Chapter 9
Via Nazionale
MANFRED KESSEL turned to Karl Bretz. "Always remember the Fatherland, Karl. How can you be a true German if you do not put the future of the Fatherland first?"
Karl's response was to push Kessel backwards in anger. Kessel felt himself falling, but to his relief he ended up sprawled across the narrow hotel bed.
"Me be a true German, Herr Kessel?" Karl stood over him, sounding and looking threatening. "You've done nothing but shout at me since we came to this stupid place. My father said you were born a Jew. You're a Mischling!"
The accusation was explosive. "You'd better tell me what you mean, Karl!" Kessel stood up quickly, but kept his distance.
"It's common knowledge about you and your Jewish blood, Herr Kessel. You walk around as though you're a true German, but you're a bastard. A true Bastard. So don't keep on at me about failure."
Kessel stared at Karl, his dread of being found out finally realized. If it was common knowledge, as Karl claimed, how strange it was that he had never heard the whispers.
He responded warily. "Do you think I would have been entrusted with finding the relic -- of setting up the Shrine of Unity -- if what you're saying is true?"
"Entrusted?" Karl asked in derision. "No one in the ADR knows we're here. Phönix would have been thrilled to bits if you'd dropped the head of a Jew on his desk!"
"A Jew? Do you really think true Christians worship a Hebrew God? If God came to Earth, it wouldn't have been as a Jew!"
"All I know is that my father joked about you being Jewish, Herr Kessel. A Jewish Italian! Don't lecture me on being a true German, because I am one and you're not! In Ordnung -- all right!"
Kessel could only shake his head. "You've totally overstepped the line, Karl Bretz. I will personally make sure your insubordination is dealt with when we return to Germany."
KARL STORMED OUT of the hotel and crossed into the busy Via Nazionale. To be honest, he was glad to be shot of Herr Kessel for a couple of hours. It was time to be alone, to become familiar with the layout of the streets.
He doubted whether Herr Kessel had the power to cause trouble back in Germany, but he wished he'd not let himself be riled by the pompous old Narr. He wondered why he'd invented the bit about common knowledge. As far as he knew no one in the ADR had mentioned it -- but on several occasions his father had laughingly accused Herr Kessel of being a Jew, though not often to his face. It might be true. The man spoke Italian too well to be an Aryan.
Once he found the priest, he knew what to do. He even knew the exact words from the training manual. Find where the target lives, then keep watch. Study the target's movements, observe, and finally execute. They had trained him to be observant, and trained him to act on his observations. But the chances of recognizing Sartini amongst the million faces in Rome were ridiculous. Herr Kessel should contact Phönix immediately for expert help. A man like Phönix, a man at the top of Achtzehn Deutschland Reinigung, would be able to obtain an address for Sartini, using help within the Vatican. But the old Narr was definitely worried about Phönix. Obviously they shouldn't have come to Rome without his permission.
Away from the security of the cheap hotel, Karl walked with an unaccustomed feeling of anxiety, in spite of his size. The hotel rooms were cramped and stuffy, but at least there was safety there. He had no particular route in mind, and no interest at all in seeing the tourist sights of this crumbling city. He needed time to think. Perhaps someone had photographed him during the raid -- although the only pictures in the papers this morning showed the outside of TV Roma and the broken glass. It was like Kristallnacht come to Rome.
The red baseball cap and blue American sweatshirt, bought hurriedly by Herr Kessel in the local market early this morning, probably provided sufficient cover for now. Back in Düsseldorf, Karl knew that dressed like this he would stand out as an undesirable foreigner. In Rome he just blended in with all the stupid people.
The perspiration began to run down his back, making the horrible American clothing feel tight and uncomfortable. His old black T-shirt had been so light. He paused to look in a jeweler's window. He'd promised himself a gold ring with some of his father's money. His mother had immediately taken charge of it, but there had been an account she was not aware of. Copying his father's signature to get the money had been easy: the training weekends had shown how to do it.
On the opposite side of the street three men stood on the sidewalk out of the sun, tinkering with a black moped. A trickle of dark oil had run from the engine and was spreading slowly across the dusty sidewalk.
