Ring of Lies

by Roni Dunevich

  “Check your phone and see how you say ‘for sale’ in Arabic,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, his burka fluttering as he spoke.

  Google Translate gave her what she was looking for. The Arabic letters looked like a family of earthworms pulled from rotting soil.

  Paris returned. “Find it?”

  Orchidea showed him the screen. He nodded. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “I found us an apartment,” announced the French street cat.

  They left the stairwell together, walking side by side. Two houses down, a tin sign was hanging from a balcony railing. Orchidea recognized the word.

  “Here,” he whispered under his veil. “Third floor.”

  They entered the building and climbed the stairs. She prayed that no neighbor would come out and speak to them in Arabic.

  Paris raised the skirt of his abaya and took a red Swiss Army knife from the pocket of his jeans. He stuck the midsize blade into the lock and followed it with a thin pair of tweezers, and moved them around gently.

  The light came on in the stairwell. Footsteps on the stairs.

  Paris twisted the blade, and the lock finally admitted defeat. They hurried inside, closing the door behind them. Paris stuck his eye up to the peephole.

  The apartment was empty. Dust and the sweetish smell of a dead animal hung in the air. Orchidea fought back a sneeze.

  On the painted floor in the entrance hall sat an old telephone. The line was disconnected. The kitchen cabinets were bare. Dust bunnies rolled around on the floor where the refrigerator should be. They found the source of the stink: the half-gnawed carcass of a dead rat. Flies buzzed around it. They closed the kitchen door, blocking off the odor.

  When they turned the faucet in the bathroom they heard distant rumblings, but no water came out.

  The old wooden shutters were painted green. The slats were pointed downward, affording a view of the street. Perfect.

  Somebody was blanching chicken necks in boiling water. The smell was nauseating.

  “What happens if someone shows up?” she asked softly.

  “We kill him,” Paris replied.

  The hours passed, and their time in the hideout, their safe time, slowly ran down. Sooner or later someone would come. In the end, the illusion of safety would be shattered.

  Orchidea stood quietly by the window, listening to the sound of her breathing against the green shutters. Her eyes were glued to the street.

  All of a sudden she was startled by the sound of a frog croaking. Turning around, she was blinded by a red glare. She averted her eyes.

  Paris was holding a bright green plastic frog. He pressed a button and the frog opened its mouth, a red light came on, and the toy croaked. There was a huge grin on his face.

  “You can’t fit candles into kanafeh or baklava,” he said. “Happy birthday.”

  Orchidea touched his cheek, and his face glowed. She passed her fingers through his hair. “He’s lovely, your frog.” A surge of passion inside her threatened to erupt.

  They fell silent, absorbed in their thoughts.

  “Get some sleep,” Paris said. He was holding his burka in his hand. His eyes were pinned on the spaces between the slats. Stripes of light ran across his face.

  In the kitchen she found an old newspaper, brought it into the living room, and spread it out on the dusty floor. She sat down on it, her back against the wall, and gazed at the broad back of the dark figure who filled her with a sense of peace. A peace she’d never known.

  She fell asleep instantly.

  GRUNEWALD, BERLIN | 15:01

  In the basement, Alex found a stiff aluminum case designed to carry small works of art. A steel handcuff was welded to the handle.

  Just before four, he cuffed the case to his wrist, put the Glock back in its hiding place in the doghouse, and left. The bracing walk to the Grunewald S-Bahn station warmed his body.

  The sign over the decaying platform read GLEIS 17, giving no hint of its use in Berlin’s dark past. It was from here that fifty thousand of Berlin’s Jews had been transported to extermination camps.

  Alex took S-Bahn 7 in the direction of Wartenberg. During the ride, the German passengers remained silent, stern-faced, and distant. A few stole a glance at the aluminum case cuffed to his wrist.

  Their fathers and grandfathers had built the dens of evil on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse: the headquarters of the Gestapo, the SD, and the SS. Members of their families had shot Jews in the head at close range.

  He had no intention of forgiving or forgetting. As far as he was concerned, they would wear their ancestors’ shame on their foreheads for the rest of time.

