Tretjak

by Max Landorff

  Charlotte had read the text and then asked Paul why he had given it to her. ‘Don’t ask me why,’ he had said curtly. ‘“Why” lost its meaning for me a long time ago.’

  Her mobile buzzed. I am here. Paul.

  Charlotte left the lobby and got into his car, an old blue Volvo, always pretty dirty and messy. This time he had at least cleared the passenger seat.

  ‘You look nice,’ Paul said.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘so do you.’ Which was not the case. As always, he was wearing old jeans and a washed-out denim shirt. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He obviously hadn’t had a good night.

  If you wanted you could indeed find parallels between their family histories. Charlotte Poland and Paul Tretjak both felt they were the offenders: their failures in the upbringing of their sons had made them into what they were now. And they both felt that they were victims too: their sons had taken revenge. The way the sons had taken revenge, however, could not be more different. The little Lars had cast his mother into a psychological hell by developing into a totally immoral and at the same time extremely dangerous human being. He had turned into a constant accusation. Gabriel Tretjak had chosen a more direct version of revenge: he had destroyed his father’s life. One could not really put it any other way.

  One evening at the Lago Maggiore, in a pretty village called Maccagno, he had told her the story. They sat in the garden of a restaurant, ate pasta and drank wine – a lot of wine. Paul called the restaurant ‘The Evil’, not for any metaphysical reason but merely because he had not been served there once, when it had been closed for a private party or something like that. He loved that restaurant, and Charlotte Poland had come to love it too. ‘The Evil’ was the perfect place to experience the particular atmosphere resulting from the special, idiosyncratic clientele that frequented the joint.

  A few years after Paul Tretjak had left his family in Bolzano he had settled in the Bavarian town of Bad Tölz, about 80 kilometres from Munich. He had opened an inn with a few rooms, its own trout lake and a wonderful view of the mountains. Next to it, he built a miniature golf course and a tennis court. He got involved in local politics in Bad Tölz, and was even elected to the town council. Not that he was particularly interested in politics, but he realised that you could only prosper in the hotel trade if you knew exactly what was happening when and where. In Bolzano he had not been engaged enough. And it worked, business was booming. Paul Tretjak had a new capable partner – and a lover besides her, of course.

  This idyllic situation, however, was shattered one day when on 15 September 1990 the following headline appeared in a Munich tabloid: Hotelier From Tölz Abuses Six-Year-Old! Innkeeper Paul T. sexually abused the innocent little Julia, who was staying in his hotel with her parents. In addition, it had been ascertained that he had several bank accounts, which showed six-figure transactions, allegedly from arms deals with Serbia, the country of his birth. Sex with children and dealing in weapons – Paul Tretjak had to close his hotel immediately. The media and several curious onlookers were camping outside the inn. The mayor came by personally to suggest that he should step aside from his council duties for the time being. Most of the others didn’t speak to him at all. The report also named his lover. His partner had immediately moved out.

  Two days after the publication of the tabloid article his son Gabriel showed up. Paul hadn’t seen him for years – he looked very elegant in his suit and shiny polished leather shoes. ‘I have come to make a proposal,’ Gabriel Tretjak said. He placed an envelope on the table. ‘In here is the DNA proof that you indeed abused the child. And evidence that you are up to your neck in the arms deals. You can study everything.’

  In that moment, Paul told Charlotte, he lost it, he was furious. ‘What are you talking about, what evidence? I never had sex with a six-year-old, madness, all of it! Arms deals, what arms deals?’

  His son reacted very coolly: he could be sure that the case was absolutely watertight. And then Gabriel added: ‘If I remember correctly, the truth never played any particular role in your life. What is true and what is not, that doesn’t matter to you, does it?’

  And then came his offer: here are the keys to a small house on the Lago Maggiore, beautifully situated, it can be reached on foot, ‘you’ll like it.’ The rent is paid until the end of your life. And here is a deposit account with a little money. Gabriel Tretjak made it very clear for him: if he accepted, the case in Germany would be dismissed, the accusation found to be untenable. ‘If, however, you ever decide to leave this house for a long period of time and try to live somewhere else, I will pass this evidence on to the police and the press. You have until tomorrow morning to think about my offer.’

