In the Dark

by Andreas Pflüger

  ‘He looked at you and you realized he wanted to see you die,’ Aaron says.

  ‘Yes,’ Holm summons the strength to say it.

  Time passes.

  Then his voice resumes. ‘But there was a knock on the door. Through a veil of fear I could see the guy with ice in his eyes going to a drawer, taking out a pistol and opening the door. A man came in. He was with his son, who wasn’t much younger than me. Ice-Eyes closed the door and aimed the gun at the man. He ignored it. He said the man had stolen from him and he had come to get back what belonged to him. Ice-Eyes held the gun to the son’s head. He said: “I’m going to shoot your son now, then you will go away and never show your face here again.” But as if out of nowhere the other man was holding a gun as well.’ Holm lights a new cigarette and gives it to her. ‘What was the highest discipline for the Samurai?’

  ‘Self-control.’

  ‘The man taught me that. I thought I knew what a sacrifice was, a loss. But he showed me that I was a child and he was a man. He shot his own son to demonstrate his final duty as a father, and to show Ice-Eyes the meaning of steely inflexibility. Ice-Eyes fired too. He hit the other man in the shoulder, and he fell over. Ice-Eyes aimed the gun at him and said: “Now you’re going to meet your son.” The man wasn’t afraid. In fact he smiled. Suddenly I came back to life. I dragged Ice-Eyes to the floor, got hold of the gun and shot him between the eyes from a range of two metres. The man who had sacrificed his son stood up. He looked at me and said: “What’s your name, my son?” It was then that I said my name for the first time.’

  Holm kneels down. Aaron realises that he is cutting through the cable tie, and knows that she doesn’t have the strength to fight him.

  ‘I have lots of memories of him. Some of them I carry on my skin.’ He takes her hand and runs it over his bare right shoulder. She feels the rubbery brand.

  A star.

  For a fraction of a second Aaron sees herself giggling with a young woman in the changing room of a boutique in the Hackesche Markt in Berlin.

  Alina.

  Aaron remembers: she was the lover of a man with an executive role in Nikulin’s gang. The star-shaped scar was a distinguishing mark for those men, and their women were given the same brand, like cattle. Alina’s lover had come with her to Berlin to undergo a complicated heart operation in the Charité Hospital. Since it involved a period of rehabilitation, he would be staying in Berlin for over a month.

  That was eleven years ago.

  Aaron was to find out for the LKA whether Alina, who was the same age as Aaron, knew anything about his business dealings.

  She was very beautiful and very lonely. Aaron met her as if by chance in the shop, tried on the same dress and saw the brand on her shoulder. Laughing, shoes that she would never buy, a drink in Monbijoupark, a chat, an agreement to see each other again.

  Alina befriended her. Aaron had to be careful, because the girl was followed at all times by two of her lover’s bodyguards. They inspected the penthouse in the Hackesche Markt that the LKA had rented for Aaron, but they didn’t spot the mini-cameras. They flicked through a fake family album, Aaron with a rich father who paid for her luxurious lifestyle, they saw her expensive jewellery, hired from KaDeWe, the Porsche in the garage. When she went to the toilet at the Michelin-starred restaurant, where she had been eating foie gras and drinking vintage champagne with Alina, they checked her phone and thought Aaron wouldn’t notice.

  A mistake would have been a death sentence.

  She found out nothing about the business dealings of Nikulin’s gang from Alina, just that her lover was a bastard. Aaron was glad when their time in Berlin came to an end and they went home again.

  But her phone rang a month later.

  That was when it all started.

  Now, on the bed of the transporter, she suddenly knows the identity of the man that Holm is talking about.

  Ilya Nikulin.

  He had been living in Switzerland at the time, and already had a large kingdom under his sway. After the collapse of the Soviet Union he went back to his homeland and turned it into an empire.

  The man who showed Holm the meaning of true strength.

  The man whose killer was waiting for me in Moscow.

  The man whose empire I brought down.

  She is incapable of uttering a word.

