“Erik!” Joanna screams. “What are you doing?” I admire her for having the nerve, even in this situation, to play along. The old man gives me a nod. “And what is Frau Reinhard’s address?”
I give him the name of a street where a casual acquaintance of mine lives, all the while hoping Gavin and his people will show up here as quickly as possible. These men here are going to check if Ela is in fact registered at the address I gave them. If they check online phone books, I can always claim she doesn’t have a landline in the house.
So they’ll have to drive over there. It will take maybe twenty minutes until they figure out I lied to them. If Gavin hasn’t shown up by then, it’ll get tight. But all will be lost by then anyway.
Gabor is still standing next to the old man, silent, staring daggers at me.
“Where do we go from here?” I ask, deliberately in his direction.
“I’ll tell you in two minutes,” the old man responds in his place.
I don’t understand. “Why two minutes?”
He doesn’t respond, but it isn’t necessary.
I realize that I’ve miscalculated when another young guy with close-cropped hair walks over to us. He’s holding a phone to his ear and speaking into it as he approaches. “Yes, understood,” he says quietly. “And that’s for certain? OK.”
He lowers the hand holding the phone and shakes his head, and the old man raises an eyebrow. “You’ve just forfeited one of your fiancée’s fingers, Herr Thieben. There’s no Manuela Reinhard living at that address, as a good friend at the police department just confirmed for us. Consequently, I would assume that the surname is not correct either.”
“No, that’s … that’s…” I start to say, not even knowing how to end the sentence. But it doesn’t matter, as one of the men steps up to Joanna. He has a pair of shears in his hand.
“No, wait, please,” I say, frantic now. “I’ll tell you the—” But I don’t get any further, because at that very second, the roll-up door explodes.
49
The bang is so painfully loud that at first I think someone has thrown an explosive charge into the building. But then I see the truck.
It has crashed through the closed entrance like an enormous, aggressive animal, tearing the gate to bits, and now it’s racing toward us, the motor revving.
I struggle against Lambert’s grip, which he has involuntary loosened. I just need to get away from here. Away. I no longer understand what’s happening; my instincts have taken over; the panic gives me enough strength to pull myself free.
But the momentum of breaking free makes me stumble. And then there’s another deafening bang that fills the building, and seconds later someone crashes to the floor, half next to me, half on top of me.
Lambert. His eyes half-open, unseeing. Blood is spurting out of a hole in his skull, just above his right eye.
I should be happy that he’s dead and I am, but the sight of him, his lifeless face so close to mine, is unbearable. I try to wriggle out from under him, but in vain. My hands are still tied behind my back, it’s useless, I can’t get away. I feel the scream rising in my throat.
The building is filled with other screams, part fearful, part … commanding. And in my native language.
It slowly dawns on me what the appearance of the truck could mean: That it’s my people, Gavin and his team, that Erik must have somehow managed to inform them.
Yes. Gavin’s first shot would certainly have been at the person who posed the most direct threat to my life. He must’ve immediately seized the opportunity as long as there was no more danger he might hit me.
Gabor has raised his arms into the air, and is trying to explain in clumsy English that he has nothing to do with any of this, but Gavin pays no attention to him, he’s running toward me—and the very next moment I realize why.
Someone yanks my head back. Something hard and cold is pressed against my throat. “Stay where you are,” the man kneeling over me bellows. I can’t see him, but I think it’s the same man who was holding the shears. “One step closer and I’ll slit her throat.”
His English is almost perfect, and Gavin reacts immediately. He freezes midmovement, raises both hands. He’s still holding his weapon in one of them.
“Well done, Becker.” Von Ritteck goes slowly over to Gavin, and I hate the fact that I’m the reason he has to stand there, motionless, and watch the old man pull out his pistol. He aims at it Gavin, who still doesn’t move a muscle.
Von Ritteck cocks his head in approval. “Take a look at that, men,” he says, turning to his people. “That’s loyalty. This man doesn’t even hesitate to die in order to fulfill his mission. Head held high. My respect. I wish I had one of his kind among my ranks.”
I’ve no idea if Gavin understands anything of what von Ritteck is saying. But I’m totally sure that he hasn’t given up yet. Neither on my life nor his.
With every breath, I feel the blade against my neck more. I try to fight back the idea of how it would feel for it to cut, first through the skin, then through blood vessels and tendons …
One way or the other, it was going to happen. Von Ritteck had made it clear that he would let neither Erik nor me live. And now the same fate is in store for Gavin and his people.
I can see two of them. One of them is just behind Gavin, the other is by the truck.
Get in and run over everybody, I think. Don’t worry about me or Erik or anyone.
If Erik was even still alive, that is. I can’t see him anywhere. Maybe he’s lying unconscious behind one of the forklifts. Or between the piled-up pallets.
I haven’t yet finished the thought when a whistle blows through the building. At that moment, one of the shelving units in the building tips over, teetering toward us, but especially toward von Ritteck, who notices it a little later than I do.
He jumps to the side, quicker than I would have thought him capable of, and Gavin dives in the opposite direction, bringing himself closer to me—and at the same moment, the blade is gone from my throat. The hand of the man who was holding onto me goes slack, he slumps to the floor, his head dented in on the left.… The shears slip out of his fingers.
