by Nele Neuhaus
“I don’t know. I’ll try one after the other.”
Nicola Engel signaled Bodenstein to follow her out to the hall.
“I’m preparing an arrest warrant for Siegbert Kaltensee,” she said in a low voice. “There will be problems with Jutta Kaltensee, because as a representative in the state parliament, she has diplomatic immunity, but I’d like to bring her in for a talk at any rate.”
“Okay.” Bodenstein nodded. “I’ll drive with Améry over to the Kunsthaus. Maybe we’ll find Ritter there.”
“I think Siegbert Kaltensee knows what happened,” Nicola Engel said. “He has a guilty conscience because of his daughter.”
“I think so, too.”
“I’ve got it,” Améry reported from the office. “He must have taken the M-Class Mercedes from Mühlenhof, because it’s in a place where it shouldn’t be. In Poland, in a place called … Doba. The vehicle has been stationary for forty-three minutes.”
Bodenstein felt himself go ice-cold. Moormann, the presumed murderer of Robert Watkowiak and Monika Krämer, was in Poland! On the phone, Pia had told him a couple of hours ago that they had almost reached their destination, and that Dr. Kirchhoff was going to search the cellar thoroughly. So that meant they probably hadn’t left the castle. What was Moorman doing in Poland? All of a sudden, he realized where Elard Kaltensee was. He turned to the head of K-Secure.
“Check on the Maybach,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Where is it right now?”
Améry clicked on the license number of the limousine.
“It’s there, too,” he said a moment later. “No, hold on. The Maybach started moving one minute ago.”
Bodenstein looked at Nicola Engel. She understood at once.
“Ostermann, you keep track of both vehicles,” said Engel decisively. “I’ll inform our colleagues in Poland. And then I’m going to Wiesbaden.”
* * *
One of the black-clad men who had appeared so unexpectedly had driven off with Vera Kaltensee. Her last order was clear: Tie the hands of Elard Kaltensee, Auguste Nowak, and Pia Kirchhoff and shoot them in the cellar. Pia desperately thought of how she could get out of this hopeless situation and warn Miriam and Henning. There was no mercy to be expected from these men; they would simply carry out their assignment and then drive back to Germany as if nothing had happened. Pia knew that she bore the responsibility for Henning and Miriam. She was the one who’d gotten both of them into this terrible situation. All at once, wild rage overcame her. She had no desire to be led like a lamb to the slaughter. It couldn’t be true that she would die without ever seeing Christoph again. Christoph! She had promised to pick him up at the airport when he came back from South Africa tonight. Pia stopped in front of the opening that led down to the cellar.
“What do you intend to do with us?” she asked to gain time.
“You heard it,” said the man. His voice sounded muffled through his ski mask.
“But why—” Pia began. The man gave her a hard shove in the back. She lost her balance and tumbled down the side of the pile of rubble. Because her hands were tied, she couldn’t break her fall. Something hard rammed painfully into her diaphragm, and, wheezing, she turned over on her back and gasped for air. She hoped she hadn’t broken anything. The other man shoved Elard Kaltensee and Auguste Nowak ahead of him. They had their hands tied behind their backs, too.
“Get up!” The disguised man was standing over her, yanking at her arm. “Come on, go!”
At that moment Pia realized what had almost broken her ribs: Elard’s pistol, which was stuck in her waistband. She had to warn Henning and Miriam.
“Ow!” she screamed as loudly as she could. “My arm! I think it’s broken!”
One of the killers cursed softly, pulling Pia to her feet with the help of his pal, and shoved her down the passageway. If only Henning and Miriam had heard her cry and would find a hiding place. The two of them were her only hope, because Vera Kaltensee hadn’t remembered to tell the men about them. As she stumbled along the passage, Pia tried in vain to loosen the cord around her wrists. Then they reached the cellar. The floodlight was still on, but there was no sign of Henning and Miriam. Pia’s mouth was dry as dust, and her heart hammered against her ribs. The man who had pushed her down the hole now took the mask off, and Pia recognized who it was.