He watched the men's reflections in the window of the jeweler's. Was it possible the Italian carabinieri had put them there to spy on him? He continued looking in the window while the men joked amongst themselves. One of them lit a cigarette. Karl decided to walk on, but he'd take his time by playing the lethargic tourist. When he rounded the corner he stopped, positioning himself in a spacious doorway leading to a cool courtyard, unaware that it was already occupied.
DAVID SIMPSON was English, on holiday from Birmingham, and alone. After an overnight stay at the youth hostel he had come down to the center of Rome on the crowded, bright orange tram. Trams and buses were a brilliant way to travel, and he felt excited that he had managed to get around Rome all morning without buying a ticket -- an achievement high on his list of money-saving triumphs. He dumped his backpack on the ground and studied the map.
A large man in the bright clothes, dressed like an American, appeared without warning and began kicking against the backpack. As he started to open his mouth in protest, David Simpson noticed just how big the man looked. He allowed one more kick, then picked the backpack up.
"So sorry," he muttered. "I expect it was in your way." Discretion was the better part of velour, that's what his mother always said. It was discreet to leave this big ape alone. He swung the backpack onto one shoulder and walked off down the street, wondering just how cheaply he could get a meal round here.
KARL WATCHED THE thin man walk away. Another foreigner clogging up the streets, with a great big backpack to get in everyone's way. Stupid baggy shorts and brown woolen socks rolled down to the ankles. English for sure. Karl waited precisely three minutes, then returned to the jeweler's window. The men were still joking, and the moped was still dripping oil onto the ground.
He realized just how much he hated Rome -- and it was all Herr Kessel's fault. Kessel? The name had not always been Kessel. When his father had first brought Herr Kessel home, years ago, he had been using an Italian name. Enzo something. Yes, Enzo Bastiani.
So, Herr Kessel really was a sham -- a Mischling. Everyone in the ADR probably knew it; his father would certainly have known it. He could remember Herr Kessel's first visit, especially the blond hair and his ill-mannered lack of interest in the family. His father's Jewish joke was probably true.
Herr Kessel seemed to be a man haunted by the past, always reading about the war. He had been rambling on yesterday about battles between crack German troops and partisans in the Corso d'Italia. Perhaps Herr Kessel's Corso d'Italia was somewhere near. Without a map and unable to speak the language, there was little chance of finding it.
A McDonald's fast food restaurant must be somewhere close. That was the third advertizing sign he'd seen. Although not a great fan of their food, Karl knew that hamburgers would be easy to order just by pointing at the menu, and they probably tasted better than some of the unpalatable garbage being served in Rome's noisy bars.
Turning the corner again, following the McDonald's arrow, he glanced back. The three men were still standing, laughing together as they wiped their hands on an oily rag being passed around.
He felt puzzled by his own behavior. Attacking that security guard in the elevator had been stupid. He'd over-reacted, and over-reaction was something he'd been trained to avoid. Now he was worrying about three dozy Italians with a broken moped. He clenched his fists and tightened his arm muscles.
Suddenly he bec
ame aware he was on the Via Sistina, one of Herr Kessel's famous roads where Nazi troops had been stationed. All round here was real history. Herr Kessel had pointed out roads like the Via Sistina and the Via Tasso on the map. Never mind the shoddy Roman ruins, this could be what sightseeing was all about.
The men working on the bike had given him an idea. With transport of his own he could get from place to place, discovering where the German troops had been quartered, seeing for himself where the Nazis had been the imperial power in the heart of Rome. Possibly too much was made of past leaders. The future leaders would be stronger. After all, the Third Reich had not exactly been a major success.
The moped by the jeweler's would be useless, still leaking oil. But there must be others around, in perfect working order, just waiting to be requisitioned.
According to Herr Kessel, local Communists and radical left wingers had used bicycles down this very street to intimidate crack Nazi forces with home-made bombs. Feeble attempts to harass highly trained and organized troops. Bombs flung carelessly, doubtless missing their targets more often than not, and occasionally even landing back in the surprised cyclist's basket! Karl looked around, allowing himself a laugh at the idea of such incompetence.