Although I know that I should jump up now and find cover, I can’t manage it. It’s as though my body were made of concrete and time was molten lead—I’m aware of the fact that everything around me is happening at breakneck speed, but every detail still embeds itself in my mind.
The shelving unit buries Christoph Bartsch beneath it, right in front of my eyes. The man who, according to Gabor, had failed in relation to me. Then we’d have a killer here with us.
Two of Gavin’s people shoot at the men who are covering von Ritteck, while the old man himself calmly sets his walking stick aside and checks the contents of his revolver.
Then there’s a hand on my shoulder. Someone grabs me under the arms, tries to pull me up. “Come on, Jo. Quickly.” Erik, it’s Erik. I turn around, see his pale face. In his right hand he’s holding something that looks like an automobile jack. There are hairs stuck to one end of it.
“Please.” He puts down the jack and pulls me up a little. “We have to find cover, quickly.”
The shears, I want to take the shears, it could be useful to have some sort of weapon, but my hands are still tied.
As if Erik understood me without any words, he reaches for them, lifts me onto my feet, and pulls me behind one of the large piles of crates.
More gunshots, this time followed by screams. Can no one outside hear this? Someone has to be hearing it!
“Hold still.” Erik grabs my hands, and suddenly they’re free. I can’t feel them still, but I can see them. Blue and red and swollen. My wrists are chafed raw and bloody.
Erik lets the cable tie he’s cut fall to the floor. “Those assholes,” he whispers.
More gunshots. This time there are no screams.
But there is … a metallic grinding sound. Not in front of us, but behind us. One of the gates to the ramps is slowly going up,
although only halfway.
An escape route. If we can make it out there, we can call for help.
Have von Ritteck’s people noticed? Can they see it too, from their position?
A black shadow dashes past the half-open gate. Reinforcements from this ominous-sounding squadron maybe, paramilitary fighters, against whom Gavin’s team wouldn’t stand a chance.
If they come through the gate, they’ll see Erik and me right away.
“We need a new hiding place.” Without waiting for Erik’s response, I squeeze through the crates, which have been stacked to form something resembling lanes … and from here I can see Gavin again. He’s entrenched himself behind the crates with two of his people; they’re conferring quietly—do they even have any ammunition left? And if they don’t, how long will it take for their opponents to realize?
No one has pulled Bartsch out from beneath the shelves. One of the heavy crates is covering his body from the waist down, blood is oozing out of his mouth, but he’s still alive. Trying weakly to push away the ton of weight that’s slowly crushing him.
And then suddenly they’re there. Without any sign, without warning.
“Attack,” somebody roars, and the special police commando swarms the building like a horde of black ants.
They barely meet with any resistance. Gavin and his people immediately lay down on the floor with their hands behind their head, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Gabor does the same. Only one of von Ritteck’s men tries to flee, through the hole made by the truck. Three policemen set off in pursuit.
The only glimmer of calm in the middle of all the chaos is the old man. He looks at the policemen with a smile, still holding his pistol in his hand. The machine guns which are pointed at him clearly don’t impress him.
“Drop your weapon!” bellows one of the special unit people.
“Of course,” says von Ritteck. “Just a moment, please.”
He glances over at the dead Lambert, then at the man who Erik attacked. A jolt goes through his body, as if he were standing at attention, as if he’s about to salute. “The seed I’ve planted will grow regardless,” he says. “For Germany.”
In one quick motion he lifts the pistol, puts it in his mouth, and pulls the trigger—simultaneously, the police open fire on him.
I turn away. The seed I’ve planted will grow regardless. We’re going to have so much to explain, Erik and me.
The battle ends almost as quickly as it began. The policemen drag all of von Ritteck’s collaborators out of the building. An officer from the police unit comes toward us. “You’re Joanna Berrigan? Erik Thieben?”
“Yes.” Erik stretches out his hands, palms up. “We’re unarmed. Both of us.”
The man makes sure of it himself, before nodding toward the open gate. “Go outside, you’ll be looked after there.”
Yes, and I have to take care of Gavin and his people. Are they all alive? Will they get into trouble for saving me? I have no idea how legal it was, what they did.
But first …
“I have to speak to the man who’s lying under the shelving unit,” I say. In a friendly tone, without any hint of bossiness or arrogance. “Please. It’s very important.”
The special unit guy shakes his head. “Under no circumstances. We have orders to empty the building immediately.”
“Please.” I put all the despair that has filled me for days into this one word. “I have to understand why all this happened to me, and I think he knows. Please give me the chance to talk to him.”
The man glances over his shoulder, toward one of his colleagues, who nods briefly.
“OK. It will be a little while anyway until we can get hold of a crane that will be able to lift the crate off of him. It doesn’t look good for him.” He hesitates. “You can speak to him briefly, but only in my presence.”
Gabor is led past; his gaze flits over us. He must know what’s awaiting him. Erik and I are alive. We know what really happened at Munich station, but will we be able to prove it all? So much of what has happened could be explained differently. What we have to tell sounds so improbable that I’m sure Gabor’s lawyers would take great pleasure in tearing every sentence apart.
