Zen and the Art of Murder

  She didn’t dare step into the parking lot. If she were Fröbick she would be watching it. She would have separated the children, called the French professional or Lebonne for help, and kept the lot under surveillance.

  She looked toward the lake. Bermann and Zancan were now out on the ice, a good fifty yards from the shore. They weren’t walking side by side exactly; there was a gap of seven or ten feet between them. Bermann held a dark travel bag in his right hand. Zancan was carrying a smaller, lighter bag. Now Bermann lifted his left hand to his ear. They stopped, before changing direction and continuing northward.

  The fact that Fröbick was giving Bermann and Zancan instructions by telephone meant two things. First, he could see them and so must be somewhere along the shore. Second, if he was next to the parking lot she would have heard his voice. But all was silent.

  She ran to the two cars as quietly as she could and kneeled down beside the Mercedes.

  Where was Fröbick?

  A path ran along the motorway on the eastern side of the lake. Groups of trees alternated with clearings. If he was there his only escape would be via the motorway.

  The western side wasn’t as easily accessible. He would have to find his way past the gravel-mining machinery, if indeed it was there in winter. Parallel to the shore and slightly set back, a path ran behind some trees through the forest. She couldn’t recall if it was wide enough for a car.

  Farther to the north began the nature reserve. From there, especially at night, it was difficult to see the southern end of the lake, where Bermann and Zancan were. Besides, there were hardly any paths and it was much farther to the nearest road, except for the motorway. Fröbick would need a road.

  He must be somewhere near the southern shore. On the western side, she reckoned, perhaps beyond the gravel pit.

  Should she look for him? Or wait?

  Bonì was about to get moving again when she noticed that one of the figures on the lake had stopped. Zancan. Bermann had given her his bag and was now continuing northward alone. This confirmed her suspicion. Fröbick would hardly allow Bermann to get close to him; he would send him in the opposite direction. He had to be somewhere here, close by.

  Then she heard the sound of someone hurrying toward Bermann’s car from the other side. A stifled panting mingled with the sound of footsteps.

  Bonì pulled her pistol from the holster. Two bullets. She cursed. She ought to have waited. Ought to have stayed hidden behind a tree and watched where Zancan was going, then followed her. Zancan had led her to Fröbick. Now Fröbick was coming to her.

  She narrowed her eyes to slits and concentrated on the footsteps. They ended abruptly. Fröbick—if it was him—had reached the car.

  Seconds passed. Had he spotted her? Or was he just making sure that Bermann and Zancan were doing as he’d instructed?

  Slowly she turned her head toward the lake. She couldn’t see Bermann now. Zancan hadn’t moved.

  Louise could hear quiet thumping noises from the other side of the car. Fröbick grunted. What the hell was he doing?

  Then she identified the sound. He was piercing the rear tire, and at that moment she heard the hiss of air being expelled. More footsteps and a scraping sound: Fröbick crawling to the front tire. She wanted to laugh out loud. A kidnapper crawling on all fours around a police car, on the other side of which was a Gamma alcoholic with only two bullets in her service weapon.

  More thumping and grunting. More hissing.

  She thought of Lederle’s description of Fröbick. A desperate man on the verge of panic. A man feverishly devising plans only to discard them again, offering no resistance when Bermann beat him down from half a million euros to one hundred thousand.

  She felt herself beginning to relax.

  More footsteps, and then she saw him. A short, fat man in a yellow outdoor coat. A penknife in his right hand. He hurried past Bonì, no more than seven feet away, without noticing her. She smelled sweat, glimpsed a pale cheek. He fell to his knees beside Zancan’s car and readied the knife.

  But rather than thrust it in, he let his arm drop. It took her a moment to realize that he was sobbing.

  She raised her pistol and said, “Hey!”

  The man swung around. His mouth was open, his nose running, his cheeks wet with tears. She recognized him at once. The driver of the Sharan.

  “Are you Fröbick?”

  He nodded.

  She stood up. “Lose the knife.”