  Holm says: ‘“Life is nothing but an empty dream, and if you have understood a reason, many others will open up in front of your eyes.”’

  He gets out of the transporter and leaves her alone.

  27

  Pavlik is standing at the window of Maske’s office. The two policemen are leading the prison director out of the building in handcuffs. Prisoners lurk behind a fence, clapping and cheering. One of them shouts: ‘Hey, Maske, you old fucker, we’ll see you in the shower!’

  Pavlik’s phone rings. ‘Yes?’

  It’s Helmchen. ‘You wanted to know who looked after the Ukrainians.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘The squad was Peschel, Fricke, Butz, Ruff and Pi.’

  That’s how Pavlik remembers it. Pi turned out to be a mole, Butz is dead and beyond criticism. Ruff was a tough cookie, who risked his neck time and again for the Department. Two years ago he died of leukaemia. And Pavlik would be willing to put his hand in the fire for Peschel and Fricke. ‘Who was following the operation?’

  ‘Boll was in charge of logistics, Krampe took care of the technical side.’

  Boll is still with them, a calm, sensible man who lives on his own after two divorces. He inherited three apartment blocks in Berlin in his early thirties and doesn’t need to work. His job is a passion. Pavlik doesn’t know how he could be blackmailed. Which leaves Krampe. He studied computers and electro-technology and was with the BKA before he joined the Department eight years ago. He’s always in the red because he has to pay support for two children. That could be a reason. Still, it can’t have been him. He and Pi are best friends. When Pi left the Department years ago to make some money with a private company, he wanted to take Krampe with him. Krempe gave it serious thought, but stayed even though he could have earned a lot more by leaving. He is godfather to Pi’s daughter Luise.

  Out of the question.

  ‘And a psychologist,’ Helmchen adds.

  Pavlik’s ears prick up.

  ‘The two Ukrainian women were terrified about giving a statement at the trial. Lissek was worried that they would retract. So he brought in a psychologist from the LKA. He was in the safe house in Frankfurt an der Oder and he reassured the women.’

  ‘When exactly?’

  ‘An hour before the attack.’

  ‘Could he have known about the Hotel Jupiter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But Internal Affairs checked him over?’

  ‘Very discreetly.’

  ‘What’s the man’s name?’

  ‘Rolf Jörges. But he took care of himself.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He drowned in the Mediterranean.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A month after the trial against the prostitution ring collapsed because the surviving Ukrainian woman withdrew her statement.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’

  ‘None. According to the records of the Majorcan police he overestimated his strength and swam too far out in a lonely bay.’

  Pavlik doesn’t know which feeling is stronger: the rage at not being able to haul him over the coals or relief that it wasn’t someone from the Department.

  ‘How did you get into the records of the Spanish police?’

  ‘No me preguntes.’

  ‘I owe you.’

  ‘You say that, and then I only get a peck on the cheek.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘One of Sandra’s cakes. A really big one.’

  Pavlik laughs. ‘But we’ll share it.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  She hangs up.

  He sits down at Maske’s desk, lights a ciga
rette and picks up the piece of paper with the phone number on it. He hasn’t thought of anything else for an hour. When Döbler gave him the note, he was tempted to call immediately. But first he wanted to weigh up the pros and cons. It would let Holm know that they’d stumbled across Maske. What if Holm wants to use him again? No, that’s unlikely. Maske has done his part.

  Pavlik picks up the phone, keys in the number and starts recording the conversation. The phone is answered after the third ring. He says nothing. No one speaks at the other end either. Half a minute passes.

  Then Holm says: ‘Mr Pavlik, I assume.’

  ‘Yep. You think you’re smarter than everyone else.’

  ‘You’re making me curious.’

  ‘Your first mistake that I know about was leaving your getaway car in a “no parking” space in Cologne before liquidating the Armenian. The second was cleaning out the car but forgetting about the fuel tank cap. We can pin the murder on you because you left fingerprints today; that was your third mistake. And fourthly: buying yourself a spineless arsehole like Hans-Peter Maske.’