And then what?
Simply going back into the building is harder for me than I thought. But none of the four dead bodies I can see are my father’s people.
From outside, I can hear the sirens of a whole fleet of emergency vehicles as I kneel down next to Bartsch. His face is waxy and white, his cheeks drawn; his breathing is shallow and fitful, but I think he recognizes me.
The thought of demanding something from a dying man seems repugnant, but this is my only opportunity. “Dr. Bartsch?” I wait until his eyes meet mine. “Please. Please, if you can, tell me what happened. What’s wrong with me. You know, don’t you?”
No reaction, at first. Then a tiny, barely visible nod. I lean over closer to him.
“The ambulance is here now,” says the policeman behind me. “You have to go.”
“Yes. Of course. Right away.”
Bartsch’s lips move. His voice is barely a whisper. “Forget it,” he says. He almost smiles, as if he had made a joke. “You forgot so much already. Forget this too.”
“Please,” I say, a little too loud. “Please don’t do this to me.”
There’s something wet in his breath. As though he’s sucking in air and water at the same time. “It’s a shame,” he whispers, “that I won’t live to see you kill him after all. Because you will.”
50
I’m standing in front of a police van and Joanna’s a few feet away, just inside the sliding door of an emergency vehicle, sitting on the floor. A woman wearing an orange paramedic’s jacket has draped a blanket over her shoulders and is talking to her in a calm voice.
There are dark streaks and marks all over Joanna’s face. Dirt and blood, mixed with tears, smudged all over her cheeks and forehead. Her hair is pasted to her head in strands. Something inside me is screaming to go over and take her into my arms. To press her against me, so tightly that I can feel her with every fiber of my being. To close my eyes and let the liberating certainty wash over us that we came through it, that we survived.
“Over here please, Herr Thieben.” One of the two detectives who led me over to the police vehicle points inside it. He’d introduced himself as Chief König. “Let’s take a drive.”
“What about my fiancée?” I ask, gesturing over toward Joanna. The policeman follows my gaze.
“She’s still being treated, but you’ll see her later at the station.”
I take a demonstrative step back and shake my head. “No, I’ll wait for her.”
The second man, a somewhat portly, half-bald detective whose name I’ve forgotten, puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s too firm to be a friendly gesture.
“That wasn’t a request, even if my colleague put it politely. Get in the car now. Frau Berrigan will be brought to the station shortly.”
I want to tell the man that I’m sick and tired of being ordered around. That he should take a moment to imagine what we’ve just been through, and that he can take his orders and shove them where the sun don’t shine. Just a second later, though, I remind myself that we were just involved in a shooting that resulted in numerous casualties, and that these men probably saved our lives.
My eyes remain fixed on Joanna. “All right, but I’d at least like to go and see her quickly.”
“Hurry up then,” König says before the portly man can answer.
Joanna gets up as I approach. The blanket slides off her shoulders, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She just stands there, looking at me. We embrace, caress each other. Hold each other in silence. Sometimes you don’t need words.
Joanna breaks away from me and touches her hand to my cheek. A semblance of a smile flits over her face. You can go, it probably means. Everything’s OK now.
* * *
When we get to the station, the two officers take me to a somberly
furnished room and offer me a cup of coffee. Once a young man has set down the steaming cup in front of me and left again, they ask me to tell them, in sequence, what happened, and especially what I know about the bombing at Munich station.
I start with the evening when Joanna suddenly didn’t recognize me anymore. I do, however, understate the seriousness of the situation by quite a bit. My fear that Joanna could be shipped off to a mental institution is still there.
The two men constantly interrupt me with questions. Can I say any more about this or that; why don’t I take a moment and think again carefully. What part do I think Gabor played in the whole affair, and do I know who von Ritteck is. Whether I witnessed any part of the shootout in the warehouse. Did Gavin and his people open fire, or simply react to the shots the other men fired. From time to time, they exchange unreadable glances.
Once I’ve finished giving my account, they take turns asking even more questions. Why didn’t I contact the police earlier, and why did I fake my own death.
As I’m explaining our motivations, the door opens and Joanna comes in accompanied by a woman with black hair. The woman puts a folder on the table and leaves the room again.
Joanna, too, is given a mug of coffee, and right away she cups it with both hands. Just as she always does.
She must have had an opportunity to wash; her face doesn’t look as dirty as it did outside the warehouse.
The half-bald officer leafs through the folder with obvious interest. Pullmann. Now I remember. His name is Pullmann. After a while, he tosses the folder back onto the table in front of him and scrutinizes Joanna. “So, why don’t you tell me about when you saw Herr Thieben standing there in your house and you no longer recognized him.”
My folded hands clench up under the table. Hopefully Joanna will say the same thing I did.
“I don’t really remember in detail anymore,” she starts, giving me a quick glance. “It was very strange. But it subsided again fairly quickly.” Thank goodness.
They repeat a few of the questions which they’ve asked me, then they want to know about the Australians.
Strangers Page 32