“Mrs. Moormann!” she exclaimed, stunned. “I thought … you … I mean … your husband…”
“You should have stayed in Germany,” said the housekeeper from Mühlenhof, who obviously was more than a housekeeper. She pointed the pistol with a suppressor directly at Pia’s head. “It’s your own fault that you’re in trouble.”
“But you can’t just simply shoot us. My colleagues know where we are and—”
“Shut your trap.” Anja Moormann’s face was expressionless; her eyes seemed as cold as glass marbles. “Now line up.”
Auguste Nowak and Elard Kaltensee didn’t move.
Pia ventured one last try. “The Polish police have been informed and will be here any minute if I don’t call them back.” Behind her back, her hands wriggled desperately with the cord. Her fingers were already numb, but she thought she could feel the bonds loosening. She had to gain some time.
“Your boss will be arrested at the border,” she gasped. “Why are you doing this? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Anja Moormann paid no attention. “Get moving, Professor,” she said, aiming her pistol at Elard Kaltensee. “Down on your knees.”
“How can you do this, Anja?” Elard Kaltensee said with astounding calm. “I’m very disappointed in you, really I am.”
“On your knees!” commanded the woman who was supposedly a housekeeper.
Sweat was breaking out all over Pia’s body as the cord finally gave way. She balled her hands into fists and opened them again to get some feeling back in her fingers. Her only chance was the element of surprise. With a resigned expression, Elard Kaltensee took a step toward the pit that Henning and Miriam had dug in the ground and knelt down obediently. Before Anja Moormann or her accomplice could react, Pia pulled the pistol out of her waistband, flicked off the safety, and fired. The shot was earsplitting and shredded the upper thigh of the second figure in black. Anja Moormann didn’t hesitate one second. Her gun was still aimed at Elard Kaltensee’s head, and she fired. At the same instant, Auguste Nowak made a lunge forward and threw herself in front of her son, who was kneeling on the ground. The suppressor meant that only a dull plop was heard as the bullet struck the old woman in the chest and hurled her backward. Before Anja Moormann could fire a second time, Pia dived forward and slammed into her with all her might. Both of them fell to the ground.
Pia was sprawled on her back and Anja Moormann was kneeling on top of her, her hands closing around Pia’s neck. Pia fought back, trying to remember tricks from her self-defense courses, but she had never really had to defend herself against a trained professional killer. In the dimming beam of the battery-operated floodlight, she was aware of Anja Moormann’s face, which was contorted with exertion. Pia wasn’t getting any air and had the feeling that her eyes were going to pop out of her head any second. If the oxygen supply to her brain was cut off, she would lose consciousness in about ten seconds, and after another five seconds all her brain functions would irreversibly cease. In the autopsy, the pathologist would confirm point hemorrhages in her conjunctiva, a fracture of the hyoid bone, and congestion hemorrhages in the oral and pharyngeal mucous membranes. But she didn’t want to die, not now and not here in this cellar. She wasn’t even forty yet! Pia got a hand free and dug her fingers into Anja Moormann’s face, the fear of death giving her more strength than she could have imagined. The woman gasped, bared her teeth, and growled like a pit bull, but her grip loosened at once. Then Pia felt something hard strike her temple, and she lost consciousness.
* * *
Jutta Kaltensee was sitting at her place among her party colleagues in the third row of the chamber of the Hesse State Parliament, across fr
om the government bench. She was listening halfheartedly to the eternal battle of words that the prime minister and the chair of the joint Green/Bündnis 90 were waging regarding Item 66 of the daily agenda on the topic of airport expansion. But in her mind, she was somewhere else entirely. It didn’t matter how often Dr. Rosenblatt assured her that the police had no evidence against her, and that all suspicions and accusations were directed solely at Siegbert and her mother. She was still worried. The incident with the inspector and the photos had been a mistake—that much she had realized. She should have stayed out of the whole thing. But Berti, that weakling, had suddenly started getting nervous, even though for years he had carried out Vera’s instructions without a trace of remorse and without asking questions. At this point in her career, Jutta couldn’t afford to be associated in any way with murder investigations and dark family secrets. Soon her party would nominate her as their lead candidate for the state parliamentary election next January. Until then, she had to get a handle on the situation somehow.
