by Sean Heary
As she waited on the pavement for a vehicle to pass, he got a good look at her for the first time. She was striking. He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened in her life to bring her to this point.
Rossi lifted his phone to his ear as she crossed to the other side. He was sure she hadn’t noticed him, but it was dangerous to assume. Professional killers by necessity were observant. And in the last twenty-four hours their paths have crossed on no fewer than four occasions.
Rossi watched in the wing mirror as she stopped in front of a fashionable nineteenth-century apartment building and removed a set of keys from her messenger bag. He was in two minds whether to jump her there and then, or to wait. Suddenly from behind came a loud bang. The La Maison Maubert florist was shutting for the evening. Rossi couldn’t help but notice her hand shoot back into her bag. She’s armed.
With mixed feelings he scrutinised her as she turned the key in the blue double door then disappeared inside. He was pleased to have found her lair, but he knew in all probability the Concordat was at the embassy. There was only one way to find out.
Rossi grabbed his handgun from the glove compartment and went and stood in an unlit doorway opposite the killer’s apartment building. Gazing up at the cut-stone façade of the five-storey structure, he quickly confirmed that the only way in was through the front entrance. I should have jumped her when she opened the door. The thought was soon forgotten when the third-floor light came on.
Rossi scurried across the street and checked the mailbox. He now had a name to go with the face, ‘Koroleva’. A setback. A video intercom system with a wide-angle camera.
Returning to his vehicle, Rossi felt like a hunter whose prey had just vanished into thick woods. His only option was to trick his way inside. But how? The camera, and the killer’s acute sense of observation and mistrust, was no small obstacle.
Despair turned to hope. A DHL van pulled up and a middle-aged man jumped out. Rossi had an idea.
He waited until the courier was out of sight, then nonchalantly walked up to the van and tested the rear shutter door. Unlocked. Rossi peered inside. A broad smile came to his face. A yellow DHL spray jacket hung from a hook. No one paid him any attention as he put it on. To complete the disguise, he grabbed a shoebox-size parcel and tucked it under his arm.
Rossi glanced up at the third-floor window. The lights were still on and the curtains drawn open. Positioning himself close to the intercom camera, he took a deep calming breath, and pushed on the button.
“Allo.”
“DHL. Delivery for Mademoiselle Koroleva,” Rossi said in immigrant French.
Silence.
“DHL – Mademoiselle.”
“Who’s it from?”
Rossi turned the box slowly while he thought. “Moscow.”
“It’s late.”
“It’s Christmas. We’re working around the clock. Blame Amazon for that,” Rossi said, in a chatty tone.
“Wait.” Oksana hurried to her living room window and glanced below at the DHL van parked in front of the florist.
Rossi fought to contain his joy as the magnetic lock released. He flung open the door and entered. The impressive marble-floored foyer, with its curved polished limestone staircase and gilded wrought iron banister reminded him of Rome. He stood momentarily at the bottom of the staircase and listened. Stillness. Rossi checked the foyer for cameras, then pulled his Heckler & Koch pistol from its holster and hid it under the delivery.
His pulse raced as he ascended the stairs in much the same way as a courier might – efficiently and at an even pace. The third-floor landing was no different from the others. Red woollen carpet, patterned beige wall covering, white skirting boards and one oversized glossy black door, framed with white architraves. There was a small discreet security camera mounted high on the wall and a peephole in the door.
Knowing he was being watched, Rossi rounded his shoulders and jutted out his chin as he approached. “Mademoiselle,” he called out, pressing the doorbell.
There was a brief delay while Oksana removed her Glock 23 from her bag and placed it on the green marble hall console. Slowly she opened the door to the limit of the security chain.
“Pass it through, please.”
“Mademoiselle, it’s clearly too big – besides, you’ll need to sign for it,” Rossi said, avoiding her eyes.
Oksana pulled her gun closer, then unlatched the chain. Standing in the doorway in a white cotton bathrobe, she beckoned Rossi nearer. As Rossi stepped forward his eyes were drawn to hers as if under an enchantress’s spell. Instantly she recognised him from the cloister.
Oksana recoiled backwards, her hand frantically feeling for her pistol. But it was too late. Rossi had charged forward, sending her crashing onto the parquet floor.
Before she could recover, Rossi was standing over her, pistol trained at her head. “Don’t move,” Rossi ordered, flicking the door closed with his foot.
Keeping his distance, Rossi peered down the unlit hallway. He was sure she was alone.
“You’re the security guy from the Münster Basilica.”
“Something like that.”
“Aren’t you going to help me up?”
Rossi picked up her gun and removed the magazine. “Place your hands slowly above your head, then roll over onto your stomach.”
“Everyone has a preference.”
“Hands behind your back.”
As she did, Rossi reached down and ripped off her bathrobe. “Nothing personal, Mademoiselle. But my quest comes before your modesty.”
“If you say so.”
Rossi planted his heavy knee into the small of her back and tied her hands with the cotton belt from the bathrobe.
“I picked you as a deviant,” Oksana said, smiling seductively over her shoulder. “What’s your fantasy?”