  ‘You forgot to mention that I spent too long on the coach before starting to negotiate conditions. Wouldn’t it have been cleverer to contact me as soon as you arrived, given that the chain of command hadn’t yet been put in place?’

  Pavlik is speechless for a moment.

  ‘Let’s start with that. I didn’t want our conversation to take place during a phase before we’d got organized. You needed to collect your thoughts first so that you could listen to me with proper care and attention. During those initial frantic moments the danger of a reckless reaction would have been much greater.’

  The bastard.

  ‘That was what I thought, because I didn’t really know you. Now I know you never act recklessly.’

  ‘Am I supposed to feel flattered by that?’

  ‘You’re immune to flattery. So let’s look at Cologne next. I actually made two mistakes there. I had my brother park the car and later told him to clean it thoroughly. He forgot about the fuel cap. I knew as soon as I talked to him about it; he’s a bad liar. It was too late to correct that one, the car had already been found.’

  ‘You can’t choose your family. But I’m sure you’ll forgive him for his cockup in Cologne because that was many years before the start of his journey.’

  ‘So you found that note,’ Holm murmurs.

  ‘It was a little thought experiment. In Barcelona you told your brother that your paths would part once and for all. Obtaining his release was a kind of farewell kiss. But Sascha can hardly have understood that, he lacks the brainpower. Have you already told him to clear off?’

  ‘I don’t need to. He will leave and never look back. He has learned to acknowledge his mistakes. And while we’re about it: do you think I left my fingerprints on that woman’s phone by mistake? I feel almost insulted. I wanted to help you establish the link between Cologne and Maske. That was why I didn’t conceal my number when I called him. I completely agree with your judgement of him. He’s the kind of person who would have given Jews away in the Second World War. I have as much respect for him as I do for an earthworm.’

  Pavlik can’t help smiling bitterly.

  ‘In Cologne he asked me eagerly if I wasn’t interested in other prisoners in the institution,’ Holm goes on. ‘If I wrote him a list, some things could be organized.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s au fait with lists.’

  ‘This phone call, which I’m sure you’re tapping, wouldn’t be admissible as evidence in a trial against him. Do you have enough evidence to send him down?’

  No, damn it. We could only pin Cologne on him if we managed to trace the flow of money. It looks like we’re a long way off doing that. And Sascha? It’s not enough that Maske backed his transfer and saved him from punishment on a number of occasions. Which leaves the phone call with Holm today. But Holm will claim he didn’t talk to him. Wrong number. He was only allowed into Sascha’s cell because he was the director. Tonight he’s sitting at home again, enjoying a glass of brandy.

  ‘I can tell from your silence that that could be difficult. Do you have a pen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Holm dictates a sequence of numbers. ‘That’s the number of an account with the Anguilla National Bank in St Kitts. I set it up for Maske under the amusing cover name of “Joseph Clark”.’

  Pavlik holds his breath.

  ‘He wasn’t rewarded for sorting out my brother’s affairs: that became clear in a one-to-one discussion, you might have liked it. But the account still exists, I’ve checked. If he hasn’t lived the high life, and I doubt that he has because people like him want to accumulate property rather than spend money, you’ll find a large six-figure sum. Does the name Joseph Clark mean anything to you?’

  ‘No,’ Pavlik says, collecting himself.

  ‘I thought not. You’re not a literary man, which in no way diminishes my respect for you. Joseph Clark was the name of the captain of the British steamer Jeddah, which set off from Singapore in 1880. On board were over nine hundred pilgrims on the Haj to Mecca. The ship sprung a leak on the high sea during a storm. Clark fled with his officers in a lifeboat and simply left the passengers to their fate. Joseph Conrad told the story in his novel Lord Jim. That captain is one of the most famous cowards in literary history.’

  ‘I won’t thank you.’

  ‘I have no problem with that.’

  ‘Did you set up an account for Rolf Jörges as well?’

  ‘Am I supposed to know him?’

  ‘The psychologist who told you where our safe house in Frankfurt an der Oder was, and that we were using the Hotel Jupiter.’

  ‘Oh, him. That was amazing.’

