Damnation

by Peter Beck

  ‘I’ll check with our analysts. Heard any more from the Americans?’

  ‘No, not directly. But since Al-Bader’s helicopter crash they’ve raised the alarm level for vital infrastructure.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The US Committee on Homeland Security regards the probability of an attack on oil rigs, and gas, water and electricity supplies to be higher than last week. Protecting all electricity masts, water pipes and pipelines nationwide is no easy task. Put yourself in a terrorist’s shoes. You want to create a climate of fear. With as little effort as possible you want to carry out attacks that have big impact and get lots of publicity. Imagine a ship full of TNT, piloted by determined suicide attackers, sinking a Western oil rig. Or Los Angeles’s water supply being contaminated by a poison you can neither smell nor taste, but which infects millions of people.’

  ‘And you think Al-Bader was financing this sort of stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know, but being the owner of a bank gives you lots of possibilities. All it takes is not to be so particular about issuing credit cards to the wrong people.’

  ‘All of that is speculation,’ Winter countered. After a while he added, ‘Did you get in touch with the explosives laboratory in Spiez?’

  ‘Yes, the molecular analysis of the traces from the helicopter and from your Egyptian mudguard show they don’t come from the same explosive.’ Ben paused.

  ‘Thanks,’ Winter said. He knew there was more to come.

  ‘The explosive in Egypt is based on nitrates you can also buy as fertilizer. The authorities are tracing the sample back to the various manufacturers. But they’re not optimistic because we’re talking about a very common consumer product; there’s no paper proof of sales and any idiot can get the instructions to build those sorts of bombs from the internet.’

  ‘What about the explosive in the Höllentobel?’

  ‘Most likely from Swiss military supplies…’ Another, more dramatic pause. ‘… combined with a flammable liquid from the supermarket. The crash was supposed to look like it had been caused by a fire.’

  Ben and Winter looked each other in the eye. Both of them knew that munitions or even explosives sometimes disappeared from exercises during compulsory military service. In a detonation it was impossible to verify whether all the explosive had been used or if a few hundred grams had been set to one side.

  ‘Is the department in the picture?’ Winter was referring to the Federal Department of Defence and Civil Protection.

  ‘Yes, they’ve launched an internal investigation. I’m no specialist, but the various stocks are marked with trace elements, so perhaps they’ll be able narrow it down.’

  Winter couldn’t resist a sarcastic remark, ‘Down to the male population eligible for military service, you mean?’

  Ben just shrugged his massive shoulders and dismissed the comment with a swish of his hand. ‘But they found the detonator.’

  ‘Military equipment too?’

  ‘No, a specialist detonator that reacts to differences in air pressure. It went off as soon as the helicopter reached a certain height. The Federal Aviation Safety Investigation Board asked me for my expert opinion as this technology is of particular interest to the airport and we have a lovely collection.’

  Certain that this collection was interesting, Winter ran through the options and said, ‘No timer?’

  ‘No, they didn’t find any timer. But we can’t rule out the possibility that a number of trigger mechanisms were linked. The detonator was badly damaged and they weren’t able to reconstruct it fully.’

  ‘Strittmatter was based in Valais. So he flew over the Alps. If there was no timer involved the bomb must have been brought on board in Zürich.’

  ‘If, if, if… Perhaps Strittmatter had other passengers?’ Winter had great respect for Ben’s cool logic, and he had to admit that he’d been putting off the homework he needed to do in this area. He made a mental note to enquire at the VIP Helicopter Transportation Corporation.

  ‘Do you have any idea where the detonator comes from?’

  ‘Internet. Mail order. Direct import. No. No idea.’

  ‘I’ve got one more request.’

  ‘Just one?’ Ben said with a grin, and Winter knew it would be his turn to pay for the steaks next.

  ‘Yes, just for once I’m being modest today.’ On some notepaper he jotted down the registration number of the helicopter he’d seen above the Höllentobel. ‘Who does this helicopter belong to?’