  An elderly accordion player boarded the train at Savignyplatz, sporting a bowler hat and a weary smile. He started playing a begrudgingly cheerful melody. An old couple moved away to the end of the car.

  Alex tightened his grip on the case. Nobody held out a single coin, and the air went out of the accordion and it fell silent. The voice of the conductor came over the loudspeaker: “Nächste Station, Zoologischer Garten.” He added in his guttural German, “Ausstieg: links.”

  Outside the busy station, it was a rare sunny afternoon; the weather had drawn crowds to the stores on the Kurfürstendamm. Mounds of dirty snow lined the curbs.

  But Alex wasn’t here to shop. He found the building easily. On the green marble facade was a polished copper sign with black letters reading:

  BERGHOFF BANK

  SEIT 1882

  The guards at the entrance were dressed in black uniforms and armed with H&K submachine guns. They had a cold, distant look in their eyes. Inside, facing the door, were three well-preserved antique oak counters.

  A scrawny, somber clerk escorted Alex to the manager’s office, his sharp nose leading the way. Wood paneling ran halfway up the walls, and thick carpet absorbed the sound of their footsteps.

  The manager had a shrewd smile on his face, although he seemed to be mistakenly wearing a silver-coated pet terrier on his head. He immediately began sniffing and licking, complimenting the new prospective client and playing with a large square gold ring on his finger. He asked to be called Herr Berghoff and requested Alex’s passport.

  Herr Berghoff examined the fake Italian passport, paging through it and wrinkling his brow before looking back up at Alex. “May I inquire as to the gentleman’s occupation?”

  “I’m a winemaker in the Chianti Classico region.”

  Nodding, Berghoff said, “If you wish to open an account with us, you must deposit fifty thousand euros, yes?”

  Alex drew from a brown paper bag five packets of bills neatly held together with rubber bands.

  The cash on the desk seemed to cause the German discomfort.

  “Do you understand where you are, sir?” Berghoff huffed condescendingly.

  “I’ve brought a valuable artwork I wish to leave with you. Is your basement vault room secure?”

  Berghoff seemed amused. He studied his manicured nails and said, “Herr Visconti, Berghoff Bank has been through the worst possible times, and it is still standing. No one has ever succeeded in breaking into our vaults, not even in November 1943, when countless tons of bombs fell on this street. The Allies—as you are Italian, I can speak freely—the Allied bastards showed no mercy to the area of the zoo and the Ku’damm. The same horrific bombs that destroyed the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church landed on the zoo, sending wild animals out onto the Ku’damm. They also turned this building into rubble. And what happened to the vaults?”

  He looked expectantly at Alex like a pedagogue waiting for a slow pupil to answer his question. Alex nodded, impatient for the entertainment part of the program to be over.

  But Berghoff wasn’t finished. “A concrete beam fell on the door of the vault room. First the Americans and then the Soviets tried to blow the door open, but they could not get inside. They used hundreds of pounds of explosives, but it did not work.”

  H
err Berghoff brought the tip of a finger to his pink tongue and then reached out and trapped an errant speck of dust on the gleaming cherry wood desk separating the two men.

  Nodding gravely, Alex said, “In this country, a distinguished history is a rare commodity.”

  “Tell me about Florence and the wine business,” the German said, leaning back in his black leather chair.

  “Florence is paradise. I would be happy to invite you to dinner and offer you a taste of some fine wines. Are you planning a trip to Italy in the near future?”

  The German smiled, picked up the phone, and spoke into it quietly. Alex wondered whether he had even heard his invitation. The door opened and a clerk in a conservative gray suit entered, then reached out to shake Alex’s hand.

  “My name is Adolf,” the man said with a smile, revealing horse teeth.

  They made a fine pair, these two: Berghoff with a terrier on his head and Adolf with a horse’s mouth.

  Adolf glanced at the pile of cash as if the money had come from trafficking in children. “Would you like to follow me to the vault?”

