Night

by Bernard Minier

  ‘Martin, are you all right?’

  He nodded, but he would have liked to scream, ‘No I’m not all right! It hurts! I’m going to die!’ He clenched his teeth so hard his gums hurt. Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Then there was a familiar voice from the door:

  ‘Gustav …’ Hirtmann began to say.

  That was when it started: the situation suddenly getting out of hand, the unpredictable chain of events, time accelerating and running away. He saw Hirtmann motionless in the doorway, his momentum stopped short. Out of the corner of his eye, he realised Kirsten’s mistake, that split second of distraction, the fateful instant when the gun barrel shifted slightly from its target. For a man like the bearded wild animal, a split second was more than enough.

  He didn’t use it to rush for the gun on the bed, the way a less experienced individual might have done; no, he was not that stupid. He knew instinctively he wouldn’t have time and that he had to get hold of the other weapon – the one that was threatening him.

  In the confusion that followed Hirtmann’s appearance, he threw himself on Kirsten, twisted her wrist violently and managed to get hold of the Springfield XD. He pointed the barrel towards the door, using Kirsten as a shield, but his finger did not press the trigger: there was no one there.

  Hirtmann had vanished.

  Nevertheless, he swung Kirsten around, twisting her arm, and with the barrel against her temple, near her blonde hair with its brown roots, he murmured in her ear:

  ‘And now, we’re getting out of here.’

  Servaz watched them leave the room. He tried to get up, but his legs could only carry him as far as the bed, where he collapsed. His heart was pounding fit to burst. He pulled up his hospital gown and saw the bandage around his middle. A red flower was spreading across it.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s an emergency exit just there,’ said Jiri, pointing to the metal door at the end of the corridor.

  ‘And then?’

  He didn’t answer, merely pushing her forward, frequently glancing behind him to where several nurses and doctors had gathered, keeping a cautious distance. The cop who had been standing guard at the door was among them. She had a huge bruise on her temple where Jiri had struck her.

  But still no Hirtmann.

  ‘I’m on your side,’ said his hostage suddenly, her voice so faint he hardly heard her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m the one who passed all the information to your boss,’ she said more loudly. ‘Fuck, it’s thanks to me that you found him. Let me go.’

  He continued to steer her towards the door, while looking behind him.

  Where had Hirtmann got to, dammit?

  ‘You’re the source?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘Fuck, that’s what I keep telling you: I’m on your side. Just ask Zehetmayer. Let me go!’

  ‘Where is he now?’ he said, opening the metal door and shoving her through it.

  The wind immediately whistled round them, surrounding them with snow.

  ‘Where is who?’

  ‘Hirtmann, where is he?’

  ‘How should I know!’

  He pushed her down the steps and she slipped on some black ice, almost falling and taking him with her.

  ‘Watch out!’ he said, helping her regain her balance.

  But he tightened his grip on her wrist and she grimaced. Their shoes sank into the snow.

  ‘Ouch! You’re hurting me, shit!’

  ‘Move it!’

  He pushed her along the wall behind the clinic, towards the road where the Lada was parked. All around them was the white forest, fir trees standing guard. Snowflakes whirled in the fog like hornets pursued by smoke.

  ‘Move!’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Shut up!’

  He couldn’t hear any sirens yet but it wouldn’t be long. The cop in the clinic must have sounded the alert. His mind was desperately seeking a way out, a final winning shot, which would reverse the situation in his favour. To hell with Zehetmayer, to hell with the money, to hell with Hirtmann and the kid: he didn’t want to go back to prison. In the grip of his inner confusion, he didn’t see the figure emerging from behind a fir tree until it was too late, until he was facing them, taking aim, and firing. Kirsten let out a little cry when the flame burst from the barrel, but the bullet had already gone through her right shoulder by her deltoid muscle, coming out again without encountering any resistance and penetrating Jiri’s shoulder. The impact and the pain caused him to let go of his gun and his hostage at the same time. The gun fell into the snow; Kirsten moved away from Jiri with a scream. Straight ahead of them Hirtmann was calmly taking aim at Jiri. He raised his hands in surrender.