“You’re all class.”
“I do an excellent schoolgirl.”
“Aren’t you a little old for that?”
Taking her by the arm, Rossi pulled her to her feet. He gazed at her a long moment as she stood naked under the entrance hall chandelier. She was exquisite. But it wasn’t her beauty he saw. He was peering into her soul. The spell had been broken. In place of the alluring temptress he had seen earlier on the street, Rossi now saw only a narcissistic, evil whore who was bound for hell.
With her messenger bag slung over his shoulder, Rossi shoved Oksana down the hallway.
“Christmas pisses me off,” Oksana said.
“Perhaps deep down you were yearning for someone to send you a present.”
“How did you find me?”
“You were too slow.”
“The car park in Bonn?” Oksana said, twisting and stretching the cotton belt with her wrist.
“What idiot would wear a mink to a hit?”
“It was cold.”
Rossi glanced about as they entered the living area. He quickly lowered his pistol, realising the curtains were drawn open. “On your knees!”
“Don’t tell me we’re going to recite the rosary?”
Rossi half-heartedly glanced about the room. “Where is it?”
“The toilet?”
“You know when I saw you on the street, your beauty struck me. I thought this lady could have anything she wanted,” Rossi said, moving to the open kitchen. “But then you opened your foul mouth.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rossi shrugged his shoulders, then emptied the messenger bag onto the kitchen island. “Oksana Koroleva,” he read from her diplomatic passport. “Your mother must be proud of you.”
“I have no mother,” she said coldly, discreetly slipping her wrists free of the binds.
“So you’re one of those. No personal accountability.”
“We’re all products of our environment.”
“Would you prefer that we exist to serve humanity – or to serve your God?” Oksana scoffed. “I serve myself.”
“We could chat all night. But let’s not. Hand over the Concordat, and I’ll be on my way.”
“You’re too late.”
Rossi made quickly for the window. He had caught something out of the corner of his eye. Movement; a man perhaps? “The Russian Embassy?”
“Shit! That was you who pulled out on me,” Oksana said, throwing her head back, laughing. “Rather amateurish – wouldn’t you agree?”
“You’re the one naked on your knees.”
“For now.”
“What do the Russians want with the Concordat?”
“I have no idea.”
Back at the kitchen island, Rossi picked up a garrotte which had come from Oksana’s messenger bag. “You ever used this?”
“Only to neuter pricks like you.”
“Why did you kill Bishop Muellenbach and Maximilian Wolf? They were both unarmed.”
“Following orders.”
“Orders? Soldiers follow orders. You’re a contract killer for God’s sake. Don’t make it sound like it was for a greater cause. You killed two innocent men for money. Nothing more.”
“You’re wasting your time – I feel no shame. I’m comfortable with who I am. Are you?”
“Who gave you your orders?” Rossi said, standing in front of her.
No answer.
Rossi turned his gaze sharply to the apartment opposite. A window had opened, and a curtain flapped in the breeze. Pistol down by his side, Rossi moved closer. Still no one. Fresh air.
“Why didn’t you send the Concordat directly to Moscow?”
Oksana rolled back her shoulders and thrust out her teardrop-shaped breasts. “Do I look like a postman?”
“You ran an unnecessary risk turning up at the embassy like that.”
“What business is it of yours?”
Rossi gazed vacantly at Oksana. He needed to recover the Concordat – nothing else mattered. But breaking into the Russian Embassy was not remotely realistic. He needed Oksana’s help.
“Well, you are human after all,” Oksana said, as Rossi’s gaze fell lazily to her well-groomed pussy.
“Go to hell.”
“But I saw it move. Maybe I can help you. I know a thing or two about fellatio,” Oksana said, gliding the tip of her tongue seductively over her upper lip.
Rossi blew out a sigh of disgust. “Classy proposal – but no thanks.”
“Perhaps something more Catholic? I’ve got a nun’s outfit in my wardrobe. Untie me, and we can play hypocrite.”
“Shut the hell up.”
“Silly me. I forgot. You guys from the Vatican prefer altar boys.”
Enraged, Rossi raised his hand, and stepped forward. But he stopped short. It wasn’t his style.
Oksana was ready. She smashed the heel of her palm into Rossi’s groin and grabbed his testicles, twisting him to his knees. “You miserable perverted bastard,” she cried, driving the knuckles of her free hand into his wrist. Rossi’s pistol dropped to the floor.
Before he had a chance to curse his stupidity, Oksana was standing over him with his gun trained at his heart.
“Now it’s your turn to die. You humiliated me, and that is one thing I refuse to accept from anyone.”
“Wait,” Rossi pleaded, looking up through watery eyes, willing himself not to vomit. “Don’t let me die wondering. Who are you working for?”
“Figure it out.”
“I would only be guessing.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said, switching on the television.
If only it was. “Russian Foreign Intelligence…”
“Why are you so interested in such trivial earthly matters, when you are about to discover whether God really exists?”
Rossi rose to his knees. He could almost hear Koroleva pulling back on the trigger as he closed his eyes to pray. By faith he believed in life after death. And on balance, he considered himself a good man. But Rossi could not find inner peace as he waited to die. All he could think of was the Concordat and having failed his Church in her hour of need.
