by Glenn Meade
• • •
The manager returned moments later carrying a thick ledger open in his hands. He informed Sanchez that no complaints were made about the first floor on November twenty-fifth or in the early hours of the following morning. And nothing was left in any of the rooms.
Volkmann said, “Any chance we could see the suite Tsarkin hired?”
“I’m sorry, it is occupied at present. But as soon as the guests check out this morning, I will arrange it.” The manager shrugged. “I’m sorry I can be of no further help.”
Sanchez nodded. “I am grateful for your assistance, señor.”
There was a knock on the door. Volkmann saw a man enter and speak quietly to Sanchez in Spanish. Sanchez asked to be excused, crossed to the man, and both stepped outside the office.
Erica’s exhaustion showed; she was restless, her eyes sleepy. Volkmann realized neither of them had slept for more than a couple of hours in the past twenty-four. A wisp of blond hair fell across her face; she brushed it away, smiled briefly at him.
He said, “How about you go up to your room and rest? I’ll call you if anything comes up.”
“I’ll be fine, Joe.”
Sanchez came back into the room. “That was Detective Cavales. He got a list of telephone calls made from Tsarkin’s house in the last two weeks. There were two calls made to a radio-telephone link in northeastern Chaco.”
Sanchez paused, let the information sink in. “We’ve got a name: Karl Schmeltz. And an address. It’s in an area up in the Indian country. Just north of the Salgado River near the border with Brazil. A desolate place, with not many people. Jungle and scrubland. The kind of place where a man shoots himself for something to do.”
“How far?” Volkmann asked.
Sanchez shrugged. “Four hundred miles, maybe more. It takes perhaps ten hours to reach by car. The roads are very bad. Jungle roads.”
Volkmann checked his watch. Six-thirty. He needed sleep, to close his eyes, not to travel along rutted jungle roads. And by then, by then perhaps it would be too late.
“By helicopter,” Sanchez said, “it takes two hours. Maybe a little less.”
“You can arrange that?” Erica asked.
Sanchez nodded.
ASUNCIÓN. 6:41 A.M.
Volkmann stared down through the helicopter’s Plexiglas as the buildings of Asunción shrank below him.
It was cramped in the cockpit, the sun ahead of them, the military pilot wearing sunglasses. The muted noise of the blades as they chopped the air filled the cabin.
There were five of them in the Dauphin helicopter apart from the pilot. Erica and Volkmann, Sanchez and Cavales, and another detective named Moringo.
Sanchez’s two detectives were armed with pistols and pump-action shotguns. Two military M-16 rifles lay beside Sanchez, along with six spare clips of ammunition. The second rifle was for Volkmann, Sanchez keeping the weapon by his side until it was needed.
The Dauphin bumped a little as they climbed higher. They were over scrub forest and jungle already, adobes and huts of wood and straw and fields of sugarcane below. The Rio Paraguay flowed off to the right, a gray-green ribbon of water snaking through a patchwork of greens stretching as far as the distant horizon.
Volkmann could sense the tension and exhaustion in the cramped cabin.
Finally, the radio crackled and a metallic-sounding Spanish voice came over the speaker. The pilot switched to earphones, then spoke to Sanchez and Moringo in Spanish. Sanchez turned to Volkmann and Erica, his voice almost a shout to drown out the noise.
“That was Asunción on the radio. I requested the local policía to meet us near the house. They’ll direct us to the property and assist us.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll be in radio contact in under an hour. Moringo here knows the region, but not the exact place. He thinks it’s very remote.”
Volkmann nodded. He sat back, his body aching now for sleep as he stared down, mesmerized by the vast emerald sea of jungle below, the monotonous, rhythmic sound of the chopper blades almost sending him to sleep.
It was 7:00 a.m.
NORTHEASTERN CHACO. 8:25 A.M.
Kruger looked up at the sky as he stood on the veranda, scanning for the helicopter, for a glint of sun on Plexiglas, listening for the sound of the blades.
Nothing.
