by Sean Heary
“That’s right,” Rossi said, glancing unnecessarily at his watch.
“So we don’t have much time. I assume you’d like to start with the files?”
“I’d also like to visit Wolf’s apartment.”
“Schmidt will organise that. Now, if you don’t mind, I must excuse myself. I have a meeting with the Bürgermeister. He’s not happy about something – again,” Huff said, rolling his eyes as he left the room.
“Inspector General, I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice, but the office coffee is Scheiße,” Schmidt said, pushing aside his mug. “May I suggest we continue our conversation in the café across the street?”
“Un’idea eccellente!” Rossi said, standing and following Schmidt out of the door.
A few minutes later they were sitting in Café Roma.
“So what’s your reading of all this?” Rossi asked, cradling a double espresso in his hands.
“Leberkäse and fried eggs?” the waitress interrupted.
“That’s mine,” Schmidt said, tucking a large paper napkin into his unironed shirt.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” the waitress said, turning and walking away.
“We had it down as joyriders. The burnt-out vehicle was found the next day on a forest service road. It had been stolen. The owner was overseas at the time,” Schmidt said, shovelling a forkful of Leberkäse into his strangely narrow mouth. “So there was no reason to suspect foul play.”
“Really?”
“Well that was until Commandant Waldmann called last night.”
Rossi handed Schmidt a fresh napkin.
“Incidentally, you wouldn’t happen to know how Commandant Waldmann knew about the Wolf family connection?” Schmidt asked, glancing up from his plate.
Rossi shrugged his shoulders. “TV, I guess.”
“Those guys move fast.”
“What was found in Wolf’s apartment?” Rossi asked, changing the subject.
“Not sure. Kripo’s only there now.”
“What?”
“Prior to the Bonn murders, it didn’t seem necessary.”
18
“Scheiße.” Schmidt hit the brakes hard and threw the unmarked police car into reverse. “All buildings around here look the same,” he said, accelerating backwards.
Rossi’s head exploded in pain as he was tossed about. Memories of yesterday’s near-death experience came flooding back as he lobbed a couple of painkillers into his mouth.
Even though the day was bright and sunny, it was bitterly cold. The cul-de-sac was deserted except for three young truants drawing stick figures on the pavement with broken pieces of chalk. Fifty metres back from where they had just come, a neighbourhood dog sniffed at the wheels of a kebab van parked on the grass verge.The Kripo vehicles that had been standing in front of Wolf’s apartment earlier in the day were long gone.
Rossi felt distracted as he climbed from the vehicle. The Concordat was on its way to Moscow, but here he was in Berlin.
They walked behind the vehicle and stood in the middle of the road. The crayon outline of Wolf’s contorted body was still visible, albeit sporting genitalia that had recently been added in blue chalk.
“The vehicle came from that direction,” Schmidt said, pointing west towards the closed end of the long curving cul-de-sac. “The attending officer took statements from three witnesses. All of little use. The only real lead was the mirror knocked off on impact. But you already know all that.”
Schmidt led Rossi to Wolf’s apartment building. The entrance was damp and uninviting. There was a panel of cast-iron radiators fixed to the wall on the right, but judging by the room temperature they hadn’t worked for some time. To the left was the emergency stairwell, and in front of them was a lift with ‘KAPUT’ taped to the door.
“Trust me. We’re lucky,” Schmidt said, winking.
Keen to get inside, Rossi bolted up the stairwell, two steps at a time.
“Fifth floor,” Schmidt called out, struggling to keep up.
“Which apartment?”
Schmidt, breathless when he arrived, could only manage to point and hold out the key.
Rossi stepped inside. The gloomy sixty-square-metre flat was soulless, sparsely furnished and devoid of all personal objects that make a house a home. A Soviet-era chandelier hung from the living room ceiling.
“A sad and lonely man, by all accounts,” Schmidt said, lighting a cigarette to catch his breath.
“Is this him?” Rossi asked, picking up a framed photograph that was standing on the sideboard. “He’s in uniform?”
“Wolf was a Stasi colonel in his day.”
Rossi wondered whether that was significant. It could help explain the origins of the document. An Iron Curtain relic, perhaps? “That wasn’t in the file.”
“It was nearly thirty years ago. It didn’t seem relevant. As far as the traffic guys were concerned he was a pensioner.”
Not wanting to show his hand, Rossi started in the bedroom. It was musty and dark, like a cheap motel room in a run-down part of town. He drew the curtains and opened the windows. Rifling through the cupboards and drawers, he had only one thing on his mind – the colonel’s study.
“Nothing in the bedroom,” Rossi said, already standing in the study doorway.
The room was minuscule with windows covering the far wall. There was a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet with a printer on top.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Schmidt asked, joining Rossi from the kitchen.
“Something worth killing for.”
“So you think the colonel was murdered?”
“What was there?” Rossi said, pointing to a dark rectangular patch on the faded blue carpet.
“Boxes of old Stasi surveillance files. An employee from the Federal Commissioner for Stasi Records picked them up an hour ago.”
“What the hell were they doing here?”
