Where Dead Men Meet

by Mark Mills

  “It’s just the way it is.”

  “But not the way it has to be.”

  Petrovic held him in his steady gaze. “Go on.”

  “You want to do their bidding for the rest of your life? If you take that case and walk out of here, I won’t stop you.”

  “Run off with it?” Petrovic appeared amused by the notion. “I thought you said you needed the money.”

  “Not if it allows you a new start.”

  Petrovic snorted derisively. “You really don’t know me, do you?”

  “Oh I think I do. I just wanted to be sure exactly what I was dealing with.”

  Petrovic’s face was a frozen mask. “Let’s order. And then let’s talk about what’s going to happen when Hamilton does show up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Pippi had been gone for almost twenty minutes, and Luke was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy. Hirschenplatz was a stone’s throw away. She should have been back by now.

  He twisted in his pew as the main door of the church groaned open on dry hinges. An elderly woman, bent with the weight of years, crossed herself with holy water and shuffled off down the nave, toward the altar.

  The church had been Pippi’s idea. A man sitting alone in a parked car on a hot afternoon was likely to attract attention, and it was possible that Borodin had turned up early thinking to steal a march on them. Pippi had told Luke to stay put and be patient. It was easy enough at first, taking in the austere yet graceful majesty of the interior, before his mind had turned—inevitably, perhaps, given the spiritual nature of his surroundings—to Sister Agnes.

  Bowing his head, he had shaped a silent prayer, bypassing her God and speaking directly to her, apologizing for the unwitting part he had played in her death, and appealing to her for help.

  The most she had been able to offer him was a memory of the framed needlepoint sampler hanging above the fireplace in her room at the orphanage, with its line from Saint Paul’s Letter to the Romans:

  We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope.

  Tribulations he had aplenty, but there was no sign yet of the benefits promised by Paul. In fact, his patience was all but used up. Another glance at his wristwatch. Clearly, something had gone wrong. He should have insisted on going in Pippi’s place.

  Rising to his feet, he made for the end of the pew. He was a few yards shy of the main door when it swung open and Pippi appeared, silhouetted against the sunlight. She was wearing the wide-brimmed sun hat and dark glasses they had bought before leaving Luzern—not much of a disguise, but better than nothing.

  “I was getting worried.”

  “I found a room,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

  “I’ll get the suitcases.”

  “No, they should stay in the car. We might have to leave quickly.”

  A couple without luggage meant only one thing to a hotelier, and Pippi, fearing that she would lose the room, had informed the concierge that she was traveling alone and her bags had been delayed.

  “We’ll find a way to get you in,” she assured Luke.

  In size and general appearance, the grandly named Hotel Excelsior was more of a guesthouse really, not that Luke had much opportunity to take in the details as he strolled nonchalantly across the lobby toward the stone staircase. Pippi had entered a minute earlier and now had the concierge bent over their street map, his back to the entrance.

  Luke waited nervously on the second-floor landing until she joined him with the key. Number seven was a musty little box of a room, sparsely (and shabbily) furnished. What mattered, though, was the view through the French windows that gave onto their small balcony. Hirschenplatz was laid out beneath them. They had noted earlier when examining the street map that the long, narrow square had seven thoroughfares running in and out, which suggested that Borodin hadn’t settled on the venue by chance. He was thinking of his getaway.

  Pippi released the gauzy net curtains from their ties so that they could survey while not being observed. She then took the field glasses, also purchased in Luzern, from her bag and handed them to Luke.

  Four cafés served the square: one just below them to the left; two side by side, also on the left; and another, drenched in sunlight, at the far end. Café Glück, where Luke was due to meet Borodin in just over an hour, was the farther of the two adjacent cafés. It had a mustard awning and tin tables scattered across the cobbles in front. A steady stream of pedestrians filtered through the square, many of them tourists, judging from the number of cameras hanging from straps around necks.

  “I’ve been thinking. Let me go instead.”

  Pippi’s words caught him off guard. “That’s out of the question.”

  “He won’t be expecting it.”

  “No, and there’s no knowing how he’d react.”

  “It’s a public place. What can he do to me?”

  “I’d never put you in the line of fire, and that’s the end of it.”

  Borodin insisted on paying for lunch. “Although, of course, it’s really the Karamans who are paying,” he added wryly. Then his tone shifted. “I need to know it’s over between them and me once you have what you want.”

  “You know I can’t promise that.”

  “Then tell them they had better not miss the first time, or I’ll come looking for them.”

  “I’ll pass the message on.” Petrovic’s smile held a tinge of sneer.

  “No one is invulnerable. They know that, even if you don’t. So yes, be sure to pass it on.”

  They had been almost absurdly polite with each other up until now, reminiscing at length about their experiences in Paris, when not addressing more pragmatic concerns, such as the yarn they should spin for Hamilton to win his trust and persuade him to leave with Petrovic. Borodin took it as a given that Petrovic would try to kill him as soon as he had his hands on Hamilton, but there was nothing to gain from broaching the subject. The endgame was almost upon them; the moves and countermoves would begin playing themselves out the moment they left the restaurant.

