by Max Landorff
She took the gun from her pocket and released the safety catch. She placed her left hand on the door handle, concentrated and pushed it down in a very slow but even movement, millimetre by millimetre. In case it was locked she had brought along the second key. But it wasn’t locked. Gently she pushed open the door. Gabriel Tretjak’s voice became clear and pronounced.
‘... did you have an affair with my father?’
Charlotte Poland sat with her back towards her. Gabriel looked towards the door. When he saw her, she pointed the gun at him.
‘Hello, Gabriel,’ she said. ‘No, she didn’t have an affair with your father. I fucked your dad. He was good, the old guy. Didn’t need a sky full of stars to get it up.’
8
Maresciallo Mario Facchetti was not lucky in love. His appearance was not the problem: he was of average height, average weight, his red hair was cut short as was proper for a carabiniere. His eyes were a strikingly radiant blue. What he was lacking was a certain light touch, charm, an ability to flirt. Mario Facchetti always appeared serious, and when there were women around, he appeared even more serious. Then he had the feeling that he was tensing up inside. He didn’t know what to say; he remained silent and thought about what he should say, and then he had even less of an idea what to say. For somebody like him, therefore, this Wednesday night had a special significance.
A money courier of the Banco Populare, which was located directly opposite the police station in Luino, had had her eye on Il Maresciallo for quite some time. In fact, so obviously had she had her eye on him that his colleagues had already teased him about it. Much too often, she parked her bullet-proof little Fiat in one of the places normally reserved for police cars outside the building. She parked and then came inside for a chat. Stella was her name, and she looked slightly Arab with her thick black hair. She had a beautifully-shaped mouth and, yes, Mario Facchetti had to admit, a pretty behind.
At one point Facchetti had gathered up all his courage and had asked her out to dinner. She had agreed immediately, and tonight was the big night. Facchetti had booked a table in the Ristorante Camino for eight o’clock. They wanted to meet early at half past seven to have a drink at the comfortable bar. It was the best restaurant in Luino, and actually far too expensive for Facchetti. But what the heck, he was Il Maresciallo, after all. In his profession he had had better luck than he had in romance. He was one of the four group leaders of the Luino police and he was only 29 years old.
It was a quarter to seven and he was sitting at his desk wondering whether he should keep his dark blue uniform on for dinner or not. He had been told several times that the uniform suited him very well, that it looked impressive. And Stella had got to know him in uniform. He would give the impression of being a very busy man, who had just come from doing his duty – that couldn’t be wrong. On the other hand, it wasn’t really relaxed or cool, was it? Maybe it would be more attractive to just show up in jeans and a freshly-ironed white shirt, suggesting: look, I can be totally different.
Facchetti’s office was on the ground floor of a venerable building with an eagle on the gable. He looked across to the square where the lights were already illuminated. If he leaned forward a bit, he could even see the lake. It was almost completely dark outside, and his desk lamp shone down onto two reports from colleagues, which he could either read now or put off with no problem. Tomorrow morning would be early enough. The theft of a bicycle and the burglary of a holiday home.
He looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. It was still a quarter to seven. He could have left, there were enough of his colleagues in the duty room. But Mario Facchetti was a diligent policeman. His duty ended at seven, and that was it.
The call that would fundamentally change Il Maresciallo’s plans for the evening arrived at six minutes to seven. Mario Facchetti was the last link in a short chain of urgent calls: Munich-Milano, Milano-Varese, Varese-Luino. Facchetti listened for about three minutes, took notes, asked a few questions, again took notes – and finally called all the available men to his office. Shortly afterwards three blue Alfa Romeos set off, in the direction of Maccagno, specifically to the Hotel Torre Imperial.