  Alex stood up and shook Berghoff’s hand. “Do you happen to have a free vault with the number seven in it? It’s my lucky number,” he said.

  Berghoff typed something into his computer with circumspection.

  “Seven seven seven?”

  “Perfect!”

  “That is most interesting,” Berghoff said. “The number is of significance in the Jewish kabbalah, yes?”

  “Is it?” Alex asked quizzically. “What’s the kabbalah?”

  “The vaults that begin with the number seven are the largest ones,” Berghoff said, resuming his pedagogical tone. “They measure thirteen feet by two and a half feet. You appear to have brought a miniature.”

  “I plan on bringing more pieces, including a life-size bronze sculpture.”

  “In that case, Adolf will show you the way, yes?”

  KURFÜRSTENDAMM, BERLIN | 16:27

  “Your belt, too,” Adolf instructed with a smile. He had a dandified gait.

  Alex unlocked the handcuff and handed the aluminum case to the guard, emptied his pockets, and passed through the metal detector. The machine remained silent. The stern-faced guard opened the case, glanced at the picture covered with protective felt, jabbed his fingers into the case, and nodded.

  Adolf smiled in relief. Red capillaries drew a grid on his bulbous nose.

  The elevator stopped, the gleaming wooden doors opened, and Alex could finally breathe again. Two armed guards stood stock-still like mannequins in front of the round, nickel-plated steel door to the vault room. Alex counted twenty-four bolts. The door was open, but the entrance was blocked by a screen of closely spaced metal bars. A set of keys attached to a coiled metal chain hung from Adolf’s belt. He fit a key into the lock and turned it. The bars rose silently, and they went through.

  “The basement vault room provides optimal conditions for the storage of artworks. Six years ago we installed a sophisticated climate-control system that keeps the vaults at a constant temperature of twenty-two degrees Celsius. It is accurate to a tenth of a degree. The humidity is a constant fifty percent. When we entered, the sensors picked up the change caused by our body heat and made the necessary adjustments.”

  “No security cameras?” Alex asked with a tone of concern.

  “We are not in the habit of violating our clients’ privacy,” Adolf scolded, raising his nose haughtily.

  “But isn’t that a risk?”

  “For whom?” Adolf asked as he handed Alex a key. He led the way to vault 777 and inserted another key into the left-hand lock. Alex inserted his in the lock on the right.

  “Counterclockwise,” Adolf instructed. The two men turned their keys simultaneously, and the bars swung open.

  In the adjacent vault Alex noticed a huge canvas covered with a tarp, most likely the Rothko original. He walked into 777 and placed the aluminum case on a high wooden shelf.

  “You are leaving the case here?” Adolf asked in surprise.

  “I’ll be bringing three more pieces next week. I’ll get it then.”

  The guards outside were hidden behind the wall. Alex dropped his key, and Adolf hastened to bend down solicitously to pick it up. As he straightened up, he was elbowed harshly in the back of the neck. He let out a groan and collapsed, his head striking the marble floor and drool trickling from his mouth.

  Alex leaned down for the keys hanging from the German’s belt. The one he’d found in Justus’s house was already in his hand. The chain was too short. He dragged the unconscious body closer to the door of Justus’s vault. The chain still didn’t reach. Grasping Adolf’s limp body, he held it up to the bars, inserted the two keys in the locks, opened the vault, and dropped the German over his shoulder.

  He looked toward the entrance of the vault room. The guards were still out of sight. He went into Justus’s vault and did a quick search among the artworks. The original of Giacometti’s Walking Man was in the back. There were dozens of paintings and drawings. He didn’t have much time. Adolf could regain consciousness at any moment. The guards weren’t far away, and he knew they would do whatever it took to prevent Berghoff Bank’s first robbery.

  He heard a voice behind him and spun around.

  Adolf was struggling to raise himself on his elbows. The glazed look in his eyes was starting to clear. Alex hurried over. The German grabbed his leg in an effort to pull him down.

