Damnation

by Peter Beck

  ‘Yes, I thought we could spend a nice evening together.’ That’s why it had looked so genuine. Romero had wanted to mix business with pleasure.

  Winter let go of the man’s arm. Romero hit his head against the railings. He stood up and inspected his broken wrist. Tibère let go of Romero’s girlfriend, who picked up the bunch of flowers.

  Juliet exploded and savaged her boyfriend with the roses, now badly damaged. ‘You told me we were just going for an evening out, you idiot! With a bit of observation on the side. But then these two,’ she said, pointing scornfully at Winter and Tibère, ‘almost killed us!’ Romeo tried as best he could to defend himself against his girlfriend’s attacks.

  Winter and Tibère grinned at one another and returned to the restaurant car park. Meanwhile the couple continued to argue at the tops of their voices.

  Tibère wiped his hands and said, ‘Why would Schmitt, Berger & Partners be interested in you?’ He looked at Winter and added, after a short pause, ‘Or did you break one of their friends’ wrists?’

  ‘No idea. I’ve never had any direct dealings with them over the last few years. I expect I ought to pay them a friendly visit in the coming days.’

  ‘Let’s have another drink.’

  By now the sky was almost black and the two men could see the moon and the stars. Via the steps they went back to the terrace, which was practically empty. Winter ordered a Talisker, Tibère a gin fizz. They let the evening come to a close exchanging tall tales. Around eleven o’clock they shook hands in the car park and Tibère sped away towards Geneva in his Alfa GT.

  Before Winter got into his Audi, he took a final glance at the lake and the lights of the villages along its bank. Tibère had been right: the view, food and company were excellent. Winter started up the engine and switched on his headlights and car stereo. U2’s ‘Helter Skelter’. He released the handbrake and looked in the rear-view mirror. There was a movement behind him.

  JULY 31 – 23:10

  The wire noose of a garrotte strangled his neck. Immediately he tried to thrust his fingers beneath the wire yanking him against the headrest and cutting off his air passage and blood flow. Winter’s fingernails dug into his neck’s skin, drawing blood as they scratched in desperation.

  Pressing his chin to his chest, Winter tensed every neck muscle. He tried to hoot his horn, but his fingers were trapped by the wire. He braced himself with his feet against his attacker. The engine screeched momentarily before dying. Winter jerked to one side. But the garrotte was looped around the headrest, preventing any sideways movement.

  In the mirror he could see a dark figure with a stocking over the head with eyeholes. Unlike the amateur earlier, this was a cool professional. Were he and Romero working together?

  Time was running against Winter. ‘Helter Skelter’ was finished. Did Tibère have a passenger too? Was his final hour striking? The food, view and company of their last supper had been excellent, was his last thought. Then Winter lost consciousness. How deathly quiet it was. Nobody had noticed the attack.

  With his gloved right hand, the man took out a roll of industrial-strength tape, tore off a strip and stuck it over Winter’s mouth. He fastened a longer piece over Winter’s eyes. Just to be sure, he kept hold of the two wooden ends of the garrotte with his other hand.

  You could never tell if someone was really unconscious or just pretending. Still using one hand only, he took out a cable tie, of the sort used by half the police forces in the world to tie hands and feet. These single-use ties could only be pulled in one direction. He wrapped it around Winter’s wrists, which hung limply beneath his chin, and pulled the ribbed, plastic loop tight. Only then did he loosen the garrotte and free Winter’s fingers. His bound hands fell into his lap.

  The man on the back seat took out a second plastic tie, raised Winter’s arms and fastened his hands to the passenger headrest. Then he removed the stocking from his own head, got out of the car, opened the passenger door and dragged Winter over. First his torso then his legs. Had someone happened to witness this scene from a distance they would thought it was a drunk person being hauled into the seat by a mate. The man walked around the car, made a quick call on his mobile, got in and drove off.

  When Winter regained consciousness he was freezing. It was dark. He couldn’t see anything or open his taped mouth. He was slumped outside on some hard, narrow bench. Someone was pouring water on his head. He shivered, shuddered and realized that his numb hands were bound.