  Fröbick folded the knife and tossed it toward her. He was shaking uncontrollably. “At last,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, sinking back into the snow.

  Fröbick hadn’t asked anybody for help. He was alone. He hadn’t separated the children either—they were in his car at the entrance to the gravel pit.

  Louise called Zancan on Bermann’s mobile. Bermann and Zancan ran off to fetch the children. Fröbick was lying on his stomach in the snow beside the shore. She didn’t think he should have a comfortable time of it. Besides, she wasn’t carrying handcuffs.

  She had searched him, but found no more weapons. Just the penknife. In his wallet were photos of his sons and four hundred and ten euros.

  Bonì stood beside him and gazed out at the lake, waiting for Bermann and Zancan. All of a sudden the air was filled with the wailing of countless police sirens. The snow turned bright blue. There was frenetic activity. Uniformed officers took custody of Fröbick. Wallmer and Schneider were there, somebody asked her something but she could not bring herself to reply. The pistol was taken from her hand. Ambulances arrived.

  The sound of a child crying blended with the noise of engines and voices. Zancan was carrying the girl from Poipet; Bermann carried Pham. The girl was crying. Neither child was dressed warmly enough and they weren’t wearing hats. Both had red cheeks, but they seemed unharmed, at least as far as she could tell.

  Zancan hugged her as she walked past.

  Bermann stopped beside her and said, “OK.” To her ears it sounded as if a whole heap of other words were hidden in it. Words such as: You were right. I’m sorry. Thanks. Thank God you didn’t listen to me. You showed us again how much we need you. We’ll be pleased when you’re back. But now you’ve got to go. All the best for the abyss. Words like that.

  “OK,” she said.

  Pham made a noise that sounded like “OK” too. He stared at her, a finger in his mouth. Louise couldn’t tell if he recognized her. She was waiting for Bermann to put him down. Then she would have taken his hand and brought him to one of the doctors. Put a blanket around him, warmed him up and made sure that he ended up with nice parents. But Bermann didn’t put him down, nor did he give the impression that he was going to let go of the boy any time in the near future.

  She raised a hand to stroke Pham’s cheek. His skin was cold and smooth. Pham didn’t react, he just looked at her with wide eyes. She let her hand drop and remembered what Natchaya had said about not being able to save the world. No, she thought, she couldn’t save the world. But she had saved Pham and the girl from Poipet. To be able to save one or two people was definitely something. A big deal when you considered how quickly you could lose someone.

  Pham turned to Bermann and touched his moustache with his finger, “You like that, don’t you?” Bermann said.

  Pham said something in Vietnamese.

  “If only I knew what you were saying,” Bermann said.

  “He’s asking if you’re his new father,” Bonì said.

  By one o’clock the formalities were complete. Bermann had taken Pham to his house and then returned. Looking gray and drained, Lederle had driven home at around eleven. They’d postponed their conversation until this was all over. Without saying goodbye to Bermann, Almenbroich or any of the others she left headquarters. Zancan came running after her and said, “I’ll take you home.” The start of a wonderful friendship, Louise thought, exhausted. During the five-minute drive she fell asleep. “Good luck,” Zancan said, hugging her again.

  A light was on
in Ronescu’s kitchen. Television voices echoed in his apartment as she walked past his door. Katrin had left, and she’d taken the sketch with the line and the terms. Louise fell on to the sofa and lay on her back, stretching her arms and legs. Pham’s dark eyes followed her. The telephone rang.

  “Were you asleep?” Lederle said.

  “No.”

  “Good. I want you to know. You’re important to me and that’s why I’m telling you this now.”

  It wasn’t Antonia who had cancer, but him. He’d been fooling them for eighteen months. Only Almenbroich and, more recently, Bermann knew. Nobody else.

  It wasn’t Antonia who was ill, but him.

  She sat down, but said nothing. Pham filled her head, not Lederle. No matter how hard she tried she wasn’t able to summon any emotion in response to what he’d said. The only emotions buzzing around her mind were linked to Pham, Taro, Natchaya, Fröbick, the roshi and Richard Landen. Besides, she barely had any energy left to try.