  ‘That’s an easy one.’

  It belonged to one of Strittmatter’s competitors.

  On the drive home Winter asked himself whether he might not have been following the wrong leads over the last few days. In the comfort of his Audi he was gripped once more by tiredness on the motorway. To prevent himself from nodding off he made a few telephone calls, even though it was late. It was summertime and people were either on holiday or enjoying the balmy evening.

  As usual, Känzig didn’t take the call, so Winter left a brief message that he designated as a status report. That’s how simple it was to cross one item off his to-do list. Box-ticking.

  Schütz was in the garden and had time. For two whole minutes Winter listened to Schütz recount his triumphs as a barbecue maestro, then enquired about his children and asked for details of the funeral. They wished each other goodnight.

  Dirk had set up an improvised open air cinema screen in the garden and was watching an action film with friends. A DVD through his laptop.

  ‘No,’ there was nothing new on the IT front. The bank’s firewall hadn’t been attacked and, no, he couldn’t localise the email address of the person who’d ordered Winter’s house to be bugged, let alone identify its owner. ‘Yes,’ he’d bring the list of Anne’s phone calls, both mobile and landline, in tomorrow. Unfortunately he still had no information about Al-Bader’s calls. And ‘Yes, the mood in the bank is a bit peculiar. But in fact it’s business as usual.’

  They discussed what to do next and a minute later Dirk was back with his friends and the film. He’d probably erased Anne from his short-term memory already. Delete. A colleague from the security department was just a simple cog in the whole machinery. Security in the bank was a matter of course.

  Finally he rang the VIP Helicopter Transport Corporation. He heard the call being diverted a number of times. ‘VIP Helicopter Transportation Corporation, Strittmatter, how can I help you?’ A woman’s voice. In the background the sound of cars driving past. He explained who he was, expressed his condolences and discovered he was talking to a cousin of Hans Strittmatter. She sounded composed and told him that the police had already been. As far as she knew Strittmatter had flown directly from the base over the Alps to Zürich for the Arab sheik’s transfer. But she would check for sure.

  ‘Do you know if he refuelled in Zürich?’ Winter didn’t utter the name of the dead Hans Strittmatter.

  ‘Yes, well no, we have our own fuel here. It’s cheaper than at the airport. They’re crooks.’

  Winter ignored the comment and said goodnight.

  If it were true that no timer had been involved to detonate the bomb, the explosive device must have been taken on board at Zürich airport by Al-Bader or Anne. On the security video Winter hadn’t seen anybody else near the helicopter.

  Winter left the motorway, drove cross-country in the dark and parked his car. In the light of the moon all he saw in front of his house were the prints of the farmer’s wellies and the tyre marks of the postman’s motorbike. The stem in the door was undamaged. As Winter entered his house he felt as if he had been away for weeks. He opened the windows, hoping that the sticky air would cool overnight. No important post. On the balcony he was greeted by Tiger, who proudly showed him a dead, tattered little bird.

  When he sat down on the balcony and smelled the antique wood and the night, he was overcome by a great feeling of calm. The mountains and stars had been around long before humankind and would still be there long after. The broad ho
rizon made his problems seem small. Nature soothed Winter. What a contrast to the airport, with its artificial atmosphere, stressed passengers and their perspiration. Here was the peaceful stillness of the night with chirping crickets and the pungent whiff of cowpats. Each to their own.

  Gradually a plan took shape in his head, which was less the result of logical analysis and far more the sum of the impressions that had consolidated there. It was like the dot-todot pictures he’d loved as a child. To start with there were just the numbers scattered across the page, but once he’d joined the first few with lines he usually got an idea what the finished picture would be. Even then his aim had never been to draw the lines especially straight, but to identify the overall picture as quickly as possible.

  Winter relaxed for half an hour and stopped thinking. Then he got up for an inspection of his unfinished terrace. Afterwards he poured himself a glass of twelve-year-old Talisker single malt, switched on the TV and DVD player, and watched the video from Zürich airport. Several times.