In the history of physics, a certain experiment had driven the leading scientists all over the world crazy because nobody could find an explanation for the result. No matter how many times the experiment was repeated, the result always stayed the same. They shot a particle – an electron – at a lead plate with two slits located very close together to determine which slit it would fly through. For this purpose, a camera had been attached to the back of the plate. What disturbed the scientists was the result the camera was showing: the electron had flown through both slits simultaneously. But an electron cannot split itself! Only quantum physics had provided the explanation: the electron, according to the quantum physicists, is not a particle at all but a relativity wave. Which means that each particle always takes every possible path simultaneously – not just two paths as in the experiment, but an infinite number.
Since both Il Maresciallo Mario Facchetti and the money courier Stella Scipio were composed of electrons, one could say that their love story, in some possible sphere of relativity, started that evening. But it is not documented anywhere. What is, however, documented is the Newtonian rather than the quantum reality of that Wednesday evening in October: the reality of the flashing blue lights of three vehicles chasing along the road by the bank of the Lago Maggiore. The sirens had not been turned on. In the first car sat Mario Facchetti. He had received pretty clear instructions. It was only seven kilometres from Luino to Maccagno. In the tunnel before the entrance to the town, Facchetti gave the order by radio to also switch off the blue lights.
9
Tretjak was not afraid anymore. And he knew that that was not just the result of the two Tavor tablets he had swallowed before the ferry arrived. Had his friend Stefan Treysa ever in his life been in a similar situation? Psychologists. The hour is up. See you again next time. But no, you couldn’t say that now. Tretjak was calm and not afraid. Fiona was about to chain him and Charlotte to the radiator with handcuffs. With great dexterity she did this with only one hand, while holding the gun in her other hand. Once she had pressed its barrel between his eyes at his forehead, suddenly, pretty roughly, and then had laughed briefly. Tretjak was also not afraid of the gun.
This is how it had always been in his life. When he knew exactly what was going to happen, he was not afraid. Even as a child this had been the case. And now he knew exactly what was going to happen.
Downstairs, directly in front of the entrance of the hotel, in an archway which led to the yard, a Toyota minivan was parked. It looked like a vehicle from a building site, dirty, with the faded logo of a roofing tile company on its sides. But in fact, it was packed up to the roof with explosives. When Fiona was finished here, she would go, lock the room behind her, and leave the hotel. And then detonate the bomb in the van. It would blow up the van, the hotel, and probably several other buildings as well.
Tretjak looked at Charlotte Poland. She appeared completely apathetic, as if she was paralysed. He was sorry he couldn’t help her. Somehow by now he was almost fond of her. The woman with the screwed-up son. Maybe she was thinking of her son right now, right here contorted on the floor, with her hands chained behind her back. Thinking about what would happen to him if she came to any harm. But maybe she was not thinking of anything at all.
The feeling that was rising inside Tretjak was grotesque, but it was real. He suddenly felt free – although he was being tied up in that very moment. For 20 years now, he had been pursued by the smell of rotten parts of his life. And now, here at the lake, all this would come to an end.
‘We are cut from the same cloth, Fiona,’ Tretjak said. ‘You should take me along.’
She stood up and looked at him. Her eyes were dead. Tretjak wondered whether she was on drugs.
‘We two from the same cloth?’ she said in a flat, tone-less voice. ‘You are so far removed from unde
rstanding anything. You were always so far off.’
‘I know a number,’ said Tretjak and added: ‘BR69Q345.’
‘And? What is this to me?’
‘Think, Fiona,’ he answered. It would not change anything but it pleased him to throw her off course. His old game: when did who get what information?
‘I wish you hell, Gabriel,’ she said. And in the next moment the door shut behind her. One could hear the key turn in the lock. In the corner, behind the second green armchair, Charlotte Poland began to cry.
10
In Munich, you tested a girl and said she was a genius. In Antwerp, you tested the same girl and said she was crazy. That’s how far you were, so hopelessly far you all were from understanding one another, from understanding me, the truth about me. In a moment we’ll ignite a few fireworks. After that the world will look a bit different, at least my world will.