  It wasn’t Antonia who had cancer, she thought, but Reiner. For eighteen months they’d seen each other almost every day and she’d had no idea of what he was going through. The person at her side had been completely different from the man she thought he was.

  She wished he hadn’t called. There was no space in her head for other people’s problems.

  “It’s not very big,” Lederle said.

  “What?”

  “The tumor.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In my bowel. But we’ll beat it, don’t you worry. It hasn’t spread yet . . . but I don’t want to burden you with silly little details. You see, the two of us have to be strong now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. But we’ll beat it. It’s too weak for me. It doesn’t have a chance. You have to look at it that way, Louise. We’re going to win.”

  They ended the call. Yes, she thought, we’re going to win. She got up, fetched the bottle of ţuică from under the sink and went down to the ground floor.

  20

  February continued to be cold; it didn’t get warmer until the beginning of March. When Louise returned to Freiburg the ice and snow had thawed. One of the coldest winters of the last few decades was coming to an end.

  Hugo Chervel had the Mégane brought back. In her letterbox were the car keys, the bill and a card telling her the number of the house the car was parked outside. She set down her travel bag and stepped into the street. The red Mégane now had a blue hood and a blue driver’s door. The entry hole from a bullet was still visible on the dashboard. Chervel’s brother-in-law had even installed an undamaged stereo.

  All the same she decided she’d buy a new car in the spring. Changes in one’s life needed to be marked symbolically and a car was a good symbol. The changes could be seen, heard, smelled and felt with your hands. It wasn’t a status symbol, but rather the symbol of a departure. A car for which it was always summer. A convertible.

  There were nine messages on her answering machine, which was now full. Barbara Franke and Enni had both rung twice to ask where she was and why hadn’t she got in touch. Her father said, “It’s Sunday morning, Louise; where the hell are you?” Landen said he was back and “would love to know how everything worked out.” Anatol and Katrin Rein had both left “Welcome home” messages. Katrin added, “You’ve managed the detox—now you’re going to get through the withdrawal too.”

  Lederle said he was feeling a little better and hoped she was too. Once again he apologized for having lied to her for so long. His voice sounded drained, and less like “We’ll beat it.” He paused briefly, then said, “What sort of a society have we become, Louise? On Sunday I stood up on the Schlossberg, looked down at Freiburg and asked myself, What sort of a society have we become? When are we finally going to focus on our core beliefs? When will we go back to discussing values instead of tax reductions and the cost of prescription medicine and the stock market? Where are the children, Louise? I look down at my city and my region and ask myself: where are the fifty-six Asian children? And all those other children we know nothing about? How many ended up in Freiburg? How many are living down there in the claws of sexual abusers? What sort of society are we, that we can produce these illnesses and perversions, but then lack the courage to admit that we have produced them? Child abuse isn’t even notifiable.”

  The tape was full.

  She emptied her bag, repacked it and left the apartment. Like the other callers, Lederle would have to be patient for a few weeks more.

  The Mégane started up as if nothing had happened to it. Another reason to ditch this car.

  In Zillisheim she bought bread and fruit, and drank café au lait while standing in a dark bar. Old men sat playing cards at a couple of tables, cigarettes in their mouths and in front of them glasses of pastis and coffee cups. There was much laughter and chatter, and occasionally a card was played. She’d always imagined that one day her father would sit in a bar every morning, drinking pastis and playing cards. She liked the idea without knowing why.

  As she left the bar it began to rain.

  Over the past few weeks she’d had two telephone conversations with Lederle, one with Almenbroich and one with Muller. Jean Berger and the Frenchman who’d have killed her if Natchaya hadn’t stopped him were still on the run. The driver of the Audi, who’d been arrested along with Steiner and his wife in the Vosges, was refusing to talk. The French police didn’t care. From his fingerprints they could charge him for two serious robberies, in 1999 and 2002.