  Until he finally saw the obvious. Or didn’t see it.

  Anne didn’t have her pistol. She normally carried her weapon, a .22 SIG Mosquito, in a holster. Either at her hip or on her back, depending if she were wearing trousers or a skirt. And the desk drawer where Anne kept her gun had been empty. It’s difficult to see what isn’t there. Where was her gun?

  JULY 31 – 09:17

  Winter slept fitfully, but couldn’t remember any of his dreams. During the night the temperature had fallen below twenty degrees. Immediately after he woke up, this freshness momentarily deluded him into thinking that everything was alright. Then he remembered that today was Anne’s funeral, and he became weighed down by a leaden sadness. He breakfasted merely for fuel. Stepping out onto the balcony, he stared at the blue morning sky and thought of Anne.

  He drove along country roads with the window down. The bends and the wind stopped him from thinking too much. Normally he would have delighted in the green of the meadows and enjoyed the winding drive. But today he couldn’t care less about the magnificent summer.

  On the way he bought a deep-red rose. None of the fresh flowers in the florist’s had cheered him. Anne loved flowers. She was an optimist, blessed with a talent for injecting joy into almost every situation. Once again Winter resolved never to forget her laughing face with those tiny wrinkles around her sparkling eyes. Deep in thought he drove up the hill past a parade of expensive cars to the small, white, country church. He grew even gloomier when he saw the people dressed in black with their funereal expressions.

  Winter recognized the CEO’s Mercedes. The driver was standing in the shade, smoking. Right in front of this was Schütz’s Audi with his yellow-and-black football scarf on the parcel shelf.

  Winter parked and walked slowly up the old, cobbled road to the church, which formed part of a mediaeval castle that had burned down and been rebuilt several times. The path became a right-hand curve that ran around the hill. As with most mediaeval castles, a right-hand bend was advantageous to those under siege. The majority of attackers would wield a sword in their right hand and a shield in their left, leaving them exposed to the defenders. Back then, battles were hand-to-hand combat. You could look your opponent in the eye. Somehow Winter found that fairer.

  He made his way slowly up the hill, trying not to break out in a sweat in his suit. It would be cool in the church at least. Other funeral goers walked ahead of and behind him. Some whispered to each other; most were silent. An elderly, heavily-made-up woman in a wheelchair was being pushed by a young man, sweating as he struggled up the steep, uneven road.

  Winter didn’t know anybody. Loneliness.

  It wasn’t until he entered the inner courtyard, which served both church and castle, that he saw some bank colleagues.

  Schütz waved at him. Winter headed for the bunch of people who had grouped around the tall, suntanned and white-haired CEO. Känzig was hanging on his every word. Winter could hear the sonorous voice of the alpha male, who was recounting an anecdote about his tailor. Winter shook his colleagues’ hands and nodded to them without saying anything.

  Känzig couldn’t refrain from passing comment. ‘Ah, Winter. Nice to see you in person again.’ Ignoring these words, Winter silently offered him his hand and gestured to Schütz that he wished to speak to him in private.

  They withdrew to a quiet corner, next to an arrow slit in the fortifications. Winter handed Schütz the documents from Bergen. ‘I’d be grateful if you could run your eye over these. They’re Galaxy’s seminar documents. I’d be interested to know if anything strikes you as unusual. The documents got lost in Norway.’

  Schütz nodded, leafed through the presentations and whistled through his teeth when he saw the list of participants. ‘In the Middle East these gentlemen are the crème de la crème of investors. Between them they could easily rustle up a few hundred billion US dollars. Without leverage.’

  He pointed to a column full of names. ‘To my knowledge some of these are also clients of our bank. Especially direct investments in Swiss blue chips. But they’re looked after directly by the boss,’ he said, nodding towards the group.

  At that moment Anne’s family came out of a side building, which had once been a stable. Her mother was in tears and flanked by Anne’s sisters. Her father walked stony-faced ahead of the gangly priest.