  ‘Fuck, Julian!’ roared Kirsten Nigaard, holding her shoulder. ‘You shot me!’

  ‘I promise you it was your shoulder I was aiming at, my sweet,’ answered Hirtmann, walking forward and picking up the gun. ‘But consider yourself lucky: I wasn’t sure I would hit my target.’

  46

  Dead Man

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Hirtmann, handing his gun to Kirsten. She winced as she climbed slowly to her feet.

  With the tip of his gun he motioned to Jiri to start walking into the forest. Jiri looked at him, then did as he was told. He was now free to study his enemy at leisure. His initial thought was that he was an interesting enemy – and a formidable one.

  He did not yet know how he was going to turn the tables, when at this moment everything seemed so unfavourable, irrevocable, but he knew from experience that there would be a moment – and only one – when the opportunity would arise.

  The silence could not be more total. Jiri was only slightly surprised that there was no sound of sirens. How often had he encountered this in his career: the slow reaction time of the police. A universal law. It was a pity: for once he would have liked to see the bloody cops show up sooner. His hands in the air, he climbed up the slight slope, sinking into the snow up to his ankles, followed by Hirtmann and his stooge.

  ‘Turn right,’ said Hirtmann, in front of a tall tree.

  Someone had already come this way. There were two trails of footprints: one that went and came back, and the other that …

  Jiri understood before he saw him: he was bound to a tree trunk, shivering, almost as white as the snow, and completely naked, his clothing in a pile at his feet. Not even fifty metres from the clinic.

  Zehetmayer.

  The orchestra conductor was shivering, his every limb trembling, his teeth chattering so violently that Jiri could hear the sound. All gone was the ‘Emperor’s’ glory. He was sagging, only the rope around his middle keeping him in an upright position; his bare chest was heaving and his eyes were blue as ice. When he looked in their direction, it was fear, above all else, that they saw. The oldest human emotion, thought Jiri.

  ‘Kirsten,’ said Zehetmayer, surprised at seeing her. ‘Kirsten … what are … what are you …?’

  He was finding it very difficult to speak.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ she said, to help him.

  She didn’t answer. She merely looked at Hirtmann.

  ‘Don’t you get it?’ she said eventually.

  She saw the dumb, incredulous look on the conductor’s face.

  ‘I brought you here, you and your mercenary. It was a trap. All your fantasies of revenge, your website, your money … I contacted you with only one purpose: to get you to come here.’

  Hirtmann winked at the naked old man. Jiri looked at Hirtmann and understood. From the beginning he’d been pulling the strings. He felt renewed respect for his enemy. He had found his match.

  ‘Take your clothes off,’ ordered Hirtmann.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t try to play for time, you heard me.’

  Jiri looked from Hirtmann to Kirsten. These two knew what they were doing. Perhaps there would be no opportunity, in the end. As he removed his down jacket, he glanced at the Norwegian woman. She
had recovered her weapon and was holding it in her left hand. A dark spot was soaking her clothes on her right shoulder. She wouldn’t last long, but he would still die before she did. Such a pity. One against one he might have been able to attempt something. Or maybe not. Not against such an adversary.

  ‘Now your shoes,’ said Hirtmann. ‘Hurry up.’

  He did as he was told. He felt the damp chill envelop his feet through his socks as they sank into the layer of fresh snow. He removed his jumper, shirt and T-shirt and stood motionless, his face and torso plumed with a cloud of vapour.

  ‘And the rest. Trousers, pants, socks. Everything.’

  ‘Fuck off, Hirtmann.’

  The detonation blasted through the silence of the forest, made louder by the echo, and Jiri’s body was projected 2 metres backwards.

  ‘I beg you,’ stammered Zehetmayer. ‘I beg you. Don’t … don’t kill me … please.’