“At a guess – Wolf stole them. Probably just before the wall came down.”
“Blackmail?”
“If that was his intention, he seemed to have had a change of heart.”
Rossi squeezed behind the desk and opened the filing cabinet. Empty. “Why do you say that?”
“The boxes were sealed and covered in dust. According to the forensic team, they hadn’t been opened in years – if at all.”
“And the desk?”
“Just what you see. Nothing.”
There was a long silence. Rossi gazed at the dark patch on the carpet; Schmidt puffed on his cigarette. Something was odd.
“Shall we try the neighbour?” Schmidt eventually said, motioning to leave.
Arno Reinder, like Wolf, had lived in the apartment block since its construction in the early eighties.
Schmidt knocked loudly on the door. “Round here people don’t take kindly to foreigners. Best I do the talking.”
Footsteps could be heard from within, then a brief silence.
“What do you want?” came a grumpy voice from behind the peephole.
“Police, Herr Reinder,” Schmidt said. “I’d like to speak to you about Bernd Wolf.”
The door opened a few centimetres at first, and then all the way. Reinder, unshaven and dressed in a tattered woollen dressing gown, stood in the doorway squinting at Schmidt’s identification.
“I’ve spoken to the police already,” he complained, eyeing Rossi suspiciously.
“A few follow-up questions,” Schmidt said, his tone firm.
Reinder mumbled something inaudible and shrugged his shoulders.
“When did you last see Bernd Wolf?”
“Alive?”
A roll of his eyes. “Of course alive.”
“The evening of the accident,” Reinder said, slowly scratching his arse. “He dropped in on his way to the shop.”
Rossi, not happy with the pace, barged in. “How’d he look – nervous, agitated?”
“Bernd always looked like death.”
“Did he have any unusual visitors prior to the accident?” Rossi asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“What about his son?”
“Max was here after the accident – not before. I had to let the ratbag in. He knew I kept a spare key in case of emergencies.”
“Didn’t he have his own?” Rossi asked.
“No. They were estranged. More through apathy than any great falling out.”
Rossi turned to Schmidt. “The keys! Were they amongst Wolf’s personal effects at the morgue?”
“I’d need to check.”
Instantly Rossi thought about the man in the green flat cap mentioned in the police files. “It’s time to visit Frau Becker.”
19
Cardinal Capelli’s office had a distinct rotten egg smell about it when Waldmann entered. He sniffed at the air. Mistake. The cardinal glanced up from the police report he was reading and indicated a seat. Waldmann sat down, his hand cupped over his nose and mouth, pretending to clear his throat.
“Any news from Rossi?” the cardinal asked. His voice was weak and thin. “He seems to be avoiding me.”
“I’m afraid that’s my fault, Your Eminence,” Waldmann lied. “I convinced him it would be better to channel all communications through me. He’s already got too much on his plate.”
The cardinal leant forward, his elbows on the table, his hands under his chin. “I’ve read the preliminary police report. Distressing to say the least… it doesn’t mention Rossi or the Concordat.”
“No. Rossi arrived after the murders and left before the police turned up. He thought it best not to get involved.”
“And the Concordat?”
“Somehow the Russians have ended up with it.”
The cardinal blew out a sigh. “Old enemy; new game – so what does the Inspector General intend to do about it?”
“Rossi’s heading to Moscow tonight.”
“Alone?” The cardinal’s eyes narrowed behind his round steel-rimmed glasses. “Is that advisable?”
“By the time he arrives in Moscow, I’m hoping to have the Americans on…” Waldmann stopped breathing for a short moment. His body’s defence system had automatically kicked in. Schoolday memories of St. Michael’s Catholic Boys’ School were suddenly revived; sitting at the back of the classroom with his hooligan mates releasing ammonia and match head stink bombs whenever the teacher approached. Only this was worse.
“I didn’t understand,” the cardinal said, seemingly without a speck of shame. “What’s that about the Americans?”
Waldmann recalled reading in some lightweight publication how people like to smell their own flatulence. But surely not in the company of others. Was this the first sign of dementia in one of the Church’s most powerful leaders?
A slight gag and cough. “Your Eminence, do you mind if I open one of the windows? I’m feeling a little warm.”
“Maybe you’re coming down with something,” the cardinal said. “A cold draught running through the room is the last thing you need.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Your Eminence. I just need some fresh air.”
“Nonsense,” the cardinal said, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I’ll ask Monsignor Polak to prepare some tea with lemon.”
Waldmann sat sniffing his fingers while the cardinal dialled.
“Now what were you saying?” Cardinal Capelli asked, replacing the receiver.
“I’m hoping to have the Americans on board by the time Rossi arrives in Moscow.”
“Excellent idea. Involve them if you can. They like this sort of thing. And I’ll contact Massachusetts Senator Carrick Maloney – to give it a bit of a nudge. He’s Opus Dei, you know.”
“That would be greatly appreciated, Your Eminence.”
“No need to mention the Concordat, of course,” the cardinal said softly, as if talking to himself.
“The Senator’s not to be trusted?” Waldmann asked, clumsily.