  His jacket had been pulled down over his shoulders, restricting his arms. The bench had no backrest. He tried to move his feet, but these were bound too. A voice behind him said, ‘Morning. Sleep well?’

  Winter shook his head. Although his eyes were blindfolded by thick tape he could make out a light-grey strip. His nose tautened the tape across his cheeks, allowing a small slit for his eyes.

  He craned his neck and thrust out his chin, but all around him was night. He was definitely not inside, for a wind was blowing and he could smell water, mould and moss. The blood throbbed inside his head.

  He felt dreadful and was afraid he might throw up. He didn’t want to choke on his own vomit.

  But if the man had intended to kill him, he could have done it ages ago. The fact that he was alive meant that they still needed him. Winter carefully moved his head and attempted a recce of his surroundings through the slit between his nose and the tape. It took a while for his eyes to function again properly. The grey was water. It was about fifty metres below him. On either side he could make out black, wet cliffs that fell vertically.

  He was not sitting on a bench, but on the broad handrail of a bridge, his feet pointing outwards. A mere nudge from the man behind him would send Winter plummeting. His pulse was racing. A sadist.

  When the man clapped him on the shoulder, Winter’s stomach contracted. ‘I’m just the messenger,’ he said.

  He tore the tape from Winter’s mouth and Winter greedily sucked air into his lungs. The oxygen calmed him, and after a few deep breaths he asked, ‘Good work. Who are you?’ Nobody was immune to a compliment and he had the feeling that he didn’t have much time left to get to know his abductor.

  ‘Thanks. You can call me Max.’

  Winter tried to place the dialect, but without any success. He was sure that Max was a false name, but that was irrelevant. He needed to keep the dialogue going. As long as they were talking he was alive.

  ‘Max. How nice. May I enquire why you abducted me? What have I done to you?’

  ‘Nothing personal.’ Max wasn’t particularly talkative. Winter could hear the man fiddling with something behind him. He tried moving his head to glimpse through the slit what was happening. But he couldn’t turn around too emphatically without slipping from the rail and plunging to his death. Max seemed to be alone – a sign of self-confidence.

  Winter slid backwards. Noticing this tentative escape Max said, ‘No way!’ grabbed Winter by the belt and shoved him back into his original position. Max was both strong and observant. Winter’s brain was working on overdrive. There must be some sort of opportunity. He tried moving his legs but they were tightly bound at the ankles.

  ‘That’s that done,’ Max said to himself. And to Winter, he said, ‘Pay attention. I want you to give a message to your boss.’

  Why can’t he just send an email? Winter thought. Then he said in disbelief, ‘Känzig? What has that bastard got me messed up in?’

  ‘No. The old man. You’re to tell von Tobler to keep his nose out.’

  Herr Dr von Tobler, CEO of the bank. Winter’s mentor and guardian. Winter had no idea what von Tobler was to keep his nose out of.

  ‘Out of what?’

  Max hesitated briefly, Winter sensed he was having to improvise. He hadn’t been banking on a counter question.

  ‘He knows. You lot need to keep out of the business in the Middle East.’

  ‘Max, that doesn’t help me. We work across the globe. None of this is going to be of any use if you don’t t
ell me what it’s about.’

  ‘Shut it! Enough chit-chat.’ Winter could hear Max moving away, opening a car door and closing it again. Then he felt Max run a knife down his spine, the blade cutting open his wet shirt as it went. His back was wet. His arms were bound by his rolled-down jacket, his hands by the cable tie.

  ‘Max, what do you want?’

  ‘Shut it!’ Max repeated. Winter felt Max writing something on his back in felt tip. His throat burned. Max was making sure that the message would be delivered if Winter died. ‘Did you use a permanent marker?’ Winter asked.

  Max gave Winter a slap from behind. ‘What did I tell you? Shut it!’

  ‘Listen, mate, you’ve got to work on your vocabulary. Shut it, shut it, shut it. Not very imaginative.’ Winter changed his tactics and mimicked Max. Chatting hadn’t helped. Perhaps Max would make a mistake if he provoked him instead.