  Hirtmann looked at Zehetmayer’s wrinkled face, already showing the effects of the cold, his purple lips, his bloodshot eyes, the tears streaming down his gaunt cheeks and freezing before they fell, his bent knees, his shrivelled penis, and he saw how the ropes were crushing his chest.

  ‘I killed your daughter, you should hate me,’ he said.

  ‘No … no … I don’t hate you … I … I …’

  ‘Do you want to know what I did to her before I killed her?’

  ‘I beg you … don’t kill me.’

  The old man was repeating himself. Kirsten saw a steaming yellow spot form a hole in the snow at his bare feet. She saw a few strands of white hair fluttering above his purplish ears like the wings of a wounded bird that cannot take flight. She aimed her gun at the conductor and fired. A tremor, then his body collapsed on itself, only held to the tree trunk by the rope, his chin on his chest.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ said Hirtmann, turning to face her.

  He saw the smoking black barrel. Aimed at him.

  ‘I’m getting rid of witnesses.’

  He had his gun in his hand, but his arm was lowered.

  ‘What are you playing at?’ he said calmly, as if he were talking about the weather.

  She paused to listen: a siren, at last, in the distance.

  ‘I thought you liked our little games …’ he said.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve had enough. The police will be here soon, Julian, and I have no intention of spending the rest of my days in prison. Not for you, not for anyone. Thanks to him,’ she added, nodding towards the dead orchestra conductor, ‘I’m rich. And I will soon be handed a medal for having rendered you harmless.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to miss me?’ he said ironically.

  ‘We had some good times together, you and I, but I have no intention of letting you live.’

  She had her eye on his gun, still hanging by his side. She had him in her sights but she knew that as long as she didn’t shoot him, he was dangerous.

  ‘But it’s your weapon which killed the old man,’ he said, motioning with his chin at the body.

  ‘I’ll find an explanation. And besides, Martin will testify that I assisted him, and that Thingummy, over there, took me hostage. There are plenty of witnesses.’

  ‘Martin? Sounds like you’ve become quite chummy.’

  ‘Sorry, Julian, time is running out. No more time for idle conversation.’

  ‘Do you remember your sister?’ he said suddenly.

  She froze and saw a new spark in his eyes.

  ‘You hated your sister; you despised her. I’ve rarely seen that sort of hatred between two siblings. It’s true that your sister had everything – talent, success, men – and that she was your parents’ favourite. Your sister treated you like a household pet; you were the average daughter, always in her shadow. I killed her for you, Kirsten. She was my gift to you. I restored your pride. I showed you who you could be. Thanks to me you went much further than you ever would have dared, on your own. I taught you everything I know.’

  ‘That’s true, you have been a good teacher. But you’re forgetting one thing: it wasn’t my sister you planned to rape and kill in that abandoned factory, it was me.’

  He looked her straight in the eyes.

  ‘Yes. And you convinced me not to do anything,’ he said. ‘You weren’t even afraid. Anyone else would have been terrified. But not you. It was so frustrating, to see you waiting for death as a deliverance. Good God: even when I told you you would suffer, you didn’t react. It made me furious. Shit, I wasn’t there to facilitate a suicide. You kept encouraging me, defying me. The harder I hit you, the more you drove me into a corner. I had never seen anything like it, I have to admit. And then you offered me a bargain: your life in exchange for your sister’s. It was so unexpected, so … twisted. Do you want to know how I killed her? You never asked. Do you want to know if she screamed a lot?’

  ‘I hope she did,’ Kirsten replied coldly. ‘I hope the bitch was in agony.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. So, is this it? Have we reached the end of the road, you and I? I suppose there’s no other way for us to part. Crime brought us together, crime will part us.’

  ‘What a romantic you’ve suddenly become, Julian.’

  ‘You were less ironic when you were begging me to let you come with me, my darling. You were like a little girl who’s been promised the most extraordinary present. If you could have seen how your eyes were shining. But it’s true it was easier to abduct those women using you as bait. A woman cop. They felt safe. They would have gone anywhere with you.’