  Gabriel Tretjak went to the door without saying good-bye. Paul Tretjak had remained seated and had said: ‘Can you please explain to me why you are doing this?’

  ‘Yes,’ his son answered without turning around, ‘I can. I want to make sure that you disappear from my life forever. And it gives me a good feeling that this time I will know where you are.’ That had been the last time they had seen each other. Or to be precise: the last time he had seen his son’s back, and then the door closing behind him.

  When Paul Tretjak had finished his story, he ordered two more grappas, a double for himself. ‘Now you know what kind of a man I really am. I have been dead for a long time. A puppet, hanging on strings pulled by my vengeful son. I am an impotent puppet.’

  From that moment on Charlotte Poland felt a great connection with Tretjak. She knew how it felt to be a puppet, to hang on the strings pulled by her son. And she liked this new perspective on Paul Tretjak. Up until then, she had seen him mainly as a slightly aged flirt: now there was this sense of tragedy about him, a depth to his demeanor which bore the inevitable hopelessness.

  They drove into Munich on the Garmischer motorway. On the final approach one could see the steeples of the Church of Our Lady grow bigger and bigger. The motorway headed directly towards this Munich landmark, a nice touch of the motorway planners. Approaching something: maybe that was what was getting to Charlotte Poland. The situation had some of the feeling of a Hollywood Western, she thought. They were letting their two sons approach each other, until they came to a showdown. Alright, she thought, maybe that is a little exaggerated, the comparison was almost embarrassing. But who cared, she liked this kind of dramatic situation.

  They didn’t talk much as they drove on the motorway. Once Charlotte asked Paul about his new girlfriend. Very young, not even 30. He had talked about her before. ‘How is it going with your young princess?’ ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I think she loves me. It is just beautiful when we are together.’ And then he became emotional: ‘She is immensely intense and somehow...’

  ‘Don’t say: somehow vulnerable,’ she interrupted him.

  ‘... like a deer...’

  They both had to laugh, and then they were quiet.

  The first appointment was at a bank, the Sendlinger Strasse branch. It once had been a long-established Munich financial institution, which merged with another and in the end was swallowed up by an Italian mega-bank. Charlotte Poland’s appointment was at 4pm, a meeting with a financial advisor called Borbely. Mr Borbely had no idea that this was going to be a special kind of conversation: he had been told to expect a wealthy woman who wanted to invest some of her money. Mr Borbely was small and pudgy, and his handshake was spongy. They sat down in a small meeting room.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Poland?’

  ‘I want to get straight to the point. I am here because of my son. You know him, he is 14 and his name is Lars. He has disappeared and I want him back. And fast.’

  Mr Borbely cleared his throat. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please excuse me, but there has to be a mistake.’

  ‘Mr Borbely, I am very worried and not interested in playing any games. I will make a deal with you. If my son stands in front of me by midday tomorrow I will pay you 10,000 euros. If not I will inform your bank about your
extra-curricular activities.’

  ‘I think, Mrs Poland, we should end this conversation right here.’ The pudgy man tried to sound very hard. ‘I don’t understand a single word you are talking about.’

  ‘Alright, Mr Borbely. If that’s the case, then I would like to see your manager to talk about account 678678678.’

  The pudgy man turned soft again. ‘Please, Mrs Poland, I didn’t mean to appear unfriendly. Where can I reach you tomorrow morning?’

  When she was back outside in the Volvo she said to Paul: ‘What on earth has this guy to do with my son?’

  ‘There are people who claim that 50 percent of the drug trade in this town involves this man. I too would also prefer if Lars had nothing to do with him.’

  She looked at him: ‘Who learned from whom? Your son from you or you from your son?’

  He did not answer. They drove on. They crossed the Isar, passed the pretty façade of the public baths and the Gasteig, the ugly, brick cultural centre. Somewhere close by Paul stopped his Volvo in front of an apartment block.