  ‘Why did you wait a month to kill him?’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Because you went swimming with him off the coast of Majorca.’

  ‘Sorry, but that’s too much. I saw no reason to dry up that source. Sometimes a swimming accident is just a swimming accident.’

  But he’s confirmed it.

  ‘Since we’re chatting, there was something I wanted to ask you this morning, but unfortunately the opportunity never arose. That shot from two thousand two hundred and eighty-four metres – that was last year in Norway, right?’

  Pavlik doesn’t answer.

  ‘It’s in the professional literature. It was a police operation the details of which were omitted for reasons of confidentiality.’

  ‘Tell me where you are and I’ll come and tell you all you want to know. And a bit more besides.’

  ‘Shame, we’ll have to put that one off. I know it was about a lonely farmhouse in the middle of a snowy wasteland, and you couldn’t have got any closer without being spotted. You must have been able to hit a bent trigger finger that looked the size of a speck of dust through the sights. With a Barrett Light Fifty, a gun whose range is four hundred metres short of that, according to the manufacturer. The bullet was in the air for four seconds and descended towards the target from a height of five metres. That shot was a work of art. It saved the life of a Norwegian undercover agent. The fact that they asked you to do it says a lot for your reputation. I know you had to take everything into account, even the Coriolis force of the rotation of the earth. By the way, how did you lose your lower leg?’

  ‘Playing poker.’

  ‘You always have to pay your debts.’

  ‘Why did you liquidate Bedrossian that time?’

  ‘That was just a contract job. What he did with his free time wasn’t directly relevant. But since you have a young child I won’t conceal the fact that he had certain inclinations. You’d have been happy enough to kill him.’

  ‘What were conditions like at the cemetery?’

  ‘I don’t want to bore you.’

  ‘Professional interest.’

  ‘Unlike you, I had an excellent view, perfect thermal conditions. It was hot, thirty degrees. The deviation in the trajectory was twenty centimetres. It’s so ridiculous
that I’m almost ashamed to mention it.’

  ‘You fired two shots.’

  ‘I don’t have your class.’

  ‘The calibre was unusual, a .700 Nitro Express. The bullets are used in big game hunting.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to win a prize for technical skill.’

  ‘But you did. You deliberately shot Bedrossian in the shoulder to blow his branded mark apart. A manifesto: “This is what we do with traitors.” The second shot to the temple was a masterpiece, because you had to calculate to the fraction of a second how the man would fall if you were going to score a lethal hit.’

  Holm’s silence is so complete that it leaves an echo.

  ‘Ilya Nikulin hired you.’

  ‘You haven’t disappointed me.’

  ‘What sort of a relationship did you have with him?’

  ‘The answer would be too complex, we don’t have time.’

  ‘I’m sure you could sum it up in two sentences.’

  ‘Brevity doesn’t always do things justice.’

  ‘There’s something you’re itching to say. I promise I’ll give you an honest answer.’

  ‘Fine. Why don’t you beg for Aaron’s life?’ Holm asks after a brief hesitation.

  Pavlik hears footsteps in the outside office. Demirci appears in the door. ‘Because this is how it is: you and that pile of shit that you call your brother are dead before dawn. Aaron will execute both of you. And she has my blessing.’

  He hangs up.

  Demirci asks only: ‘Where did you get the number?’

  ‘Maske.’ He unreels the phone-tap.

  After that she exhales very slowly.

  ‘There’s something you need to know,’ Pavlik says.

  ‘You’re referring to Aaron. I took a look at her files and I’m up to date. She had Nikulin arrested at the age of twenty-five and after that she was recruited into the Department.’

  They exchange a long look. Could Holm’s hatred for her have something to do with Nikulin? But why wait eleven years?

  Demirci says: ‘In 2005 I was invited to the farewell party for the then BKA president Richard Wolf. At his request. I was very flattered. A remarkable man. He spent his childhood in Morocco, his father was ambassador there. Wolf’s memoirs have a Maghrebi proverb as their epigram: “Endurance pierces marble.”’