  Alex swung his arms around Adolf’s neck and applied just the right amount of pressure to his Adam’s apple and the arteries in his neck. The banker kicked and grunted. Alex tightened his stranglehold, but Adolf stuck his effeminate fingers into his wrist. Then suddenly Adolf went limp, and an unnerving shudder ran through his body.

  Footsteps were approaching. He lay Adolf on the green marble floor and returned to Justus’s vault. He had the troubling thought that he might be risking himself for nothing. On the floor behind the last painting, his foot banged into a wooden box. He lifted the lid.

  A sealed envelope.

  Adolf groaned.

  Alex stuck the envelope in his pocket and exited the vault. Throwing Adolf over his shoulder again, he used the woozy German’s key to lock the door.

  The banker shook his head and moaned. Alex dragged him away from Justus’s vault and banged his head on the floor. He lifted his eyelids to make sure he was out and then shouted to the guards, “I need help! Quick!”

  The two armed guards came running, their rubber soles squeaking on the marble. One aimed his gun at Alex, who knelt down and started undoing the buttons on the shirt of the unconscious Adolf. “Call an ambulance!” he yelled to the stunned security guard.

  “What happened to him?” the other guard asked, his eyes taking in the open door of the vault.

  “Stop pointing that thing at me!” Alex barked. “He mumbled something about not feeling well, and then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. Call an ambulance. What are you waiting for?”

  The guard brought his radio to his lips and called for help.

  Alex slapped Adolf’s face.

  “What’s taking so long?” he said reproachfully to the bewildered guards.

  Security officers in black suits arrived in the vault room, followed by the agitated Herr Berghoff, who gave Alex a hostile look.

  “Does he have a medical condition?” Alex asked.

  “A mild case of diabetes,” Berghoff replied. “What happened?”

  “He just collapsed,” Alex said, slapping him again. Adolf was as still as a corpse. Alex felt his neck. “There’s a pulse.”

  Berghoff issued orders to the security guards, who split up and started checking each vault thoroughly. Still on his knees. All the vaults were locked except for his.

  “You are finished with the vault?” Berghoff demanded.

  He nodded.

  “Then we must lock it immediately.”

  Berghoff had his own master key. Together they relocked the vault.


  “Come with me,” Berghoff instructed. Alex looked back, as if he were reluctant to leave Adolf lying on the floor unconscious.

  “Come. You must leave,” Berghoff insisted.

  “Why?”

  The bank director gestured for a security guard to accompany them. The hefty man picked up his gun and kept it pointed at Alex’s back.

  “In an emergency, clients are forbidden to be in the vault room,” Berghoff explained.

  “Someone has to stay with him,” Alex said.

  “It is very odd,” Berghoff said, scratching his terrier-like head. “Adolf takes medication for his diabetes. It is under control. He has never fainted before.”

  Alex halted. “Tell him not to point that gun at me.”

  Berghoff gave him an appraising look. His pandering manner was gone. He signaled to the guard to lower his weapon.

  They took the small elevator up to ground level. The German placed a firm hand on Alex’s arm. “Please wait in my office until the ambulance arrives. We must complete our security check before I can allow you to leave.”

  “Gladly,” Alex said, following Berghoff into his office and settling into an armchair. Berghoff whispered something in the guard’s ear. Nodding, the man took up a position behind Alex.

  Alex picked up a copy of the Financial Times and leafed through its pale salmon pages. A siren approached. Through the open door, he could see EMTs in white uniforms running down the hall, pushing an orange gurney that rattled.

  He rose, moved toward the door, and felt the security guard’s body heat. A rough hand landed on his shoulder. Alex grabbed it with both hands, twisted the guard’s arm, and hurled him at the wall as hard as he could. The man’s nose struck the wall, and Alex heard the sickening sound of shattering bones.

  Undeterred by his bloody face, the guard spun around quickly and sent his knee into Alex’s gut. The blow to his liver was debilitating. The room became blurry, his head felt heavy, and his legs threatened to collapse. Taking a deep breath, he grasped the guard by the collar, swung him around, and slammed a fist into his thick red neck. The German moaned but continued to fight. The second punch to his neck knocked him out, and he fell to the floor.