His Göring dagger was tucked in his belt and hidden under his shirt. It would be fun finding Sartini and eliminating him. Disposing of the enemy would make the trip to this decaying city worth the trouble. It would also help redress the balance for screwing up the attack at the television studios last night, and destroying Herr Kessel's stupid relic. The priest had annoyed him, the way he'd stood there watching.
The plan was good -- and it would be poetic justice. The Italians had used bicycles to taunt the Nazis. Well, they probably did more than taunt them, because Herr Kessel said bicycles were quickly banned in Rome. Anyway, whatever they did, this time it would be a German on the bike, and he'd be assassinating an Italian -- an Italian priest.
To test the idea he needed a moped with the key still in it. A busy shopping area was the most likely place to look. At the bottom of a long flight of crowded steps, below an old church, the McDonald's restaurant came in sight at last, with tourists flocking in and out.
CARLO CARINI WAS just eighteen and considered himself better than moderately handsome. His girlfriend, his moped and his good looks were a source of pride -- though perhaps not in that order. In spite of being nearly twenty years old and having pedal assistance, the moped still looked almost new: a Piaggio Ciao, smart and black. He'd been saving for six months to get it, his first ever bike. It might be the basic model, long discontinued and second-hand, but it satisfied his one passion -- a passion for motion.
Marisa complained that he thought more of the bike than he did of her, but Carlo knew it was just the sort of thing Marisa would say. Now he had a way to impress her, and show off his prowess with the Ciao.
Marisa said she felt hungry. He bet her he could be on his bike, down the Via Barberini to the Piazza di Spagna, buy two hamburgers at McDonald's, and be back within ten minutes.
Marisa said she was bored with all this talk of two-stroke engines and automatic clutches, and hamburgers were definitely preferable to more chatter about mopeds. So she let him go. Carlo noted that Marisa even told him, being a generous and considerate girl, not to hurry.
KARL OBSERVED a dark haired teenager park an old black moped amongst a row of bikes, leaving the engine still running, and hurry into the crowded hamburger restaurant. He could eat later. He stepped forward and swung himself onto the broad saddle, pushing the bike off the stand while twisting the throttle fully open. Acceleration, even with pedal assistance from this underpowered machine, was hardly dramatic. But the wheels suited him admirably.
For a few minutes he cruised around the busy narrow streets, getting used to the balance of the machine. He had once seen a film were a man was killed by a rider on a bike. Karl felt impatient to try it out for himself. One street looked narrow and dark. Few people came down here. Wonderful. The fewer the better.
Trained by the ADR to observe and to react, he spotted a suitable target ahead. It was that skinny idiot with the shorts and brown socks. With the throttle wide, he cruised down the narrow alley.
DAVID SIMPSON still needed to find cheap food. Silently he cursed the guidebooks that never mentioned where to buy it. They seemed to assume that everyone wanted to waste money in high-class establishments. He examined the creased street map, left on the hall table by a previous resident at the hostel.
He glanced round at the rider in the blue shirt and red baseball cap. There was plenty of room for him to pass. He pulled the backpack closer to his feet, just to be sure.
Somewhere there must be an alimentari selling bread rolls and fatty but inexpensive prosciutto. Preferably a shop a little bit away from this high-priced tourist area. Yes, he could see one ahead.
The moped rider hit him hard in the back, sending him sprawling onto the uneven stones that made up the street. The blow was hard. It was also sharp. The pain went right through to his chest.
KARL SHOUTED ALOUD in delight. His strategy had worked. The English tourist had been so obliging, and the only witnesses were a party of women at the end of the street. As he reached them he realized that they had not even noticed what he'd done. He turned the bike and rode slowly back to the sprawling body. Blood was already oozing across the alley, like dark oil meandering through the dust.
He reached down and deftly retrieved his knife. He would wipe the handlebars of fingerprints and leave the bike a few streets away. When he was ready to kill the Priester, it would be easy to get another.
IN THE VIA Barberini, a dejected Carlo Carini was wandering slowly back to his apartment, wondering if life could possibly go on without a Piaggio Ciao. He knew he would be no company for Marisa this afternoon. And she hated cold hamburgers.
Shout in the Dark Page 13