  ‘You have to go in here, then cross through to the courtyard. There are several entrances. Take Number 11c, the third staircase, up to the third floor. There is a grey metal door there, with nothing written on it. That’s a club. Nadraj Temple. Pretty hip, supposed to be the top place to be at the moment. I have no idea, I’ve not been in there.’ Paul smiled. She got out. ‘It will take 10 minutes, max. Do it the same way as with the guy in the bank.’

  *

  The man was already waiting for her at the iron door. He had about 10 piercings in both ears; the lobes were heavily hanging down. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I am Kurt Meyer. This joint belongs to me. Do come in.’

  It was just gone 6pm, and the Nadraj Temple would only open in a few hours. Just two sparse lights illuminated the room, there were no staff to be seen anywhere. They were standing at a dark bar.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlotte Poland, ‘I want to be very quick.’ She repeated her offer of 10,000 euros that Meyer would receive if Lars was back with her by the day after tomorrow. He was given an extra day’s grace. She didn’t threaten him with anything. She did add that she had spoken with Mr Borbely, the man at the bank.

  It was difficult to guess Kurt Meyer’s age – somewhere around 50. He was very thin, and kept his eyes closed during almost the entire conversation. She was not quite sure whether he was on drugs. Only once did he open his eyes and utter a few words: ‘So, you are Lars’s mother. I had imagined you totally differently.’

  Mörlbach, Jedlitschka Farm, 12 noon

  Information turns into knowledge. Knowledge becomes power. Maybe the three suitcases, which Gabriel Tretjak unloaded from his BMW, contained all of his power. They were sturdy flight cases, custom-made by a specialist firm appropriately named Don’t Panic. Coasters, extendable handles, inside different special compartments, outside massive locks. He had them built for exactly this kind of occasion, for the moment when he had to take all of his knowledge to safety. All the papers from his office, the hard drives, the big computer, plus the media of the past, magnetic tape, audiocassettes, all that was stowed in these three trunk-like suitcases, which he placed side-by-side on the concrete courtyard of the Jedlitschka Farm. He briefly contemplated that his knowledge mainly concerned people. That it consisted of dossiers about their lives, their careers, their passions, about things they had done which nobody else should know about.

  It was just after noon, the sun was shining, and an incredibly blue sky spanned over the landscape. In Munich he had had the feeling that he was being followed by a car. Police? He had lost that car with an abrupt turn at an amber light. The old Mrs Jedlitschka was slowly coming across the courtyard. As she walked, she swayed like a ship, maybe because of her swollen legs. She was wearing a blue dress with a placket in the front, which made it look a little like overalls, and she had a dishcloth in her hand, with which she was wiping the sweat off her brow.

  ‘My, what a month of May,’ she said, halfway across the courtyard, ‘it’s like at the height of summer... are these all your tax files?’

  On the telephone, Tretjak had put forward the tax inspection as a pretext and asked whether he could deposit some files temporarily at the farm, ‘just to be on the safe side.’ The Inland Revenue didn’t have to know everything, did they? Mrs Jedlitschka had immediately mentioned a chamber at the back of the tool shed, and her voice had exuded pride. In this case she was obviously happy to be his ally. Farmers didn’t like the Inland Revenue.

  She had now reached Tretjak, shook his hand, and said with an eye on the suitcases: ‘Quite a bit of stuff that you have to hide here.’

  The chamber was a wooden crate behind the big Ferguson tractor. To the right there was a stack of tyres of different sizes. To the left, long poles were leaning against the wall, extensions for tools, propeller shafts for machines, a whiffletree for a trailer. The Fixer’s suitcases found their place in the corner behind the pile of tyres and were covered up with an old black silo sheet. ‘I still have to do some work, Mrs Jedlitschka, may I...’

  ‘Of course,’ the farmer’s wife smiled. ‘Go ahead, I’ll bring the apple juice.’