She kept glancing at the display of her cell, which was on vibrate. That was why she didn’t notice at once the commotion that was spreading throughout the chamber. Not until the prime minister broke off his speech did she raise her head and see two uniformed police officers and a red-haired woman standing in front of the government bench. They were speaking softly to the prime minister and the president of the parliament, who seemed scandalized and were looking all around the chamber. Jutta Kaltensee felt the first prickle of genuine panic at the back of her neck. There was no evidence that could incriminate her. Impossible. Henri would sooner let himself be drawn and quartered as open his mouth. Now the redhead was walking toward her with a determined stride. Even though fear was creeping like ice water through her veins, Jutta Kaltensee forced herself to remain calm. She had diplomatic immunity, and they couldn’t simply arrest her.
* * *
The basement room smelled damp and musty. Bodenstein felt for the light switch and was deeply relieved to see Thomas Ritter in the flickering light of the fluorescent tubes, lying there tied up on a metal table smeared with blobs of paint. A young Japanese woman had opened the door of the Kunsthaus to the police after repeated rings. She was one of the artists being sponsored by the Eugen Kaltensee Foundation, and she’d been living and working in the Kunsthaus for half a year. Confused, she had watched mutely as Bodenstein, Behnke, Henri Améry, and four officers of the Frankfurt police streamed past her and headed for the basement door.
“Hello, Dr. Ritter,” Bodenstein said as he stepped over to the table. But it took a few seconds for his brain to accept what his eyes had already registered. Thomas Ritter lay there with eyes wide open, but he was dead. Somebody had shoved a cannula into his jugular vein, and with each beat his heart had pumped the blood out of his body into a bucket under the table. Bodenstein grimaced in disgust and turned away. He was fed up with death and blood and murder. He was especially fed up with always chasing a half step behind the criminals and not being able to prevent any more bad things from happening. Why hadn’t Ritter listened to their warnings? Why had he been so dismissive about the threats issued by the Kaltensee family? Why hadn’t he taken them more seriously? For Bodenstein, it was inconceivable that the desire for revenge could be stronger than all reason. If Thomas Ritter had kept his fingers off this ill-fated biography and the diaries, he would have been a father in a few months and could have had a long, happy life ahead of him. The ringing of his cell tore Bodenstein away from his musings.
“The M-Class Mercedes has also left Doba,” Ostermann informed him. “But I still can’t reach Pia.”
“Damn.” Bodenstein felt more miserable than he’d ever felt in his life. He had really screwed up this time. If only he’d forbidden Pia to go to Poland. Nicola was right: It was none of her concern what had happened there more than sixty years ago. Her only task was to solve the current series of murders.
“What’s the story on Ritter?” Ostermann asked. “Did you find him?”
“Yes. He’s dead.”
“Oh shit. His wife is waiting downstairs and won’t leave until she talks to you or Pia.”
Bodenstein stared at the body and the bucket full of coagulated blood. His stomach contracted into a knot. What if something had happened to Pia? He pushed the thought aside.
“Try one more time to get hold of Pia, and try Henning Kirchhoff’s cell, too,” he told Ostermann, then ended the call.
“Are you going to let me go now?” asked Henri Améry.
“No.” Bodenstein did not deign to look at him. “For the time being, you’re under arrest for suspicion of murder.”
Paying no attention to Améry’s protests, he left the basement. What had happened in Poland? Why were both cars on the move? Why the hell didn’t Pia check in as promised? Pain settled around his head like an iron ring, and he had a nasty taste in his mouth. He suddenly remembered that today he hadn’t eaten a thing but had had way too much coffee. He took a deep breath when he got outside onto Römerberg Square. The whole situation had spiraled out of control, and he longed to go for a walk alone in order to sort out the thoughts whirling around in his head. Instead, he now had to find a way to tell Marleen Ritter gently that he’d found her husband dead.