Finally a shot rang out. Rossi collapsed to the ground. A pool of blood formed on the waxed wooden floor around his head. For a long moment the room was silent.
Dazed and hurting, Rossi wondered how she had missed from such close range. He opened his eyes slowly and gazed up at the moulded ceilings. The stench of flesh and gunpowder hung in the air. Putting his hand to his ear, he felt the warm blood streaming through his fingers. He wanted to stay down, but there was too much at stake. Drawing a deep breath, he propped himself up on his elbows.
Rossi’s head jerked back. A pair of amber eyes stared at him. He sat up further and wiped the blood from his face. Slumped against the sofa, with a gaping hole in the side of her head, sat the bishop’s killer.
Instinctively he turned his gaze to the large panelled window and the apartment building beyond. There was a bullet hole through the middle pane, about head height. Someone had fired from the building opposite. But he had heard only one shot – or maybe two shots fired precisely at the same time. His head throbbed too much to think.
He scrambled across the room and killed the lights, then crawled to the window. In the apartment opposite, he saw a man disassembling a sniper’s rifle. Rossi rose to his feet, expecting him to take flight. Instead, the shooter stepped calmly out of the shadows and smiled at Rossi as if to say, ‘I’m not afraid of you.’
Rossi glanced about the room and then down at Oksana’s lifeless body. The more he learned about the Concordat the less he understood. And that terrified him. What now? Rossi was certain the Concordat was on its way to Moscow. But instinct told him to head to Berlin where the Concordat had first surfaced.
Recovering his pistol from the naked corpse, he headed to the bathroom. He flung open the cupboards and quickly found what he knew would be there – a gunshot wound kit and a bottle of painkillers. Hands trembling, he tore open a packet of clotting sponge, and pressed it against his mangled ear. Within a few minutes the bleeding had slowed to a trickle, and the painkillers had kicked in. He washed his face in the sink and taped a fresh gauze dressing over his ear. Then in the mirror he wiped the blood off his spray jacket before heading out to the car to change his clothes for the drive to Charles de Gaulle.
17
Sleep was not something Rossi needed a lot of. But the relentless pace of the investigation, exacerbated by an all-night stopover at the Berlin Memorial Hospital to patch up his ear, had taken its toll.
Rossi glanced up at the clock on the meeting room wall as he popped a couple more painkillers. It was 8.45am – he was fifteen minutes early. He rested his heavy eyelids, just for a moment, and sank into a deep sleep.
Detective Lieutenant Axel Huff of the Berlin Kriminalpolizei, colloquially known as the Kripo, was taken by surprise as he entered. “Heavy night,” he mumbled to himself, clearing his throat. As an added measure he slapped his black leather organiser down onto the conference table.
Rossi woke with a start and sprang to his feet. He was not sure how long he had been napping or whether he had been caught. He glanced up at the clock. It was 9.05.
“Detective Lieutenant Huff?” Rossi said, thrusting out his hand.
“Welcome to Berlin, Inspector General. It’s a great honour to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Rossi said, turning his good ear in the direction of the voice. “What a pleasure to be in Berlin – one of the world’s great cities.”
“I’m from Munich,” Huff said dryly.
Rossi took it as a joke and smiled politely.
“I understand from your colleague, Commandant Waldmann,
that you are interested in Bernd Wolf.”
“Correct. I would like to establish if there’s a connection between his death and the double murder in the Bonner Münster Basilica the night before last.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Huff said hesitantly, “why has the Vatican sent someone of your standing to investigate what appears to be a rather routine matter – notwithstanding a Catholic bishop was one of the victims?”
“I asked myself the same question,” Rossi said. “It goes without saying that the Vatican has complete confidence in the German police force. But the truth be known, Bishop Muellenbach is – was an old friend of the Dean of the College of Cardinals. He asked me to personally take charge of the matter as a sign of respect for the deceased and his family.”
“Do you know the purpose of the basilica meeting?”
“Unfortunately no,” Rossi shrugged.
“My understanding is that the younger Wolf was not a churchgoer, and that Bishop Muellenbach was based in Cologne. So it doesn’t appear to be a chance meeting.”
“Difficult to say.”
“Blackmail?” Huff said, stretching his shirt collar with his finger. “Maybe some personal indiscretion from the past.”
“Why would you think that?”
“The Church is not without her faults.”
“None of us are,” Rossi said, wondering what Huff was playing at.
Huff motioned to Rossi’s bloodstained bandaged ear. “You look as though you’ve been in the wars – what happened? The wound looks fresh.”
“Hunting accident. Wild boar.”
A sharp rap on the door. A man in his early forties, with the face of a journeyman, poked his head into the room.
“Inspector General, this is Senior Detective Schmidt,” Huff said, motioning to the detective to enter. “I’ve assigned Schmidt to assist you. He’s at your beck and call.”
“So to speak,” Schmidt added.
Huff smiled. “I understand you have a late afternoon flight back to Rome?”