Franz Lieber had departed with his men an hour earlier, driving his own Mercedes back down the gravel path, his men transporting the other vehicles to Asunción.
It was warm already, humid and hazy, clouds obscuring the sun. The elderly, silver-haired man came out of the jungle fifty yards away, hands clasped behind his back as he strode up the narrow path that led to the river.
Kruger looked toward the side of the house where the ashes of Schmidt’s fire still smoldered faintly. Schmidt had done a good job. Kruger already checked the house and the outhouses himself—nothing remained. He ran a hand through his hair, was about to look up at the sky again when he heard the noise and turned round. The man had stepped onto the veranda.
As he came to stand beside Kruger a flock of tiny yellow birds flew past them.
“Franz came,” Kruger said, watching the streak of yellow disappear into the jungle. “He sends his regards and says he looks forward to joining us later.”
The silver-haired man nodded in reply. Moments later they both heard a faint sound and looked up instinctively. One of the men in the house must have heard it, too, because he came out with a pair of powerful Zeiss binoculars, started to sweep the sky.
The distant sound increased, a faint throbbing now. Kruger scanned the hazy sky again and saw a brief glint of light off to the right, in the direction the man pointed the binoculars, then another glint as the sound became louder, an unmistakable chopping noise in the air.
Kruger glanced at his watch. Eight-forty. “The helicopter,” he said calmly. “It’s early.”
The silver-haired man took one last look over at the small outhouse, then at where Schmidt had burned the remaining papers, even the old things he had kept since childhood.
All gone now, black ashes, smoldering still. His eyes swept over the jade green of the jungle. One last, lingering look before he turned finally to Kruger as the helicopter noise grew louder.
“Tell Schmidt to check and douse the fire. Ensure everything has been thoroughly burned. Then get the men together with the suitcases.”
• • •
It was Volkmann who saw the vehicle first, the blue and white of the police car a mere speck, waiting on the ribbon of desolate road in the distance. The roads here were primitive, brown-red strips of dirt, looking like tape stuck onto the lush, green jungle.
Volkmann tapped Sanchez on the shoulder and pointed downward. Sanchez picked out the blue and white, pointed it out to the pilot. The Dauphin banked sharply, turned toward where the speck of color waited.
They had been in contact with the local policía on a special frequency for almost fifteen minutes, Sanchez translating the commentary for Volkmann. He looked exhausted but came awake now, staring out beyond the Plexiglas, talking rapidly into the microphone to the sergeant in the car below them.
Sanchez turned to Volkmann. “The sergeant says the property is straight ahead along the road another mile. They will follow us there.”
There was a cry from Cavales as he pointed beyond the helicopter’s Plexiglas. “There. To the left.”
The pilot followed the line of his finger. The sky was hazy with clouds, but even Volkmann could see the house, less than a mile away. It stood alone in the midst of the jungle, painted off-white, very large, one of the largest haciendas they had flown over in the last half hour, a narrow, private road leading up to a clearing in front of the property.
As the tension rose in the small cabin, the helicopter began to bank sharply to the left. The pilot shouted something to Sanchez, who said to Volkmann, “The pilot says maybe he can land in front of the hacienda if there’s a big enough clearing.”
Volkmann saw the
blue-and-white car race below them, moving fast along the narrow dirt road, plumes of russet dust in its wake. The helicopter suddenly slowed, hovered, less than a quarter of a mile from the hacienda, the pilot shouting something to Sanchez.
“We go for the clearing, okay?” Sanchez said to Volkmann. “But two sweeps over the hacienda first, just in case there’s trouble waiting.”
Sanchez tapped the pilot’s shoulder and spoke rapidly. The helicopter began to move forward fast, dropping height, going in low. Volkmann tensed. Sanchez clenched his teeth and grabbed one of the automatic rifles and three clips of ammunition. He handed them over.
“For you, in case there’s trouble. But make sure the woman stays in the chopper, sí?”
Volkmann glanced up briefly at the hazy sky, saw something glinting in the far distance, a flash of white light, and then it was gone. He tensed, checked the rifle, then looked down as the helicopter began its sweep.