She didn’t take the lift, but the stairs. Almost without making a noise, she glided down the carpet on the steps. The stairs led into the entrance hall just behind the reception desk. She paused and observed the back of the receptionist. He was the only person in the hotel with whom she had had any dealings. He was a doughy sort of guy, today wearing a blue-and-white striped shirt. She wanted to make sure, even though he had no reason to leave his post right now. With her eyes she followed the stripes of his shirt on the right side of his back from the shoulder downwards. She reached into the inside pocket of her anorak – the stiletto needle was inside its sheath, sown into the lining, with the knife beside it. It was fast, it was soundless. Then the doughy guy was lying on the floor, spread out behind the reception desk and staring up at the ceiling with a fixed, surprised look on his face.
Unable to find my place in reality? Incapable of adjusting my own expectations to the actual circumstances? Sorry, but I can’t agree with this expert report. That’s what you emailed my father, Doctor Know-it-all Kufner. And you groped my ass which was also an interesting way to adjust expectations to actual circumstances. What kind of a game was that, Gabriel? Yes, maybe we are cut from the same cloth. But you have to die now.
She went through the entrance door into the Piazza. Just to the right, in the archway, was the delivery van. In front of the bar someone was smoking. She sensed a sudden craving for a cigarette. She hadn’t smoked for a long time. She toyed with the idea of asking the guy for one. But then she remembered the inspector’s call. One could locate a mobile phone. She would have plenty of time to smoke a cigarette later, she thought and continued on her way. She first crossed the Piazza, then the main street, then walked along the Promenade to the ferry dock, stopped and turned around.
A quiet picture, a beautiful composition of light, shadow and the contours of the buildings. To the right and above, the discreetly-lit church, from where she had watched everything a short while ago. In front of her, the Piazza with the palm trees, the street lights, the bar, the two stone benches. To the left, the Hotel Torre Imperial. Above all of this, the roofs of the town, which hugged the steep slope of the mountain and melted into the darkness. The air was fresh and crystal clear. BR69Q345. She heard Gabriel Tretjak’s voice in her head, as it enunciated these letters and numbers. Suddenly her brain translated the voice into written symbols. Symbols she had written herself. Symbols written today. Symbols which had been filled in on a form.
And now she knew what it was. It was the code for the transaction by which she had transferred 1.2 million euros, Tretjak’s cash, to Brazil this morning. She felt herself become hot all of a sudden, and her thoughts started to race.
Back then, during the test at the Ministry, this also happened, my thoughts were racing, there was a whirlpool in my mind. Then I looked at you, Dad, and it was over. Look, I am calm. I am totally calm. And I am the best.
She took out her mobile phone, and punched in on the display the word end. She let the view of the Piazza sink in, and then she pressed the key which triggered the detonation.
11
Mario Facchetti had dispersed his men around the Piazza. The police vehicles had been parked out of sight on the hard shoulder inside the tunnel under the church. One of the men stood outside the bar, smoking, and had thrown a civilian coat over his uniform. Two had taken positions in the courtyard behind the hotel, one more up at the church. Il Maresciallo himself and another of his men stood in the open waiting room of the ferry port. Everything was dark here, because after seven in the evening no more ferries were scheduled to land in little Maccagno.
He had seen the woman leave the hotel and ordered his man to duck. He himself had stepped behind a pillar. That had to be the suspect coming towards him, finally stopping and then turning around. Facchetti stood not five metres away from her. He opened the leather holster of his service pistol. He had been told that although the woman didn’t look it, she was extremely dangerous. He observed how she was pushing buttons on her phone and decided: now. He nodded towards his colleague, and together they crossed the few metres very quickly, simultaneously drawing their weapons.
In Maresciallo Facchetti’s report, it would say later that Nora Krabbe, aka Fiona Neustadt, had not resisted her arrest. She had seemed confused and surprised, and had repeatedly pushed a button on her mobile phone until it had been taken away from her.
12
From far away, he had seen Sergeant Rainer Gritz standing outside the gate. He had to be over two metres tall. Like a small lighthouse he was standing there, with the collar of his blue raincoat turned up. Gabriel Tretjak told the taxi driver to stop near the figure standing there, it would not be necessary to drive into the clinic compound.