* * *
When Pia came to, her neck was aching, and she couldn’t swallow. She opened her eyes and saw in the dim light that she was still in the cellar. Out of the corner of her eye, she discerned a movement, someone coming up behind her. She heard labored breathing, and abruptly the memory came back. Anja Moormann, the pistol, the shot that struck Auguste Nowak in the chest! How long had she been unconscious? Her blood froze in her veins when behind her she heard the click of the safety on a pistol. Pia wanted to scream, but only a hoarse gurgle came out of her throat. Her insides clenched up, and she closed her eyes. How would it be when the bullet smashed through her skull? Would she feel it? Would it hurt? Would …
* * *
“Pia!” Somebody grabbed her shoulder and her eyes flew open. A wave of relief flowed through her body when she looked into the face of her ex-husband. She coughed and grabbed her throat.
“How … what…” she croaked in confusion. Henning was as pale as a corpse. To her surprise, he started sobbing and took her into his arms.
“I was so worried about you,” he murmured into her hair. “Oh God, your head is bleeding.”
Pia’s whole body was trembling and her throat hurt, but the knowledge that she’d escaped death at the last second filled her with an almost mystical feeling of happiness. Then she remembered Elard Kaltensee and Auguste Nowak. She freed herself from Henning’s arms and sat up in a daze. Kaltensee was sitting in the sand among the bones of his murdered ancestors, holding his mother in his arms. The tears were streaming down his face.
“Mama,” he whispered. “Mama, you can’t die … please!”
“Where’s Anja Moormann?” Pia whispered hoarsely. “And the guy I shot?”
“He’s lying over there,” said Henning. “I clobbered him with the flashlight when he was about to shoot you. And then the woman took off.”
“Where’s Miriam?” Pia turned and looked into her friend’s eyes, which were wide with terror.
“I’m all right,” she whispered. “But we’re going to need an ambulance for Mrs. Nowak.”
On all fours, Pia crawled over to Auguste Nowak and her son. An ambulance would be too late. Auguste Nowak was dying. A thin line of blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth. She had closed her eyes but was still breathing.
“Mrs. Nowak,” said Pia, her voice still raw, “can you hear me?”
Auguste Nowak opened her eyes. Her gaze was astoundingly clear as she reached for the hand of her son, whom she had lost in this exact spot so long ago. Elard Kaltensee gripped her hand and she sighed deeply. After more than sixty years, a circle had finally closed.
“Heini?”
“I’m here, Mama,” said Elard, making an effort to keep his voice under control.
“I’m here with you. You’re going to get better. Everything is going to be fine.”
“No, my boy,” she murmured, and smiled. “I’m dying.… But … you shouldn’t … cry, Heini. Do you hear? Don’t cry. It’s … good like this. Here … I am … with him … with my … husband, Elard.”
Elard Kaltensee stroked his mother’s face.
“Take … take care of Marcus…” she whispered, and coughed. Bloody foam oozed from her lips, and tears filled her eyes. “My dear boy…”
She took one more deep breath and then she sighed. Her head sank to the side.
“No!” Elard raised her head and clasped the body of the old woman tighter in his arms. “No, Mama, no! You can’t die now!”
He sobbed like a child. Pia felt herself close to tears, as well. In sympathy, she put her hand on Elard Kaltensee’s shoulder. He looked up without letting go of his mother, his face wet with tears and contorted by pain.
“She died in peace,” said Pia softly. “In the arms of her son and in the presence of her family.”
* * *
Marleen Ritter was pacing up and down in the small room like a predator in the zoo. Now and then, she would look over at her father, separated from her by a glass pane and sitting in the next room motionless, a blank stare on his face. He looked years older. He seemed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Badly shaken, Marleen had now comprehended what she hadn’t been willing to recognize all these years. Her grandmother was not the generous old lady she had always taken her to be—on the contrary. Vera had lied and cheated as she pleased. Marleen stopped in front of the glass pane, staring at the man who was her father. His whole life, he had obeyed the whims of his mother, had done everything to please her in an attempt to win her praise. But in vain. For him, the knowledge that he had been shamelessly exploited must be terribly bitter. And yet Marleen could summon up no sympathy for him.
“Sit down for a moment,” said Katharina, standing behind her.
Marleen shook her head. “Then I’d go crazy,” she said. Katharina had told her everything: all about the trunk, Thomas’s disastrous idea concerning the biography and how she had brought him the diaries, and the fact that Vera wasn’t the person she pretended to be.