hurt like hell. He covered the towels with cling wrap, using his teeth to tear holes for his fingers.
Outside, he noticed an old wooden door beside the steps. Inside were towels, linen, and cleaning products. The storeroom produced another treasure: a huge roll of plastic wrap, the kind used by movers.
Back in the living room, he pulled the knife from the man’s back. His gleaming bald head shone like a persimmon. The eyes were open and looked strange. They looked crazed and frightening.
“He doesn’t have any eyebrows,” Daniella said behind him. No eyelashes, either. The eyes seemed to have been pinned into his forehead.
As Alex removed the dead man’s jacket and sweater, he remembered the words Berlin had mumbled on Teufelsberg—“bald, no eyebrows.” The stranger’s body was smooth and completely hairless. It looked as if he’d just been through a course of chemotherapy.
He was undoubtedly the same man who’d attacked Berlin on Teufelsberg. The MO was identical. And it was very likely that he was responsible for the deaths of Justus an
d the other Nibelungs.
It was over.
The man’s pockets were empty. Alex stripped him bare and searched for identifying marks. There were no tattoos, no scars, no birthmarks. He spread two white sheets on the dark wooden floorboards, moving awkwardly because of the dressings on his hands. For the moment, the pain was bearable. He attempted to hold his phone steady to snap a picture, but the device slipped from his fingers.
“Daniella?”
She reacted immediately.
“Take a picture of his face.”
Nodding, she did as he asked.
“What else?”
“Do you know how to scan his fingerprint with the phone?”
She nodded reluctantly, compressing her lips as she picked up the man’s right hand. She grasped the thumb, grimacing in disgust. Then she examined his index and ring fingers and finally released the hand with a somber expression. “Take a look,” she said.
“At what?”
“No fingerprints.”
Alex came closer and scrutinized the man’s fingers. The prints had been burned off with acid. He could see the scars. “Take a picture of the fingertips.”
Daniella took the photos.
“That’s it, I’ll be done with him soon,” he announced. “Finish packing.”
He forwarded the pictures to Glilot. A second later, Butthead called. “Are you all right?”
Alex filled him in on the attack.
“No one would burn off his own prints,” Alex said.
The next call was from HQ. There was no available plane in the vicinity. It would take a while. He was told to make his way to Milan as quickly as possible. If they located a plane, they’d direct it there.
Alex struggled to silence the racket in his head. He’d been in Tuscany before his meeting with Justus in Berlin. His phone was secure; it couldn’t be hacked. So whoever was gunning for the Nibelungs had no way of knowing about Daniella.
Had he picked up a tail on Bebelplatz? If that were the case, the man who killed Berlin on Teufelsberg would have killed him, too, and brought the whole Ring down then and there.
The only logical conclusion was that the attacker had been watching Justus’s house and had followed him to the airport, gotten on the plane with him, and tailed him here.
Ring of Lies Page 12