  Time was running out.

  Max wrote slowly and carefully and Winter got the impression that he was going over letters twice. Then he felt Max write an exclamation mark and underline the message – double underline.

  Max took a few steps back, inspected his message and said calmly to himself, ‘Right.’ He put his mouth close to Winter’s ear and said softly, but unmistakably, ‘Keep out! Is that clear?’

  Max vanished. Winter used the opportunity to try to free himself from his straitjacket. He twisted his shoulders and arms. The jacket slid further down; now he could move his elbows. Max came back and put a knife to Winter’s throat.

  ‘Stay nice and still, and nothing will happen. Do you get me?’

  Winter nodded and contemplated trying a head butt. If Max was standing right behind him, he could catch him on the forehead. But there was the risk of slipping and falling. He could feel Max doing something at his feet. Then Max sliced through the cable tie fastening his hands.

  Winter immediately grabbed onto the wall.

  Ripping the sticky tape from Winter’s eyes, Max said, ‘Bye bye.’

  The gorge yawned before Winter and seemed to drop into infinity, bordered by black, shining, wet cliffs.

  Suddenly he could hear the rushing of the water. Or was that the blood in his head? Winter looked up. An orange stripe glowed above the fir forest. Sunrise. Executions always took place at sunrise. Luckily, however, he was not in a gloomy prison yard, but outside in nature. And he was still alive.

  Winter tried moving his feet, but they were still bound. He slid from the wall and found his footing on a narrow ledge. Then he let go with his right hand and swivelled around in a flash. Winter grabbed the sleeves of Max’s coat.

  Max was wearing black. He was blond, pale and quiet. Even his eyebrows above deep-set eyes were blond. Max jerked himself free and took a step backwards. Shifting his weight to his left foot, which was in a laced-up combat boot, he shot a karate kick at Winter’s ribs. Winter couldn’t get out of the way and his spine made a cracking noise. For a moment he thought it was broken. The momentum of the kick spun Winter around, his feet slipped from the ledge, and now he was just holding onto the railings with his left hand.

  Beneath him the water and rocks.

  His fingers were slipping.

  Above him were the railings and Max’s silhouette. ‘Happy August 1st,’ Max said, giving Winter’s fingers a firm kick. The boot broke the nail of his middle finger, digging into the sensitive skin. Winter screamed and let go of the railings in pain.

  AUGUST 1 – 03:53

  Winter plummeted. His arms flailing about, he kept falling ever further. Slowly to begin with, then gathering speed. With his bound legs he tried to stop himself somewhere. Hopeless. Gravity was pulling him inexorably into the depths.

  His head overtook his feet.

  Winter saw the ravine beneath the bridge.

  He saw the arch of the bridge from below.

  Greenish blocks of stone.

  Winter was spinning head over heels. The smooth black cliffs, the water and the orange stripe of sunlight flashed past his eyes. He’d expected that the final moments of his life would pass by in time-lapse. Winter sucked in the nature around him. The colours were brutally intense. The orange stripe on the horizon was dazzling, the wet cliffs, jet black. A verdant fir tree flew past. A Christmas tree? In summer? He closed his eyes.

  From his throat came an uncontrolled, guttural scream.

  It wasn’t a scream of fear but liberation. It was over and Winter was on his way. The water beneath him was steel blue, reflecting the morning sky. Winter felt relief. He would plunge into the water rather than being splattered into pulp on a rock.

  The only question was how deep the water was at this point. Generally you could wade through these little rivers. An image from his childhood popped into his mind. Once, on a school trip, they had to cross a knee-deep stream barefoot. The adolescent Winter had bravely supported the pretty girl who sat one row in front of him in class. The girl reminded Winter now of Anne. Anne laughing mischievously.

  Impact. His head plunged into the water, followed by his neck, shoulders and his back, with the message written on it. The water was cold and shot into his mouth and nose. Then Winter was yanked back. As he sailed up through the air, his first thought was: This must be the way to heaven. Turning his head, he saw that he was hanging from an elastic bungee rope.