  This had to occur at exactly ten minutes past three, because that was when the taxi arranged by Andrej would be waiting to pick them up out front.

  “We have a choice,” said Borodin. “It’s a short walk to the funicular that climbs to the Waldhaus Dolder Hotel, or we can take a taxi.”

  “That’s where we’re meeting him?”

  “There’s no harm in telling you now. He knows not to show himself if I don’t appear.”

  “You decide,” said Petrovic. “It makes no difference to me whether we take the funicular or not.” He finished his coffee, then excused himself and made for the toilet, as Borodin suspected he might. The information he had just received was far too valuable to sit on, and he needed to find a way to get it into the hands of his accomplices.

  There would be two of them at most—Petrovic had always believed in keeping things simple—and it was safe to assume they had a car. If they happened to be on foot, the second taxi would come into play, picking them up and ensuring that it lost the first in the back streets.

  As they stepped from the restaurant, the taxi appeared on cue from the side street where it had been lurking, and headed down the hill toward Pradeplatz. Borodin whistled and waved his walking stick. The driver swung a turn and pulled up in front of them.

  “The Waldhaus Dolder Hotel, please.”

  Borodin made sure he climbed in first and settled down behind the driver, Günther, because that was where he had sat a few hours earlier, with Andrej standing in for Petrovic, when they had adjusted the wing and rearview mirrors so that Borodin would have two views back down the street without having to turn his head. What he saw reflected as the taxi made off was a car pulling up in front of the restaurant, and the driver hurrying out to recover something from the pave
ment: a note, no doubt, surreptitiously dropped by Petrovic. It was impossible to make out the man’s face, but his lightness of foot, so at odds with his stocky physique, rang a familiar and unsettling bell. Jestin. Petrovic may have brought only one associate with him, but he had chosen wisely.

  The taxi turned right off Rämistrasse into Stadelhoferstrasse, and although there was no sign yet of the tailing car, Borodin began to relax only when he saw Andrej at the wheel of the lorry parked up ahead. As soon as they had passed by, a fleeting look in the rearview mirror afforded a glimpse of the lorry swinging out from the pavement. Andrej was about to perform a series of torturously slow turning maneuvers that would block the street for a good while, allowing them to get clean away.

  Günther picked a winding path through the residential streets of Hottingen, climbing the hill toward the hotel.

  “Are we being followed?” asked Borodin.

  “No, we’ve lost him,” Günther replied.

  “Then you can head for the Old Town now.”

  Petrovic’s cold eyes flicked between them, the realization dawning that he had just been outmaneuvered.

  “I’m sure Jestin will appreciate the view from the Dolder,” said Borodin. “It’s really quite spectacular.” Petrovic glared at him. “Oh, come now, Tibor, don’t look so glum. You’ll get what you’ve come for; I just didn’t want any complications.” He discreetly pulled the revolver from his pocket. “Which is why I’d be happier if you hand over your weapon. Slowly, please.”

  The thoughts crashed over Luke like waves. What if Borodin didn’t appear? What if he was now dead from the gunshot wound he’d received in Paris? Or maybe the Karamans had found him and dealt with him. Or maybe Borodin never had any intention of keeping the meeting in the first place. There were any number of reasons why today could come and go and Luke would be none the wiser about who he was.

  “Stop doing that,” said Pippi, on duty at the window, with the field glasses.

  “What?”

  “Walking around—it’s annoying.”

  “I don’t think he’s coming. He’s dead, I’m sure of it.”

  Pippi turned. “Well, he looks good for a dead man.”

  “It’s him?”

  She handed Luke the field glasses. It was indeed Borodin, and he wasn’t alone. The other man was younger, well dressed, with sandy-colored hair. They settled down at one of the tables in front of the café.

  “Do you recognize the other man?” said Pippi.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “I still think you should let me go.”

  “Never.” He handed her the field glasses and then the Browning. “You can watch my back.”

  He was reaching for the door handle when she said, “Luke …” Her voice had a slight tremor.

  He nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  He was calm almost to the point of numbness as he made his way down the staircase. Borodin knew. Borodin carried the answers in his head. And Borodin was sitting at a table just across the square.

  The man was well past him before Wilke realized who it was.

  Hamilton. Yes.

  He sank a little lower in his chair, peering over the top of his newspaper. The tall Englishman was walking toward the café with a sense of purpose—something between a stroll and a stride. So young Erwin had not been lying to buy himself a bit more time. He had come up with the goods. He might even have earned himself a reprieve.

  Wilke reached for the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray and drew on it deeply, satisfyingly. Friedrich had relented, allowing him the honor of pulling the trigger, and was content to observe from a ringside seat. When it was done, they would disappear together in the chaotic aftermath. He knew he would feel cheated by the necessary speed of the thing, so why not sit a while and soak up the anticipation, the pleasure of observing the prey?

  Besides, there was nothing to be done immediately. A policeman had drifted into view at the far end of the square: a foot soldier, the lowest of the low, there only to provide directions to disoriented tourists. It was a minor inconvenience; he would move on before long.