  ‘And they had cause to regret it,’ she said, listening to the sirens in the distance: not one, but several.

  ‘It’s so ironic, don’t you think? The woman appointed to investigate the disappearances was the very person who was behind them?’

  ‘Tell me: you’re not playing for time, by any chance? You don’t intend to start begging like that other clown over there, do you?’

  His laughter rang out in the silence of the forest. The sirens were closer now.

  ‘If I thought it would serve any purpose, maybe I would. To think I’m the one who dropped that gun off at your hotel. That’s pretty ironic, too, don’t you think?’

  He clung to the side of the bed and tried to move towards the door, his face and body streaming with sweat, when suddenly he saw the familiar face there before him. Servaz stopped short. He wondered again if his mind was playing tricks on him. Then he gave a faint smile.

  Followed by a wince.

  ‘Hey, Vincent.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed Espérandieu when he saw him. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  He stood next to his boss, and put an arm around his torso to support him and steer him back to the bed.

  ‘You shouldn’t be on your—’

  ‘We’re going that way,’ interrupted Servaz, pointing to the emergency exit not 5 metres from there.

  Espérandieu froze.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do as I said, please. Help me.’

  Vincent looked around the room, then at the door. He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know if—’

  ‘Shut up,’ interrupted Servaz. ‘But thank you for coming.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. It’s always nice to have such a warm welcome. It looks like I arrived just in time. I came straight here, but I think the cavalry is not far behind.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Servaz, his legs trembling.

  ‘Martin, you’re in no fit shape, for fuck’s sake. They just removed half your liver, you’ve got drains all over you! This is madness.’

  Servaz stepped towards the door and stumbled. Espérandieu caught him in time.

  ‘Help me!’ shouted his boss.

  They moved towards the metal door, arm in arm, step by step, like two walking wounded. Espérandieu put his free hand on the safety bar.

  ‘May I ask where we’re going?’

  Servaz nodded, grimaced, clenched his teeth. The pain was constant now.

&n
bsp; ‘Kirsten is out there … with another guy … he’s armed. You left your gun in Toulouse …’

  Espérandieu gave a funny smile. He put one hand under his anorak.

  ‘Not really. Do you think I’ll need it?’

  ‘I hope not. But be prepared – that … that man is dangerous.’

  Vincent walked around Martin so he could support him with his left arm and hold the gun in his right hand.

  ‘Which other guy?’ he asked. ‘Hirtmann?’

  ‘No. Someone else.’

  ‘Maybe we should wait for backup.’

  ‘There’s no time.’

  For the time being, his assistant gave up trying to understand. Martin would explain the situation when the time came. Or at least, he hoped he would. His son’s godfather looked absolutely dreadful. And the thought of being out there confronted with a dangerous armed man he knew nothing about did not exactly fill him with enthusiasm. They went cautiously down the icy steps, and began walking through the snow, following the fresh footprints.

  Servaz had put on his shoes and tossed a blanket over his shoulders, but the icy wind blew underneath it and around his bare legs, freezing him. Suddenly he stopped, bent forward and threw up in the snow.

  ‘Bloody hell, Martin!’ exclaimed Vincent.

  He stood up straight, his forehead pearling with sweat. He wondered if he’d manage to go through with this. Vincent was right: it was madness. But people are capable of the most unbelievable feats, are they not? he thought. Every day the television was full of them. So why not me?

  ‘I look like Jesus, don’t you think, with this blanket and gown?’ he grimaced, trying to smile.

  ‘You need a bit more beard,’ replied his assistant.

  He wanted to laugh but he coughed, and felt another wave of nausea.

  Suddenly two shots rang out in the forest, not far from there, and they froze. The sound waves caused a few clumps of snow to fall from the fir trees. The air vibrated for another second then everything was silent again. The shots had come from somewhere nearby.

  ‘Give me your gun.’

  ‘What?’

  Martin almost tore it from Vincent’s hands and he rushed forward, limping, along the trail of footprints.