  Paul Lebonne had been arrested in Casablanca at the end of February and extradited to France. He admitted to working as a carer for Asile d’enfants and being at the Kanzan-an and the farm near Münzenried. But he denied any involvement in illegal adoption and the selling or hiring-out of Asian children for sexual purposes. He believed the children had been adopted legally and had never heard of a monk called Taro.

  Annegret Schelling also claimed she knew nothing about what had happened to the children she’d looked after at the Kanzan-an and in the farmhouse near Münzenried. She believed the adoption process had been perfectly legal. She said she hadn’t had access to lists of names or addresses; these had been kept by Jean Berger in Basel. It was only after the confrontation with Bonì that she realized something wasn’t quite right about Asile. After Steiner had treated her head wound she’d left Asile d’enfants and moved back in with her mother. And she’d never heard the name Taro.

  Steiner, the German doctor, admitted having been responsible for the medical care of the children and failing to disclose his income to the tax authorities. Yes, he had specialized in ophthalmology, but at heart he was a pediatrician. The children had been brought to him with colds, flu-like infections, allergies, and once even with measles. He’d also paid the occasional visit to the Kanzan-an and Münzenried. He’d administered routine vaccinations, given advice on nutrition and psychological issues—et cetera.

  Since her arrest his wife hadn’t uttered a word. Teresa, the Steiners’ Filipino housemaid, wasn’t saying anything either, presumably out of loyalty toward the two of them. As she had no residence permit it would be only a matter of time before the French police found out what she knew.

  The German police weren’t particularly interested in all this. They had Fröbick and he wouldn’t stop talking. What he said confirmed everything they’d suspected. Dozens of children from the Far East—he didn’t know the precise figure—had been sold to western European adoptive parents or pedophile rings. At least four of the elder girls had for some years been hired out for sexual services to France, Germany, Belgium and Switzerland. Jean Berger had set up the organization and run it from Basel; Harald Mahler was in charge locally. Lebonne, Schelling, Steiner, Fröbick himself—all of them knew what was happening to the children. Fröbick, Lebonne and Schelling, perhaps the others too, had also repeatedly abused older children who’d been brought to Europe exclusively for sexual exploitation. Although Steiner had been responsible for looking after the childr
en’s health in general, he’d also given the older ones regular HIV tests, treated injuries in the genital and anal regions, and supplied contraception for the older girls.

  As for Taro, Fröbick confirmed what Natchaya had said. Taro had witnessed Lebonne and Mahler molesting her. They’d discovered him, knocked him to the ground and he had fled. Fröbick didn’t know any more details because he’d stayed at the Kanzan-an while the French professionals hunted for Taro, joined later by Mahler and Lebonne. Afterward Mahler simply told him that “everything was OK.”

  So Fröbick couldn’t tell them what had happened to Taro either. Why had the monk not confided in the roshi? Why had he walked for days through the snow, going ever farther from the Kanzan-an? Natchaya had said, “He saw the men with me. He watched what we did.”

  He watched.

  The roshi had said, “In Taro doubt. Many questions.”

  What had been going through Taro’s mind as he watched Natchaya and the two men? They’d never find out.

  There was something else Fröbick could not—or perhaps would not—tell them: the names of Asile d’enfants’ clients. These had been known only to Berger and Mahler. He was, however, able to shine some light on Hans-Joachim Gronen, the owner of the farm near Münzenried: he was an old friend of Mahler’s, he ran a bar in Bangkok and was involved in the prostitution racket there.

  The most difficult task now was to coordinate the investigations of the German and French authorities. Requests for assistance were exchanged, high-ranking officers traveled back and forth, while in the background the foreign ministries applied pressure. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, the process was taking a bewilderingly long time. Now that their cooperation was official, everything became more complicated.

  *

  The strip of asphalt leading into the forest between Zillisheim and Illfurth glistened dully. It had stopped raining, but the sky remained overcast. The veil of light was gray. She’d decided to visit Niksch’s grave when she came back. Then she’d talk to his mother and sisters, and try to make them understand that security had nothing to do with whether or not there was a policeman in the family.