  Borodin was stirring sugar into his coffee when Hamilton appeared at their table. He looked different. It wasn’t just the sunglasses; it was the face beneath them: drawn, gaunt, haunted.

  “Hello, Luke. How have you been?”

  “Oh, you know, better.”

  He dropped into a chair and cast a wary look at Petrovic.

  “This is Didier, a friend of mine from Belgium.”

  “He doesn’t look Belgian.”

  “And you don’t look English,” Petrovic replied.

  “I don’t know what I am,” said Hamilton, catching Borodin’s eye on the oblique.

  He knew. But how had he worked it out? With Pippi’s assistance? It was a pleasing thought.

  “What’s in the case?” Hamilton demanded.

  “Money, from our friend here,” Petrovic replied.

  “For you?”

  “For us,” said Petrovic. “We have to hide.”

  “From whom?”

  “I still don’t know,” said Borodin. “It’s more complicated than I thought.”

  “It’s certainly a hell of a lot more complicated than you led me to believe,” said Hamilton pointedly, almost aggressively.

  “I had my reasons.”

  “I can’t wait to hear them.” Hamilton turned to Petrovic. “No offense, Didier, but there are some things I need to clarify before I go skipping off with you.”

  Petrovic shrugged. “I understand, but I am not your enemy.” He offered Hamilton his hand. “I give you my word.”

  Borodin had to hand it to Petrovic: the line was perfectly pitched—subdued to the point of shyness, heartfelt, utterly convincing. But when he saw their hands come together—the innocent and his executioner—it struck him with the sudden force of a slap what he would do.

  He just needed a moment to assimilate the enormity of the decision, to weigh its many consequences.

  “Let’s get you a drink,” he said to Hamilton. “Then I’ll explain.”

  He turned and waved to their solemn-eyed waiter.

  Wilke had been this close to Borodin before now, but he had never actually set eyes on him. That night at the lake, he had heard him arrive in the car, heard his voice as the paintings were unloaded, then heard him drive off. He was much as Erwin had described him: still slim for a man his age, and with a full head of silver hair. As for the younger man seated to Hamilton’s right, an unnerving stillness about him suggested that he moved in the same shady circles as Borodin.

  The purpose of their business with Hamilton was no concern of his. It only mattered that they were here, probably armed, and therefore posed a significant threat. He hadn’t warned Friedrich that Hamilton might well not be the only casualty; his brother would have balked at the notion that others unconnected with Stefan’s death should also lose their lives.

  It had to happen, though, and there was nothing to gain from waiting any longer. The policeman had wandered out of view, and that was good enough.

  It was almost nothing—a snatch of movement at the very edge of Pippi’s vision, down below and to the left. The crisp, efficient manner in which the man sitting at the table in front of the café folded his newspaper was what drew her eye.

  His back had been turned to her all along, but as he swiveled in his chair and clicked his fingers to summon the waiter, she caught a brief glimpse of his jawline below the brim of his panama hat.

  She felt panic grip her throat. It couldn’t be. How was it possible? Kapitän Wilke? She must be imagining it.

  She stood still as a statue, her eyes boring into the man, begging for another view of his face. It came as he was settling the bill with t
he waiter.

  Snatching up her handbag and the Browning, she ran for the door.

  Luke was puzzled. Borodin had fallen strangely silent since ordering a beer for him from the waiter. He didn’t really want a beer, but it would come in a glass, which would serve as a far better weapon than a coffee cup should things turn nasty.

  “I’m waiting,” he said.

  Borodin nodded a couple of times, then turned to Didier. “Tell him.”

  “Tell him?”

  “Yes, tell him the truth. He doesn’t trust me. I want him to hear it from you.”

  Didier shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m giving you a choice. Jestin is high on the hill over there, you’re alone, and there’s a rifle pointed at your head.”

  What was he talking about? Who the hell was Jestin? And what rifle? Had Luke misunderstood, or did Borodin just turn against the man he had introduced as his friend?

  “I don’t believe you,” said Didier.

  Borodin held his coffee cup out over the cobblestones. “All I have to do is drop it, and you’re dead.” He feinted, as though to let the cup fall from his fingers, and Didier instinctively stretched out a hand.

  “You can start by telling him who he is,” said Borodin.

  At that moment, the waiter swept down on them and deposited a glass of beer in front of Luke. “May I get you anything else, gentlemen?” he asked breezily.

  Closing in on the café, Wilke checked his stride to allow the waiter time to move away from their table.

  He saw clearly how it would happen. The others first—swift, clinical shots to the heart—then a brief word to Hamilton, loud enough for Friedrich to hear: “This is for Stefan, my nephew.” He wanted the Englishman to know why.

  “Kapitän Wilke?” came a well-spoken female voice from behind him. “Can that really be you?”

  God in heaven! Now? Really? What were the odds?

  Turning, he realized too late that he had been completely deceived by the warm, familiar lilt in the woman’s voice.