• • •
Volkmann knew after the first sweep that the house was empty.
The pilot kept the helicopter in a steady angle of bank, circling the property in a perfect circuit, then sweeping out, coming in low again, barely clearing the surrounding jungle.
There was a black stain on the landscape to the right side of the house, looking like an oil spill at first, but on the second sweep, Volkmann recognized the remains of a fire, the helicopter’s blades causing the dark blot to lift and swirl as small black flakes rose and billowed into the air, eddying into a scattered mess.
The veranda was empty, the windows of the house bare of curtains, and a clutter of outbuildings stood at the rear, looking dilapidated and weathered, a small wooden outbuilding set off to the right of the house.
On the second pass, Volkmann glanced over at Sanchez, saw disappointment on his face but the eyes alert, awake, ready. But there was no need to be ready, Volkmann knew, seeing the blue-and-white police car speed along the private gravel track that led up to the white hacienda.
As the car came to a sudden halt, four policía scrambled out, wrenching guns from holsters, crouching as the helicopter began to descend on a flat clearing to the right of the driveway.
As soon as they landed, Sanchez stepped out, followed by his men, handguns and shotguns at the ready, Volkmann close behind carrying the rifle, Erica remaining with the pilot, who was closing down the engines.
The heat and humidity of the jungle hit them as they crouched low to keep their heads below the slowly dying blades. Then the swish of the rotors died, and it seemed to Volkmann that there was only utter silence and wilting heat, until seconds later, the clicking, shrieking sounds of the jungle erupted all around them.
Two uniformed policía from the car rushed forward, waving their guns, chattering loudly, pointing to the house.
Sanchez spoke to them briefly, then replaced his gun in his waist holster. He turned to Volkmann, the look of exhaustion on his face saying it all, knowing, as Volkmann knew, that they were too late.
He nodded toward the house. “Come, amigo. Let’s take a look inside.”
• • •
It became apparent to Volkmann that something was wrong. No one left a house this empty, this bare. No one picked a house this clean, leaving it like a corpse stripped of its flesh after the vultures had been at it.
Nicolas Tsarkin made his departure the same way, Volkmann reflected. Cleared away everything with equal thoroughness.
That is what the house, the property, suggested: a wooden skeleton. Echoing, hollow, the scrubbed floorboards inside creaking eerily underfoot, swept clean, swept of everything.
Erica joined them from the helicopter, only the pilot choosing to remain outside, indifferent, listening to a commercial radio station he had tuned in to the receiver on board, oblivious to the heat as he stalked the area around the Dauphin, chewing gum.
The house was large inside, thirteen rooms, Volkmann counted, each sanitized, each bare, nothing covering the floorboards, not even a thread of carpet remaining.
Sanchez ordered all the policía and his own men to go through the house room by room, checking for anything, for any clues. Then he went with Volkmann and Erica to look at the outbuildings.
There were three of them. Two had been garages, they guessed, big enough to accommodate a large car each, but nothing in either, nothing except faded, oil-stained patches on the ground.
The last was not much larger. It appeared to have been a storeroom, or a child’s playhouse, built of wood. Again, nothing inside, only a number of very faint white paint marks on one of the walls. Volkmann and Sanchez moved closer, examined them. The marks had been painted a long time ago, and when they looked closely, they saw that they resembled faintly the pattern of a spiderweb, as if someone had started painting the interior and then changed his mind, or a child had been playing with a paintbrush.
None of them spoke as they examined the place, Sanchez smoking a cigarette, looking over the walls, the floors, until he seemed baffled and overcome by it all.
As they stepped out into the sunlight, Volkmann saw the remains of the fire. The ashes were scattered in small, irregular clusters by the wake of the helicopter’s blades. He knelt down and touched the center of the largest cluster. The ashes were soggy, as if water had been poured on them. He found a stick in a nearby thicket and poked at the remains until he had sifted through all the black clusters scattered by the helicopter’s blades.
Nothing.