  The murmur in the courtyard died down and for a moment there was silence. The family entered the church, followed by the mourners. First the elderly uncles and aunts. The woman in the wheelchair. Then the distant relatives Anne had perhaps seen once a year, who would return to their normal lives this evening and forget her.

  A handful of younger people came next. Some manifested their grief with just a black tie or a dark blouse. Clearly they’d had no reason till now to buy themselves a black suit. Probably this was their first funeral. Many of Anne’s friends were tearful, unable to comprehend such an early death.

  Who could? Perhaps they’d been to the gym together last week, or spoken on the phone or gone shopping. Certainly, many of them would remember the last time they’d seen Anne. Some would regret unresolved matters, loose ends.

  As if from afar he heard Schütz say, ‘Hey, Winter, are you alright?’ Schütz had noted Winter’s absent expression and sympathetically placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I think so.’ Unwilling to enter a discussion about his grief, all he said was, ‘I’m sure that Anne’s found herself a comfy cloud in heaven.’ Schütz looked as though he didn’t know whether Winter was joking or actually did believe in angels on clouds.

  Winter didn’t know either. Moving away from the wall, he said, ‘Let’s go in.’

  Anne’s bank colleagues filled the last two rows in the church. The simple wooden coffin, decorated with a summer bouquet, stood before the altar. Sunflowers and white roses. White, the colour of mourning in the East.

  Winter found himself between Schütz and Dirk again. He looked at the backs of people’s heads and ignored the priest’s soothing words. Bare beams were visible on the ceiling of the church. Suddenly everybody stood for a hymn. Winter was relieved. The elderly relatives sang at the tops of their voices while his colleagues just moved their lips.

  Only the CEO’s attractive assistant surprised him with her rich and really tuneful voice. Winter recalled the documentation from her security check, which stated that she came from the traditional Emmenthal and played the accordion. Nudging Winter with his elbow, Dirk pointed his chin at the assistant and grinned.

  Angela, Anne’s youngest sister, stood up, placed a hand on the coffin and told stories from Anne’s life. In her other hand she held a crumpled piece of paper full of writing, which she ignored. With considerable composure she spoke of the holidays they’d enjoyed by the sea, sandcastles, the treehouse – and how Anne had protected her on the way to and from school. Winter was moved and struggled to prevent his colleagues from noticing. The sister talked about how the three of them had spent a summer holiday going from
one European city to the next, without much money but plenty of time.

  Winter could hear stifled sobs in the front rows. Angela went on to say that Anne had been a right tearaway but someone you could always rely upon. He was grateful to Angela for her honest words and resolved to tell her this.

  To Winter’s amazement now the CEO stood up next, walked to the coffin with his head raised and turned to the congregation. He was clearly used to speaking in public. His deep voice resonated in the five-hundred-year-old church. He spoke of her talent, her wonderful personality, the suddenness with which Anne had been plucked from the prime of life and the painful loss, especially for the family.

  Winter found it a bit out of place that the CEO, who had barely known Anne, should give a speech. He had to admit, however, that von Tobler had found the right words, bringing some consolation to the people who had gathered. Von Tobler finished, bowed his head and sat back down in Winter’s row.

  Another hymn. The small organ played. The priest quoted from the Bible, blessed the mourners and asked everyone to say the Lord’s Prayer together. Winter’s thoughts were with Anne once more. Images of moments they’d spent together flashed past.

  Now the service was over and everybody stood. There was slight confusion about who was going to carry the coffin. Four elderly men from the third row, probably brothers of the father or mother, carefully lifted the coffin and followed the priest out of the church.

  The sunlight was harsh and Winter frowned in the glare.

  Walking around the church and down into the sloping cemetery, they gathered around the open grave. The coffin was gently lowered into the earth with the help of a green metal cradle. The priest prayed again and, one after the other, the mourners threw handfuls of earth from a battered wooden box into the grave. Winter was one of the last. He dropped the rose into the grave, closed his eyes and bowed his head for a few seconds.