  Minutes later Tretjak was sitting at the wooden table in the shadow of his observatory at the back of the tool shed, his laptop in front of him, as well as a pile of white paper, a pen and a carafe of homemade apple juice. It was completely quiet. To a stranger the scene might have appeared peaceful, but this word was totally inappropriate to describe Tretjak’s state of mind. He was in fact very unsettled, and had the feeling of being faced with something ominous that was brewing up, that he was running out of time. He knew he had to do something. He had to shake off this strange paralysis which had taken hold of him. Hadn’t that been his strength all along? To act faster than the others? To always be one step ahead of them? Somehow he had fallen behind, which he had to change, and fast.

  He took a piece of paper from the pile and placed it horizontally in front of him. On it he wrote four words next to each other: money-box, father, Kerkhoff and Kufner. From each of these words he drew an arrow downwards. At the end of the arrow underneath money-box he noted: Dimitri. Tomorrow morning he was going to meet him in Hamburg. And he was going to lean on him: was everything that was happening around Tretjak somehow connected to their mutual past? Was it connected with the suitcase full of money, which was now being stored in the attic of the vicarage? One could only get to Dimitri one of two ways: with money or with violence. Tretjak was going to take money with him to the meeting, stacks of money, in neat bundles. Dimitri was one of these people who could be seduced with cash. The other card, violence, Tretjak had to play in a different way. He had to make it crystal clear how far his connections reached, which circles he could access. That had already been taken care of. When Dimitri awoke tomorrow morning in his flat overlooking the harbour, he would find, to his surprise, a nicely-wrapped little parcel on his living room table. It would contain a piece of cake, his favourite: apple strudel. And a card with the message: To be enjoyed with care. Cordially, GT. Dimitri was going to poke around in the cake and find a few nails; big, shiny builders’ nails. He was a professional, he would understand what the message meant: I can gain access to your flat at night without you noticing. I know what you like. And I can turn nasty.

  Below the name Dimitri Tretjak wrote tomorrow’s date and Hamburg, 10.30am. And he added another name with a question mark: Lichtinger? Then he drew a circle around these words.

  Underneath the arrow below father he wrote: Today, 8pm, Osteria, Mrs X. His father was up to something, that much was clear. But his father was a miserable worm, who was no match for the Fixer. He had to be taught that lesson. He was not behind the murder of the scientists. But maybe he was being used by somebody, was part of that somebody’s plan. Which meant that somebody knew about their past. Who was that somebody? Was that somebody part of that past? Yesterday he had sent his father a curt message:
Make sure that this woman is at the Osteria tomorrow night. And supply her with good answers to my questions. He had only written these two sentences, not even really written but typed as a text message on his mobile – and still he had felt sick to the stomach. The same way he had felt when he had to write to his father as a child.

  Twice his mother had made him write such a letter. He had sat at the table, and he had not wanted nor been able to write, and the tears had run down his cheeks onto the paper. Angry tears about his mother, who had good reasons to hate this man; his mother, who was ill and still tried to make excuses for this man by saying: ‘He is going to be so happy to hear from you. He is not so well himself. He only behaved this way because couldn’t help himself, you know...’ Both times Tretjak had eventually squeezed a few sentences from his brain, and both times he had afterwards gone to the bathroom and thrown up.

  He now drew a circle around the notes about the meeting tonight. Following an instinct, he reached for two new pieces of white paper. As before, he turned them horizontally and wrote one word on each of them. Then he placed them next to each other on the table, above the one he had been working on before. Inspector Maler was written on one. And hell on the other.

  In the meantime, the sun had passed the dome of the observatory and shone onto the table. Tretjak opened an umbrella. Back in the shade, he turned on his laptop. Last night, while packing, he had transferred the most important data from the big computer to the laptop. He now forced himself to gather everything he had filed in the past under the names Kerkhoff and Kufner and integrated the information into a single designated folder, to make it easier to find any possible clues. He did so reluctantly, as he was actually too nervous, but he was so used to precise working practices that he quickly got into the task. More and more windows opened on the screen, words were highlighted, paragraphs copied and pasted.