  Winter laughed out loud in relief. He flew up about half the distance of his fall, before plummeting back down and diving into the water for a second time. He ended up hanging head first in the water. He could feel the flickering tension of the rope on his ankles. His lungs were empty from screaming. He didn’t want to drown. A gentle current pulled him under water, tugging on the rope.

  Tensing his stomach muscles, he held on tight to his trousers and pulled his head above water. Deep breath. His lungs filled with the morning air. The wet cliffs were still there. Far above him he saw the black strip of the bridge, but no sign of Max. The sky was bright.

  Winter tore the tape from his feet and hauled himself up. He untied the rope and let himself fall back down into the water. He was free. Saved. Winter stretched out his arms, manoeuvred himself beneath the bridge and waded ashore onto a small gravel beach. There will be barbecues here tonight, Winter thought. To celebrate Switzerland’s national day. Piss-up included.

  He inspected his freezing body. Abrasions on his wrists, neck and ankles, but no permanent damage. Most painful was his broken fingernail. Then he made an inventory. His keys and wallet were still there. They were wet, but Max hadn’t got his hands on them. Astonishingly his mobile phone was still in his coat too, but it wasn’t working any more. The electronics didn’t like the water.

  A biting wind blew through the ravine. Shivering, he climbed the steep footpath to the road. He carefully crept the last few metres through the thick undergrowth, but the bridge was empty. Max had stolen his car. Winter walked to the middle of the bridge, looked down and shuddered once more. The rope was hanging limply from the railings.

  His body frozen, Winter began jogging along the road. Perhaps a car would take him to the nearest station. But on August 1st nobody was driving to work. Apart from a dairy farmer on his way to the creamery. Cows didn’t have holidays.

  After about five minutes the terrain became flatter and soon afterwards the forest thinned out. The sun had just risen and was casting long shadows. The church spire of the nearest village was about two kilometres away. In the distance Winter could see a railway line and a road. He was back in civilisation. The rattle of a small motorbike sounded behind him, growing louder. A fat man in a long, black, leather coat chugged past with half a dozen shopping bags hanging from the handlebars.

  He jogged towards the village through yellow cornfields. Now the sun was warming him too. A bilingual place-name sign told him that he was somewhere near the border between French- and German-speaking Switzerland. Winter passed a farm and reached the heart of the village. A few stone houses, the ‘Hôtel du Cheval Blanc’, a post office, a small general store and a white chur
ch. Not a soul about. He would surely find a phone booth at the station.

  Winter was amazed to find his car beside the station shelter. How obliging of Max to park here. Either he’d been collected by an accomplice, or he’d simply jumped on a train. Winter circumspectly walked around his Audi. The bonnet was still warm. No visible traces on the tarmac outside the station. Winter peered under the car and carefully pulled the door handle. Locked. He put his hand between the right rear tyre and the mudguard and felt around. Luckily he had a spare key in a small metal box.

  Before Winter drove off he called Tibère from the payphone of the unattended station. There was no reply on his landline. He left a message, asking him to call back. Tibère’s mobile number wasn’t listed in directory enquiries and his damp mobile, where Tibère’s number was stored, wasn’t working. He’d try again later.

  Forty minutes later he was back home. The dry stem in his door frame was intact. Inside he took off his damp clothes, left his mobile and wallet out in the sun to dry, and went into the bathroom. Just as he was about to get into the shower he remembered his tattoo. Studying his shoulder blade in the mirror, he deciphered the smudged letters.

  ‘Keep out!’ underlined twice. Thinking back to Max and the bridge, Winter shuddered. He got out his digital camera and photographed his back. Then he had a long, warm shower. He was tired after the night he’d had. Although it was a public holiday Winter was unable to relax. He couldn’t reach Tibère on any of his three numbers. Winter left a message on each while making himself some coffee.

  He printed out the photos of his back, ate a substantial breakfast, filled sulky Tiger’s bowl and sat on the wooden balcony. The terrace beneath him still looked the same. Although it was only a few days ago that he’d been working on it, now it seemed like an eternity. After Anne’s death he was no longer in the mood to finish it. First he had to find out who had called her, and who had sent the love letter.