“He’s a politician, Christian.”
A hint of a smile came to Waldmann’s face, unsure whether the cardinal was joking.
By the time Monsignor Polak rapped on the door with the tea, Waldmann had finished his account of the Münster Basilica bloodshed and was starting on Paris.
Monsignor Polak entered. “Good Lord,” he proclaimed, abandoning the tea tray on a side table and hurrying across and opening several of the windows.
Waldmann immediately felt vindicated.
“My apologies, Commandant Waldmann,” the Monsignor said, taking an ironed white hankie from his pocket and covering his nose and mouth. “Cardinal Capelli was born with anosmia.”
A smile of incomprehension on Waldmann’s face prompted further explanation from the Monsignor. “No sense of smell.”
The cardinal shrugged. “A minor affliction. Except in the case of house fires and dogs with flatulence.” Laughter.
Monsignor Polak lowered himself on all fours and crawled under the cardinal’s oversized desk. “You’re coming with me, mister,” he said, gently persuading the cardinal’s geriatric pug towards the door.
20
Rossi stood in front of Frau Becker’s door, waiting for Schmidt to catch his breath.
“Polizei,” Schmidt said, holding his ID in front of the peephole.
The door opened wide. Oozing enthusiasm, Frau Becker stepped into the corridor. “At your service, officers,” she said in a loud Thälmann Pioneer’s voice, standing to attention, if possible to tell for a woman that size.
It was plain Schmidt disliked Becker straight away. The traits and peculiarities of an ‘unofficial collaborator’ were evident – even to the man from the Vatican.
“I understand you witnessed Herr Wolf’s accident,” Rossi said.
“Yes, I did.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“There was a thump and a yelp. I thought a dog had been hit. By the time I got to the window the vehicle had gone. Then I noticed the colonel lying there. At once I phoned the police.”
“Did you see anyone near him?”
Frau Becker hesitated. “Yes. A man trying to help him. Why, I don’t know. It was clear, even from where I stood, the colonel was gone. Such a lovely man too.”
“Did you recognise him?”
“Not at first. It wasn’t until I went downstairs I realised it was the colonel.”
“Not Herr Wolf. The other man.”
“You mean the man wearing the flat hat?”
“The man you saw from the window next to the body,” Rossi said, wanting to slap her.
“Yes. That’s the man with the flat hat,” Frau Becker said.
“Yes, you recognised him?”
Frau Becker gave Rossi an odd look. “No – I’d never seen him before in my life.”
Rossi turned to Schmidt. “We’re done here.”
“Now what?” Schmidt asked, following Rossi back down onto the street.
“Turkish kebab.”
“Good idea. I’m starving.”
Rossi threw Schmidt a sideways glance. “To interview the owner.”
“Closed,” Schmidt said, lighting another cigarette. “It was in the file.”
Rossi shrugged. “I know. But let’s hear it from Muhammed.”
“That’s a bit racist isn’t it?” Schmidt chuckled.
“That’s his name. Also in the file.”
Schmidt held up his ID as they approached. “Polizei…”
“Like to ask you a few questions about the hit-and-run,” Rossi jumped in.
Muhammed, a thin man with a bushy black moustache and a matching monobrow, pursed his lips in disappointment. “
I closed early that night. My cousin arrived from Istanbul.”
As if he hadn’t heard, Rossi asked, “You didn’t happen to see a Mercedes van?”
“Mercedes van?” Schmidt mumbled to himself.
“Interesting you would ask. There was one parked opposite for a couple of days.” Muhammed hesitated, then nodded. “Immediately after the accident – not before.”
Rossi felt his heart skip a beat. “Did you see the owner?”
“Someone – two men. They took turns buying the coffee.”
“What were they up to?”
“I did ask one of them. He said something about witness protection. Sounded like bullshit to me.”
“What did they look like?” Rossi asked.
“Like a pair of nightclub bouncers. Both tall. One was beefy and bald, the other lean with curly fair hair. They dressed more or less the same – dark suits, roll-neck sweaters, shiny black shoes. Except the fair-haired guy always wore a dark green flat cap.”
Schmidt wrote frantically in his notebook. All news.
“Accents?”
“They were Russian, if that’s what you mean.”
Rossi’s face lit up. “That’s a guess?”
“The guy with the cap took a call in Russian while ordering.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I was married to one for seven miserable years. Great sex but high maintenance.”
“So what do you make of that?” Schmidt called out, scurrying after Rossi, who was already on his way back to Wolf’s apartment.
“The two Russians killed Wolf, stole his keys and then staked out his apartment,” Rossi said over his shoulder.
“What the fuck for?”
“Good question.”
“The Stasi files?” Schmidt suggested.
“Then why didn’t they take them when they had the chance? Besides, they didn’t have to kill Wolf if that’s all they were after.”
“How did you know about the Mercedes van?”
“It was in the background of one of the police photographs. It stuck out like a Ferrari in a Trabant factory.”
Schmidt shot Rossi a confused glance.
“Take a look around. There isn’t a vehicle on the estate worth pinching.”