He had landed at 13.20 at Munich’s Franz Joseph Strauß airport. Lufthansa LH 701 from Bordeaux. From the airport, one could reach the Haar district by using the motorway for almost the entire distance, and at midday there was hardly any traffic, so it had taken the taxi only about 30 minutes. It was an overcast November day, a Tuesday, wet, cold, unpleasant.
Six weeks had passed since Fiona’s arrest in Maccagno. Gabriel Tretjak found that they had passed quickly. He had moved into the new apartment but it would only be a temporary move – that much he knew already. This flat was a transition – from a highly unpleasant phase of his life into a hopefully better one. He knew that he was going to move out again soon, even though Stefan Treysa often said during their sessions: ‘You have to build deeper foundations in your life, not always such shallow ones. That’s important.’
The trip to France had also been Treysa’s idea. A crackpot idea, as it turned out. Tretjak had told him about his memory of a holiday. It had been the only holiday that the Tretjaks had ever spent together as a family. Father, mother and two children. All in one big orange tent, directly by the sea, the Atlantic, behind a big sand dune, in the middle of the pine forest. Lit-et-Mixe, the town had been called, that was still its name. The sea was also still there, and the big waves. Even the camping ground still existed, slightly more landscaped but fundamentally the same. Of course, it was closed in November. Tretjak had taken a room in a pension. It had rained cats and dogs, but he had still gone to the beach a couple of times, totally alone on this mass of sand several kilometres long. But he had felt nothing. How old would he have been back then? Seven? He remembered a volleyball game the four of them had played. And a terrible thunderstorm, when lightning had hit one of the pine trees. That’s about it. The call from Sergeant Gritz had come as a welcome reason to cut short his stay.
‘How is your boss, by the way, Inspector Maler?’ Tretjak asked, as they walked side by side across the grounds of the Haar District Hospital. Top security wing, that’s where they were heading. House N0. 10. Room 34/B. Nora Krabbe. Two men in white coats came towards them in hurried steps. They looked very cold.
‘Not well, I’m afraid,’ Gritz answered. ‘The doctors still haven’t been able to get the effects of a serious organ rejection under control. He is back in the ICU.’ The young policeman sighed. ‘I went to see him yesterday, but there was no point, he was
talking complete gibberish.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Tretjak said.
For a short while they walked on in silence. Rainer Gritz had called Tretjak because the police were about to close the investigation. He wanted to share with him what they had found out. And maybe discuss with him a few last outstanding questions.
Nora Krabbe, Gabriel Tretjak was told, had rummaged through her father’s computer. And had put in Gabriel Tretjak’s name. That’s how she had come across an email in which her father had asked him for advice. That had been three years ago. Tretjak remembered well. He had been surprised that Krabbe had made contact with him – after all that time and everything that had happened. His daughter was worrying him, the email said. He had written about huge psychological problems. In his answer, Tretjak had given him two names: Harry Kerkhoff and Norbert Kufner, one a brain specialist, the other a psychiatrist. And he had made appointments with both of them. He hadn’t done any more than that.
‘You know,’ he said to Gritz, ‘I couldn’t even remember the daughter’s name.’
‘It was the complete opposite on the other side,’ Gritz said. ‘Our experts talked about an abnormal obsession with you.’ He looked at Tretjak sideways as if expecting a commentary. But Tretjak felt no urge to comment. ‘With regard to the experts,’ Gritz eventually continued, ‘Kerkhoff and Kufner came to the same conclusions back then as our experts today: schizophrenia, symptoms of a multiple personality disorder, a completely dislocated value system, self-harming behaviour. The reports were, of course, meant for the father. But the daughter secretly read them.’
Gritz continued to talk: he spoke of the connection between the expert reports and him, Tretjak, of an investigation and an increasingly focused idea, an obsession becoming a fixation. ‘In the end she sent you an email. She had your address, of course. But she changed the name of the sender. Inland Revenue Munich I.’