The sun was out now from behind the clouds, the heat becoming unbearable. Volkmann looked at Erica, then at Sanchez. Small beads of sweat glistened on the detective’s brow.
“Did the local sergeant tell you anything useful?” Volkmann asked.
“He’s lived around here for most of his life,” the detective answered. “The people here kept to themselves, he said. He scarcely knew of their existence.”
“How far to the nearest town?”
“Twenty miles. The nearest house, ten.”
Volkmann kicked a cluster of ashes, paused, then looked at Sanchez and said slowly, “What do you think, Vellares?”
Sanchez wiped his brow with the back of his hand, looked at him, shrugged. “The Indians in my country, they have a word . . .” Sanchez said it, a long, unfathomable word, a bewildered look on his sagging face. “It means . . . very strange. Very . . . weird.” He stared at Volkmann. “You know what I’m saying?”
Volkmann knew. In both the house and the small outbuilding, he had sensed something. He had shivered stepping into both of them. Something inside him felt touched by something, Sanchez sensing it, too, and Erica, Volkmann could tell.
A feeling none of them could put into words.
There was a noise behind them. Volkmann turned, saw the helicopter pilot call Sanchez over, talking in Spanish.
Moments later, the detective returned holding something in his hand.
“The pilot found this lying in the bushes. The helicopter blades must have blown it from the fire.”
Sanchez handed Volkmann a piece of glossy paper, the remains of a very old black-and-white photograph. Half of it was burned, the right side of the picture cracked and worn, but the image still discernible. The photograph was of a woman, a blond, young, pretty woman, smiling at the camera, with sky and snowcapped mountains behind her.
The young woman’s right hand was linked through the arm of a companion, a man wearing some sort of uniform. Only the man’s shoulder, his left arm, and part of his torso were still visible. The rest of the photograph was scorched, its black edges ragged, flaking with cinder. But what caught Volkmann’s eye was the conspicuous dark band around the man’s arm: a black Nazi swastika set in a white circle.
Volkmann stared down at the photograph for a long time until Sanchez said, “Turn it over.”
He did as the detective asked. There was a date, in German, scrawled in the top right-hand corner in faded blue ink. “Elfter Juli, 1931”: eleventh of July, 1931.
Volkmann looked up, shielded his eyes from the str
ong sun. He saw Erica and Sanchez stare over at the white house before both turned back to look at him.
“What does it mean?” Sanchez asked.
Volkmann flicked over the half-burned photograph, looked down again at the blond young woman in the picture, and wondered the same.
PART THREE
18
GENOA, ITALY. FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9
Franco Scali stood at the window of the harbor office and gripped the Zeiss binoculars tightly. She was two hours late, the Maria Escobar, and in those two long hours Franco thought he must have lost half a kilo in sweat. But now the ship was heading into the harbor. All twelve thousand tons of her. A beautiful sight.
“Franco?”
Scali put down the binoculars and smiled at the pretty, dark-haired young secretary seated behind her desk.
“What is it, sweetie?”
He was glad of the distraction now that the ship had finally arrived. The secretary wore black stockings and a short, thick, black woolen skirt, a glimpse of stocking top visible when she crossed her legs. Franco knew she did it to tease him, an unhappily married man with three growing children. He sighed inwardly. She was like that. A teaser.
The office above the warehouse had a sweeping view of the old port. But it was a drafty, cramped place, and Franco wore a heavy woolen sweater. He felt hot, despite the icy wind that whistled around the port. It was stress, Franco knew.
“The Maria Escobar . . . ,” the secretary said finally.
“What about her?”
“The ship’s load sheet. Don’t forget to give me the copy.”
“It’s downstairs in the warehouse. I’ll give it to you after the Escobar’s been unloaded.”
The load sheet contained the original and the carbon copies, all part of the one form so there could be no mistakes, no alterations, as far as the ship’s cargo was concerned.
“The things I do for you,” Franco added with a smile. “And I don’t even get a kiss.”
The secretary gave Franco a flirting grin out of the side of her wide, sensual mouth. “Franco . . . you’re a married man.”